Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Charlie Swan embodies a quiet peace while he’s fishing that Carlisle can only ever lust over from behind the frozen-lake face of his lost human life—glinting too brightly beneath the late afternoon sun and preventing him from getting any closer, thank God. 

If he did, he’d sink his teeth into the man’s ruddy, warm flesh, and he knows he’d feel so alive while swallowing him down—his cock kicks in his hand at the thought alone—but the guilt would swallow him after.

He’s already sort of drowning in it.

Charlie has people who love him, a town that relies on him and a daughter due to arrive any day now from the Arizona desert who would mourn him if he was gone, and Carlisle has a moral high ground to uphold, a proverbial responsibility as the head of his family to keep his desires in check, but his mouth is so dry, his throat burning. He’s never been so tempted before. The breeze carries over the scent of the man’s sweat, this sweet layer that drapes itself like damp dressings over the muddy neck of the woods, and it makes it even harder to remember why he can’t just have a taste. 

A drop, even. All it would take is the nick of a metal hook to satiate this craving. His balls tighten as his mind supplies a phantom but vivid tang on the tip of his tongue.

Charlie moves; he tosses his fly-line, the muscles in his back rippling deliciously beneath his thin cotton shirt as he employs the deft twist of his hand, not dissimilar to the vice that Carlisle has around his straining length, to retrieve his bait. His calves tense, flexing confidently as he holds his ground at the water’s edge and waits for that slow presentation to reward him. 

Carlisle wants to bite him there. Standing at his own precipice, the bank of his endurance, his orgasm builds at the base of his spine, but he holds out. Wants to shoot to the satisfied slope of Charlie’s mouth, to be able to pretend that he put that smirk there, and imagines how those dark eyes would look up at him, lashes splattered with cum after the man knelt over his prone legs and pumped him dry with the same precision as he catches his dinner. 

Just when he thinks he’ll break, the murky blue water ripples as the Chief of Police pulls his threshing prize over the rocks, and Carlisle’s release wrenches through him, stripes coating the shadowy trunk of the tree he’s hiding behind as he shudders in silence, a safe distance away.

Chapter Text

Charlie tugs on his own pair of police-issued handcuffs, securing his wrists to the ornate metal headboard behind his back. The hard bed is all for show. He knows this now for sure, though he’d hoped he was wrong. 

Things like Carlisle don’t sleep. 

The frame squeaks beneath him, and his bones ache in sympathy—a sugary pang like when the rain’s coming, which is often in their dreary little town. Like a toothache he just can’t help but bite down on, Charlie struggles harder, knowing it’s pointless.

Nothing gives, and he’s been trying for a while. His jeans chafe his thighs under the duress. He misses his mattress at home; the one he’s spent every night in since Renee left him, with its lumps worn in just right and the edges turning yellow beneath the decade-old sheets. He probably should’ve gotten new ones when he bought Bella’s comforter… and what a thing to be thinking about when he’s been abducted and restrained by the very man responsible for taking his daughter away from him for a second time in her short life. 

Sheets.

The sheets tangled up around his legs are soft, at least. Silk, expensive, like the clothes Bella turned back up wearing after disappearing during her honeymoon. 

Charlie knew—when he hugged his daughter and she was all these hard edges that she’d never been before, corpse-cold and not quite right in the eyes, he knew that something was wrong, so he did as a Police Chief does. He dug and dug until the information he was looking for rolled over in its grave and flashed its shiny sharp fangs at him.

Carlisle’s bed might as well be an autopsy table. Or maybe it’s more like an operating table, one where beautiful doctors in blue scrubs that shine like starlight or false angels under the sun stand around, taking a man down to his bones, organs to be transferred elsewhere, given new purpose in someone else’s body. 

He pulls on the restraints again when the door to the bedroom opens. Bares his teeth, hopes he looks half as menacing as the simple arch of one clean brow manages to look on Carlisle’s neutral face, but knows he doesn’t come close. 

Charlie almost wishes he could go back in time and prevent himself from finding out what the younger—older, fuck, so much older—man is, because it’s not fair to have to stare at the cracked facade of a surgeon, a father, a good man, and still feel so taken by him. 

Literally, metaphorically—he pined for over a decade for Renee, but never before Carlisle Cullen did he know yearning like this. That’s what makes this even worse.

The flood of it spreads heat through his body. Stiffens up parts that he can’t hide, because even with his knees pressed together, he thinks Carlisle can smell it. He’s that kind of monster, cocking his head as if he’s listening to the blood rush. It’s humiliating and horrible and he does not want Carlisle to come any closer, but when he does, it’s oddly a relief—startling too, in the way that the surge of a fire in a shallow pit stings the cheeks when it takes that first, filling breath. Makes him think things like closer, hotter, more. 

Charlie had all kinds of thoughts before he made his damning discovery—things that were still inappropriate given that Carlisle is married, and his adopted son is Charlie’s son-in-law, but the taboo from before certainly doesn’t touch the intrinsic wrongness of those thoughts now. 

“You’re bleeding,” Carlisle croons, melodic, meant to lull him (and his patients, victims, whatever the hell they are) into a false sense of safety. His icy fingertips touch the broken skin beneath the metal and Charlie shivers.

“Don’t—Don’t touch me.”

“You’re in pain…” 

Carlisle’s eyes shift to his, glittering, that’s the Devil in his depths. Charlie has to remind himself that he’s being held here against his will and that’s bad because the heat is distracting. Why does he get like this around him? Dry mouth and lame tongue. He can’t help but lick his lips, and Carlisle doesn’t miss it—doesn’t miss anything. 

“I can help you, but you’ll have to let me,” he purrs, bending down to bring their faces inches apart. “Will you let me help you, Charlie?” 

Charlie is straining now. Carlisle’s mere proximity is a confusing aphrodisiac. Is that a vampire thing? A lure, cast out into the sea of humans? Charlie is just another body, helplessly snagged, seduced, and damn him, but he groans when Carlisle swings a leg over his lap. His weight settles over his cock, lithe and artfully gentle but undeniably masculine, hard body lining up just right against Charlie’s, and Charlie briefly forgets about everything else—monsters and dead daughters and his own possible demise.

He’s never been with a man before; not that he’s really with one now. 

Fuck.

Carlisle’s hips are expert, rolls clinical, but through his pressed slacks, Charlie can tell he’s hard. Even though he’s clearly affected, he makes no move to free himself, or Charlie, not even when he makes him come in his jeans, and shit, Charlie hasn’t done that since he was a teenager. It leaves him reeling, only strong enough to lift his head and growl, “You can’t—can’t just leave me here like this,” once the cum is drying, and Carlisle is already across the room, paused at the threshold. 

The man—the vampire—has never looked more inhuman. His perfectly styled hair has come untamed, falling around his unusually dark eyes, and the hands he’d kept locked around Charlie’s self-inflicted wounds while pseudo riding him are stained red and balled into tight fists at his sides, like he’s practising some kind of supernatural restraint. 

He’s hardly moving, definitely not breathing, and it costs him whatever little air he has left in his lungs to say, “Trust me, Charlie… you want me to walk away right now. It’s either that, or—”  

“...Or what?” Charlie rasps. 

Apparently, he’s a man with a death wish. 

Chapter Text

“We have to stop meeting like this.” 

Charlie grunts as Dr. Cullen dabs the minor abrasion (see: deep gash) striking through his eyebrow and extending up into his hairline with an iodine soaked piece of gauze. He kinda agrees. He’s hated hospitals since he set up camp and spent a week sleeping in those uncomfortable visitors chairs while waiting to find out if his best friend would ever walk again, and yet, Charlie can’t deny that more and more recently, he’s found himself almost hoping to get hurt on the job so that he has an excuse to walk into the E.R and wind up in this exact position. 

Private room, locked door, sexy doctor standing between his legs in pale blue scrubs that leave very little to the imagination.

“You sick a seein’ me already, Doc?” Charlie hooks his ankle around the back of Carlisle’s calf and drags him an inch closer. The insecurity sets in. This is so new—whatever it is they’re doin’. Sneaking around, doin’ shit that Charlie never would’ve dreamed of doin’ with another man before a back alley run in with some low-life swinging a knife sent him straight into the good doctor’s arms. Bed. Teeth.

The man gives him a small, indulgent smile, but he’s all work and no play, the play that Charlie has started getting used to, and that doesn’t help. 

“Sit still now. If you squirm while I’m sewing you up, you’ll have a scar.” 

Charlie really did get hit hard this time.

He tries to behave himself, he does, but he’s got the tick-tick-tick of the waiting room clock in his ears, starts to fidget, and he knows that look in Carlisle’s eyes by now. The way the shiny gold, very same as the badge Charlie pins to his chest every morning, gets edged out by something darker. 

Hungrier.

He hardly feels the stitches as Carlisle deftly closes his head wound. Reduces ugly, gnarled things into straight, easily digestible lines. He does this all day, every day, in every facet of his life. It’s a wonder how he maintains such immaculate control. 

He told Charlie once, early on, that over the years (and through his own bleeding heart) he’d desensitized himself to the scent of blood. That very same night he’d dragged his mouth over every vein in Charlie’s body, naming major arteries and admitting how utterly affected he was by the blood running through each of them—his blood. 

It seemed ridiculous that someone as beautiful as Carlisle would see anything but a middle aged and mostly washed up man in Charlie, but the evidence was in the way he looked at him like a piece of meat sometimes. Especially when he was in uniform.

So Charlie knows that every time he ends up here, fresh off a job-gone-wrong, he’s risking something greater than a scar. And he also knows that Carlisle won’t let another doctor touch him.

His eyes are nearly black by the time he ties the last suture into place, and Charlie’s hands have made a mess of the disposable paper covering the raised examination table, tearing it to shreds to keep from touching him while he’s working. 

Carlisle steps away and Charlie’s desires sink like lead in his stomach. 

“There. You did well. I think we’ve even managed to save your pretty face,” he winks. 

Charlie huffs and drops his gaze to the floor. He’s not pretty, Carlisle is just saying that because he’s got impeccable bedside manners. 

“What is it? Are you in pain? How bad is it, on a scale of one to ten?” 

The button on the back of a flashlight shaped like ball-point pen clicks, and then cold fingers very delicately lift Charlie’s chin. A wry, self-deprecating laugh escapes him as Carlisle checks each of his pupils in turn, a contemplative hum flattening his lips. 

“No pain,” he lies roughly. In truth, his head is killing him, and his stomach is turning, brutal. He could really go for a beer, but it's this stupid, neglected square in his chest that hurts the worst. “Just give it to me straight, Doc. Am I makin’ a fool a myself coming here?” 

“I’m worried you have a concussion. I’d like you to stay for a CT scan, just in case—” 

“To you.”  

Carlisle starts, finally looking at him then. Seeing him—not as a patient with a nasty, glass-carved split in his head, but in the way that makes Charlie feel young and wanting and obvious again. His neck grows hot as Carlisle closes the space he put between them to get rid of the bloody gauze, the biomedical waste that Charlie spilled to land him here in the first place, and peels the rubber gloves (that made Charlie’s nose wrinkle but his cock stir) off of his long, sure fingers.

Charlie plants his palms on the man’s chest, disturbing his lanyard and not-so-subtly swiping a thumb over the hint of a pointy, tight nipple underneath his scrubs. Carlisle lays one hand on Carlisle’s upper thigh, dangerously close to where his cock is tucked into the leg of his boxers, and with the other he cups Charlie’s cheek. 

This touch is more firm than the last one, meant to guide his eyes up to the light. 

Charlie swallows hard as Carlisle leans in, warming the tip of his nose against the messy, probably matted hair at his temple. His mouth skims the edges of the fresh stitches, tingles spreading out from the waning numbness. 

“I can practically taste you…” Carlisle whispers. 

An explanation. 

A warning. 

Charlie subtly leans into the temptation, opening up the side of his throat. 

“Do you like it?” He’s fishing. He’s good at fishing, it’s what he knows. 

Carlisle’s hand leaves his thigh to wrap around one of Charlie’s hands, dragging it down his firm, hard stomach until it’s skimming the bulge tenting the stretchy waistband of his surgical grade pants. Charlie hadn’t noticed before that he was hard, too caught up in his own head. 

“What do you think, Chief?” the smirk, the playfulness returns to his voice, and Charlie shivers, giving him a squeeze.

“I think…” He pauses to clear his throat, then tries again, still stroking the long, stiff shape of him through the thin material. “I think you should, um, fuck me in these scrubs.” 

“I do love a man so eager to serve.” Carlisle gives the lapels of his bomber jacket a teasing tug. “But I really am worried you have a concussion. You shouldn’t do anything too physically demanding until I can get a look at your scans.” 

“Oh.” Charlie’s hands fall away. He slumps. 

Carlisle clicks his tongue. “That doesn’t mean I can’t do something to make you more… comfortable while you’re here. Lay back,” he orders, and Charlie stiffly lowers himself onto the bed while the doctor works open his heavy belt. 

“What—what are you gonna do?”

“I need you on my tongue, Charlie,” Carlisle answers smoothly. 

He pulls Charlie out of his pants after a deft flick of his fly, so fast that Charlie’s brain can’t keep up with what his eyes are seeing. Like he’s desperate, like he means it, like he wants Charlie just as much as Charlie wants him. His wet, pink tongue darts out to gather the bead of precum bubbling out of his slit, his cock rapidly filling out in Carlisle's hand. 

Charlie throws his head back, wincing as it causes a dull throb to echo through his skull. 

“Ah—fuck, Doc,” he groans, fingers tangling in the feather-soft blond hair on the top of Carlisle’s head as he wastes no time swallowing him down.

Acts of service really are his love language.

Tick-tick-tick, and his sharp teeth don’t touch him, but until Carlisle is kissing him, tasting of his own cum, and the post nut clarity hits as hard as the bottle he took to the head earlier, he really wishes they would.

Chapter Text

“Will it hurt?” 

“It may be uncomfortable, seeing as you’ve never done this before.” The young man, more fairy than Master as Charlie had expected when he asked to be paired with someone seasoned for the night, holds up the thinnest sounding rod on his table of instruments. “We’ll start small. Take our time and see how well you adjust before moving up accordingly.” 

Charlie eyes the varying sizes laying neatly nestled in a rest velvet case. It’s possible that he’s in over his head here. Branching out has never been his strong suit, but in the wake of his divorce, he’s determined to be… well, at least open to new experiences. 

That was how he wound up here, strapped to a padded table at a private sex club in the big city of Seattle, bare ass naked in front of a complete stranger who is currently adding lubricant to a slim metal sex toy more akin to a torture device meant to go in his—well, fuck. 

Fuck it.

He can’t stay holed up in that empty house forever. 

Or can he?

The steel glints the like man’s eyes beneath the low mood lightly, and Charlie’s cock twitches between his legs, trying to rally despite his sudden cold feet. 

“Have you changed your mind?” the man asks as he approaches Charlie. His hands are gloved in black latex, and the one not holding the rod feathers through the coarse hairs on Charlie’s inner thigh, petting him reassuringly. 

His touch feels nice—distracting. 

Something to focus on instead of the fear. 

“N-no, I—” Charlie’s voice cracks as cool knuckles brush his sack. “I’m fine. I want to try. ‘S just nerves.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m a doctor. I know what I’m doing.” 

Charlie gives him a shaky nod. “It… does, yeah. Thanks, Doc. That okay? If I call you that?” 

“Whatever you like, Charlie. I’m here for you. If you change your mind at any point, please don’t hesitate to use your safe word…?” 

“Sunfish.” 

“Sunfish,” the man repeats with a smile, damn near fond looking. Charlie feels his heart flutter. “If you say sunfish, all play stops. That’s the rule. Are you ready to begin?”

Charlie fills his lungs and reminds himself that he’s a cop, damn it. He’s been tased and shit, this is nothing. Just a long… hard… metal rod… going into his… okay, okay. Doctor. Doctor. Doctor. He knows what he’s doing. 

“I’m good, Doc.”

“Alright, sweetheart—” (Sweetheart!?) “Stay soft for me…” 

It isn’t nearly as bad as Charlie was expecting. It’s new, with achy jabs of something that he wouldn’t quite call pain whenever he shifts and the stainless steel touches places inside of him that’ve never seen the light of day, but he doesn’t hate it. It reminds him of being penetrated for the first time, how the full throb of a new stretch had reached inside of him and pulled pleasure out inside of the other way around.

He breaks out in a cold sweat somewhere between what his knowledgeable partner dubs “size four” and “size five”. Charlie can hardly tell the difference, too busy experiencing a whole-body buzz and jerking into the air to pump into the man’s benevolent fist whenever it wraps around his throbbing shaft. 

He comes with the rod still buried deep inside him, practically choking on his own tongue at the feeling of staying so full after his balls have drawn up and his orgasm burst through him. Once his partner tugs the instrument free, it all leaks out obscenely. He practically milks Charlie’s softening penis into a towel, smiling all the while like he’s proud of Charlie for seeing this thing through. Then he lets Charlie lay there, floating on the leather while he goes about meticulously cleansing his tools. 

“You exceeded my expectations,” the man says once he returns his attention to Charlie, looking him over again. “How do you feel?” 

“Good, Doc,” Charlie grins crookedly. “Real good. “Don’t know if I can walk just yet, though…”

The doctor’s laugh is musical in response. “Take all the time you need. You’ve earned it.” 

It’s, maybe, the first time Charlie doesn’t feel like he needs to rush back into his clothes and run away after something intimate.

“You know, we didn’t exchange names.” 

He’ll need one if he’s going to request this man again—and he will, that much he’s sure of. This was so much more than a night of exploration for him, like puzzle pieces settling into place. He doesn’t even think the sounding matters, it’s this man he wants more of. He just touched him all right, inside and out. 

“I’m Charlie.”

“Carlisle. A pleasure.” 

Charlie takes the offered hand, suppressing a moan at the chill that radiates from the man’s palm and soothes his still-burning senses as they meet, skin to skin.  

Chapter Text

Charlie finds it disturbingly easy to fall for a monster. 

The hard-line sort that puts him on his knees and pushes its long, probing fingers down his throat, asking, “How much deeper can you take me?” with its black eyes brimming with pride as they bore past his stretched lips, his hole hooked at the corner by the thumb of the cold hand that cradles his cheek and keeps him open to it. 

It hurts a lot less to be so full he’s choking on it than it does to be left, empty, alone; he would know. 

He spent so many years in true darkness that this kind is the sweetest relief. 

Carlisle’s digits drag back over his tongue, saliva-silky and swiping through the hot flow of tears streaming down his cheeks. Charlie watches, tongue out, in awe, as his monster sucks them into his own greedy mouth and savours his salt. He lets out a desperate whine when he doesn’t share—so worked loose that he can’t seem to keep anything in anymore. 

He’s bleeding for this man.

His monster’s eyes soften on his slack mouth. 

“Oh, I’m sorry pet…” Carlisle’s fresh-clean fingers slide down his unnaturally brawn, pale chest to the hard cock protruding lewdly from his bare root to wrap around his shaft and squeeze. “Did you want more?”

And all Charlie has to do is keep his red mouth parted for him—not an act of God at all, so stinkin’ easy—because he knows without a shadow of a doubt that his monster will give him everything he needs; that’s how they get you. 

Chapter Text

Everyone was in good spirits as they watched the newly married couple depart, Edward’s sleek black car heading down the long drive on its way to the airport. Well, everyone except the bride’s father. 

Carlisle watched as Renee wrapped an arm around Charlie’s back and laid her head on his shoulder, smiling fondly as the tail lights vanished around the curve. Charlie’s chest heaved with a hefty sigh—he’d been wearing a defeated expression that fell further into the bottle the longer the night wore on, so it wasn’t a surprise to anyone when he grunted, “I need another drink,” and stocked off toward the path at the side of the house that would lead to the open bar.

His ex-wife’s face pinched in concern as she watched him go; then her eyes glanced around the party as she clearly scoped out the likelihood of anyone else handling that.

“I’ll go,” Carlisle offered when her eyes landed on him.

He couldn’t say why he did it. It wasn’t like he and Charlie were close. Only, he’d felt strangely aware of the man all evening, and now he felt a tug in his chest to follow him, so much like a heartbeat that it startled the words right out of his mouth.

“Oh. You don’t have to do that…” Renee shook her head, eyebrows scrunched and teeth worrying her bottom lip the way Bella did sometimes when she was waging an internal war with herself—except where Bella was hard to read, like her father, Renee’s thoughts and feelings were loud. 

