
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/418362.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Twilight_Series_-_Stephenie_Meyer, Twilight_Series_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Alec/Carlisle_Cullen
  Character:
      Alec, Carlisle, Aro_(Twilight)
  Additional Tags:
      Rating:_NC17, Age_Difference, VampSlash, Canon_Compliant, Post_BD,
      Vampires, Vampire_Sex, Volturi, twislash, Slash
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-10-31 Words: 7321
****** Once Then Always ******
by avioleta
Summary
     "What are you doing here?" The boy grins. "Come now, Carlisle, don't
     you know your ghosts always find you on All Hallows' Eve?"
Notes
     Originally written for the VampSlash Halloween Fest. Not my typical
     pairing. Please heed the warning.
     Explicit m/m sex and a bit of blood; please consider the pairing
     before reading. Alec is older yet physically younger than Carlisle.
     Not technically underage, but it's still Carlisle/Alec.
     Thank you to vampslash for hosting. And thank you to everyone who
     encouraged me to write such a deliciously twisted pairing.

Carlisle stares down into the dark crimson liquid. In the dim light of the
room, it almost looks like blood. Almost.
He bites back a laugh. Perhaps it's time to feed.
He takes a slow sip, allowing the flavors to roll across his tongue. Though the
wine is thin and cheap (they serve nothing else in this place), it is still
earthy, peppery, and smooth. He enjoys the pleasant burn of the alcohol as it
warms his throat, his belly.
Esme would be appalled. But then she never understood his vices.
He drains the glass and signals the bartender for another, wishing (just for
once) he could be drunk, that the alcohol would cloud his too-perfect mind,
would make him forget, would make him numb. But, of course, the blood in his
veins is not his own, and no amount of wine or whiskey will pollute it.
He sighs; the dark wine shimmers in the flickering light, casts a thin shadow
on the table.
Some nights, he actually wants them to find him.
It would be a fitting punishment for his crime, really. And then there would be
no more running. No more wondering when.
He doesn't sleep, but he still has nightmares. Sometimes he doesn't even have
to close his eyes.
He sees Aro's eyes, looking up at him. They are pale and bloodied and always
softly accusatory. He'd been shocked at first, but then his thin lips curved
into a sickening and knowing smile. 'Of course, Carlisle, my child' he
whispered (as hands closed around his neck) 'You must protect your own.'
Other times he sees his family. The little girl, still clutched in Bella's
arms. Esme, eyes wide, a pale hand over her mouth. And Edward. Always Edward,
resigned and tired (more tired than he's ever seen him), hand on his wife's
back as he nods. 'Of course, you must go. We'll see you again soon.' He'd
smiled that easy smile then, though they both knew it might be for the last
time.
No. He shakes his head, presses his palm to the worn surface of the bar. It had
to happen. It was the only way. After all, he never had a choice.
He wants a cigarette but is certain the bartender won't allow it, even in a
place as sordid as this.
He thinks about the miracle that is his child. He hates that she will grow up
(too quickly, it seems), and he will not be there to see it. She will know what
he did (for her, for her mother, her father), but she will not know him.
Minutes pass. The bartender checks his watch, wipes down the counter with a
grimy rag. The bar is relatively empty at this hour.
He hears him approach and sets his glass down carefully. His breath catches.
Perhaps, finally… But no. The boy is alone. Carlisle purses his lips, as he
takes the seat beside him. He refuses to look, refuses to acknowledge his
presence. Instead, he takes another sip of wine.
The small vampire watches him for several minutes. Carlisle can feel his eyes
on him, searing and hot on his skin. He exhales a shaky breath but does not
turn his head.
"Why do you do this?" the boy asks after several long moments, motioning toward
the glass in Carlisle's hand. Full lips curl in distaste. "It can't actually be
pleasurable, can it?"
Carlisle shrugs, leans forward to rest his elbows on the bar.
"I mean, the blood in your system is not actually your blood," the boy
continues, "so the alcohol can't affect you." His voice rings with such
conviction that Carlisle nearly laughs. Of course, he would never understand,
but he looks at Carlisle, hands folded primly on his lap, and it is clear he
expects a response.
"I appreciate the aesthetics," he offers vaguely, twisting the stem of his
glass between pale fingers.
The boy rolls his eyes. "You were never one for practicality, were you
Carlisle?"
He shrugs again. "What are you doing here?"
Alec grins, pink lips curving to reveal perfect white teeth. "Come now, don't
you know your ghosts always find you on All Hallows' Eve?"
Carlisle narrows his eyes; he doesn't want to play this game. He's known the
child for nearly the entirety of his immortal life, and he still has trouble
reading him. Alec's expression softens slightly. He almost looks contrite. He
reaches a hand out as if to touch Carlisle's arm but thinks better of it and
quickly tucks it back between his knees.
"What are you doing here?" Carlisle repeats. His voice is cold and rather
harsh, but he doesn't care. Not really.
