Story Disclaimer: All publically recognisable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
This story contains, though is not limited to, drug use, profanity, discussion of domestic violence, rape, and sexually explicit acts. Read at your own discretion.
Edward Masen
His balcony, cigarette in one hand, flaccid cock in the other.
"In the depth of winter," he says, looking out onto the tops of trees, "I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer." His Benson and Hedges breath billows and mixes with the mist of condensation, an opaque fog settling into the fibres of his linen pyjama pants, and sinking into his sallow skin. The tip of his cock oozes out a morsel of semen, and he mindlessly rubs it across the slit. "For it says that no matter—"
"Edward!" his father Carlisle calls, knocking on his bedroom door, before pushing it open. He startles and whips his hand out of his pyjamas, but Carlisle's keen eye misses nothing. "Stop molesting yourself and get dressed," he sighs, shaking his head watching Edward continuing to smoke, shivering from the cold. "Fifteen minutes, Edward."
A tense second. A swish. A click.
Edward's hand goes back to his cock, palming it with strong, resolute stroke. He's reached the end of his compulsory morning cigarette, and the tip is blisteringly hot at his lips but he smokes it until there is nothing left but the sponge tip damp with his saliva. It falls from his hands and onto the paved stones at his bare feet. Just as he's about to turn, a movement in the neighbouring house catches his eye. Charlie Swan, the chief of police here in Forks, Washington, lives in the property next to theirs', but his drive is empty as per usual. Edward guesses his woman of the month hasn't disappeared before daybreak like those before her.
"Man's a machine," Edward muses enviously. This would be the eighth time this month that he's caught someone there. But there's something off today, not least because she's stuck around. He watches with a keen eye, squinting through the morning haze, pass the molecules of vapour until his jade eyes meet keen dark ones looking out of the window into the yard straddling their properties. From this distance, she looks to be an ageless beauty, a single ivory blanket wrapped around her curves. Edward witnesses the very moment when her eyes falter, travel south and see him feverously working his cock under a thin cover of pale blue linen.
It's a train wreck.
Edward stumbles back into his room, closing the double doors and curtains behind him, whilst the stranger in Charlie's home moves back from the window of a spare bedroom and out of sight. His heart is racing with adrenaline, and a few seconds later, cum is coating his fingers, his pyjamas, and dripping down his balls and thighs.
"God above," he gasps, chuckling, "you are a comedian playing to an audience that is simply too afraid to laugh."
"Edward! Ten minutes!" Carlisle thunders up the stairs.
After dropping Carlisle off at the hospital, where he held a post as the head neurosurgeon (who knew the demand in this town of some three thousand people would be so high?), Edward pulls into the parking lot of the solitary high school, aptly named Forks High. Carlisle's Mercedes was in a garage down at the Quileute reservation suffering a suspicious complete engine failure on the same day as he turned down a too-persistent receptionist for sex for the umpteenth time this month. Carlisle decided not to press charges, but it was common knowledge that Charlotte Stanley had a violent streak. Jessica, daughter of the relentless woman, met her mother toe to toe in her tenacity; if you scored more than a six-point-five on the arbitrary scale of attractiveness then there was a very real chance you had seen either the deep rose of her nipples or the coarse strawberry-blonde arrow obscenely pointing down at her labia.
Jessica jumps into the passenger seat of Edward's Volvo and works open the three buttons of his fly all before the ignition is turned off. It's her signature move. He hisses as she roughly tugs his half-mast cock out his jeans, but the way she practically inhales him to the hilt, halts all his protests. His fingers bury themselves into the mass of curls in his lap, head thrown back against his head rest. He would never tire of this, moaning when she cups his balls in her hands, fingers rubbing against his perineum. What she lacks in skill (as improbable as it may be), she more than makes up in her inventiveness.
Edward, through heavy lids, looking out over the parking lot and sees teenagers, fellow classmates, slowly starting to make their way through the gates, but the car's parked in an ideal spot: far away from the prying eyes of the schoolteachers, sat in their lounge going through their daily morning briefings, but if anyone was to come closer they could see the strings of saliva that Jessica sloppily is leaving behind on each of the upward strokes, and the way Edward humps into her mouth. But today, on this drizzly morn, there is something lacking, something Edward only realises when Jessica huffs and sitting up.
"What's your issue today?" she hissed, swiping at her mouth, and looking down at his lap.
