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.

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Clu watched the sysadmin fight to control his temper. Part of him expected to be struck, or to get a disc right through center mass for his defiance. His code-brother could offer no denials, no sharp, defensive comebacks. He knew damn well that it was all true. But that had seldom stopped a tyrant when they were told something they didn't want to hear. He could practically feel the angry static crackling off of the sysadmin, just waiting for a sudden, violent release.

One that never came. Instead, he swallowed it down and responded with a deep shrug and hung his head for a moment, a gesture of defeat and contrition too calculated and practiced to be at all sincere. Which was further proven as he edged further into Clu's personal space. Much closer and he'd be right on top of him; he was already within arm's reach. Would he keep going, maybe haul Clu to his feet and back him against the wall if he continued to defy him. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Or maybe he'd force him down and pin him to the floor. As close as he was getting, a thought flickered through Clu's processes that the admin might even enjoy it, in a way other than vengeful glee at seeing this long-time bug in his code humbled. He seemed like the type who might get off on that sort of thing; after all wasn't it him who'd taken the games and changed them from the simple entertainment and athletics they were meant to be back into the sort of orgy of suffering and deresolution that they been under the MCP.

But those fleeting thoughts about the admins potential proclivities were canceled out by what he said next. Whatever Clu had been expecting him to say, what he did say wasn't it. An outline of a grim scenario, an inevitable end. Some of Clu's defiance finally faded as resources were devoted to processing that data. He could be lying. The sysadmin was no stranger to lies after all; he'd lied to Tron, to the system at large, even to his own User. But as much as part of him wished it were so, no matter how he processed it, it still pinged as true to his hacker's instincts. Even if it was a lie, it would fall apart the moment he was presented with any actual code and data relevant to the situation. Programs could lie, but data didn't, and if the admin had anyone who could falsify data well enough to fool him, he wouldn't need Clu to begin with.

He could still be just plain wrong, of course. The data the stats programs presented could be faulty, or the admin could be reading it incorrectly, but given his code brother's obsession with perfection, he found that scenario highly unlikely. He wouldn't have made such a dire pronouncement unless the projections had been double and triple checked by all relevant programs. No, by all indications, this was real, and they were truly heading for disaster.

The question then left to him was, what was he going to do about it? Because his directive demanded that he do something. Help Kevin Flynn in whatever way he needs. Those were the words that lay at the core of his being, and with Flynn and countless of his programs trapped inside the system, he had to act on this data. Attempting to pass the task off onto some other program- if there even was another program who could handle it- wasn't an option.

A treacherous part of him wanted to throw it back in the admin's face, to refuse out of sheer spite. The ultimate 'frag you and the lightcycle you rode in on'. But he couldn't. As much as he loathed the idea, he would almost certainly need the resources of central processing to affect anything on that scale. And his directive came once again to the forefront of his processing. Trapped as he was, what Flynn needed was a stable, healthy system. And for that he needed a stable, healthy sysadmin. Not this tyrant who was gradually spiraling into complete glitching insanity, derezzing and perverting all he'd been tasked to build up and protect. And none of that would happen without something- someone- to keep him in check. Decision gate reached.

"You do know this mess is your fault, right?", Clu finally responded. "You and your glitching obsession with destroying the ISOs at any cost. You introduced a virus into your own system, into part of its BIOS. Do you have any glitching idea how insane that was?! Especially when the code you infected was already known for producing unpredictable effects! It's amazing you didn't crash the whole system right then and there. You created this clusterfault, and you deserve to suffer every bit of the consequences for it."

He sighed, and then he began speaking again, though his tone was still bitter and angry, it was no longer laced with venom. "But Flynn and the innocent programs of the system don't deserve to suffer for your shortsighted, glitching insanity. So I'll make you a deal. Restore the games to their original specifications. No more deresolutions, all safeties back in place, and keep them that way. Do that, and I'll help you clean up this clusterfault. I can't promise it'll be perfect- the only way to fully restore the BIOS to its original functioning capacity would be to eliminate the virus in the sea, and who the frag knows if that's even possible at this point-, but with the resources of central processing, I can repair enough of the damage to prevent the disaster you outlined, and keep similar scenarios from recurring in the future. Deal?"

He knew, of a certainty, that fate had not granted his promised husband the easiest path in life. Bountiful and fine were the orchards of his kingdom, fields and gardens fairly teeming with every kind of life that could sprout, creep, fly, or crawl. It was not want that had shaped Caleb's people, nor Caleb himself, but loss. How he still and always would miss dear, cautious Thomas, and Samuel's bold, brave laughter. That truth had wended its way through their letters, a steady undercurrent in all Caleb had told him--their missives being the best way that he could--just how hard it had been, at first, to shed the long golden afternoon of boyhood for sudden total leadership. How he'd shouldered a kingdom without complaint, and had flourished under that responsibility: but just because he could do it, and indeed excelled at it, that did not make his task an easy one.

It was good, to remember and treasure these men he would now never get the chance to meet. To hold them close because his mate still did.

But they were very far from this bed.

And it was difficult to think at all, with Caleb's vows pressed close and gentle in his ear, hot enough to tickle his brain.

It was not his brain that hitched obligingly into the offered fingers, twitching and lively in the narrowing loop of his hand. Clevon was caught, drawn along faster, faster, coils of hot pleasure chased by his promised husband's fingers. Pleasure that only deepened for that long, low sound half-felt against his back, a hungry thrum too harsh to be a moan, but too low and rich for a growl.

Caleb throbbed against him in turn, almost in tandem, and Clevon found himself unable to keep still, instinct much stronger than sense dragging his hips up and back, and a devilish, contrary impulse pushing him to do it slowly, to rub up tight. To pleasure his mate.

He realized with a start, with a sharp, hungry puff of breath, that if it came down to it he would just as much enjoy getting his back painted--as long as alpha wanted that, too.

But as for feasting--oh--

He could hardly take it.

"Oh? Am I a custard, then?" It came out breathy, uneven. He didn't hold back a sharp, bright purr for being stroked. "Y'wish to devour me, m'lord?"

He bared his throat; he rolled his neck; he tried, valiantly, to roll his hips in that treacherous, perfect grip.

"Or simply to take a bite?"

Even in his current state, Frank didn't dare press forward, but when Clark leaned in, bringing their legs and lips together, he readily parted his own in return, twining his tongue with the other Omega's. He brought his own hands up to caress Clark's smooth skin, tracing down his sides and over his hips, though his efforts felt clumsy in comparison to the other's gentle touches on his collarbone, his chest. They were wonderful, both soothing and exciting, cooling and heating, and combined with Clark's voice seemed to send sparks of eager electricity straight to his groin.

"Yes," he said breathlessly. "Yes, I..." And then Clark's hand was stroking his cock, loose and lazy, as if they had all the time in the world, and he was robbed of words for a moment as his cock twitched, eager for more, and the only sound that came out of him was a hungry moan. "Yes...", he panted again once he'd regained his voice. "I want to... Want you... both of you..."

He shouldn't. It was weak, and sinful. But so was he, and in the midst of heat, with their hands and bodies on his, need pounding through his blood with every heartbeat, he couldn't deny it. And as he settled on top of Clark, he dared a shaky kiss on the side of nis neck. Nowhere near the mark of his mating bite, but a way to show his appreciation without words when words were increasingly difficult.

He needed little encouragement to spread his legs as directed. He'd spread them as wide as the couch would allow without them falling off if that's what they wanted. He suspected he'd likely need to. And then, as he got into position, he saw and felt Alpha moving and settling himself over them. He braced for having that enormous cock shoved into him, ready for it to hurt a bit even even as his pussy released a fresh wave of slick. He heard Alpha asking if he was ready and could only manage to nod; if he kept his mouth shut til the initial push was over...

But then instead of a sudden shove, he felt the gentle pressure of the tip of Alpha's cock at his entrance, slowly pushing into him, spreading him open and stretching him tight as he went, and he found himself unable to do anything but pant. God, it was so much.... and so wonderful. Would he even be able to fit it all?

Kent kept pushing in and in. God there was so much of him... Frank could feel every millimeter, every contour, every vein. And just when it seemed that it would keep going on forever he finally hilted himself, and there was no more. No more cock to slide in, and no more space to slide it even if there were. God he was so full... He couldn't recall ever feeling this full before. He didn't dare move though he knew he had to. He needed just... a moment to breathe lest he come then and there.

***************************

Clu watched eagerly as his brother and Frank got settled. He wanted to stroke himself but knew if he did his knot might start to swell and then he wouldn't have the control he needed. He was going to have to go fairly slow with Frank if he wanted to avoid injuring either of them, especially this first time; no matter how wide Frank spread his legs, he was still just physically smaller than his code brother and had hips to match. It was going to be a tight fit no matter what they did, but if they played their cards right it could be a lot of fun.

