Chapter Text
How you’re meant to get on with your day is beyond you. Charlie just- he just-
In such a short time he’s everything. And the ease with which he fucked you, made you beg, made you call him sir, the way he didn’t hesitate to be rough with you… And you let him be rough. Because you trusted him more than anything.
Your pussy is sore, and it’s a little difficult to sit down. There’s a few lingering hickeys on your neck, less from his light sucking, and more because your skin is sensitive. His mark on your life isn’t just on your heart- you catch glimpses of it in the mirror as you walk past.
The phone rings, around lunchtime.
“Hello?”
“Hey, lemon-cake,”
The voice makes your stomach flip. You shouldn’t be this giddy.
“I’m gonna take you out to dinner tonight. What do you want?”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can make us something at mine. Or yours, if that’s easier,”
“Sweetheart. I am taking you out for dinner tonight. What do you want?”
You’re pretty low-maintenance. You want burgers on the hill like New Year’s, a little car picnic. He picks you up after work, freshly changed out of his uniform, which would be a little upsetting if he didn’t now smell like soap and fresh cologne. You all about want to fall into him.
“How come you’re not putting your hand on my thigh, like in the movies?” you tease, a little disappointed.
“I’m still a cop. Both hands on the wheel, remember? I’m worried about your driving.”
His joking frown still turns you on, no matter how much you sigh at him. He orders the food, and you come to a stop at the hill, looking down at the streetlights of Forks. There’s the hospital in the distance, and over there, the diner, still open.
Charlie slaps a hand to your thigh.
“That better?” he raises his eyebrows. You blush, and bounce your leg to wiggle him off, but he only tightens his hold. The hand stays there throughout the whole meal. Sometimes squeezing, sometimes with a gentle thumb stroke, he’s so insistent to keep it there that you have to pull back the paper of his burger that he can’t manage with the one hand.
You talk about Bella. Work. Life.
He wants more kids. You want kids. You want to be married. He’d like to give it another try, but he’s not sure his heart could take it.
You just moved here. There’d be talk.
But really- snuggled up in his house, that you’d redecorate only slightly- what did any of that matter?
“Lemon-cake, I would buy a whole new one just to keep you happy.”
“You don’t need to go that far. I like your house. It’s nicer than mine.”
“Then-” he doesn’t finish the sentence. His eyes settle on your form, evaluating every inch of you like he’s seeing you for the first time. You just blink at him. You know where that question is leading, and you’re slightly terrified that he’ll ask it and you’ll say yes.
“Let’s see how this goes,” he says eventually.
“Yes, Chief,” you smirk. You watch his jaw twist, eyes darken, as he starts to drive away. You lean as far into his shoulder as you can, a hand on his thigh. In brief moments of a still road, he nuzzles his head into you.
He shepherds you into his house. As soon as he closes the door you’re kissing him. You put an arm over his shoulders- he has one around your waist, and it’s close and it’s yearning and it’s like you really, really, need each other.
The two of you tumble to the couch. Clothes are off, hands underneath them. You explore every inch that you can- the hairy chest, grasping at his hair, clutching his strong forearms as he pinches and scratches without mercy. The lights are off. It’s just the two of you, panting in the dark, like teenagers.
“Fuck me,” you whimper, his hands pushed into your underwear to feel your wetness. It doesn’t take more than a wink from him to get you slick.
“There’s no protection down here,” he breathes into your mouth. You kiss and break away and kiss again.
“Let’s go upstairs.”
The suggestion is useless. The two of you create as much friction as you can; his fingers playing with your clit but not quite in the right position to fuck you.
“Don’t you want me?” you tease breathlessly. “I need you inside me, Charlie.”
He grunts against you, form both tightening and slackening. His hand removes from your underwear. He holds the back of your head, and pushes you down. You try to look into his eyes, but don’t manage to find them in the dim light, his force enough to get you bent over his pelvis.
“Suck it,” he orders.
You’re desperate for just a taste; anything to be full of him. You grab at his trousers, feeling his length over the underwear, and then dip underneath it to hear his melody of soft grunts.
He’s thick in your hand. You dip a tongue, licking from hilt to tip, and use the lube to start to pump the head into your mouth. His hands find your hair.
“Good, sweetie,” he struggles. “That feels good?”
“Yeah,” you pant, catching breath. You let the saliva around the head drip down.
“Fuck. Can you take more?”
You lower your head even further, a hand gripping into his thigh to keep yourself upright. He lifts you entirely off, and nudges you so you’re knelt in front of him on the couch.