She didn’t want the responsibility, but she also didn’t want to feel guilty for shouldering it onto someone else.

Carlisle gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s no problem, really. I’d like to.” 

They were family now, after all.

His wife, Esme, cocked her head at him as he delicately unwound her arm from around his elbow and gave her hand a pat. Her smile wavered slightly at whatever she saw on his face, but then her expression brightened. It was so minute, barely a twitch of her beautiful features, but he caught it. She was his oldest friend, his closest confidant, and she knew better than anyone how Carlisle’s compassion could get the best of him sometimes. She stepped back and angled her body gracefully toward the front steps.

“Why don’t we all wind down from the evening inside?” 

Carlisle made a mental note to thank her later; maybe he’d buy her another island. 

~

He found Charlie leaning with his elbows against the bar, head lowered into his hands as he scrubbed his fingers through the wild mop of black hair on his head, radiating distress. 

“You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself.” 

Charlie jumped nearly out of his boots when he spoke, back straightening so fast that Carlisle heard a thing or two pop. His head whipped toward him before he seemed to catch himself and quickly looked away. 

“Jesus Christ. Gave me a heart attack. When did you get here?” 

“Just now,” Carlisle soothed. He put his hands on the bar, overcome by the strongest urge to reach out and touch Charlie—to soften the frown lines marring his stern face. 

“Hmph.” Charlie straightened up and poured himself another shot from the liquor bottle he’d snatched from the unattended island, knocking it back and chasing it down with a throaty noise of disgust. 

“Is the whiskey not to your liking, Chief?” Carlisle tipped the bottle and pretended to inspect the label, fashioned into the glass. 

“Top shelf shit,” Charlie growled. “No offense.” 

“None taken.” Carlisle knew well that finery was an acquired taste, especially if you were used to drinking from the bottom of the barrel to get by. He also knew how easily it was to get lost in that luxury. “How many have you had?” 

Angling his strong jaw Carlisle’s way, Charlie gave him a wry smile. His eyes, darker than the liquor, caught the warm glow from the fairy lights like black mirrors and flickered with drunken amusement. 

“Why?” he teased, “You a cop?”

Carlisle chuckled. “I believe that’s your calling in life, Charlie. Not mine.” 

The smile slipped from Charlie’s face. “Right, yeah. How could I forget?” he muttered, waving around him, and this time when he snatched up the bottle, he didn’t bother pouring the whiskey into his glass, just tipped the spout directly into his mouth as he turned and staggered off in the direction of the trees past the circle of the dance floor.

“Go away,” he spat when he turned and realised that he hadn’t left Carlisle behind at all. 

“No thank you. A walk in the woods sounds lovely.” 

“Wha—you—just—” he sputtered, “go back to the party, Doc. Go back to your wife and your kids and—” 

It occurred to Carlisle then, with horrific clarity, that Charlie had handed off his only daughter today. That he’d be going back to a big, empty house, and that was how it would likely stay if Charlie’s history was any indication. Carlisle’s chest grew inexplicably tight.  

“I don’t think you should be alone right now. In fact, I don’t think you want to be alone at all.” 

Charlie’s stomping got angrier. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” 

“No? Then what do you need?” 

Charlie stumbled over a loose network of roots as if thrown by the question, body flinging forward.

Carlisle saw the fall in slow motion. 

He wasn’t usually clumsy, unlike his daughter. Awkward, sure, a bit fumbling when caught off guard, but in an endearing way, not a danger to himself or others. Not unless he was drunk, apparently. Drunk and hurting. He was so obviously in pain, and Carlisle was filled with the burning need to make it better somehow. 

He moved before he could think better of it, snagging the back of Charlie’s tuxedo and yanking him up, pinning his body to the nearest tree with the strength of his own within the blink of an eye. They hit the bark with enough force to knock a groan loose from the human man, the sweet scent of whiskey and desperation slamming into Carlisle as hard as if he’d taken him to the ground instead.

He rocked forward on instinct, and both of them froze. 

Well—Charlie froze. Carlisle’s whole existence had frozen over a very long time ago, leaving him ever-aching for the warmth of human life through a layer of seemingly impenetrable ice. So how did the hard cock he felt trapped against his thigh manage to make him feel like he was on fire now? 

“Wha—” Charlie was breathless, and Carlisle both thanked and cursed his ability to see the way his cheeks were tinged a deeply intriguing red, even in the greyscale-green of the night around them. “How did you…” 

With the flex of his hips, he cut Charlie’s questions off at the root, dragging another dirty sound out of him. The grunts of pleasure were a much nicer sound then the ones he’d been making before, feeling sorry for himself. 

“Shhh…” Carlisle heard himself hush. With an arm still slung around Charlie’s lower waist, and the other pushing through the hair at the back of his head, Carlisle was careful to only use the strength of a man to yank Charlie’s head to the side, exposing the length of his long, tender neck. 

“Don’t ask questions I can’t answer,” he pleaded, mouth hovering at his ear. Charlie’s stubble scraped against his cheek, rough and warm. “Just let me…”

Help you. 

Heal you. 

Have you. 

Charlie's throat worked around a swallow. 

“You're hard, Charlie… you need it. There’s no shame in needing people,” Carlisle pushed. The scent of whiskey was thick in the air, and maybe it wasn't fair of him to take advantage of the man's inebriated state, but he didn't think Charlie was so far gone that he couldn't consent. Besides, was it really taking advantage when he hadn't planned it (couldn't have known they'd wind up here, or foreseen how badly he'd want to) and, despite how impossible it was for Carlisle to succumb to the effects of it, the way the alcohol mingled with the mounting aroma of Charlie's arousal was making it hard to think? 

Carlisle could choose to stop breathing him in, to walk away, but Charlie's hands, which hung limply at his sides until now, flew up and closed around his biceps, the whiskey bottle lost to the grass somewhere at their feet as Charlie anchored himself there and arched into another smooth thrust, hinting at what delicious friction they could create together, and he knew then that there wasn’t a choice for him at all. 

“Christ,” Charlie swore, eyes slamming closed as Carlisle's lips brushed tenderly over his throbbing pulse. 

“That's it, Charlie. Take what you need from me.”

They were far enough away from the house that his family would have to really strain to hear them, and Carlisle was grateful for that when Charlie started to moan, his hips pumping loosely against Carlisle's controlled pace. Those sounds were meant for him, only him. 

Vaguely, amidst a head rush of pleasure, Carlisle wondered if Alice had seen this coming, or if it was so spur of the moment that it fell through the cracks. Charlie broke out in a sweat as they rutted together against the tree, top lip twitching into a frustrated snarl when it wasn’t enough that Carlisle couldn't trust himself to bite into if he slammed their mouths together like he wanted to.

“Take us out,” he ordered instead. Charlie's pupils were already blown, and all of his fight had melted away like the hundreds of years of numbness he was penetrating with his fumbling fingers at Carlisle's fly. Carlisle let him struggle, his feet planted firmly to keep them both upright, wanting to prolong this bout of excitement they’d found together, away from everything else.

Charlie was leaning back, a little bent at the knees and trembling by the time he finally got them both free of their underwear. He looked up at Carlisle through the fan of his lashes like he had no idea what to do now, and in truth… neither did Carlisle. He'd never done this before. Not with a man. Not with a human.

But he had enough time on this Earth under his belt to know that any skin to skin was far more satisfying than trying to get off through layers of clothing, and his body temperature had definitely risen with Charlie’s, so he took Charlie's hand with his own and wrapped it around both of their erections, bringing them together. Both of them groaned as they met in the middle of that firm grip, and Charlie’s slack wrist followed his lead in getting them off.

Just the tips of Carlisle’s fingers brushed Charlie’s cock as he guided their joined hands to pump them both, and each little point of contact with the silky steel felt like sparks licking up his wrist. Carlisle kept fucking—as crass as it sounded, it really was—through their fists, dropping his forehead to Charlie’s shoulder. 

He—selfishly—sucked a bruise into the crook of the man’s neck, where the flesh was thin from age and the dangerous taste of Charlie’s blood nearly broke the surface before he moved on to a new spot, marking the collar of his throat with the shape of his hunger, which was growing at an unprecedented rate. How long had Carlisle waited for something to feel greater than his guilt? 

Practically crushing Charlie against the tree, the wedding party long forgotten at his back, Carlisle was steadily rethinking every resentment he’d had about his unending life. If any of his attempts to cut it short had worked, he’d never have known the rattle of Charlie’s lungs around his quiet race to orgasm, or the way his blunt nails bit into Carlisle’s hard arms like he was climbing rock, clinging for all he was worth as he attempted to keep up with Carlisle’s mind-blowing pace, or the small part of his lips where his mouth hung open on a silent scream as he came undone in Carlisle’s arms, and those things—they were worth what he’d become. 

The wait over, Carlisle let go, using Charlie’s load and softening cock to bring about his own release, which covered Charlie’s black vest in white stripes reaching up all the way to the lapels of his jacket. Pleasure zapped through him as powerfully as lightning finding ground, both shaking him apart and lighting him up from the inside out, so fast and so hard that he was momentarily blinded by it.

Carlisle gave a few dying thrusts, feeling achy in a way he couldn’t remember ever feeling before, like he’d ascended to new heights. He only stopped once Charlie started to grunt in time with each swing, spasming from oversensitivity. 

Man of few words that he was, he said nothing as Carlisle released his grip on his hair, using the pocket square from his own tuxedo to do the best that he could, cleaning the cum off of them both and packing them away again. Charlie was barely holding himself up. His hands fell away, palms landing on his thighs and squeezing as if to will some strength back into them. 

Carlisle felt just as momentarily helpless as he stood back—not nearly as physically drained, but spent in an emotional way that had him longing for a sleep he didn’t need and couldn’t achieve. Still, even in desperate desire for peace and quiet as he was, he didn’t want Charlie to leave. 

He didn’t want to leave him, especially not in these woods. That seemed cruel and unusual, contrary to what he was trying to do by coming out here with him in the first place. 

“Stay,” he blurted, very unlike himself. Tonight was a night for rediscovery as well as celebration, it seemed, and he didn’t entirely hate the disheveled version of himself that he could see through Charlie’s wary eyes as they stared straight through him. 

“What?” 

“Stay the night with me. Don’t… go. Not like this. Not after…” 

Charlie blinked. Once, twice, then scrubbed a hand over his mouth, scratching his jaw. His neck was mottled with love bites, and his pants were still open at the front. He was Carlisle’s first… Should he tell him that? Probably not.

“Your wife…” 

“Won’t mind, I promise you.”

Charlie’s face screwed up in confusion before some kind of understanding dawned, however fuzzy and unreal it seemed to him in the dark.

“Right. Well, I, uh,” he croaked, jerking his gaze back the way they came. “Your house is… uh… ‘little full, Doc,” he finally settled on.

Carlisle was undeterred. 

He was thrown, and confused, and surprised by the turn of events tonight, and more than a little shocked at himself, and maybe suffering from a mild adrenaline drop, but he would not allow Charlie to crawl into some cold, lonely bed by himself to sleep off this burst of belonging by himself. That was just asking for an exacerbation of pain that Carlisle couldn’t, in good conscience, allow. 

“Then I’ll go home with you,” he decided, knowing that Alice would see it and warn the others that he wouldn’t be coming back tonight. They would make up a story for Renee, not that it mattered all that much to him at that moment, what they would say. Carlisle’s concern, the only one he could focus on, was the lonely song that Charlie’s blood had begun to sing the second their orgasm was over. 

He wanted to bleed it from him slowly, kindly. 

Charlie was used to a level of caretaking from Bella now that he was probably going to be lost without. Carlisle could do that for him. Patch him up with little pieces of himself and hold him until he’s whole again. 

Keeping him was out of the question, of course, but should something happen to force Carlisle’s hand… maybe Bella wasn’t doomed to spend forever mourning her father, after all. But Charlie was staring at him like he’d grown a second head, and Carlisle was probably getting ahead of himself. Best to get him home first. Get the booze out of his system, get him into bed, and maybe—only if he was extremely careful—get inside him before thinking about forever.

Carlisle stepped in, hands raised like he was approaching a skittish animal. “Will you let me take you home, Charlie?” he asked, and Charlie surprised him by staggering forward, slumping against his chest where Carlisle caught him. 

Words slurred, and a little sleepy, the man mumbled against his shoulder, “Only if you’re going to stay,” and that settled it.

Charlie would never be on his own again.

Chapter Text

Carlisle holds himself impossibly still, determined not to fight the restraints around his wrists and ankles. This is Charlie’s game, and far be it from him to spoil the man’s fun. He so rarely allows himself to have any. 

Still, Carlisle isn’t used to having his senses dulled like this. 

The earmuffs do very little to muffle his supernatural hearing, but the flannel, folded over and tied around his eyes, does a surprisingly good job of blinding him. It leaves him fairly vulnerable, reminding him of dark sewers and dank potato cellars that have long since faded from his mind. 

If his heart could beat right now, he knows it would be racing. 

Instead, venom swims through his veins, leaving him stiff from anticipation.

“Charlie…” 

“I’m gettin’ there,” the man grunts, and the recliner across the lounge creaks as he gets up from where he’s been sitting across from Carlisle for a good ten minutes. 

Waiting, watching, but for what? 

The scent of pine and heady arousal pass by Carlisle’s right as Charlie heads into the kitchen, leaving him there dizzy. A drawer opens, and by the snag and thump of bent wood, Carlisle guesses it's the middle one. The catch-all, the junk drawer. Charlie digs through it loudly, and Carlisle wonders if he’s lost something, or if he’s trying to disguise the sounds he’s making so that Carlisle can’t guess what he’s grabbing and ruin the surprise. 

Curiosity mounts as Charlie makes his way back to him. 

Slow, gated steps. 

He circles Carlisle, knobby knuckles caressing his sharp cheek. His hands are shaking. 

“Now I want you to know before I do this that I… I trust you.” 

It isn’t until the slow, metallic sound of an old pocket knife opening up grates in his ears that Carlisle understands why the sentiment was necessary. A warm, calloused hand wraps around his erection, and Carlisle jerks hard enough to test the flimsy wooden legs of the chair he’s zip tied to. 

Zip ties, for Christ’s sake. 

He could snap them in half a heartbeat, sink his teeth into Charlie before the measly plastic hits the floor, what is he thinking?! 

“You won’t hurt me.” 

Charlie pumps him confidently, his pulse like a ticking clock in Carlisle’s ears as he gets him close. Carlisle forces his pleasure to the forefront, beats back the fear hoping if he comes before Charlie cuts himself, the man will let this go. 

He can’t help the way his mouth waters, though. 

The little devil on his shoulder, tired of being denied what it craves, sways to the song in Charlie’s blood now that he allows himself to notice it. Deep baritone delicacy thrumming through the fascia. 

“You’ve stitched me up before. Y’were with me when I got that nosebleed…” 

“This is different,” Carlisle ekes out through his painfully clenched jaw. “You, offering it to me like this…” 

He wants to taste it so bad—but if he does that he might never be able to claw his way back into the skin of his own (admittedly waning) morality. He’d have to turn Charlie to keep from devouring him whole, and that would be breaking his own covenants, rendering the hundreds of years he’s spent atoning for his own nature moot. 

It’s inherently selfish of Charlie to present him with this temptation. Deeply concerning how he’s seemingly reached into the very darkest, most subdued corners of Carlisle’s being and wrenched this fantasy out. 

“You want this.” 

Brought it to life. 

"You want me."

“Charlie, please,” he begs, a last ditch effort to preserve the slivers of his humanity. 

Charlie hears it for what it is though—Carlisle, desperate for him to hurry up. If he really didn’t want him to do this, he’d run fast and far away. He wouldn’t let it happen.

“I won’t put it in your mouth,” Charlie promises, right before his palm bleeds hot and sticky over the head of Carlisle’s cock. 

Carlisle makes a wounded noise, sympathy pains, getting splinters under his nail beds from how hard he’s holding onto the arms of the chair as the full effect of wet food hits him hard, right in the gut.

Charlie’s blood drizzles down his shaft in ripe rivulets that Carlisle can practically see in his mind’s eye, all because he can smell each individual stream. And then it all gets smeared together when Charlie resumes fucking him with his fist, dripping down his balls, so much fucking red that he’ll probably need stitches again.

Charlie keeps his promise, makes him come without ever getting too close to Carlisle’s teeth, kissing his chest and dragging his scratchy five o’clock shadow all over Carlisle’s sensitive skin, but Carlisle, by the end of it, is half mad and wishing he wouldn’t keep it, after all.

Wishes Charlie would stand up, rub his blood and Carlisle’s come all over thick erection he can feel digging into his calf and feed the mess past his lips like that—let him suck him dry. 

Later, he has to tell himself. 

When Charlie’s cleaned up and it’s only the faintest echo of the damage he’s done here to his psyche left in the air, that’s what he’ll do. Maybe, maybe, maybe Charlie will even let Carlisle paint him red.

Chapter Text

Carlisle is scrupulous, carving the root into a gradual taper. Stroking the peeled edge against Charlie’s frenulum, over his slit, letting the sting set in slowly, not all at once. He rubs each of Charlie’s nipples until they’re welted red and standing out from the hair on his chest, and his vision is blurry. 

The pungent smell of ginger causes a pins and needles sensation behind his eyes as the root nudges his bottom lip, and Charlie wrinkles his nose. Saliva starts to pool around the hollow ball keeping his mouth open, too much to swallow, even if he could.

Carlisle towers over him, petting back his fringe as it builds and builds behind the gag. When he grips the messy strands and tips Charlie’s face forward, drool drips down his chin.

Spills obscenely.

“There we go. Get it nice and wet for me, Singer,” the vampire purrs, twisting the root around his knuckles until it shines like his skin under the sun from spit.

He drops Charlie’s head back onto the pillow once he’s satisfied, and a soft, fibrous tease glances over Charlie’s sensitive sack before spreading wetness down his taint. A growing warmth circles his rim, causing Charlie to buck into the air with a gruff sound, tugging on the fishing line that bites into his wrists and keeps his hands secured to the very top of the head board at his back. 

His heels dig into the end of the mattress, slipping when Carlisle uses that impossible strength of his to force his knees back down onto the bed. The click of a sharp tongue tells him to stay still. Possessed by a singular focus, Carlisle spreads Charlie’s cheeks apart and thrusts the root into the hilt without warning. He needs him to understand just how badly he burns for him, even if this is only a fraction of the pain Charlie causes him with just the beat of his heart.

It hardly feels like more than a finger at first—the short few seconds where the intrusion is surface level, before the natural oils start to seep into his cells, and what it lacks in girth, the ginger makes up for in heat.

A lubed hand massages his soft cock as Charlie grunts and groans, ministrations waking up his waned arousal. It’s startling—all that blood rushing fast from his head to fill his cock despite the pain. Leaves him light-headed. 

Every time he gets close, Carlisle takes it all away again. 

Denies him the great white arc of whatever is on the other end of submitting to the flames fanning through his middle, again and again and again until tears are brimming over the corners of his eyes, and he’s not strong like Carlisle, he can’t take this level of suffering much longer. His balls are drawn up tight against his body, and the burn mingles with the blazing tidal wave of pleasure building with every squelch of Carlisle’s slippery fist around his cock, until the two are almost indistinguishable. 

“I—g’na—g’na cum, g’na cum—” he gurgles, fighting hard to thrash and tear his hips away from the quick swirls of Carlisle’s palm around his swollen head. 

Hot ginger lodged in his hole, icy oversensitivity tearing at his bladder, Charlie’s orgasm is wrested out of him in a violent flare that’s snuffed out as soon it erupts. Carlisle takes his hand away, leaving him pulsing in unsatisfying dribbles of cum that slide down his shaft and wet the bed beneath him and his body convulses, breath coming in short, sharp pants as his release dies. 

Charlie whimpers in agony while Carlisle marvels at his body with his hands running all over his stomach and chest until his writhing calms again. He’s left wanting from it.

Charlie’s cock kicks through the air when he gently slaps the soft, fleshy bottom of his belly, still rock hard, still throbbing. He tenses his shaft hard enough to hurt when Carlisle pulls the ginger root free, only to swirl it through the mess Charlie made and stuff it back inside. 

