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Licoln Six Echo was worth every penny. (Tom/Lincoln)
Fucking his clone wasn't so much like incest as it was everything like rediscovering an old friend separated by long years of failed communication. Familiar in the casual way of things like structure and design (/the way his breath caught in a distinctive, orgasmic hitch, the shallow groove of a hip, narrow and smooth, trembling under his hand/), but a stranger in language and form and mind, a shadow splayed against the wall of his memory known only to the ends of his fingertips.
It was a little something surreal, substantiated only by the physicality of touch and sensory perception, images that filed into his brain brokenly as they moved (/in awkward synchronicity, in unison, like two dissimilar puzzle pieces forced together/). He wouldn't have believed it real had it not felt so fucking /good/, had he not wanted it to /be/, and this, like so many aspects of Tom Lincoln's existence, wasn't real until he made it so.
Reading Lincoln was like charting the final draft of his ship, shaped and molded to his prescribed calculation, except better, except not. Lincoln felt a little like memory, a little like regret (/could have, should have, would have been/) as he traced a tongue along the line of his perfectly rounded outer ear and tasted sweat. His creation of his being - and it gave him a little thrill to think of him like that, something possessed that went beyond possession, that twisted sense of wrong and (/so good/) indelible that twined them together as his fingers tangled in Lincoln's.
When he comes underneath his palm (/warm and slick and smooth with sweat/), it's like an answer to a long-sought question, and Lincoln - an island beneath his fingertips, whose breath releases in a hiss like the crash of waves against the shoreline - makes him feel a little grand, a little something like God stirring the waters, as he drags his lips across the curve of Lincoln's neck (/back and forward and over again/).