tanks4thememory | Two heads are better than one

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.

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.

Edited 2021-01-10 06:03 (UTC)

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.

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.

Edited (if i edit this any harder it will never get done!) 2021-04-20 05:28 (UTC)

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.

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.

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?"

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?"

Edited (Ed. it's prose because THAT WOULD BE AN ENORMOUS BRACKET.) 2022-07-24 02:15 (UTC)

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.

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".

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."

Edited 2022-10-08 21:23 (UTC)

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.

Edited (THE MISSING WORD;) 2022-10-08 23:47 (UTC)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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."

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.

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.

Master/Slave sexual roleplay

Clu1's first rut + the mating bite

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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