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Lauren or Lou, as you like.

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Oh, no... she's slashing again... [Sep. 6th, 2011|12:18 pm]
Lauren or Lou, as you like.
[Current Mood |geekyGeekier than thou.]

Holy crap, I'm doing kinkmeme fills. How did this happen?

This is new for me--I've never been to a kinkmeme and never filled a prompt request--but I want to write, and I so don't have the wherewithall to start something big, and this is an excellent way to get myself one-shotting. (Plus, seriously, I owe some reciprocation. I have read more Tron slash in the last week than is probably healthy for one brain.) And lonely prompts are so lonely...

Anyway, they're supposed to start out anon but I'll be archiving my fills here anyway, so I don't lose them. So forgive any random cut posts that come up in the next few days. (First one below.)

Btw, can I just ask.... How drastically did Teh Internet slang change while I apparently forgot to fandom for a year and a half?? Or was it just always this way and I wasn't looking in the right places...? I've caught onto Fill, I'll be in my Bunk, F5ing, etc.. but not why some stories are called timestamps...? This is starting to make me feel old and out of touch, people.

...When did I go from being the highschool fangirl to the housewife slasher? Granted, I always thought the Grownups gracing LJ with smut were way awesome, but it's weird to realize I'm one of them. It actually startles me when I see writers worrying about mom in the next room, or having to break for finals and essays. Or mentioning their phones are dying while they're F5ing a thread (....me=old).

....Ah, well; the internets adjust, and so will I. (...But I kinda' dig being vintage. How cool is it that I was in the massive server rooms of government defense contractors before most people ever even saw their first black and green screen?)

Anyway, /oldgeek. Here is some fill.

My first ever fill for a meme! Tentative title: Castor the Swan

Fill for this prompt: "More than once, Castor has fantasized about taking Rinzler's place as CLU's "pet", complete with collar, leash, and anything else that could be pleasantly associated. So of course he gets off on his elaborate fantasy while alone in his private lounge. ♥"
(Mostly I just heard Castor arguing that he was every bit as pretty as Rinzler, thank you, and I had to fill. Bonus points for working out the mythology refs.)

1438 words. Slight spoilers for Tron: Legacy. Castor (solo), theoretical Castor/Clu.

- - - -

Castor smiled one of his cheeriest smiles while he waved 'tata' to Clu and Rinzler, as they swept down the recessing steps of his private lounge. It was one of the broad and vapid smiles he'd picked up while mocking the two-bit sexbot programs and their glassy, stupid eyes.

"Goodbye, darlings! Cheers! Send my love to the boys and all that!" he called, waving ceaselessly until they had crossed into the throng and out of sight.

But once the doors to the lounge swung shut and locked him in alone, the grin dropped like a glass from a drunken program's hand. He growled to himself and waved a few useless lewd gestures after them, goading their invisible retreat.

It was a petty thing, but he didn't have the good grace to be ashamed--of anything, really; it was something he prided himself on these days, after all. No; he could be shamelessly petty, childish and cruel in his own space, when he was alone.

He collapsed onto one of the arcs of sofas, sinking into the rare moment of seclusion.

After a long sigh, he cast his eyes toward the doors, narrowed and cool. "I'm absolutely sick to death of the both of you, you know," he whispered, aloud. There was something satisfying about taunting them, even if they were nowhere to be seen. It made him feel bold, brazen, not quite so beholden.

He hated feeling beholden.


"This isn't going to last long," he informed Clu in his absence, "this little arrangement of ours. One of these days it's going to snap into pieces and we'll see who really has the upper hand. We'll see who really needs who."

He sighed, satisfied with his little rebellion, and stretched himself back along the sofa. "Although..."

The old delicious thoughts rose unbidden, the ones that often fluttered in on Clu's heels. "Although," he crooned, indulging them, "perhaps some other arrangement could come to be... I don't suppose I absolutely need all of that pesky autonomy--not if there was a suitable reward for ceding it..."

He could have his little fantasies. What harm did they do him, after all?