He doesn’t know whether it’s a blessing or a curse that Carlisle isn’t finished mirroring his own tortured existence through his breakable body yet—he’s wrung out, doesn’t think he can take it anymore, but he’s also still all wet inside, needy fire in his blood and begging for reprieve, so when Carlisle’s hand returns to his cock, cold around his fevered skin and nowhere near done with him yet, Charlie’s deformed screams sound more like thanks to God than a plea for him to stop.

Chapter Text

The appendages come from the dark trees to pull at Charlie’s clothes until his pajama pants and t-shirt are nothing but strips of fabric left on the forest floor, to snake around his ankles and wrists and spread him wide, like he’s standing on some alien cross as even more of them slick over his exposed skin, and to touch him everywhere. Inside and out. There are so many, wriggling, flexible and prehensile as they wind around his body.

Bend. 

Dip.

Tug his knees up to his hips and bind his wrists to his ankles and his elbows to his knees, keeping him suspended in the air and open to the elements like he weighs nothing.

He flinches as a moonlit tentacle flicks his ear lobe, following the curve of his throat down into the cusp of his collarbone like a lover’s tongue before criss-crossing over his pectorals and squeezing until they bulge. The organs are soft where they caress him, teasingly stroking his stomach, his sides, but firm where he pulls on his restraints and feels them tighten until his bones ache. 

Charlie can’t remember how he got out here—when or why he left the safety of his bed.

He cries out, but no sound escapes, and another glabrous point slides over his chin, taking advantage of the available orifice and stuffing itself inside. A faintly copper burst of mucus coats his tongue as its squishy girth reaches for the back of his throat, fluttering against his gag reflex. Panic has him swallowing repeatedly, lips milking the rubbery extension plugging his mouth.

One of the tentacles cupping and spreading his ass cheeks molds itself to the shape of his crease, squeezing between the globes and sliding rhythmically over his puckered hole, the motion aided by the excessive wetness it secretes. Charlie’s eyes nearly bug out of his head when the cone-shaped tip peels back and pokes around his rim, nudging its way through the tense muscles. A tapered fullness slowly stretches him out, patient and careful, until it feels like it's wedged so deeply in his guts that he’s almost sure that the two eager snakes entering his body from either end can kiss each other through his middle.

It’s horrific, but not painful, and Charlie forgets to be afraid when another tentacle floats out of the depths of the night and wraps around his hard—hard?!—cock, giving it a healthy pull. He instinctively curls over himself with a muffled, mouthful of grunt, but he’s immediately yanked back into a fuck-thrusting arch as the wily beast takes over him. A thicker coil winds itself around his throat and holds his head steady as the tentacle squirming in his mouth begins to contract, liquid skeleton pulling its rear end forward to push further down his esophagus. 

The wave-like motion of the object rocking into his ass has him bucking rhythmically through the slick fist of the tentacle still circling his heavy cock, and his balls draw up, tickled by the cool brush of teeny, tiny feelers that curl and hook around his testicles, tightening until he feels like he’ll burst. 

“Relax for me, Charlie,” an achingly familiar croon comes from the forest, followed by a pair of golden, glowing eyes that emerge from the dark. It both lights his blood on fire and sets him at confusing ease to be face to face with the creature, even though he can’t see a lick of him besides that honeyed stare and the pale, otherworldly tentacles that hold him up. 

With all of the sensations cradling him, cracking him open, Charlie has no choice but to surrender. The stiffness drains from him, letting the the essence of pleasure invade his core, and his cock pulses in hot spurts that slick the tentacle around it, leaving behind the peaceful tranquillity of floating on a warm, salty lake to fill his chest and limbs. 

Those watchful eyes fade away, drawing down his body before the darkness creeps in to swallow him whole, and Charlie wakes up in his bed, pushing his cock through a wet spot in his sheets, to the sound of rain on his windowsill and thoughts of a certain doctor at the forefront of his cum-hazy mind.

Chapter Text

Carlisle’s cock is a work of art, carved out of the Baroque era with its dusty pink head peeking out from its smooth sheath. It taps the apples and archways of Charlie’s face, dramatic and damning as it gathers more of Charlie’s fast-drying tears and smears them across his lips. 

Charlie tries to pull his face away, but Carlisle holds his head still with an unyielding grip in his hair, urges his mouth open and feeds his cock through, inch by confident inch, until he’s gagged by it. It tastes like them, like the hour he spent running (stumbling) through the woods while Carlisle stalked him, circling like a predator playing with its next meal. Charlie’s heart is in the back of his throat when he swallows around it. He feels the heady flavor bottom out and has to spread his knees to make more room in his lower belly, exposing his bare ass to the grass tickling him in places that feel unimaginably dirty. 

His clothes lay torn askew around this open meadow. Carlisle tore them off of him, one piece at a time as he struggled—as he let him struggle, because they both know that Carlisle could break his spine or his legs or his heart with the tiniest flex of his true strength. Charlie isn’t unaware of where he hangs by his throat on the food chain, that’s a part of the thrill of being caught. 

Charlie can only moan from the depravity of it all—the sound muffled by Carlisle’s length. He runs his repressed tongue up and down his shaft, tracing and teasing the veins that pulse thick between his cheeks. Carlisle’s hips move in short thrusts, slowly, methodically taking him over until Charlie can’t think about where they are, what they’re doing, how wrong it feels to be a grown man who needs to be taken to his knees to feel wanted. 

All he knows is the scrape of nails against his scalp, the heavy weight of the hard cock sliding over his wet tongue, the subtle, glass-shard glow of Carlisle’s skin under the evening sun, and the way the man’s eyes never stray from Charlie’s face as he gives him this peace—like he is, in return, all Carlisle can think about.

Chapter Text

Charlie’s eyes drop to the stripes of his own pearly cum melting shamefully down Carlisle’s stomach. His soft, sticky cock twitches between his thighs as he watches a dollop pool in the man’s recessed navel. 

Carlisle swipes a finger through the mess he’s made, gathering it up and offering it out to Charlie, whose nose wrinkles instinctively. He’s never tasted a man’s cum before, let alone his own—but he finds, as he stares at the offering, that he isn’t entirely disgusted by the idea, just like he wasn’t disgusted when he was rubbing off on Carlisle’s stomach a few moments ago. 

“Come on, darling. Taste yourself. There’s no shame in it,” the man encourages, running his clean hand through Charlie’s hair and gently urging his mouth closer. Charlie can smell it—himself—the faint, earthy spill. 

“I dunno…” He gives a weak shake of his head, but he’s snared by Carlisle’s pleading eyes as the man pushes his fingers past his lips anyway. 

And Carlisle… Well, Carlisle would swallow him whole if he could, wouldn’t he? He would lick up all the inside parts of Charlie that make him sick to think about, and he would enjoy it, so what’s a little bit of his cum, huh? It’s almost like licking a paper cut.

His tongue darts forward to wrap around Carlisle’s fingers, lapping at the evidence of their mutual attraction before he can lose his nerve, and at first the tang is… weird, bordering unpleasant. But then it dissolves like honey, tastes like sweaty kisses stolen in the hospital supply closet or in the back of his cruiser, and Charlie moans, because it isn’t the worst thing. 

That’s what he’s thought of most of the things they’ve done, when he couldn’t stand to hate how they made him feel, but he couldn’t admit that he really liked them, either. 

Carlisle flirting with him, not the worst thing, Carlisle kissing his neck, not the worst thing, Carlisle being a bloodthirsty vampire who could kill him in a split second but chooses not to, chooses to worry love marks into his skin with his blunt teeth and touch his cock with a gentle, nurturing hand instead, not the worst thing. 

Tasting his own cum off of Carlisle’s skin… yeah. 

He scoots down Carlisle’s body, trembling like the trees at the first sign of heavy rain, placing indelicate, inexperienced kisses as he goes. His bushy mustache scratches against Carlisle’s smooth skin, and Carlisle releases these proud little hums that set Charlie on fire. If he could get hard again so soon, he knows he would be. 

The first splatter of cooled cum glosses his lips as they slide through it. Charlie spreads the slick to the middle of his abdomen and laps up the track it leaves, licking his lips and looking up at Carlisle after. 

“Is this… okay?” he asks roughly. 

Carlisle’s smile is all patient appreciation. 

“Anything you do is okay, Charlie.” 

Unable to help himself, Charlie surges up and kisses Carlisle once, twice, before ducking his head back down and shyly collecting the rest of himself on his tongue, kitten licking at his hips and the smooth, sharp Adonis belt that points like a roadmap to his manhood. He smells nice here, warm in a way his body isn’t, and Charlie steals himself a breath before he settles his mouth over his slit, rewarded with hands tightening in his hair, legs bending at the knees around him, and the sweet burst of pre bubbling from Carlisle’s slit. 

Chapter Text

“Charlie…” 

“No, come on. Gimme a twirl, Carli.” 

The skirt swishes through the silence of the bedroom as he turns in place, cheeks burning as he puts on a show. Charlie takes him by the hips once he’s come back around to face him, pulling him into the cusp of his knees, and Carlisle grips the trim of the frilly, pink tulle even tighter, holding it out of the way so that Charlie can see the way his little cock peaks out from the white cotton panties he’s wearing, stiff and sticking straight up. The old recliner groans as Charlie leans forward, hot mouth closing around the slim bulge with ease. 

“Nnn….” Carlisle’s legs start to shake as Charlie suckles on him. 

Dark eyes flick up from underneath the strong arch of a brow. 

“You’re so sweet like this, princess,” he purrs, hand replacing his mouth with a rough, teasing pressure. “Such a pretty wife, all for me.” 

Tears spring to Carlisle’s eyes. He’d never dared ask for something like this before, couldn’t even entertain the idea of enjoying the company of men for the longest time, let alone share his desire to dress or act differently than the typical, nuclear family man he was meant to be. But Charlie saw through the plastic packaging, saw him, and he didn’t even need to. 

Charlie was what the head of a house should be—strong, steady, even though Carlisle knew that all of this was new to him, too, he didn’t shy away from any of it. He invited Carlisle to let go of the facade, to slip into something soft and let himself be cherished. 

He peels the edges of his panties down Carlisle’s thighs, revealing his leaking tool to the cool air, and licks at the pointy head: owning it, owning him. 

Carlisle finds himself laid on his back against a throne of pillows half an hour later, still clutching helplessly at his dress as Charlie slurps and slobbers all over him until his balls draw up in his tight sac, and his rear lifts off the bed. 

Replacing his lips with his hand again, palm sliding through his spit with dirty squelches, Charlie points his cock at his chest and works him up to an orgasm while saying things that make his ears ring. 

“Gonna squirt for me, Carli? Drench your pretty princess dress so Daddy can see your perky tits through it? I’ve got you baby, you can let go.” 

And Carlisle does—maybe for the first time in his life. He comes hard, with high pitched squeals, soaking through the thin bralette that barely covers his nipples.

Chapter Text

“That’s… electric?” 

Charlie looked at the long, cylindrical plug in Dr. Cullen’s hands like it would bite him if it got too close, and Carlisle couldn’t help but chuckle a little at the man’s hesitation. What he would be doing with the machine wasn’t anything compared to what he could do with his teeth… but he wouldn’t say that. Not to a patient. 

The town’s esteemed Chief of Police was having a hard enough time being so exposed under the cold, harsh lighting of the examination room’s fluorescents. His hospital gown was bunched under his chin, and his feet were held at an angle in the stirrups at the end of the table, knees pointed up and his anal cavity already leaking from the overzealous amount of lube Carlisle used to prepare him for this test. 

“It’s electric, yes,” he nodded, showing Charlie the wires coming out of the base that ran to the machine sitting on the metal rolling tray beside them. “And what it’s going to do is stimulate your prostate at varying levels of intensity, giving us a good indication of if everything inside is in working order.” 

Charlie gulped—audibly—and Carlisle gave him a small, forbearing smile. 

“You’ll be just fine, Charlie.” 

Charlie turned his face away from Carlisle and mumbled, “Yeah, I, uh… I trust you, Doc.” 

“Well, good. I’ll just secure your wrists with the straps—for my safety, you understand, as this test can be alarming to some—and we’ll be ready to begin.” 

“Right. Straps. Yeah, uh, okay.”

Thanks to Carlisle’s thoroughness, the plug slid into Charlie’s hole with ease. Carlisle watched the dark, puckered rim swallow it up, hungry, with pride. He already knew from his manual examination that Charlie’s prostate was practically virginal in its sensitivity. The Chief had popped an accidental boner before Carlisle had even reached it, and he was leaking after only a few soft passes over it. He could’ve made him come just like that, and they both knew it. 

Now Carlisle was just playing with him. But Charlie wasn’t a man to take any shit unless he wanted to… and Carlisle was beginning to suspect, with every new boundary the man let him cross during this routine checkup, that he really wanted to take whatever his doctor was willing to give him. 

Carlisle watched his face carefully as he started to turn the dial on the control box, flooding the bullet pressed inside of him with a subtle electrical current. The severity of his features lessened at first—relief, probably—and Carlisle got the chance to admire the way his jaw softened and his mouth went slack. 

“Starting to feel it?” he asked, carefully teasing. 

Charlie’s brows furrowed. “No, I don’t feel much at all, actually, it’s—” Carlisle kept turning the dial until his voice broke off, “o-oh! Oh, that’s… um…” 

The grown man wriggled in place like a small child doing the potty dance as the shock started to tremble through his limbs, and Carlisle put him out of his misery by settling on a level of stimulus that he could handle on its own. Charlie sagged against the half-reclined table, eyes rolling up to the ceiling while his top teeth dug into his plush, wide lip. 

In a falsely nonchalant move, Carlisle ran his hand over Charlie’s knee and around his inner thigh, dangerously close to his tight sac, and felt the man stiffen under his touch as his cock gave a lame little twitch. 

“I, ah—how long is this test?” he asked, clearly trying to control his physical reaction to the sensations wracking his nervous body. 

Carlisle rolled his chair even closer to the side of the table. “It will only take a few minutes for you, I think,” he answered, not unkindly. He could tell that Charlie very badly wanted to close his legs, but that wouldn’t be an option here. “Is there a problem, Charlie? Any pain or discomfort?” 

“N-no… no pain…” 

“Discomfort, then?” Carlisle tilted his head and pressed gingerly on the base of the plug as if readjusting it.

“Not—ah—quite.” 

Running his knuckles featherlightly over the man’s balls, Carlisle hummed. “I see. It feels good, then?” 

Charlie nearly choked on his own tongue as Carlisle picked up his soft shaft, pumping it through his palm and feeling it harden rapidly inside of his hand.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” he said, nursing the fevered erection to life. “This is a perfectly normal reaction. It’s your biology doing its job, nothing more. In fact, you could even say this is a good sign that your reproductive organs are in working order, Chief.”

“I don’t—don’t need to be reproducin’ anymore,” the man grumbled, still hiding his heated cheeks against his shoulder and refusing to meet Carlisle’s eyes as he continued to stroke his cock. 

“Maybe not. But if experience serves me right, there are many uses for a nice dick like yours that don’t include actually making a baby, Charlie…” 

“What? F-fuck…” 

The electro-stim machine was doing its job, massaging his prostate and causing blood to rush to Charlie’s cock until it was swollen and flushed an angry purple color that stood out against the pale ivory of Carlisle’s skin. A thin layer of sweat broke out all over Charlie’s body, and his heart rate sped up, quick like the wings of a hummingbird to Carlisle’s trained ear. 

His heels pressed hard against the stirrups, toes curling as he finally looked down at where Carlisle was touching him. 

“Jesus, Doc… shouldn’t you be… usin’ gloves?” 

“Usually. But in this case…” Carlisle rubbed the pad of his thumb over Charlie’s frenulum and grinned as he bucked into the pressure. “Gloves would only inhibit sensation, defeating the purpose of the test.” 

“Right. The test. Good God, that feels…” 

He bit off the sentiment, whatever it was, but Carlisle would guess it to be humiliatingly positive. Charlie couldn’t take his eyes off of the hand that worked him now, and vice versa, Carlisle couldn’t take his eyes off of him. The way his body went hot and wet, warm from the inside out as his pleasure grew, hair getting matted at his temples and fingers scraping the paper covering underneath him, made Carlisle want to do more than tease him, and he began to jerk him in earnest. 

Charlie was hard as a steel pipe in his hand, sheathed in a thin layer of satiny flesh that did absolutely nothing to hide the way he throbbed as he neared his orgasm. 

“You’re doing so well, Charlie. Just a little bit more.” 

The man was desperate, now, throwing his hips off of the bed in order to fuck through Carlisle’s tight fist, like he no longer cared about the propriety or embarrassment of the test, or even that it was one—all that mattered was the crest of white-hot pleasure that was no doubt flowing through him, magnetised by the silver plug agitating his prostate. 

“Doc,” he croaked hoarsely, “Doc, I don’t know if I can—I’m gonna—oh fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“You can. You’re almost there. Let me hear you, now.” 

His legs tremored and tried to close, but they were held fast by the stirrups. Carlisle cupped his balls with his free hand, eliciting a shout that rang so sweetly in his ears. He squeezed and rolled Charlie’s testicles in his fingers while milking him with short, fast pumps of his other hand, and he felt it in both palms when Charlie’s come came pulsing through his package like electricity through a Jacob’s ladder, shooting out over Carlisle’s knuckles. 

“Nnnn, uhhh, ah ah ah!” Charlie squirmed and whined as he came, eyes squeezing closed and mouth wide open, completely taken over by the powerful release.

What Carlisle would give to drop trou and push into the tight, wet heat at either end of him, the room he fostered for pleasure inside the man’s body—but he settled for continuing to jerk his angry cock until tears were streaming down Charlie’s face, and he was begging him to stop, stop, stop the test, Doc, fuck! 

When he finally released his prick it bobbed angrily against Charlie’s stomach, releasing another dollop of cum that clung to his belly button and trembled through the air between the curly hair on his lower stomach and his beautiful red tip. 

Carlisle massaged the ring of muscles around the plug as he turned the dial down gradually, until the way that Charlie shook was purely from overstimulation and not the machine’s doing. 

“Well, it looks like you’re in tip top shape, Chief,” Carlisle smirked, using a terry cloth to clean the spend off of his fingers, one by one. 

Once his hands were clean, Carlisle slapped his palms against his own thighs, refitting his professional, unaffected persona with ease while Charlie stared and stared, whiskey eyes all glassy and a bead of sweat slowly rolling down his temple. 

“Let’s go ahead and get that machine out of you, shall we, Chief? And then you can get cleaned up and you’ll be free to go. Sound good?” 

“I—uh…” Charlie cleared his throat awkwardly, like he was holding himself back from asking for more. “I guess. Yeah.” 

“Great.” Carlisle knelt—unnecessarily—at the foot of the bed, his face close enough to Charlie’s sagging cock to ghost across the abused flesh between his thighs and raise goosebumps in its wake. He was so responsive… needs like that deserved to be nurtured and appreciated. Did Charlie have anybody in his life willing to take care of him like this? Carlisle didn’t think so. He would have to schedule him for a follow-up in a few weeks time... 

“Alright. Go ahead and bear down for me, Chief.”

Chapter Text

Carlisle Cullen is an Enigma. 

That becomes startlingly clear when Charlie gets practically body slammed into the wall by the intensity of the pheromones filling out the employee lounge where the Doctor’s coworkers were forced to barricade him when something triggered the worst case scenario—a rapid onset rut amidst the full moon rush in the Emergency Department. 

Corralling unruly Alphas is well below his job description as the Chief of Police, but as a notoriously neutral and no-nonsense Beta, and due to the severity of the situation as described by the influx of panicked calls from staff and patients alike, dispatchers apparently considered him the best option to approach the unruly man. 

Except, standing here surrounded by High Alpha stink, thick and humid and practically holding him in place, Charlie is realising that they might’ve been wrong. 

The man causing all the fuss looks more disheveled than Charlie has ever seen him, braced with his hands on his knees to pounce while his eyes glow red and glare his way. His usually perfectly styled hair is hanging in limp blond strands all around his ashen face, and his skin is dewy from sweat. Charlie’s stomach dips along with his eyes when he sees the obscene bulge between his legs—the thing’s tenting the doctor’s blue scrubs, must fucking hurt—and he can almost feel it. The hurt, not the… shit. 

