Fic: Your Yearning (Carlisle/Edward, NC17)
Title: Your Yearning
Fandom: Twilight
Pairing: Carlisle/Edward
Rating: NC17 for slash and het references
Summary: Telepathy takes some getting used to.
A/N: Honestly, I don't even care that it's not a fashionable fandom at this point. Carlisle is hot as Hell, and it's fun. And how could I resist a story about vampires, sparkly or otherwise?
Edward doesn't mean to pry. He doesn't. But controlling the ability to read others' minds when it's a new sense - when it's as instinctive as listening to a voice or reacting to a smell - is unnatural. It's as strange and uncomfortable as the ability itself.
He knows he should tell Carlisle, should ask, but he hadn't been prepared for this - not the way he'd been warned about his new strength, increased dexterity, the unparalleled sharpness of his senses...
Carlisle had prepared him for many changes, but this? The ability to almost feel other people's thoughts as if they were his own? This was not one of them, and that scares him sick. What if, even amongst Carlisle's kind - his, now - he's a freak? If Carlisle had made some sort of mistake in turning him?
But it's Edward's sense of curiosity, his inability to leave things alone that will truly be the making or death of him someday, and he'd known so little about the world before Carlisle showed it to him. He doesn't mean to pry but can't truly resist, and can't bring himself to walk far away enough from the house that some human's daydreaming might distract him; Carlisle's mind is open, naked, and every thought crossing it right now has a specific purpose - to help get rid of the erection held tight in his hands.
Everything about this is wrong - intruding on someone else's thoughts during such a private moment, when they're doing something he's been told is a sin - but Carlisle isn't just willing it away and doubt and guilt don't taint his thoughts even once as he strokes himself.
And God, Carlisle's hands are beautiful, doctor's hands, smooth from being used to gloves, and as Edward watches Carlisle idly drifting into half-remembered dreams he has to tug at himself in turn, rough movements to try and satiate his guilt, biting his lip despite the wall separating them against any noise he might make.
It's strange that he can only just tell which are memories and which are fantasies, as if he can only skim the surface thoughts without seeing those underneath; he remembers, through Carlisle, a voluptuous barmaid falling out of her top inches away from him, clear as if he had been there to watch. The rest he thinks must be fantasy - that or memories tainted by alcohol, because there's a blurred, hazy quality to the way the barmaid's breasts feel in his hands, under his mouth.
Guilt, then - a quick flicker of it, an unfamiliar twist in Carlisle's gut - and when Edward realises why he near bites through his lip; he's been on the other side of this memory, and God almighty, he's tasting his own blood, Carlisle's soft moan cutting through the air from the other room.
And it's shameful, it's hideous and a sin and it's wrong but he can't stop himself stroking, can't stop shivering as Carlisle's thoughts turn from memory to fantasy, and he's desperate to know what Carlisle wants of him while terrified at the same time.
He should have known better than to fear - Carlisle's compassion extends into his dreams, into a need to arouse others more than a need for himself, and Edward doesn't know what to do with that - doesn't deserve the near worshipful way Carlisle pictures him, pictures biting and kissing paths across his skin. It's a fantasy of himself through Carlisle's eyes and he's not that beautiful, not even close to being as beautiful as Carlisle sees him, and he's ashamed of himself for it; more ashamed that he can add to the visuals because he knows how cold Carlisle's hands are, how his tongue and teeth feel, and when he imagines them on him as Carlisle does, running over his skin, licking away sweat and leaving traces of spit behind -
It's too much, too much by miles and he comes so hard, wet against his sheets and sticky against his stomach, willing the sensory onslaught to stop but unable to block out Carlisle's mind and unable to block out Carlisle's orgasm, feeling the same dizzy, momentary loss of control, watching through Carlisle's eyes as come drips off slender white fingers.
If he hadn't been lost already, that would have sealed his fall.
He can't hide the telepathy forever. Carlisle is quiet when Edward confesses to his ability after slipping up one too many times - too many thoughts sound like words and Carlisle is more than intelligent enough to work out why Edward keeps responding to unasked questions.
