Twilight Kink Fest Submission
Title: "The White Dress"
Original Prompt: "Cross-dressing, slash, vamp E/C. It starts off with Carlisle and Edward trying to hide their relationship from an unforgiving society, but it turns out to be so much more. Edward grows to love wearing the pretty dresses and silky lingerie. He loves getting dressed up for Carlisle, and being 'Esme, the perfect wife'. He loves getting bent over the table with his skirt pushed up, and Carlisle's cock in his ass."
Warnings: explicit m/m sex; please consider the prompt and kink before reading.
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. The words are.
It starts with brown tweed.
The boy moves awkwardly; his head is down as if he is unsure. Carlisle leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.
The color is all wrong. The nubby brown beige does nothing to highlight the radiant pale cream of his complexion, just as the boxy cut does nothing for his slight figure.
Still, the neckline sweeps just low enough to hint at the flat chest beneath. And the skirt falls above his knees to reveal slender calves. The boy tugs at the rough fabric, yanking it down a fraction of an inch, then he smoothes his hands self-consciously over his hips.
"Well, what do you think?" Edward says finally, looking up for the first time.
It was Edward's idea.
They'd been cooped up in the flat for months on end, leaving only in the dead of night to hunt.
After all, it was unsafe to be out of doors, and it was even more dangerous to be seen together.
They first received warming in a cryptically worded message from Marcus nearly a year before. Despite Carlisle's efforts, Aro had discovered the boy's gift, and he coveted it greatly.
They had no choice but to run.
They lived in six cities in as many months before they found their way back to Chicago. And somehow, once there, they managed to stay hidden. But it was claustrophobic in the apartment, and though Carlisle maintained there were worse things than staying indoors, Edward wasn't entirely sure.
"Perhaps we could go in disguise," he suggested one morning as Carlisle read the paper. The boy paced back and forth in the narrow galley kitchen.
"It won't do," Carlisle said, and Edward pressed his forehead to the door of the refrigerator. They never used it, of course, but they had to maintain appearances. His sigh was audible.
"They are looking for two male vampires," Carlisle explained. "What we looked like is irrelevant."
The boy looked up then; his wide grin revealed a flash of too white teeth. "But what if we weren't two male vampires?"
The next dress is better.
It's a vivid red that clashes rather unappealingly with his lovely hair, but it calls attention to the cherry stain of painted lips and tucks in at his hips just enough to show the narrow curve of his slender, perfect waist.
Edward stands more confidently now.
They go to a bar. There are several within a few blocks of the flat they share. Carlisle shows the boy how to drink wine – slowly, allowing the flavors to roll across his tongue – and Edward turns out to be rather good at darts.
At one point, Carlisle places his hand on the small of his back, feels the silky slide of fabric against his skin. It is the first time he's touched the boy deliberately since he changed him all those years before.
Edward shivers, and the sensation echoes across Carlisle's skin.
"Perhaps you should call me Esme," he says, and his hips sway slightly, swinging the dress back and forth.
"Oh?" Carlisle asks, intrigued.
"Well, if we plan to continue going out like this, I suppose it's only fitting."
"Do you think Aro will ever stop searching for us?" Edward asks one evening. They are seated at a corner table in a tiny café, a bottle of chilled Pinot Gris between them.
Carlisle looks down into his glass. The pale yellow wine shimmers in flickering candlelight. "I believe he will tire of this chase someday," he answers finally. "His attention is not limitless."
The boy nods and takes a rather large gulp of wine. A drop slides down his chin, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Carlisle smiles. At times Edward's manners belie his ladylike appearance. Carlisle finds he prefers it that way.
The boy stares across the room. A young couple enters, laughing. They are twined tightly together, his arm around her waist, her hands clutching his elbow, his hip. The door bangs shut behind them, and Carlisle frowns. He wants to hold Edward close to him, tangle his fingers in his hair, press his mouth to the smooth curve of his jaw, slide his thumb along the thin strap of his dress. Instead, he brushes his palm against the back of the boy's hand.
Edward looks up, honeyed eyes warm in the soft light of the room. He's painted his lips a lovely peachy pink, and the lipstick leaves a glossy smudge on the rim of his glass. Carlisle imagines sliding his thumb along his lower lip, smearing the color onto his cheek.
