Relating -- Gone AU

[themidnightson]

It's been a while since his cd collection has been changed out.

Which might mean it's been two months or even two weeks -- but there are pieces he's not listening to, and he abhors when he ends up double stacking cd's in the cases in the front compartment. It's anal, but then everyone who knows him well in this world, knows that they don't question Edward on his habits, predilections, priorities and opinions where it comes to anything even relational to music.

There are piles now. On the far seat is music he listened to often. On the near edge of the same seat is music he might need given the last while but not played recently. On the floor board near his foot is the pile of why is it taking up valuable space in my car.

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[themidnightson]

The thoughts, images and sentences, evoking memories, falling through him, are mirrored, half kept and half discarded. He made his choice so long ago. Yesterday and eons ago.

Anything -- anything -- was better than the alternative.

He doesn't stop the small sounds that escape at Carlisle's touch anymore than he can help arching his back toward that mouth in the brief seconds when he pulls away to find the next place to do the same thing.

[ofthefamily]

Carlisle died when he was 23. It's rare that he feels that young.

His hand pivots at the wrist to push into Edward's pants, trying to find a rhythm at the awkward angle and succeeding feebly.

There's not enough but it's what Carlisle can claim.

[themidnightson]

The sound is outside of him.

Hoarse; deprecating in a reverent swear word, almost a sob, tangled in bronze hair on his cheeks, when his eyes widen and his body shudders near violently. Given four seconds he could say how many years, how many exact days it has been since anyone touched him in such a fashion -- since Carlisle has.

He doesn't want those four seconds.

It's all he can do when he grinds up into Carlisle's grip, his pants and car can burn, too, forehead thrashing forward into his -- maker's, oldest companion's, father's, inspiration's, curse's, Carlisle's -- shoulder, to bite down on the inside of his own cheek to keep singular sets words that never spilled in too many decades before from coming out of his mouth like an unstoppable torrent.

[ofthefamily]

"Fuckin' -- oh my -- "

Edward is writhing under him and pressing himself to Carlisle even though he doesn't deserve this response. Doesn't deserve anything but --



Carlisle tilts his head to one side to taste Edward's skin at the neck before pulling back an inch or two, his free hand moving from the headrest behind Edward on the driver's seat to hovering near Edward's parted mouth.


do it do it do it please do it do it

It's an obvious position. It's also probably the only available extremity of Carlisle's to Edward at the moment.

[themidnightson]

The CD's will be in pieces. Glittering prismatic shrapnel jagged and impotent. What of their family, their world -- the one that is melting further from existence on the long, slim fingers firm and quirked, awkward holding, satin movement in a harried rush dragging every though he has to it.

Was there a time when the world still existed if Carlisle so much as though that word to himself once?

There isn't a no left in him now. There isn't reason or rhyme or apology. Maybe if they weren't touching, if Carlisle was still outside of the car, if anyone or anything else impeded the flood Carlisle.

Edward reached up to that offer, that plea, lacing his opposite hand with Carlisle's, fingers intermingling, only to draw it to his chin. To run his lips across the tips of Carlisle's first two fingers before sucking them into his mouth.

[ofthefamily]

Edward is nicer than Carlisle had expected. Or wanted, though he is beyond recognizing that here. They continue to move together silently and Carlisle concentrates wholly on Edward - his reactions, his need -

at least i can serve this him you please come to for me

Carlisle doesn't try to close Edward's jaw around his fingertips.

[themidnightson]

He can't doesn't shouldn't want this, won't try to admitting he does still, when the movement of his hips, rising and receding faster at Carlisle's request, his requests which are orders even with question marks, has probably dented the seat.

Large houses could not stand against their kind,
Why would a a very small, fragile car?





When he does, he jerks Carlisle's hand from his mouth, shoving his nose into those knuckles when his hands grip tightens warningly. His body strung and tight suddenly with the center of him jutting upward in short uncontrollable spasms, stickiness flooding fingers and denim, eyes and jaw clenched tightly closed.

[ofthefamily]

Carlisle's eyes nearly roll back in his head at the vision of Edward underneath him as he orgasms but he stays focused, slowing to let Edward settle and come back to reality.

The reality where Carlisle is crushing him into the driver's seat of the now-damaged Volvo, his CDs are so much plastic confetti, and Carlisle's hand retracts from Edward's waistband to be brought hesitantly to Carlisle's mouth for a taste. It's more than he had hoped for coming back to the house from Milliways, if he had had cogent hopes at all.

[themidnightson]

"I'm going to hate you for a while tomorrow." He says it as casually as though he were reading a headline to Carlisle from across a room, even when his hands traced up the flat of the small of Carlisle's back.

Fingertips flattening against skin he remembers, refuses to forget even in an existence where he can't, eyes only half opened. Thinking they don't have tomorrows. Just one long today, broken into human boxes.

They drift lower, pulling Carlisle back to him with the pressure of his forearms against the sides above. And lower still, when he turns his face and leans it in against Carlisle's head, to say, lowly but lacking in anything that be meek or sly or quiet;

"Sometime after I give your back the right to think straight."

And he bit the side of Carlisle's neck without warning.