Two heads are better than one

[tanks4thememory]

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.

Comments

Master/Slave sexual roleplay

[tanks4thememory]

It had taken a bit of preplanning- and a few more trips to the adult products shop as they kept coming up with additional ideas-, but tonight was the night. Everything was set up, safeword system decided upon, and the stage was set. The game would begin officially when Clu entered the bedroom where his omega was waiting, and would go until either they woke up the next morning or until one of them called it off with the safeword.

Among the new accessories that they'd purchased for this scenario, Clu had decked his code-brother out in a leash and collar set with attached cuffs, three-point chastity belt made for full binary male omegas- set up to start with a (currently turned off) vibrating cock cage with nubs and a simple bit of faux leather with holes blocking access to his clit and vagina while still leaving them exposed to air, with nothing in the butt for the moment-, a ball bag that could have a bullet vibe added later, and a decorative body harness. And for a bit of added fun and anticipation, Clu had also thrown in the simple blindfold that they'd already had from another set.

Thus decked out, Clu had instructed his omega to stand in his bedroom and wait for him while Clu went to finish getting ready himself. It would only be a few minutes until their game officially began, but Clu hoped that those few minutes of anticipation would make things that much more fun for his omega in the end.

[a_perfect_end]

Clu, for his part, was trying to figure out what to do with his hands. A praying position just felt--no, and interlacing his fingers had given it a nervous flavor he didn't like and didn't feel himself. The only real way to relax his arms was to rest his hands on his own chest, and that put him in touch with the body jewelry, the slink of metal on his skin, somehow more than he expected.

Everything, together, was--a lot. Not more than he could handle, but maybe more than he'd hoped for? The gathered effect was intricate and intense. It had been difficult to hold still, getting it all on, helping put it on, and in some cases letting it be put on once he couldn't reach, himself.

He could feel every inch of everything.

The blindfold was strangely centering. It cut out the light. It took the room itself away, let him focus on his breathing and on the way his heart felt under his fingers, the necklace chain pressed smooth under them in turn.

This had sort of started with Throne Wars: Age of Legends--the two-parter about gorgeous, brooding King Midas and his stupid, sexy harem. Of course, some of the details were edited for TV, and many more were spiced up, but. Something about it had haunted him even while they'd laughed together over it, cuddled up in front of the TV.

A day or so later, he'd steeled his nerves and asked. More like blurted the question while they were folding laundry. Same thing. One conversation quickly led to another, each making suggestions, adding some things, taking others away, working out a safety system, and egging each other on in general.

And now here they were. Here he was, in it quite literally up to his neck, quietly dying of excited anticipation.

Still, he was waiting patiently. He was being good.

He could be good.

subject lines; <3

[a_perfect_end]

He couldn't see, hadn't this whole time, and as if to make up for it his other senses had gradually gone loud: his own breathing was like the ocean in his ears, heart tapping against his skin. He could smell alpha, rich on his tongue, almost enough to taste.

He could smell himself. The sweet bite of slick creased the air.

Clu slid, overbalanced, lead too short to push himself up again, flushed hot with a vicious pang of hungry embarrassment. Then his alpha growled low, soft and real as touch, and Clu was almost lost. Master could have asked him for anything, just then. Could have done anything he wanted at all.

The order didn't go through at once. He simply reacted, bowed his head lower, neck extended for that growl and the heat in it. Come?

Could he do that? On command.

Carefully. Testing the taste of it, testing whether it was allowed, "Yes, Master--!"

Only the sleeve just would not let go, nubs curved inward and slit dragging wet at the tip of him, a sharp savage caress. His balls jumped painfully, thwarted and almost too full. He put the effort in and got a deep, animal groan for his trouble. And that was all. That was all, even with sparks swimming behind the blindfold, slick flesh tensing eagerly with a hungry throb.

Maybe he couldn't? Trying again with a frenzied wriggle, with a sharp little noise for the way everything slid. He shivered, whimpering where he couldn't get the air, almost soundless and only then realizing he'd caught and held his breath.

His hips clutched so tight the motor stuttered. But it didn't stop. None of them did, and he was still cresting higher.

"Oh--" gasping, almost panting to hold down a torrent of words that wanted out--praise and nonsense and foul begging he didn't have permission for--"oh, oh--"

It was simply too much for him. Because that thing was deep and still moving, notched snug to some critical, blinding junction and still humming merrily. He was completely undone. Unstrung like a loop of beads or pearls, collapsed on his curled hands, fisted tight under his chin like a cat or a coy girl.

Clu shrieked, a vivid Spring Break squeal, and crashed hard through a double overload.

Clu1's first rut + the mating bite

[tanks4thememory]

After the issues that had surround his code brother's first few heats, Clu had made a point of doing thorough research regarding both heat and rut, and was now- among other things- much more aware of the signs of an impending one. Thus, when he started to display many of the symptoms of an oncoming rut cycle- unusual restlessness, irritability, inability to focus, unusual cravings for high protein foods, feeling unusually warm, and finding normal clothing suddenly more uncomfortable or restricting- he made sure to quickly make arrangements with both his omega and their workplace. There would be no getting caught off guard and having to deal with issues afterwards this time.

Thus, when Clu laid down to try and catch a nap, he expected to wake up with a massive boner. And his expectations were proven right; he was awakened both by feeling far too warm, even under a light sheet and by the fact that he was painfully hard, his cock throbbing out a second heartbeat. What he hadn't quite expected or been prepared for was the almost desperate urgency and core-deep need that accompanied his arousal. He wasn't just horny; he needed to fuck right now.

Specifically, he needed to fuck an omega right now. His omega. He could scent him and knew that his omega could certainly scent him too, especially in this state. Was the scent of his Alpha in rut getting him turned on too? Clu hoped so, because he wasn't in the mood for a lot of foreplay right then.

He was hard enough that getting up was difficult, and he groaned as the assistance of gravity pulling more blood downward seemed to make his cock throb even harder somehow, but a moment later he was stalking- and yes stalking was the only word for it- down the hall. Tracking the scent of his omega, in hopes of sating a desire just as primal as hunger.

[a_perfect_end]

Everything about the world they now found themselves in and their new circumstances had been unexpected. Their biology was especially strange, and Clu's own in particular. In timing his instincts, they'd relied first on arithmetic--disastrous--and then on the accurate but lengthier process of finding a specialist who would listen while also actually knowing better. And there had been a few more surprises on the way to those findings.

So, if nothing else, they were well-versed in what to look for and how to inquire when it came to his code-brother's own needs: nutrition, rest, and personal time.

Clu had even done a little--call it side reading, like that would give Fit and Fashionable! or Omega Home Journal an academic sheen. The damned things did at least know, or claim to know, what your alpha was really thinking (Try Our Quiz, 37, right across from the recipe for caramel ripple cake) and while they were, what they were, they at least gave him something to do in the waiting room.

Most of it was junk. Some of it aligned with what the professionals had to say. And some of it was just, well, stereotyping, but based on all kinds of things neither of them had known about, because they were only now experiencing it.

Clu read all of them, neatly sorted by year and then by dominant cover color, before deciding what to memorize.

When his alpha came down with not a fever, Clu had the ibuprofen out for him. When the whole apartment started to take on a strong current of ozone and sugar, Clu had nosed into the kitchen to cook eggs his favorite way. It was supposed to make him feel like he'd earned the rewards of the hunt, or something--and actual medical science agreed that solid food was better, even if they'd never get used to it in a hurry.

When his code-brother snapped at him slightly and stomped off in search of a nap, Clu let him go. He'd left out some things alpha could take and take with him, if he decided, like some water and a nice blanket. It was important to give him some space--avoid asserting in his territory.

Not least because Clu was feeling it a little, too, an undercurrent of restless want dragged to the fore by that delicious, overpowering scent.

He straightened the coffee table for the eighth time (nothing was out of place; he did it again) and slunk off to his bedroom, shedding clothes outside in, ending in just a shirt. He didn't want to let go of it, needing to rub up to something soft in a way that was far less urgent than being in heat, but no less real. He settled on the bed without having to make a nest, not exactly curled up for sleep, but not quite content. Every surface wafted alpha back to him, a breath of sea and something rich and personal, whatever it was that was just him, magnified and perfect.

He couldn't help touching, feeling himself warm and swell for it, starting to slicken. Clu rolled away from the door, his back to it, and held on to the image of his code-brother's grin, stroking idly and picturing how serene his alpha looked in repose.

...It was too bad he was asleep.

If he stayed that way, Clu might just wake him.

byte, n. 1: a group of binary digits or bits (usually eight) operated on as a unit

[a_perfect_end]

Clu growled into his tea, drained it in a final swig, and banged the gathered plates into the sink. He couldn't banish queues here. He couldn't just drop to standby or force idle while he did tasks by rote. So he was stuck loudly finishing chores while trying to think of something, anything, else except this.

He didn't know what he was feeling! But wow, was there a lot of it, and all of it had come to a boil, again, because he was thinking, again, about being mated.

The idea looked very good on paper. (He'd made diagrams. Some of them were even the kind with the little hearts, though he'd quickly destroyed those and dismissed them to the trash.)

They were good together, and not just at work--they excelled at little things like raking the yard, or big ones like...adjusting their tax profile and...distributing computing to a variety of worthy causes without leaving traces. Any task that could be broken into teamwork didn't stand a chance. And they hung out together most of the time. Some of that was this weird new world and its weird idea that he needed, or at least should have, a chaperone, but mostly it was just how easy they found it to be in each others' company. To talk, to laugh, to swap memes in the break room when they really should have been doing something else. To spend whole afternoons curled up and doing nothing, breathing lazily against each other over the dull roar of the tv.

And they enjoyed each other. Every bit of each other. On every surface in the house. Repeatedly.

So after his fourth compromising and sticky sparkly vampire princess mating-bite dream in as many heats, Clu was almost ready to just bite his code-brother, instead. Except it was a huge commitment. And they'd been working, very thoroughly, on all the permutations of consent and how important all of them were.