He hides his shiver behind a sip of wine.
The boy shaves his legs.
Carlisle becomes obsessed with the idea of running his hands along the expanse of now smooth skin, sliding his fingers between pale thighs.
"It won't grow back, you know," he says conversationally, trying to mask the slight tremor in his voice.
If Carlisle didn't know better, he would have sworn the boy blushed.
Edward disappears one afternoon. He returns a few hours later with a small package from Bloomingdales.
Carlisle watches as he unwraps a tantalizing array of decadent delicious things. From across the room, his eye catches flashes of satin, scraps of velvet, and bits of ribbon and lace, even as the boy hurries to tuck them discreetly away in the bottom drawer of the bureau.
Carlisle's breath hitches.
A few evenings later, Edward emerges from the bedroom. Carlisle is reading on the sofa, but he puts his journal down when the boy appears. The skirt is an icy lilac that flares out from his hips to flutter down around his thighs. The ivory pale bodice stretches across a too perfect chest and fits close to the flat stomach beneath.
He holds a coil of shimmery fabric in his hands. Only once he sits down does Carlisle realize what it is. He wets his lips and feels the boy's eyes on him, searing and hot against his skin.
Carlisle swallows thickly as Edward extends a leg, slides the silken stocking over one arched foot. He smoothes it over his ankle and up the curve of his calf to the bend of his knee. A band of lacy elastic circles his thigh, holding it in place. The hem of his skirt flirts with edge of the stocking, but there is still a slim patch of pale skin between the place where the skirt ends and the sheer tights begin.
The room feels too warm. It shouldn't be this hard to breathe.
The boy unfurls the other stocking and begins to pull it on. "I thought, perhaps, we'd go out tonight," he says, not looking up from his task; his hands smooth up the length of his slender leg.
Carlisle can only nod. His mouth is suddenly very dry.
They sit close to one another at the bar. Carlisle would only have to shift in his seat a mere fraction of an inch to feel the boy's thigh against his.
He doesn't move.
Instead, he imagines the press of pale skin against his own.
Carlisle twists his wineglass between his palms, watching the crimson liquid spin up the sides, and wonders why he can't stop thinking about touching the boy. It never used to be this way. Never before did he spend hours envisioning the soft curve of his spine, or the sharp points of white hipbones. He didn't stare up at the ceiling at night imagining the taste of pale skin on his tongue. And never before did he desperately want to know what Edward would sound like in bed.
Carlisle wonders if he would like to hear him cry out 'Edward' as they rut together on rumpled sheets. Or, perhaps he would he prefer his female pseudonym gasped against his neck when Carlisle stretches out on top of him and presses him down into the mattress.
The boy moans softly, startling him out of his thoughts. It is only when he notices the bulge between his thighs, prodding the front of his skirt that he remembers the boy's rather remarkable gift.
He smiles a bit shyly but taps a fingertip to his temple. "Edward is fine," he whispers. "But sometimes I think you enjoy calling me Esme."
Carlisle can't disagree.
They return to the bar three days later. Edward has become rather fond of malbecs, and they serve a red zin that even Carlisle must admit is more than tolerable.
The boy is wearing black tonight, and Carlisle thinks perhaps he should always wear black. His perfect skin is so pale against the sleek dark fabric. It curves along the low sweep of his neckline in a gentle arch. Carlisle wants to trace that line with his fingers, with his lips, with his tongue.
The boy shivers beside him. He knows he can hear his thoughts, but he does not care. All he cares about is what that skin would look like should he peel the dress back from pale shoulders, slide it down slender arms to expose his smooth chest and flat stomach.
Carlisle's throat is dry, and he is quite certain the boy's breath is a bit more ragged than usual. He takes a long sip of wine, fingers clutching too tightly at the glass stem.
Edward crosses his legs. He's wearing the stockings again, but when the dress slides up, it reveals the thin slice of pale skin exposed at the top of his thigh. Carlisle does not reach out to brush his palm along that line, but his fingers itch and he has to set his wine down or else he's certain he'll spill it.
"You know," he finally says, and his voice is not his voice at all. It's too rough, too breathless. "That only makes me want to know what you're wearing underneath."
The boy smiles; pink lips curl becomingly. "Perhaps I'll show you someday."