Edward follows her gaze, seeing something that reddens his cheeks, and he stuffing himself back into his jeans, saying nonchalantly, "I jerked off this morning," and then as an afterthought adds, "but that's never stopped you before."
Jessica looks affronted, as if he had spat in her face and then snapped a picture. "How … this is not … you're the one who can't come!" she splutters.
Edward finds himself laughing a hollow sound. "I came this morning Stanley, so obviously, I don't have an issue there. Maybe you're losing y—"
"Oh go fuck yourself," she hisses, getting out of his car as quickly as she hopped in. Edward thinks he catches a glimpse of glassy tears in her eyes, but chose not to linger on her sentimentalities; if she treated herself with more respect then he would perhaps allow her more dignity, and the fact that she was now across the lot kissing Tyler Crowley, giving him a taste of Edward's cock, is reason enough for him to side-line her needs.
"Nothing ever becomes real until it is experienced," Edward tells himself, pulling himself together and getting out of his car. He thinks over his sixteen years of abstinence before Jessica had grabbed his hand and tugged him behind the bleachers this gone spring, falling to her knees in front of him, and staring up at him with her Aryan eyes. It was the break in the dam, but Edward reasoned that the only reason he succumbed was because the idea of being caught at any minute. Indeed, it elevated his post-cum high to an ethereal level, and he quickly became addicted to the way Jessica made him feel.
It was the beginning of February now, the start of the Spring semester, and Edward's Ivy League dreams were just within reach. He was a literature buff, but his heart lay in the clouds with the German Idealists, Kant, Hegel, and Heidegger. Carlisle had paled at the mention of college tuition fees being 'wasted' on a philosophy degree, so Edward settled on 18th-century British literature to appease his father, dreaming of a life of academia. He wondered how many times he could edge an orgasm in half-empty lecture theatres.
He speculates whether Jessica has developed feelings towards him, and the thought makes his hackles rise, and bile swims in his mouth. He picks up his new timetable for the semester, walking towards his biology class after a quick once over, the halls are cluttered with wandering freshmen, fresh meat, the guys looking on with a kind of Freudian hero-worship, and females leaking pheromones in a way that makes his libido awaken. They're children, Edward realises, just children with breasts. He walks faster, fingers twitching for a cigarette or a cup of joe.
"Hey! Edward!" Jasper Hale yells from the other side of the seemingly unending hallway. Jasper was Edward's longest and dearest friends. When he's close enough, Edward gives the dishevelled blonde a simpering look: his shirt buttons are all wrong, eyes bloodshot, smelling distinctly of Tyler's new stash of Mary Jane.
"Jasper," he smiles, briefly hugging his lanky friend. "How was Scotland?"
"Cold," he answers, shrugging. "What do you have?"
"Biology. Molina."
"Goff. Spanish."
Edward tuts. "You should have taken French, you swine, should've taken French."
"Just because you want to dig up Descartes' dead body and stick your dick in it doesn't mean—"
"Shut up dickwad," Edward growls, punching his shoulder, and leaving the boy cursing under his breath, cursing Edward's deceptive power.
Edward gives Molina a reserved half-smile when he enters, pulling out a wad of papers from his A5-sized, leather-bound notebook. Molina looks at the five-thousand-word essay on human cloning with great interest and is still reading it when she walks in. Edward sits at his desk at the back of the room, drinking in all the expressions on his teacher's face as if it were his life force, but by instinct, they flit to all the folk that enter through the door. After spending years studying in the same school, they're all friends with Edward, and so polite smiles are exchanged. But the girl, the girl is something else Edward decrees, and truly, she's someone else. She's a stranger in this sickeningly familial town.
She's wearing a sweatshirt for a dress, chestnut ringlets piled on top of her head in a haphazard knot, a Barnes and Noble tote slung over her shoulder. She doesn't make eye contact with anyone, surveying the room itself with a slow and precise look. Her eyes are messily lined with kohl, lips a natural scarlet, and donning a pair of impractically heeled boots that give her an additional four inches. She's statuesque and striking and sexy, and Edward's breath catches a little.
Finally, she registers Molina at his desk, and clears her throat to gain his attention. They either speak quietly or Edward's pulse really is drumming that loudly in his ears. When she turns, she walks with purpose to the back of the room, not meeting Edward's eyes, and slides into the seat next to him. She smells like strawberry sin, and when she crosses a leg over the other, the sweatshirt rides up revealing thick milky thighs, covered in pearlescent hosiery.
