Clu was simply struck speechless, which did not happen very often. The volume of what Clu did not know and kind, genial Clark could never have imagined fomred a sheer cliff over bottomless nothing, blank as the edge of the Grid. There must be more, and it must be bad, but right now Frank could've pretty well told him he was wanted for murder and Clu would've at least tried to listen. For one thing, the body language went more with I snapped; I hit him over the head with my skillet and just ran, please--than it did with wanting to wear Clark's guts for a hat.
And it was too late to back out now: they'd scented each other. He could almost taste it, lips parted to get it across the back of his tongue, all furniture polish and sugar. It wasn't all down to flirtation--the dizzy pressure, the social signaling, the stupid hum. The tense glide of clothes he wore tight on purpose abruptly running out of room, catching and creasing in urgent places. His skin was starting to prickle with warmth of its own, and that soft, insistent urge to--what, not yield, when that was impossible, but--oh.
To relax. To help Frank relax. To get them both feeling nice. They couldn't change what they were, and it was not safe to open that door or to try for another exit vector until they were both--better adjusted.
Only. Just when he thought he'd reached a conclusion, Frank handed him more data. Fed him more parameters. And they added to a doozy.
Clu's natural calendar was very short, almost five a year, and with development crunch, travel plans, and actual relationship goals, besides things like volunteering and hobbies--on his big frame, that tempo did not quite merit a full double dose. And Frank--slim, willowy, nervous Frank--had been slamming down doubles for at least two years, with an implied more for the x-axis, until they just. Stopped. Working.
"Hey," soft, then sharp with alarm, with stern command his code-brother adamantly refused to swallow. "Hey, no. Don't think like that." He blew air through his nose, made an effort at a calm, neutral tone. The kind Clark was known for. "Kidneys do not run on willpower, man."
Frank shuddered out a confession, low and miserable in his grip, and Clu hugged him tighter on sheer instinct, folded those sharp shoulders close under his. Used his height to push with an open rumble, purring, actually purring, trying to buy time, a moment to think.
Because he needed a moment. Because bodies were disgusting. They leaked and sweated and stank, and constantly needed refilling--and as much as he liked eating, throughput was a revolting nightmare. And about once every forty days, suppressants or no, he shed blood. Blood! Because fetuses were effectively cannibals.
Revolting.
But Frank hated--what, himself? No, his own nature. Like his alignment had done something to him.
Clu could guess what. He certainly could. Even if he hadn't been born to it, raised in it--it was all around them, all the time, guys like Kyle talking raptly about the old days and a tide of hot, angry glances following in his wake every time he moved.
And he was mated. For a single young thing like Frank--
Frank, who startled to sound, to touch, even drowning in want, want, want so strong his voice shook. Frank, who had been poisoning himself for who knew how long, who wanted to disappear. Who desperately hoped pretending would protect him.
Clu's instincts were shrilling that who cared, he was way focused on the wrong thing, he should definitely be moving lower, get a grip on that pert ass already, shove his knee just there and give the poor boy something to ride. Slide his hands in, while Frank was distracted, skim past the zipper and find out what they were working with.
Maker. That scent! It was like a whiskey distillery had exploded and wiped out a Cinnabon on its way down.
He did not let Frank out of the bear hug. Did not trust himself out of it yet, not with hands that practically tingled for the thought of warm, slick flesh.
Clu needed, he needed, more information--to keep them both safe, to keep from being cruel by accident. To determine whether they needed medical intervention, regardless of what either of them did or didn't want.
But there was no reason getting that information had to suck.
"Babe." One hand, firmly upward, to stroke soft hair, ash and sand bright in his fingers. Kissing the shell of his ear, a hot press of lips straining for chastity, the ghost of teeth. "You can tell me."
Nothing, nothing kind or gentle in the smile. "How long has it been?"
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ninetydegrees
(no subject)
And it was too late to back out now: they'd scented each other. He could almost taste it, lips parted to get it across the back of his tongue, all furniture polish and sugar. It wasn't all down to flirtation--the dizzy pressure, the social signaling, the stupid hum. The tense glide of clothes he wore tight on purpose abruptly running out of room, catching and creasing in urgent places. His skin was starting to prickle with warmth of its own, and that soft, insistent urge to--what, not yield, when that was impossible, but--oh.
To relax. To help Frank relax. To get them both feeling nice. They couldn't change what they were, and it was not safe to open that door or to try for another exit vector until they were both--better adjusted.
Only. Just when he thought he'd reached a conclusion, Frank handed him more data. Fed him more parameters. And they added to a doozy.
Clu's natural calendar was very short, almost five a year, and with development crunch, travel plans, and actual relationship goals, besides things like volunteering and hobbies--on his big frame, that tempo did not quite merit a full double dose. And Frank--slim, willowy, nervous Frank--had been slamming down doubles for at least two years, with an implied more for the x-axis, until they just. Stopped. Working.
"Hey," soft, then sharp with alarm, with stern command his code-brother adamantly refused to swallow. "Hey, no. Don't think like that." He blew air through his nose, made an effort at a calm, neutral tone. The kind Clark was known for. "Kidneys do not run on willpower, man."
Frank shuddered out a confession, low and miserable in his grip, and Clu hugged him tighter on sheer instinct, folded those sharp shoulders close under his. Used his height to push with an open rumble, purring, actually purring, trying to buy time, a moment to think.
Because he needed a moment. Because bodies were disgusting. They leaked and sweated and stank, and constantly needed refilling--and as much as he liked eating, throughput was a revolting nightmare. And about once every forty days, suppressants or no, he shed blood. Blood! Because fetuses were effectively cannibals.
Revolting.
But Frank hated--what, himself? No, his own nature. Like his alignment had done something to him.
Clu could guess what. He certainly could. Even if he hadn't been born to it, raised in it--it was all around them, all the time, guys like Kyle talking raptly about the old days and a tide of hot, angry glances following in his wake every time he moved.
And he was mated. For a single young thing like Frank--
Frank, who startled to sound, to touch, even drowning in want, want, want so strong his voice shook. Frank, who had been poisoning himself for who knew how long, who wanted to disappear. Who desperately hoped pretending would protect him.
Clu's instincts were shrilling that who cared, he was way focused on the wrong thing, he should definitely be moving lower, get a grip on that pert ass already, shove his knee just there and give the poor boy something to ride. Slide his hands in, while Frank was distracted, skim past the zipper and find out what they were working with.
Maker. That scent! It was like a whiskey distillery had exploded and wiped out a Cinnabon on its way down.
He did not let Frank out of the bear hug. Did not trust himself out of it yet, not with hands that practically tingled for the thought of warm, slick flesh.
Clu needed, he needed, more information--to keep them both safe, to keep from being cruel by accident. To determine whether they needed medical intervention, regardless of what either of them did or didn't want.
But there was no reason getting that information had to suck.
"Babe." One hand, firmly upward, to stroke soft hair, ash and sand bright in his fingers. Kissing the shell of his ear, a hot press of lips straining for chastity, the ghost of teeth. "You can tell me."
Nothing, nothing kind or gentle in the smile. "How long has it been?"