The boy bites his lips; for a moment he looks unsure. "I had to see that you
were safe."
His honesty startles Carlisle. He turns to look at him.
The boy glances down; wisps of reddish hair fall into his face. Carlisle
resists the urge to brush them off his forehead. He swallows thickly. "Now you
have." He picks up his wineglass again; the black red liquid glints against the
curve of his palm. "You shouldn't be here."
"Why did you do it?" Alec asks suddenly; his voice is very small.
Carlisle says nothing. He knows the boy is grieving. He'd known Aro longer (and
more intimately, perhaps) than even he had. After all, Aro sired Alec and his
twin.
The boy breathes out slowly, watching him, unnatural eyes dark. His hands,
graceful, elegant, and small are clutched so tightly together that his knuckles
are white. "You foolish fucking bastard," his mouth twists savagely, a sneer
marring his delicate features.
Carlisle hides his flinch; it always surprises him to hear such obscenities
slip easily from Alec's childish tongue.
His eyes flash dangerously. "It was for him, wasn't it?"
"It hardly matters now."
The boy inhales sharply. It's clear he's struggling to maintain his composure.
"But it does matter." Petulance and something else entirely bleeds into his
voice. "They'll find you."
Carlisle takes the last sip of wine. "It doesn't matter. It was the only
choice."
Alec looks as though he might protest but says nothing. Instead stares moodily
across the bar. Colorful bottles line the glass shelves along the wall
(cerulean blues, jewel toned greens, and golden yellows).
Carlisle sighs. Sometimes he wonders if he did the right thing, if it really
were his only choice. But it's far too late to change anything now.
Aro is dead. He is responsible.
"Did her shields actually work?" he asks after a long moment. "Were you really
unable to get through?"
The boy shrugs thin shoulders but does not respond.
"Alec?" he prompts. He needs to know.
"There were cracks…" he trails off, pale fingers picking at the sleeve of his
sweater, and he leans forward again, hair obscuring his eyes.
Carlisle waits for him to continue, but he does not.
"If Bella's shields did not work, why did you encourage Aro to stop the
attack?"
The boy looks up at him scathingly, as though the answer should be obvious.
"Because it wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth you." The last is said in a hissed
whisper, a soft exhale of sound that Carlisle almost doesn't hear.
Something warm unfurls in the pit of his stomach (like alcohol, like blood).
"Besides," Alec says then, eyes fixed on his, "the child was innocent. She did
not deserve to die."
Carlisle nods, sliding his thumb along the lip of his wineglass. He can't help
but worry about his family, hope that they are still safe, alive. He has to
think that they are. After all, they are the reason he has condemned himself to
this life of exile, of fear.
But he hasn't spoken to anyone in seven months. He doesn't even know where they
are.
"Why did you leave them?" the boy asks. And though his eyes betray nothing, his
tone gives too much away.
Carlisle answers truthfully (doing his best to choke back the sudden rush of
grief). "I had to." He's said it so many times by now, he almost believes it.
Alec nods, pushes a strand of unruly hair behind his ear. "You protect them.
You always have."
"Marcus and Caius would have targeted them," Carlisle says, "just for being
with me." He sighs and turns toward the boy beside him. "You know that. Now,
though, I have to believe that they will be spared because I am no longer
there."
The boy nods again but says nothing. He rests an elbow on the bar-top but
immediately jerks back again, a positively horrified expression on his face. He
tentatively touches one fingertip to the counter. "It's…sticky." He looks at
Carlisle as if it's somehow his fault.
Frankly, Carlisle is rather impressed that the child has sat here this long.
His tastes are absurdly aristocratic. Alec tugs his arms to his chest and looks
around, as if he's only now noticing his surroundings.
The bartender emerges from the back storeroom, a case of beer in his arms. He
sets it down on the counter with a grunt and then glances down the bar at
Carlisle and Alec. His eyes widen in shock, but then his expression darkens.
He lumbers toward them, wiping thick hands on a dish towel.
Carlisle closes his eyes; he knows what's coming.
The man's nostrils flare. "Now I don't know what yer playing at, but he can't
be in here."
Alec sighs loudly; Carlisle thinks he does exasperation quite well.
"Oh, do stop worrying," he says, boyish tongue dripping with condescension. "I
doubt I'll be drinking any of what you have to offer." With this, he lets his
eyes slip appraisingly over the man's chest before they flicker back to his
face.
Carlisle knows the exact instant the man notices (a sharp intake of breath, a
step backward). His back hits the cabinet behind him; his heart is beating too
fast (a thrum of blood in Carlisle's ears).
Alec sits perfectly still, red eyes unblinking. Then he smiles. His teeth are
far too white and far too straight.
Carlisle watches him closely. Though he doesn't believe the boy will do
anything foolish, he knows all too well what he is capable of.
The man gasps; he's gone rather pale. "I…I don't know who yeh think you are,
but I'm telling you, if you don't leave now, I'm gonna have to throw you out."
