tanks4thememory | Two heads are better than one

Entry tags:

Two heads are better than one

Who: Clu1 and Clu 2 (a_perfect_end)

Where: Their User world abode and possibly other places

When: Some undetermined time post Legacy and after this thread

What: ABO sexytimes and maybe other things; a Clu on Clu catchall

Warnings: VERY NSFW. Multiple kinks, ABO related warnings, sorta incest depending how you view programs from the same User, basically enter at your own risk if you're not into that sort of thing

The life and times- and sexytimes of Clus One and Two in the ABO universe, collected here for the sake of convenience and avoiding page clutter. Multiple scenarios, lots of fun. Mostly of the NSFW variety.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Lumi's world was a small one, and until a few weeks ago the TV had been the brightest thing in it. He knew it lied sometimes: cartoons weren't true, and he wasn't sure if cooking shows were true or not. (He was only supposed to touch the microwave. At approved times.) Maybe the scrambled channels lied, like the cartoons, but--

News-humans were supposed to be fair and balanced. They brought you the real story about things like the weather and important new products and what really happened at the dog park after dark.

They wouldn't lie, would they? Just get on the air and tell lies? It didn't make any difference to his imagination.

Lumi had slept in a dog bed, before. It was thin and old, and washed half to death. Even bleached it'd reeked with the fear marks of past pets. Pets he'd never met or even heard Master Edward speak of--so Lumi knew, to the core, that he'd better take what he was given and be grateful. It was hard to actually rest on, but it also did not stop Lumi from using all the furniture the second Master Edward was down the hall and through the elevator doors.

But it was different here. This was so nice. Everything here was so nice, and some of it was just for him. Master Caleb gave Lumi his own room, and not a dog gate in sight. Lumi kept his bed just as nice as Master Caleb gave it to him--by sleeping on top of it, curled cozy in an extra blanket found inside his own closet. He simply took it off and remade the bed every day.

Right now, though, the blanket wouldn't have cut it. He'd have gotten it all messy, tracked himself all over his nice new things. It was--was it instinct, was it training? Was he just afraid? It was bad to make a mess--so he'd bolted, in the end, to the one room that didn't smell like Master Caleb, or like the space Lumi'd been growing into, the room that was finally starting to smell like his own territory.

Neutral ground, an empty space that didn't have much in it that he could ruin. No blanket would've survived this. His underwear were already a casualty, buried in the rest of the laundry. He was in a weird mood, all hot and hungry and too, squirmy, to judge his own strength. He'd torn them trying to get them off.

Lumi held as still as he could, trying to listen to Master Caleb. His tail wagged relentlessly for the possibility of lay down. On the bed. Although they would need to sit first.

Master Caleb helped him up, and by bracing a little helped Lumi find his footing. Finally standing two-legs again was a relief, even with strong feelings pushing that he should bend over and open up, and wag his tail nice and high. That would be the best way, all sweet access--

But Master Caleb kept a hand on him, steadying with a good, firm touch. Lumi whined, soft and low, edged with a growl for how it felt when Master Caleb reached down so careful, just gently, and oh--let him loose.

He sprang all the way up with a twitch, red and heavy. It was so good, even as he shivered for contact with air, spiced with the sting from the cruel press of the zipper.

His jeans were so slicked down they slid off, rolled down his thighs at a tug from Master Caleb and slithered down under their own soaked weight. The pull--and the heavy push of wet denim over his tail--almost made Lumi close his legs, instinct and the chill tugging at his inner lips. He clenched, inside, and sweet, fresh slick stained the air.

Lumi shook himself a little, like the feelings were water, like it would help. It just pulled everything, heavy and sharp and too good. He whined, low, trying not to growl.

They still had to come all the way off. Sitting first.

"Better," Lumi managed. He really did feel good. He watched himself tremble, bright red and so full. "Sit? Sit."

Really he fell into position, but he got where Master Caleb needed him by borrowing his support and wiggling his ass back on the bed. Carefully. Really slow. It was, torture, but somehow good. So good.

He wondered, hazily, what taken care of was, if maybe it was more than just the wrecked jeans.

He knew, down under all his grunting and pushing, that he should let Master Caleb know he was okay, and that needed human words.

"So much better," they were low, heavy, hard to use, so Lumi looked up and smiled to show how he was feeling. "Thank you, Master."

Clu shivered on the brink of something huge. The hacker probably could've pushed him to overload just with his voice, knowledge that did not help Clu at all.

And as for the very new, very recent memory of exactly how it felt, straining to keep his cool with a lethal machine thundering beneath him--man. That, that was burned into the chipset, engraved forever.

He was never going to be ready, but his code-brother got a firm grip and Clu made it to his feet expeditiously, testing his gait with a slight flinch that spat static.

"Yeah," said Clu, distantly, but with entire agreement. "Good."

And as for how he must look--an I/O tower, really; a broadcast beacon--that just flooded the mains in more power than he knew he had. He could have fainted.

He laughed instead, all air and disbelief. "You're," with sly concentration, leaning against him heavily, "you're enjoying this, aren't you."

There was, after all, no hiding that this got his motor going all the way. But--

"You into it?"

'Cause that just made it better, somehow.

Pet people, as a rule, tended to be more straightforward in their speech. They generally said what they meant, and had to be taught things like subtlety and tact. And taught about things like lies of omission, verbal manipulation, and spin-doctoring. They were perfectly capable of learning them, but it didn't tend to come naturally, the way it did with some humans.

All things he planned to eventually discuss with Lumi. But for now, they needed to focus on the present. Not that he suspected Lumi was capable of focusing on anything else at the moment, given the state he was in.

Jeans finally down, the dog gave himself a little shake, as if to try and regain some semblance of normal focus that way. All it did though was make him whine softly as it shifted and pulled at everything. The poor dog really must be aching by that point, judging by the look of things, and the fact that his grasp of language was starting to slip; that sometimes happened with pets when they were overwhelmed, and heat was nothing if not overwhelming, especially if one wasn't prepared for it.

In the end, he more fell back into position on the edge of the bed than sat, but it got the job done. Caleb gave him an encouraging smile and a pat on the head, briefly scratching between those expressive ears before bending down to fully remove the jeans. With Lumi's weight off of his feet, slipping them off of his ankles was a fairly simple task, and Caleb set them aside for the moment. They'd be put in the laundry when they were done here, but that could very much wait.

"Good boy," Caleb said as he stood back up. "You're doing great. Now just lay back and spread your legs for me, OK? I'll take care of the rest." It wasn't the most natural position for a dog to take up during sex, but it was the one that gave Caleb the best view and easiest access to everything. And given how wound up Lumi was, it probably wouldn't be one he'd have to be in for too long.

There was a whole world out there, full of strange and intricate things Lumi didn't quite understand. Some he knew about, or at least could tell he was missing out on, and some he might need to learn. Hiding was harder to do with words, for example, and definitely harder to understand. But that was part of the half-lie screen world. That was out there.

In here, the room was redolent with his own scent, everywhere now that he was very naked. Underneath that thick, bright flush of desire was the softer smell left by Master Caleb, close and warm. And Master Caleb was watching him carefully.

He was kind and quiet and gentle, and he had no idea how nice he smelled. He scratched between Lumi's ears and they leapt under his hand, under good, good touch that Lumi almost moaned for. It was different than everything going on below, where he was fast growing to one great ache of anticipation, but...better, somehow.

"I," not quite panting, but it was important, "I like that."

Only hard, hard training kept him from yipping. He felt it jump in his throat. Dogs didn't purr, but he wiggled, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, and grinned hugely for the smile.

Good boy.

The praise jolted through his whole body, searing and sweet in the roots of his legs. The legs he needed to spread for Master Caleb. Lumi shifted back on the bed, careful with his tail, and awkward a second where he was heavily in his own way. He gripped the edges of his knees and pulled them wide, trembling for the touch of air and the sudden fresh ache for the thought of being looked over.

For the thought of Master Caleb between his legs.

"This way?" Tail whisking along his thigh, swatting his own hand. "Like this?"

After all, the human needed a good look at all of him.

The smile broadened at Lumi's reaction to the ear scritches. Had he ever experienced such a thing before? Probably not, was Caleb's guess. Well he'd certainly experience it now, and from now on. "I thought you might," he said.

But however nice they were, ear scratches wouldn't take care of the dog's current problem. Fortunately, Lumi was being very cooperative. For some abused pets, fear trumped all other instincts, even during heat, but apparently none of the abuse Lumi had suffered was connected to sex, or at least not enough for him to be worried about it now. That made everything much easier, but Caleb was still sure to remain calm and reassuring, despite the circumstances.