You dip your head over him again. He’s too big. You take as much as you can, trying to swallow the overflowing drool and precum, and end up starting to gag. You surface for air, feeling thick saliva still connecting your tongue to his dick.
“I can’t,” you whimper. He scratches the back of your head affectionately, other hand reaching for your chin. He holds it open. You’re back on his dick, taking as much as you can, and then a bit more, and a bit more, until you’re up again and desperate for air.
Your mouth is empty without him. You lower back to the head, whimpering against the hair pulling, chin forced open. With a few pumps into your mouth, dick lubed with saliva, he’s yours. He grunts, pelvis thrusting. Thick ropes coat your throat.
You swallow as he comes into you, looking up to catch as much of his eyes as you can, prolonging the experience. You continue to pump, tongue playing with the underside. Swallow as much of the cum that pools out of him until you’re sure you’ve gotten every last drop.
Panting, you rock back onto your heels. You were so turned on before- but watching him throw his head back, cum and bruises lining your throat, you don’t know what to do except regain your breathing.
“I’ve not done that in a while,” Charlie admits, doing his trousers back up. You want to sit back on the couch. You’re still kind of reeling. He leans forward, hand to your cheek. “Sorry it didn’t last long.”
“No, no, that’s-”
God, looking into his affectionate eyes, you’re completely gone. No words can form.
“You didn’t look like you could take much more, anyway. Come here,”
You follow his instruction again, wondering when it got so incriminating, so dangerous. You sit next to him on the couch, head lolled into his shoulder, and he swings your legs round. You sigh contentedly.
“That was a good date,” you mumble, eyes closed.
“Good for me,” he smirks.
It’s silent. You don’t need anything else. You’re not sleepy, exactly, but breathing in his scent, regaining a level-headedness, throat a little raw, you’re perfectly happy to be sat against him like this. You play with a shirt button absent-mindedly, and feel him lean away for a second.
The TV clicks on. So does a lamp. He sits back upright, and rearranges you.
“Would it be bad,” you suggest, “if we just stayed down here and fell asleep on the couch like an old married couple?”
He’s silent for a moment.
“Well, I am old. And I have been married.”
Your eyes flick open as if pulled, but you don’t dare look at him. You take in the dated furniture, in a room he didn’t decorate, pictures of a daughter you’ve never met on the walls.
Part of you wants to test him. Ask him to take you home, see if he’ll fight. You know he’ll never play that game with you. He’d simply respect your wishes, take you back, drop you off, stop talking to you. You resist that urge.
“Does it bother you?” you ask eventually.
“It bothers me that it wasn’t you in the first place.”
It’s not quite romantic. Not in the way that he’s saying it. Like it’s an excuse, it’s something else to say, or maybe you’re just tired and you can’t read his tone.
You let the night pass in a snuggle of the chest, and the flickering TV, asleep by the time he carries you to bed, and still asleep when he leaves for work early in the morning.
You might have wanted him to make you a coffee so you could at least wave him off. It’s sweet he didn’t want to wake you.
It’s not a conversation you really have. For a few weeks, as summer dawns, you date. There’s multiple variations of taking someone out; after work, for dinner, or for a quick breakfast when he shows up with a playful eyebrow raise. A few dates skipped to fuck. A few fucks skipped to sleep.
You’ve never muched liked the early dating phase, feeling a little tender and vulnerable and always at risk of breaking, but he feels so stable. He feels like home- whether he’s coaching you how to parallel park like a driving instructor or offering to wash up or doing any manner of things that effect you in lustful, sometimes freudian ways.
You don’t mean for him to meet your Mom, but he’s at yours when she calls, and he gets to the phone first. There’s no excuse you can plausibly make. And even though you didn’t think you were ready, the way Charlie’s eyes bulged, handing you the phone worriedly and then stuck around to stroke your head as you explained to her was worth it.
In every way, he seems perfect. Even when work calls again begging him to come in and sort something out.
You emerge from his bathroom, dressed up in a silk slip rubbing perfume on your wrists. He sighs dejectedly.
“Duty calls, honey. I’m sorry. Can you wait up for me?”
You frown childishly, but he holds you with tender affection, rubbing a thumb over your lip.
“Wait up,” he orders, voice gravelled. “When I get back from work, I’m gonna be hungry.”
“There’s food in the fridge,” you shrug. His eyes alight. “Oh. Oh.”
He laughs as you blush; a sound reserved for those closest to him.
