// IC Inbox

[gridfather]

Flynn here, leave a message.

[ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ | ᴛᴇxᴛ | ᴠɪᴅᴇᴏ | ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ]

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<3!

[gridfather]

He hummed a note against Clu's lips, a sound that traveled low into his chest; a rumble of approval as he was drawn in. Flynn opened his mouth to him, daring to seek more than just a taste, coaxing with the deft curl of his tongue to Clu's. Intimacy was an equally old friend, welcomed just as readily as Clu's hands against his face and his–his, Clu was all his–admin's warm, solid weight against him.

His fingers felt their way over plateaus of stiff plating and the low valleys between, mapping the darkness between the radiant circuits on Clu's chest. He drew whorls across his sternum, lines like protective sigils, a god's blessing in the flat press of his open palm. Canting his hip, Flynn drew his knee up over Clu's, wanting, needing to have him closer.

The bridge came to mind then for some unthinkable reason, suspended in light and cut through with hard bands of simmering, furious yellow.

Flynn gasped for air and kissed him like he was dying, because he was; because they were both already gone, as the teaching went, and he had a thousand cycles of love to pour into Clu.

[a_perfect_end]

Flynn opened for him with a rich low rumble of approval, drew their mouths together in a curl of tongues, and Clu's fingers tightened a little, threaded in trim coarse warmth sleek in his grip. He could feel Flynn's voice in his collarbone, radiating through where they touched, his Maker warm and real beside him.

He made a noise like the keen of high tension wire for the track of Flynn's fingers stenciling glory in the darkness and leaving mounting static bright in the gaps, glittering in their wake. The smooth sudden spread of his palm was an anchor, a meeting place for curving lines of benediction.

Flynn pulled them flush, pinned trapped circuitry alight with the pressure, and Clu ground his hip into the welcoming arch of Flynn's thigh, eager to be closer, to get together, to get connected.

The idea of the bridge cut through, then, clean lucid focus on a moment he hadn't yet lived--one he'd lived already and would live (wouldn't live) again. Time was a circle, irregular, imperfect, deliberate--like a pearl--as pearls themselves were responses to stress, and some of it was his idea and some of it wasn't, shared metaphors thrown wide with the gentle tang of the Sea caught between them.

Flynn broke over him like a wave, all hard swift indrawn breath and racing heartbeats aglow with something Clu did not name--only trusted and let catch, sparked into something very old and entirely new.

"User," mouth open with the shape of it, low and swift, then traced close with an insistent tongue.