Carlisle shifts uncomfortably in his chair and ignores the sudden rush of arousal that twists round his hips.
When they kiss, Carlisle thinks he might combust. Sunlight does not do it, but he believes Edward's lips just might. And that simple brush of contact – his mouth pressed to the boy's – burns hot like fire up and down his spine.
He runs a hand up the back of Edward's head; bronze hair is soft as silk between his fingers.
(And later that night, he will bring that same hand up to his mouth, imagine what the silk of those stockings would feel like under his palm if he could only bring himself to touch.)
But now he can only suck in a sharp quick breath to keep from crying out, and the boy's mouth is on his neck, his jaw. Carlisle wants to run his tongue from shoulder blade to sternum, wants to slide his hands underneath that skirt. He can almost feel how the boy would shudder at his touch.
Edward's skin is almost too soft, too smooth to gather in his hands, and he can't help but open his mouth, slip his tongue against the boy's (sweet, slow, honey slide). He sighs when he feels one leg slip between his.
His hand curls around the boy's waist; the other slides up his chest. Satiny smooth fabric glides under his palm, and Carlisle gasps at the firm peak of the small nipple that tightens under his touch.
Edward sighs. His breath is a warm gust against his cheek. Carlisle feels the hardness between the boy's thighs, loves the way he rocks against him, seeking more contact, more friction. And he loves how that hardness is explicitly male beneath the girl's dress.
Edward moves faster now, and Carlisle slides his hands to his hips, holding fast as he grinds against him.
"Oh…oh God…" the boy cries, throwing his head back. His untidy hair, crazy as always, sticks out in all directions.
"Yes, yes," Carlisle hears himself say, "make yourself come." Sharp teeth worry soft skin at the juncture of Edward's neck and shoulder. And when he bites down on the smooth tendon that stretches there, the boy gasps and stills against him. Carlisle feels wetness on his thigh.
Edward's come leaves a stain that spreads through the thin fabric of his dress. It drips down between his legs to soak into the silk of his stockings. A few drops splatter white at his feet.
He is wearing heels tonight.
When he wears the white dress, Carlisle knows he will have to touch him. They sit at the bar and sip their wine, while he imagines peeling the boy out of his girl's dress.
Edward orders Riesling, and Carlisle can smell the crisp lemon honey of the wine. It reminds him of the heady scents trapped under the boy's arms and between his legs, citrus sour and salty sweet. He wants to discover all those boyish tastes with his tongue.
Carlisle knows Edward knows he's hard (has been hard since the moment he emerged from the bedroom in that white dress).
And he knows Edward knows he wants to make him come.
The boy spills his wine.
He shakes it off his fingers, but it clings to the fabric of his dress, darkens it a shade. He turns to Carlisle, legs falling open in a most un-girl like way. The dress pools between his thighs in folds of silky white. Carlisle can see the outline of his erection, a jut beneath that soft, delicate fabric.
Suddenly, desperately, he wants to know what the boy is wearing underneath. The dress certainly doesn't conceal much.
Edward's breath catches. "I'm not." Carlisle isn't sure he's even heard him correctly, but he repeats himself, softer still: "I'm not wearing any pants tonight."
If Carlisle had any wine left, he would spill it. "Oh?"
The boy ducks his head, and Carlisle imagines a blush splashing across his face. He's painted his cheeks with pink, and it stands out against the white pale of porcelain skin. "No," he whispers, "I like the way the dress feels against my cock." This last is said in a mumbled rush, and Carlisle must bite his lip to swallow down the moan. He is so hard it hurts.
Caelisle is surprised he hasn't fallen to pieces; if he had a heartbeat it would pound frantically against his ribs.
Edward slips a hand between his thighs, presses his palm to his arousal, and moans ever so softly. Carlisle watches the boy touching himself through the fabric of his girl's dress.
"I could come like this, you know." Edward's eyes drift partway closed, and his voice is a breathless gasp.
The thought makes Carlisle's mouth water, makes his skin feel tight, makes the muscles in his stomach clench. He wants to know what the boy's hard cock would feel like in the palm of his hand, against his tongue, underneath the press of his hips.
"Oh God, Carlisle," he says, and the words are practically hissed. "Don't stop."
As if he could stop the flow of images skipping across his mind.