Though as the dog laid back and spread his legs as instructed, he might catch a shift in his master's scent that said Caleb very much liked what he saw. "Just like that," he said. And with Lumi in position, he reached down with both hands. After briefly running his left hand over the dog's vagina for a bit of lubrication, he wrapped it around Lumi's cock in a loose fist and began to stroke it up and down. Meanwhile, he slipped the first two fingers of his right hand into his vagina, curling and stroking and trying to hit just the right spot. A two-pronged effort that was generally the quickest way to bring a full binary pet to orgasm.

Lumi remembered affection; he'd had a lot of it at the pet shop, playing with the others and making his best hopeful eyes at the customers. Even Master Edward was pleased with him at first--Lumi used to sit under the desk, before he got so big, and noisy, and was bad all the time.

But nobody had ever scratched behind Lumi's ears quite like that. Maybe if he was good for Master Caleb, he'd get more scratches. It was wonderful!

Still, once Master Caleb was looking at him, he whined and fidgeted, torn between good strong feelings and a sharp curiosity. Was it going to hurt?

It wasn't like anybody'd ever petted him this way. Even the vet had--it was hazy--he remembered the medicine had pinched him, sharp in the haunches, and then he'd kind of floated. Everything was vague and sleepy while they--with a little light. When that didn't work, or wasn't enough, they'd brought out something else, something bigger they wouldn't quite let him see, a hard metal thing. Even floating, the metal hurt, and he'd struggled with them a bit, growling unhappily with his tail wagging frantic to show it wasn't on purpose. They needed to make sure he wasn't sick or hurt. They'd needed to see, so he'd laid as still as he could and tried not to cry too much.

But this was something else entirely. This was miles apart from that, Master Caleb watching him carefully, eyes searching his face before sweeping over his body, something delicious and curious sparking in Master's scent for the way Lumi opened up.

It was easier, with that lovely smell, with the soft praise, to lay back and be looked over. Just like that.

He couldn't help an eager whine for the gentle, steady stroking, but he tried to hold still. Master Caleb kept going until his hand was all wet, and for a sharp, bad second Lumi worried he'd get his nose put in it--

Instead, Master Caleb took him in hand. Lumi jolted, all instinct, hips rutting up against his fingers with a low hungry noise. He'd never--it wasn't allowed, and oh when he'd ruined the furniture, it was--but that didn't stop Master Caleb. It didn't even slow him down. Instead he set an easy pace, loose on the upstroke, and let Lumi chase his hand, up and down, up and down. It was so good, like the pressure building inside him finally had a way out, one they were chasing together, even as it somehow sharpened more.

He let out a little yelp of surprise: he'd never been petted inside, hadn't quite realized that was possible, let alone that it would feel this way, hot and slippery and starlit when something connected, just to the curl of Master's fingers. Now he was in a bit of a bind. Reaching up gave him beautiful squeezes and pushing back down eased that grip, but brought questing fingers closer to their goal.

"Wow," thick against his teeth, half a bark, "Oh, wow, Master, please--"

He wasn't even sure what he was asking for, only that it felt amazing, and he wanted it a lot.

"But, but," softly, "I'm this color, and it's, my, room?"

Clu was aware that he was--touchy--and intensely vain, but something in the hacker's explanation pinged to related ideas, echoed somehow down into his own most private suspicions: that maybe not everything in Clu's own life needed to be a utilitarian monument to his conquests?

And, that, was intriguing.

"Hmm," rumbled Clu, drawn out long through a squint, ending in a puff of air through his nose. Not yes or no, but-- "I mean, it's worth a try."

And at the mention of a readme, at the chance for new data, Clu grinned sharp. The two of them with their heads bent together over a datapad, solving the same problem and cuddling on the same couch, was an abrupt, bright concept that burned warm in his overtuned circuits.

"Yeah, man! If you want, I'd," the thought went slippery, and he finished, "that'd be great."

"You must have seen so many interesting things," with a soft wistfulness he never would've let escape otherwise. Clu caught himself spending far too long wondering what outside was like, how Flynn's world must be, as it was. Tron had looked askance at him for that, asking if he wanted to be like the User--or if he wanted to be him. A ridiculous impossibility and foul sacrilege.

Like most things with Clu, the truth was more direct and much more dangerous: he was curious.

That same curiosity was focused now on the hacker in front of him, his mercurial forked sibling who insisted that he felt fear, all right--and that he felt the joy of facing that fear while achieving his objectives, and that tantalized Clu.

"Oh," gruff, sing-song, "I dunno. You're," how would he have put it in a gloating mood, "wrapped up in my lair, pretty good."

He was sure bull must be some class of monster, a crafty one that always lied. There was a vague concept tag of a tiny man waving something red, and that factored into Clu's hypothesis. The bull itself made no sense, but the useage was clear: any flatly untrue data, often given in an attempt to impress.

But his code-brother was only more impressive for admitting his own fear.

"Oh, I'd like that." To see the whole Grid bloom in the promise of more, a diversity of options he hadn't contemplated. He blinked. "I think."

"Reskinning wouldn't take that long to start," thoughtful, gently letting the idea grow between them out loud, skyscrapers shining in a waterfall of colors sparkling in his processes. "Although it'd choke stuff at scale. Let's--" oh, just maybe--"Let's start with our apartment, huh?"

Ours. It was a hope gently delivered, but unmistakable. He could always plead out, c'mon, I was cooked when I said it: an exit for both of them, no harm done. Clu might be the only one interested in more, and he knew he was--he knew--

It was difficult to hang on to any one specific thought for long. Anyway, he didn't want to chase off such a strong talent, and his code-brother would be staying awhile either way.

The answering laugh had him grinning a bit. His vision was finally straightening out, but his equilibrium was just, gone, and everything felt like it was, sort of hovering. He really was entirely fragged.

Tomorrow would hurt. But that was tomorrow.

Clu sat up a little, swaying, craning his neck for the way the hacker neatly settled his boots by the table, arranging them when he could have dismissed them: it felt like being let in on a secret. And his disc fit the charger elegantly. Clu hadn't quite planned it--that was the charger that came with the table template--but it made for such a nice symmetry.

His code-brother took his time, turning slowly and giving an almost languid tap of dismissal above his collarbone. The template dissolved down his frame in a bright band of disappearance, inch by gleaming inch, betraying geometry only in glimpses. His signature matched his template only so far as the shoulders, and rapidly spread in algebraic intricacy. He grew almost in affine fractals, spiked in complex branches that put Clu in mind of feathers: something intricate and fragile, turned with inifinite precision by an unseen hand. Those magnificent circuits curled up his wrists,, and where Clu himself terminated in the fingers, broad and hot as fangs--his code-brother's lattices ended there, in his palms, in cupped traces so delicate that they seemed to disappear on their edge--

Clu had bright ideas of silk, of web, of lightning, a wash of concepts in User reference that rolled through him in sheer awe.

An entirely different and no less complex feeling boiled through him for the understanding that some of these were scars, one or two thick as rope above dimmed interconnected circuits. Each was a lesson, an act of desperation or bravery knit into his brother's code and worn vivid on his skin.

(What was a net? What was a cobra?)

"Man," low, slow, gone ponderous with heavy regard and the weight of his own tongue. He coughed, once, tried again, trying to sit, straightened. "Man, look at you," But of course he couldn't; Clu did not allow mirrors, not at all, not in his own private space--except--

"You are really something else, you know that?" Bright and forthright. "Classic lines, perfect tuning," grinning, "You are, you're beautiful, and I--I mean," at least 1024 things jammed the queue at once and what escaped was, "Do they hurt?"

Soft concern, with a quiet huff for how it sounded, how it wasn't quite what he'd planned.

"I mean, do they, bother you, will it bother you if I--" red made his tongue fearless even as it slowed him down, "do more than look?"

Once his code brother was settled on his feet- an act which prompted a few static sparks under the circumstances- a ripple of vibrant purple and even near white washed over his circuits as Clu watched. He was almost surprised that the admin's knees didn't buckle at the sheer overstimulation he must be experiencing; even through his glove, meant to somewhat dampen input, Clu's hand was already tingling after just the brief contact needed to pull his brother to his feet.

And any part of him that was in contact was definitely tingling as his code brother leaned against him. The combination of the contact, the situation, and the seer amount of energy flowing through his code brother's skin circuits trying to find an outlet were already causing his own circuits to brighten, though they stayed firmly yellow for the moment. "Oh definitely," he said with a grin. "This is absolutely getting filed away in permanent memory storage."