Carlisle cocks his head and sniffs the air, a wild, warning sound escaping his snarl that goes right for Charlie’s jugular. Okay, so Charlie might actually be in a little bit of trouble here. He contemplates leaving, fingers already carefully searching the cool wall for the handle of the door, but Carlisle takes a step forward and Charlie just knows he’s faster, stronger… no, he can’t risk it. His hand falls away, and the rumble of Carlisle’s throat turns into a sound almost like approval. Somewhere just short, like Charlie should’ve already known that was no choice at all, and the Alpha’s disappointed that he didn’t. 

Alpha of all Alphas and Charlie’s disappointing him.

He swallows a few sticky feelings that get inexplicably caught in his throat, blinks through the fog of fuck fuck fuck in the air and asks hoarsely, “How—uh, how long’s it been since you let yourself go into rut, Doc?” 

He just seems the type to disregard the medical advice he’s trained to give, abuse suppressants and ignore his body's urges. He’s the high strung, prudish sort. Charlie’s not judging, or thinking a lot about his sex life or anything, it just strikes him in the moment, this thought that Maybe Carlisle’s not getting any from his beautiful, boring wife at home, and that would certainly explain this dramatic presentation. 

Carlisle’s chin jerks from side to side and Charlie feels a little bad for him—not that he’s any better off. He doesn’t even have a cycle to worry about himself, and it’s not like he’s been jumping into many beds since his wife left him… years ago. All that to say the smell in the air is getting thicker, and usually it wouldn’t affect him, but his heart is sort’ve, well, racing.

It’s the adrenaline, is all. He’s got a whole hospital waiting on him to get a handle on this… not that he knows how in the fuck he’s gonna do that now that the gravity of the situation is weighing heavy. He needs to radio in, ask where the rapid response team is on getting those tranquilizers he insisted before that he didn’t need. Shit, that was so stupid. They’re probably on their damn lunch break because Charlie was overconfident, and now he’s trapped in this room with a man who—oh, fuck. 

Charlie flattens himself against the wall as Carlisle stalks into his space, all heat and lean muscle and teeth too close to Charlie’s jaw—and the soft, spongy gland underneath—for comfort. Charlie squeezes his eyes closed, defying his fight or flight instincts to push the Alpha away… pull him closer…

One of Carlisle’s legs shoves between his, pinning him with the press of his hard thigh between Charlie’s, and a zap of pleasure rips through his stomach, sharp like lightning. He’d double over if he wasn’t tacked to the wall—lets out a winded grunt and tenses his knees, because a throb echoes the pressure and when the fuck did his dick start reacting? It’s all he can feel now, the zipper biting through his boxer-briefs into his swollen member, and damn if this whole situation didn’t just go from bad to worse. 

Any hope he maintains of Carlisle not noticing his arousal dies on the gust of breath that coasts over his clammy skin and costs him some vital piece of his resistance. The Alpha’s nose brushes down the side of his throat, and Charlie tips his head back, barely holding in the foreign purr he feels building behind his ribs. God, that feels nice. It’s been so long since he’s been touched like this, and normally he doesn’t care, doesn’t even think about things like sex or affection, has very little interest, but it’s hard not to notice, in this room that’s filled up with so much need that even a monk would probably break, how hard-up he’s been.

But Carlisle puts his mouth right up against the point of his pulse as he grinds his hips into his like he’ll fuck him right here against the wall, right here in his place of work, and Charlie’s hands fly to his waist in a brief moment of clarity.

“Woah now, buddy. Y-you don’t wanna do that. ‘S just your rut talking…” 

With a sound like a scoff, Carlisle gets a hold of one of Charlie’s thighs and drags it up the length of his, hooking his ankle around his leg and pressing in harder. His medical badge digs into Charlie’s stomach through the stiff material of his winter jacket, and suddenly he feels overheated—overdressed. Carlisle’s forehead knocks with his, their noses bouncing off each other as he rubs against his face, humming softly like he’s trying to soothe Charlie. He’s stopped radiating so much rage, features smoothed out and eyes half-lidded, glassy with lust like the smell of Charlie is just doing it for him, which makes no sense. Charlie’s pheromones have always been dull, flavourless, scentless, bland. 

Everyone he’s ever been with has said so, including Renee. 

But Carlisle is nosing at him like he senses something different, and fuck if that doesn’t crack Charlie wide open and reach inside to squeeze his heart. 

Tongue dry, he rasps, “What are you—” doing? Scenting? 

Charlie isn’t even sure what he’s asking, but Carlisle answers, “Ripe,” and ain’t that rich? Charlie’s so far past his prime that it’s laughable at this point, meanwhile Carlisle doesn’t look a day over twenty-five, he’s fucking glowing like he just came out of a Copacabana swimsuit catalogue, and rearing hard against his belly with the same intensity as a jacked up breeding stud.

“You’re delirious. I’m not an Omega.” Not your wife—even if Charlie hasn’t had it confirmed, it doesn’t take a genius to guess that the warm, nurturing woman with five adopted children is probably the perfect archetype of an Omega. 

“I need to get you home—” a growl rips through the room, “to Esme. You remember her, right? She can help you with… this…” 

The words taste like dirt on his tongue, but if he can just stall long enough to get his fingers around his radio, press the buttons a coupla times, emergency signal, a team will eventually come barging in and— 

“No.” 

Charlie freezes, his hand pausing mid-reach for the holster on the front of his jacket.

He searches Carlisle’s eyes and they are blazing. It makes Charlie’s face feel all red-hot from the way they’re roaming over him like they’re taking stock—and Charlie just knows he’ll come up short, but he asks the burning question anyway. 

“What do you mean… no?”

“I don’t want her.” 

“She’s your wife…” 

“I want you.”

Oh… Charlie is so done for. His insides literally quiver at the confident, possessive clarity of the statement, and worse, the Alpha can probably smell the reaction; the shift in his cells that has his underwear going damp like never before. He feels the first trickle of fluid not from his cock and Charlie knows he’s in deep, deep fucking shit. 

A part of him doesn’t even care. He’s always admired Carlisle, never thought a bad word about him, and has caught himself looking at him for too long, too many times, but he never thought he had a chance. The man is married, he’s got this picture perfect life that Charlie’s always dreamed of, the recognition and the picket fence and a whole flock of people who love him, and Charlie… Well, he’s got Forks. 

And it’s a good town, a safe place, it’s his home, but it’s nothing special. He’s never been special. So a beautiful doctor with pheromones that smell like sex on a beach wants to bend him over in the hospital’s employee lounge so that he can pump him full, and yeah, a part of Charlie yearns to give him everything he wants. 

But he’s a born Beta, a nothingburger of the breeding pool, and as much as he might want to be something more for a change, he can’t let Carlisle alter his body chemistry beyond the point of no return when he’s gonna go home to someone else and probably make a litter of happy little pups in his wife’s belly right after this, when the fucking heat has cleared from his head some and he realises that Charlie isn’t who he wants. 

A mental image of his own stomach, stretched and round, has tears springing to his eyes and his legs threatening to buckle. He’s alone in this vision—needy, dripping, hungry to please. 

Or maybe that’s just him now; whimpering as Carlisle gets a hold of his wrist and drags his hand over the hard cock about to rip the fabric around it. Charlie squeezes automatically, a shiver of want running through him and making his mouth water. 

“I know you want me too, Cygne.”

“H-how? How can you know?” 

“Your body sings to me,” Carlisle purrs, scraping his cheek along the scruff covering Charlie’s jaw.

“It’s… it’s just your hormones making you think that.” 

“No. Even before this, I couldn’t help but hear it.” 

The fingers around Charlie’s wrist flex and tighten. Carlisle drags his palm up and down his shaft, no doubt trying to alleviate some of the ache so that he can get the words out, because every single one sounds forced up through a mountain of desire.

“Like a lovely little… humming song… for my ears alone…” Carlisle’s mouth is right there at the corner of Charlie’s, close enough for the most fractional tilt of his jaw to slant their lips together into the shape of the kiss that crackles between them, not yet formed. 

Why isn’t he trying harder to resist this? 

He should. He should he should he should but Carlisle’s got a knot straining to pop and Charlie knows it’s too late, and that jerking him off just won’t do, so he needs to take the upper hand before Carlisle takes him. Before he’s so far gone that he lets him. 

“You’re starting to drip for me, Beta. I can smell how eager you are to bend over and present for me—” 

Carlisle cuts himself off as Charlie slides down the wall to his knees, pushes up his shirt and starts to mouth across his belly, filthy accurate words replaced by a snarl. Hands sink into his hair, dragging Charlie’s face up and burying a sharp hip bone against his scratchy cheek, and God, fuck, the heat of him—it’s searing through Carlisle’s clothes, coming off his skin in waves and sinking straight into Charlie’s blood.

Charlie’s fingers curl around the waistband of the doctor’s pants, giving them a tug downward that betrays his intention, and Carlisle holds him there harder.

“What are you doing to me?” he demands, voice gravelly with lust. 

“Letting you use my mouth…” As if in demonstration, Charlie opens wide, tongue flicking out and flattening a stripe over his taut stomach muscles, right across a golden landing strip of downy hair. He peeks up from underneath his slightly sweaty fringe when Carlisle is too quiet, too still, to find the Enigma looking down with the intensity of a man whose entire center of gravity has shifted to settle on him. 

“Is… that okay, Alpha?” 

Carlisle’s cock kicks where it’s nestled right up against the throbbing mating gland in Charlie’s throat. 

“It’s a start.”

Chapter Text

Charlie’s still reeling from watching a boy he’s known his whole life turn into a giant dog when he pitches forward into a meadow carpeted by multi-coloured wild flowers and free from the gloom of the forest he’d just run through. He’s so stunned by the sudden field of colour, delicate petals swaying through the gentle wind without a care in the world for how his life has just been uprooted, that he almost misses the crunch of a branch underfoot behind him—almost. 

His heart lurches in time with that snap sound gaining on him, and he scrambles forward through the flowers, spinning on his heels to face… not a giant, snarling beast that was once a scrawny, acne-covered teenager, but something infinitely worse. 

Carlisle Cullen steps into the ring of light beaming down uninhibited by the surrounding canopies of pines, and Charlie sinks to his knees, trembling from head to toe. 

Carlisle holds his palms up in surrender. “Don’t be angry…”

“You—you followed me out here?” 

Carlisle nods. “I was listening from afar to your conversation with Jacob, just in case either of you needed… assistance. I heard you run off, and I was concerned.” 

“Concerned,” Charlie spits, unable to tear his eyes away from the Adonis slowly trying to close the minuscule distance he managed to put between them before he buckled. “Stop. Don’t come any closer. I know what you are.” 

A look of defeat, and ultimately, resignation, crosses Carlisle’s features, but he doesn’t waver in his careful, tentative approach.

“Okay. So then… What am I, Charlie?” 

“You’re…” 

“Say it.” 

Jacob told him that Bella had to change to get better. That she was different now. Not like him, but like them. And Charlie may have been blind to the truth around him before, but he isn’t stupid. 

He sees the man he’s secretly admired in the harsh, hard light of a new day and knows exactly what he is.

Carlisle Cullen is a vampire. 

A cold-blooded monster. 

He’s… 

“Beautiful,” Charlie whispers in awe as Carlisle crosses through a dusty warm ray. His skin is golden and dewy, like the sun is glowing from underneath his flesh, a brighter, more everlasting burn than their rainy little town ever sees. 

He comes to a full stop right in front of Charlie, a curious bunch to his brows. He lifts his hand to caress Charlie’s cheek, and Charlie feels his anxiety and fear melting away as he leans into the compassionate cup of his palm. 

The two of them gaze at each other as if they’re meeting for the very first time. 

And then the breeze whistles between them, carrying on it a hundred thousand little light refracting rainbow particles of pollen, and all fucking hell breaks loose. 

Emotions are heightened, raging through their blood as they move closer, Carlisle dropping to mirror his stance and Charlie leaning up to catch his mouth as he falls. Their kiss is hot and earthy, desperate as they claw at each other’s hair, and Charlie is surprised when Carlisle takes the more passive role and tips his head to the side, exposing his throat to Charlie’s sloppy, fevered kisses. 

Their bodies clash and grind, hard and—hard, Charlie’s cock is hard, balls full, body begging to… to breed or something, distinctly animal and born at the base of the trees around them. His humanity, all reasoning, is stripped away by the sex in the air, leaving behind versions of themselves that are only meant to be naked and honest, nothing more. 

The meadow has a hold of them now, and they break apart only to tear their way out of the layers standing between them. Esteemed mask and Chief uniform discarded to the forest floor, Carlisle is nude in front of him before Charlie can even get his top unbuttoned, and embarrassment heats his cheeks at how slowly he’s going, even at his hastiest, most fumbling pace, but Carlisle only kneels there, a glint in his eye and a pearly bead of precum glistening at the head of the small, sweet looking prick standing out from between his legs. 

Once he’s down to flesh and blood and beating heart, Charlie lays Carlisle out on the grass. It’s almost hard to look at him—how gorgeous he is spread out, spreading further around Charlie’s spit-wet fingers. 

If it hurts—if Carlisle can even feel pain like the burn of being penetrated with nothing but saliva and Charlie’s intense desperation to be inside of him yesterday—he doesn’t show it. His back arches up off the cushion of velvety blossoms with a moan. All of the strength he possesses and he’s not even pulling up the grass. 

Pollen sticks to their sweaty skin and covers them in a layer of pastels, a dusting of watercolors that smudge and blend, pinks and blues turning purple where their skin rubs. It tingles slightly, turns Charlie on even more that they’re out in the open like this, that things as impossibly special as Carlisle even exist, let alone whine and writhe beneath his touch as he spears him open—a thrust unhindered by things like concern for his well being, or what will come of them both after this. 

His blood-filled cock sinks past Carlisle’s pretty bleached rim with such ease that it goes to Charlie’s head and makes him dizzy. His wiry hairs scrape Carlisle’s bare pelvis as he drops his weight down on top of him, lips meeting, parting, breaths panting together as he starts to move. His hips undulate and pump to the insistence of the wind, flowery whispers of faster, harder, love, love, love until you can love no more, plant it deep.

His grunts fill the open space in Carlisle’s lungs. 

Carlisle drags his body closer still, nails dragging in criss-crossing weeds down the working muscles in his back. 

They move like new growth in spring, chasing away the winter of loneliness that Charlie has felt since Bella’s wedding, and with the way that Carlisle takes everything that Charlie has to give him, Charlie thinks he’s been alone (in spirit) far, far longer. 

Supporting himself on his elbows, Charlie hovers over Carlisle as pleasure rears its serpentine head and bites into his nervous system. His shadow casts away the angelic flare of Carlisle’s skin, and their eyes meet in the middle of the moment they’re sharing, blurry from the sudden lack of light and the haze of lust overtaking them. 

The sun has dipped by the time they break apart, chests heaving, cocks spent. So much of Charlie’s seed seeps out of Carlisle that it pools below him and mats the poor posies between his legs, and vice versa, Charlie’s stomach and chest are sticky from the many, many times he brought Carlisle to orgasm. Charlie rolls onto his back, almost giddy from the magnitude of his release. The high clings to the edges of his consciousness, an itch like seasonal allergies that he has the urge to scratch again and again and again. 

Turning his chin over his shoulder, Carlisle is watching him closely. 

Maybe waiting for a sign that Charlie is going to run, now that he’s not so affected, but Charlie couldn’t run even if he wanted to. His legs are jelly, his head’s a mess, and the taste of Carlisle’s mouth, raw from Charlie’s seal of affection, is one he’s quickly become addicted to. He’s just found out that vampires and werewolves exist, and all he can think about is how mind-blowing it is to kiss him. He leans in, taking the man’s bottom lip between both of his, and no sooner have they cooled down then they’re starting right back up again, Carlisle rolling on top of him, humping him with lazy circles of his hips, and the two of them are once again swallowed up by the wildflower breeze.  

Chapter Text

The moments before he hears the snap of the flogger sailing through the air are as close to a pounding heart as Carlisle can come in his immortal form, and he cherishes each second for the adrenaline they fuel; these small flickers of humanity in the dark.

Charlie holds the power with which to destroy him, and his arm is strong, sure, but the sting of knotted Kevlar cuts across Carlisle’s back with a flash of heat that never lasts long enough to consume him, only just singes his fine hair and makes the venom in his veins sizzle before the eternal cold he’s saddled with creeps back into the carefully seared edges, and the scene sets to replay.

Over and over again, Carlisle feels the bite of flames for each year he’s lived without this man who makes him burn—he’s shivering by the time Charlie is satisfied with the quick-healing red stripes that claim his chalky skin, his warm and gentle hands replacing the tool he used to set Carlisle alight. Dutifully, Charlie rubs life back into his stiff limbs, not an aching muscle missed and breathing hot on his sensitive skin as he talks to him in a low, loving register, until Carlisle comes back to himself, revived.

Chapter Text

Charlie slammed his palm down on Carlisle’s desk, knocking loose files, a paper weight, and even the family photo—of him, his beautiful wife and their adopted children—to the floor as he gave one final, brutal shove and came with a long, drawn out groan.

His hard cock pulsed repeatedly inside the snug channel of Carlisle’s ass, and the overwhelming fullness that Carlisle felt with Charlie buried to the hilt of his human weapon was growing warmer, wetter by the second, until it was seeping out the seal of their connection, getting rubbed down his thighs as Charlie nursed the pleasure humming through his blood with steady, rocking thrusts. 

Esme’s smile beamed up at Carlisle from behind the cracked glass in the frame, and a fissure of cold guilt spread through Carlisle’s stomach, tearing at him—until the sharp, sickly feeling was replaced by the sweaty‐sweet palm of Charlie’s calloused hand around his leaking cock, tugging it down between his legs. Charlie continued to rut against his prostate desperately, urging Carlisle closer and closer and closer to spilling all over the grey office floor between their feet. 

And Carlisle knew what they were doing was wrong—that it would implode both of their lives if anyone ever found out—but he couldn’t help it. When Charlie came to his office on his lunch break, Carlisle shut and locked the door behind him; every time. When Charlie unbuckled his belt before even saying two words to Carlisle, Carlisle stripped off his lab coat and bent over his desk. And when the Chief’s facial hair scraped at the shell of his ear, and Charlie urged him to come in that deep, raspy voice while pulling his cock with thick, demanding fingers, Carlisle did—harder than he ever had for the woman who shared his bed at home. 

Chapter Text

“Still think it’ll fit?” Charlie goads, brazen eyes lifting from where the substantial length of his cock is lined up against the light blond landing strip splitting Carlisle’s lower belly. He barely bites back a growl at the way he finds the smaller man staring up at him. 

Carlisle’s plush pink lips are parted, bright brass irises nearly overtaken by his pupils, blown out by lust. His sandy locks halo his head, and there are spots of color high on his cheeks, spreading like wild berries across a wreath, curling around the shells of his ears. He looks overly warm, wanton, ripe for the taking…

Precious. 

But then, everything about Carlisle is precious—he’s made up of soft tones that stand out against his pale skin and delicate features that remind Charlie of his nan’s fine china. He’s too pretty to touch and it makes Charlie want to treasure him, keep him up high on a shelf, something special to look at. But the boy in him, the one that Carlisle so effortlessly brings out with his own youthful charms, whose so fucking desperate to prove himself to the world, he wants to take Carlisle out of his trophy case, spit on and shine him, maybe watch him shatter at his feet just to have something to do with him. He wants to cradle his small body against his own and see how much time and glue-thick dedication it would take to put him back together again, cracks all caked in golden care.

“I can take it,” Carlisle breathes out, spreading his legs wider, welcoming the flex of Charlie’s hips between them. 

His confidence doesn’t waver, even when Charlie covers his shaft with his hand and flattens it over his pubic mound, touching the head of his engorged cock to his navel in a chaste first kiss. “You think so? Look how deep I’m gonna reach, baby…” 

“Want that—” 

Carlisle’s dainty fingers drift carefully over his fevered tip—the cool sensation enough to spark pleasurable licks up the length of his spine—and knock Charlie’s hand away to wrap around the top third of his shaft, giving it an appreciative squeeze that makes Charlie hiss.

“You’re so big. Want you to wreck me,” Carlisle whispers, almost too quiet to be heard, but Charlie hears him loud and fucking clear, the echo of his own thinly veiled desires.