Then, once it seemed both of them were fairly settled, Clu settled onto the couch himself, positioning himself above them and the tip of his cock at Frank's slick entrance. "Ready?", he said, to which Frank nodded. Then, slowly, Clu pushed in. As expected, it was a tight fit, but deliciously so. Even with Frank being as slick and ready as he was, Clu could feel every bit of him and imagined that the same was true for Frank, from the way he was panting. "You're doing great," he assured him. "And you feel amazing. So tight..."

He continued pushing in, until finally he was in all the way. Though if he was any judge, he'd only just barely fit, lengthwise. He gave a triumphant noise, half growl- half moan as he hilted himself. "MMmm... There we are... how's it feel? Good?"

For a moment ther was no response save Frank's panting breath but then, another shaky nod. "OK then... now, let's complete this thing. Brother, if you'd lend him a hand...?"

Frank tasted good, and he kissed back with an open, eager curl of his tongue. Clu hummed his appreciation into their met mouths, slanting his lips to draw them closer, bucking his hips to rub them together, and only backing off to let angel breathe a little. Frank traced his ribs with gentle strokes, hot hands perching almost delicately on his hips with the slightest pert squeeze.

Clu sighed rapturously for him, for the hungry, half-breathless way that Frank could only moan his agreement. For--

Both.

He hadn't networked in--oh, forever--being exclusive with his code-brother long before they'd landed here. They completed each other's edges in a way that made perfect sense, fit together as though made that way originally, one glorious unit. And now Clu had a chance to share that connection.

"Yeah," was his sage pronouncement, unimaginably wise. "Oh, man, yeah--" Tapping another pert kiss to Frank's cheek, grinning big. "We've got you."

Frank helped him curl back and kissed his throat in tender gratitude, gentle and hot and just shy of his mating bite. Clu groaned for him outright. Neck kisses were a particular weakness of his and the soft, feather-light way Frank's hot lips had brushed him jolted straight down his body.

He bit his lip to hold in a whimper and slid back against the arm of the couch, pushing down beneath Frank so they could align, his own wider hips driving Frank's knees apart just that little bit more, even with Frank already tilted upward and splayed wide, presenting to alpha with a sway.

Frank nodded and swallowed hard for alpha's question, and then Clu's mate shifted his hips, knees drawing indents in the couch that Clu could feel, dragging all of them that little bit closer. Alpha growled his pleasure hot in Frank's ear, scent gone sharp with anticipation, and coaxed the smaller omega to open inch by inch, drawing out deep, hitching gasps with the tip of his dick. Clu could mostly hear and smell alpha, but he had a near-perfect view of Frank's receptivity, the flush in his skin, the juncture of his legs shiny with slick, folds gone bright red and trembling where he strained to adjust, all the rest of him lifting tighter against his belly. Even going slow, even being careful, he was narrower all over and it made for gradual, deliberate progress.

A shiver twitched all the way up Frank's torso as he gasped, breath pushed out of him by alpha nudging fully seated at last. Frank made shapes but not sounds with his face, eyes blown wide and shining, lips parted in broad, speechless wonder.

He was stuffed tight. All full of Clu's mate.

Clu reached for him with a whine, turned his hand flat to stroke Frank's stomach with gentle reverence. He knew, he knew it was fantasy--overheated omega neurons working overtime--but. He swore he could feel a bulge, a ripple in the muscle just there, where alpha was tucked all the way in.

"You," he hummed, "are doing so good, angel. So nice and full." It came out in a rumble. "Alpha must feel pretty good right now."

He hadn't thought he could make any more slick, but there it was in a clench of desire.

He had to get his hips higher, meet Frank halfway, and that meant folding his legs back tight, wide as he could go from here. Getting his other hand moving between and below them, Clu used himself to get that hand nice and wet. He was pushed up against himself, cock head twitching against his bellybutton and he had to stop moving, pausing with a shiver to keep from losing his whole stack right there.

Because they weren't all the way together yet. There was no way to get the eye contact from here, but Clu nodded for his mate anyway, sharp, eager.

"Yes, alpha." He couldn't hold back a moan.

Clu reached up and tugged Frank's cock into his slick, tight grasp, avoiding the sensitive tip. Clu caught him firm and pumped, making sure he was nice and slicked up.

"I wanna, oh--" he panted, "I'm gonna help you feel exactly what he's feeling."

And Clu guided Frank down with a lift of his hips, helping him breach with a shudder.

It had taken a week for Lumi to believe he was never going back to his own yard. Daddy Pops and Miss June had drilled it into him: he was never to tell anyone what happened at the shed. He could show them the sunflowers and the swimming pool, and tell them about how interesting the chickens were, and nothing else.

Because the inspectors wouldn't believe him. No one trusted misfits like him. The city wouldn't keep a freak. He was safer with his humans, he was lucky with them. Even though he couldn't do what they really wanted, he should stay put and work hard.

Otherwise the vet might get him. Fix him right up, shake him awake somewhere in a tubful of ice with a great big razor, and then pass him off to a place like the Kennel Club. Freaks couldn't be bred and would never get mated, but they sure could serve a purpose.

He did not want to go to the vet. So Lumi kept his head down and did everything they asked.

Until, one day, they were rescued. Someone had seen something, somebody else had leaked a tip somewhere, and then it was like on the news--a brace of vans had descended with the wailing bright squad cars, and now they were all saved.

Only, the same humans that had freed them from the big yard had also split up their den. Lumi wasn't sure if that was good or not, if he liked it or not--if they were, any of them, truly safe: these new humans were kind enough, but he'd been tricked before. Kind hands could hurt later. Friendly words could go ugly quick unless he lifted his tail when he was told.

Still. These were different, so far. They were patient with him, polite and impersonal, and they gave everyone food, water, and a bunk. And everyone was still here, after a fashion. Karl and Cedric were down the hall, sharing with an older German Shepard. The pound humans had mentioned that Lumi maybe could visit them later, when everyone was better.

They'd taken Gertie somewhere else, some other special wing, because she needed a lot more help. So did Cinnamon.

Lumi was still being very good, just in case. Quiet, reserved, and quick to do whatever he was told, tail tucked neatly down. Still and controlled and small: the trick to making them happy was being small. Being easy. Convenient. No trouble.

No eye contact. He still wasn't sure if that was right? He could tell they didn't like it, even though they never yelled or hit.

But he knew better. It was only a matter of time before they would. That would come over him again, like last summer, and then he'd be in real trouble: he couldn't sire pups, and he couldn't be covered right, either.

He was--an undesirable. A sport, they'd have called him long ago. Not quite right. Even as a puppy, he was not what customers hoped for--they didn't like even to hear of it, let alone to see a mishap like him. Certainly they didn't want him.

Lumi knew he was a failure. He also knew that when these nice new humans found out, well. They'd look for a way to get rid of him. So of course he didn't want them to see.

...The examination was a problem. He was making it a problem, and he knew it. Only. They'd said "vet" and he couldn't help himself, vaulted straight over the furniture and knocked two of them down flat in his haste to scramble under the big intake desk, shrunk tight and snarling.

He wasn't supposed to bite, but he also wasn't budging. He would not go. Not to any vet.

They'd tried to coax him out, but in the end it was another pet who'd helped him out from under there, a bright golden who'd let him sniff and asked his name and gently pulled him upright. They'd gotten to talking, and he'd been nice enough to offer to share a room, which the humans had agreed to after some chatting.

Bunking together definitely felt less lonely. With the lights out, it was downright snug.

And it was so warm.

Maybe because he was used to sleeping outside? (The house was only for good dogs, for nursing mothers and growing puppies.) Lumi rolled over and whined. Tugged the sheets on, kicked them off again, sprawling in search of a cooler spot. Finally got there by laying on top of the bedding, tucked in crisp to make a smooth flat plane for curling on. It was too soft otherwise.

Sleep caught him still paddling his feet restlessly, and pulled him under.

He was harnessed to the white table, cold, smooth on his belly. The flash of a needle--big, big needle, thick as a human finger bone and too, too long.

Hold still.

He knew without knowing that it would make him sleepy. It bit him, burned like fire where it went in deep, and he twisted and tried to bite, but the harness held him fast. He opened his mouth to growl, to yell for help, and got--nothing, no sound. The vet was patting his back abstractly, distantly, and his gloved hands were wet--were dark and wet.

There was fur on his gloves, too, just sticky traces in the wet, and they rubbed off on Lumi where the vet touched.

They smelled like Cinnamon.

Good boy. Dark, sticky touches and the glinting of the knife, longer than his forearm and black wet, dripping where the vet twisted it. It stroked sharp against his belly. It ached, tight, terrible, moving slowly lower in a thin dark line.

He could feel his fur drift away, snipped off neatly under that burning tip.

Stay. This won't hurt at all.