"And I'm finding I'm very much into it." Something about seeing his code brother so revved up that he was practically sparking with sheer need was a turn on that Clu hadn't realized he'd had up til now, but one he was going to have to try and make a point of trying to bring out at a more convenient future point. "Enough that if you weren't admin, I'd be seriously tempted to just push you up against the wall and take care of it right here, right now." It was still very tempting honestly; the thrill of potentially getting caught appealed to him on a code-deep level as a hacker. But he did have some respect for his code brother's reputation.

Just the thought was making his own systems run hot too though. "But for right now.... let's just focus on getting to the staging area." He nudged his code brother in that general direction, hoping to get them moving before his systems started to react too much.

They'd picked their way over a treacherous stretch of Aurinian coast, swung inland dangerously close to the thundering, spraying rocks to dredge the galleon wreck they knew was here, in search of the flare and flicker of liberated gold swallowed by the sea. They spent near a week just out of land's reach, just off the promise of leave and trade, and even the deckhands were restless by the time things aboard the Regulator began disappearing.

At first it was just the typical tackle, stray bits and bobs one expected might be lost, that none troubled themselves over and never would've disturbed him for: a candle here or there, a pouch of tobacco, a beloved knife carelessly lost in rum-soaked target practice. The usual things.

But then there came the occasion of Lyle's mug--all good pewter, with a heavy silver lid, and his favorite. He'd employed it for a bludgeon in a tussle over cards, but it glanced off Patrick's thick skull, bounced against the railings, and rolled inward down the deck.

They were still arguing over who'd dive for it when an arm flashed up out of nowhere, pearl white, and neat as you please snaked through the porthole, mug and all, and disappeared. Simply vanished.

No crew in the water: their one good dinghy was still lashed indifferently in place, and even them that could swim wouldn't have in such a cross-current. It couldn't be crew. Then it was ghosts--wrecked sailors impatient for these scavengers to begone, perhaps--or something else.

It was real. Had to be: they'd both seen it, and anyway, there was no splash when the mug hit. It did happen, and not because of bad rum, good madeira, or indifferent digestion of Cook's more interesting attempts at lunch--

And. Well. Since it was real, and it did happen, then it was past time to tell the captain.

Claude Taylor was not a man who tolerated nonsense. He'd immediately ordered the pair of them tied to the mast to sober up.

He'd let them go after sufficient caterwauling, and gradually the men got over their fancies. It helped that they drew up a welter of coin in every grade of metal, four separate strong boxes--the biggest too heavy to save--a great golden cross half a man's height and covered in rubies, and two ruined cases of sugar, which might yet be passed off for good if they could get it dry.

Their luck was turning around again. And yet trinkets continued to vanish. Some because they were offered to the restless spirit still plaguing their wake. Claude himself had plied it with his second best pipe. When his lion's head belt buckle went astray, he was in a quiet but murderous temper, the kind that put men mysteriously overboard in calmer waters than these.

It was the loss of the empty lantern that made him think, though--that and the inkpot, and the hand mirror.

Trivialities, but shiny ones, and most of them were good stout glass.

Crew consensus was that something was toying with them, alive or dead. Something a great deal more charming and much more powerful than any magpie or gillie snatchit. By their reckoning, this was also the right general location and time of year. More than sorties or storms grounded ships here. More than the threat of rocks crushed hulls and buried gold at sea here.

They just might be dealing with a mermaid. Her songs could kill a man or grant his fondest wish. Her hair turned to spun gold when cut, and her blood and flesh could cure the sick or grant the strong immortality. But her tears could call storms, her rage could draw hurricanes, and of course she swam fast enough to mire ships in whirlpools.

A deadly difficult catch, but much too great a prize to be let go.

Every night thereafter, by the moon and a row of lanterns, they brought things of the human world and cast them over, just alongside where they dragged their nets. It was always better to entice than threaten. But if no fair offer could be made, threats would do. It was a good deal more grace than they'd have given a rival ship.

He'd never expected them to actually snare the poor creature. And because of a boot! Jarvis would never let him forget that.

It was a production getting her out of the water and out of harm's way, two of his own sailors half-drowned in the trying. Mermaids could injure themselves on even the finest nets, cutting skin used to the sea's caress on bitter rope. Their flesh went ruinously poisonous if they were killed accidentally or while fighting, like that coastal fish that puffed out its spines. Not that he would eat either such thing, no matter what power it granted him. But it would hurt the value, and wasn't that the thing? The main thing.

That and whatever treasure she guarded. Mermaids always had treasure hoards.

Even soaking wet and thrashing, she was beautiful, lithe-limbed and strong, her tapered torso heaving as she strained to breathe air--so much lighter and thinner than her own water, it might make her dizzy, though the slack in the ropes would catch her should she faint. His gaze did not linger on her jewelry, a flicker of gold and a clatter of sand-dollars arrayed like armor or a thin blouse.

The great golden length of her shining tail dried his mouth out. He could not let the men see him afraid. And it must be fear--his heart was racing, going so hard he could near taste it, only...

Ladies did not have that effect on him. Therefore he must be terrified.

Claude scowled to drown his own cowardice, arranged his teeth in his sharpest, most smug sneer of a smile.

"What's all this, then?" Steady and strong, sauntering straight up to his catch. "You'll only hurt yourself, kicking about like that, me lass."

Edited (one lousy letter~) 2023-05-17 01:29 (UTC)

All in all, it had started out as a fairly routine foraging expedition. Both he and his ray were in good spirits, and he had every expectation of it being a productive trip. He'd be certain to get the usual things, of course; sand dollars and pearls and any particularly colorful shells or bits of coral he could find. The basic materials of his trade. But there was another reason why this was one of his favorite foraging spots.

The shipwreck. Sitting there just chock full of treasures, ripe for the harvesting. And not just what most would consider treasure. Certainly there was plenty of gold and a fair amount of glass, as well as silver and some cut gems, though the former was of more interest to mages than anyone else, and the market for gems was relatively small. But there were also any number of less ostentatious human-crafted objects that most back home regarded as curiosities at best, and junk at worst. C'leel, though, found them fascinating, along with the ones who made them. And he had managed to open up a new room the last time he'd been there though he hadn't had time to really investigate it.

He was glad he did now though, because when he peeked into it, he knew it would take him quite awhile to go over everything. There was a veritable reef of gold to begin with; he helped himself to a few simple chains and a pair of bracelets, though he didn't dare take much more. If he brought back too much at once, his foraging spot likely wouldn't be his much longer if anyone caught whorl of it. Though that didn't stop him from giving a somewhat longing look to that elaborately decorated chest that would probably take a whole team of rays to haul back home.

But among the jewelry and trinkets and gold and silver disks, were other things that tickled his fins far more than the dream of financial gain. Like this one piece, for example; it resembled a trident in overall shape but was much shorter. It had little rings instead of points, making it somewhat useless as a weapon, and a flat base that was clearly meant for sitting on a table. Maybe it was meant to be a display stand for something? He had a few of them already in various styles, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out what they were meant for. The 'tea pot' he did know the name of though. Roundish though with a flat base, a handle on one side and a little tail-like spout on the other, it was meant for holding tea. Which was somehow both a drink and a meal and considered very important by humans for reasons that were unclear to him. Regardless, this was a particularly nice one; decorated with what looked like images of colorful anemones and only slightly cracked; a must for his collection.

A day or so into his expedition though, things had gotten interesting; that was when the ship turned up. Now, anyone with good sense knew to swim well clear of humans, but C'leel had never been accused of having much good sense. Besides, he had encountered them once before. Sort of; he doubted the ragged collection of shipwrecked souls knew how they'd come to that little island, nor who it was who kept leaving them offerings of fresh fish on that particular rock. And he'd only been seen by them once, as far as he knew; there had been much muttering and rubbing of disbelieving eyes. But he had watched and listened and observed.

And that was all he'd intended to do here. He'd found himself a spot tucked out of sight- well above the water line but worth shimmying up- and close enough to an opening that he could watch and listen. These humans, it seemed, were a rough lot, many of them a bit too fond of dream slime- or rum, or whatever they called their intoxicant of choice-, and prone to getting into fights seemingly at the twitch of a fin, among other generally aggressive acts. But these self-same habits of getting silt-headed and fighting led to them dropping or otherwise losing a lot of things. And when some of those things landed temptingly near the opening he was watching from... well, he couldn't quite help himself. A lot of it would have likely fallen in anyway, and it was mostly their own fault for not being more careful with their things.

Or so he told himself. It sounded better than the fact that he was essentially becoming a petty thief the longer he stayed near the ship. And inevitably, as more small items began to go missing, the humans noticed that something unusual was going on. He really should have left then and there, but once again, curiosity and maybe a bit of mischievousness won out over good sense. Especially when they started deliberately tossing things into the water whenever they cast their nets. After all, if they were just going to give him things, who was he to refuse? And he made sure to herd plenty of fish into their nets in return, or guide them to snag on something they'd find equally interesting; it had become clear early on that they were here after the treasure, though it seemed even they couldn't haul up the large, elaborate chest.