You try your hardest to stay awake. But soon enough you’re shrouded in darkness, and the sound of doors opening and boots clicking on the floorboards.
“What time is it?” you mumble, sitting up.
“Three.”
“Three? Charlie, what-”
He kisses you gently, finding your lips in the darkness. Your eyes are still half-closed. You melt into him, following him when he pulls away.
“I know, I know blame my job.”
“Quit,” you pout.
“First thing tomorrow.”
He kisses you again, hand to the back of your head and form lowered to meet you. With strong arms, you’re let back down on the bed.
Nobody bothers to turn the lamps back on. You hear him unbuckle his belt, set down what sounds to be a gun and handcuffs, feel the bed creak with his weight.
“You miss me, sweetheart?” his gravelled voice fills your ears.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “But I can manage. I’m a big girl.”
“You are,”
His hand is on your thigh, squeezing soft flesh. You assume it’ll be one comforting squeeze. But he keeps playing, abusing skin like it’s his to take, scratching and pinching and then shifting to the other one.
“I’m training up a new deputy, so this’ll happen less often.”
“Sure…” you can’t really focus when he’s playing with you like this. “That’s good.”
And tongue connects to pussy. You gasp into the dark room, pushing your thighs together. He pulls them back apart and takes another broad lick.
“I said I wanted to eat, sweetheart,”
“Mmh-” you murmur. He plays with your entrance, licking up, and ends up sucking on your clit. You whimper into his touch.
“You don’t- don’t have to make up for, for, b- being late,” you struggle.
“I know,”
He loosens his grip on one of your thighs to plunge two fingers inside you. When he feels how loose you are, how eager to rut into him, he slides a third in. You moan again.
“I’ll still buy you flowers tomorrow,” he concedes, sucking on clit as his hand fucks you mercilessly. You’re pulled painfully wide for him, but you take it easily, clenching around his fingers all too quickly.
Your muscles tense with pleasure. It crashes over you, ripping from your core, and you cum into his mouth, his own soft groans.
Gasping, you push your thighs together. And he lets you.
You let the aftereffects or orgasm make you drowsy, and you stir again when he climbs into bed beside you.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” he breathes. “I don’t deserve you.”
“You do,” you mumble argumentatively.
“I don’t. You’re sweet, you’re patient,” he moves his arm to allow you to roll into his chest, “and you taste amazing.”
You burrow your head into his chest to hide the shame.
“I’m too old for you,” he affirms.
“It’s not a problem,” you shrug. “I still think you’re cute.”
He kisses your forehead, and wishes you a soft, low goodnight. You return one with sleep thick in your voice. And with it, another word tumbles out. One you don’t even realise you said until you noticed he was tense, breath caught.
“What did you say?” he asks, a dangerous edge to his voice.
“Nothing,” you cover. “Goodnight, Charlie.”
It’s not a good lie. But rolling over, he can’t exactly quiz you on it.
You’d expect him to be more tired in the morning, given that he only got back around three, but he only gets up a little while after you. You’re in his kitchen making a coffee when the phone rings, and you pick it up absent-mindedly.
“You’ve reached Charlie Swan’s residence, can I take a message?”
“Who’s this?”
The female voice on the phone is young. Really young. You think your knees are going to buckle. As if the slip up from last night could get any worse- you’re reminded that he really is a father.
You tell Bella your name with a stammer. She seems awkward.
“I just wanted to tell him that I sent a letter in the mail with the stuff from the catalogue. It didn’t make sense to send the whole thing with pages circled, so I wrote the numbers down.”
“That’s clever,” you coo.
“If it’s too much, then-”
“-no, Bella, don’t worry. It’s not a problem. He’s really excited about having you come here.”
There’s a pause.
“Is he?”
“While I’ve got you on the phone, is there anything particular you like to eat? He’s insisting cereal for breakfast, but I wanna check you still like that.”
“Oh…” she mumbles.
You keep her on the phone for a little while, checking up on her preferences and generally trying to get a feel for her. After a few jokes, you think you’ve softened her up. She’s just like her father.
Charlie comes down, and you smile at him awkwardly.
“It’s Bella,” you bite a lip.
His eyes flash with something you don’t recognise, and he gestures for the phone.
“Your Dad’s here, so I’ll hand you over. Thanks, Bell.”
Charlie takes the phone eagerly, and coughs awkwardly. You try not to eavesdrop, but you’re still trying to make breakfast. He goes over some of the same stuff, and mentions that someone is great, really, and there’ll be a proper introduction soon.