Just because he wanted it, didn't mean the alpha wanted it from him.

And his code-brother was the real deal: smart, kind, funny, and almost maddeningly patient, except when he was being mischievous instead. He had so much to offer someone.

Clu himself did not have those traits. He knew he didn't. Would it even be fair, to ask him for his mark?

Would his directive compel him to say yes?

...Would Clu even be able to stop himself if that turned out to be the case? And how could they live with each other, if it did?

Clu sighed and made a point of gently finishing up, carefully arranging every single dish, delicate against his urge to throw at least one. It wasn't the forks' fault he was in this mess. These thoughts were all his own. He was the one not talking about them, too far down in his own logic loops to actually say anything.

He made cocoa, instead. Sure he'd just had tea, but there was always room for more, and they almost always drank this together. Besides, it would steel his nerves.

"Hey!" Bright, pleased, a cheerful bellow calibrated to get his attention, neck craned toward the living room. "Dude! I'm making chocolate! You want?"

The most successful opening gambit in the history of conversation. His code-brother would never knew what hit him.

[tanks4thememory]

Clu could hear his code brother angrily banging around in the kitchen. OK, so he was technically doing dishes, but it was clear he needed the banging a bit more than they needed clean dishes at the moment. So keeping half an ear out for the sound of something breaking followed by cursing, he returned his attention to the TV.

Or tried to anyway. Because as much as it was clear that his code brother had something on his mind- and had for awhile, though he'd denied it and hastily changed the subject when Clu had asked-, Clu had something on his mind too. Thus he stared at the TV without really taking in what was playing as he went over scenarios in his head.

He knew they had to have a discussion about potentially becoming proper mates. He'd done some research privately, and aside from the bite itself, the whole process was relatively painless. Their status as 'twins' in this world might complicate things a bit, but overall, once the bite was made, it was just a bit of legal paperwork and a small fee paid at the local courthouse, and they would be considered legally mated. Some people had elaborate parties or ceremonies, but simple efficiency would suit his code brother better. A celebration with a few friends from work after the fact would be more than enough for the two of them.

That was, assuming his code-brother was interested in the first place. Which was the sticking point. How to broach the topic so he could find out? Just coming out and saying something like, 'hey, do you want me to bite you?', was discarded as a possibility almost immediately; it was too awkward and off-putting. That left a more subtle approach. But too subtle and he might be misunderstood. A balance needed to be found.

And on top of that, when would be a good time to start the conversation? It obviously couldn't happen at work, but there were few situations at home where it would seem even somewhat of a natural fit. And in bed they tended to be... preoccupied. Hmm...

The sound of his code brother's voice calling from the kitchen brought him back to reality, followed immediately by a sitcom laugh track that seemed to mock his indecisiveness. Clu gave the TV an annoyed frown before muting it to make replying easier. "Sure!", he called back. "There should be a new bag of marshmallows in the cabinet too; the old one was running pretty short."

Glitch it all. He really needed to stop trying to wait for a perfect time that would never come, and just do it already. And cocoa would help smooth over any rough edges in a conversation. Now was as good a time as any.

Pleasantville (cw: gender fuckery; crossdressing; feminization; probable meatloaf destruction)

[a_perfect_end]

The internet was very clear about how things were supposed to be: it was all right there in the standards. There were mostly alpha quarterbacks, and mostly omega cheerleaders. There was one, one alpha chess grandmaster, Miria "Walentin" Federova, and she'd died in 1916.

There were various all-beta leagues at all kinds of things, but nobody took them seriously. Beta sports were not real sports. Betas became doctors and teachers--they could keep their cool and only had to rotate schedules with each other.

And those standards didn't stop existing at work. The oldest guys called him sweetheart off and on, or forgot they'd asked him to get their coffee before, forgot he didn't do that, and asked again as a joke. Emily had cornered him once with a photo collage of her nieces, and he hadn't immediately squealed and cooed about screaming, wriggly, red-faced offspring that weren't even hers, and now things between them were weird and hostile.

Sometimes it felt like the world was weird and hostile.

He'd seen her in the shop window on an afternoon like that, beatific, somehow beyond and above the travesty of an apron swallowing her whole. There was Kiss the Cook and then there was whatever this thing was, a fluff accordion strung together with straps just broad enough not to be called ribbons.

Now with POCKETS! enthused the sign, in cheery red and yellow.

How did that work, Clu had wondered, squinting for any sign of them in the flouncing snowdrift.

The mannequin said nothing whatever about her predicament, blank and serene, beaming in a way that made his heart go faster and dampened his palms. She seemed entirely at peace with herself. She looked so...delicate.

When he moved in for a closer look, pulled forward by some gathering force that had him swallowing hard, they flowed forward together. Optical illusion. He knew that, even as it held him--his reflection thin and wan, blurred into her bright plastic edges. Her, under glass, him in the glass; them in the glass, one being, swimming in sweetheart ruffles.

He didn't touch the window. That would be weird. He didn't buy an apron, either. Instead he dragged home yet another cooking magazine and perfectly burned what would have been a chocolate souffle`.

He could not get her out of his mind.

And so he'd danced around it. Tried it out, gradually--clear nail polish, every night until it was always right. Then he switched it for Seaside, a soft, gentle color almost the same pink as his nail beds--but there, unmistakable, tip to tip.

Then he, lord of the wet look, king of the clipper people, started letting his hair grow out. Like, out, out, even for an odd week where it was too short to go all the way over his collar.

By the time it touched his collarbones, he was ready to talk. They ironed it out together as mates, and at some length, before Clu finally burst out with this shit is hard! and weird! and just so much and not to be that guy, but, female? omegas? not like that, hands frantically doing the talking, y'know--like, old tv?

His code-brother was mostly practicing some very patient listening with an intensity that almost made him worry, until finally Clu grated out some stuff.

About makeup. And stockings? And panties.

Stuff that made his alpha sit a little straighter, gradually grinning bigger and sharper, all teeth as he casually offered to buy Clu a dress.

A dress Clu was currently wearing, a white and lemon checkered halter with a softly weighted shelf sewn in, putting his shoulders to good advantage and helping him round it out. He really liked how that felt, the little tug when he bent forward to stir the potatoes. Everything sat just right, and that made him shiver.

It was all just as he'd planned, as he'd practiced--the way the skirt rustled crisp against his nylons. How every inch of his leg in the nylons was sleek and sensitized, nerves thrumming with the pressure, down to his peep-toe flats, manicured nails Corvette red under the socks.

And if he thought at all about anything else, his meatloaf was done for.

Not a euphemism! Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, peas, and the rolls out of the can, like the commercial. Most cooking was a matter of following the exact recipe, and dinner was really starting to smell good.

He'd outdone himself this time.

"Darling," high and bright, a fanfare lilt, "I think it's almost ready."

She checked it again, then bustled about setting the table.

Dinner would be served, and then they were on.

[tanks4thememory]

Clu loosened his tie. He was meant to look like he'd recently gotten home from the office, after all, and though their workplace required no such strict dress code most days, he did at least own a suit he could wear when needed. So there he was in a white button-down shirt (with the top button undone), necktie (loosened, but still on), dress slacks (all fastened, but unbelted), socks, and slippers. As if he'd just come home and was beginning to relax but hadn't had time to fully change. He gave himself a quick check in the mirror, then nodded, heading for the main living area and kitchen.

He heard the call and smiled. He thanked whatever quirk of Flynn's own genetics allowed them to get their voices up an octave or two more than was expected, at least when speaking. It still couldn't really be called high-pitched if it were truly a woman's voice, but it was enough to help sell the illusion for the purposes of their game. "Coming, honey," he called back as he passed through the living room.

He paused in the kitchen doorway though, leaning against the doorframe, quietly admiring his code brother while he worked. While no amount of clothing could ever make someone with his omega's frame look dainty, the outfit worked surprisingly well. It was slimming in all the right places, while also adding the illusion of a bit more curve in others where it was needed. He was glad they'd been able to find a shop specializing in this sort of clothing to get a dress that was properly fitted and padded; it looked great on him.

He also wondered if it was strange to find his omega just as attractive this way as he did normally, but in a different way. Maybe it was the long, visible legs, or the painted nails, or the way the skirt shifted when 'she' moved. But whatever it was, Clu could already tell he was going to enjoy it.

Not All Lessons Repeat Themselves and History Is Half Lies; DoubleAU; DUBCON, VIOLENCE

[a_perfect_end]

Pale Darius, Blight of Blackthorn, was not the stuff of legends. He was a horror tale, a caution story to all the travelers on the road this late, frost half-on them already and the snow too deep outside for saner men. Too many storms this season, too hard and too soon.

Had they not been in dire need of his promise-husband's help, they wouldn't have come. Disaster had brought them: a landslide, a sudden shift in the hills--his uncle dead, his matron doomed, and half the household crushed under rocks he still thought he heard falling in every peal of thunder.

Clevon knew from the villages surrounding that his promise-husband was good and kind, and his letters insisted he liked his wit as much as he wanted his body. He'd sent his own letters, formal acceptance and awful, sugary verse. He'd sent a letter of calamity, too, a plea for help by their swiftest messenger, to meet them here, halfway between their lands.

And to meet him, Clevon knew he must go himself, no matter what moon of the month it would be. So he'd snorted into his wine and laughed at the stories, reminding himself they were thirty strong, and every man of them could wield a sword--even he, and even Greta had her axe.

Oh, but that was a week ago, along the relative safety of the road.

Pale Darius was not a story at all. He was a whisper, and his men were ghosts, and they'd stormed down the pass in a fury of fog and blood. Pale Darius was swift and mean and powerful, and wanted him very much.

This did not impress Clevon. He wasn't raised omega; he'd sprouted late, and before that he'd have been lord of the house. He didn't weep, or cower, or simper pleasantly into hands he did not want touching him.