But when the boy's breath quickens and small sharp teeth press into a cherry glossed lip, he puts a hand over his. "No. Not here."
Edward groans. But the bar is crowded at this hour, and the boy is beautiful when he comes. And Carlisle doesn't want to share.
So he stands, fingers curling around Edward's wrist. And, as he leads him out of the bar, he pulls him close behind. He knows the front of that white dress is noticeably tented, knows it hangs away from his body and does not lay as it should against his smooth thighs. And good God, Carlisle wants nothing more than to push the fabric up to his hips, let it drape over that lovely cock.
He wonders if the boy would come the moment he wrapped his lips around him. Edward pauses; fingers tighten against Carlisle's. "Might not even need that…" he says through gritted teeth. His voice is tight, and Carlisle can't help but picture him making a mess of that dress right there in the middle of the crowded room (without even a hand or a mouth on his cock).
"Christ," the boy says, eyes wide. But they make it outside.
The alley is dark and dank. And Carlisle is on his knees, hands on Edward's hips, pushing him back against the wall. The bricks must be rough against the boy's gorgeous back, but it doesn't matter because his hands are sliding under the folds of that white dress, flipping the silky fabric up, exposing inch after inch of smooth skin.
His skin is as white as the dress in the cold moonlight, and his cock is enough to fuel Carlisle's fantasies for the next century surely. Small but thick and hard and flushed against his belly. The pink red curve of cockhead is slick and glistening, and Carlisle wants to trace it with his tongue.
"Yes…yes please…" Edward's hands scrabble against the brick behind him; the mortar crumbles beneath his fingers. Carlisle bites his lip and pushes the dress up even higher around his waist.
There is hair around the boy's cock. Tight dark curls that brush against Carlisle's cheek when he presses his mouth to the junction between his hip and thigh. It runs up his belly in a thin, soft trail before giving way to the perfect smoothness of his chest. His hands slide up Edward's sides. The dress bunches under his armpits, and the boy shakes as he drags a thumb across a tight coppery pink nipple.
"What?" he asks, pressing a kiss to the center of Edward's chest. "Are you going to come for me?"
"Please," he gasps, head hitting the wall behind him with a thunk. A strand of unruly hair catches on the brick.
"I was worried you'd come too soon. Ruin your pretty dress like you did last time." His mouth brushes against his cock, and Edward's hips jerk forward. His stomach is tight, muscles taut, and Carlisle knows he can't hold out much longer. "Come for me love. I want to feel you come." He barely gets his mouth around the boy before he cries out, fingers clutching at his shoulders, and Carlisle feels him pulse against his tongue, fill his mouth with bitter salty sweet fluid.
Edward goes boneless against the wall, eyes closed, chest heaving.
The dress flutters down around his legs, and Carlisle's hands are on his own flies. His cock is uncomfortable, pressed hard to the zip of his trousers. He thinks he might die if he doesn't come – he really might.
And though the boy's eyes are glassy, bright, and sated, he watches Carlisle eagerly as he curls his fingers around his erection, sweeps his thumb across the head.
Edward wets his lips. He's beautiful there in his silky white dress, one strap hanging off his shoulder, with his smudged makeup and pink cheeks.
"What do you want?" the boys asks, voice softly slurred.
"Oh God, Ed—" Carlisle gasps, pressing one palm to the wall by Edward's head. His hand moves faster up and down his cock. "I want to come…on you…in you…"
And Edward's eyes go a bit wide at that. He makes a noise and yanks Carlisle closer. The sweet citrus smell of his lovely skin crowds out the sour stink of the alley, and his hands are on his cock. They are rougher than a girl's hands would be, and they are perfect as they twist and tug and pull. He wants nothing more than to come all over those small not soft hands, to come all over that shiny slinky white dress.
"Fuck," the boy gasps and spins around, flipping the dress up. He presses his hands to the wall, bracing himself. The dress is bunched in the small of his back. It will be wrinkled, and Carlisle likes that it will be wrinkled – a reminder of what they are about to do.
Carlisle curves his hand down between Edward's thighs. He shudders then stiffens, and Carlisle realizes suddenly, sickeningly that the boy has never done anything like this before.
He recoils instantly.
But Edward exhales sharply and turns his head "No, no. I want…" he trails off, canting his hips and arching his back. He looks over his shoulder at Carlisle with dark eyes.