Lumi ran. Scrambled to run, tried to run, forgot he was tied. Forgot how heavy his legs were.

The vet smiled down at him.

Lumi slid and bayed, found his voice at last and outright screamed, kicking--

And almost fell off the bed, jolted awake and panting hard.

It was late--lights out, all quiet--and even his new friend was asleep, his back a gentle sloping shape that gradually rose and fell with the rhythm of his breath in the bed just across from Lumi's own.

Lumi squirmed. It was after curfew--much, much too late for walks--but his earlier restlessness hadn't left him. And he did not want to go back to sleep. He slowly sat up, holding in a soft whine. His stomach hurt. He pulled his knees up, trying to hug them, but that was uncomfortable.

He knew why. He'd seen Cedric with one, sometimes, when they wrestled too hard, but--humans did their best to discourage that kind of play. Only bad dogs did that. It wasn't useful.

How could he feel this way over such a dream? Lumi shuddered, slid down from the bed with a soft hiss. There really must be something wrong with him.

And it was worse underneath, the crest of his thighs hot and sore against his cotton shorts as he gingerly paced their room, careful not to scuff or click on the tile. It was flat slick vinyl, like a school or a hospital, but clean and cooling to walk on, and they had soft, gently faded bedside rugs. He did not have to go far forward to reach the door, nor far back to reach the little desk with its reclaimed office chair.

It was just a handful of paces each way. Back and forth, back and forth, quiet as he could, fast as he dared. It did not calm him down.

He'd thought of heading through the opposite door in search of nice sink water, but that door creaked like hell, and it wasn't thirst he was feeling.

He had some idea of what to do and nudged the desk aside, meaning to sit wide in the chair, get hold of himself--only. Oh. It was much better there, that edge nestled just so. Tight and sharp, blunted by the crease of the shorts. Almost enough on its own, but the feeling faded unless he chased it, rocked his hips up just a little, let them down again.

He should probably stop. Back and forth. Back and forth. His tail pattered softly against his leg as he worked into a rhythm, lost in the feeling and picking up speed.

He should definitely stop. They'd caught him, in the shed.

Bad dog.

He knew better, but it felt so good.

Chance had been at Twin Pines Pet Rescue for years now. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a very sad state of affairs, but after his old owner had made the hard choice to surrender him after their health problems had rendered keeping him all but impossible, he hadn't really found any other humans he'd really clicked with. Flynn had been special. To go home with a human that felt any less special would be a betrayal, and he would never betray Flynn.

So there he stayed. And despite the general atmosphere, Twin Pines had become something of a home to him. He knew its ins and outs, its nooks and crannies, the staff and volunteers were familiar and friendly presences. He'd even undergone training and gotten licensed, so- on paper at least- he was no longer required to have an owner, and could leave the shelter and go out in public any time he wanted. The reality of it was somewhat more complicated, as such things generally were; such laws were difficult to enforce, and some places followed them better than others.

But within the rescue at least, they were honored, and he was able to take up roles normally reserved for human staff. This generally meant things like supervising the pets of yellow section at their chores, helping keep inventory of supplies, and handling minor repair work that required tools most pets weren't trusted to handle, but it also meant he had a certain amount of pull deciding where new arrivals were placed. The final decision still rested with the appropriated human on staff, of course, but they'd learned to trust Chance's instincts and recommendations, especially in difficult cases.

And today's case was nothing if not difficult. Two dozen dogs seized from a place on the outskirts of town, the largest such seizure since Chance had been there. Thankfully- and somewhat shockingly given the conditions they'd been living under- most of them were reasonably healthy. Only two of them, both female, had showed signs of illness and were taken to the medical wing where they could be treated, and if need be, isolated to prevent any infections that might spread. Most of the others were placed wherever there were free beds, though he did recommend that the twin pups be placed with Dumont. A former guard dog, he would make sure the two would be kept safe from accidental harm by some of the resident pets who tended to play too rough, and meanwhile Dumont would have an eager audience for his stories- that he insisted were all true- of daring escapes, high-stakes chases, and heroic confrontations.

And then there was his own new roommate, Lumi. Few pets especially liked going to the vet, but Lumi had outright panicked at the mere mention of it, ending up cowering under the reception desk and having to be coaxed out by Chance. After that, he'd requested that Lumi be placed with him; he'd been reluctant to talk any more than necessary to the human staff, so probably wasn't a chance in hell that he'd tell them why he'd reacted that way, and they needed to know. Lumi couldn't avoid the vet forever after all; at the very least, he'd need a checkup and the proper vaccinations before he could be considered for adoption, and ideally they would want to do some blood tests as well, and examine his binary reproductive organs to make sure there were no problems with him. Most full binary males were sterile when it came to breeding to females, but some could still be bred to, and given what had been going on there... well.

Given the necessity of the eventual examinations and the desire to not inflict further trauma on a clearly frightened pet, Chance had suggested letting him try. After all, what he wouldn't tell a human, another pet might be able to get him to open up about, and once they knew what the issue was, they could address it. Thus Lumi had been settled in the extra bed in Chance's room, and provided with all the basics that newly arrived pets got as everyone settled in for the night. Chance had had roommates before, so having one now was no issue. He'd wished Lumi good night and settled in, bundled in his cheap yet comfortable sheets and blanket. His own sleep was fairly peaceful, his dreams wandering more to the next day's breakfast- pancakes and sausage, his favorite-, and was in the middle of the sausage links doing a cheerful song and dance number across the breakfast table when he was drawn back to the waking world and their dimly lit room by the unusual noises.

Thankfully for the rest of the rescue's residents, they weren't especially loud noises; the faint scrape and rattle of furniture being rocked rhythmically against the wall, accompanied by occasional muffled whines or equally muffled grunts of effort. But they were sounds that shouldn't be there, not at this time of night. He stirred, then sat up in bed, and it took him only a moment to spot their source; Lumi grinding his hips somewhat frantically on a corner of the desk, then scent of his arousal mixed with tension and fear. He wasn't in heat- that much would have been painfully obvious long before now- but his needs must have been neglected for quite awhile if he had enough pent up frustration to be humping the furniture without heat to motivate him.

"Lumi?", he said, keeping his voice low so as not to potentially wake anyone else. "What's going on? You OK?" The answer to that was fairly obvious, but it still needed to be asked, if only to express his concern.

Lumi knew he wasn't supposed to. He knew it was wrong. Maybe it was all the change. Maybe it was fear and fatigue. Maybe it was finally having a place to rest, a few things of his own even if they were borrowed, and hearing words of kindness at last, however distant and polite. Maybe it was a blend of all of those things reaching their boiling point.

The wood gave a tiny, merry little squeak under him, and he shivered but kept going.

He'd needed this so bad.

Hadn't meant for it to be right here, right now, quite like this. If he were doing it on purpose he'd have stayed on the bed, curled on his side so he could reach better, turned his paws inward in search of the good, good secret thing. The girls had one too, small and neat as a pearl, but theirs was hidden away.

His stuck right out, upright as a thumbtack in the thin, damp cotton, driven sharp over the corner with every nudge of his hips.

He'd needed this, and the desk was handy, and now he couldn't quite make himself stop no matter how wrong it was. He shuddered. That burning weight in his belly would lift soon, would sail apart in fire, if--

If he just, oh--

Oh.

...Oh, no.

Chance was awake, and it was Lumi's fault. Lumi had disturbed him. Lumi was literally climbing the furniture in a selfish, useless bid to--what? Feel good? When he knew it was nasty, and more than that, it wasn't allowed.

That was for humans to do to him, when and if they wanted.

His tail shriveled down and his hackles went up and his shoulders pushed flat, small, had to be small--even as his hips snapped down harder, almost without his input, hydraulic and desperate.

He whined in his teeth, high and hard.

"Sorry," low, rough with guilt and effort. "Sorry, I--I was--"

Chance had been so kind to him, had opened up his home to him, and he'd, done, this. And even now the golden was asking if he was okay.

Lumi was mortified. And being right on the ragged edge was not helping.

"It just happens sometimes!" He tried to stop, tried to slow down, and just--couldn't, biting back a whimper. "Please don't tell."

Chance was a bit confused at first as to why Lumi seemed scared that he might tell someone. Yes, it wasn't really something that they should do and both of them knew it, but it was also no cause for alarm, or the level of guilt he was displaying. Though then it occurred to him that Lumi's old owners might have punished him for such things as if it wasn't largely their fault he was in that state to begin with. Pet people needed to be taken care of, or at least given the knowledge and means to take care of themselves; most everyone knew this. Likely those humans knew too, and just didn't care, which had left Lumi in his current state.

He could theorize later though; right now Lumi needed help. Now thoroughly awake, Chance got up out of bed, clad in his own simple underwear and somewhat faded sleepshirt bearing the shelter's logo, and padded over to Lumi. "It's alright," he said quietly. "You're not in any trouble." He couldn't really promise not to tell, since that was part of the reason for having Lumi room with him, but he could at least assure him of that much.

