Golden: 1819.

[ofthefamily]

An old face. Calmer, older, and yet all the same unchanged.

At least he's not running for his life, now. And he knows where he is.

For Carlisle Cullen, this is always a good start.

Comments

[themidnightson]

"Yes," is a blunt cut off for the forming sentence. It's a cross between frustrated for the pause and pertinently pointed in his expression, as his hands settle on Carlisle's sides clenching noticeably, but not hard. "To anything that doesn't involve you letting go."

[ofthefamily]

"A room."

[themidnightson]

There is something of a smirk somewhere in the cross between mockingly pointed words, the almost frustrating not-quite-pout that really can't be so real, while there has to be some basis for where it comes from, and the expression that says there is some sense in that.


"That involves letting go."


Even if Edward is going to be unhelpful. By hooking his fingers inside the rim of Carlisle's pants, pressing them between his shirt and the belt only carefully not made to strain as he pushes them down between the two.

[ofthefamily]

"Edwar -- "

Carlisle wants to say that they have more time than this. It doesn't need to be quick.

But it can be good. And what Edward wants, as well.

[themidnightson]

There is no restraining the chuckle Carlisle earns.
It presses out against his skin unabashedly.

"How easy it is to fluster your plans..."

[ofthefamily]

"I am the thing people avoid in the streets," Carlisle hisses through the sensation of Edward's hands on him, "And you deign to touch me after a decade, and forty years before that - I am flustered."

[themidnightson]

Did he forget this feeling, even among all the things he could, can, never forget? He can't remember. Doesn't want to recount the memory of year numbers that will always be so known. He doesn't want to (want to) forget this, right now, this moment, this feeling. Even for a few seconds peace.

His fingers parade with more pressure at the hiss, between differing types of cloth, without the aim to remove it -- yet. Which is not the same as not the want. Almost as though purposely staying just those tiny millimeters from actual contact, too far to actually touch, too close not to notice.

Tracing from the rise of hip bones to the curve of lower back.

"If you could hear yourself," is given with a a glance up, shamelessness over every reaction caught up in flaring golden amber eyes.

[ofthefamily]

I am usually my own company.

Carlisle reaches one hand back to meet one of Edward's. Not moving Edward's; just meeting it. Joining --

I like your new topic.

[themidnightson]

Edward lips quirked, amused, predictable (with even some fondness) in the expression from the second thought. He did not still at the touch over him, but marginally shifted speed slower to adjust to it. Carlisle over and under him.

"I would give you my side if I could."

Which was not the same as wishing he could. That was a wish long grown all but dormant. And, for this situation specifically, he's not sure he could wish the onslaught of a million cascading and colliding reactions from them both, and from one unforgotten, on Carlisle.

[ofthefamily]

"Sometimes the mystery is okay."

[themidnightson]

As is having a place to hide.

It's a luxury, and an unfair one in his position where there is almost no way for anyone, not immortal or godly, to hide from him. At least no way that involves being able to focus on anything but distracting him and themselves.

Neither is really a thought he wants to follow to a conclusion though.

Edward squeezed the space between his hands lightly, the span of hands spread, palms across Carlisle's side still half tucked between sheath's of cloth, when he nodded, the movement ruffling his copper hair.

[ofthefamily]

What if the mystery could be out loud, something tactile and real?

Carlisle thinks too much anyway.

"So no room?"

Carlisle's hoping the door locks.

[themidnightson]

Edward's smile tugged errantly, and there was the briefest shake of his head and chuckle. Whether this was to Carlisle's thoughts or his question, he really didn't let on.

He pulled his hand upward slowly, with over-dramatic sigh.

There was the momentary impulse to demand something, even lightly, like a kiss, for the charge of releasing him. But it came and went as his hands were released from the cloth entirely, still without making his belt groan or snap.

Lazy, mock teasing stayed, even as he stood up straighter. "If you insist."

[ofthefamily]

"Just trying to obey the niceties..." Carlisle mumbles.

And, you know. Walk for a few rapid seconds to the first empty room he found so he could drag Edward in behind him to land Carlisle's back against --

Pink walls. Pink, princess-covered, sparkly, glittery walls.

Carlisle groans loudly. This is preposterous.

[themidnightson]

Edward, perhaps, should have managed a straight face.

But it really didn't happen. His eyes, wide and clear, took in the wall above Carlisle's head, having no compunction against keeping Carlisle against a wall so garish, with a shiver through his body that seem only seconds away from becoming a real laugh.

"From intellectual opulence to.....pink. Maybe your taste has changed."

[ofthefamily]

"Oh be quie -- " and Carlisle shuts himself up when his lips meet Edward's.

Brown and red and hair and Edward; easier to concentrate on than even the fluorescent pink paint.

[themidnightson]

It's hard not to laugh. The color is everywhere, splashed against his vision before his eyes close, splashed across his mind even when his eyes close and his head dipped down slightly.

Which does lead to the surprise of the sound turning from a laugh to a surprised groan at the sudden onslaught of unexpected contact. His hands on Carlisle's shoulders tightened.

Quiet. He could managed. Maybe. A little while.

[ofthefamily]

Carlisle stops really thinking in words. Later, he'll be happy this came to pass - it makes things easier. The way he wants them to be.

He also barely manages to not rip Edward's bizarre clothing - it's been too long since --

[themidnightson]

Edward would hazard saying he actually likes this shirt and the black jeans. Even if Alice is his own personal adorable fashion pest and he'd never tell her. And he almost said so to Carlisle, except he's pretty sure he likes this far more than he's ever liked his jeans.

He could always buy another pair of them. From the bar even.


It's easy not to really care, when things fall away. When the only thing before him, physically and, all but, mentally, is Carlisle. When he can stop trying to restrain himself. For all the good that did earlier. At least here he doesn't have to or want to.

[ofthefamily]

Doesn't ever want to. It's surreal.

Pants get tugged to knees then ankles, and Carlisle leans down to remove them from Edward's legs.

Lay down.

[themidnightson]

It gets a raise of eyebrows. Subtle. A flicker only.

Before he moves down to the floor.

[ofthefamily]

Carlisle is concentrating. Edward obeys him for some unknown reason and Carlisle's already moving on, trying to remove his own pants and steady himself before he risks a lingering stare over the planes and lengths across the floor.

He kneels without much ceremony at all, so missed

Carlisle's mouth wraps around Edward and it doesn't even come close to stopping the moan at the contact.

[themidnightson]

He'd had words. Word he might have even been planning to say before his hips thrust upward, abdominal muscles contracting tight, and the keening sound that invaded was the floor threatening to give under his fingers.

It actually takes the better part of trying to collect his thought, before he gives up trying both to do so and not so, and just digs his fingers into Carlisle's hair, gripping there instead.

[ofthefamily]

It makes Carlisle feel powerful.

[themidnightson]

Part of him is glad for the slice of feeling, or thought, the rest of him, arching into that sensation, eyes registering pink in a way where he never even really sees, could almost care less.

Or cares too much. So much it's beyond blinding. Obliterating so.




At least enough that for the better or worse of all those things he doesn't stop himself -- doesn't stop his back from arching upward, doesn't stop his hands from fisting into Carlisle's hair directively, doesn't stop himself from trusting upward into Carlisle at a pace determined by the sensation his body and that mouth alone.

Doesn't stop himself. Doesn't try. Doesn't want to now.