Instead, Carlisle smoothes his hand down the boy's spine, curls his fingers around his hip, and slips his cock between Edward's thighs.
"Here, close your legs," he whispers, and he is able to thrust into the space between.
When he reaches around to wrap his hand around the boy's cock, he is hard again. It only takes a few strokes before the boy is trembling, legs pressed tightly together as Carlisle snaps his hips forward again.
When Edward comes, he leaves a white splatter on the wall. Carlisle follows a moment later.
Some nights, they don't go out. But Edward still dresses up for Carlisle.
He sits on the edge of the bed and watches as the boy becomes the girl before his eyes. The outfits have becomes increasingly more risqué, and Carlisle presses a hand to the front of his trousers as Edward rolls gauzy stocking up slender bare legs and smoothes down the ruffles in a poofed underskirt.
Carlisle wants to trace the line of the stocking's seam down the length of his thigh to the back of his knee.
He knows Edward is hard under all those layers, but the skirt stands out all on its own. Carlisle pictures the way his cock and balls must press against the tiny lacy pants he wears.
Sometimes, once he's dressed, Carlisle likes the boy to walk about the apartment. He enjoys watching him perch on the edge of the countertop in the kitchen, legs crossed one over the other, skirts sliding up to reveal the top of those stockings. Sometimes he asks him to bend over, fetch one thing or another from the cabinet under the sink. Edward always obliges – turns his body, angles his hips just so – and Carlisle catches a glimpse of pink and red satin, black lace or bits of ribbon stretched over the curve of his perfect ass.
And once, just once, he leans the boy over his desk, presses his chest to its mahogany surface, and urges his legs apart. He runs his hands up the insides of the boy's thighs, feeling the play of firm muscles under his palms.
But when he presses his mouth to the thin scrap of fabric between the boy's legs, runs his tongue along the black laced crease of his buttocks, Edward cries out and flings an arm across the desk, sending a stack of papers tumbling to the floor.
Carlisle's teeth nip a line along the top of his thigh where those panties end and leave pink marks on smooth skin. Then his tongue presses back between the boy's cheeks, flutters at the ring of muscle there, teases as if to push inside. He palms Edward's cock through damp thin fabric, and he comes helplessly, wetness seeping through black lace underpants and layers of ruffled petticoat.
The boy sways slightly on spindly heels, and Carlisle catches him around the waist, twists him around to face him. His eyes are lined with charcoal pencil, and Carlisle smears his thumb along his painted bottom lip, smudging a bit of red to the corner of his mouth.
"Beautiful," he whispers, pulling Edward down to the floor with him.
The boy props himself up on his elbows and watches with wide kohl rimmed eyes as Carlisle straddles him, slides his hands down his chest proprietarily. Edward has laced the bodice tightly, creating the illusion of the slightest swell at the top.
Sometimes, Carlisle likes to peel the girl's clothes off the boy, savoring each new glimpse of pale skin laid bare. Other times, he prefers to leave the clothes on, prefers to push the skirts up around his waist, and feel the silky slide of fabric under his palms, while his hips press against the boy's cock, trapped in girlish panties.
Edward's heels scrape against the wood floors, but when he goes to kick them off, Carlisle catches his ankle. "No. Leave them." He wants to see them high in the air when he pushes his legs up.
"Oh, God, Carlisle," the boy squirms beneath him. Carlisle's hands skim over the corseted top, and he undoes the first row of hooks to reveal the peaks of tight nipples. He sucks at one, and Edward moans, fingers twisting in the fabric of his white dress shirt.
The boy pulls his skirt up.
His underwear is thin and insubstantial, stretched taut over his cock and balls. Carlisle's mouth waters, and he tugs them down just enough to slide his lips over the smooth wet curve of cockhead.
Edward's hips move underneath him, and he hisses as Carlisle mouths along the length of his erection. Only the lacy flimsy fabric separates his tongue from Edward's skin.
The boy is babbling now, knees splayed wide, fingers in Carlisle's hair as he tries to keep his mouth against his cock. Carlisle pushes his legs up, and follows the line of black along the crease of his thigh. Edward cries out, arches his back, but Carlisle pulls away, sitting back on his heels. He does not want the boy to come until he's inside of him.