His voice is choked; his hands clutch the countertop.
Alec laughs, a childishly clear sound that is positively chilling. "I think
not," he says calmly, cocking his head to the side. "In fact—"
Carlisle places a hand on his arm, and the boy stops. He looks down, brow
furrowing as if in confusion. "Oh…okay." He looks at Carlisle again. "Perhaps
we should take this elsewhere."
He stands. Carlisle pulls a twenty-pound note from his pocket, slides it across
bar. The bartender hasn't moved. But when Carlisle places a hand on the small
of Alec's back, guides him toward the door, he hears the man exhale, "fucking
pervert…freaks is what you are."
Alec stiffens, starts to turn around, but Carlisle's fingers tense against his
back. "No." And the boy nods once. Carlisle knows he won't be able to return,
but it hardly matters now, not since the boy's found him.
Though the man (wisely) says nothing else, Carlisle can practically hear his
disgust as they slip outside and into the cool night air. But he doesn't care.
They rent rooms by the hour next door, and he's quite certain the man has seen
worse than whatever he expects Carlisle is taking the boy off to do.
"How did you find me?" he asks as Alec hurries to match his longer strides.
"Oh please," he rolls his eyes. "If Marcus and Caius knew how predictable you
were, you'd be dead already."
Carlisle shrugs. He's probably right.
He's staying in a rundown motel three blocks away. The building is squat and
decrepit (nearly as wide as it is tall). It is not a place he would have ever
considered going near before. But, of course, things are different now.
Streetlamps cast an orange glow on the slick pavement; Alec shoves his hands in
his pockets and follows Carlisle inside.
The foyer is as dingy as the building's exterior. The once black and white
tiled floor is gray with years' of dirt and dust and grime. A single bulb
flickers in the fixture overhead, bathing the small entryway in sickly pale
light. The night attendant behind the counter does not look up from his
tabloid.
It's for the best.
Carlisle ushers the boy past, and they ascend the narrow stairs quickly. Alec
keeps his arms pulled tight to his thin chest as if terrified that some of the
squalor might rub off on his person.
Carlisle chuckles. "It's not contagious, you know."
The boy raises an eyebrow skeptically. "I'm not entirely certain about that."
His pink lips curl as they reach the third floor landing.
Carlisle is quite sure he doesn't want to know what has stained the carpet.
"You certainly know how to pick a lodging," Alec scoffs, "don't you?" He sounds
as though he's holding his breath (he might well be). Carlisle wouldn't blame
him.
His room is on the fourth floor. They pause as Carlisle digs in his pocket for
the key. Alec glances down the dim hallway (arms still wrapped round his
chest). The carpet was once white perhaps, but after years of neglect it's
soiled, threadbare, and stained.
He pushes the door open and flicks on the light. A single lamp illuminates the
room. The shade is cracked and faded. He tosses his keys and wallet on the
dresser and turns back to the boy. Alec is still hovering just inside the door,
assessing the surroundings critically.
"What are you doing here?" he asks after a few moments. His lips press
together, and his fingers tug at the sleeves of his jumper. He clearly believes
that such appalling conditions should be enough to make Carlisle stop running,
to hand himself over to Marcus and Caius, to whatever punishment they devise.
"You already know why I'm here, Alec."
"But surely you can afford much better." He traces a semi-circle on the floor
with the tip of his shoe. "I was under the impression that your family was
quite wealthy."
Carlisle bites back a laugh. The Volturi, of course, have the means to
ascertain exactly how much the Cullens have in their accounts at any given
time. That is one reason he chooses not to access his funds. "I'd rather not
aid them in their search," he responds simply. "Money leaves a trail."
The boy scrunches up his nose as though he's smelled something foul. (He might
have.) "But surely you can maintain a level of discretion without living in
some sort of…" his eyes dart around quickly, "of hovel."
Carlisle doesn't respond. The boy wouldn't understand anyway. He stands there,
fingers curled in the hem of his sweater, watching him.
"Why did you do it?" Alec finally says, repeating the same question he's
already asked. He reaches out hesitantly to touch a fingertip to the peeling
floral printed wallpaper, making no attempt to mask his distaste.
Carlisle wants to laugh. The boy has never been anything but horribly spoiled.
He shrugs. He already answered this question. "I had to." He doesn't want to
have this conversation again. He doesn't want to talk about Aro. Not now. Not
ever. And certainly not with Alec.
"But you didn't," the boy says, and his voice catches slightly. He glances down
at the greasy carpet and, for a moment, he looks so young. Carlisle almost
feels sorry for him.
"I did."
"No…no," his voice breaks again, and he closes his eyes, sucks in a ragged
breath, tries to compose himself. "He was stopping. You'd won." His voice is
soft, broken. All at once, he sounds as young as he looks, and Carlisle's chest
aches just a little.
"You know as well as I do," Carlisle says softly, taking one step toward him,
"he does not stop…would not stop."
Alec looks up, his expression is pained, but he says nothing.