He hooks the phone back on the wall. You look up expectantly.
“She was more talkative,” he affirms, sitting to face you with the breakfast you made him. He still insists that he doesn’t normally have breakfast. Everytime you make some, you always give him a small serving, and he finishes it.
“That’s good. Sorry if I ruined a surprise or something. I didn’t know it was her. I didn’t say-”
“I know,” he nods. “She was confused, but…” his eyes are alight with a different kind of joy. “She’ll come around. Sounds like she likes you already.”
You nod, and hang your head into your breakfast. It’s not that it’s too fast. It’s that it’s happening at all. That she might truly like you; that your influence might help emotionally retune Charlie so it’s easier on both of them.
“Do you want to go out for dinner tonight?” he asks.
“I don’t know, Char. I’ve not cooked in my own home in nearly a week. And I did promise my coworker a chocolate tart at some point.”
“I know, I know,” he nods. “I was hoping we could talk about that.”
You look up. He’s almost awkward, slightly shifty, closed off again. It can only mean one thing.
“Where?”
“Carver’s Cafe.”
He’s not taken you out in this town properly, yet. Every other date’s been somewhere out of the public eye, in a neighbouring town.
“So you’re gonna take me somewhere people can see. About my not living at my home anymore?” you question. “Are you okay, Charlie? Did you hit your head?”
He frowns.
“Don’t.”
You smile a little, ducking back into your toast.
“And sweetheart, about last night…” You tense. “If that word- stays in the bedroom. I’m alright with that.”
You try not to choke. You bite a lip, cheeks heated.
“Um. It was an accident,”
“I know, babygirl,” he winks.
Every nerve in your body flushes with electricity, and you push your thighs together to relieve some pressure in your groin.
“Come on, sweetie. You’re late for work.”
“I’m not.”
“You will be, if you keep looking at me like that. I’ll drop you.”
You throw yourself into the workday, wondering what it is you have to talk about, and why you’re so eager to say yes. To live in his home, in his bed. To build a family from scratch- Charlie, Bella when she comes in whatever form she wants to be in your life, maybe a cat or two if you ask nicely. Maybe smaller feet down the road. Would he let you do that? Are you worth it?
Soon enough it’s time to go. You start to lock up, clean the IT area and the backroom, and return to see a bunch of flowers on your desk.
Immediately your lips are curling, heart beating hard. You bring the bunch to your face and sniff. The expensive kind, a big one, from the florists.
You turn, to find him sat in a beanbag by the comfy area.
“Like them?” he asks, barely needing to raise his voice to get it to carry over the building.
“Yeah,” you smile. “Nice day?”
“It will be. You’re gonna have to help me out of this beanbag.”
You set the flowers back down on the desk, and walk over to him carefully. He extends a hand. You take it, and he pulls you down, toppling into his lap.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he purrs, hand tracing your jaw and tucking a hair behind your ear.
You’re putty in his hands, letting his tongue dip into your mouth, living for every soft breath you exchange, the heat of his lap underneath you. A hand comes up to his chest for support, clutching at his uniform.
“Lemon-cake,” Charlie grunts, manoeuvring you so you’ve got a leg either side of him. The two of you melt further into the bean bag, subservient to its will. “I-” he struggles, staring into your eyes. You just stare back.
He scratches the back of your head affectionately, readjusting his fingers on your hips.
“Sweetheart… I’m glad you hit my car.”
You laugh a little, but he continues to stare up at you, face surprisingly earnest.
“And I’m glad your purse got stolen.”
You try to fight the smile. He frowns.
“You know- you know what I’m trying to tell you, don’t you?”
“I know,” you nod, leaning your lips to his. “Me too.”
You thought Forks would be the perfect place to re-imagine yourself. That it was new enough, far enough away, to be home.
But Charlie Swan, it turned out, was more of a home than you’d ever felt anywhere.
It didn’t matter if you were snuggled up in your bed, sat on his couch, in Fork’s resident diner or a neighbouring town’s upscale restaurant, or even, a shitty library beanbag. It didn’t matter if your car was crumpled like tissue paper or non existent. It didn’t matter.
Because wherever Charlie was- your heart was light, posture held steady, your own soft smile boring plains of affection into his face. You'll make the cakes. He'll catch the fish. And you'll be happy. You really, both, will finally be happy.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, against your lips. “As much as I love this, I wanna go get dinner.”
“Just one more,” you plead.
And he kisses you, with the promise of many, many more.