"Oh, God, yes now," Edward gasps, echoing Carlisle's desires. "Fuck me please."
And Carlisle stands, rummages through his desk drawer until he finds the vial he's looking for. When he kneels back down between the boy's legs, Edward's hands are on his shirt. Pale fingers fumble with the buttons before giving up, yanking the fabric apart. The shirt tears; buttons scatter across the floor, but Carlisle doesn't care because the boy is tugging at his belt. He places his hands on top of Edward's, and together they get his flies undone, his pants pushed down around his thighs.
Carlisle is quite certain he's never wanted anything as badly as he wants the boy in his girl's dress.
He leaves his underwear on. Carlisle simply pushes it to the side while he prepares him. Edward tenses at first but begins to relax as Carlisle moves slick fingers inside him. When he adds a second finger, twists them slightly, the boy sighs. He continues to move them in and out until Edward is rocking his hips up to meet his hand.
The tip of Edward's cock peeks out over the lacy waistband of his panties, and Carlisle rubs it as he slicks himself and pushes inside gently, smoothly.
"Oh…oh," he presses a groan into Edward's mouth. Carlisle can taste the cheery of his lip-gloss. He is perfect, tight, and warm. "Christ, so beautiful," he gasps, surprised he's even managed to form the words. The boy's heels click against the floor before he hooks one leg around Carlisle's thigh, pulls him even closer.
Carlisle cries out, sliding deeper into his slick heat. His hips press against Edward's as he pushes up onto his palms, pulls back, thrusts in again.
The boy's eyes are wide, lips parted (slick with spit and shine). He moves his hips to match Carlisle's now, and Carlisle can feel his cock against his stomach, hard through the layer of soft wet fabric. He slips a hand back between them to press his palm to Edward's arousal.
The boy bites his lip, and his is fingers dig into Carlisle's shoulders; his legs tighten around him. Carlisle loves that he has this effect on Edward – that he can make him feel this way. His hand moves faster between them, and Edward shudders and jerks, throwing off his rhythm. Already he can feel that spiraling rush of pleasure uncoiling in his stomach.
"Oh God, Carlisle, if you don't stop I'm going to…oh, oh…" the boy gasps, voice breathless and rough. His eyes are dark and wide and his fingers press nearly painfully into Carlisle's biceps.
"Yes, yes…" he hears himself chant, the word a litany on his tongue. And Edward cries out and stiffens beneath him. Warm wetness spills between them, splatters on the dress hiked up around his chest, and smears across his belly to soak the fabric of the thin black panties. Carlisle closes his eyes and throws his head back, hips stilling as he comes inside the boy.
He rests his forehead against Edward's, enjoys the twist and pull of fingers in his hair. Edward's legs fall away, knees splayed wide. His breath is ragged and harsh against his neck.
He stretches out beside the boy, tucking him under the crook of his arm.
"I love you," Edward whispers, mouth against Carlisle's shoulder.
"I know," he replies, hand smoothing over the now rumbled fabric of the boy's dress.
Marcus' letter arrives on a Tuesday. Though they've remained hidden for months, Aro has finally managed to ascertain their location. Once again, they have no choice but to run.
They are in Alaska in less than two days.
The youngest Denali sister makes no attempt to conceal her interest in Edward. Carlisle's chest clenches at the thought of losing him to the pretty girl.
She watches the boy openly, and Carlisle can only guess at the jumble of erotic images that no doubt fill her mind. He knows Edward can hear them all, yet he doesn't seem to care. Instead, he sits down on the floor at the foot of his chair and rests his head on Carlisle's thigh.
Carlisle enjoys the look of confused jealousy that flashes across Tanya's face; Edward doesn't notice her at all.
He threads his fingers through the boy's unruly hair and thinks he looks a bit out of sorts in his sweatshirt, jeans and trainers.
The front door opens, and Kate enters the room. Her hat is flecked with snow. Edward watches as she pulls off the heavy woolen overcoat. Underneath, she's wearing a fashionable sweater dress edged with just a bit of fur. Her tights are a rich wine color.
Edward's eyes flick up and down her body greedily. Tanya's lips curl in distaste as she takes in his expression, but the boy just looks up at Carlisle and wets his lips. "I think, perhaps, I'll have to buy some winter clothes."