Carlisle continues, "he conceded the battle, but he does not give up that
easily. He would have come back." He takes another step, reaches out, drags a
finger along the boy's jaw. "It was never over."
"I…" Alec stops, eyes fluttering closed. "I hate that he's gone."
"I know."
"You loved him."
Carlisle nods. "In a way, yes. But there was no other choice."
The boy does not open his eyes. "I hate that."
"I know."
Alec stands perfectly still; Carlisle slides a hand down his arm. "He was mad."
"I know."
"They did not deserve to die."
Alec catches Carlisle's hand in his; his thumb traces a circle on the back of
his wrist. "I know." He looks up again, red eyes dark and dangerous. "But I
hate that you did it for him."
"For all of them."
The boy shrugs. "For him…and his wife and his child."
"They did not deserve to die," Carlisle repeats.
Alec bites his lip (pink flesh caught between perfect white teeth). "No. But
neither do you."
Carlisle says nothing. He holds the boy's gaze firmly in his own.
"I don't want to lose you too," Alec whispers after several long moments. His
chin trembles slightly. Carlisle wants to cup it between his hands.
"You won't."
"Marcus and Caius—"
"Will tire of this chase eventually. They will return to Volterra. They will
forget about me."
Alec nods but does not look convinced.
Carlisle takes off his coat and lays it carefully over the back of the room's
only chair. The boy watches him closely. He hasn't moved.
"I still can't believe he's gone," Alec says after a long moment. He rocks back
and forth on the balls of his feet and licks his lips; he presses his knuckles
to his mouth. "Oh God, Carlisle… Why did you do it?" He whispers the words, and
then there are hands on his shoulders, pushing and pulling, and teeth at his
neck, sharp and painful. "Why did you do it?" he says again, and his voice is
cold and harsh but tinged with something heartbreaking and desperate.
"You ruined everything," Alec half cries, half sobs against his throat. And
then his tongue is there, licking a line up Carlisle's jaw. "How could you?"
Carlisle's hands tremble as they settle on the boy's waist, large and heavy and
awkward as Alec quakes against him, breath ragged and wet against his skin.
"Don't you know how much I needed him? How much I need you?"
"I know. I know," he gasps out, fingers smoothing over the boy's forehead,
pushing ridiculous lovely red blond bronze hair out of his eyes. "I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry…"
And the boy kisses him, clumsy and needy and more teeth than lips or tongues.
"Oh…oh God…" Carlisle wrenches himself away, breathless and shaking and lost,
lost.
"Are you…are you all right?" Alec asks. His hands are tugging at Carlisle's top
button, and then his mouth is pressing hot kisses along his collarbone.
And no, no he's not all right because this thin slip of a boy never fails to
devastate him. "We can't. We shouldn't." But Alec is grinding helplessly
against him, and he can feel his cock, hard and young and moving, moving
against his thigh.
"Yes, yes we…oh fuck…" the boy hisses, hips still rocking. "Do you—"
No. He doesn't. He can't, but he's dry mouthed and aching, and his fingers dig
into the perfect curve of the boy's arse, holding him closer as he continues to
grind and grind against him.
"Beautiful," Carlisle breathes, and he is surprised his mouth has managed to
form the word. "You've always been beautiful."
And the boy is still (still) moving, small hands clutching tightly at his arms,
untidy head thrown back, pink lips parted softly. "Car— Carlisle…oh, oh God,"
and at the feel of warm wetness against his thigh, Carlisle has to bite his lip
to keep from coming in his trousers like a teenager, like Alec, shuddering
against him.
"Oh…oh," the boy is still moaning, as he trembles, boneless and weak-kneed in
the aftershocks of his orgasm.
And Carlisle can't stop touching him (though he shouldn't…he shouldn't). But
his fingers smooth over round, flushed cheeks, trace the pale column of his
lovely neck, slide down thinly muscled arms to lace their fingers together.
"What are you doing here?" Carlisle asks the question this time - once he can
think, once he can breathe, once he can speak again.
"I told you," the boy sighs, "I needed to know that you were safe."
"And that information is readily available to you." Carlisle's voice is thick
and rough. "You will surely know the moment I am captured. Until then, it would
be reasonable to assume I am safe."
"Yes. But that's not quite the same now, is it?" Alec is still touching him,
fingers curling around his wrist to stroke smooth skin underneath the sleeve of
his shirt. "I've missed you."
These last words are barely spoken (a whisper, a faint huff of sound). Carlisle
is not sure he's actually heard them, but something flashes in the boy's eyes,
and Carlisle recognizes it instantly, knows he's heard correctly.
Alec's expression changes again. The boy's moods are mercurial at best. But
then again, children are rarely known for consistency. His lovely terrifying
eyes darken slightly; it makes Carlisle's stomach twist and his cock throb
(don't come, don't come). He doesn't let go of the boy.
He should pull away. He should not let this happen again (not now, not ever).
