Dr. Carlisle Cullen (
ofthefamily) wrote2010-05-11 11:34 am
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Golden: 1819.
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.
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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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.
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let me do this!
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Edward nodded his head against the skin it rested on.
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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.
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With dragging his mouth across Carlisle's skin, wanting to give him back everything, even when the world begins to disintegrate out from under him, across his mind in rolling waves that for a few seconds seem to cancel out all the noise, all the control over his own body.
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There's the amazing explosion that feels endless, like it's a rolling whiteness that everything is blighted by. And then the moment the ripples soften even slightly, the sound turns back on, piercing behind and across everything else.
He could hate them for that alone.
He does stifle most of that reaction at the sensation on his knees. Opening his eyes, lazy and golden and only faintly annoyed, rather than troubled, to lay the words unsaid against that face.
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A small, slightly immature Tasty! happens, and Carlisle laughs at himself.
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Which may be the topic of choice. Or the flavor of choice.
Either way Edward settles for rolling up to sitting, kissing Carlisle's hairline.
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"...this room is starting to be rather off-putting. Who would enjoy this?"
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He was only looking steadily at Carlisle.
"I don't see a room at all."
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"Or I'm saving you from thinking about what you did to me, and what I still want to do to you, in the very small, very beloved children's nursery."
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I hope they clean well?
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Carlisle starts humming something terribly appropriate for the room they are currently occupying, reaching for Edward's hips again --
"Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, Dormez-vous?
Dormez-vous?"
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"As though there were a second to waste on that."
Beat. "Or on your have too much clothing still."
Which is what Edward's hands turned to taking care of. Button by button, perhaps, nearly in beat to the humming.
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As though this could not be so bad a thing.
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