Still, as much fun as he was having and as many new pieces for his collection as he'd gotten- the mirror and a few other things would be sold, but most of it he would keep- he felt a bit guilty just taking their things. Maybe he'd leave them a little gift before they departed? Yes, that would even things out. Maybe some of the pearls he'd collected? Humans valued them after all, and he did have that pouch of one of theirs that had originally contained some kind of leaves that smelled unpleasant; he'd discarded the original contents, but the pouch itself was still perfectly fine, and would keep the pearls from falling out until it was deliberately opened.

Distracted by his plans, he spotted a particularly nice looking fin-cover in a color that reminded him of his ray. One of the humans latest offerings no doubt. Except when he tried to pull it away so he could go herd some fish into their net.... he wound up caught in it himself and the more he struggled to free himself, the more entrapped he became. Then abruptly both he and the net were hauled up out of the water. The transition was a shocking on when one was unprepared; the gills on the sides of his neck snapped shut and his first few breaths of air were more like gasps before they settled somewhat. He thrashed and squirmed, trying to find an opening to wriggle out of the net, but to no avail.

The humans' captain was the first to approach, addressing him in his own language. C'leel paused in his thrashing both to catch his breath a moment and to hastily cast the translation spell- to those near enough to hear, it would have sounded like a single, soft and vaguely musical tone-, just in time to hear the captain call him a 'lass'. He might have laughed at the notion if his predicament hadn't been so serious. A female? Him? Really? "If you think I'm a 'lass', there must be something wrong with your eyes," he replied. "Either that or you just haven't seen a female in so long you've forgotten what one looks like."

"And the first of your men to lay hands on me- especially my tail- are going to wish they hadn't." Even at the somewhat awkward angle he couldn't miss the way the captain had been staring- particularly at his tail-, before collecting himself. Internally, he was working up a powerful charge to make good his threat. With luck, they wouldn't realize he could only do it once.

Edited (missed an 'a' X3) 2023-05-17 07:42 (UTC)

Claude was staring, and he knew he was staring, and the knowledge did not help him stop. A thing of beauty was meant to be appreciated. And she gleamed, top to tail tips, all bright scales and brighter skin. Though there was a hot burn of color in her face where she worked dilligently to get enough air.

He glanced his eyes aside for that. Manners, and all. She let out a single chiming cry, like a delphine trying to sound its whereabouts, and then--

Laughed at him. A noise like music and a knife right in the pride, words razor quick and just as precise, just as sure to their target.

Still. The men were watching, and he was no lass, after all.

Claude snorted. A good job his compass still pointed true. He folded his hand to his waist, resting it just on his belt knife to hide where his fingers had itched to try those shining flanks.

"My mistake," wry, tilting his head, knuckling his cap as one might to a slightly better equal, with heavy irony. "Goodly sir, but you will cut your skin on those nets if you panic." Stating facts was not a threat. "One way or another, Lyle and Mason here'll help you out."

"Oh, hell," Mason squeaked under his breath, only he twitched right to attention when Claude looked at him, pale with fear of more than mermen. "Uh, Yes, Captain."

But he didn't move. Lyle smirked at his antics, but didn't move either.

"Give over," snapped Claude, "unless you wanna scrub the deck with the two good teeth between ye! Move!"

Forward they went, with his boot in their belts to boost them.

The combined effect was immediate. The instant dry hands clutched wet rope and smooth soft skin, all three of them had...an experience. The most incredible grip seized their every muscle at once, unbearably tight, and didn't quite permit them pain even as they were pitched backward, hard as a good shove.

Some sort of spell, connected or transmitted by the water and each other.

Claude choked. All his hair stood on end. His heart was trying to--wiggle--unpleasantly, at having been squeezed so. He couldn't have fought the creature in this shape. And judging by their bent postures, crooked as old men and breathing ragged, neither could his men at the moment.

"You, two," slowly, with precise care against a tongue gone cotton, "go, and see Cook."

Their surgeon was gone, after all, lost in the storm.

"Cap'n?"

"Go," he repeated, in no mood. "Have'm listen to your ribs 'n' take a good swig of whatever he's got, no matter how it tastes."

That might help. It was all they had to work with. Off they limped, with a hoarse aye-aye.

"I'll fix our guest. The rest of you, jump! We'll need warm seawater to draw the lad a bath."

Just in case he thought he was going anywhere fast. Claude rounded on him, pressed as close as he dared without touching. They near could have rubbed their eyelashes together.

"You," he raked hot eyes over his catch, thin-lipped with more than fury, "ye try that again, an' I'll boil y'in it."

He would never. For one thing, the merman was too valuable alive. But it sounded good.

He didn't quite cease his struggling, though it had become clear to him at least that semi-panicked flailing would do him no good, and indeed might only get him more entangled. Instead he changed tactics to more strategic squirming, testing the net for weaknesses and trying to perhaps wriggle an arm free. It wouldn't be much, but it would be something, and better than laying there trussed up like a freshly caught tuna. He'd likely get out of the net eventually if he let the humans do it, of course, but after seeing first hand how rough this lot of them were, that was something he wanted to avoid for as long as possible.

As the captain and two of his men- named Lyle and Mason, apparently, though he was unsure which was which- found out the hard way when he released his gathered charge, knocking all three of them back. But not out; it must have been a bit less potent in air than in water, though the two men clearly wouldn't be up for much for some time. He suspected the same was true for the captain, though he made more of an effort to conceal it.

In the end, however, his efforts were for naught. He was still trapped and the captain was ordering his other men to prepare some sort of container of water for him. He wasn't sure if the fact that they were that prepared was reassuring or not. On one hand, it meant that he didn't have to summon water to sustain him long term; he could do so, summoning a sphere of water about the size of a manta cart that would remain stable and allow him to rest inside it. But on the other, that would require most of his available aether. He was no trained mage, and such an effort would leave him hungry and exhausted in a place where he was unsure how well or even if he'd be fed, and where sleeping deeply might not be advisable. Not to mention tipping his hand to the humans that he had magic beyond the simple translation trick at all.

No, if he must be trapped, best to take what accommodation he was given. For now, at least.

Then suddenly, the captain was rounding on him, leaning in til their noses nearly touched to snarl at him. C'leel's fins flared- well, as much as they could in the net, which wasn't a great deal- and his glow flared to life, previously all but invisible patterns on his tail and one side of his chest made suddenly obvious in an instinctive response to a threat. Like a puffer expanding, it was meant to intimidate, to threaten an opponent or predator into backing off. Unlike a puffer who still had its poison though, with him it was now a largely idle threat; he was no trained warrior either, and wouldn't be able to manage another charge like that for the better part of a day.

The now illuminated patterns on his body cast the captain's face in a yellowish glow, highlighting his expression of mingled fury and hunger. Of the two, it was the hunger C'leel found more threatening; it reminded him of a shark who'd locked on to a particularly fat and tasty meal, but he suspected it wasn't the desire for food that prompted it.

"I did warn you," pointed out, holding the captain's gaze, blue eyes hard and sharp as the icebergs of distant waters. Two could play at the intimidation game, and while he was at a distinct disadvantage, he'd be damned if he gave in first. "And you and yours are the ones who hauled me up here against my will, lest you forget. I've every right to defend myself. Especially with you leering at me like a half-starved barracuda looking at a shoal of herring."

Edited (I keep noticing little grammar errors. X3) 2023-05-23 07:06 (UTC)

The merman's predicament was not helped by his sudden change of movement. Of course he wouldn't lie still for the insult of the net! No sea creature ever did, only this one wriggled that great golden expanse of tail with very human hips, and that was--

It put a tug in the mast he'd never quite experienced before. There was hardly a polite place for it in leather trousers, so Claude coughed hard and stiffened all his ribs, to a one, which after all still burned with the knowledge of exactly how well-defended his catch was. His gorgeous catch he would not eat and didn't quite dare touch.

"Mercy," he breathed, same as a curse. And louder: "Aye, so ye did. We won't eat ye, lad."

It was not dinner that he fancied, and he could see the merman knew it, that cold blue regard bitter as the winter sea. The difference in how they were made didn't give the lad even one ounce less of spine! He flashed sharp fins at Claude with a fury that caused him actually to glow, gold as a lantern, and it would have taken Claude's breath away except it put him in mind of that odd cold fire that had gripped him so.

Claude could feel his own eyes widen, steel grey popping to some other, lighter shade; but he did not back away until it could be taken for courtesy, however mocking. He made a thoroughly middle class bob of leg, as might a merchant's son to betters he didn't want noticing him twice.