Still, he can't help but cling to the small body (like ivy, like vines).
It's wrong. It's beyond sinful. (Another reason among a thousand why he's
surely damned.) The boy is a child, despite how long he's been that way. And
Carlisle shouldn't want what he wants.
He swallows thickly. "You shouldn't be here."
But Alec tugs Carlisle's hand to his waist, and he can feel firm muscles slide
under his palm. The boy leans in, and he can feel warm cold breath ghost across
his neck. It's familiar and intoxicating, as Alec's mouth brushes over his.
Once. Twice.
He pulls back slightly and can feel the boy's mouth on his cheek, and that
simple sensation draws forth a multitude of memories he's tried hard to
suppress. They skip across his mind like stones, some smooth, some jagged
cutting and sharp, but all brilliant (like a spark of flint on rock, hot and
hard and shining).
His chest is too tight; it shouldn't be this difficult to breathe.
"Stop," Alec whispers. "I know what you're thinking. And we've been over it
before."
"I can't. We shouldn't."
"Yes, we should." He laces his fingers through Carlisle's again. "You weren't
even my first. You know this." Alec never fails to bring this up, and Carlisle
is not sure if he means to reassure or simply make him jealous. If it's the
latter, he's successful.
"I don't know why you continue to beat yourself up over it, over wanting me,"
he continues, thumb stroking along the back of Carlisle's hand; he closes his
eyes. "After all we've done. After all this time." This is whispered, a gust of
breath against Carlisle's neck, and the boy pulls his hand to press against the
front of his trousers, damp and sticky, and oh, oh God.
He remembers their first time perfectly (memories mirror sharp, crystal clear)
just as his flawless mind recalls every time since. He'd hated himself for
wanting him. Hated the boy for wanting him, for letting him touch him taste him
tease him fuck him. And he hated even more that he hadn't been the first to do
those decadent delicious depraved things to him.
"I'm glad he'll never touch you again," he gasps, capturing the boy's mouth in
a brutal kiss. "No one else should touch you."
Alec's breath hitches as the possessiveness in his tone, but still the boy
whispers into his mouth, "come now, Carlisle, you know Aro would have never
touched me unless I wanted it."
"I know. And I will always hate him for it."
The boy's forehead creases. "Yes, but you have me now."
Carlisle sucks in a breath and can't help but want want… He swallows thickly,
and Alec tugs his hands to his waist, settle his hands on Carlisle's hips,
thumbs pushing at the waistband of his trousers.
And they're kissing. (Alec's mouth is soft and sweet and achingly familiar.)
Teeth scrape against lips, and Carlisle's hand smoothes over the curve of the
boy's arse, tugs him closer. The other curls around the boy's neck, palm warm
against smooth skin; his fingers thread through bronze hair, as Alec lifts his
face up for another kiss.
Carlisle is not tall (Edward is taller…), but Alec is (will always be) a head
shorter. Still, he seems to fit perfectly against him. His palm smoothes down
the boy's spine, slips under his sweater so fingers can splay across his back.
And he always knows, despite wanting to forget, exactly how the boy feels
against him – the soft expanse of skin, the narrow jut of hips, the press of a
thigh between his.
Their tongues slide together, slow and soft, and Carlisle remembers exactly how
he tastes (as if it's been minutes, not weeks, months, years). Alec's arms are
around his waist, and they stumble together until they're on the narrow bed.
The coverlet is scratchy and no doubt filthy, but he doesn't care because the
boy's legs are around his waist; his heels dig into his thighs. Red eyes look
up at him hotly.
Carlisle cups his face between his hands, mouth moving against his as they kiss
and kiss again.
Alec pulls away, sits up long enough to tug his sweater over his head, toss it
onto the floor. His hair is mussed. A reddish blond strand sticks to the corner
of his mouth. Carlisle brushes it away. The boy's lips are wet, already red and
swollen, and his cheeks are flushed (a lovely pretty pink).
Carlisle exhales shakily, as small fingers undo the last of his buttons, push
his shirt off his shoulders.
His tongue slides along Alec's lips, skims across his teeth, drags over his
throat, as he rolls his hips into the boy's. He can feel him hot and hard
(again) against his thigh and shifts his hips, presses down against that
hardness, gasps as their cocks slide together again and again.
Alec rolls them over. Carlisle likes how strong he is. A benefit of his
particular diet, but it makes him think, perhaps, that he's not so young.
The boy sits up on his knees; the zip of his trousers strains against the swell
of his cock. Carlisle licks his lips, his fingers already pulling at his belt
while Alec's hands slide down his chest, tug his shirt out of his pants.
Palms skate over his abdomen, cause Carlisle to shiver, suck in a breath.
"Alec," he gasps, rocking his hips underneath the boy's.
"Missed you," the not child says, leaning down to lick to the corner of his
mouth. "It's been too long."
"I hate wanting you like I do," Carlisle admits, hand brushing over Alec's
cheek. He can't stop shaking.