He'd fought hard. It didn't matter much.

The few they left alive were all omegas, carted off elsewhere in the keep. Him they'd dashed in cold water and scoured down--he should have waited another week, or it was the terror rolling in his guts, curling sour and hot in his stomach--and they absolutely covered him in captured velvet trinkets before shoving him into the room, sat him bristling with jewelry chains to dinner with Pale Darius.

That had gone badly. For not suffering to be touched, for throwing his food--

Clevon was dragged by hand into irons, by Pale Darius himself, and then they were alone together in the dungeon.

He never should have breathed his promise-husband's name, much less threatened the other alpha with it, but he'd talked back when he could do nothing else, bound and shoved and prodded like a broken toy or a sack of grain.

He couldn't quite reach the floor, drawn up tall, toes not catching even stretched down. He knew this was done to strangle men slowly, with the weight of their own ribs, and he was afraid.

He was very afraid, trembling all the way to his bones, like a leaf or a maiden. It wasn't the slow burn building in his lungs that worried him. It was the ache in everything else. The way his sharpened nose was telling him he'd started to smell, even freshly washed.

Rotten flowers, his little cousin had said once, face scrunched in childish revulsion.

He wouldn't stink to an alpha.

Pale Darius did not mind at all, scenting him lazily, sniffing and licking, smirking insufferably for the ineffectual snap of Clevon's teeth on empty air, for his empty little curses after.

Are you crying? His voice dragged like glue through an old cut in his throat and Clevon shuddered with hatred, with something else, every nerve twinging for the nearness of an alpha. Will you beg me not to?

The flush was like fire in him, slick curling in the velvet with an unmistakable rush of something cloying, alluring and heavy. He hurt where he wasn't being touched, aching for the maybe of an alpha's hand on a razor edge between finally and not his, not his, not his, helpless. Revulsed and burning.

But his answer was steady.

No.

This infuriated the villain, who grabbed him, who squeezed him, who--gods--bit his ear instead of marking him, and Clevon did scream then.

No? No? Then you can rest here.

Pale Darius laughed at him.

I can wait for your husband. Palm lifted high, dragging his fingers cruelly tight against wet, wet velvet. Can you?

Clevon turned his head, teeth bared in a snarl to hold down a sob. He let it out when the bar of the door slammed heavily into place, and he cried outright once he was alone.

He had no way of knowing if his letter had made it. If anyone was ever coming to help. If his promise-husband had already run afoul of these creatures and met his death on the road.

And now he dared do nothing but wait.

[tanks4thememory]

Caleb had been waiting for the next letter from his mate to be. He hadn't expected it to come quite so soon, or to be delivered by a messenger who was quite so frantic, having obviously ridden hard to get there as soon as humanly possible. And the tragic contents of the letter were even less expected, and certainly far less welcome.

But nonetheless he'd marshalled his forces quickly. Soldiers and guards, yes, both on foot and mounted, but also strong craftsmen and several healers, as well as a shipment of grain. It wasn't only Clevon's family that had suffered and lost loved ones due to the tragedy, and their presence would reassure his mate to be that his pledge was more than a matter of simple political convenience. True, their kingdoms had long been allied, but he could have had any omega from one of their noble houses, and initially had indeed corresponded with a number of them. None of them had the wit and brass that Clevon's words carried. Though the fact that he'd heard that his mate to be was quite attractive certain did no harm, there were many attractive omegas he could have warming his bed. He wanted someone who could arouse his intellect as well as his loins, and that had left Clevon as the clear choice.

But when he arrived at where he expected his promised mate to be waiting, he found only death. And the colors on one of the fallen soldiers told him who was responsible. After being assured by the messenger that none among the dead was his mate to be, and that several others in his entourage were also unaccounted for he made his decision. He'd long been waiting for a viable reason to slay the beast that crouched too near his border, and this provided more than enough.

But he did not underestimate his foe. Before he made his move, he hastily called up men from the surrounding villages to bolster his forces. Though not as skilled as his castle guard, they were all more than ready to see the end of Pale Darius, his presence so uncomfortably close by even more of a constant worry for them.

Thus reinforced, he took the majority of his men to march on the Pale One's keep. The resultant battle was harsh, but Darius' forces were bound to him by fear, not loyalty. When the tide of battle turned, many of them threw down their weapons and abandoned their lord, flinging themselves on the mercy of Caleb and his men. He would sort out the true vipers from the lot when matters were less pressing, but for now, it was enough that they told him where their master was, and where the prisoners were being kept.

His personal battle against Pale Darius was short and brutal. Darius was skilled at ambushes, but when it came to an even, one-on-on fight with a skilled opponent he fell quickly to Caleb's sword. And that was the end of it. Caleb's colors were raised on the battlements; the keep, and all within it was his now. Upon seeking out the prisoners, they found that they were sadly too late for one; his body was wrapped in a shroud and taken out, so that he could at least be provided a proper burial. The other few omegas- though they had been used cruelly, were still alive, and he directed them to be taken into the care of his men.

But they weren't the ones he was truly here for. Directed by one of the keep's servants, he descended into the keep's dungeon. The cloying smells of dampness, old blood, and decay were to be expected in such a place, but another smell powerfully overlaid them as he approached the cell where his mate to be was said to be held. No... surely not. He wouldn't have risked travel so close to his heat, even under pressing circumstances, would he?

But the scent was unmistakable, and the unconscious man chained up within matched the descriptions he'd been given of Clevon. Trying to ignore his own body's response to the heady scent of an omega deep in heat, he pulled over a stool and climbed up, beginning to undo the chains binding him to the wall. He could only hope that no permanent harm had been done.

(Pleasantville subset CW: gender fuckery; crossdressing; feminization, pregnancy kink, and others)

[tanks4thememory]

Pregnancy. Biologically speaking, the intended goal of heat and rut, and indeed of all sex. Though thankfully for both him and his omega, one was extremely unlikely due to their genetics being too close a match.

But still, he wondered what his code brother thought of the idea. Not of a real one, of course, but of a simulated one. Especially as connected to his feminine alter ego. Bringing it up had led to an intriguing conversation, followed by a return to the same shop they'd gotten his first dress from. The end result was a much flowier number designed to resemble a maternity dress, and with somewhat larger, heavier breasts to simulate the breasts of a soon to be mother beginning to swell with milk. The shop was even able to provide them a weighted 'sympathy pad', designed to safely replicate both the shape and weight of a heavily pregnant belly.

And this time, along with the outfit, they'd come up with a more focused backstory than simply the vague idea of a 50s housewife. In this scenario, his omega's former Alpha lover had gotten her pregnant, then abandoned her when she'd started to show. He'd wanted only the sex, not the relationship or the responsibility of a family. And given that they were setting it in roughly the same era, this had left his code-brother's character panicked and desperate; an unattached, pregnant omega in the 50s would have been in serious trouble on a number of fronts (and still might be in modern times). But then another Alpha- Clu, of course- had come into the picture and taken her in, promising to take care of her and the baby, as well as become her proper mate once the child was born.

Thus with the scenario decided and his 'pregnant' omega appropriately dressed and resting on the couch in the living room, Clu set about making some hot cocoa for the both of them while getting into character. Once he entered the living room, the game would begin.

CW: PREGNANCY KINK, CROSSDRESSING, SPANKING and OTHER, gee golly

[a_perfect_end]

This was not something he was supposed to want. He was definitely not supposed to want this from his twin, ever; the science and the ethics both underscored this with bright, glowing comment flags. And sometimes a respectful non-reaction rippled through a room when they walked in, visibly together. Now that they were mated--they could never have children, not of their own, and people were careful around what they figured was a delicate subject.

On his end, especially, it felt almost like pity. He couldn't have kids or, anyway, he shouldn't. And as far as making them, well.

They were careful together--excruciatingly careful--but down deep he was curious. He was interested. Knowing better did nothing to curb the fascination. Understanding didn't stop wanting, sometimes with a raw, animal intensity that scared him whether he admitted it or not, and it scared him more because it was natural. It was something this body--his body--had been built to do.

And he had such a great track record with forbidden fruit.

Luckily, his alpha was curious, too. He'd found that out one evening, when they'd almost finished putting her away, still buzzing in lazy aftercare across his lap, slow gentle circles where the swats had been. Low soft praise for his best girl helped to take the sting out of her medicine.

Clu was half back to himself when alpha's fingers stilled their dance. And alpha held that pose almost a good minute.

She perked up. "Coffee, darling?" (All okay?)

This was the one place where "No thanks," meant yes or all good, because they would never actually drink that stuff.

And really, his code-brother was just thinking. Just wondering.

...What would it be like, to have their own bundle of joy?

She sat up gingerly and considered. Clu rolled the idea around, let it do lazy laps in his brain, still not quite ready to turn over anything complicated. It clicked into place for him gradually, alpha helping him stand. They'd already decided firmly against this, in life.

But here, in a scene like this, a fantasy take through a heavily traditional lens? Kids were the goal of all that fooling around. Especially when the only fooling you did was with your husband.

...That had pushed up a harsh, ugly feeling even in character, some kind of boundary he didn't even know he had. But they'd talked past it--he was still interested. Still very curious. And alpha was intrigued, too. All they really needed to do was change the script.

So it was back to drawing board a few times and then to the store, with a brand new idea. It didn't hurt that Clu got a soft new dress out of it, new measurements for a new shape in a pale, soothing floral that also did well for the garb of a heartsick young thing in trouble.

And the suit undergirding it was more than he'd thought at first--pads like these didn't look as heavy as they were, all gentle but inexorable pressure--snug at hip and shoulder, just heavy enough to tilt his waist. She folded her arms, almost unconsciously, and that pulled in an aching, radiant way.

It altered the sit of her spine, splayed gently to make room.

She was out of places to go, parents nowhere since handing her off and her would-be alpha skipped town. The reform center did not want anyone in her condition, and the Sisters were a Greyhound ticket too far off--a world away, with all the fare money she did not have.