Before his salt life he'd known all about that. But that was the great thing about being a scallywag of the sea: Claude never hid what he wanted, nor from whom, nor why.

"It's not food we're after." The grin would not be suppressed, leached out in the rich, greedy singsong that had caught his voice. "Purchase, perhaps--or crew, or ransom--but make a meal? Out of a treasure like you? Oh, no."

Of course the life he had now came with its own rules: work hard, show no fear, take pains to be manful. Give the same rights and equal share to the lovely and the louts and--et al., and et cetera, as befit the pirate code--which might be individual to the ship, or answer the greater fleet's consensus in Cutthroats' Bay. Those things were expected of any captain worth his own salt, and nevermind how he laid his pillow.

It helped that Claude preferred the husband's share, of the work and otherwise, though of course most men hoped for true wives of their own, back on shore.

Gulls and thunder! But his mind was wandering all sorts of places it had no port of call. Purely for a pretty set of scales and the most befuddling, wonderful show of sheer backbone he'd been granted in some time.

"Oh, it's all our blame, is it?" with a huff, with low hoarse laughter, rusty with affectation. "Cheeky little thief!" He tutted cheerfully, wagging his finger with a crooked, wicked grin.

A hungry fox bared its teeth the same way at sleek, tasty prey and great, awful hounds. It remained to see which this merman would turn out to be. Either way, what fun.

"Y've a lot to learn, lad, about taking things from pirates."

C'leel didn't find the knowledge that he wasn't bound for this crew's dinner table particularly reassuring. He'd suspected as much from the beginning; despite the analogy, one didn't look that way at one's next meal. No, the captain wanted something entirely different with his body. As if he had any idea what that actually entailed or how differently they were built beyond the obvious.

His attempt at a threatening posture seemed to have at least a bit of an effect though, as the captain's gray eyes widened as they were lit by his glow, and eventually he backed off to stand more normally. The shark's grin that crossed his captor's face a moment later erased any modicum of ease that had brought him though. Naked greed behind sharp eyes, no doubt already calculating how much his catch might fetch at market. "Oh, so you'll sell me off to the highest bidder then, will you, so perhaps they might eat me?", he said, making it clear that a delay of such a fate didn't make the possibility any more pleasant. "I know you humans have some ridiculous ideas about how eating my people's flesh or drinking our blood can heal your ills or make you immortal. Well, unfortunately they do no such thing; I don't know how such a stupid old fish tale even got started. It's true that we live quite a bit longer than humans- assuming we're both healthy and lucky-, but that's all; we're as mortal as any other creature, and our flesh and blood are only that, not some sort of panacea."

His glare faltered slightly, though only for the most fleeting moment as his theft was brought up. He really couldn't deny that he'd done it, after all, but a few pilfered trinkets hardly justified his current predicament. "Your crew has such a penchant for getting silt-headed I'm almost surprised they even noticed aught was amiss," he said somewhat disdainfully. He doubted human terms for intoxication were quite the same as his own, but the context likely made the meaning fairly clear nonetheless. "And I was going to leave you something in return before I left; I've been foraging pearls- among other things- for days now, and where I wouldn't miss a pouch full, I imagine it'd be worth a great deal more to you."

Never mind that such a notion was something he'd only just come up with to soothe a guilty conscience, rather than something he'd planned from the beginning. And obviously they'd be getting no such thing now, even if he did manage to escape.

It was not food he was thinking of, nor was it the idea of a nice hot meal that had him all but licking his chops. No, indeed.

Claude took a sharp breath and held it, let it out again slow, the same as a good steady draw on a pipe. Settled the nerves and tempered hotter, more primal humours.

He could see, now, that he'd given the lad a solid fright: his fins wavered at their full extent, and even slitted in wrath his eyes darted ceaselessly, trying to watch all of them at once as he wriggled against the net. Claude snorted, quiet, and considered that. In the first place, he wouldn't force attention on the unwilling--though of course his captive had no way of knowing that. And in the second, they had an audience: or he did, and one that counted on him for their lives and their livelihood.

"Steady." A reminder to himself, and reassurance to his catch--a tempting dish in any sense, even still trying to skewer him with a chilly gaze. "Steady, lad. The man that'd make su-chii out of you has more money than sense, and that'd be a poor sale."

Though to hear his hope of a fortune in miracle blood so neatly unraveled--did knock some wind out of his proverbial sails.

"Unfortunate," gruffly. "That is a loss: not to grant a child sight by cutting your thumb, no worse than the slip of a hook, nor spare his poor mother an early grave." His free hand tapped his chin, tugged thoughtfully at a beard gold as carrots in the sun. "Suppose'n there's no such thing as perfect medicine."

But the merman had said several other odd things, besides.

"...Silt...?" Claude squinted, thought. "Oh, that. Some as were celebratin' early. Caught you right enough, though, snootful or no."

"Captain? Uh, sir?" Jarvis hesitated. He always did, except in battle, all arms and legs and gander-pale no matter how he sunburned.

Claude twisted in place, exasperated, and slid him a look that near enough made the man's knees rattle. "Well?"

"Sir." Clearing his throat, the stork of a man gangled his way into Claude's personal space--and as near the strange, enthralling creature on their decks as he quite dared. "Your bawth is ready."

A ransom originally, Jarvis had a sharp head for sums, meticulous organizational skill, and that fancy, too-good accent like an orchestrated yawn.

"Perfect," was Claude's sole summation of this news.

Jarvis cleared his throat. "Our--" hot-eyed, with an envious pinch of the pale, pale mouth, "guest seems, perhaps, overburdened with his ordeal, and quite weighted down with tackle that's not necessarily his own, originally. You are, therefore, naturally within right of," he paused, and one could half watch his mental dictionary flittering through its officious little pages, "...restitution."

Claude huffed a laugh. "In English english, Quartermaster?"

"Hmm." Jarvis rolled his tongue in search of shorter words and arrived at: "...Plunder, sir."

That one little case? The lad's arm was wound tight around it, as though it held the universe's very secrets. And he had mentioned pearls.

However justified Claude's claim might not be, hesitation never won a man anything. He fair swaggered into place, smirking down at his captive.

"Any more tricks?" He moved decisively, to keep the knife neat and straight in his hand. "Y'gonna curse me? Sing me a storm, or a pod of killer whales to smash my ship? Hold still, now--" He cut without touching his guest or the net itself, cleaner than a close shave. "...There."

Might made right, and just like that the satchel was his.

"Shall I," Jarvis paused, not quite reaching, "analyze it, sir?"

"No!" perhaps too sharp, gruff and too quick, "No, thankee. The lad'll want it with him, I'm sure, or at least close by." And louder, for the assembly: "You'll all have your share, soon as it's due."

For this, there was a collective exhale, their first return to something like normal order--and an abrupt, group shiver of coarse laughter. After this long at sea, there was not a clean mind among or between them.

Certainly his own wandered more than he might wish.

"Understood, sir," Jarvis tutted, some hardly readable and longsuffering expression plastered stiff on his face. "Very good. I'll see you're--" a pause, flick of the eyes up and down, "not disturbed?"

"Good man!" barked Claude, with a rusty laugh of his own. "Now, then--"

There was a trick to lifting with the knees, and not with the back, and it made the turn of the net easier. With one great haul he at last had an armful of merman, slung headfirst over Claude's shoulder and not at all quiet about it, fins flashing to cut, hands thumping good and hard with a yell.

Insults rained bitterly on his back.

"If ye bite me," Claude snarled, tilting hard under their matched weight, "I'll leave y'for the gulls--" He gasped, sharpish, and dropped his voice. His teeth were gritted. But not from pain. "Don't wriggle so, lad!"

In response, the great golden tail gave one wicked, awful thrash, but they were too close together for it to drub him, and he was too well-braced to be pulled down. His men scattered like ninepins, or like crows, flowing together around the commotion in a lumpish cloud of rough jesting.

"I mean it!" Low, urgent into the heaving flanks of his thrashing, wondrous catch. "Will you hold still--"

Of course he didn't.

They made it through the narrow cabin door just the same. Somehow, somehow, he got the net loose and his wonderful, irate gilded prize into the washtub with only a moderate thrashing.

His everything was askew; they'd knocked into everything there was to bump over or nudge against. His lip was cut, by net or fins. He could taste the salt of his own blood.

The merman glared up at him with pure affront, seething fit to murder, but for some wonder held his tongue.

"Welcome," panted Claude, thoroughly discombobulated, "aboard."

Oh yes, that had gotten to him. Could it be he still had a soft spot for what was left of Tron? Or was he simply offended at Clu's assessment of his handiwork? Whatever the case he made note of it. The bit about Dyson, though, was what prompted his next response, namely a derisive snort.