His usually so steady hands fumble with the boy's flies, push apart the
plackets of his trousers. Dark wool frames the wet white of his pants.
Carlisle can see the smooth pink red curve of cockhead peeking over the
waistband. Alec grabs his hand, pushes his palm down to his arousal. They both
groan as he grinds against their fingers. Carlisle slides his thumb down the
line of his erection, warm and hard through thin cotton.
Alec arches his back, pushes hips forward into the press of his hand. "Please,"
he breathes.
Carlisle slides his trousers and pants down, and Alec kicks them off as
Carlisle's fingers slip over the curve of a narrow thigh. "Yes. Touch me."
His throat is dry as his hands pluck at buttons, yank at the boy's shirt. It
hangs off his shoulders, the tails fall open over Carlisle's lap as Alec
straddles him. Carlisle shifts his hips and cannot remember how to breathe.
"Touch me," the boy says again, head falling back, red lips parting. Carlisle
slides a hand down his chest, fingers brushing over a hard pink nipple. Alec
bites his lip, curves his spine (a half moon-shaped arch). His cock is small
and flushed against his stomach. Carlisle leans up, presses a breathless kiss
to his forehead, his shoulder (yes, oh yes…).
He swirls his tongue in the shell of the boy's ear. He's aching, desperate and
the boy's fingers are there, sliding his zip down, slipping a warm palm in to
curl around his prick.
He hisses, arches up, and the boy bends over, presses his mouth to the tip of
his cock. Carlisle gasps, as his perfect tongue licks around the head, slides
down the shaft, and then curls around him, wet and warm. "God, yes…more" he
moans, bucking up, fingers twisting in the boy's bronze blond hair. And he
hates that he wants the boy to suck him, to make him come, and he hates it even
more that the boy's done this to someone else…that he's not the only one.
He was not the boy's first. No. Aro took care of that. But Alec was his. His
first (his only), but the boy doesn't know, will never know.
The boy is gorgeous as he licks Carlisle's cock, wet tongue sliding along the
underside, swirling around the head before his mouth opens, swallows him again.
Carlisle traces the hollows of his cheeks with trembling fingers, and Alec
sucks him slowly, lips sliding up and down until he hits the back of his throat
(but he doesn't gag).
Carlisle's hips jerk up; he can't help himself, and suddenly he knows he's
about to come.
The boy pulls back, letting his cock slide out of his mouth with a soft pop. "I
want you to fuck me," he breathes, and Carlisle inhales shakily, presses
himself up on his palms, and kisses him. He can taste himself on the boy's
lips, musky and thick and aroused.
"Do you have anything?" Alec asks, arching his back, pushing his hips against
Carlisle's.
"In the bag," he gasps, as the boy bends over, fumbles beneath the bed for the
small vial of oil. His fingers shake a bit as he uncaps the bottle. It spills
over his fingers, runs down his hand. He reaches down between his legs,
smoothes small fingers over his opening. Carlisle hisses at the sight, watches
as the boy pushes one fingertip inside.
"God, yes…" he groans, hand curling round his own cock. "Get yourself ready for
me."
"You like this, don't you?" the boy asks, head thrown back, fingers pressing,
pushing, slipping inside his body.
"Yes…yes."
"What do you want, Carlisle?" he whispers, fingers fucking himself slowly.
"Tell me what you want."
Carlisle holds his breath. He slides his hands down slender arms. He loves the
play of muscle under too smooth skin. Alec's lovely body had only just begun to
fill out all those many ages ago when he was turned. And Carlisle hates that he
loves, wants, needs this body (forever caught between adolescence and
adulthood).
"I want you to ride my cock." He laces his fingers through the boy's, slicks
his hand with oil. The boy shudders, gasps at his words. (Sometimes Carlisle
pretends he's innocent, pretends he hasn't had all this before.)
He slides his now slick hand along his aching cock, smoothing his palm over the
head, then he grasps the boy's hips, holds him still, and Alec reaches between
them to line himself up. Slowly, slowly, he lowers himself down, and Carlisle
inhales shakily, slowly as the boy slides down, inch by inch.
Finally he seats himself, splays his knees wide, and Carlisle can't help but
roll his hips, close his eyes.
"Oh…oh God," Alec breathes, throwing his hands back, bracing himself behind,
and he is so tight and warm and young, that Carlisle has to grit his teeth and
try, try not to come.
"Fuck…fuck yes…" he gasps, jerking his hips up as the boy moves on top of him.
Carlisle hisses, clings to the boy's waist to hold him still as he thrusts up
and up again.
"I thought you wanted me to fuck you," the boy moans, eyes wide, pupils
dilated.
"Yes, please…" he manages, hands falling away.
The boy bites his lip, twists his fingers in the duvet and rises up, knees
pressing tight against Carlisle's thighs. Carlisle moans as Alec pushes down,
lifts up again, again.
"You like that, don't you?" he gasps, rolling his hips, arching up, sliding
down over Carlisle's cock.