Chapter Text

Legs locked up tight like a gun cabinet around the backs of Carlisle’s thighs, Charlie’s body bows off of the bed, and he comes with a shout. His release coats his belly, clings to the hair matted with sweat across his chest and makes the slide sticky when Carlisle lowers himself to his elbows and smears through all that mess in quick, powerful thrusts that don’t let up on Charlie’s prostate until his vision’s tunnelling and his knuckles are bleached, indistinguishable from the white-blond strands of hair they’re cinched around. 

His cock stays hard between them, unable to wilt while Carlisle is still working his hips to plug a hole that Charlie had no idea was even there until Carlisle found it for him. It aches and pulses like he’s still coming—coming dry now, everything hot and sharp and unimaginably sensitive. The jut and pull of his jaw grinds his teeth together as his world narrows to the tight bolts of lightning zapping up his spine. 

They splinter out in all directions from his center, making his muscles spasm, lock, quick seconds where stars are bursting behind his eyelids, and with his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth and his lips hard pressed in a thin line, his moans all sound foamy, gurgled, strained. 

Carlisle’s lips sting like frostbite against his collarbone, a cold burn bringing blood to the surface to bruise, like he’s climbing Mount Everest in a spring storm and needs to somehow leave evidence that he was there. Jesus—was he ever. Inside of him and on top of him and turning Charlie into a natural disaster, or maybe just bringing it out of him, this thing that he is and is compensating for with his badge and his routines and his fishing trips that look like leisure but scream self-isolation into the dank emptiness of the forest where no one is around to hear them.

Toes curling into taut calves, sheet material getting all caught up around their ankles, Charlie tugs on Carlisle’s hair again and again, pinned under his weight and pleading for him to stop but also never stop because he’s outside of his body and afraid the world will go dark if he doesn’t keep making him spin, like Carlisle is the gravity to his extremities, the only thing that could weather such great responsibility—dragging Charlie through the muck of his own existence with strong, clean hands that keep all that existential dread contained, transmuting those years of loneliness into shivering pleasure, as if he understands how badly Charlie needs someone—anyone? No, him—to hold on, to never let him go. 

Body grounded and threshing, his orgasm lasts and lasts like great wide flashes through the pitch black sky behind his eyelids, body so shockingly icy-hot that it feels like a devastating flood, a catastrophic taking over, a biblical cleanse, when Carlisle buries himself deep and shakes apart, spilling silky white seed like Lord, God himself up in the clouds said this land, this flesh is fertile, needing planting.

His jerky pumps slow, scraping against Charlie’s clenched inner walls, each pass tilling that searing-sweet bliss until it’s a lasting heat under his skin, and he feels more alive than he ever has knowing he grew up that pleasure, made Carlisle birth it just for him. Charlie’s pulse evens out, and they stay like that—joined at the hips, Carlisle careful not to crush him and Charlie floating—for a long time after the eye has passed, the two of them just basking in the glow, same as the birds start to sing again after the thunders rolled away.

Chapter Text

It’s all catching up to Charlie: the lying, the sneaking around, the hiding what they have in the shadows, the wife… 

Esma Cullen is a beautiful sore spot in Charlie’s otherwise romantic affairs. Literally. 

He’s never felt more stuck between a rock and a hard place, damn near losing his mind every time he spots her hanging off of Carlisle’s arm like she has every right to be there. That’s what’s done it today—a picture of them at some fundraiser for the hospital, standing side by side and smiling at each other in muted newspaper ink—that’s had Charlie stewing all evening, barely touching his dinner, not even able to focus on the high stakes game on the tv ‘cuz he’s too busy stressing about the one he’s playing: cat and mouse with a married man. That picture is the reason he finally marched to the kitchen, called the doctor’s fancy cellphone from his landline and demanded (see: begged) he come over almost half an hour ago now.

Because Carlisle is his. 

That’s how he acts when they’ve got a moment alone, their hands all over each other. It’s how he acts when Charlie grips the thick leather belt at his waist and tells him, “Bend over, then.” It’s how he acts when Charlie’s got his mouth around his pretty cock, or his tongue in his ass—but maybe it's not enough anymore that he belongs to him in secret. That he’s his when the world isn’t watching and his wife doesn’t even notice he’s missing—not that Charlie really wants to be splashed all over the local papers like she is, like they are, he just wants to be able to touch him in public, to nuzzle his mouth against Carlisle’s ear and watch that perfect control go all soft and crumble around the edges in front of other people. He wants other people to look at Carlisle and know that Charlie’s got him cuffed, locked down, a dick drunk mess in his bed every night.

Carlisle smiles at him under the lustre of the porch light, immaculately put together, not a hair out of place and reeking of women’s perfume. Charlie smells it when Carlisle pushes past him into the house, a slip of floral notes curling fetid in his nose, and his chest rumbles with something akin to a growl. 

Charlie’s going to wipe that stench off of him, first and foremost, and then he’s going to take him down to nothing but skin and bones and him. He has the sudden urge to tear Carlisle’s clothes off before the front door is even shut, but he manages to restrain himself—just.

He kisses him fiercely still, bracing his back against the line of coats hanging on the wall, all teeth clashing and angry in an unfair way that he can’t verbalize without sounding fucked. What would he even say, anyway? 

‘I’m burning up because your wife looks at you like you hang the moon’?

‘I’m gnawing at your mouth because you—do—and I want you all to myself’? 

‘I called you here so that I can fuck you so hard that you’ll be feeling me for days’? 

That one. That one’s good. Carlisle’s head falls back on a moan shaken loose from the bottomless pit of desperation he likes for Charlie to fill, and Charlie starts guiding him to the stairs—sightless, muscle memory, knows how to take this man to bed like he knows how to throw a line out, hook a fish and reel it in, and it isn’t lost on him that he does that in private too.

The bulb in the shade on his bedroom ceiling flickers twice before it surges to yellow life, and their clothes join the discarded tackle bag he has yet to put away at the foot of his bed, one article at a time and too slow for Charlie, but he also can’t stop sucking and biting at every new piece of skin he reveals to speed things up. He’s a man half-mad and fully hard in his plaid boxers by the time he’s got Carlisle naked, and he honestly doesn’t know what to do with himself. What will satiate the wild appetite of this possessive thing that’s chosen tonight (a random, insignificant Tuesday) to rear its ugly head. 

It doesn’t help that Carlisle still smells wrong, like the samples in magazines that stink up the checkout aisle in the grocery store—Charlie bares his blunt teeth and bites down hard enough on Carlisle’s shoulder to make his knees buckle, catching him around the middle and lowering them both to the ground as he worries his skin to the blood, until all he can smell from that one spot is his mouth and spit, humid like sex.

Carlisle’s clinging to him, fingers shaking, and fuck—Charlie really is an animal, because he does it again in the soft spot beside the first, uncaring about the bruises he leaves. They’ll heal too quickly anyway, and Carlisle could stop him easily if he wanted, but he doesn’t. He lets Charlie go at him like a rabid, starving animal, tearing at the facade of a family man he wears day in and day out for the masses, while grinding his cock shamelessly against the fur on Charlie’s belly. 

He laughs when Charlie’s mustache tickles his throat, drags Charlie’s head back with the sweaty curls at his nape and asks fondly, “Not complaining—but why’re you trying to eat me?” 

Charlie dives back in, puts his nose to Carlisle’s jugular and hides the sneer on his face. “Saw your photo in the paper,” kiss “you clean up good, Carli,” kiss “You and her. Real fuckin’ nice. Smell nice too.” He doesn’t say it kindly, or without malice, but he licks a fat stripe up to Carlisle’s jaw and then takes his mouth again, sucks on his tongue, filthy and demanding in a way he hopes explains the ferocious mood he’s in. 

“Ah. So that’s what this is. Marking your territory?” Carlisle scoots higher up his lap, nudging their hips together. The weight against his cock makes Charlie groan. “There’s other ways you could do that, you know…” 

“Oh yeah?” Charlie smirks. “Like what?” 

“You could come all over me. Rub it in so I smell like you.” 

Charlie shakes his head, dragging him harder against his erection. “Wanna be inside you when I come.” 

“Okay…” Carlisle gets out breathlessly. His hand slips between them, knowing fingers searching for the sweet spot that makes Charlie’s stomach pang with the need for release when they dance over it. “Then maybe you could…” 

Charlie peels back, blinking slow—thinks he gets it, but also thinks that can’t be what he means.

Carlisle presses more firmly on his bladder, eyes glinting with mischief, face cut in thirds by the full moon light streaming through Charlie’s blinds. 

“Come on, Charlie…” he closes the space between their lips carefully, like he knows how close Charlie suddenly is to snapping, “make me yours, big boy…” 

“Fuck.” 

~

Looming over Carlisle on his knees on the tile floor of tight shower cubicle in Charlie’s bathroom, legs spread shoulder-width apart while he points his semi-stiff cock at the pretty pink lips of his own personal, porcelain throne, Charlie lets go of his bladder and watches as his stream hits its mark, splashing across the bridge of Carlisle’s nose like waves on a turbulent shore, and as swiftly as it washes down Carlisle’s chest and stomach, Charlie heaves a sigh of relief.

The vaguely buttery, cloying, vanilla-bean-left-out-too-long strong scent of his own urine hits his nose, thoroughly smothering the nasty blossom tinge that was throwing him off before, and the trickle of his bladder gains confidence. He holds himself around the base, foreskin drawn back out of the way, and soaks every available inch of Carlisle’s skin—wants to saturate him to the soul. 

He doesn’t do it to lessen his worth; pissing on a god like Carlisle in any attempt to take him down a peg would be a laughable pursuit. The golden shower only makes him glow, trophy skin and winning smile and all Charlie’s. His fluids make Carlisle’s hair curl at the ends, it drips off his pointy nipples and pools around his prick in the chalice of his closed thighs, delicately rinsing off the two-finger tip as Carlisle gets hard before his very eyes and it peeks out from the warm creek starting to spill down to his knees.

Carlisle’s eyes are hooded and glassy by the time he’s running dry, and the sight has Charlie smearing his hand across his glossy wet face before he’s even thought about it.

“You wanted me to rub it in?” His voice is as rough as the way he drags his digits over the plush rim of his mouth, and Carlisle takes them down—his words, his fingers—without batting an eye, swallowing them for what they are. 

A claim.

“You’re mine.” 

Ownership.

“Mmmmmhm.” Carlisle’s hand reaches to touch himself but Charlie’s foot gets there first, toes splashing through the shallow body of water and pinning his shaft down with his heel. 

Carlisle whines something awful—a needy side of him that Charlie’s sure she’s never seen—and Charlie’s heart swells a size along with his own dangling prick. 

“I want you to remember this,” he rasps, freeing his fingers and tapping the bulbous head against Carlisle’s lips, encouraging him to open, “remember me the next time she’s all over you.”

Chapter Text

It comes scurrying out of his closet like a giant city sewer rat, red eyes narrowed in a sharp stare that pierces straight through the inky room, the sole cause for Charlie’s tight chest. It’s fast on four legs, driven by its appetite maybe, but as soon as it raises up onto its hind limbs it slows—stride of a man, face of one too, warm features Charlie recognises vaguely from his trips to the morgue.

It's handsome in the blue light—when the mask he’s used to is all that Charlie can see. Somewhere in the dark that clings too thick to be natural to the place where that vicious smile must be sitting on top of a body, Charlie knows he’d be terrified by what he saw. He’s scared now as it is, heart hammering so hard that he thinks the monster at the end of his bed can hear it. 

“Carlisle?” he whispers, more wary than before, when he sat up from a dead sleep and started calling into the void of his messy bedroom, knowing it wasn’t just an ordinary nightmare that had him feeling less alone than usual.  

The creature cocks its head and then—“Car-lis-le.”—it gives a nod as jerky as the syllables flick off of its—his—Carlisle’s tongue.

The name acts as an invitation. 

Charlie digs his shoulders into the headboard at his back and fists the sheets as he feels the impression of hands dipping the end of the mattress, Carlisle’s face pitching forward in a slow crawl over his legs until it’s looming inches from Charlie’s. His teeth glint too brightly, and this close, Charlie can see they’re more like a lion’s canines, these fang-like tools meant for gripping, tearing, taking meat off the bone. Charlie swallows around the lump in his throat and Carlisle’s chin dips as he tracks the movement, brushing their noses together. 

His skin is ice cold, soft like a dusting of snow in the dead of winter that causes goosebumps to break out along Charlie’s skin. He can almost feel the trail of them, the path each little bump carves out as they prickle along his arms, his legs, all racing towards the subtle twitch in his groin and reminding him that he slept naked. His eyes slam closed on instinct—embarrassment, humiliation, horror…  

Long, taloned fingers take shape around his knees and push them back until they’re bracing his hips, opening him up at the center like a hard candy shell bitten into, split in half. Those teeth skim chastely over his jaw, his chest, one hard, aching nipple.

“Jesus—”

Praying to God is pointless, he knows. It isn’t Him who hears what his body starts pleading loudly for.

He’s fully hard by the time the monster’s mouth makes it to his ribs, and Charlie is worried to the bone about what he’ll do next. Please don’t bite my cock off… His chest is heaving, and he’s halfway to getting the words out when he feels the distinct flattening of a tongue replace the niggling canines, and all that escapes his mouth is a damp sigh.

“Oh… that’s… what are you…” Can Carlisle even understand him like this? 

Is it even really Carlisle, or is that just the shape his demon takes?

He laps at the bead of precome that’s gathered in Charlie’s slit and suddenly it doesn’t even matter all that much—Charlie surrenders to the greedy mouth that covers the head of his cock, suckling and hungry, his legs turning to jelly and the fight leaving his body, leaving room for something more. 

He slides down the sheets and folds farther for Carlisle to lap at his shaft and lick over his sack, taking each testicle into his mouth with human care. He’s devastatingly gentle despite the strength in his vice grip still circling Charlie’s knees. He keeps him open, and the sound Charlie lets out when his tongue slicks down his taint towards his hole is nothing short of a strangled cry. 

Where Charlie thinks that tongue should run out of length, it just keeps going, unfurling from beneath his balls without releasing them from the spongy cup of his mouth.

“Fuck,” Charlie gasps as the tip of the wet muscle dances over his rim, independent like a digit and wedged between his cheeks. 

The bridge of Carlisle’s nose nudges the base of his erection as he suckles and teases at him, the slurp sound of moist kisses that pull and pop against his sensitive skin. His tongue is plastered to Charlie’s hole, rubbing insistently, making soft all of that virginal resistance, sacrificing the last dredges of his restraint. 

Charlie’s head twists frantically atop his shoulders as the pressure of an orgasm builds around the base of his spine, called into existence by the heat drawn into the shape of stars between his legs, the kisses plucked hungrily from the source of him. Molten waves of pleasure rush forward from Hell-its-fucking-self when Carlisle’s hand leaves his knee to wrap around his rigid length, the schlick of his dry palm smearing his excitement down his shaft while the other scrapes over his inner thigh, splaying him wider. That’s all it takes—the squeeze of a too-large hand gripping his cock and a serpentine tongue burning a hole through him, and Charlie is arching off the bed, seeing something greater than God; a beast with the face of a glowing amber beauty that recoils and disappears into the shadows once Charlie has come back down and is laying there, shudder-free and slipping back into sleep—one more restful than before.

Chapter Text

“I’ll do it.” 

Carlisle leaned in, pressing his temple more firmly against the muzzle of the hunting rifle that Charlie held to his head. 

“By all means,” he acquiesced smoothly. 

Charlie’s fingers twitched on the trigger.

“You don’t think I will?”

“It’s not that.” 

“I invited you into my home,” a frustrated snarl let loose from Charlie’s throat, “Into my bed… and that whole time, you knew where Bella was.” 

A tug of guilt pulled at Carlisle’s heart, but the strings in his gut had no such hangups. Charlie’s rage was a palpable thing, coming off of him in waves of iron-rich heat that made his mouth water and his cock start to thicken up in his pants. Thoughts of just how thoroughly he’d delved between Charlie’s threadbare sheets while hiding the truth about his daughter from him circled his mind—the truths he’d laid out in his lustful convictions that he could fill whatever hole in Charlie that he might’ve personally carved.

“You lied to me.” 

“I did. I deserve for you to do your worst.” 

Even though Bella was alive and well in the vaguest sense of the sentiment, Carlisle had over four hundred years of existence to come to terms with the loss of his humanity, and he still hadn’t managed it. There was no way he could’ve expected Charlie to overlook the uncanny valley of his own flesh and blood daughter’s face in a matter of hours, let alone expected him to understand why Carlisle couldn’t be honest with him about her… illness. The lie they’d fabricated for her sudden disappearance after her wedding. 

Jacob Black taking matters into his own hands had been a most unfortunate turn of events, but that didn’t mean that Carlisle wasn’t fully prepared to atone for his mistakes.

It was even a little exhilarating; Carlisle had followed Charlie home after his visit, and now Charlie stood towering over him where he knelt on the hardwood floor of his dining room to beg for forgiveness from the man he’d—very incidentally—fallen in love with as quickly as his adopted son found himself in the position of doing with Charlie’s daughter.

It was all very… mortal.

The betrayal in Charlie’s eyes, the barrel of the gun pointed at Carlisle’s head. Not that it would do much besides maim him, but the idea of leaving behind a few ivory shards before his family fled Forks for good admittedly thrilled him. He had no doubt that Charlie would keep those pieces the same way Carlisle would keep the limited memories he had of Charlie—someplace safe, where he could pull them out and run his fingers over them gently, recalling the satisfaction they wrought in this otherwise painful existence…

“Are you hard?!” The rough edge to Charlie’s voice tugged Carlisle’s attention back to the present. 

Charlie’s nostrils were flared, and Carlisle could practically hear the blood rushing through his veins as he glared daggers at the sizable tent between his legs. Instead of answering, Carlisle palmed himself, turning his cheek to nuzzle the barrel of the gun, the body of which had begun to tremble. He all but begged for Charlie to take his piece, but Charlie’s nerve cracked as thoroughly as the facade Carlisle was so used to wearing had cracked when Charlie had walked into their living room and found his daughter there—but different. 

He collapsed back into the rickety dining chair with a sound of defeat, rifle falling away to rest along the solid meat of his thigh, and Carlisle moved—too quickly—on instinct to soothe him, blocked by the bottom of a heavy boot wedged against his stomach. 

“What the fuck do you think y’er doing?” Charlie demanded, probably rightfully so. 

Carlisle gave his most apologetic simper.

“Let me show you how sorry I am. If I don’t convince you, you’re well within your right to use that…” Carlisle’s eyes cut to the weapon again before refixing on Charlie’s face, “Chief Swan.” 

Charlie tried to hide the way his breath caught, but Carlisle’s supernatural hearing allowed him to pick up on the hitch, the way his wet heart throbbed, loud and clear.

Carlisle waited patiently, hands on his knees, hoping… until Charlie shifted, using his free hand to adjust himself in his pants, and said gruffly, “Y’er not touchin’ me again.” 

His shoulders sagged, head dipping to nod. 

“But you can touch yourself.” 

Carlisle’s face jerked up with a start, meeting a newly determined look in Charlie’s eyes. 

“Yaknow. Since you like putting on a show so much…”

That stung, but, “I suppose I deserve that.” 

In time, maybe, he could convince Charlie that the narrative he told was a necessary evil. That he’d only ever been trying to prevent the exact pain he could see taking its toll on him now. 

If it had to start with flagellating himself, he could handle that. He’d been through much worse at the hands of angry men in his long lifetime.

Charlie’s foot fell away, and Carlisle made quick work of pulling out his cock. He gave himself a few helpful pumps to full mast, having gone a little soft since the gun fell away and the self-pity started up, and then did exactly what Charlie had asked for, throwing his head back as he stroked himself. Charlie tried to remain unaffected, his restraint like a tether held tight between them, but soon his free hand was inching towards his own groin. 

He gave it a squeeze and Carlisle jolted like he’d touched him, cock fucking through his palm as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

“Charlie…” His name fell from Carlisle’s lips like a Hail Mary, steady and repetitive, low so only the spirit could hear it in the otherwise echoing home—a home empty because of him. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered, twisting his wrist and tightening around his head on every upstroke. 

Charlie growled, and Carlisle realised that at some point his eyes had fallen closed. He opened them to find Charlie’s thick, veiny cock blurred through his own fast-moving fist, and couldn’t help himself but scoot forward, mouth open around a whine, but he only got as far as his knees brushing the toes of Charlie’s boots before a blunt, metal sight was biting at his cupid’s bow, the very tip of the muzzle threatening his tongue. 