"If Dyson'd had his way, Tron wouldn't have survived long enough to turn into Rinzler," he said. "And he wouldn't know decent codework if it hit him in that giant head of his. Glitch tried to brute-force hack an already damaged program; the fact that Tron didn't derezz completely before someone found him is astonishing. I can't take credit for most of the physical repair work- that was another of his allies-, but the fact that he remained himself as long as he did? That was all me."

For all the good it had done in the end. But they'd both known what the inevitable outcome would be. Clu had simply allowed Tron to do some good, accomplish something for the resistance before the trojan code claimed him.

The rest of it though... he briefly debated replying at all, but the lag was miniscule. It was a relatively quick decision tree; all in all, his best chance of survival and escape was to keep his captor talking and find out as much as possible.

"And I can do a lot of things. I can't say whether or not what you want is on the list unless you tell me what it is. The real question though, is whether or not I will do it. Which is unlikely, but also depends partly on what the task is. So come out and tell me what you want from me, cause this conversation will just keep looping if you don't dump that data, and I suspect neither of us has time for that."

Frank- full name Francis Foulques- pressed himself into the corner of the hallway alcove, trying desperately to calm his breathing and stop his heart from feeling as though it was trying to hammer its way out of his chest. It shouldn't have been anything! He'd brushed past one of the other employees- a known Alpha- on his way out of the man's office after he'd emptied the trash. He'd muttered an automatic apology, moving his cleaning cart out of the way to let the man pass, to which the man had offered an equally automatic assurance that it was no problem. Such incidents were a dime a dozen when one worked in a busy office building.

But then the other man's gaze lingered on him as he walked away. Not for long, but long enough for Frank- who made an effort to avoid attention under most circumstances, especially from Alphas- to notice. But still it might have been nothing if not for the fact that the gaze and the whiff of the man's scent that came with it brought a flush to his cheeks that wasn't entirely due to embarrassment. Something deep within him lurched at that, the shameful and disgusting creature that he kept locked away trying once again to claw its way free, and he was certain in that moment that the other man knew, that he could see every dirty secret of his body and mind. That his carefully constructed façade would be torn away, revealing the weak, broken, disgusting thing that lay beneath.

It was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous to think that anyone could determine that much from a brief glance and a whiff of scent. And he knew that, logically. Yet it did nothing to calm his racing heart or half-panted breathing, nor silence the shameful, disgusting creature in him that wanted, needed an Alpha's gaze, their touch, their scent, their cock...

No! He tried to firmly clamp down on that thought, block it out and crush it like the weakness it was, but it was no use. The flush wouldn't leave his pale cheeks and images of huge, hard cocks with knots beginning to swell came to the forefront of his mind. 'Stop squirming, Francis. If you can't bear a child, you can at least take your fucking like a good little omega.'

There was no doubt about it. The suppressants were losing their effect, even taking a double dose. And dread of the inevitable consequences of this joined the other feelings roiling in his gut. But maybe... maybe he could hold it off awhile longer? He couldn't be revealed here. He saw these people nearly every day; they couldn't, mustn't know about his shameful secret, his disgusting weakness. Maybe... maybe a triple dose would work? Yes, that would help; it had to. It would buy him some time until he could get more pills or at least lock himself away in his apartment to suffer through it alone. Yes, surely a triple dose would do it.

Peeling himself away from the wall, he passed in front of the door to the unused office the alcove led to, to the water cooler on the opposite side of the hallway, fumbling for the bottle of suppressants in his pocket with shaking hands. Thank God this part of the hallway wasn't used very much at this time of day...

Edited 2023-07-18 05:03 (UTC)

Unfortunately for Frank, Kyle the server guru was both an asshole and extremely good at his job. Meaning he could not be fired, no matter what he did or said, and so he did and said whatever he wanted.

That left people who dealt with Kyle on the daily just--needing a minute, once in a while, to take in some air. To take a walk, and think about murder while grabbing some water, contemplating the paper cup and literally getting a grip: not crushing it, just observing, steadying their hands.

Because omegas who lashed out were emotional and difficult to work with. And nice nails was in fact a compliment! Just not from Kyle.

Clu--Clark--marched to the water cooler on autopilot, shoved the lever down like it stole something, and inhaled a full cup with zero situational awareness. He took a deep, steadying breath. And blinked at sudden motion in his peripheral vision: somebody trying very hard to not be seen, and thereby making themselves more visible. This one looked more than half-ready to run straight past him.

Oh, hey! He knew this guy. Knew about him, anyway. He'd seen him before, usually with the cart, always attended by the faint, pleasant chemical smell of random cleaners. He did the windows, and similar tasks--quiet, calm, very efficient.

Right now he was shaking, flat out, like a leaf in a storm, shoulders hitching with his breath as he palmed out a truly monstrous number of familiar pills. The big white ones with a dark blue notch where you were supposed to cut them in half.

He had a fistful ready, uncut, and looked like he'd choke them down dry rather than dare approach the water cooler or ask Clark to move. Clark, who most figured was an alpha at first. He had shoulders. He took up room. Encroaching love handles had somehow only made him more rectangular.

He had nice nails and a wedding band and he was doing the hum, low and steady, almost subvocal. The deep one Beth had teased him about, when she was full of what had turned out to be twins, laughing and letting him feel her belly.

Letting him purr, she'd called it. Flatly omega crooning. Weird instinct, at a weird time, for no reason he could identify.

Clu cleared his throat, pressed his tongue down on the noise. Maybe it was just because the guy was clearly terrified: clutching his coverall, gripping the pills, head darting on a swivel.

"Hey, sorry." Clu tried to make himself smaller, kept his hands visible. "I literally did not see you there. You okay?"

He did not look okay, somehow greying and flushed at the same time, deadly pallor straining to turn a rich, inviting red. He didn't seem super aware of his surroundings, either, except to keep himself curled protectively against surfaces. Getting pressure, even if he wasn't quite aware of it, and looking for somewhere safe.

His eyes were way too big. Staring, white on all sides, but on the inside dark and bottomless. Was that the medication, or something else?

"Frank," Clu tried, slowly, keeping his gaze on his face. Didn't move towards him, didn't loom, mechanically pulling a fresh drink in a new cup. "it's Frank, right? I'm Clark."

Crucially, Clu wasn't blocking any exits or cutting off his path. Just offering him the water, if he wanted it, nice and easy. It might even distract him from what was definitely a dangerous dose.

Lungs, liver, heart: enough suppressants eventually suppressed everything.

"I've seen you around." Quietly, since the guy seemed wired for sound, for reaction of any kind. Clu moved very slowly, but he moved: putting himself between Frank and any other personnel that might come barrelling down the hall. "They really are easier with water, man."

What was it about being hyper aware of one's own body that sometimes made one unaware of much else? Whatever it was, Frank was mentally cursing it now, colorfully and prolifically. There was someone between him and the water cooler. Someone he knew, or at least someone he'd seen around; one of the twins. By the smallest of mercies it was Clark, not his Alpha brother and mate, but that didn't stop his heart- which a moment ago had been attempting to hammer itself out of his chest- from seemingly lodging itself in his throat.

He'd seen the pills. He couldn't have failed to see them. And there was no excuse he could offer that any sane person would accept to cover what he'd been doing. Which meant that he knew. Both what he was and what he'd been doing to hide it. Of course he could probably smell him now too, this close by. He was so stupid! He thought he'd been careful, letting only the bare minimum of people know his shameful secret. His doctors knew, though some of them didn't know of each other. His employer knew, but only in the sense of what was required for legal purposes, and that was tucked away in a file somewhere.

But no one had known what he'd been doing to suppress his own shameful and disgusting nature. No one until now.

Despite what Clark might believe, Frank wasn't exactly quiet by nature. But had been pounded into his head growing up that it was better for him to be seen and not heard. 'No one cares what comes out of an Omega's mouth, only what goes in,' had been a saying by the Alphas in his community that had generally prompted amusement from their fellows. That was, an Omega's ability to cook well and suck cock was far more important than anything they might have to say. And staying generally silent made it far easier to avoid saying the wrong thing and arousing an Alpha's anger. 'Talk to me like that again, you ungrateful little tramp, and I'll throw you right back out on the streets where I found you!'

Now though, when he needed to speak, he couldn't. His lips had seemingly forgotten how to form words, and his heart- which remained stuck in his throat- prevented any sound from escaping anyway. Until, that was, he heard a sound himself. A low, soothing, almost sub-vocal hum that he realized after a moment was coming from Clark. A familiar sound, one he and the other Omegas had often used to comfort each other. It was that purr and its familiarity that finally managed to unstick his heart from his throat and allow him to get a proper breath.