"You might wake the others up too if you keep using the desk though. C'mere..." He moved in behind Lumi, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and gently pulling him back against his own chest and away from the desk. Once they'd stepped far enough back that Lumi's motions wouldn't accidentally cause harm by it, he slid his free hand down to rub the other's crotch through his underwear. "I'll help take care of you. And I'm a lot more comfortable than the desk."

He let Lumi rock his hips against his hand, adding more of his own stroking for added effect. With his arm around his shoulders he stroked the frightened dog's chest too. "Can you turn around? This'll be a bit easier if you're facing me." And it would make it easier to muffle any noises Lumi might make as well. He might not be in any trouble with the staff, but being woken in the middle of the night by the sounds of his arrousal wouldn't endear him to any of the other pets.

Chance pattered over to him carefully and soft-footed, which did make Lumi more aware of how loud he was being and how well they could hear. Quiet enough for humans and quiet enough for other pets were two whole different things. Besides, even doing his best, he'd still woken Chance.

The golden had stirred up out of bed and gently gathered his arms around Lumi, telling him it was alright in a soft, warm voice and pulling him close. Lumi slumped a little, partly still trying to hide-retract-sneak, almost by reflex, but mostly in relief.

He wasn't in trouble. Chance said so, and everything Chance had said and done since they met was kind and true. That meant it really was okay.

And that meant Lumi let himself be drawn against the other dog's chest and led away from the desk. Chance wanted to help, and Lumi certainly wanted him to. Chance's shirt was very soft, heated through where he pressed up against Lumi's bare chest. Lumi tried to stand still, but that was not possible with Chance petting him, Lumi arching almost to his tiptoes for seeking, stroking fingers. Chance let him rock there, and kept touching him, and Lumi never wanted him to stop.

"Please," softly. They had to be quiet. He was trying. "Please, yes."

He did his best to follow. He turned when Chance asked him to, twisting in place, turning in the other dog's grip with a shiver. This way around, they were almost nose-to-nose, though Chance was just the least bit taller. Lumi glanced at him, suddenly shy.

"Like this?" He didn't quite trust himself to hold eye contact, so he moved instead, pressed his lips to Chance's neck hot and quick.

He slid, trying to rub their hips together. "Is this nice?"

If Chance said it was okay, then it was, and they could both feel good.

He was glad that Lumi was willing, eager even, to go along with him. Not that he'd expected much resistance in his current state, but everyone reacted differently under the influence of heightened hormones and emotions, and he'd already seen what Lumi could do when panicked. Something like that happening in their little room would have definitely woken everyone up and likely drawn night security as well.

As Lumi began to turn, he shifted his grip enough to allow it. When the younger dog began trying to rub their hips together, Chance lifted his knee, slipping it between Lumi's thighs to give him something to grind on. Both hands now freed up, he used them to gently rub his head and back, equal parts soothing and encouraging. "Like that," he murmured, giving Lumi a little kiss on the cheek in return. "You're doing fine. I've got you; you can rub on my leg to take the edge off. And if you're having trouble being quiet, you can hide your face in my shoulder to muffle the noises. Everything'll be fine."

Of course just taking the edge off might not be enough; it was hard to tell exactly how worked up Lumi was, especially when he didn't know just what had sparked this. But they could cross that bridge when and if they came to it. One step at a time.

As Chance led him away from the desk, Lumi shivered, and not with cold. It was warmer indoors than it should be on a spring night, where frost might have flirted with his fur before morning, even with a blanket. Though Lumi was just a lick too prideful to actually sleep on the nice cool tile, he'd still wanted it at first.

But now Lumi wanted something else, even though it was wrong. That awful dream had put it on him, and he'd drawn Chance right along into it, down into his--his want, his own pleasure. The Sunday channel called it his temptation, and perfidious, and other fat liturgical noises he mostly knew meant he was a bad dog.

Lumi was bad, and he wanted bad things, and the older golden could've done many things about it, in turn. He could've pushed Lumi away, could've fought with him, could've shouted for his humans--and from what Lumi had seen of them so far, they would have come. And they'd been pretty upset with Lumi, before.

Except Chance did none of those things. Instead, just like he'd helped Lumi up from his hiding place, and just as he'd coaxed Lumi away from the harsh wooden angles of his makeshift toy, Chance simply helped Lumi turn with him and offered his knee, broad and warm.

Lumi perched there with a grin, feeling his ears go vertical, tail swishing as he slid in close. Chance stroked warm hands up his bare back, lingering just so in his fur, and Lumi shifted eagerly into the offered crease of Chance's knee.

Lumi pushed his hips flat so he could rock without knocking them both over--soft at first, then quicker as the golden reassured him--as they leaned into each other. Chance stroked his back, soothing, bracing, making all his fur prickle.

He let out a whine for that kiss, soft, and couldn't help thrusting forward. Like that, like that, yes. So good. The joy of it curled tight in his belly, soured with the certainty that it was wrong. Except--Chance wasn't angry with him. Was encouraging him, a little, just enough that he knew it was safe. That it was going to be okay.

Even as the useless, ugly, infertile part of Lumi began to stir. It caught on the shorts, pinched, pushed awkwardly against itself and just generally got in the way, twitching with a mind of its own.

"Mmm," low, "Sorry," leaning into the hot velvet loop of Chance's ear, hardly breathing, nothing a human could hear. "Gotta be quiet." With a tight, delighted curl of his tail: "I like this. I like it when you--nnh--"

Lumi bit his lip, pushed his face against the soft, soft fabric over Chance's shoulder, but no sound came out. He was almost wound too tight to even breathe. Lumi shuddered, felt his damp thighs pull tight together, and shivered his way off that sharp, bright edge, the bottom dropping out of his stomach in a soaring swoop.

"Chance," at last, gritted rough into his shirt. "Oh, oh thank you, that's," sighing. "Better."

Even as the rest of him sat up obstinately. He knew better; it would go away if he ignored it. And he'd already tempted the other dog too far.

C'leel couldn't deny that he was afraid. And as much as he tried to keep up the front of bravado, he suspected the human Captain knew it to. He seemed a more intelligent sort than the rest of his crew, which he supposed he had to be. He wasn't big enough to intimidate by size and strength alone, or- from what C'leel had seen- vicious enough to command through sheer terror. Not that that did a great deal to calm him. An intelligent captor would be that much harder to escape from, assuming it was even possible.

Some small part of him felt bad for disabusing the humans of any notion that his blood held some miraculous cures. There were those among his people who could have, perhaps, helped those the Captain mentioned, but healing magic was a craft that required many years of study and practice. And who even knew whether techniques meant for healing mers would be equally effective on humans? Still, if he'd had such abilities, and the opportunity to use them to help an innocent arose, he wouldn't have needed to be forced.

But that small part was, at present, a very small part. He was still a prisoner, however, bound for an uncertain fate, one that grew more uncertain by the moment. At present, he could only clutch his pouch and wait as he was discussed, though he could see that they were even eyeing that. Unsurprising, he supposed; as their prisoner, the would likely claim anything on his person as part of their catch. The pouch itself was on the large side, designed to evoke an upturned snail shell, and made of sturdy turtle-skin leather. It hung over his shoulder on a long strap of the same, though the strap was more flexible than the stiffened leather of pouch. He suspected that they would be far mor interested in its contents than its craftsmanship, however.

He was forced to still for a movement as the captain cut him free of the net- he had no interest in having more than the ropes cut after all- but once the captain had put away his knife, he resumed his struggles with renewed vigor. Not that he suspected that they would be especially effective as despite them he was hauled steadily away from the side of the ship and the freedom that lay in the sea, but he was determined to make his transition to true captivity as difficult as possible for his captor.

Eventually though he was deposited with a splash into a metal tub of seawater, glaring up at the captain from the awkward position. He took a certain amount of grim satisfaction in how disheveled he now looked. Served him right! But continuing to glare at him wouldn't accomplish anything at this point, and after a long moment, he allowed himself to shift into a slightly more comfortable position in the tub, pulling in the tips of his fins from where they'd trailed over the edge, and glanced around the room. Though it was in a similarly disheveled state to its owner as a result of his thrashing, it was still more intact that any human room he'd ever been able to examine; even just at a glance, he could spot a number of things he recognized but even more that he didn't, made all the more fascinating by their novelty. And it was out of the sun, which he had to admit was a marked improvement from being on deck.

But still, he was well and truly caught now. Which led to a single question in his mind. "Well, you have me," he said, bitter and wary. "What now?" He wasn't to be dinner, but that still left a great many possibilities, most of them unpleasant.