"Yes…yes…make me come." Carlisle is shaking, stomach muscles clenching, and he
can't help but push up against him. He reaches out to curl his fingers around
the boy's lovely cock, but Alec bats his hand away.
"No…no, don't." He moves faster, harder, as he lifts his hips and falls again,
prick bouncing wetly against his stomach.
Carlisle's hands clench (nails bite into his palms), his thighs tremble, and he
cries out, "I…fuck Alec, oh God…"
He comes hard, mouth open, hips jerking beneath the boy. Alec groans, tensing
around him, making Carlisle gasp again. And then he's coming too, small cock
spurting; thick warm strands smear across Carlisle's stomach, onto his chest.
His legs tremble against Carlisle's sides, and his head falls back (bronze
lovely hair slides over his eyes).
The boy slips down against him, languid and spent. His chest heaves and
Carlisle smoothes a hand over his back, feeling the slick soft perfect skin
under his palm.
"Perfect," Carlisle breathes. Always perfect.
They lay together for a while. Carlisle's fingers trace the boy's ribs, slide
across his thin chest.
"I think I could love you," Alec says, voice soft and smooth, "if I were to
love anyone at all."
Carlisle sucks in a breath. He thinks, perhaps, his heart clenches a little.
His heart, damned and useless, quiet, forgotten, cold. But now (perhaps) he
thinks he feels it shudder.
He stands up.
The bedsprings groan as the boy rolls over. He props himself on one arm, cheek
resting on the palm of his hand. The sheets twist around his hips. He watches
Carlisle steadily as he dresses, pulls on his trousers, untangles his shirt
from the pile on the floor.
Carlisle lights a cigarette. The tip glows red orange in the dim light of the
room. He inhales deeply; smoke coils between his fingers.
"But I'm certain I will never understand you," the boy says, standing. He lets
the sheet fall to the floor. Carlisle takes another deep drag to hide the sharp
intake of breath. He really is beautiful.
"That is, perhaps, even more disgusting than your choice of rooms."
Carlisle inhales again, enjoying the way the smoke burns his throat, his lungs.
For a moment, it almost makes him warm (away from the press of the boy's skin).
Alec frowns, pink swollen lips curling in disgust. "Surely they would not
approve." His words drip with derision. There is little love lost between Alec
and the Cullens.
Carlisle doesn't care. The boy bends at the waist, tugs his pants back on.
Carlisle can't help but notice the way the fabric slides over narrow hips,
clings to the curve of his perfect arse. "I do a lot of things my family would
not approve of, when I'm away." He lets his eyes slip down the boy's still bare
chest before tracing a circle around one pink nipple with a fingertip. Alec
can't repress the shudder.
"It's positively vile. That and the drinking." His eyes narrow and he steps
back slightly, "like some…human."
Carlisle laughs, a harsh sound, even to his own ears. He holds the cigarette to
his lips again and exhales a thin stream of smoke into the boy's face. Alec
coughs then glares at him. Carlisle finds he quite likes the way his small
mouth curls in disgust. He takes another long drag before stubbing the
cigarette out on the window ledge. The dingy curtains twist in the crisp
breeze.
The night is suddenly too quiet.
Carlisle does the last of his buttons and straightens his collar before calmly
fastening his cuffs. He sits down on the narrow bed (sheets now rumpled for the
first time, since he's occupied the room) and laces his shoes. "Perhaps you
should dress," he says.
The boy still stands at the window. His trousers are undone, damp and wrinkled.
His shirt hangs off narrow shoulders. Alec shrugs, fingering a purpling mark
just above his collarbone.
Carlisle smiles at the indentation of teeth. Faint pink scratches crisscross
the pale planes of the boy's flat stomach and disappear beneath the fabric of
his shirt.
"I think they know," he smiles a bit wistfully, fingers tracing a line along
the dusty windowsill. "You have never been able to resist me, after all."
Carlisle laughs, slips the last of his few personal items into the small duffel
bag he carries. "No, I suppose not."
Alec cocks his head to one side, blond bronze hair sliding into his eyes. "Aro
used to laugh, you know…" Something painful twists in Carlisle's gut at the
name, but he keeps his expression carefully blank as the boy continues, "he
said you picked him because his hair was exactly the same shade as mine."
He says nothing. Even if it were true, he would never admit it. Not out loud at
least.
Alec purses pink lips and regards him thoughtfully. "He's too old, though. You
didn't find him soon enough."
Carlisle frowns. He's never liked this line of questioning. "It doesn't
matter."
"No," the boy says, red eyes glinting rather maliciously, "I suppose it
doesn't." He steps closer to Carlisle. Too close.
Even though he's just come, he can feel his cock swell again. Alec laughs,
smoothes small fingers over the noticeable bulge. Carlisle hisses, and the boy
tilts his head up to slide his tongue along his jaw. "You'll never have him the
way you have me," he whispers, lips against Carlisle's throat.