Oh, that would hurt. 

An eternity of silence for the lies he told would serve him right. 

“I told you—y’er not fuckin’ touchin’ me.”

Carlisle looked up through his lashes as he closed his lips around the barrel and moaned. 

“Fuck.” 

Charlie pushed the rifle deeper, testing how far back in his throat Carlisle could take it. It scraped over his tongue, cold and impersonal, tasting sharp like repentance, and Carlisle swallowed dutifully around it. 

“Are you enjoying this, you fucking freak?” 

If Carlisle could’ve blushed, he certainly would’ve. 

“Would it even kill you?” Charlie eyed the forestock like he was contemplating the nature of its existence versus Carlisle’s. “Five bullets, freshly loaded. Four cartridges in the magazine, one in the chamber, as full as this rifle can be…” 

Charlie’s thighs flexed and spread to make room for his tightening balls to draw up under where he was stripping himself raw and dry.

“How much damage d’ya think I could do, Carli? How badly could I mess up yer pretty, lying fuckhole, huh?” 

This side of Charlie was new, born of hard feelings, and while it still wasn’t the click of the safety come off, the new bite was beautiful. It was violent and humiliating and mean and Carlisle was going to come any second now. He would’ve said as much if his mouth wasn’t full—instead what came out were the sounds of a dying animal, melting messy around the rigid shaft of the rifle.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Charlie sat forward in the chair as his orgasm took hold, cock aimed at Carlisle from beside the trigger. 

With nearly inhuman speed, several things happened at once: 

Charlie groaned with his full chest, and hot strings of come landed across his cheeks, coating Carlisle’s eyelashes and catching in his fringe. 

Carlisle came so explosively that his vision whited out, and his ears were filled with the ringing of a bell. 

And Charlie’s finger curled around the rifle’s trigger, pulling it flush… 

…dry firing harmlessly, mere milliseconds after depressing the floor plate to release the cartridges from the magazine just in time not to take Carlisle’s head off.

They clattered to the floor, rolling through the pooling mess of Carlisle’s release as Charlie pulled the gun out of his mouth and set it back on the table where he’d been cleaning it before. He sank in his chair, and Carlisle stared at the loose bullets, counting them over and over again while his senses sluggishly returned to him. 

“Four…” he whispered, no longer confident in simple math. Finally, he risked a confused glance at Charlie, only to find the man already watching him, a brow raised. 

“What was that?” 

“You…” Carlisle cleared his throat of gunpowder tang and started again. “You said there were five bullets. One already loaded in the chamber.” 

And yet, there he was, ‘pretty, lying fuckhole’ intact.

Charlie huffed a stilted nod and looked away, a soft smile edging its way across his mouth. “Yeah. Guess I’m a liar too...”

Chapter Text

Charlie’s leg hair bristled against Carlisle’s mouth as he dragged his lips over the tearable shell of his outer thigh on the way to his hip, his heavenly cage, his heart—all places he wanted to leave marked by him. Each spot he’d stopped and bitten down on since beginning this trek over his body was starting to bruise, fresh purple cusps of perfectly aligned teeth shaped into lasting, but no broken skin. 

That was his saving grace; that he resisted the niggling urge to not just claim Charlie, but to turn and keep him too. Charlie’s breath caught in his throat each time his jaw clamped down, heart stammering in its too-fast steps like he was waiting for his teeth to sink too deep—and Carlisle couldn’t even blame him for the lack of faith. 

He knew what it looked like, the way that Carlisle couldn’t keep away from Charlie. How dark his eyes went when he finally had him to himself like this. Being with him was as selfish as he ever got—but he couldn’t change him, as much as he feared he wanted to. 

Not because of the stomach clenching pains or the burn in this throat, though Charlie did smell divine. This wasn’t the need to slate his thirst—no, this was a whole other beast. It was an itch under his skin that he’d never felt before, an aching behind his canines that demanded he act like a caveman, carving himself, sanguineous, into Charlie’s being until the two of them were tied. 

Charlie held fast to the headboard, feet sliding over the sheets as Carlisle worked his mouth over the swell of his pec, assailing one hard nipple before moving across to the other. He only meant to leave another collar there above his heart, but blood hummed through Charlie’s veins, quicker from the source, and before Carlisle could stop it, ambrosia was tingling irresistibly across his tastebuds, and the damage was done.

Lips still fixed to the slip, Carlisle’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he suckled more of the sweet flavour of broken vessels through the skin as his instincts took over, both soothed and sharpened as blood coated his throat—love like honey, warm and healing. His hands found Charlie’s hips, bodies aligned in an all-over kiss as their cocks slotted together and Carlisle surged into him, seeking friction, unable to stop. 

Charlie trembled beneath him, back bowed to form an archway that Carlisle’s arms passed through, supported as he held fast and drank heartily. The taste overcame him, mingling with pleasure, but it wasn’t enough. Even when he could taste sex on his tongue, Charlie spilling prematurely between them, he needed more, he needed— 

“Bite me,” Charlie begged amidst his burgeoning frenzy. “Do it, sweetheart. Bite me, come on, make me yours.” 

And with a mouthful of his heart already, Carlisle was helpless but to give him everything he wanted—an eternity with the shape of his teeth in his skin, right there where it mattered most.

Chapter Text

It was only midday, but Charlie’s eyes were already burning, strained from too many hours spent with his shoulders bunched over his desk as he poured over paperwork he should’ve finished and filed away months ago. To say he’d been a little distracted lately would’ve been an understatement; it was hard to focus on things like budgets and spreadsheets when he’d been having the best sex he’d had in years—or ever in his life, really. But he was determined today, so he kept at it, the hours dwindling as slowly as his eyes crawled along the boring pages. Five o’clock felt as far away as fucking Fiji, but if he could just make it until then without being derailed… 

His chest heaved with a heavy sigh when his office door opened. “Someone better be dying.” 

“Um…” came the uncertain voice of one of his greener deputies, whose name Charlie should’ve remembered, but didn’t.

“I told everyone not to bother me unless it was an emergency.” 

“I’m sorry, Chief. He insisted on seeing you…” 

“Who—?” 

Charlie looked up from the blurry charts as the very man responsible for his slacking stepped around the deputy, one hand in the pocket of his pressed slacks and the other holding a manila folder down by his side. 

“Carlisle!” He stood too hurriedly, sending his rolling chair into the wall at his back with a hollow thunk that had heat rising in his cheeks. 

“My apologies,” Carlisle dipped his chin, eyes jumping between Charlie’s flattened palms on the desk and his face, a smirk playing on his lips. “Is now a bad time? I can come back…” 

“No! Er, I mean…” shit, he was being too obvious. Charlie cleared his throat awkwardly. “Not at all. What, uh, what brings you by, Doctor?” 

“The hospital needs your signature on a couple of documents related to the drunk driving incident the other day. The Emergency Department was slow, so I offered to be the messenger.”

“Oh.” Charlie couldn’t help but feel a bit let down. Of course he was there for work—what else would he have come for? To ask him to lunch? The two of them didn’t do… that. The whole… broad daylight, bold moves thing. “Sure. Let me see—” 

He held his hand out for the folder, but Carlisle didn’t move to pass it over. He aimed a pointed look at the deputy still filling out the doorway and purred, “Sensitive information, you understand…” 

The deputy’s eyes practically glazed over as they met Carlisle’s, and he blinked several times before seeming to realise he was being sent away. 

“Right! Sorry, I’ll just…” He finally turned on his heels, leaving the two of them alone in Charlie’s office. 

The room felt smaller, suddenly. Or maybe it was just Carlisle’s presence, too tall and beautiful for the old paneling and dim lights. Something like lust simmered just below the surface between them, the uncapped space almost unbearable. Carlisle closed the door behind the deputy, and Charlie’s pulse jumped in his throat when he heard the click of the deadbolt sliding into place. 

“That’s better,” Carlisle nodded to himself. He moved with impossible grace as he rounded Charlie’s desk, dropping the folder he’d brought onto the chair in front of it along the way, and Charlie stared at the thing even as long, deft fingers peeled open his uniform bomber jacket and began undoing the buttons on his shirt, mind whirring to catch up. 

His lips tingled each time Carlisle leaned in and pressed his mouth against them, cool affection making him shiver.

“What are you… you needed me to… uh… sign…” 

“Folder’s empty, sweetheart,” Carlisle said against his jaw, smile in his words, Charlie’s stubble getting scraped between his teeth. This was the version of Carlisle he got when they were alone—smartly taunting, tactile, taking whatever he wanted from Charlie without a second thought for the repercussions, or possibly, having already considered them.

Charlie was hard so fast it made him dizzy. His hands landed on Carlisle’s hips as he shifted, widening his stance and pulling him closer.

“What if reception asked to see the paperwork?” He tipped his head obediently for Carlisle to nip at his earlobe, eyes threatening to roll back into his head just from a few measly touches.

“That would be a gross invasion of privacy,” Carlisle playfully scolded, stroking the old metal buckle of Charlie’s belt before opening it up. “I couldn’t wait to see you later. Can you be quiet?” 

“Um…” 

Charlie’s head spun as a firm hand dove into the front of his pants and curled around his stiff length. His grip on Carlisle tightened, and that toned body pressed against his as Carlisle’s hand gave him a nice, dry stroke inside of his boxers, thumb swiping over his tip to gather the moisture that beaded there at his slit and spread it over his head on the downslide of his fist.

Fuck. 

Carlisle knew how to touch him in a way that made everything else fade away. Whether it be his fingers, his mouth, or just his golden eyes on him: in the dark, hidden corners of their lives where they mingled together, nothing else mattered—not Carlisle’s wife, not their children dating, not any of the long list of things that should’ve kept them apart. His youthful confidence and the sure way that he wound Charlie up and worked him loose like he had the very key to everything that made him tick was too right to resist.

“Can you be quiet for me, Charlie?” Carlisle asked again when he’d gone too long without answering. 

Pulse hammering, Charlie managed a stiff shake of his head. 

He was barely holding onto the moan that wanted to make its way out now.

“That’s okay,” Carlisle breathed against the shell of his ear—he liked it when Charlie was all desperate and noisy—and his approval went right to Charlie’s spine, striking hot, as he tugged his belt free from the loops in his pants with one quick yank. “We’ll just have to keep that mouth of yours busy, won’t we? Hands back on the desk, Chief.” 

~ 

Ten minutes later, Charlie had never been gagged before, but he was immensely grateful for the belt folded over itself and lodged between his teeth. The drool-drenched leather muffled the sounds milked out of him as his world was opened up from the inside, Carlisle’s lubed fingers pegging the life out of his prostate until all he could see was white, white, white blond hair in the reflection of the shiny gilded base of his desk lamp, and his cock was leaking constantly on all his very important documents that he couldn’t honestly care less about, trapped beneath his anchored hips.

Carlisle hovered over his back and brought him close with just that hasty prep, until Charlie was biting into the belt and trembling from the need to come. He begged, but his words were all wet, round, nothing but need that Carlisle filled out when he replaced his fingers with the head of his cock, sinking right up to the hilt with one smooth thrust and a reminder that they had to be fast.

He took him like a half an hour break was all the time in the world that they had, hips plastered to Charlie’s backside, chest to his shoulder blades, mouth bruising the crook of his neck where his head hung forward and Charlie’s collar would cover the mark when it was fastened back into place. One of his hands held Charlie’s hip while the other gripped the edge of the desk like he could keep it from scraping against the tile, but Charlie had no such strength left in him—in a matter of a few pumps from Carlisle he was shuddering apart, bare stomach getting hot and sticky where he collapsed, spent, against his desk, like a horny teenager who couldn’t keep up. 

The corners of his mouth felt like they’d split from how hard he was sucking on the belt as Carlisle’s cock dragged inside of him, again and again, the sensation spreading icy-hot pleasure through his nervous system—he felt alight, but floating in it, hardly aware of radio-static in his ears, his lack of vision, or that Carlisle had come until his hearing came back to him on a wave of warm cajoling.

“Charlie, sweetheart—are you with me?” 

“Hngh.” Charlie moaned, rubbing his forehead against a sweat-dampened sheet of paper. Spend was leaking out of him, dripping down his balls, and careful fingers slicked it up and pushed it back inside of him, the bunt pressure on his hole bringing everything back into clearer focus. 

Carlisle was pushing his come as deep as he could get it while he spoke to him, low and lovely voice that he wielded like a caress against Charlie’s senses. 

“—so good for me. Love this ass, baby. I should come by during the day more often…” 

Charlie was sure, someplace in his sober brain where his thoughts weren’t so dick drunk, that doing this again was a bad idea, a one-way ticket straight to getting caught with their pants around their ankles (and in his office no less) but while his come was still drying and his teeth were still stuck into his belt, he could get away with just a heady, satisfied sound of agreement.

Chapter Text

The bite of the pillory around Carlisle’s neck was a familiar sense-memory, unforgiving wood bringing him back to his childhood and holding him in place while he knelt on his knees, bare ass up for the striking. A shadow loomed over him, tall and imposing across the cement floor. The stink of hot blood, sweat and tears filled the open room, hindering his unusually frayed highbrowism further. 

He was stuck there—under his father’s thumb—until Charlie tore him from the shackles of his history and bound him to the present. 

The shape of Charlie’s arm blurred through his vision, and Carlisle’s cock twitched as a crack landed hard across one already-throbbing cheek. The sting was dull, burning through layers of cotton-brained pleasure that left the floor between his splayed knees slippery, inescapable and sweet to the point. 

Carlisle wanted more—wanted to feel it. 

Evidence that he’d made it out of those dank sewers, that he’d escaped those dark times and as such, the man he might’ve become if he’d never been turned; such a blessing in disguise, a curse to save his soul. 

Charlie hummed low in his throat when Carlisle thrust back as far as he could while bearing the bob in his throat against the hard cut of the hole his head was held through, begging to be punished. Calloused hands squeezed and peeled apart his abused flesh, and a wad of spit landed as sharply as a blow across his winking hole, dripping down his taint. It tickled and made his hackles rise, but he was caged still as a thumb followed that line of spit, gathering it and rubbing it into the tight ring of his rim until it was spreading open for Charlie, Carlisle’s body changing tune from tucking tail and running to trying to suck him in like some sacramental offering. 

To Carlisle, he was. 

A spiritual experience; love, devotion, rules to follow or consequences to be had, all things a new worshipper needed to be whole.

Chapter Text

Hands braced on his legs, Charlie sits on the edge of his bed and watches him like a dog too used to being left out in the rain—flinty stare, teeth grit, ready to run for some measly shelter at the first sign of the sky cracking open. The clouds parting for the shower. The wet patch in the white panties, stained by Carlisle's leaking cock, scares him worse than the way the fog rolls in before a storm, and all the birds go quiet because they know that something's comin’.

Carlisle slinks past his dresser too easy—deceiving, like he lives here, like he knows to avoid the floorboard with the splintering corner. Charlie's heartbeat takes up the drums in his ears, pounds away at his senses, warning flags already flashing golden in the forefront of his mind. This beautiful thing can't possibly know what big, wild beasts live in the trees out back or behind the cage of Charlie's ribs, just feet in front of him. Mere steps away. Charlie's fucking mouth is watering. He'll tear into him, leave lace in ribbons ‘round his slim figure, won't waste nothin’, not even bone. 

A long pull of his flat beer, cold from the fridge, sweating down his palm, does nothing to sate his thirst. The man is hungry and Carlisle's lips are cherry red, glossy and wet—bottom one bitten into, plush, bulging out from his top teeth, canine blunt, teasing his taste. 

Fresh water's not hard to find in the rainy town of Forks, Washington but sweet stuff? Polished, shiny smooth, satin strap slicking off one artfully raised shoulder? Charlie's stomach twists. Bet he's so fucking soft inside. Finery that pulls. 

His trusty gun's braced by the bedside table, dirty still from his last trip out into the blinds. Charlie has half a mind to hold it up and at least pretend he's got reservations. That he's heard the warnings about taking offerings too good to be true and is gonna do something stupid like heed'em, choose cold sheets over the snowy strip of skin just south of Carlisle's navel that looks like it would bloom roses over the hills of his hips if he only put his mouth there, sucked hard enough to make himself at home.

He drains the rest of his beer while he keeps his eyes on Carlisle, warmth pooling in his empty belly. He never was a good chooser—just a beggar and a bottomless pit, the kind of longing that only a poor existence can breed, wary, but never not wanting.

Carlisle's close enough to touch now, to swipe two seductive fingers down the cleft of his chest and push them into Charlie's mouth, and the sound that gets fucked out is famished in nature. He moans like his stomach's been eatin’ itself—there's skin and sugar on his tongue and Charlie doesn't wait long before he's lapping at him, gripping his dainty wrist and dragging him right down into his lap, light as a feather, half the pounds for what this moment means to Charlie but a whole damn meal nonetheless and fuckin' delightful. 

He'll recall it in his dreams and wake up wishing for it on his tongue for the rest of his life, this one indulgence. No gristle, no filler, no rayon slipperyness like Renee used to throw on sometimes as an afterthought like you throw a mutt a bone.

No, Carlisle's all made-to-wear, black mascara on his otherwise sun-kissed lashes and stockings so thin that Charlie could rip them right down the seam with just his mouth.

He's doomed to never feel satisfied by anything but a shimmery chemise and Carlisle on his tongue ever again, dear fucking Lord, he's that good. That bad. Charlie's got this hankering now, a devil over his shoulder telling him to bite the angel perched on his knees, rolling his hips like it's heaven to be there. 

Carlisle's free hand slides into the hair at the nape of Charlie's neck, passive collar playing hangman as his fingers slide deeper over his tongue, and Charlie's choking himself to take more. This is master bedroom lust, Charlie's muddy boots by the door, left behind. He can't shake the feeling that he isn't supposed to be here, having this, but his hands find Carlisle's precious hips because he can't help himself but hoard it all. 

Sit, stay on the bed, swallow what Carlisle will give him—every mouthful divine, and he hasn't even stripped him yet.

Chapter Text

Charlie’s hands are shaking. 

Seventeen years old and he’s got everything going for him—scholarship for the police academy already in the bank, perfect girlfriend waiting for him on the sidelines of every soccer game, parents who are proud and a community ready to watch him grow into a man worth a mint as far as the sleepy little town of Forks is concerned. 

He’s going places, you know? Not far, he’s not that adventurous, but he’s got a straight and narrow plan laid out for him and he’s gonna follow it right through the white picket fence of his dreams. Nothing can stand in his way—so how is it that he keeps finding himself on his knees in odd places, pawing at the front of an older guy’s slacks? 

An intern at the teaching hospital where this whole mess started a few months back when he had to get checked because he took a cleat to the head during a game and no one would listen to him when he yelled, red-faced and bleeding from the temple, that he was fine. 

The doctor he saw, some nameless coat, had asked him if it was okay that his interns were in the room during his consultation. A significantly calmer Charlie had grumbled that it was, and then he’d failed the test with flying colors and convinced the doctor that he had a concussion, which was ridiculous, because he wasn’t even dizzy until he locked eyes with a fresh-faced Carlisle Cullen and felt the world jar to a sudden, unexpected stop. 

His breath caught, a tight fist closing around his lungs like an omen for how possessive the bright angel could be, when Carlisle took the doctor’s spot between his knees and lifted a flashlight to check his pupils upon instruction.

Shit, he smells good, Charlie had thought, like crisp apple toffee, and the way Carlisle’s eyes glistened with knowing had Charlie almost afraid he'd said that out loud—he hadn’t, thank heavens, but he must’ve been obvious enough. 

He’s lost track of how many times in the months since then that he’s wound up in a bathroom stall, a dark corner, a supply closet just like this one. All he knows is that it keeps happening. He craves it—whenever his mind is allowed to stray, it strays to this man like he’s a lighthouse beacon cutting through the dull haze of his everyday life, and he can’t stay away.

Charlie untucks the bottom of Carlisle’s neat blue shirt and shoves it up over his ribs, the heels of his hands sliding over supermodel definition and cool skin, sending a shiver of excitement down his spine. He puts his mouth there—below Carlisle’s navel, placing stinging kisses along the cradle of his hard belly as he struggles with his belt buckle. 