Claude was quicker than the others--in both brain and boots--and his leadership had seen them survive their recent misfortune, which kept him captain in the first place. Not the strongest. Not the meanest. But the sharpest. Oh sure, some great dull cudgel of a brute might trounce him in their next election--and the sun might rise in the west, tomorrow, too.

He shook his head with a snort. It would hardly matter to his present catch why he'd been made captain, or how he held onto that position. And anyway at times he outpaced himself: having caught the poor creature, he hadn't the faintest idea what to do next.

Or, really, how to care for him. He looked plain miserable, and that struck the headwind straight from Claude's sails. Something sharp and bitter pulled at his ribs for the sight of the great gold tail in a tight coil, fins pulled inward and arms the same, wrapped tight around the little pouch they'd fair drooled over. The merman's eyes darted this way and that--alight with something other than fear, for that moment, caught up in some other venture of feeling--but his gaze slitted sharp in sheer winter as he watched Claude.

Ice and steel in his voice, poised sharp enough to cut.

"Peace be!" grumbled the captain, prodding his own lip. "T'were hard enough to pry ye loose! Those louts out there are great in a storm, and better in a fight, but--well. They might think you're made of gold, shining like that. And they won't believe you aren't magic, no matter what you tell 'em. Had to get you apart."

And out of the sun. And into some good clean seawater--he'd seen what fresh water did to ocean fish, and salt to river ones.

And his room was the nicest on the ship. Or, it had been, anyway. Still was, under all the fuss. Claude snorted, arighting himself: this was his own fault.

"Give a man a moment to think," he sighed, trying to straighten his--everything--while he went through the guesswork.

It made sense to run down a checklist of what human hostages tended to need or want in this position. Freedom to move about under guard was often the first and fiercest of their desires, but it had to be earned, and anyway he'd no idea how that would work--ships made their way by keeping water out. Could they safely take on water, later on? After a good and thorough careening in harbor, they might be able to work something up. Perhaps by some mechanism of the lower decks--except, reversed bilge would be foul and silty, not at all like the clear currents he might be used to...

No. Fat lot of dream sheep wool that idea was. So: with shelter improvised, for now, the lad would need food. And more than that:

"Didn't cut ye, did I? I mean, are you hurt anywhere?" And lest the merman take this for charity, for bleeding-hearted weakness, well. "In men, copper poisons the blood, and I wouldn't lose you that way."

There. Much tougher. Couldn't give the lad a chance to see his chagrin.

Besides, he was curious.

"D'you eat," thinking, "sea grass? Or other fish, maybe--certainly that and biscuit are most of our lunch, this late in a voyage. Can't let you starve, either."

Pause. Squinting:

"Forgive me, but--how do you, drink? Water's just air to ye, isn't it, and the salt must be terrible dehydrating--"

He was babbling. He sighed.

"Don't suppose you take tea?"

It began innocently enough with C'leel waking up one morning feeling restless. That in itself wasn't unusual, as he was frequently eager to begin the day, so begin it he did, going about his daily routine of crafting and organizing in preparation for taking his wares to market at the end of the moon. This time, however, the feeling didn't fade and he shortly began to find it difficult to focus on his tasks. No matter; a short swim outside would get the excess energy out of his system.

He swam through the city at an unhurried pace, occasionally pausing to greet and converse with acquaintances that he encountered. But as time passed, the feeling of restlessness still didn't fade. If anything, being around others only seemed to make it more noticeable. So eventually he returned home, forcing himself to focus on his work once more. He worked much later than was normal for him, keeping on until exhaustion finally overwhelmed the restlessness. He settled into his bed once more, hoping that the strange feeling would be gone when next he woke.

His dreams were fragmented, full of vivid colors, flashes of light on scales, and the touch of hands, fins, lips, and tentacles. And when he woke it was with a start, and to find that the vague feeling of restlessness from the day before had become both more obvious and more focused, his pouch feeling distinctly tight, its edges unusually sensitive. A few long moments of deep, slow breathing helped it settle back to normal, but the feeling of restlessness didn't diminish. Just wonderful.

Once again unable to focus, he left the house again, only to this time find a large number of his people flowing towards the city center. Curious, he joined that flow, and waited with the gathered crowd. From the murmurs of conversation about him, he gathered there was to be some sort of public announcement from the Queen Mother. They didn't have to wait long, but somewhat to his surprise, the one who settled on the dais at the front of the crowd was not the Queen Mother, but an unfamiliar free-flower whose sash marked them as one of Her Majesty's close servants. Their voice magically amplified, they addressed the crowd, letting all present know that the Queen was to clutch, and judging by the size of her bulging belly, it would likely be a large one, and like to come at any day. Further announcements, including the actual number of eggs and who was to receive them would come when more was known.

As the servant took their leave, the crowd's murmurs began to pick up again, this time more excited. Many were already placing bets regarding the number of eggs and who was likely to receive them. A few expressed concern for the Queen Mother as large clutches were always a strain, but the servant had stated that Her Majesty was doing well, so the general mood was a bright one as the crowd began to disperse. C'leel's feelings on the matter were somewhat mixed, however. On one hand, the impending birth was a cause for joy, but on the other... while it explained his unusual restlessness, it also meant that it was likely to get worse before it got better. And he couldn't help but notice the number of pairs as the crowd broke up, while he himself had none.

There was nothing for it but to return to his home for the time being however. He'd been away foraging the last time the Queen Mother had clutched, so this would be is first experience with 'the quickening', but surely it couldn't be that bad. He was a grown adult, after all; he'd simply have to endure. And endure he did until exhaustion once again forced him to sleep.

This time though, his dreams were vivid and clear. The human captain Claude, but in the form of one of the easter tribes who sported tentacles like those of an octopus. Tentacles that both held him pinned in place on his bed and caressed his body, teasing along delicate fins, brushing over shoulders and neck to make his gills flutter, and stroking along the length of his belly. His dream self moaned and panted, squirming eagerly under the touches. 'Open up for me, my lovely prize', not-quite Claude said, stroking the sensitive edges of C'leel's pouch. Taut and eager, it opened readily relaxing and expanding and dream C'leel moaned as cool water flowed in and over his buds, engorged and ready to release their seed, and begging to be touched and stimulated to further prompt its release in the meantime. Not-quite Claude was glad to oblige, filling his pouch with tentacles instead of water- however did so many fit?- and stroking every bud at once. Dream C'leel squirmed and twisted, his panting becoming mingled with sharp little cries of pleasure, increasing in frequency and volume until-

Until the real C'Leel woke with a start, finding his bed in disarray and his pouch bulging slightly with the seed he'd released during the night. Embarrassing, but that at least would soon be reabsorbed. Rather than making him feel better however, the orgasm his dream had caused had seemed to only make things worse. Despite the slowly reabsorbing seed, his pouch was still uncomfortably tight, his display lines too bright. And what had been general restlessness was now brought into sharp focus that no amount of deep breathing could ease. He wanted to mate and he wanted it badly.

He attempted to take care of it himself, but to no avail; no matter how he squirmed, rubbed, or stroked his pouch remained stubbornly closed. Indeed it actually made matters worse as his buds swelled and hardened inside it, making it feel even tighter. Even as he got a hasty meal, he could focus on little else but the growing urgency in his pouch. Until finally with a sigh of frustration, he picked up a link shell, pair to the one he'd given to Claude, and what had allowed them to communicate since they'd parted, save for infrequent meetings on an isolated stretch of beach.

C'leel spoke into the shell, the magicked object glowing softly, as would Claude's when the message was sent. It took in his words and would show them to Claude in the form of text projected in the air just above the shell. "Claude?", he said. "I know we're not due to meet again for some time, but... I need to speak to you in person if at all possible."

C'leel watched as the captain attempted to put himself and his room to rights. Part of him wanted to lash his tail at the man's tone and part of him wanted to shrink away, but there was no room in the metal tub for either. So instead he simply frowned. Under other circumstances and from other lips he may have taken the idea that his scales could be mistaken for actual gold as a compliment, but as things were, it merely cemented the greed of this particular group in his mind. "Magic is something that's learned," he said rather sullenly. "Something that takes study and practice. It's not something someone can simply be. So they'd be disappointed either way."

Still, all in all, he preferred not having them only discover this after pulling off half his scales or some such thing. And speaking of injuries. "No," he said. "I'm a bit bumped and bruised-" likely in part because of his own thrashing- "but not cut. I had sense enough to keep still while you were cutting the ropes to make sure of that."

And he was going to be relatively still for awhile, if the captain had his way. Even if he wanted to give C'leel room to swim, any attempt to do so would result in his ship joining the shipwreck that had drawn them both here on the seabed. And despite his predicament, he wasn't so vindictive as to wish such a fate on his captors. He'd seen the bones of the poor, unfortunate souls who'd gone down with that ship, and didn't wish to add to their number if it could be helped.

