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.

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[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.

[ofthefamily]

But he does stop. And suddenly.

Just to pivot, move, have Edward on him as well as inside his mouth.

A man has to dream.

[themidnightson]

At the first moment of stopping, stopping that is staggeringly like loosing light or sight without either changing, there's a groan that is decidedly under-breath swearing without a filter, which by its tone is anything but black simply for the sake of being black.

It's far to thick and contains the faintest edge of whimper.

And begrudges a little more kindly into being moved and helping to move. Once he's settled, hands on Carlisle's legs, "You are greedy," comes with as a heavy expulsion into Carlisle's hipbone with a nip.

[ofthefamily]

Only ever for Edward. And himself.

(Which, truth be told, feels more for Edward in the passing time than his own needs or wants from life.)

So he just breathes outward at the new angle, the new anticipation of feeling and maybe slightly runs his teeth against where Edward's left leg meets his pelvis.

[themidnightson]

The sensation of the sharpness on his skin causes the smallest shiver of movement. Vaguest memories, that suddenly make him shudder at the concept of. The lack of space leaving that wholly unconcealed.

[ofthefamily]

He notices, but can't do much about it. If it needed to be brought up - Edward would have done something.

So Carlisle returns to himself, and to his focus, and being able to move just how he wants.

[themidnightson]

"You could-" slips out before he realizes it has, as thought responding to a conversation only he's having, but Carlisle had, at least in his thoughts, bee part of.

He can't flush. Resists the temptation to bury his face to skin before him. "He never-" It's almost sacrilege here and now, isn't it? Except for how it's always there somewhere, in, around. When the terms finally separate.

[ofthefamily]

i'm not him.

let me do this!

[themidnightson]

It might be too big. It stays in his mouth.

Edward nodded his head against the skin it rested on.

[ofthefamily]

Yes!




The only form of communication Carlisle manages after another few minutes is a hand like a vice on Edward's upper thigh when he is close.