Even with practice, just walking had her a little breathless, the gradual procession from bedroom to kitchen to living room, and she was grateful for the chance to sit. Grateful to have been invited in. To be wanted.

She didn't have many options, but. This one was kind, and something told her she could trust him. She wanted to. Maybe she already did. They'd picked out some little things, a blanket, a toy--a duck, so it wouldn't matter that they didn't know yet whether to hope for a son or a daughter.

"Smells good!" she piped, hopeful, and sat to wait.

If they were all three lucky, they'd make this place somewhere like home.

take five, take care, take cover - cw: substances (alcohol), consent issues, self-destruction~

[a_perfect_end]

It should have gone perfectly. It was supposed to optimize transportation.

Instead--

The extent of what happened was terribly clear within moments: four full lanes of highway simply buckled, pitched into the Sea by girders snapped like broken fingers.

Clu dismissed all external settings and got to work on why it had happened, head down amid the screaming of alarms, with ever more data drifting in from the wreckage, but never any survivors.

A shift passed in that fashion, then two. Then three. Then there were no more alarms: no one else was coming.

Jarvis dared approach him on the fourth milicycle, tentative and thrumming with anxious solicitation disguised as a tray. And on that tray were a neat row of glasses: three green and two blue chased with one white soft as candles in a fussy, delicate dish. White, harmless as milk.

Imagine! Like Clu needed steadying or could be handled, the way you'd distract a beta. As though he could be bribed from his office with the lure of a treat.

Clu snarled at him and dismissed all incoming traffic down to the packet level, and locked the damn door behind him.

None of this would be happening if he had just worked the whole problem himself in the first place. Instead, his eyes were crossing at the totals, blurred with fatigue and stung with something more. Something worse.

It had all started with something so mundane. One tiny error somewhere. One little false that had cascaded into all this--until a motorway the width of a city block folded up like a child's puzzle and vanished.

Everyone inside was gone before the derezz even finished.

Clu would find that fault himself. He'd chase it to its origin if it took the rest of his runtime.

Six milicycles in, six shifts without pause, and the tray was calling his name--just gently, with the subtle tug of green flags around a good memory: here was energy, here was the power to keep at it. This might shake the processes he needed loose.

Clu scrambled about for a stylus in the stacks of data he still had to go, and stirred white and blue together.

The frisson of charge put his ideas back into sequence with a harsh, sudden lurch: he should have left this to Shaddox, but Shaddox was gone, too. Unrecoverable.

And if he could just find the origin, all would become clear. There was nothing wrong with the structure, according to the wireframes: maybe something in the mapping? Maybe it had been overbuilt.

He was not a designer. He should not have pushed so hard. Clu folded his head in his hands, curled on the desktop, and just didn't move a while, the feeds still rolling on one wall above him: all the lights going out, again and again on a loop. Lives dancing out of existence, bright as fireworks.

Maybe it was just him?

Seven milicycles. Another glass. His people needed answers, and Clu had none. He did have a tray full of green, though, and that last lonely blue.

He shook them together until they burned a violent fireplace red, held his breath, and took a swig that almost knocked him over. Reality crashed through in a scalding rush--the fault wasn't in the design and it wasn't in any of the maps.

It was in the Sea.

Or, in what he'd made of the Sea.

Everything was running exactly as he'd made it.

They should have been celebrating.

Clu couldn't quite remember how to dismiss a feed. Or, he could remember, but. His fingers wouldn't do it right.

...The glass was empty. The tray was empty, but it was still there. Easy enough to call for more. Clu reached into his accounts--into every scrap of energy he was owed for the last seven shifts, and poured out red after red.

How the door got open was beyond him. As was when, precisely, or how--without his say-so? Jarvis with his skeleton keys, weird name for a hash key, latch-key, for ding, dong, ditch...

The door was a mystery. But the figure waiting there was too familiar: straight and stern as though carved like it, and unbearably concerned.

Not Tron. Broadcasting way too much for him, way too loud, scorching signal bright as a halo.

"F--" no, not for ages, and never, ever again. "You."

Clu drew himself up to his full height--and promptly slouched over, instead. Red didn't want him vertical, or in any sort of order, really. Not that it stopped him from trying, scrubbing his hands in his hair, going for the smile, try, try again.

Get it perfect.

"You're a tough one to find," only swaying a little, crooning, "What kept you?"

[tanks4thememory]

It had been, to put it mildly, a clusterfault. An unequivocal disaster. And so many innocent programs had been derezzed because of it.

The admin was right about one thing, at least; the programs of the Grid needed answers. And since he wasn't the only one capable of investigating, his hacker brother had also lent his skills to finding out what the glitch had gone wrong. But where the admin spent time searching through datafeeds, Clu's methods were more hands on. Literally in this case; pieces of the highway that were too large to derezz on their own had been fished out of the Sea by recognizers and once they were on dry land, Clu had gone over them with his inbuilt code-reading abilities, looking for any hint as to what may have caused the collapse.

At first he found a whole lot of nothing; most pieces he was able to examine were so damaged by the collapse itself and their albeit short time in the Sea that any potential evidence had been wiped away. But then, a few millicycles in, a sizable chunk of one of the main structural supports was found, and it was there that he found it; the telltale signs of a gridbug nest. Ordinarily, this would have been no issue; the span had been designed to withstand damage from small to medium gridbug incursions. But these particular gridbugs had chosen to nest in a nigh inaccessible nook of the support, burrowing in instead of spreading out, and gradually eating away at the support's inner structure with not a program the wiser.

If Clu's hunch was correct, the gridbugs had likely finally found their way to the weakened support's main energy conduit, which would have caused a massive short almost immediately. Given the state of the support, that could have done it. And if that were true... well the whole thing would likely have been a complete fluke. A tragic accident that not even the most thorough design or stats programs could have predicted. Clu had returned to HQ to compile his report, which he'd then submitted to stats an analysis to double check, and see if their findings matched the scenario he thought most likely.

That had been several millicycles ago. Several millicycles since Jarvis had approached him, looking even more nervous than usual; he'd been unceremoniously ejected from the admin's chambers after daring to interrupt him to bring him some energy, and privately mentioned his concern about how his admin had looked. Several millicycles since the admin had locked himself in those same chambers and cut off all external feeds. Several millicycles of everyone trying to function normally despite the tensions buzzing in the air. Several millicycles of Clu respecting his brother's privacy and trying to similarly pretend.

Until he couldn't any more. Late into the seventh millicycle since the disaster, creeping up on the eighth, Clu was done waiting. Whatever this was, it was well past the point of his code-brother's usual stubborn dedication. So Clu got to work. All in all, it didn't take him too long to bypass the encryptions on the door; he'd need to talk to his brother about upgrading them later. But that was shunted firmly to the bottom of the tasklist by what he saw when he entered.

In contrast to his brother's usual somewhat obsessive neatness, there were energy containers of various sizes- glasses and bottles mostly, but he thought he saw a pitcher in there too- scattered carelessly about. And what they'd contained was obvious; the harsh, static-heavy residual signature of Red was so prevalent in the room it was detectable even from the doorway. And it became even stronger when Clu stepped fully inside closing and relocking the door behind him. Judging by the evidence, his code-brother had likely drunk enough of the stuff to kill most lesser programs. And given the still partly filled bottle sitting next to his chair, it didn't look like he intended to stop any time soon.

His code-brother initially offered him a somewhat slurred curse by way of a greeting, before getting unsteadily to his feet to approach him. Really the fact that he could walk at all was remarkable just then, but Clu doubted it would last long, judging by his overbright and fluctuating circuits. "I could say the same for you," he said, unmoved by the overcharged crooning. "You've been in here for nearly eight millicycles now. Though I have a feeling I know what's been keeping you, at least recently. How much red have you had?"

got this double vision; i need my own religion {imprisonment/captivity; violence; verbal weaponry}

[a_perfect_end]

There was cleanup to oversee from here to Gallium, but it had been paused for inclement weather. And then, too, this event called for his personal touch: today was the day. Clu would finally get a good and thorough look at the hacker who had been plaguing his system for an entire series of cycles.

He would never--as in, ever--say so, but he hadn't exactly expected to catch this rebel in particular. Mainly because he'd already terrorized a regiment into trying, and then roped Jarvis' packet sniffers into it. He'd repeatedly considered just--releasing Rinzler on him.

And Clu would wonder, later on, if they'd only caught him because of the storm.

Thunder rolled in to fill the silence between them, until the windows shivered with it. An instant later another wash of lightning snapped down outside, strobed cold white across the room and left them both in the dark again, each burning almost the same golden shade.

The heavy sentries were long gone, having dragged their catch in with gritted teeth and glancing over his head at each other as though they expected him to bite, or erupt in a sudden viral payload, or some other monstrosity. Perhaps horns?

He'd locked eyes with Clu, scowling, and only went to his knees after they pressed him there, reflexively trying again at function binders that did not and would not give.

Clu grinned back at him and took it all in, mood dampened only a little under the unblinking regard, that flat, steady glare.

It was unmistakeable: they shared an origin point, but it was not like looking in a mirror. For a start, their functions were totally different. This one clearly came with a whole suite of mischief installed. And yet, for one of the type, his behavior was oddly non-destructive. Specific was a better word, and precise a more perfect word for it--given all the growing headache he'd sown in five separate sectors, there was no loss of life.

Just a list of barbequed infrastructure as long as Clu's arm, even with the file compressed, and some interesting local physics calamities in the ranks...It had taken them almost a hex to get Theurer out of the scaffolding, with or without the axes inverted.

He'd somehow unreferenced an entire missile silo before they grabbed him.

There was also the clear 511 structure to some of his work. And he certainly dressed like a museum relic. Nobody here walked around patterned up like that. It was, disconcerting, and the total effect left Clu wrapping his processor around having munitions plant µ wiped clean by a courtesan.