The question of food was a far more immediate concern though. "Fish and plants both, according to the season and our tastes," he said. "There's actually some travel rations among the things in my pouch. I'd been supplementing them with hunting, but on their own they should last a few days, if eaten sparingly. I doubt eating your food would be an issue though, if needed." Nor the humans his either, he suspected, though how much either of them would enjoy the other's fare remained to be seen.

As for drinking, he actually had to think for a moment. He'd been told as a child, of course, among the endless questions youngsters were prone to, but it was never something he'd had to consciously think about as an adult. "Normally we take what we need from the water around us, with our gills filtering out the excess salt, among other things. But as that can't happen here, I suppose drinking like a human would do me no harm, so long as it's water and not ale." He had no desire to find out how that stuff would affect him, thank you very much.

"Tea though... do you mean the drink or the meal? I know it's both, somehow, though I'm not sure how that might be." He suspected that the captain was referring to the drink, as that was what he'd just been talking about, but he couldn't be sure.

For Clu--for Clark--it began over lunch. A neutral island in their days, a casual place to catch up once in a while. It was also a great way to tease blushing and new recipes out of Frank. The other omega was a sweetheart, but somewhat shy--though he lit up when he was sharing knowledge, whether it was about a way to make sprouts actually taste good, or a new manga he'd read recently.

Clu had started to wonder, over a round of the increasingly cute bento exchange they had going on, just what this was between them. Frank had brought him apple rabbits, and they were so darling his heart had squeezed a little in his chest. It was part biology and part something more, that ancient feeling of connection, of being truly seen. It made him think. It made him curious.

On the Grid, bundling was near-literal and unavoidably public. His code-brother had helped him mask their own dynamic in-system, not because it was wrong or needed hiding, but out of respect for Clu's tasklist and the fact that some null units couldn't handle which way they flipped their polarity. They'd fit together almost as though built that way originally, goals and ideals merged as seamlessly as circuits touched, and with as much spark. The Grid had flourished under their combined abilities, had blossomed into a world nearer to Flynn's true vision--and had been safely passed into the hands of his truest friends, in turn, for safekeeping.

But this, with Frank, was something else again. Just as this world was something else again, secondary alignments driving everything at angles so sharply different to their neon realm of perfect data. Frank and Clu had met each other deep in the mutual throes of pure instinct, and from that gradually branched out into a friendship.

And now this. Small, sweet gestures like this, that made Clu curious. It was, in its purest form, a sign that Frank noticed the effort Clu was putting in, and liked it ~~(and him?)~~ enough to return the favor.

It'd been ages since anyone but his code-brother had extended him the sacred energy of same team. So they'd felt each other out about it--a two-cocoa talk that then became a three-cocoa sitdown, with Frank--on how it felt to have a rapport that extended rather than diminished their set. They'd grown closer through the usual likes and dislikes, and through the less usual: long talks about the meaning of life and the romantic motivations of bishounen; long sharp drives up narrow seaside switchbacks, late into the night; long naps curled loose under each other's arms.

They'd worked it out, all three of them, and in the process come up with something more.

His brother had been the first to suggest they should go into business for themselves. Sticking it to the establishment in every way possible short of triggering an actual Federal manhunt was his specialty. That included various acts of white-hattery and volunteering, but it also meant using their own talents, on their own time, to build software of their own.

Or the logic for it, anyway; solutions to problems they hadn't quite tackled yet. Clu had organized those: so far, they had a group of scalable plans and a small but definite list of the no-goes. No productivity apps. No server stuff--there were already way too many container innovations in the world. And no database crap! They were quietly at war with SQL, a lowbrow language if ever there was one.

Clark couldn't quite recall, now, which of them had first proposed a game. Their brainstorming session had gone on well into that night, and he'd eaten an entire packet of dark chocolate espresso beans--to stay awake, of course!--and so he could vaguely hear colors by the time that idea had arrived.

A game of their own. He vividly remembered the way Frank had beamed when pointing out that they could create a visual novel.

His code-brother had immediately warmed to the idea. Clu was, in turn, excited to run the numbers and conclude that if they hired someone to do the key art, they could write and rewrite the core code to fit a story in about ten weeks. Frank had some thoughts for a romance, while Clu himself had a few ideas for an adventure script. His code-brother put the two together: what they needed was a love story that was also a daring heist with puzzle elements--and what better source for inspiration than the great Encom caper of '82?

No one could know the particulars, of course. They'd have to file the serial numbers off, and ix-nay on the id-Gray. But--the player as a young, up-and-coming programmer whose awesome idea for a new game got stolen from under their nose by a mysterious adversary at their company? The ridiculously intelligent (and ridiculously attractive) scientists and programmers who all just happened to work in the same building? The clearly evil greedy company sheltering such a scandal?

Could the player navigate this sexy social minefield and emerge with the evidence of their game--and their rights to it--intact? Or would they get caught by company security? Or worse, get their heart broken?

Yeah. It had plenty of potential, and all the makings of something special.

There was just one problem.

No. Truth be told, there were many problems, but this specific problem was right there in the opening sequence.

"Our genius programmer just walked into the wall. Like, into it! Again," groaned Clu, burying his head in his hands. "They are now one with the cement!"

He sat up with a wince, getting stiffly to his feet. Being wrapped around a laptop all day could do that to a guy. He strode away from the desk.

"If anyone needs me, I'll be outside, loading bricks into my pockets and walking into the sea."

This was something of an overstatement: the nearest body of water was Mr. Kellerman's birdbath across the street.

Clu smiled for 'our apartment', his code brother picking up the thread of hope he'd offered and subtly testing its strength. "'Ours' huh?", he said, his tone amused, though not rejecting the idea. "You might change your tune if you knew what my quarters looked like on a typical microcycle." He had been made when Flynn had been in full on bachelor-pad mode, living off takeout and cheap coffee, working until three AM in a wrinkled robe, and eating cold pizza for breakfast at one in the afternoon; it very much showed in how his quarters were typically organized. Or not organized, depending on your perspective. "But provided you can deal with the dose of organized chaos I bring to the party, I could get behind the idea."

Did he want more? He wasn't entirely sure. It'd be something they'd need to discuss when both of them were sober before any real changes were made. But now that the offer was out there for him to consider... he found it interesting, if nothing else. He'd never roomed with anyone else before, and had seldom shared sleeping space with anyone but Bit. What might it be like to take the alliance, and friendship, with his code brother in what for both of them was a new and untested direction? Once things had settled, he was game to find out.

In the present, he allowed the admin to look at his circuits for as long as hi liked. The old systems had favored intricate, narrow patterns, while the Grid favored bolder, thicker circuit lines in simpler arrangements. It proved an interesting contrast, and another graphical shift that he'd privately wondered about. That much had to have been Flynn's idea, and he'd like to know what had prompted it.

Being called 'beautiful' though? That was a new one. His smile broadened, not fading as his scars were mentioned. "At the time they happened, they definitely hurt,", he said. "But now, no. I could probably get rid of them if I was vain enough, but each one of them has a story attached. And I'd rather have the stories than a pristine render."

"So you can touch, if you like." He moved right up against the bed, the circuits on his calves contacting those on his code-brothers as he straddled him while remaining standing. Already touching and eminently touchable. And able to touch in return. He combed the fingers of one hand through the admin's usually (perfectly) neat hair, down the side of his neck to linger on the circular node near his collarbone. His fingers traced the ring, a deliberate tease, judging by the hint of mischief that lit his eyes and turned his smile into a true hacker's grin. "We're going to be doing a lot more touching in a nano anyway."

The scent of fear never really left Lumi. Though the scent of his arousal was far stronger at the moment, it was always there, an acrid undertone to the much more pleasant scent. Chance would be lying if he said the scent of Lumi's need hadn't aroused his interest- and was beginning to arouse few other things-, but that note of fear kept this from being really enjoyable on his end.

Nonetheless Lumi clearly needed it, so he held him and stroked him, gently nuzzling against one velvet-furred ear as Lumi buried his face in his shirt, his hips grinding on Chance's leg with frantic little thrusts until he came with a shudder and a soft gasp, sagging slightly against Chance in relief. "Glad I could help," he murmured in response to Lumi's thanks, still gently stroking his back. "But seems like you need a little more yet. C'mon back to my bed. More comfortable than standing."

He didn't really like to leave a job half finished, and Lumi must have been every bit as frustrated as he'd thought to need a second round outside of heat. Still it was best to keep Lumi's bed as a space that was all his own, a safe place to retreat to if need be. Their single beds were, as the name implied, not really meant for two, but were sturdy enough to support them both, and given the activity he had in mind, the snug fit for the two of them would be more of a boon than a hinderance.

Edited 2024-09-28 07:05 (UTC)

Without his code brother's unintentional golden overlay , the room reverted to its normal cool lighting. Mostly pale blue, with medical-green highlights; a color combination designed to promote calm, helpful for both the patients and the recompilers. And likely for visiting admins as well, now that it could be seen clearly.