He tastes even better than he smells—skin salt on Charlie’s tongue cutting through all that sweet. It terrifies him how much he wants it, this, more… it would break Renee’s heart if she knew that while she was waiting for him to pick her up for their date, Charlie was pulling another man’s cock of his pants and putting his mouth all over it. The same mouth he’ll have to tell her about his day with, ask about hers, kiss her goodnight. A desperate whine works its way out of him as he takes Carlisle in his hand and runs his tongue along the silky side. 

His own cock is throbbing behind his zipper, bulging obviously. He smashes the heel of his free hand against it, trying to stem the ache. I will not come in my jeans. I will not come in my jeans, he repeats the mantra in his head over and over again as he finally stops teasing and wraps his lips around the swollen end of Carlisle’s cock. It’s warm from all the blood rushing, heavy in his mouth. He sinks forward slowly, takes him deep—doesn’t stop until Carlisle’s balls are kissing his chin, and his nose is buried in the trim thistles of pubic hair at the root of him. The head of his cock nudges past his tonsils, getting buried down his throat, and Charlie’s hand falls away to his thigh as he struggles to keep calm, to not fight the lack of air because being full like this feels so right. 

It stretches outwards from the middle of his chest, this gooey, hopeful feeling caused by the low, luscious hum of approval that Carlisle gives him as he leans back, settling his shoulders against a wide shelf behind him. The sound takes up the space in Charlie’s ears, where before there was only the flutter of his fast-beating heart and the buzz of the bare lightbulb overhead, and the dizziness comes back in full force, flooding him with excitement and making the tremors wracking his body even worse. 

Jesus, his nerves just won’t let up. He just wants (no, needs, its instinctual at this point) to make Carlisle feel good, to blow him right, blow his fucking mind. 

Maybe then he’ll keep m—

Charlie freezes, eyes slamming closed as if that could shutter the thought.

He can’t have this. Can’t keep this. Can’t want to be kept, that’s not his place in the world, even if it feels more right to be doing this then it ever feels when he’s with Renee, trying to force himself to enjoy her heavy petting even half as much as he does the way Carlisle manhandles him however he likes and withstands the brunt of Charlie’s eagerness without batting an eye. It’s like a bucket of ice water’s been poured over his head, the seconds ticking by in slow motion cold around him.

Shit, shit, shit. 

A broken noise splits out of him as gentle fingers card through the hair at the back of his head. Soft at first, soothing, searching, but when Charlie doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t move to start sucking him off, the grip tightens insistently around his strands, tugging him off of Carlisle’s cock with enough force to hurt. 

The pain is grounding, and he focuses on it as he sits back on his heels, eyes squinting open. He looks up from underneath the proud jut of Carlisle’s erection, spit-wet with strings of saliva still connecting it to Charlie’s lips, and heat crawls over his cheeks when their gazes connect—Carlisle’s soft with some emotion that Charlie can’t name, doesn’t want to, scared to break the calm spell that’s settled over him with a firm hand. 

The light over Carlisle’s head halos his soft blond curls, blinding the outer edges of Charlie’s vision. All he can see is him. He wonders if his pupils are blown as wide as the very first time. 

“Stop thinking so hard.” 

Carlisle’s got senses so sharp that they cleave right through all of Charlie’s bullshit. Crack him open, hollow him out.

“There you are,” he purrs, tilting Charlie’s head further back. “You with me?” 

“Yeah—yeah, I’m with you,” Charlie rasps, voice barely above a whisper. His chest aches fiercely from the truth to his words. 

“Good boy. You still want this?” 

“Yes.” 

Carlisle waits patiently, like he’s so in tune with Charlie that he can tell he isn’t finished. Charlie timidly considers the cock in front of him—familiar by now, and his mouth is watering, but he’s afraid the second that Carlisle gives him free reign, his head will start spinning all over again.

“I want it.” Charlie licks his lips, then adds, “Just…can you do it?” 

One golden arch hikes up over Carlisle’s eye, connected to the corner of his barely-there smirk. “You want me to fuck your mouth?” he asks slowly, carefully, but it still makes Charlie swear. 

“Christ.” He has to squeeze his cock to keep from shooting from just those words alone. “Yes. Please?” 

Carlisle watches him for a moment, then nods. “Put your hands on my thighs. Pinch me if you need me to stop, okay?” 

Charlie makes a noise of agreement and Carlisle gives his hair another sharp tug. 

“If your tongue isn’t working, perhaps we shouldn’t continue after all?” 

“I’ll pinch you if I need you to stop,” Charlie rushes out, curving his hands around Carlisle’s strong legs. 

A second hand joins the first in his hair, and Carlisle’s firm grip guides his mouth back to his cock, holding him in place as he thrusts shallowly along his tongue. This time, there’s no silence wherein his thoughts could run rampant. Carlisle lets him know all the while that he’s pushing into his mouth how good he feels, hushed but no less overwhelming. 

“So warm and wet for me. So nice. How's our jaw doing, hm? Can we open any wider—ohhh yes, just like that.”

Charlie bobs his head in ascension, feels Carlisle slide over his tongue and nudge the back of his throat again, where a moan must rub him just right, because Charlie feels the veins depressing his tongue swell and pulse, reverberating through him on a hot wave of pride. 

“Perfect. Absolutely made for me, weren’t you darling? Never felt anything like this before.”

His own cock, which had softened in his horror before, fills out behind his zipper. Charlie spreads his knees, shamelessly rubbing against Carlisle’s shin and chasing his own pleasure. The bone in Carlisle’s ankle bites into his shaft as Carlisle drags his face in, knee bending forward and pressing hard against his sternum as he braces himself for the taking.

The dual sensation of being trapped between his hands and his hard body sends Charlie into sensory overload—he sags in Carlisle’s clutch, heavy and rocking, hung and held as his awareness flickers away like angel-wing feathers on a light orchard breeze, and a quick-building orgasm rears like a tidal wave, tension pooling in his stomach with each snap of Carlisle’s hips. 

How would this feel inside of him, he wonders? Making room where he’s never considered there to be any—spreading him open, driving into him with power? Charlie’s fingers dig into the flexing muscles below Carlisle’s ass, holding tight. His nostrils flare, sucking air down before it’s fucked out of him again.

“Mmmm,” he moans like a whore, way too loud for the space they’re hiding in, but he can’t help it. All that matters anymore is Carlisle and the warmfuzzygonnacome feelings he breeds.

Carlisle doubles over him then, bucking in short, semi-aborted thrusts, only drawing back so far as to give his tonsils another purposeful shove.

“Almost there,” he grunts urgently, and Charlie feels the telltale tremors running under his hands, the scrape of Carlisle’s nails against his scalp, the taut threads of pleasure pulling between them, shared and indistinguishable and ohfuckinghell!

Hollowed cheeks is all it takes for Carlisle to plunge deep and explode at the back of his throat, forcing him to swallow around the throbbing head as he spills and spills, the load landing fiery in his gut. Charlie’s vision whites out, eyes rolling back into his skull as everything narrows around the fullness, the heavy, heady bliss, the bonelessness he feels when nothing’s left but him—Carlisle, with a fist in his hair and his cock dragging over his tongue, pulling the taste of come forward until its bursting against his palate so good.

Charlie suckles around his tip, tongue swiping hungrily over Carlisle’s slit and catching every scattershot of slick he can manage to eke out of his orgasm. Eyes still closed, his own slurping sounds making his ears burn, Charlie finally buries his face against Carlisle’s sweaty thigh, gasping wetly. 

His chest is heaving, and between his legs, a damp patch grows and grows, staining his worn jeans an even darker blue. He came untouched, basically. Hands free, with nothing but Carlisle’s leg to use for friction, all from giving a blowjob, fuck. Huffing the faintly musky, sour-apple-now scent of him, he’s still riding the high of it, too. Dazed, and he comes shakily to his feet when Carlisle tugs him up by his hair and slams their mouths together, clearly undeterred (maybe even more turned on) by the taste of his own release in Charlie’s mouth. It gets swapped over their tongues when Carlisle pushes his past Charlie’s lips and licks into him, softening the way they came together hard with slow, indulgent curls that tease over his teeth and leave no reachable spot untangled.

Charlie teeters forward, caught by an arm slung low, hands roaming over Carlisle’s lower back as he bears his weight against him. Carlisle’s feet don’t budge, staying planted even as Charlie writhes against him, wishing fervently that they had more time, a future where they could do this naked, in a bed they share, skin-to-skin, sweaty and unhurried. 

Maybe someday, he thinks, and his heart skips a beat. 

As if he can hear the brief stutter, Carlisle manoeuvres his chin to turn and wipes his sticky mouth across Charlie’s cheek until his lips are poised at his ear. 

“Your mouth feels like heaven, baby,” he whispers sweetly. Sinful as all hell. “I’d stay there forever if I could.” 

Charlie’s knees buckle like he’ll sink right back down to the floor and open up. Carlisle’s cock is still out, still half-hard and curving against Charlie’s hip. But the hand carding through his messy hair fastens once more, keeping him on his feet, and Charlie lets out a whine and goes still. 

“Do you have a change of pants in your truck?” 

Charlie’s brain whirrs, and he nods dumbly, half-humping him like a dog in heat.

“Mm. Give me your keys, I’ll get them for you.”

“W-why?” he asks, fingers flexing in the ruined, wrinkled fabric of Carlisle’s dress shirt. Things are slowly filtering in through the nice, dense afterglow, like the lemony hospital antiseptic scent of the air, and the lazy, distant noises of evening nurses making their rounds in the hall outside of the supply closet.

He feels like the smile Carlisle presses against his jaw, and it lingers in the sharp nips of skin he takes between his teeth as he answers, “As much as I’d like to take you home and ravish you some more, my break is almost over. And you have a date to get to, hot shot. You don’t want to show up at your girlfriend’s door all sticky and stinking of sex, now do you?”

The dig lands like a lead pellet at the base of his spine, and Charlie stiffens.

“Oh shit.” 

Carlisle huffs a laugh, drawing back to pinch his chin between his thumb and his forefinger. “Such a mouth on you…” he shakes his head, dark eyes glittering with satisfaction. 

“You could do something about it.” 

God, where did that come from?! 

He doesn’t take it back, though.

Charlie’s tongue darts out, wetting his swollen lips, arresting Carlisle’s attention. He looks longingly at them for a moment, like he’s weighing the pros and cons of keeping him here, before lifting his gaze back to Charlie’s.

“I tell you what,” he starts, “you go, take your girlfriend out to—” 

“Dinner…” 

Carlisle nods thoughtfully. “You take her out to dinner. You play the doting boyfriend, get her home before ten, walk her to her door…” he leans in again, “and you don’t kiss her goodnight, because if you kiss her, Charlie, I will know.” 

Charlie swallows hard, throat sore. He doesn’t know how Carlisle could possibly know if he doesn’t kiss her, considering he’ll still be here, at the hospital, but he believes him. 

“You do all of that, and when I get off work, I’ll take you up on that offer.” 

“You will?” Charlie asks, breathless. He pictures his little bedroom in the basement of the house his grandma left in his dad’s name and pales. “My parents—” 

“Won’t even know I’m there,” Carlisle promises, giving him a wink. “Keys, Charlie.” 

He digs around in his pocket for his rusty key ring, handing it over blindly. Carlisle presses a short kiss, chaste compared to the others, to his lips, and then chucks his chin with the cool metal. “Won’t be long,” he breathes, and then he’s out the closet door faster than the heat of his words against Charlie’s mouth can cool.

Chapter Text

“You’re a sadist.” 

Carlisle chuckled, rolling his hips before shoving back inside of Charlie’s sloppy hole. His first two loads squelched around his cock, friction heat keeping the snug channel nice and slimy-wet for him to fuck into.

“I’ll have you know that I actually have quite the reputation for being a bleeding heart.” 

“The only thing—bleeding—here—is my cock.” 

Carlisle lowered his gaze to the appendage; decorated with a plain metal ring around the base to keep him hard, it was darker than the rest of Charlie’s body, fat at the purplish head and curiously bulging in the middle, engorged with blood. It stood up proud from a bush of curls, weeping every time Carlisle pegged his prostate just right, even when Charlie whined that he had nothing left in the tank. Come matted the coarse hair on his belly already, it dripped down his sides like melted candle wax, there was even a stray rope of it drying across one puffy nipple that Carlisle had the greatest urge to take between his teeth, worry until Charlie’s skin tasted like the good fortune of a penny tossed into the churning bed of a fountain, but Carlisle could sense (like one might smell the air and know a storm was coming) that his dredges weren’t dry.

He gave his cock a nudge with the pad of his thumb against the bundle of nerves arrow-pointing to his red and angry slit and watched it thwack against Charlie’s stomach, pulling sticky strings into the air as it came right back up for more.

“Hmm. Seems intact to me, darling…” 

Carlisle closed his fist around the glans and gave the top half of his shaft a tight and lazy pump.

“Shit. Shit. Nnnnnghh.” 

Charlie’s shoulders dug into the firm bamboo pillows keeping his head propped up, knuckles an unripe strawberry white where they were clenched around the top rail of the headboard. His knees, held open on either side by restraints fashioned to the foot board and around his bony ankles, kept coming up off of the bed with every one of Carlisle’s thrusts—the drenched and sticky sheets clinging to his perfectly flushed and overheated skin.

They’d been at this for a while—hours, if Carlisle had to guess, but time passed differently for him. He almost felt bad for Charlie. When he’d leaned over the tea lights elegantly dressing the dinner table and confidently dared Carlisle to give him everything he had, he couldn’t have known it would lead to this:

Carlisle’s everlasting stamina scraping orgasm after orgasm out of his fragile human body.

“Unnng—it’s gonna fall off!” Charlie’s voice cracked as another shudder of sharp, oversensitive pleasure quaked through him. 

Carlisle surged into him, barely even breaking a sweat.

“You know what to say to make me stop.” 

He caught Charlie’s fevered shaft in his hand with every upstroke, swiping his thumb from base to tip along the thin, silky skin, until Charlie was a stammering mess.

“Sun—bear. Sun… something… stupid, shit, stop, stop!” 

His heart pounded heavy in Carlisle’s ears, and Carlisle hissed at his own sensitivity as he pulled out too quickly, missing the way Charlie’s gape fluttered around nothing to plant his hands at his sides and loom over him, searching his face with concern. 

Did Charlie really not remember his safeword? 

His eyes were squeezed shut, mouth agape, and Carlisle leaned his weight off of him and combed through his tangled hair with his fingers, waiting patiently until the stiffness in his features ebbed away and he sank against the mattress before teasing gently, “Perhaps we should’ve chosen a word farther away from your limited arsenal of expletives…” 

Charlie’s glassy eyes finally peeled open. “It’s sunfish,” he gave a shaky laugh, and Carlisle relaxed.

“Are you okay?” He bumped their foreheads together. “Shall I untie you? Run us a bath?”

“Um.” Charlie’s cheeks ballooned as he blew out a breath, and his cock gave a little kick against Carlisle’s stomach despite all of his grizzling. “Not yet?” he ventured sheepishly, “I… nnn…” 

He trembled under the ulnar ridge of Carlisle’s hand as it brushed down his side and curled around his erection. 

“What do you want, Charlie?” Carlisle husked, giving him a long, slow stroke from root to tip.

Charlie’s molars ground together as he knocked his head back with a deep, bellied groan. 

“You.”

“Are you sure? If it’s really too much…” 

“It’s not,” Charlie bit out, heavy-lidded eyes lit like a hearth in the dead of winter, heating Carlisle’s cheeks with their intensity. “It’s… it hurts, but I like it. I don’t want to stop.”

“In that case,” Carlisle mused, holding Charlie’s gaze and watching the dark pupils overtake the amber color as he slid back inside of him with one smooth push, Charlie’s cock throbbing within Carlisle’s tightening fist. “You can give me one more, can’t you darling?” 

Charlie nodded mutely, overwhelmed all over again by the fullness. 

Carlisle would take this one excruciatingly slow, draw it out for both of them, maybe even make it last forever.

Chapter Text

Carlisle knew it was coming—Charlie’s fingers swimming through the soft glow of the bedside lamp, searching for the dangling chain that would snuff the light and bathe the two of them in total darkness. There came a point during each of their encounters where Charlie made some effort to hide himself away from Carlisle’s eyes, and usually he let him, but they were finally in Charlie’s bedroom, he was going to be underneath this man in the most intimate place he could be (Charlie’s bed, the mattress worn and springy beneath his knees at the moment) and Carlisle couldn’t stand it anymore; his love being relegated to the shadows where it languished along with every other secret part of his long, eternal life. 

This one thing he wanted to cherish freely, passionately, honestly—even if it was just the two of them in the room to witness it.

His mouth pulled free of the tongue-kissed side of Charlie’s neck as he snagged Charlie’s wrist out of the air and pleaded desperately, “Don’t. Please. I want to see you.” 

Charlie peeled back warily. “Um… why?” 

“Because.” Carlisle kissed him. “You’re beautiful.” 

The strong bridge of Charlie’s nose wrinkled. The lines around his eyes creased when he frowned, his bushy, furrowed brows severe, and Carlisle just knew that he didn’t believe him. 

“You’re beautiful,” he shook his head, “I’m twice your age, and I look it, sweetheart.” 

Carlisle suppressed a humourless laugh at that. If only he knew… 

If only he knew that Carlisle was only beautiful like a thorny flower that would bleed even the gentlest touch. That he would never see the evidence of a good set of years in his reflection, or go soft from tenderness, even if he felt full of it. That the world would never take its toll, but he would always feel the weight of it hanging over his shoulders. 

Carlisle swallowed around the lump in his throat, overcome with the need to make Charlie understand how lucky he was.

“Let me…” he willed him to acquiesce, releasing Charlie’s hand to open his messy collar. 

With an awkward shrug, Charlie reclined against the headboard. “Have at it.” 

“Like Christmas,” Carlisle whispered, smiling to himself as he gently peeled apart the two sides of Charlie’s flannel. He pushed the heavy fabric over his freckled shoulders until it slid down his arms, revealing the lean, hairy chest beneath. Warmth radiated from Charlie’s tanned skin, heating the palms of Carlisle’s hands as he rubbed them over Charlie’s pecs, feeling them swell with every heaving breath. 

His stomach tensed as Carlisle smoothed his fingers over the ridges of his ribs, stacked beneath a thin layer of late nights at his favorite diner, fishing trips and game days spent with the people he cared about, full days at his desk doing something important to him.

There was a scar on his right side, a long, thin line that obviously knit back together with the help of a few stitches. A mole halfway between his navel and his hip, covered by downy hair that grew in a distinct stripe down his belly. Stretch marks from scales of weight, barely visible except to Carlisle’s keen eye. He kissed each of these things, unable to help himself but worship the evidence of change and growth and life, blood rushing beneath his lips.

A blush was climbing the tower of Charlie’s stretched neck, staining his cheeks. His face was cast towards the ceiling like it was too much—having Carlisle crawling down his body, taking apart his walls piece by threadbare piece—but he didn’t ask him to stop, and the trembling that’d been there when he’d reached for the light had calmed. He hadn’t the faintest idea how attractive he was to Carlisle, but he would know it to be true by the time they left this room come morning. 

The bed creaked from their shifting weight as Carlisle bent over to press his mouth back to Charlie’s chest, working his fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans. Charlie lifted his hips automatically for Carlisle to pull them down to his knees, and then Carlisle kicked them the rest of the way off with his toes before sitting back.

“Happy now?” Charlie grumbled, closing his arms over his chest, perfectly human in his insecurities. He didn’t worry if his teeth were too sharp or his hunger too much to bear. He worried that he was ugly compared to the ‘younger’ lover in his bed, entirely unaware that Carlisle was something much older and uglier under the surface than the things Charlie was concerned about himself. 

And it was ridiculous, really. His failed marriage must have really messed with his head, because Charlie was ageing fine, like oiled timber—young Charlie had been attractive, but a well-seasoned forty year old Charlie, with a nice sheen of arousal on his skin? 

“Very happy,” Carlisle nodded, wrapping his hand around his aching cock and thrusting through his fist with a moan as he took him in. He was so hard already that he was straining right through the measly fabric of his white boxer briefs. 

Charlie looked between his erection and his face, half-astonished, and half something else—something Carlisle recognised in the pit of his belly. His eyes darkened as he seemed to finally settle into his skin, pressing his shoulders into the board behind him. Pride filled Carlisle’s chest as he watched Charlie’s cock twitch and start to fatten up between his legs.