It turns out Edward isn't the first to have telepathy as a gift, which is a relief in its own way, but Carlisle is hesitant to say anything further for a long time; it's almost a week of near silence, both in Carlisle's thoughts and speech, before he finally makes a decision. After the days of quiet - apparently Carlisle's familiarity with others gifted with telepathy meant he'd had a little practise in silencing his thoughts - it's almost a shock when Edward is called to Carlisle, asked to sit down next to him on a sofa they don't particularly need but enjoy the comfort of regardless. Again, silence for a moment, then Carlisle reaches for Edward's left hand, links their fingers together. "I was careless. You're still young, Edward."
"Old enough to marry," Edward replies quickly, feeling all the more like a petulant child for saying it.
"But young regardless," Carlisle insists, voice as calm, steady, gathered as the rest of him. "And part of you will always be young. I can't change that. No one could." He chews on his lip for a second in thought, and Edward is near hypnotised by the small gesture. "I swore I would be your guardian, and I intend to keep that promise."
Edward frowns and goes to speak, tenses on a sharp intake of breath when Carlisle leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead.
"I'm not ashamed of you," Carlisle replies before Edward can say anything, then smiles a little and adds, "It doesn't take telepathy to guess why you were worried."
Edward nods and moves to pull his hand away before realising that not only does he have no desire to, but Carlisle's grip is firmer than he'd thought. "What if I don't want anyone else?"
"You'll find someone someday, if you keep your eyes open." It sounds too much like a promise; Edward might not be very old, but he knows enough to know certain promises are difficult to keep. "I'm waiting on the same." Carlisle lets go at last, gets to his feet before walking over to the window and parting the curtains to reveal the dim evening light of the street outside. "You have so much to see yet, Edward," He says quietly - quiet enough Edward suspects he couldn't have made out the words were he still human - before turning back to Edward and bracing himself against the frame of the window, grinning widely. "The theatre is open tonight. We should work on your education in matters of the world."
He doesn't know how beautiful he is. He honestly doesn't.
And Edward can't resist.
"I'll get my coat."
The End
Fandom: Twilight
Pairing: Carlisle/Edward
Rating: NC17 for slash and het references
Summary: Telepathy takes some getting used to.
A/N: Honestly, I don't even care that it's not a fashionable fandom at this point. Carlisle is hot as Hell, and it's fun. And how could I resist a story about vampires, sparkly or otherwise?
Edward doesn't mean to pry. He doesn't. But controlling the ability to read others' minds when it's a new sense - when it's as instinctive as listening to a voice or reacting to a smell - is unnatural. It's as strange and uncomfortable as the ability itself.
He knows he should tell Carlisle, should ask, but he hadn't been prepared for this - not the way he'd been warned about his new strength, increased dexterity, the unparalleled sharpness of his senses...
Carlisle had prepared him for many changes, but this? The ability to almost feel other people's thoughts as if they were his own? This was not one of them, and that scares him sick. What if, even amongst Carlisle's kind - his, now - he's a freak? If Carlisle had made some sort of mistake in turning him?
But it's Edward's sense of curiosity, his inability to leave things alone that will truly be the making or death of him someday, and he'd known so little about the world before Carlisle showed it to him. He doesn't mean to pry but can't truly resist, and can't bring himself to walk far away enough from the house that some human's daydreaming might distract him; Carlisle's mind is open, naked, and every thought crossing it right now has a specific purpose - to help get rid of the erection held tight in his hands.
Everything about this is wrong - intruding on someone else's thoughts during such a private moment, when they're doing something he's been told is a sin - but Carlisle isn't just willing it away and doubt and guilt don't taint his thoughts even once as he strokes himself.
And God, Carlisle's hands are beautiful, doctor's hands, smooth from being used to gloves, and as Edward watches Carlisle idly drifting into half-remembered dreams he has to tug at himself in turn, rough movements to try and satiate his guilt, biting his lip despite the wall separating them against any noise he might make.