At his code-brother's questions, Gana nodded. "Ideally, one would hope that any further jumping out of windows would be avoided altogether," she said somewhat wryly, "though that would likely be asking too much of programs so closely tied to the Creator. As for more standard and less inadvisable forms of physical activity, though, your brother will be restricted to data-work only for two centi-cycles following his release. That means no cycle riding, visiting the game grid as anything but a spectator, or other forms of strenuous physical activity during that period."

"Two centicycles? Seriously?", Clu interrupted. Did he survive his injuries only to be condemned to derezz from sheer boredom?

"That's the minimum recovery period recommended for damage this extensive," Gana said sternly. "If you intend to be stubborn about it, I can always make it longer."

Clu grumbled something uncomplimentary in binary, but sighed and relented with a nod. Best not to push his luck; recompilers at her clearance level had the ability to enforce their restrictions by temporarily limiting patients access if it was suspected that they would deliberately flout their advice. Plus, it was never a good idea to upset those who'd be working on your coding. Not that he thought they'd do anything unbecoming of their function, but they could be more or less gentle in their ministrations, and he preferred more.

At Clu's nod, Gana continued. "We will provide instructions for some basic stretches designed to promote optimum energy flow to the reconstructed limbs during recovery, and other gentle physical activity such as walking and micocycle to mirocycle tasks around the patient's residence should be fine in reasonable amounts. In fact, a certain level of gentle physical activity is recommended to prevent minor function lockups in reconstructed limbs. Also, we'll want him to increase his per-microcycle energy intake by 10% initially. Provided his recovery is going smoothly by that point, it can be cut back to only an extra 5% after the first centicycle if he so chooses. No high grade though; the last thing a recovering patient needs is a shock to the system, or the other complications that tend to come along with high grade consumption."

"After the two centicycle period, he'll return here for one final check, and provided we deem him sufficiently recovered, he'll be free to resume his normal functions. All this will be in the data packet we'll give the two of you on his release, along with an expected timeline for his recovery and potential issues to look out for, as well as my contact information here at the facility, as well as the contact frequency for the recompiler on duty, if I'm not personally available."

Never a heavy sleeper, Claude for his part was straightening up from a late tea. This side of their voyage, it was really just hot water in a prettier cup. Dipping into captured treasure for your luxuries wasn't something even a captain dared do--all their booty was counted in common before t'were sold or bartered: those proceeds then got split fair and square among the crew as wages. Stealing from common shares was a death sentence, whether you took a pinch of tea or a whole sack of gold.

Too tired for more figures--he had half the quartermaster's review to read yet--and too, too alert to try lying down only for another round of tossing and turning, he dried his dishes, turned them over and tied them down.

It was a clean, clear, warm night, and the stars were well out, the moon a vanishing, tiny slice of silver among them. It'd be a good one for astronavigation--really, for stargazing. He had half a mind to kick Lyle straight out of the crow's nest, just for that better look.

Instead, the hapless and likely snoring Lyle was saved by the glow of a curved, golden shell perched lovingly beside the treasured teapot. C'leel's words floated gently above the shining gift, a golden memento that he jealously guarded.

in person if at all possible.

This wasn't C'leel's usual cadence--a peppering of sly jokes, questions about human bric-a-brac, and the odd request for a vase or a hatpin, all always awash in cheeky, cheerful flirting.

This was--well. Pressing and to the point.

It turned in Claude's mind like a splinter. It sounded serious. Might even be dire. If C'leel were ill, or hurt, his own healers could do a vastly better job of caring for him. But what else might put him in such an urgency? What could be troubling him so?

At last Claude held the shell close to his lips, and spoke softly to it.

"Aye?" A low rumble. "Might take us a bit o' sailing, but I'll meet you."

Where might depend on both his crew's patience and C'leel's location.

"Can y'reach Celadon Cove, lad?"

A pretty circle of unusually tall stones that sheltered soft, bright sands and green, glittering water--and a good place for a ship to hide in a hurry.

He'd belong to the god, they'd said, if he survived the journey--and so he had, and so he would. Cyr had followed the river at night for a long time, always waiting for daylight to sleep and using each dawn to be sure he was heading star-comes-up, always east.

He'd never seen a city before, a thing of a hundred domes and spires that glinted like the skeleton of some ancient whale long out of the sea, bleached and gleaming in the dawn. Up close it was deafening, and reeking, and so dazzling with color and confusion that he was half-blind. And yet for all that a thrill stole up his spine--he felt more alive, somehow, in that press of bodies, dancing through the tramp of hooves, the slow, creaking rattle of carts that hardly fit the stones, ducking shopkeeps and fishwives alike.

The city was a marvelous thing. It was too bad he had come here only to die.

He made his way off the thoroughfare, nudged along briskly like a leaf in the river, and held his 'lam to him like a shield. The woven pouch, red and green and gold, shone with beads of true copper and marked him as one with a sacred errand. He showed it only to the guards, and then only because they stopped him.

He'd brandished it with a flash of teeth that they might take for a proper smile. He was no prey of theirs. Cyr was meant only for the temple, and only to give himself to the One--he of the cradle, and of the harvest, and of the rains. His elders had pierced his ears for this, slender, intricate hoops of gold as inescapable as livestock tags. No one hindered or interfered with a golden-eared. No one dared. He wasn't theirs to move: he must take the walk himself.

None who did this ever came back. Not a soul. But had Cyr not gone, they all would have starved.

They might yet. He might still be judged unworthy, or unfit, or simply less deserving than others. Unbonded male-mothers with no pups of their own were... He'd heard it often enough: good to have, but expensive to keep. He shut his eyes, squeezed them hard to drive down that tired, dull ache of more than travel. Bitterness now would only sour his heart before the One.

He must not waver. He must be sure. And he must be good eating if the rains were to return to his village.

The avenue to the altar was a long one, for this was their chief god, and this the grandest temple. Marble walls shone under the sun, white shot through with a vivid red vein that must have been cut far over the mountains. Two neat rows of date palms flanked the entrance, and the even the dry, thin breeze made them whisper, tall square columns doubling the echoes until the entranceway itself seemed to murmur with a distant voice.

It was hard to be afraid, waiting in the warming day with such a crowd of worshippers, people of every class and alignment jumbled together. The way was heavy with nobles grander and richer than he would ever be; their palanquins gleamed even from far back, their grand bronze strongboxes near blazing in the lifting sun. Then came the fat merchants in their fat wagons laden with tribute, and here or there glinted the delicate carriage of a pampered, desperate wife.

Amidst such spectacle, Cyr forgot to feel anything but wonder--even as he drew nearer to the temple itself, and his trembling resolved itself into sheer awe.

There were fountains everywhere, sprouting like branches from what seemed every available surface. Open water leapt from tall statues, or splashed back on itself in single broad hoops, or gurgled cheerfully from narrow pipes that let it splash gently into a broad, shallow reflecting pool. The air was thick with it, a bright tang of life, and Cyr made the signs to ward off jealous spirits as he passed by the smallest one--washing his hands and face, as did everyone, to purify themselves.

The sun climbed higher, then began to dwindle, and then to set. Gradually, the powerful were seen to and coddled along on their way, the merchants behind them in lesser style, and the last wives left their offerings and secrets. The evening's priests were tending the One's endless flame against the oncoming night.

Cyr had lingered all he could, behind even the handful of male-mothers who had whispered out their own pleas before the great stones, or gone down other halls at the urging of certain acolytes.

His earlier fear had put water in his knees, made them shake a little as he walked, but his wait was nearly over. This last prayer would be everything his tribe could ask of him. It put an odd strength in Cyr, straightened his back, brought him to a stop before the altar with the daring to look up, and up, into the great stone face of the One. Taller than tall, cut with a strange shimmer in the grains, the One gazed down over his temple with a certain serene inscrutability. He could be smiling slightly, or no, or yet frowning, but there was nothing cold or angry in those sculpted features.

Cyr bowed down deep, then knelt, tucking his knees away beneath him.

"Great One," his voice was soft, but steady. He must be certain. "I've traveled far, to reach you here in your own city, in hope that you'll accept me." These were old words, bound to him when the elders had threaded the gold through his skin. "I am a small thing, and my troubles are great--but they are nothing, for thee. I bring no treasure, nor tribute, nor great works." He curled his chin almost to the floor, as though stone spoke to stone. "I have only myself to give. Please, grant this life worthy, and spare my village. As I have poured out my heart to you, I beg you bring them rain."

He tapped his forehead twice to the stones, then came up to sitting on his knees to unwind the 'lam.

Inside was the vial that would stop his heart. All that remained was to drink from it.