“Fuck. Stop looking at me like that.” 

“Like what?” Carlisle asked breathlessly, squeezing off the ache in his groin. 

Charlie licked his lips and left them a shiny red that made Carlisle’s mouth water. He leaned in and took the bottom one between his teeth when Charlie didn’t answer, pulling it into his mouth, sucking it dry before releasing it again. Charlie’s voice was rough with lust when he finally put to words exactly what Carlisle was thinking. 

“You’re looking at me like… like I’m something to eat, Carlisle.” 

Carlisle cocked his head. “Is that really the worst thing?” he asked gently. 

Charlie’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and Carlisle traced it with his tongue, sucking kisses all the way to his ear. “I don’t care about your age. I only care that you’re a good man, a warm man, a loving man… and you are, Charlie. So I’m going to kiss… and taste… and tongue… every inch of you, until you can’t feel anything but how much I want you. And then you’re going to put this—” Carlisle took Charlie’s cock in hand and flexed his fingers around the thick base of it, “monster cock inside of me and fuck me full, so that all I can feel is you. Think you can handle all of that while keeping that lamp on, handsome?” 

Charlie groaned, and his hands flew to Carlisle’s hips, clamping down hard enough to bruise, if only he could. “Yeah,” his hot breath skimmed Carlisle’s shoulder, followed by the soft slope of his lips and the gentle bristle of his stubble. “If it’s with you… I think I can.” 

Chapter Text

Things changed after Bella came home from her honeymoon, her belly round and full of the impossible. Carlisle couldn’t stop thinking about it, the mechanics and the miracle of life that it was—even after Renesmee’s birth, the obsession took over him, seeping into moments better left unstained by thoughts of his daughter-in-law and new grandchild. Perverse questions came to mind in the dead of night especially, when he gave up on his research and reached between his legs, fingers drifting through the wetness there. 

Would it work the other way around? 

Science told him no—that the carrier had to be human, with blood in their veins and a hospitable womb—but the studies just didn’t exist to support the theory he’d taken as fact for his entire life; that his body was a barren casket. Rare didn’t mean out of the question. His kind were already so few and far between, with even fewer spending their time trying to mate with their food source. And If Edward’s reproductive health was in order… Why should Carlisle’s not be the same? And Esme’s, and Alice’s and Rosalie’s too?

Four hundred years ago, Carlisle could have just as confidently said that any number of medical advancements in recent history were unthinkable—vaccines, stem cell therapy, in vitro fertilization, etcetera—and now they weren’t only known but the norm. 

This left Carlisle with a theory to test (quietly, so as to not get anyone’s hopes up) and an unprecedented yearning he was desperate to sate. But with who? 

~

Charlie wasn’t the easy or uncomplicated choice, but it was fun to ruffle his feathers, and Carlisle felt a lightness inside of him whenever he took the risky chance of displaying his own. Whoever said the pursuit of scientific advancement had to be boring? The first few times that Carlisle flirted with him, Charlie’s cheeks turned a deep shade of red, and he fumbled his way through escaping the situation as fast as humanly possible. Once, Carlisle was quicker to the draw, and Charlie barrelled straight into him. His body was hot, and his heart rate picked up as he caught Carlisle by the hips as if to steady him—the immortal, immovable stone that he was. His hands were so large that his thumbs splayed across Carlisle’s belly, pressing in, holding on…

The encounter unlocked something hungry in Carlisle, and he spent more time than he ever had in his entire existence with his fingers buried in his cunt, unable to rub off the ache that just the memory of Charlie hard-up against him inspired. It made the obsession worse, but that obsession also started to change, to bend and twist itself into a proper kink. The longer Charlie dodged his advances, the less this all became about the theoretical possibility of a human male being able to sire offspring in an immortal womb, and the more it became about… lust. About what Carlisle wanted, versus what he’d been originally desperate to prove. 

Because if it was just about that, Carlisle could’ve used the advantages his nature afforded him to bed any number of human men, or better yet, he could’ve shared his hypothesis with any one of the women in his coven and let them do with it what they would (maybe Alice could have even predicted the outcome before they needed to test it…) but instead, he kept his fantasies to himself. 

And there were plenty of those; Carlisle imagined all manner of ways that Charlie might try to knock him up. With Carlisle bouncing in his lap in the soft-looking recliner tucked into the corner of his living room, or hidden deep in a supply closet at the hospital, or bent over the hood of his police cruiser, a hand fisted in the fabric of Carlisle’s shirt between his shoulders while he pounded into him from behind, whispering husky, devastating words about how pretty Carlisle would look when he was growing fat with Charlie’s babies, wearing that warm maternal glow. About how he couldn’t help himself but keep fucking him full and hoping it would stick. About how much tighter he got around Charlie’s Rainier can cock when he talked about breeding Carlisle’s hot little body over and over again—building up a little army of golden haired children with dark eyes and kind smiles, all because Charlie liked the look of his belly bloated, tits swollen, hormones raging, and couldn’t stop slamming him raw to keep him that way at all times.

But their mating dances continued for months as Charlie struggled with the very clear picture of desire that Carlisle was painting for him in the form of personally delivered coffees, heated looks and hands wandering whenever they got close enough—none of which garnered any rejection, only flustered panic.

In his desperation, Carlisle eventually took a page out of Edward’s book and went slinking through the quiet bones of the man’s empty house in the dead of night. He wasn’t there to do anything deplorable, he just wanted to be near Charlie, perhaps work out a more efficient way of seducing the poor, awkward man while he slept, but when he approached the cracked door to the master bedroom, it wasn’t snoring that greeted him, but the sharp sound of wet skin slapping on… rubber? 

Carlisle peered into the room, risking the old floors creaking, and was met side-on by the surprising sight of Charlie towering over the end of his bed, fully awake, fully nude. In one of his hands he held his cock, heavy and slick with lube, and in the other bulged a fat thigh, connected to half of a pale torso, only shaped up to the ribs. 

Backlit by the moonlight, Charlie tapped the head of his cock between the realistic masturbator’s legs (the source of the sound Carlisle had just heard) and then slid through the open folds of its fake cunt, pushing the thighs closed around his shaft with a moan. Carlisle felt a pang of jealousy course through him—Charlie was clearly about to fuck it, the toy, but he’d been all-but throwing himself at Charlie for ages now… hadn’t he? Why wasn’t that him on Charlie’s bed? Carlisle bit down on his knuckles to keep from whining as Charlie spread those thighs wide, moldable as jelly, and lined himself up. 

He was tall, and he looked otherworldly powerful standing there with that small hole at his mercy. It was clear from the purple tinge to the head of his cock and the distinct scent of sweat and sex in the air that he’d been edging himself for a while. Dark shadows danced across his face, and his breaths came in short, ragged pants, until they stopped altogether as he slid inside the snug channel below him.

Carlisle turned away from the crack in the door, throat uncomfortably tight. He was just about to tuck tail and leave to lick his wounds in private when a tortured sound of pleasure from the room kept him rooted to the spot. 

“Shiiiit Carlisle,” Charlie groaned, and from the sound of squelching, gave a fervent thrust into the toy at his disposal, “you feel so fucking good, baby.” 

His body reacted almost entirely on animal instinct at the sound of his name hissing out of Charlie’s clenched jaw, slumping against the wall just outside of the door, his underwear soaked in seconds. But he couldn't have heard that right—there was no way… 

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me, Doc? Every time I see you—fuck, fuuuuck—you get me so hard, so fast, I can’t think straight, and you’re just there, flashing me those fuck me eyes like you’d let me fold you in half like a pretzel wherever we are…” 

Carlisle’s hand drifted between his legs, pressing hard enough on his zipper that his knees threatened to buckle. He couldn’t see Charlie from this angle, but he could hear him—the pumping of his cock deep in that toy’s guts and the words he grunted that echoed his every fantasy. 

“Is this what you wanted, huh? My cock? My—nnf—come?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Carlisle chanted quietly, head knocking back as he pushed his hand down the front of his pants and jammed his fingers down on his aching clit. 

“Gonna give it to you, baby. All of it. You’ve been so good, waiting for me. Almost there.” 

His voice was so rough and warm with affection that Carlisle could hardly stand it; it touched inside of him where he was empty and naked with need, soothed a part of his soul he hadn’t heard the cries of since he was a young child, shaped to make his father proud when he had no use for anything but an heir. It cradled him and took him—took him over the edge, and Carlisle came with a cry muffled against his own shoulder, his tense stance threatening to crack the drywall at his back. 

Venom rushed behind his ear drums, muffling the broken shout that filtered out of the room as Charlie unloaded inside of the toy, and his chest heaved as he dragged sweaty air into his lungs despite not needing to—it felt very much like he did, at that moment. His head felt too light and his limbs all tingled with a phantom numbness, and his chest, by God. His ribs were straining, and his body was working so hard to keep still as too many sensations raced through him, all at once, that it was almost like he could feel the deep, hard thud of a beating heart trapped in there. 

Once he caught his breath—so to speak—he chanced another look through the door. Charlie’d gone quiet; he was still leaning over the toy, hands planted on the bed at its sides, head hung. There was a light sheen covering his shoulders, beet skin as far as Carlisle’s supernatural eye could reach, and his whole body seemed to be trembling. Seeing Charlie come undone from imagining him in place of that hunk of fake flesh… 

Carlisle left by sun-up, more determined than ever to convince Charlie to breed him for real.

~ 

He waited all day, poured his excess energy into work while the hours passed slowly during what had to be the longest shift of his life in the Emergency Department, and then went home and showered before he drove back through the small town of Forks at a very sensible forty miles per hour the whole way, until he was parking next to Charlie’s cruiser at the Lodge. 

The diner was small, locally owned, and quiet that late at night, nearly empty except for Charlie, who sat in his usual spot in the back. He looked up from his dinner when Carlisle slid into the booth opposite him, and promptly choked on his burger. 

“D-doc—” he coughed. 

“Charlie,” Carlisle purred, tilting his head to the side. “Are you alright?” 

Charlie’s cheeks flushed as they were wont to do, and Carlisle internally preened, privy to just how far south all that heat stretched.

“Yeah, I’m, um…” Charlie scrubbed his mouth with his napkin, finally seeming to come right from his sudden inhalation of bread bits. “Sheesh. I’m good, you just surprised me. What brings you by? You finally give in to ol’ Carver begging you to come by for a bite?” 

“Not exactly…” Carlisle folded his arms on the table and leaned in, lowering his voice between them. “I’m here for you.” 

“Me?” 

“You,” Carlisle said decisively. “Please forgive me, but I’m tired of playing games. And I realise now that maybe I wasn’t as clear as I should’ve been in my approach.” 

Charlie’s brows knit together. “What’re you saying?” 

“I want you to fuck me.” 

To his credit, he didn’t recoil, or leap from his seat as Carlisle half-expected him to. Instead, Charlie went very, very still. His heart missed a beat and then his blood, if Carlisle was to put a name to the whooshing sound meeting his ears, started to rush. The air went sweet and smoky, arousal blooming between them. Charlie’s eyes darted to the door over Carlisle’s shoulder, and then quickly back to the soda in front of him. He lifted it to his mouth and took a long drink as Carlisle went on, emboldened by the silence.

“I want you, Charlie… I want you to give me everything—you’ve—got. Every last drop.” 

Short of saying ‘Get me pregnant’, Carlisle didn’t know how much more straightforward he could be. But maybe he did need to say it, get it all out there now, make sure Charlie knew—

The bottom of the glass clinked against the wood as Charlie set it back on the table, empty. He dragged in a deep, chest-filling breath, then let it out slow. 

“Every last drop… ‘S that right?” 

“Yes, that’s right.” Carlisle’s expression turned to pleading. 

Look at me. 

Look at how much I need it.

Charlie made a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat as he sat back in his seat, and finally, his lashes swept up, a hint of the confident man he’d been at the helm of that wet pussy in his lust-darkened gaze. A little swoop ran through Carlisle’s midsection when the corner of Charlie’s mouth hooked into a smirk. 

“So… it wasn’t just a show you were after last night, baby?” 

Chapter Text

Charlie’s out doing patrols when he comes up on a familiar car pulled over on the side of a long-winding road with its hazard lights blinking. His stomach does a flip as he parks his cruiser behind it—both of them far enough away from the last bend that through-traffic will see and know to hug the other side of the lane as they pass by, but Charlie’s not too worried about it. Only hunters come out this far from town, and the June heat means the season’s weeks off starting yet. 

The air is sweltering, and it’s just them out here. The two of them and the trees for miles and miles. Carlisle’s window is already rolled down when Charlie rounds the driver’s side, and a citrusy-sweet air freshener scent hits his nose as Carlisle’s head lulls across the headrest, shock blond strands sticking to the leather. His curls are messy and pushed back from his face like he’s run his hands through them more than a few times, and his pupils are dilated, a lazy smirk edging his ruby red mouth up at the corner when Charlie plants a hand on the roof of the car, his other one holding his belt buckle like its heavy on his hips, and leans in. 

“What seems to be the trouble, officer?” the other man drawls. 

“You’re the one pulled over. You tell me…” Charlie cocks his head. “You been drinkin’, Doc?”

“No,” Carlisle snorts. “Just waiting for somebody…”

Carlisle rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, and Charlie’s body goes hot all over. 

“‘S that so?” 

“Mmmhm. Can you keep a secret, Chief?” 

Delicate fingers reach out and take a leisure stroll over the button-lined path of Charlie’s dress shirt, smoothing over his name badge. Charlie catches that cool wrist in his hand, his thumb and pointer finger cuffed around a dainty bone. Twinkling eyes snap to his face from underneath a sweep of soft-looking lashes, Carlisle’s expression all sheepish and slutty—starving.

“Try me,” Charlie grunts, voice raw, mouth full of cotton. His heart’s in his ears and in the palm of his hand, thumping wetly, begging to be fed on.

Carlisle’s fingers twitch and touch down against Charlie’s chest like he can sense the weakness. They turn over, going lax where his knuckles lay and sinking slowly down his sternum, Carlisle’s hand wearing Charlie’s grip like a metric ton taking it right to the bottom of the shirt where it’s tucked into his waistband. 

A soft hum escapes Carlisle’s lips as he hooks his fingers around Charlie’s thick belt and gives it a tug. Like fish to bait, Charlie’s hips sling forward, and Carlisle’s mouth brands the place just beside the lowest button. He holds Charlie’s gaze as he whispers, “I’m out here… because I’m having an affair…” 

The tip of his tongue darts out, teasing that button open, and Charlie’s fist bangs on the roof of the car as Carlisle pushes open the two sides of his shirt across that one loose little erogenous zone just above his groin and puts his mouth to the skin there, like he just can’t help but taste any part of him he can reach while he works open his belt. He hadn’t meant for it to go like this—Charlie hadn’t—but it’s impossible to pull back, that’s how deep in he is. He knows it's wrong and he wants it even more. It makes Charlie’s ears ring, the slick sound of the leather pulling through the metal clasp gunshot loud in this otherwise quiet corner of the woods. 

It carves a path through Charlie, leaving him with a gaping hole to fill.

“You’re so fucking bad,” he groans, releasing Carlisle’s wrist to delve his fingers into his hair instead. He gets a fistful at his nape and tugs Carlisle’s face into the patch of underwear revealed by Carlisle parting his fly wide around his bulge, rubbing the length of his erection against his cheek and lips. “Beautiful woman at home, a whole hoard of kids, and where are you, Carli? Yeah, that’s right, you’re out here with me.”

Carlisle nuzzles and kisses him through the fabric, all rough tongue and suction around the middle of his shaft, greedy and feline for the flavour he pulls free, but Charlie’s hard and aching and he can’t wait any longer to get inside that wet mouth, bare and with nothing between them. 

“Stop teasing and take me out,” he orders, not without amusement. He likes how cock-hungry and affectionate Carlisle gets when it’s just the two of them and he can let go of all that stupid golden-family pretence. This is the real him; selfish and hungry. 

Nails scrape his sensitive skin as Carlisle tugs his underwear down with little finesse and frantic, jerky movements, Charlie’s cock springing free and slapping against his belly. Carlisle’s pupils are so blown that his eyes are nearly all black, locked on his leaking tip. Charlie angles it at his cherry red lips and smears it across his mouth, making him shine under the hot beating sun, skin all pearly with the evidence of Charlie’s arousal—his claim. 

“You kiss your wife with that mouth?” Charlie taunts, tapping his shaft against the apple of Carlisle’s cheek. It pulls a sticky trail out from the corner of said filthy mouth, the kind that drips down his chin instead of snapping taut when he turns his face into velvety skin, chases Charlie’s cock with a whine and pushes away the ugly-jealous feelings that crop up whenever Charlie thinks too long (or too hard) about the way that Carlisle goes home after each of these encounters. Home to someone else instead of staying in his arms, sweetly undone. 

Charlie doesn’t have a whole lot of sweet in him right now, no matter how romantic and shit he feels about how fucking lovely this man is, how heartbreakingly beautiful he looks with those Snow White lips stretched around his shaft. Doesn’t remember getting mad, either, but Carlisle doesn’t seem to mind the way Charlie’s grip tightens possessively and his hips feed his cock past his lips at last, nowhere near as gentle as he could be. 

Carlisle’s throat is tight and his eyes are practically rolling up into his head with how fixed they become on Charlie’s face, squinting through the light pouring over his towering shoulders. He moans, the sound travelling right down Charlie’s legs, the car and the hand in Carlisle’s hair the only things keeping him upright. 

It’s quick. 

It’s rough. 

No other cars come through as Charlie holds Carlisle’s head steady and uses his mouth, face fucking him through the driver’s side window. His balls are drawing up in no time, but its the quick blur of Carlisle’s fist over his own cock, pulled out of his pants just enough to fuck it through his tight fingers as Charlie grinds his groin against his nose, that has him filling up his throat, listening to the greedy, gulping sounds of Carlisle swallowing his load. Carlisle comes with the taste of Charlie on his tongue, still lapping at the last dredges of his orgasm while Charlie leans his knees against the outside of the door and catches his breath. It ruins his pressed shirt, turning all that baby blue a dark navy that’ll no doubt stain. It’s as close to leaving a hickey or a bruise or some identifiable mark of what they do together as Charlie can get, the way Carlisle ruins himself, and Charlie stares at it, at Carlisle’s chest as he shudders and shakes, a newly formed ball of fuck formed in his throat, because he wants more than roadside encounters. 

Carlisle hasn’t let go of his cock, his suckling keeping him half-hard, and Charlie is already missing him, resentful of the soft, repetitive sound of the hazard lights blinking, dizzy from a mind-blowingly good orgasm and yet… unsatisfied. He flexes his fingers in Carlisle’s hair, petting it smooth as he draws him off his cock and steps back, wrapping his fingers around his own length and stroking from root to tip. 

“Get out of the car.” 

Carlisle leans his cheek against the steering wheel, watching his hand work. 

“Why?” he asks, voice wrecked and breathy. He doesn’t move. 

Charlie’s hand is wet with Carlisle’s spit, his cock still angry-full, and Carlisle has the audacity to ask him why. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” he answers, jerking the door open when Carlisle still hasn’t moved. Charlie takes him by the collar and tugs him out of the seat, throwing his weight towards the boot. His hands hit the back end with a slap, chest falling over it, spine already arched like he expects Charlie to fuck him, right here, half in the ditch and dry. He cuffs him instead, dragging his wrists behind his back. Carlisle throws a look of surprise over his shoulder. 

“Kinky…” he fishes, brows furrowing when Charlie tucks himself back into his pants and fixes his own clothes. Carlisle’s cock is still out, the pink tip probably burning where it’s pressed into the metallic plaque on the bumper, not that he complains. “What’re you doing?” 

Charlie grins, plastering himself against Carlisle’s back and grinding him into the car. His thumbs rub little circles around his narrow hips, and he feels Carlisle relax as he kisses a path up to his ear. 

“Naughty boys don’t get to just walk free… I’m taking you in, baby.” 

And by in, Charlie means home. 

His home.

“I’m gonna put you in my bed and fuck you ‘til you can’t walk straight, and then tomorrow, with your jelly legs and the tremors from how good I make you feel still racking your body, you can tell your pretty wife that you spent the night in the drunk tank…” Charlie nips at Carlisle’s ear, grinning, “and maybe she’ll believe you.”