And with that breath came awareness of the other man's scent, which only drove home the urgency of suppressing that broken, disgusting creature within him before it was too late. If it wasn't already. Aside from the soothing sound Clark was treating him like one might a trapped animal, one likely to bolt or lash out at any given moment. Quiet words, no sudden movements. It seemed to help a bit, giving Frank the courage to slowly reach out and take the cup of water with a hand that still trembled faintly, though thankfully not so much as to spill its contents.

Clark really did have nice nails, he noticed, focusing for a moment on his hand as he took the cup. Perfectly manicured, with nail polish n a nice, subtle shade of gold. And that was hardly his only attractive feature. He was handsome, well muscled without being too bulky, with strong, squared shoulders, and finely formed thighs that his well fitted pants did very little to hide. All of which was far too distracting just then. And of course being twins, his brother was just as good looking as he was. A bit slimmer, but with a ready smile and charming personality that seemed tailor-made to put most anyone at ease. Despite his easygoing nature, though, the bulge that graced the front of Kent's well fitted pants left no doubt as to which of the twins was the Alpha. That bulge was downright distracting at the best of times, and the thought of what must lie beneath it...

Oh God, what was he thinking?! Lusting after someone else's mate when they were right in front of him? Trying to help him even? He really was a dirty little whore wasn't he? And too weak and needy to banish the thought or fight the way it deepened the flush on his cheeks. "I... yes," he managed finally. "I'm Frank. And thank you. For the water." Which he made no motion to drink. Nor to swallow the pills he'd gotten out. Just held them in faintly trembling hands while not quite looking Clark in the eye, unable to bring himself to do it in front of the other man. To give the other no doubt about how weak and broken he truly was.

Edited 2023-07-22 02:07 (UTC)

The hum embarrassed Clu. It was a weird tic of User physiology he'd never dreamed existed, that still felt alien and out of his control. But Frank didn't seem to mind it at all. He actually relaxed for it, just a little. It thawed him out a bit.

It took him another few tries to get his words out, a shivery interval that had Clu alert for swaying, for rolling eyes or vertigo--any sign of a faint. That would need prompt medical attention. But Frank held reasonably steady, if still a bit jittery, not quite looking up or down.

Clu watched, considered that, and splayed his fingers just a little, so they would gleam.

It wasn't his hands that riveted Frank's gaze, that gathered a rich, deepening flush all the way up from his shirt collar. His chest must be glowing. Trim and sleek, from what Clu could see in turn--the other omega was slighter and finer-boned than he knew himself to be.

There was something almost fragile in the furtive, hungry way Frank kept looking-and-looking-away. It was strangely intriguing. And he was doing it for longer stretches. Lost in related thoughts, maybe.

He had almost a fistful of pills in his hand, but he was not taking them. And meanwhile the hallway was starting to--waft--with that scent like a fallen angel given human form. Clu needed to think. He needed to triangulate, for both of them: this was a mixed-alignment building. The longer they stood there, the narrower their option set would be.

"Sure," hummed Clu, feeling it tickle the backs of his teeth. That purr wanted out, and it did not care about his personal comfort level, rising to meet the growing warmth in the other omega's scent. "Any time, man. You looked kinda thirsty."

...Shit. Shit. The guy was clearly in distress, and he was flirting! Shit.

Nobody used the three-eleven, did they? It was supposed to be empty. That was right up the hall, tucked away in an alcove on their diagonal.

"Y'know," he turned, slowly, still between Frank and whatever might come their way, without strictly boxing him in. Clu gave a deep stretch, not quite managing a real yawn, using it to dig his knuckles into his back. "I was thinking of taking a little break. You could walk with me, for a bit." Flicker of gold fingers, down at the cup. "Just--take a sip, maybe?"

"You're really," he smelled incredible, "looking kind of warm."

Frank had become used to watching people's body language over the years. It had been a necessary survival skill where he'd grown up, and and even after he'd gotten out, before he'd managed to get on his feet. While those who claimed to be experts at reading everyone's body language were generally full of it- too much depended on knowing a particular individual for that to be effective-, there were some general patterns he'd noticed. And right then the way Clark moved his hand so his nail polish caught the light seemed a bit too intentional to be mere coincidence.

Which meant that he'd likely noticed how he'd been staring. And telling himself that there was no possible way Clark could know the kinds of thoughts he was having about him and his mate did nothing to quell his self-loathing. Clark was a married man, for God's sake! As was Kent, both being loving brothers and mates. That he would even have such thoughts about them was shameful. Disgusting.

He hated his body for prompting such thoughts, the kind of thoughts that had once prompted him to try touching himself to try and finish himself off after one of the Alphas had finished with him. He'd thought the man was gone, but he'd apparently forgotten his watch and had come back into the room to find him in the middle of his explorations. 'So even an Alpha isn't enough to satisfy you?', the man had sneered. 'I see why they call you the town bicycle; everyone's had a ride on you, eh little whore?'

But more, he hated himself for not being strong enough to quash them. To keep control of himself. The suppressants had helped with that. Until a couple years later they no longer did, so he'd started doubling up his doses. Thank God that his doctors hadn't required blood tests when he'd asked for the prescriptions. But now, almost two years later, even the double dose was losing its effect. The triple dose in his hand was a risk, but he'd been taking the double does for so long, and only felt a bit ill for the first week or so of doing it, that surely it would be just a matter of adjustment, right?

But he was too much of a coward to take them in front of Clark. So instead he tried to focus on their conversation, if it could be called such. Better than focusing on the way his shirt pulled taut across his chest when he stretched like that. Or how it pulled the crotch of his pants up just a bit, showing off his own bulge, which was rather impressive for an omega. Or how it was becoming increasingly more difficult not to focus on such things. He cursed his weakness.

And he didn't just look warm, he felt warm. A bit too much and too persistently to call it a simple flush. Dread clutched at him, twisting in his gut. God, why now? He wanted to run, to hide, but there was no way to hide from the dirty, disgusting creature he was, not now. And nowhere to run that he could be sure of getting to safely on his own.

He finally closed his fist around the pills, lowering the hand containing them, and forced himself to take a sip of water. Then took a longer one because the cold water seemed to give him a bit of focus, and he hadn't quite realized how much his earlier half-panting had dried his throat.

"Thank you. Again," he said. Then after a brief moment. "There's... an empty office across the hall." Clark seemed to be trying subtly herd him that way anyway. "I've got keys." For that office and any other parts of the building that didn't require security to buzz someone in; one of the perks of his job in maintenance. And it meant, that if all else failed, the door could be locked. From the inside. He stuffed the pills hastily back into his pocket before he changed his mind so he'd have a free hand to fumble with his rather heavy keyring, trying to find the one for three-eleven.

Edited 2023-07-22 08:25 (UTC)

They didn't know each other well, but Clu knew when he was being watched. At one point it had almost been his job: people needed a leader who was there for them, and that meant somebody they could see and hear and touch. And he thrived on it.

Didn't hurt that he was carved like an action figure: Flynn had tried, once, to explain that it was hard for him. That he actively struggled with being attracted to men and women, that he felt it should have been impossible for him to be a widower with a dynamite ex-girlfriend, and still really enjoy--hanging out with the guys.

Clu could've said he had the opposite problem. Except, for him, it wasn't a problem or a puzzle to be solved. He was in the same functional orbit as freaking Tron. And Shaddox. Even Zuse, in his own unique way--who, after all, had rezzed in bundled with Eckert originally.

Clu had a vast and terrible hell of a lot to answer for. Most of it he could never go back and fix. But he'd never struggled with what he wanted.

He loved attention. Certainly he dressed for it. And Frank was enjoying looking, so Clu gave him something to look at, hips perched to sway on their way down the hall.

Watching Frank bend to try the keys, Clu was having just the tiniest moral crisis about whether he was taking advantage. But their alternatives were--not optimal. Not realistic, and not physically safe. And Frank needed his help.

"No problem," was Clark's answer, fuzzed with the hum. But something else was gnawing at him, prompted him to add: "Y'know, I take those!" Gentle, genial. "One and a half, usually."

They were huge--four or five made a literal handful. Frank blinked down at them, then shoved that nightmare dose back into his pocket with just a faint tremor. He drank his water, instead, dark eyes brightening with sudden surprise for how good it tasted, how badly he'd needed it.

Clu knew that thirst, and intimately knew its culprit: the building burn of want that gradually consumed everything else, that turned food and water and even sleep into bitter chores to be endured.

And he also knew, intimately, about that altogether more pressing need. He wouldn't leave the poor guy to it alone.