His true name, Caduceus, was sendom invoked outside the temple's inner chambers. To the people, He was known as the One. Supreme god of the land. Lord of the Cradle, the Harvest, and the Rains. Bringer of life and fertility. Gatekeeper of the Divine Garden. Lord of the Sacred Flame. Guardian of the Seven Divine Chambers. He Who Swells Rivers and Wombs. Master of the Field and the Bedchamber. Font of Endless Waters.

He was bored.

Day in and day out, life in His divine residence went on much the same way, on the whole, as it had for centuries, punctuated only by annual feasts and holy days. This day was entirely ordinary, however, and His temple played host to much the same collection of characters as always. Nobles and merchants hoping to buy His favor. A few were actually earnest in in their devotions, but most were far more interested in putting on a show for their peers and the people. How magnanimous they were to lavish the temple with gold, with gems, with livestock, with goods of all sorts, each competing to appear more lavish and extravagant in their giving than the last. None of the fine silks were coming off of their backs, however, nor the gold from their coin purses, nor the food from their tables. A farce of generosity, before they were borne away on their palanquins, smugly confident in their superiority. Under most circumstances, He paid little heed to their prayers; they had no need of His blessing.

The wives that came to His temple in varying states of desperation were far more earnest in their prayers, though He tended to pay more heed to the ones who weren't all but dripping with gold and jeweled bangles to the point of clattering like a tinker's cart when they moved. The wealthier the wife, the more their concern was for status and appearance; they prayed for heirs, not children. To have their position in the household solidified. To birth a son to outdo the currently favored wife. Those who had His compassion were those for whom the pain of an empty womb- or worse, a babe who had been stillborn or lost before ever coming into the world- cut deep. Them He would bless, with children or with healing according to their need.

But though they had His compassion, they couldn't long hold His interest. Few things did. Such was the nature of an immortal life. But even as the sun began to sink out of sight, Her fires dimming to slumber for another day, one last petitioner approached the alter. Somewhat scrawny, marred with the dust of long travel everywhere but where the ritual cleansing had washed it away, a young male-mother knelt and bowed low. The gold hoops in his ears and the 'lam he carried gave his purpose away before he spoke a single word; he had come here from his far distant village expecting to never return. To offer himself, body and soul, to Him and to the temple in exchange for hopefully granting his desperate and heartfelt plea.

And in all likelihood, he never would return to his village, though not for the reason he believed. The draught contained in the 'lam was known only to the priests and herbalists who served Him. To those outside the temple, it was known as a potion that granted a quick death, but only when consumed willingly. In truth, however, the death it granted was only symbolic; composed of holy water and a few select herbs, drinking it ended one's previous life, and by its blessing began it anew as a servant of the One and His temple. The secret was kept that the sincerity of the act might be preserved; what mattered was the willingness to offer one's life in the service of a sacred mission. Of a greater good.

And thus did this dusty traveler, kneeling there, gathering the courage to finish what he had come their to do, catch His interest. While choosing to devote oneself to the temple in one form or another was hardly uncommon to do so in this manner was a rare thing. His village would have their rain, and more to sustain them until the harvest, but this one... this one He wished to keep an eye on personally.

When a previously unseen priest stepped into view from behind the statue of the One, most present barely acknowledged the newcomer. His robes marked him as a priest of middling rank, like unto dozens of others that resided in temple complex, a well-polished copper amulet around his neck bore the three-leaved sapling identifying him as an instructor of new initiates. His feature were handsome, but not in a remarkable way. In fact the only truly striking feature about him was his eyes, brilliantly blue as the summer sky.

Such was the guise He donned to approach the young male-mother, moving to kneel between him and the alter, facing him. "One who has come with the 'lam," He said, His tone gentle, but His expression as inscrutable as the statue behind Him, "you have indeed traveled far, carrying a great burden. I shall wait with you as you take this final step of your journey, and see you safely on to the next." To the young male-mother this journey could only be the one that would take him to the Sunless Sea of Heaven, where the goddess Radia watched over the souls of the righteous in Arjia, the City of Silver and Crystal. Though in truth, a far different fate awaited him, at least in the immediate future. In the guise of the simple priest, Caduceus waited.

He was so focused on what he'd come to do that it took him a moment to notice the slight stir in those few still scattered about, the steady stride of the priest--how long had he been standing there? His amulet glinted as he bent down, three rounded leaves shining in the torchlight as he knelt across from Cyr. Did the sapling mean new life in this world, or the other?

A small, dark part of Cyr whispered it was just practical for them to send someone, if only to clean the stones, but--that didn't seem to be this priest's mission. It wouldn't be proper to stare, to take over-notice of his appearance, but he wasn't hard to look at by any means. He had a gentle bearing, and a kind voice.

His words were almost tender, and Cyr paused to weigh them. But if he laid his burdens down here, he did not think he could pick them up again. As it was, he had to pry the stopper loose.

For one aching moment, Cyr saw how brilliant the priest's eyes were, like the sea in summer.

It was good to have a witness. He hadn't come for his own sake, but it helped to think he might find favor with the bright queen of that far shadowed shore, Radia of the Sunless Sea.

His sister Quorra surely must have, innocent as she had been.

"Thank you," Cyr managed, settling on, "Brother," as the best form of address, when he knew he was ignorant of temple rank and particulars. All were family, before the One. "It helps that--that someone--"

He only needed bravery a moment more. "Your presence grants me strength."

Cyr nodded to the priest in salute and drank it all at once.

Immediately he flinched at the taste. It was powerfully bitter, hot and sharp like devil pepper, but he got it down quickly, if with a long, hard shudder.

...He...felt...

Suspiciously alive.

Perhaps it was like hemlock draught, and took some minutes to work.

"Will you," he did not want to be alone, and at least the last thing he'd think of would be those amazing eyes. "Would you--pray with me?"

He smiled slightly at being called 'Brother'. He'd not been addressed that way for centuries. Not since His last interaction with Salynn, the one god who could truly claim such kinship with Him, being the first creations written into being by the Creator, Kelynn, at the Beginning. But where He watched over the affairs of the land, His free-spirted brother watched over the affairs of the sea. As the Navigator and the Bringer of Winds, sailors, fisherman, and shipwrights looked to Him, not farmers and city dwellers, and Their paths seldom crossed.

In the here and now, the young male-mother pulled out the stopper and downed the potion. Bitter as parting and with the burning sting of loss. Its blessing was not a pleasant one. But in taking and bearing it all in good faith, his mission- and the rite- was complete.

His smile became more genuine. "Your payers have already been heard," He said. "You have offered yourself, body and soul, to the One and to the temple with sincerity and conviction, and that offering has been accepted. You may lay down your great burden and stand up, for though the life you knew has ended, by the blessing of the 'lam, your new life in service to the One has begun."

Cyr had offered all he was, by choice and with surety, and the 'lam had proved him out. It was good to be watched over, even if for a short--time?

He'd seen what happened to goats or chickens that got into spikeweed, what a scorpion's bite could do to a curious, too-trusting family pet. But the pain he was braced against never came. The darkness never arrived. In its place, that--that taste--rasped over his tongue and dissolved under a few determined swallows. He could not avoid the sudden harsh upwelling of difficult feelings that chased it, sorrow twisting sharp against his ribs, pushed aside in a shocking rush of anger, a thrill of cold fear. There was one small shudder of bitterness, a thing he'd heard too, too often was a male-mother's daily bread, as natural to all his kind as gluttony or gossip.

But the bite of the 'lam reminded him: none of his betters had made this journey. And he hadn't expected to survive it.

And his kind watcher still knelt beside him, bade him rise in a way that had to be ritual, but so tender it half undid him. The priest's gentle voice loosed the tension in his spine and unwound the knot in his throat, and Cyr sobbed outright, one hard, bitter bark of new air.

"I miss her," escaped, wavered out of him like a last breath. "I--oh--"

He hadn't left because of her, or even because of the true-mothers running sick. It had been the little ones: who cried at first with hunger, and then with thirst, and then were too weak to do either.

But he must lay that down. He must let everything he had been go, and find out what this was, that he'd been summoned to.

He felt--so many things, in that moment: it struck him that all his fear was gone. That he did not feel--worry, or shame, or any of the hundred things that had brought him here at last.

He did not know if there was a formal answer for the priest's kindness, and so instead he braced his hands on his knees and stood.

This vow he'd taken was not about death at all, but life. It was time to learn what it meant.

"Can you show me," his words did not falter, "what I must do? I am eager to learn, Brother."

He would not fail them. Even if he must let them go.

Edited 2024-10-20 03:59 (UTC)

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Page 8 of 10

Two heads are better than one

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Sheltered - [pet people] cw: past abuse, trauma, the pet club trade is people

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Hot and Bothered in Cool Water-Xenophelia, merman on human sexytimes, learning how each other works

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Let's Do It, Let's Start! (Three Heart Event)

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(GIRL U UP?)

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