It rankled, ever so slightly, that they nearly shared their color. That they clearly shared a User was a bitter distraction. After all, Clu was alone on the whole Grid: there were none like him, not even Tron.

Until today, he was very distinctive.

And the only person he'd ever met with anything even close to his own code base clearly hated him. Or hated captivity so thoroughly the result was the same: to glare daggers in him, in complete silence, bound hands poised flat against his knees, the binders gleaming an angry fireplace crimson where they oscillated with intent--caught for now, cornered for now, he would absolutely fly loose if he could.

Good. Good enough. It was a useful start.

He could not quite keep himself from rubbing his hands together, even though he was aware it was corny. He had never passed up a chance to gloat, and would not start just because he was being scowled at.

But it made him stand a little straighter, brought him the rest of the way across the room in a liquid, dramatic sweep of his coat.

"Greetings," all warm certainty, with a compact, peremptory wave of his hand. "Can't say I'm a huge fan of your work, but you've definitely got my attention."

The grin broadened, curling sour just at the edges. "I assume you know why you're here?"

Re: got this double vision; i need my own religion {imprisonment/captivity; violence; verbal weaponr

[tanks4thememory]

In a way, it had been at least partly the storm's fault. Not because Clu didn't know how to work under such conditions- which were both a boon and a hindrance for those with his function set for different reasons-, but because there was always going to be an element of unpredictability to them. A factor that could never fully be accounted for. Which in this case had left Clu on a rooftop, disabling the surge protector on a recognizer construction plant, in a storm that had grown more quickly and to greater intensity than the stats programs had predicted. He wouldn't even have been there, had he thought he'd have another chance that cycle, but he'd taken a calculated risk.

His calculations, sadly, had been off this time. Just as he'd put the final touches on his work and was closing out the window, intending to be long gone before anyone realized what was wrong, a lightning strike had hit the energy collector on the building's roof- a good idea, he had to admit; waste not want not, or whatever the User saying was- and channeled it through the surge protector, just as it was meant to. The surge protector he'd just disabled. Which then, predictably, had violently shorted out, throwing him back against the raised ledge surrounding the perimeter of the rooftop, leaving him stunned.

Thankfully, he was only stunned. But the nano or two it took him to recover was enough time for him to lose the headstart he'd hoped to have over security, as the sentries who came running to investigate the explosion had spotted a highly suspicious program with unique circuits scrambling over the rooftop ledge. The result had been a chase that spanned the length of half a sector, during which he'd used every relevant trick and exploit in his arsenal to shake his pursuers, including throwing the free code bomb he'd been planning to use on job later that millicycle at them; it would be some time before that alleyway was passable again, though at least a few members of the Black Guard were now considerably more colorful. It was all for naught in the end as a cadre of heavy sentries finally cornered him. The first to approach him would likely need a visit to a recompiler as well as a new helmet courtesy of Clu's fists and the wall of the building he'd been a bit too near, but before Clu could deal with any of the others the function binders had been slapped on him. And that was the end of it.

He'd expected a quick derezz, especially after he'd told them to do something anatomically impossible with their shock staves when they demanded he identify himself, but they didn't need to know his full [ident] to recognize what he was or put 10 and 10 together. Here, they had the hacker they'd been scouring the system for for cycles. Decacycles, even. In truth, he'd been causing trouble for significantly longer than that, almost since the coup itself, but as the Grid's population became more and more centered in Tron City alone, the hacker had come in from the failing outer settlements too. There, his work had really gotten noticed.

What he'd gotten though, was hauled here, and forced to his knees before the program who had driven all his actions thus far. A program who'd taken his name and his color and forever linked them to deresolution, destruction, madness, and oppression. A program who'd turned against their creator and everything he'd stood for. A program seemingly bent on turning himself into a poor copy of the MCP. The Grid's sysadmin.

So he knelt there, reduced to his default template- he had a number of other, more standard ones, even a few circuit masks that could stand up to most cursory scans, but the function binders were thorough-, still damp from the rain and sporting a few colorful fragments of free code stuck to him in places, as he strained futilely against the invasive code locking down his functions. Well no, that wasn't all he was doing; he was also glaring daggers at the sysadmin. He couldn't so much as stand under his own power just then, but if looks could kill, the admin would be derezzed already. Several times over. And his voxels reduced to pixel dust to be aggressively deposited in the nearest recycler.

The glare didn't falter as the sysadmin crossed the room to where he was and addressed him with a dark grin. If anything it intensified as Clu forced himself to unclench his teeth enough to reply. "I'm here because you want something," he spat. "Otherwise I'd already be a pile of voxels on the floor courtesy of that voiceless kill-bot you turned Tron into. After all, the MCP went pretty much straight for the decompiler; not sure why you'd be any different."

Clothes make the man, apparently-CW- Mistaken identity, angst, feels, alcohol, religious themes

[tanks4thememory]

When someone had been needed to make the trip to what remained of Argon City, Clu had willingly volunteered. True, it would take him away from Tron City for several centicycles, but of all the programs on the Grid, the hacker's background and skillset made him uniquely suited to the task. The mission as to be twofold; retrieve potentially useful data from the city's archives, and assess the state of the buildings and equipment that remained to determine if a full-scale salvage operation would be viable. There were no plans to attempt to repopulate any of the outer settlements, but a fair amount of equipment and the structures of the cities themselves had been left behind when the programs living there had moved on, and if enough of it proved to be in salvageable condition, there was not point in just leaving it there to degrade.

At least, that had been the plan. And it probably would have worked out fine, if Clu had taken a standard lightcycle or lightrunner modified for off-grid travel. But instead he'd opted to test out one of the new designs he'd had his eye on for awhile. Or perhaps 'new' wasn't really the word; more like 'rediscovered'. It was similar to a lightcycle but was significantly more rugged, with four smaller wheels, and lacking the partially enclosed canopy many cycles had. In theory, it was as ideally suited for that sort of mission as the hacker himself. In theory.

In reality, however, it had shown why the rediscovered design was still considered 'experimental'; approximately 2/3 of the way to Argon, the vehicle's engine developed a rather noticeable rattle. Upon examining its code, Clu realized that there was an instability in the engine's structural coding. He could patch it, and maybe make it to Argon, but what it really needed was a full teardown to determine if the flaw was a fluke or inherent and a complete rebuild or replacement of the engine coding. None of which he could do in the field. And even if his patch got him to Argon, there would be no guarantee that it would get him back, and trudging all the way back to Tron City through bleak Outlands terrain was a daunting prospect even for him.

So, reluctantly, after applying his patch as a stopgap measure, he'd turned around and headed back to the city. By the time he'd crossed the bridge into the city, the vehicle's rattle had returned and had graduated from 'noticeable' to 'worrying', and Clu opted to return the vehicle to its baton form and make his way back to administration headquarters via a combination of walking and lightrail. As he often did when he was out in public on his own, he rezzed up a neutral white circuit mask. He was proud of his nature and his circuit caolor, but on the Grid, yellow circuits tended to attract a lot of attention. And he really didn't feel like explaining the mildly embarrassing details of his failed mission to curious strangers.

Despite the white circuits though, he wasn't questioned when he arrived at central processing. A circuit mask was just that, and if a program's scans were functioning properly, it was fairly easy to see through; its goal was to deflect interest and avoid such scans entirely, not deflect the scans themselves. He handed the baton off to the mechanics, explaining the situation and why he was back so early. And with that done he rode the elevator up to the top level. Time to have a defrag, make a report, recalculate, recuperate, and eventually retry the mission. And there was no better place to do most of those things than in the quarters he somewhat shared with the admin.

Following his first and rather unimpressed assessment of the room's decor, they'd managed to make a few improvements to the previous rigid and mostly utilitarian design. Most notably, adding some cooler colored light panels in places to balance all the gold, and replacing the stiff black couch and other seating with things that were both lighter in color and soft and comfortable enough to actually promote relaxation.

Which had seemed to be something of a foreign concept to the admin at the time; even his lounging had tended to be calculated and a little forced. Thankfully that was improving, if only slightly; granted, being admin was a rather stressful function, but his tendency to internalize every bit of stress and tension had resulted a a number of minor function lockups and kinks in his energy processing subroutines. Thankfully Clu's hands were good for more than just hacking, and he was generally able to massage them away when he became aware of them, but still, it wasn't healthy.

At the moment, though it was him who was looking to take advantage of both the room's privacy and comforts. He didn't expect the admin to be there at this time of the milicycle, and calculated he'd have about half of one before his code brother returned and he'd be able to give him his report. His calculations on that front proved to be incorrect, however as when he entered the room, he could see the admin sitting in a chair, clearly visible from the doorway. And conversely, the admin would likely be able to see him just as clearly, as he stood there with his normally yellow circuits currently in neutral white.

problem drinker; and related content; step light

[a_perfect_end]

Even if Clu still wasn't sure what to make of having a range of colors in the decor again, he could at least admit to himself that softer was a better configuration for most furniture. He still wasn't really used to reclining, except for powering down, but at least the option was available now.

It was still something of a pilot study, but he was also working on proper delegation of less vital initiatives. As it became clear that he could not do everything himself, Clu had focused instead on reassigning priorities to the fistful of programs he trusted--those who had remained in the wake of his worst decisions, who were steadfast despite everything, and who against all odds proved as capable, strong, and tireless as even he could ever wish for. They reached for perfection as hard as he did, and delivered only their best.

This was their largest and newest endeavor. The settlements were a real issue. Helium, Germanium, Astatine: programs had cleared out in the wake of the Purge and surrounding events, returning to the capital, but by and large leaving their superstructures and gear behind. To say nothing of the deafening silence from Purgos and her ilk, the intel vacuum through which poured a steady, endless trickle of strays and rebels and resource hogs who now plagued his beautiful, perfect city.