As for three-eleven: "Yeah," soft, non-threatening and automatic, then with bright realization: "Yeah! Same wavelength, man. After you."

With the door open, Clu was not shy about brushing very close against Frank, not quite tangling their thighs on the way in. Just a rub, not enough to topple them.

Being unused, the sole features in the office were the abandoned default desk and a sad, rickety-looking spin chair. He edged past Frank with a friendly pat on the shoulder.

Did not lock the door: did not want to try taking the keys from him. He probably felt trapped enough, in the wash of still rising sensation that would inevitably take him over.

"Better?" It wasn't just about privacy. Clu had always found the fluorescents hell, right about this time on his own calendar.

Still. At least they had the room to themselves.

"Listen," he tried brightly, all suggestion as he sauntered back into Frank's personal space. Experimental but thorough touch, caressing his arm, looping that hand to his waist. "You're, real cute. I wanna kiss you." Raised eyebrow, grinning. "What do you want?"

Frank didn't want to look. Or rather, he wanted to, wanted to do more than look, but desperately wished he didn't. Because it was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong for an Omega to lust after someone else's mate. Omegas were made to submit, to receive, not to demand or to take. To be of service to others, especially Alphas, with their actions, with their time, and especially with their bodies. To satisfy an Alpha's sexual needs and desires, to be a willing and submissive body to fuck, and most importantly, to bear their children.

Something Frank, broken as he was, had never been able to do, and so he'd been expected to be all the more available to any Alpha who wanted someone to warm their bed. Heat had usually meant several Alphas having their turns with him, because who had time to nurse a broken Omega through the full length of his heat? Heat had meant waking up alone in an empty bed, several times over, too weak and needy to refuse whoever came in next. Virtually the only improvement once he'd gotten out was that it was the same Alpha throughout, but if they had other things to do, he could be left languishing for hours til they came back from wherever they'd been. He'd learned quickly not to ask.

And heat had always meant feeling varying degrees of awful after it passed. Usually from dehydration, but a few particularly rough sessions- usually from Alphas in rut- had left him so bruised and sore that he could barely walk or sit properly afterwards. Back home another Omega would usually get him am ice pack for his battered groin after such sessions. Once getting out, he'd had to do it himself.

He hated his body, its brokenness, its weakness. The instincts that turned him into a desperate little pile of need every few months, the ones that he'd tried so, so hard to banish and suppress. And in the end, failed to.

"I'm... supposed to take one," Frank admitted quietly, fumbling with his keys. "But that hasn't been enough for almost two years now." The implications of that statement would be obvious and disturbing. No doctor would write a prescription for more than a person's recommended dose of suppressants, which meant that Frank had to have been sneaking around to several different ones to maintain his supply. Not illegal, but risky for multiple reasons. Of course, having seen him ready to down three pills, Frank thought Clark had figured that much out already.

Then once he'd gotten the door open... Well, office doors really weren't designed for two people to walk through side by side, so the way Clark brushed against him as they entered could almost have been written off as accidental, even if it did draw a sharp intake of breath from him. He took perhaps slightly longer than necessary closing the door behind them and setting his keys and cup- now mostly empty- on the corner of the desk that was one of the room's only two real features. He'd intended to grip the edge of the desk, to use that as an anchor to try and get himself back under control, foolish though he knew it was. He nodded once without looking, when asked if it was better. It wasn't really, not in the ways that mattered, but at least there was now a door between him and abuilding where numerous Alphas worked.

When Clark kept speaking though, he turned almost reluctantly to face him, only for the other to saunter back into his space, posture definitely suggestive, caressing his arm, putting a hand on his waist. Complimenting him, for some reason. And then... asking what he wanted? His mouth worked in soundless shock for a moment. No one asked that of him. Not in this sort of context, anyway. Why would they? No matter what he would answer, the result would be the same in the end.

His heart pounded and his breathing picked up for a whole different reason, the gentle touches making it even harder to form words. "I...", he started, his voice catching a bit, but stalled as he didn't know what to follow it with. What did he want?

He wanted more. He wanted less. He wanted to throw himself into the other omega's arms. He wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. He wanted laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to cut out the part of himself that made him even think of accepting the implied offer with a dull blade.

He swallowed hard, tried again. "I... I can't," he managed, trying to make himself sound certain and failing miserably. Though he couldn't quite make himself move away, or brush off the touches. He mentally cursed his body yet again. "I... you're married! I can't, I... what would your mate think?"

That...did not figure. It simply did not add correctly. The sheer, openmouthed disbelief: I can't, with no small quaver--was he--yeah, Frank was frightened--of him? Of his code-brother, maybe?

Of something. Something that was very--not wrong, exactly, but--orthogonal to Clu's mental map. Definite data mismatch. Did not compute.

The guy was, really scared.

...Holy shit. Was there a vengeful boyfriend waiting in the wings somewhere?

Clu stood there for a second, two, realized he'd frozen. He kept smiling and gently, gently, caressed the other man's hip. Did not let go. Couldn't make himself step back from--from all of that, curled protective posture, big dark eyes, lithe frame that was starting to, radiate, something strong and sweet and a little hellish.

And Frank wasn't pushing him away.

"Sorry?" Clu tried, with a question mark, because it was definitely a question. "Um..." and seized on the clearest available data: "Two yea--Frank, buddy," slowly, blowing out a tuneless whistle for the math of it, "that's--I'm not a doctor, but..." he cleared his throat. "Look. It is too late for you to take any more of those, okay?"

He'd wondered if Frank was planning to kill himself, with that many, with the jittery, furtive outlook. Only then they'd gotten to talking--sort of--and it had seemed like something else. Accidental, a little embarrassing--risky in a building stuffed to the rafters with beta arrogance and alpha sprinkles for dessert--

But not like something they couldn't do, something that had those pretty eyes turning the size of dinner plates at him.

Like it would be wrong, for Clu to help him. Or maybe, just, regular? Wrong? Insufficient data.

"Hey," softly, "this is a natural thing. It just happens, sometimes." He skipped right by it's not your fault because it sounded like an after school movie even to him, the weird 'empowering' ones that were mostly omega-shaming, and landed on, "My mate can take care of himself!" Big, friendly grin: "You, um, you let me deal with him."

"I can help you." He leaned in, murmured on his ear. "Would you like that?"

Edited 2023-07-24 13:40 (UTC)

Frank didn't know what made Clark briefly freeze like that. Shock? Dismay? Pity, maybe? It didn't seem like anger, but then it was starting to get difficult to focus on his expressions and body language. In fact it took an active effort to focus on anything but the gentle touches, Clark's hand on his arm, on his waist... He tried not to imagine his hand straying a bit further south, maybe unzipping his fly, and- no, no, he absolutely shouldn't think that way! Not about a man mated and married!

But as usual his accursed body with its dirty, shameful instincts thwarted him, and the image prompted the first stirrings in his groin. It was far too late to back out now, whether or not he wanted it. "I... I know," he said, regarding the suppressants. He knew what he'd been doing wasn't exactly healthy, but the alternative made the risks worth it. "I know it's too late now." Far, far too late. "And I wasn't trying to... I just thought that if a double dose wasn't working any more, maybe a triple would?" A gamble that he'd almost made, fueled by a cocktail of hormones and desperation. If it hadn't gone in his favor... or if Clark hadn't been there... No way to know, now. Now he was in this, and no one knew better than an Omega that heat, once it got its insidious claws into you, only had one resolution.

Natural, he said. It was natural, and not to worry about his mate. A great many things were natural. A disease was natural. That didn't mean he wanted to experience them. "I... don't want it to be natural," he said, finally sounding certain about something even if his voice still shook a bit. "I hate it; I hate that it's part of me. I thought... if I suppressed it long enough, consistently enough, maybe it would just... stop. Or at least... at least I could pretend..." That he wasn't broken. Weak. Needy. A whore.

But despite all his efforts, his body had proven once again that he was all those things. There was no pretending he was anything more than a shameful, disgusting little tramp who would do almost anything to get a cock in his hole. Clark leaned in, whispering in his ear, and he shivered despite how warm he felt. His jeans started to feel a bit tight, and wetness began to gather between his legs. He wanted it. He hated that he wanted it, hated himself for wanting it, for being unable to resist. But he wanted what Clark was offering.

"...Yes.", he said, more breath than voice. But with Clark this close- he wanted him closer still, all over him, on top of him, inside him- there was no need to be louder. "I want.... I need your help."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 6 of 10

Two heads are better than one

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

but the ocean kept turning blank pages - Mermay vs pirates AU; captivity, various dubious cruelty

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

the slowest boat to china is carrying the most goods!

no subject

Sexual healing- CW mentions of several types of past abuse, current self loathing/substance abuse

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject