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

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.