Clu had left the Argon assignment up for grabs, partly to see who dared volunteer. He'd also done it, somewhat, to put choices among task lists back into their hands. And partly as bait for the User. For the only one who had truly escaped him, vanishing into the wilderness.

When his code-brother volunteered, Clu was fiercely proud--and just as intensely worried. Not so long ago, the settlement had been a trap for Tron himself. The hasty disarray of their, marked departure would have left known and unknown dangers, to say nothing of the hazards inflicted by Tesler's various failed initiatives. Odds suggested the cost of dredging Argon might be very high versus the benefit.

It was not a mission for the faint of heart, but his code-brother had more courage than either of them knew what to do with. And if it galled that he sometimes used that courage to redirect Clu himself, well: maybe it was necessary. Certainly it had increased his efficiency, and lifted the health of the System in turn--data didn't lie.

Meanwhile, Clu's queue had been swamped by a particularly thorny power allocation issue. While it was not an emergency, it was urgent enough to absorb all the rest of his attention. Two shifts had blazed past before he even looked up from his desk.

He was learning better than to make Jarvis fret on purpose. The nervy program had discovered he could set Clu's code-brother on him, and to detract from the Argon mission now might be disastrous. Besides, all that stress nipped into Jarvis' performance in a really irritating way.

Of course this insight did not apply to Clu himself. How could it? He was built strong, coded more densely than even shock troopers, and he didn't frighten easily. He was made to be tough, designed that way, and the problem before him was almost entrancing in its elegant refusal to yield.

...Would they have to build a new plant?

The hope of construction burned, even as his eyes squinted and stung in protest. Three--three and a half? Shifts. Yes. It had been a while.

So he filed a status ticket for Jarvis, all's well, and got halfway into the call-tree to start the area survey when the report he needed arrived:

Not one, but two bad sectors here made work impossible in this area.

He'd snarled some impressive language--half a dictionary file of the things Flynn said when he was angry--and pitched his pad at the wall.

Like that would help. Was trying to break stuff always gonna be his first response? Couldn't he do any better than that.

Clu sighed heavily, scooped it up, and ran the readouts again. He sneered at the totals, considered them with narrowed eyes. Scrapped his ambitious hopes of the last several intervals and instead started marshaling repair-restore-and-defrag teams.

Within the next shift, they had their marching orders, and Clu had a frozen subroutine at the back of his neck so intense that it leached power when he stood up. Everything went sort of--grey--and he fell back into his chair more than he sat, growling.

He lowered his head to the desk, folded on his hands, and tugged his fingers through his hair. His processes gradually swam back into focus.

How much rest could he need? He wasn't even working that hard. He was just, fulfilling his function.

He knew there were ways around this. The deep backfile whispered to him, reminding him just how long he'd spent without any sort of charge, murmuring delightedly about the white, soothing as water.

Surely one couldn't hurt. It'd help him relax. There was plenty of the next shift to go, and nothing else on his schedule; the reports were templates, and already dumped to his terminal. Short of another emergent crisis, things were running perfectly without him for the first time in a long time.

And if that stung, if the his processes coughed up useless from some deep, bitter place, if it was pointless, he hardly noticed.

Clu was not an idiot. He'd never touch the red again. This was different. Might be nice to indulge, for once. What harm could it do?

Except that one gradually trickled into two. The more relaxed he became, the easier it was to pick up another. And that low rumble in the back of the queue grew louder and louder.

He won't show. He never has, and now you're risking your only--Tron was right about you, so you took his--and now all your plans are scrap--Imperfect--

Clu poured out another one and downed it mechanically, like he could physically rinse the static out. Any plan to explain or account for himself went blurred and quiet. His musings spread and vanished into the gauze of white, leaving behind only the certainty that it was his fault. That everything was his fault.

There was nothing to alert him to an authorized entry, even under their enhanced security, and so he was completely unprepared for the halogen vision in his doorway.

He froze. Full lockup.

No one should be there. Least of all--

"Flynn?"

His own voice was small to him, distant, like it had come from somewhere in the bottom of his feet. A memory jangled to the fore of his processes, bright and strange--some User superstition that if you spoke the names of powers, they appeared.

"Flynn."

With growing certainty. He was up from the chair and just as quickly down from it, more than awe buckling his knees, a harsh and profane rush of the white kicking through his systems, core crushed tight and eyes pinched shut. He didn't trust himself to open them again, not least because he usually woke up, right about now.

And it was the only thing holding in a mounting urge to sob.

Where was Rinzler? Their whole shared mission outcome was right there before him, and Clu was almost too overcome to move.

"You shouldn't, be, here." He shuddered, reached out with a trembling hand, drew it back again. "It's dangerous for you here."

After all, he'd broken it so thoroughly.

Fractured {angst; hospital setting; injury; possible substance use references}

[a_perfect_end]

Clu was so absorbed in the necessaries of wrapping his shift for the day, he almost didn't notice the first flag that ticked by: a bright blip of caution: for something in that new dwelling sector they were carving out.

Those were an occurrence in construction, if rare. Wireframe didn't always run exactly to spec, even with extensive testing. Sometimes it clashed with the shaders, or a twist that had modeled out fine ended in a blind curve that punched a notch where a fin should be, indetectable until it was invoked.

That was the thing with growth, and with change of any sort: they were inherently unstable. How did the saying go? Accidents happened? Something like that.

Clu stuck his head down and firmly settled to his own tasks, admittedly with some difficulty. Mostly because the event continued to trail new flags, sprouting handlers at an alarming rate. Still. Only amateurs failed to run their backups, and only Users failed to comment out their stuff. He never left a job half done.

By the time he'd shelved everything, the event had become an incident, and hazard totals were coming in. Recovery and Security had been mobilized for a while, long before the first warning: had been flagged. They could run their own functions, certainly better than he could. They knew what to do, and they did good work. And there were no casualties: every skinned knee on the Grid was not his personal responsibility.

The world would not end simply because he logged out to recharge. Besides, if he waited any longer to do it, odds increased geometrically that all he'd spool several errors before he could catch them. Then he'd have to Undo everything he'd just done.

As he stood and stretched, he wanted energy with a real, physical twinge--perfect knowledge of the exact texture, taste, and voltage he was after, bracing and bitter and rezzed up piercing lemon yellow.

Clu clenched his teeth 'til they ached and put his priority queue on other things: straightening the furniture, smoothing down the bed, pushing back against the idea of a bright tall glass with an equally compelling file of the deep, soft darkness cast by heavy blinds, the crisp sleek touch of the comforter, the slow, drowsy ease of finally slotting his disc in for a charge.

He was halfway down to rest mode when the pinging started.

Sure, he'd logged out. He'd also left the faulting terminal open.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," disoriented, tugging on a fresh template, "Coming."

There were a whole nest of news feeds open. One of his handlers was going off like fireworks, spooling a set of stories he knew already and coughing up data he already had.

There were too many of them for him to parse any correctly. He was still swatting down open windows when the outer door chime went off.

"...Sir?" Ah. Yeah, it was the start of Jarvis' shift. Maximum efficiency. "Sir, you'll want to see--oh. Please? Let? Me? In?"

His code-brother had a bunch of great ideas, but he also had some bad habits. Like teaching spine to the help.

"Yeah." Meaning stop, no, why. Then, louder: "Yeah! Gimme a second."

His disc went in with a recalcitrant snap, and then he was across the foyer. Jarvis nearly fell through the open door, having poised for a knock with his full weight behind it. Clu caught him and just, barely, restrained the urge to shove, planting him firmly against the nearest available wall.

Jarvis flickered, gulping down a squall of alarm, and nearly strobed out. "I--I--Sir! I--"

"Let's have it," growled Clu, not quite poking him in the chest. "Spill."

"Look at your location data!" he blurted, whole and entire, already cringing to duck his head.

"Man, you need to relax," he reached into the terminal, "you are harshing my vibe."

Clu quite literally pulled Jarvis up a chair, with him still in it. Jarvis sank into it like his knees had never supported him before, and might never again.

"Oh, thank you, Sir."

Clu hummed at him, noncommittal, already lost in the data hunt.

"So what am I looking for?" He'd !q for a bunch of it, but he already knew where everything was. "Yeah, it's an accident site; cleanup's been on it for--"

"Sir, I, think you'll find that if you index it with the--roster?" That last shivered out in a tentative squeak. "He's down there, Sir. You see?"

Clu did see. He very much saw.

This was what the feed had been trying to tell him, all lurid, high-impact footage meant to lure off-duty programs, glue them to this or that screen, keep them exchanging data with a particular information sponsor: his code-brother was scheduled for minor retrievals in that sector.

He was not scheduled to help out, but of course he wouldn't stop himself. Built to react to change and capitalize on opportunities, he literally could not fail to help. And at least half a dozen programs owed him their lives--he'd been up there finessing them out of the way, two and three at a time until he was alone on the ledge.

Something had been...off in the local lattice on the third level: the main beam sheared in half, and the biggest piece slammed into the truss under it, smashed to glittering powder like a blown window. With its main supports buckled, the floor rippled, then yawned open, and simply took everything with it.

Including. His. Code-brother.

"He's still here," Clu felt himself say, tinny to his own ears, like an echo from the bottom of a well. "He's not--I'd know if he were gone, I'd feel it."

"You'll need this." Jarvis pushed a gleaming hex packet at him and bodily ran from the room.

But Clu only turned the thing over with nerveless hands, staring at it, not even watching him go. To User eyes, it was a hexagonal stamped sheet of plastic that gleamed with a flutter of rapid, ever-changing white text. This one burned an eye-gouging combination of mint and crimson.

In practical terms, it was an emergency compiler access and the pointer data for the facility: a portable ambulance ride and literal written invitation.

It wobbled a little in his grip. He realized, suddenly, that he was shaking, and that he couldn't seem to stop.

"Wait," softly. But after all, the room was empty. "Wait, no--" panic welling up that he bit down. "That's not--"

This was not the local address. This was a specialist facility.