"Don't fear, I'm wearing underwear."
Edward snaps his head up at the low deep voice beside him. For a moment Edward wonders whether he's hearing things, but the tell-tale sight of a deep-set furrow between her dark brows, and the quirk of her lips begs to differ.
"Have you ever stopped to think of underwear in the abstract?" says Edward, quoting Ferlinghetti as mindlessly as he quoted everything else, as mindlessly as he speaks plainly. There's something in his brain that forces him to recite prose, poetry, and philosophy the moment it comes to his brain. It's got him in and out many a sticky situation, and though it is involuntarily now he hoped it would deflect some attention away from his wandering eye.
The girl regards him with a derisory eye, huffs, dismissing him, continuing to pull out a new-looking iPhone from her pocket, dragging up an eBook of Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, and reading it with a ramrod straight back. Edward can quote it just as easily as anything else but refrains. He had already got off on the wrong foot with her, and coming across as a smartass would, most likely, not do him any favours.
A couple of minutes later, the class all seated, all looking at the girl beside Edward with curiosity. Molina breaks the palpable tension by calling on her:
"Miss Swan? Would you like to introduce yourself to the class?"
She tears her eyes away from the book as if it pains her, Edward realises, and a pregnant pause follows before she gives her answer, "No thanks, Mr. Molina, I'm alright."
Edward lies in his bed, considering the impossible girl. If he's honest, referring to her simply as 'the girl' is troubling him; she's not just 'a girl', no. The air around her reeks with poise beyond her years, and the way she stalks the halls, shoulders back, and eyes forward, makes the student body part like the Red Sea. The rumour mills are churning and stirring, but the lies surrounding her only adds to her mystique. There are little definitives about her, about why she's transferred to Forks of all places in the world, and why in the Spring term of her senior year. The only thing Forks High knows of the Swan is that her father is the Chief.
With this, there is another revelation that Edward is distressed to spend time dwelling on.
If Swan is Charlie's daughter, then it was no ordinary fling that was standing in that spare room this morning. It was her. It was her, wrapped only in that sheet. It was her, staring straight at him. It was her, watching him stroke his cock out in the open. Did she know it was him? The thought of her aware of who he was as she sat beside him in Biology did strange things to him: it made him sodden with anxiety and carnal pleasure and blinding confusion. She obviously didn't care, or was vehemently disgusted, or her 'don't fear, I'm wearing underwear' line was a taunt that flew over his head, or maybe it was a back-handed invitation into her underwear. No wonder she didn't give anyone the time of day if her first encounter with Forks-kind was Edward wank-on-the-balcony Masen.
The gnaw of nicotine creeps sweetly into Edward's consciousness and with some amount of trepidation, he wanders onto the balcony, and lights up a cigarette, hand cupping the flame for a moment to relish its warmth. The light from the room he supposes is Swan's is on, and he reaches down into his pyjamas as more of a joke than anything. He's teasing the memory of their first confrontation, just like he's teasing himself to the brink of orgasm. It's coming closer and closer, quicker than he's used to, and for a moment he thinks of horrid things to bring himself back—the time where Eric Yorkie, another senior, had his balls trapped in his zipper; the time when he walked in on Carlisle masturbating in his office at the hospital as if his life depended on it—and he was back to flaccid, just like that.
His cock is in a vice grip as he sees a flash of Swan walking across the room, talking on the phone. His ears strain to hear the conversation, but all that becomes clearer are the crickets and Carlisle's now thunderous tapping on the keyboard in the room next to Edward's: his private study. Swan moves ponderously, but with a kind of grace as if she's dancing a two-step. He cannot make out her expression but the way her arms are flailing about animatedly, it seems as if she's in an argument with someone.
"The heart was made to be broken," recounts Edward, his voice a whisper of smoke.
He spends a long while on that balcony watching Swan, chain-smoking his way through more cigarettes than he realises. His cock maintains a semi-erect state at the sight of the girl, and when he thinks that there's no use waiting to be caught again like this morning, he turns to go back inside. As he closes the glass doors, he looks on and finds Swan sitting on the window ledge, legs swaying, legs kicking, eyes locked onto his. She beckons him back out with a single crook of the finger, but because he's too-aware of his pride, too-aware of his dignity, he steps back, shuts the drapes, and goes to bed.
"We are enriched not by what we possess, but by what we can do without," he says.