It's strange that he can only just tell which are memories and which are fantasies, as if he can only skim the surface thoughts without seeing those underneath; he remembers, through Carlisle, a voluptuous barmaid falling out of her top inches away from him, clear as if he had been there to watch. The rest he thinks must be fantasy - that or memories tainted by alcohol, because there's a blurred, hazy quality to the way the barmaid's breasts feel in his hands, under his mouth.
Guilt, then - a quick flicker of it, an unfamiliar twist in Carlisle's gut - and when Edward realises why he near bites through his lip; he's been on the other side of this memory, and God almighty, he's tasting his own blood, Carlisle's soft moan cutting through the air from the other room.
And it's shameful, it's hideous and a sin and it's wrong but he can't stop himself stroking, can't stop shivering as Carlisle's thoughts turn from memory to fantasy, and he's desperate to know what Carlisle wants of him while terrified at the same time.
He should have known better than to fear - Carlisle's compassion extends into his dreams, into a need to arouse others more than a need for himself, and Edward doesn't know what to do with that - doesn't deserve the near worshipful way Carlisle pictures him, pictures biting and kissing paths across his skin. It's a fantasy of himself through Carlisle's eyes and he's not that beautiful, not even close to being as beautiful as Carlisle sees him, and he's ashamed of himself for it; more ashamed that he can add to the visuals because he knows how cold Carlisle's hands are, how his tongue and teeth feel, and when he imagines them on him as Carlisle does, running over his skin, licking away sweat and leaving traces of spit behind -
It's too much, too much by miles and he comes so hard, wet against his sheets and sticky against his stomach, willing the sensory onslaught to stop but unable to block out Carlisle's mind and unable to block out Carlisle's orgasm, feeling the same dizzy, momentary loss of control, watching through Carlisle's eyes as come drips off slender white fingers.
If he hadn't been lost already, that would have sealed his fall.
He can't hide the telepathy forever. Carlisle is quiet when Edward confesses to his ability after slipping up one too many times - too many thoughts sound like words and Carlisle is more than intelligent enough to work out why Edward keeps responding to unasked questions.
It turns out Edward isn't the first to have telepathy as a gift, which is a relief in its own way, but Carlisle is hesitant to say anything further for a long time; it's almost a week of near silence, both in Carlisle's thoughts and speech, before he finally makes a decision. After the days of quiet - apparently Carlisle's familiarity with others gifted with telepathy meant he'd had a little practise in silencing his thoughts - it's almost a shock when Edward is called to Carlisle, asked to sit down next to him on a sofa they don't particularly need but enjoy the comfort of regardless. Again, silence for a moment, then Carlisle reaches for Edward's left hand, links their fingers together. "I was careless. You're still young, Edward."
"Old enough to marry," Edward replies quickly, feeling all the more like a petulant child for saying it.
"But young regardless," Carlisle insists, voice as calm, steady, gathered as the rest of him. "And part of you will always be young. I can't change that. No one could." He chews on his lip for a second in thought, and Edward is near hypnotised by the small gesture. "I swore I would be your guardian, and I intend to keep that promise."
Edward frowns and goes to speak, tenses on a sharp intake of breath when Carlisle leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead.
"I'm not ashamed of you," Carlisle replies before Edward can say anything, then smiles a little and adds, "It doesn't take telepathy to guess why you were worried."
Edward nods and moves to pull his hand away before realising that not only does he have no desire to, but Carlisle's grip is firmer than he'd thought. "What if I don't want anyone else?"
"You'll find someone someday, if you keep your eyes open." It sounds too much like a promise; Edward might not be very old, but he knows enough to know certain promises are difficult to keep. "I'm waiting on the same." Carlisle lets go at last, gets to his feet before walking over to the window and parting the curtains to reveal the dim evening light of the street outside. "You have so much to see yet, Edward," He says quietly - quiet enough Edward suspects he couldn't have made out the words were he still human - before turning back to Edward and bracing himself against the frame of the window, grinning widely. "The theatre is open tonight. We should work on your education in matters of the world."
He doesn't know how beautiful he is. He honestly doesn't.
And Edward can't resist.
"I'll get my coat."
The End