His code-brother wasn't dead. Clu would know if that happened.

But he might be dying.

Clu gripped the packet in both hands and poured all his will into being at the pointer address in one great gathering roar.

"WHERE Ĭ̶̻ ̵̥͒S̶͓͝. ̵̎ H̶̩̯͉̦̟͓͇̺̰̦͖̗̩͆̿́͆̇͒͐̾̍̆̔̃̀́̈̑̚͜ͅĘ̷̘̲̼̪̣̔̏͑͆́".

Re: Fractured {angst; hospital setting; injury; possible substance use references}

[tanks4thememory]

It had all started simply enough; there was a problem with the new construction project. It wasn't a major problem in terms of preventing the project's eventual completion- though there would definitely be a fairly significant delay now- but for the programs who'd been working in and around the structure? Yeah, it had been a major problem. The kind that could potentially get you derezzed.

Still even that had been going well. Security and hazard crews had arrived right on time, with most of the programs who'd been working on the lower level evacuated fairly quickly. It was slower going getting the workers down from the upper levels; less of the structure there was completed, and parts of what was completed were where most of the instability was. Which was where Clu had come in; surefooted and used to picking out solid code from that which was dangerously unstable, he'd volunteered to help get one of the last work crews stuck in a particularly unstable area down from the upper levels. He'd even gone to the effort of reinforcing parts of the structure so they could all make it out safely. True, his emergency support wireframe was as quick and dirty as they came, and was never meant to hold for long. But it would be long enough.

Or so he'd thought. Well, in a way it had. The last of the construction programs had made it safely out of the unstable area and Clu was doing one final quick sweep to make sure he hadn't missed anyone. But then he got the warning flag from his makeshift support structure a split nano before he heard the scream of sheering code. In the next fraction of a nano that it took him to turn to look it was already too late. There was nowhere to run as the floor dropped out from under him.

Falling as chunks of debris tumbled down with him. Impact. A flurry of damage warnings that didn't really register through plain old pain. So much pain that he couldn't localize it. Or maybe there was just too much damage, to the point that every part of him was equally in pain. Distantly, he realized this was probably bad. And then? The mercy of emergency shutdown claimed him and he knew no more.

Consciousness returned to him much more slowly than it had faded. He rebooted sluggishly, what felt like one subroutine at a time, and he wondered at the cause of the lag. Until memory reasserted itself, and with it pain. Oh, right; that was why he felt like a building had fallen on him. Because a building had fallen on him. Or part of one at least. Some bit of nonsense data about a yellow brick road drifted through his processes in response to that thought for unknown reasons. But hey, at least he was still in one piece and cognizant enough to be dredging up random datastrings, so that was something, right?

Opening his eyes though forced him to reevaluate his assessment of being in one piece. Well, that explained why his lower left leg was pretty much the only part of him that didn't have at least a dull ache to its name just then; his left leg was gone below the knee, the stump wrapped securely in patch tape and medical wireframe binding to prevent any possibility of a cascade failure. And from the amount of patch tape wrapped around his left arm, it looked like it had come close to joining his leg. Well, at least now he knew which side had probably taken the brunt of the impact.

"That's gonna be a new scar for sure...", he muttered. Maybe two, even. Taking in his surroundings, he realized that he was- unsurprisingly- in a medical facility, but not one he recognized. A lot of medical facilities were similar in basic design, of course, but none of the three recompilers immediately in evidence was familiar. All three were, at the moment, tending to various monitors and readouts, which had surely alerted them to his return to online status. One glanced his way and offered a tired but reassuring smile which Clu did his best to return. The recompiler then made a few quick adjustments to something on his terminal before going to speak with the older of the two female programs in the room.

Clu wasn't sure what he'd done at first until he felt the bed he was lying on warm slightly, sending gentle waves of energy through his code. Oh yeah that was, mmm... The medical bed served dual purposes. The first was to infuse energy directly to a patient's circuits to ensure optimum energy flow even when a program was forced to be largely immobile for extended periods. That much it had been doing already. The second function- which it was performing now- was to help ease away the aches of deep code damage while aiding a program's own internal repair functions to help the recompilers' work a little go more quickly, and repairs take more easily. Clu already noticed the difference as the gentle targeted energy waves washed through his damaged body, seeming to carry away the worst of the overall ache with them.

However it did nothing to ease his chagrin at realizing he was currently wearing a medical template. Designed for the comfort of patients who had to lie mostly on their backs for extended periods and the convenience of the recompilers who needed easy access to a patient's disc, it nonetheless looked ridiculous. Dull gray and sleeveless, with the disc dock on the chest rather than on the back, with legs that ended slightly above the knee- not that it currently mattered much for his left one-, and the most basic and unimaginative circuit pattern ever, it was clearly designed strictly for function rather than fashion. He was just glad that very few would likely see him in it.

A quick ping to the system clock revealed that he'd been offline for over almost a third of a millicycle. Well into his and his code-brother's usual period of downtime. Well, that probably meant he'd be getting a comm or even a visit next upcycle as his code-brother and/or Jarvis realized that he hadn't returned to central processing and enquired as to his whereabouts. Which meant that he should probably get some actual, non-enforced sleep before then, so he could give a proper report.

Given the soothing energy of the medical bed, and the way the upper half was on just the perfect slight angle upward from true horizontal that seemed to promote optimum relaxation, that looked to be an easy task. But just as he was starting to drift off, he was snapped abruptly back to full alertness by a flash of gold from the pointer arrival platform in the far corner of the room, accompanied by string of frantic broadcast that was too jumbled and panicked to make sense of, at least for him. But the source, at least, was clear; his code brother had arrived.

Pet-people AU (CW Trauma, anxiety, talk of abuse resulting in such)

[tanks4thememory]

Caleb Flynn had been fostering pets for years now. It had always been something he wanted to do, so as soon as he'd been old enough, he'd gotten on board with his local shelter, and since then had helped many abused, abandoned, or just stray pet people find forever homes with loving new owners. Over those years he'd dealt with a lot of different issues- medical and psychological- that pet-people could have, and seen the results of all sorts of neglect and cruelty perpetrated on them by the humans who were supposed to care for them. And while his current foster, Lumi, wasn't the worst case he'd ever dealt with, his breed definitely made it one of the saddest.

Lumi, a full binary male black Labrador, had been taken from the home of an abusive owner after a neighbor had reported the man to the police. Apparently, he'd been there since he was a puppy, and thus really knew no other life. A fairly high-energy breed who only wanted love and friendship, he was instead forced into a situation where he was physically punished for 'bothering' his owner with his needs, or for doing any of the things dogs, puppies, and even humans are sometimes wont to do; making a mess, accidentally breaking something, being too noisy, or even just making his presence too obvious when it was unwanted. The degree of punishment tended to vary depending on the whims of the owner, but Lumi still bore scars from it.

The vets and others at the shelter had helped heal the physical scars, and showed Lumi that not all touch had to hurt. Not all attention from humans was bad. The psychological scars would take longer to heal, and that was what Caleb was there for. Lumi'd been with him a few weeks now, and had settled into his home about as well as could be expected. But for some reason today, he couldn't find him anywhere. He wouldn't have gone out on his own; the idea still scared him, as his old owner had apparently threatened to never let him back in if he ever did that.

But he'd seen no sign of the dog all afternoon. And now, as it approached dinnertime, he still hadn't appeared. Odd because Lumi never missed a meal, fearing he wouldn't get any if he failed to show up exactly when he was told to. Especially odd, because Caleb had promised a bit of a special surprise for that nights dinner, namely going out for hamburgers together. Where could the dog be? "Lumi?", he called out as he continued to search the house. "Lumi, where are you? It's almost dinnertime."

Re: Pet-people AU (CW Trauma, anxiety, talk of abuse resulting in such)

[a_perfect_end]

There was no way they were going for hamburgers, now.

Lumi pressed his hands tighter over his ears, head braced on his knees, and tried to make himself smaller and rounder in the back of the guest room closet.

Bad dog.

He shivered under the blanket. He didn't take it! It was left there and he had to hide.

He didn't want to. He wanted to call out for a--for a chasing friend. He wanted to chase and jump and wave his pretty tail, spread his scent around and go for a run with wild eager boys and big mean girls, the kind who called guys puppy.

This had only happened to him once before. He didn't know it could happen again. He was sore all over and kind of sick, and flooded with ideas that tormented him. His nice new jeans were--just ruined. It didn't matter how much he wiped, it wouldn't stay dry, but if he didn't stay zipped.

If he couldn't even wear clothes right--

Nasty mut.

Lumi ground up against the blanket with a little growl.

If Master Caleb caught him, it was gonna be bad.

Life in the Fast Lane - [circuitsex; vehicular foolery; edging; check comment headers, etc. etc.];

[a_perfect_end]

Sometimes it was good to pursue more than work.

Even a cycle ago, Clu would've dismissed that, waved it off in a huff of offense. But it was difficult to maintain that prickly conviction while living with his code-brother. The hacker took things seriously--most of the time--and his dedication was absolute. And there was no arguing with results! Data didn't lie.

So when the hacker said the secret of his exemplary performance was a balanced outlook, Clu listened.

Besides, he'd been feeling less than optimal for a while now. He wasn't in pain, exactly, and had none of the jagged, frozen routines of deep tension. Repeated self-scans had returned an obnoxious all-clear. He wasn't hurt. Compilers wouldn't give him anything, because there wasn't anything wrong with him--and yet Clu was finding it harder and harder to concentrate for long stretches. Even pacing didn't clear the queue of a nagging restlessness. It was starting to affect his rest: he'd pop up in the middle of a downcycle, functions racing, tangled in the sheets and watching the numbers on the chrono climb higher until work began again. Then it was a renewed fight to focus over the duration of his shifts.

He just felt--not right. Not himself. Pent up somehow, and just generally off his game. Probably he just needed to do something more strenuous than glower at his desk terminals all day.

After a brisk discussion with his code-brother, they'd they'd taken off for the Arena.

The Disc Wars playfield still dominated, but now that it wasn't a hyperefficient gladitorial meat grinder anymore, the stands were mostly deserted except during headline matches or special exhibitions. The other courts were in a similar way, gleaming and spotless and typically at least half-empty. There was command-break (Flynn called it human chess), hyperball (the ring game), and of course lightcycles (which had, and needed, no other name), and a smaller gym for floor work--acrobatics and the like--branched off to the right.

And even on a busy day, they could clear out any lower-priority traffic. Clu's role had its perks, and right now all he wanted to do was go very fast. His code-brother had grinned for that, flashed him a double thumbs-up on his way to hyperball instead: something about the balance and precision it required, probably. Clu was curious, interested, but not up for a doubles game just then. Anyway, it was good to have some separate interests.

He sauntered off to the lockers with a spring in his step, fidgeted his way into his gear, and literally hit the ground running. He kneed the bike through every speed strip on every bend of the spiral, leaned eagerly into the rush and pushing the world into one long blur of speed. Going this fast, there was no seeing it; the track had to be felt, the game at this point all physical. Even with the safety parameters engaged, if he stopped to think about it, or had to notice a hazard in his way--at minimum it'd be a total wipeout.

Clu laughed screaming harsh and opened the throttle wide, until she coughed under him with a jolt he felt in his teeth. Something was off in the harmonics, some rush of pressure bolting up his trunk line--or, was that him, was he doing that, off-kilter even with her steady rumble powerful beneath him. There was hellacious feedback coming from somewhere, even if it didn't feel bad. Quite the opposite, in fact--but not here. Out here, that was dangerous.

Growling a little, he banked a hard right, swung himself almost horizontal across the bike to get the angle, and whipped back again, a harsh sidewinding motion Flynn always said should be impossible--it dumped velocity though, brought inertia to bear and clipped his pace to something more like road safe in record time.

She whined a little for the stunt, engine pulling in protest, but held constant, thrumming steadily between his legs, a gold delight beneath him. Somehow, he kept it together, kept his cool. Everything was fine, everything was just fine. Everything was great. He felt amazing, except for the part where he sat sharply forward, pushed tight against the pommel to hide the bright bloom of purple beginning to spread lurid at the junction of his thighs, right where he was going rock hard.

It kept him from displaying, but just made everything more intense. It was too good. If he didn't dismount, pronto, he'd light up like a billboard.

That last turn took forever. He was trembling when he finally made it down. The baton wobbled in his hand. He didn't quite tiptoe his way to the showers, helmet strategically slung at his waist because there was no way to hide it in a gridsuit. Maybe heavy armor, but he wasn't wearing any, and suddenly spawning some would attract much more notice than would a sudden fondness for his gear--for carrying it, instead of dismissing it--and the slight wince to his gait.

No big deal. Undetected. Very cool. Very stealthy.

The locker room was mercifully empty.

He slid down against the cool metal of the racks with a heavy sigh, stifling a groan for the way the slight change in temperature dragged all of him up tighter, made everything give a torturous jump in snug fabric, pinned tight and growing tighter. He shivered for having to bend over, dismissed the boots with a wince. He could feel the dull pulse of arousal in his teeth.

Maybe he had time to get out of these clothes--get this off him, just to dismiss what clung to him the worst--get that tricky strip of hell fabric off and get some breathing room. His cock actually bounced a little as he let it free and didn't flag even slightly. Maybe he could, just, stand up now--oh that felt so good, no. Nope. No moving, moving at all was a bad idea.

It wasn't like he needed to touch it. He was tougher than this. If he didn't think about it, it would chill out. Right? It always had before.

He was so turned on it hurt, flushed in more hues than a Vegas display. There was no way he could just walk out of here like this.

[tanks4thememory]

In all honestly, Clu preferred the quieter arena, and not just because of the reasons it was quieter. Built for sneaking around as he was, there was always going to be some part of him that disliked being stuck in a large crowd or even just watched by one. He could still focus well enough under those conditions if he had to, but it stripped much of the enjoyment out of it, which defeated the whole purpose of the decision to go to the arena.

Disc wars had never been his favorite- though he added a note to his priority queue that he should probably practice more, just in case it was ever needed-, and while lightcycles were fine for basic transport, when speed was needed, he preferred something with a bit more stability. That left command break and hyperball, and the former was more of a mental challenge, while today he was looking for a physical one. So hyperball it was.

After bidding his brother farewell at the entrance to the lightcycle locker rooms, he went off to those for the hyperball courts to get his own equipment on. While both disc wars and hyperball required skill and precision, the former relied more on power and aggression, where hyperball focused more on dexterity and stamina; much better suited to a hacker. And Clu was good at it too; he didn't dominate it quite as entirely as his code-brother did lightcycles or like Tron and later Rinzler did disc wars, but he was still a tough opponent to beat, and gave even the challengers he lost to a run for their money. (Did Users actually run for money? And if not, where had the expression come from? Ah well...)

After a few rounds with random challengers- 3 wins, one loss-, he'd thanked his final opponent for a good game, then went to meet his code-brother back at the entrance to the lightcyle locker rooms as agreed. The admin wasn't there when he arrived, though nor did he appear after a bit of waiting. Surely he couldn't be that into his lightcycle race, especially when he'd booked this particular track for himself alone. A few more long moments of waiting and Clu decided to go in and check on him. After all, injuries were still possible even with the safeties on, and if his code-brother had wiped out at speed, he could be having some trouble.

"Bro, you in here?", he called as he entered, accompanying the question with a standard scan. Ah, there he was, in the drefraggers. Programs didn't sweat of course, but lightcycles could kick up pixel dust sometimes, so a number of programs found the defrag showers useful. Plus they were just a great way to relax after an intense match. But if his code brother was in there, why didn't he hear it running?

He got his answer when he stepped into the shower room himself. His code brother was there alright, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, normally solid gold circuits flushed a multitude of colors. The most noticeable of which was blazing bright purple centered right around his crotch, and in particular his cock which looked almost painfully hard, even from an outside perspective. Well this certainly explained a few things.

Clu had enough sympathy and courtesy not to chuckle at the admin's predicament, but he couldn't quite resist a smile, both because of the cause of the issue and because his code brother just looked really hot when he was this flustered and turned on. "Well now I know why you've been so restless lately," he said. "Just how long have you been using just the same few functions? You must've let things go for awhile to end up like this."

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

[a_perfect_end]

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."

[tanks4thememory]

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.

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

[mist_the_point]

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...

[a_perfect_end]

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."

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

[a_perfect_end]

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.

[tanks4thememory]

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.

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

[tanks4thememory]

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."

(GIRL U UP?)

[a_perfect_end]

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.

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

[a_perfect_end]

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.

[tanks4thememory]

The two of them had indeed fit together almost seamlessly. After an admittedly rocky start, of course. Each had learned. Each had expanded their parameters. And the progression, as unexpected as it had initially been, felt natural. Felt right. Just the next step in a process.

The strengths of one had balanced the weaknesses of the other. One made to build order, the other to sow chaos, and they had each pulled the other to a more stable middle ground. And as they became more stable, so did the Grid; it had thrived under their care, became something their User could be proud of. And something they could hand over to his closest friends without shame, and with the confidence that it would continue to thrive.

Life in the User world had brought with it many new dynamics, but together they had navigated each in turn. In that respect, the inclusion of Frank was no different. What had began as an act of kindness in a desperate moment had become something more. They had learned Frank's story, and he had learned... well the story he and his brother had agreed on to avoid being considered lunatics. Perhaps one day, they'd tell him the real one too.

But their origins mattered less than their personalities, and Frank's proved to be a surprisingly good fit. As with their original bundling it had been unexpected. And not without a rocky start, though of a different sort. But as before, upon examination it felt... natural. They'd found... not a missing piece, but one that had enhanced their union rather than disrupted it. And once again, all three of them were the better for it.

And much like that step, going into business for themselves felt like a natural progression. Where he once might have charged ahead though, he'd since learned caution. The saying 'don't quit your day job' had been coined for a reason, and until they were certain their new idea would fly, they needed the stability. And the inherently defiant nature of striking out on one's own aside, everything about the business had to be on the up-and-up. Thankfully, if there was anyone who was an expert on making certain all the 'i's were dotted and the 't's crossed, it was his brother. And thus, after an absurd amount of paperwork that he was assured was all necessary, 3 of Hearts Games was officially born.

The name had been Frank's idea. But the code would be all their own. It had to be, to avoid any legal issues with the company they all worked for currently; the last thing any fledgling business needed was to be slapped with a copyright infringement suit. Fortunately, the code they worked with at the company was a good deal different from game code in most respects, so keeping them separate wasn't especially challenging.

What was challenging, however, was everything else. As it generally was, saying you were going to do something was a great deal easier than actually following through. Clu, AKA Kent, had had no illusions of this fact. His brother, however... Well he couldn't help but laugh at this particular reaction. It was an issue that needed fixed, yes, but the actual situation was so absurd it was funny, and his brother's reaction just made it more so. "I warned you that this wasn't going to be as quick and easy as you thought," he said. "We're building this from the ground up; there's bound to be glitches. Though this one is kind of hilarious to watch."

"Or maybe that's just a sign that I need to take a break too." He stood up and stretched a bit. "As an alternative to drowning, wanna go see how Frank's coming along with the trailer?" They had, thankfully, managed to scrape together enough finished gameplay and other footage for that, and while Frank didn't know coding like they did, he could operate standard video editing software after a brief tutorial, and thus was in charge of putting together the game's announcement trailer to be posted on Youtube and Steam. Hopefully the video editing was going more smoothly than their code editing.

the weighing of hearts; (ritual suicide reference, fictional sacrilege, transformation, etc. etc.)

[a_perfect_end]

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.

[tanks4thememory]

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.