"No," he agrees, clutching at the boy's hips, pulling him into one more brutal
kiss. "I don't suppose I will." Carlisle runs a palm down his chest (smooth and
hairless and perfect perfect…).
He glances at his watch. "They're nearly here." It's not a question.
The boy is silent for a moment. "I'm sorry, I had to. Jane only let me slip
away because she knew I'd come to you." He ducks his head, face half hidden in
shadows.
Carlisle nods, "I know." His thumb circles the jut of a white hipbone. "I'm
glad you found me. But I have to…"
"Yes," the boy cuts him off. "I know." He looks up again, leans his head back,
exposing the perfect pale column of his neck. "He was young."
Carlisle runs his tongue along his throat, and the boy gasps. "Not like me, of
course. But sweet." He tangles his fingers in Carlisle's hair. "I knew you'd
like him."
Carlisle's mouth is already watering. He has never fed from a human, but he can
excuse such a…necessary indulgence.
Alec cries out when his teeth pierce soft skin; his body tenses for an instant,
and then he relaxes against him with a sigh. Carlisle shudders at the warm rush
of blood over his tongue, in his mouth, as he slits open the vein.
It's exhilarating and intoxicating and addicting all at once.
The blood is rich and sweet. The boy was right, of course. It is perfect (honey
slick, and golden rimmed) as it washes down his throat. Carlisle pulls Alec's
thin body against his; the boy's lips part, red eyes flutter closed.
Carlisle pulls back, gasping. He's fully hard again, and Alec slips a hand
between them, stroking him slowly. "You do like it," he says dreamily, eyes
opening again. "I knew you would."
"Of course I do, brat," he responds softly, affectionately. "How could I not?"
Alec exhales, a gentle puff of air against his throat; his fingers press
against Carlisle's cock through the wool of his trousers. "I knew you would,"
Alec repeats, looking up, eyes glassy and bright.
He titles his head to lap at Carlisle's lips; blood coats his tongue, paints
his mouth a cherry red. "It is lovely, isn't it?" he sighs decadently.
"Yes," he agrees, hands framing the boy's face, "as are you."
"Where will you go?" he whispers against Carlisle's mouth, voice soft,
becomingly slurred.
"Away from London." He curls his hands around the boy's slim hips, pulls him
impossibly close. "I…"
"Shhh…" Alec presses a finger to his lips, "it's all right. I don't really want
to know."
Carlisle nods. "I'll find you."
"I know."
Small fingers curl into Carlisle's belt loops, and he sighs as Alec slips a
thigh between his legs, rubs against him (languidly, catlike). His head lolls
slightly, and he smiles lazily.
Carlisle slides his tongue along Alec's neck, catching the blood that still
seeps from two perfectly placed puncture wounds. His skin is soft and creamy
smooth (like butter, like milk), and though his round cheeks are flushed (with
exertion, with arousal), he is unnaturally pale.
He steps back, willing his breathing to calm, willing his erection away. But
it's futile, of course.
The boy tilts his head, regards Carlisle through half-slitted eyes. "Come now,
love. You're not stopping, are you?" He runs a finger down the side of his
neck.
Carlisle's breath catches. "But you, I…" his tongue stumbles over the words as
Alec steps closer again, splays warm palms against Carlisle's chest.
"I don't want to take too much."
"Don't be absurd." The boy gives him a withering look. "That is rather the
point, isn't it?"
Carlisle hates that he can't disagree.
The boy smiles sweetly, looping his arms around his waist. Carlisle kisses him,
an unhurried slide of lips and tongue. "You have to go soon," Alec murmurs
against his mouth.
"I…I know." He's shaking as he sinks his teeth once more into Alec's young
flesh, groaning as warm, sweet thick blood rinses over his tongue (oh, oh
God…), and Carlisle knows this is what drunkenness must truly feel like
(delicious, unrestrained, divine).
The boy sways against him, eyes fluttering back into his head. Carlisle
clutches at his hips, holds him upright, and continues to drink and drink.
Finally, he pulls away, smoothes his tongue over Alec's neck to seal the wound.
"Don't," the boy breathes, voice shaky and slurred. "Leave it."
"But—"
"No. It must be convincing."
He nods, presses his mouth to Alec's pink lips once more, and he sighs (sleepy
and dazed), his small body limp in Carlisle's arms. His head falls to the side;
his eyes drift closed.
"Don't let me fall."
"Never." He lowers the boy to the floor, just as he hears movement on the
stairs. Carlisle sweeps his thumb along his jaw, his lips, and Alec moans but
does not move. Carlisle knows he's taken everything he had to give. He is
strong (immortal of course), but he will need time to recover. He is helpless
now. He will need to be fed.
He presses a last kiss to the corner of the boy's mouth before moving to the
window.
Carlisle slips out just as the door bursts open.
"Alec!" He hears his twin's high-pitched shriek, as he falls to the street four
floors below.
And then he is gone.
Fin
 
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