Lacing his fingers behind his head, he closed his eyes and accessed a few looping microcycles, some from the meeting just finished, some from previous ones like it. Castor watched while Clu would snap Rinzler's name, or just shoot him a look, or curl a finger, and the beast would be beside him in an instant, awaiting commands; or if he was already near, he would drop to his knees at his master program's feet. Castor rarely saw it outside of a setting less... intimate... than his own lounge, or Clu's, but when they were relatively secluded, the prize pet's head would dip to Clu's side, and Clu's hand would settle on his helmet absently, or else at the nape of his neck, lazily stroking the armor, a reward of fondness.

And then, that terrible rumble, the purr that meant "I'm so aggressive" or "I'm so contented" or "What are you looking at?" or "Who am I again?" depending on the day, that seemed about all the beast could manage to express himself. That crude little imitation of speech, that... subservient and inhuman sound.

"Stupid beast," Castor muttered. "No sense of style or self. You know," he informed the absent guests, "if I were such a thing, I would be far more... entertaining. Don't you think? Am I not equally beautiful?" He trailed a pale gloved hand slowly down over his own chest, splaying long, fine fingers over the smooth plane, as if to draw the eye. "An opal jewel to his onyx? Have I not my own... animal grace," he asked, arching his back, "and infinitely more personality?"

"Ah, but maybe that's not what you want," he sighed, and the monologue trailed off as he absorbed himself in the thought, slid along the sofa to feel the contact. No; maybe Clu preferred that kind of silence, the wordless grace, the stripped down expression. Castor would have to writhe and coo, to catch his attention, lie at his feet or arch, kneeling and very fine, no more than some delicious pet with a body of language limited to--well, body language. The more intimate ones and zeroes, the more visceral motions.

Castor could do that. Oh, could he...

It was a wicked little fantasy, but too delightful to deny. Languidly, Castor rolled off of the sofa to the floor, to his knees, sinking low to spread his hands across the ground in an elegant stretch.

If there were no Rinzler--if Castor were the toy--would Clu stroke him if he did this? Would those golden-orange circuits over his fingertips sink into the white of Castor's feathery hair and slip slowly, maddeningly slowly, over the tiny circuits on his scalp, rub firmly along the nape of his neck?

Castor arched his neck like a swan, long and languid, wondered if Clu would slip his large hands around the long narrowness of it, tip Castor's chin up with his thumbs to see his bright, pale eyes, hold him still and stretched. Clu could cage him like a bird behind white glass bars, slide a black-coated arm through to taunt and tease, to stroke until Castor's head fell forward in crooning, wanton adoration, baring the soft places beneath his white hair.

Yes--Clu's hands at his throat, he thought, curved around him in a lovely threat, daring Castor to squirm...

In his lounge, Castor rolled onto his back, feathering his own fingers over his throat, slow and faint, the other hand drifting over the lines of bright white along his chest, curving down to his hip.

Clu would be reluctant to let him out of his divine confines, of course; wasn't he already, after all? Clu seemed to want Castor to always be right where he had left him. When he brought him out to play, then, he would be cautious, circling Castor's neck with some unbreakable band of pearly light; Clu would keep him on a short leash, not trusting him not to roam (understandably so; Castor had wandering eyes). Clu would keep him close.

Castor would stretch to the end of his tether, just to be contrary. Resist, just so Clu would have to pull him back to heel, jealous of his nearness, possessive of his pretty creature.

Castor laid the crook of his thumb and forefinger against his throat, imagining the feel, pressed just so. Clu could pull him up short, a fine, divine little threat of danger until he gave in and lolled back beside his master program, lay obedient--or obedient enough--at his feet, stayed where he was put. Waited to be praised, and pawed, and fawned over like a treasure.

Yes; Castor could entreat from that lowness, beautiful and base, even without his clever banter. He wouldn't mind that a bit. He could say enough with the crude swing of his hips, with the tip of his tongue between his white teeth and the grip of his fingers on the hard floor.

He traced over his own body, not light and faint, now, but slow and hard--the long, languid touch of a master lured to the grace of his pet. Clu would agonize him, press just there, just so, tortuous and merciful at once. He would be dangerously calm, fondly amusing himself with his power to make his little pet arch and groan and keen; mindless cooing, soft trills over his tongue, nothing more witty than beauty succumbing would pass Castor's lips, engrossed and engulfed. And Clu would smile that maddening, shuttered smile that Castor hated so dearly, craved down in the darkest parts of his code, would touch and own and manipulate until Castor was undone, obliterated and inarticulate as--well, as Rinzler. A precious toy and nothing more, overwhelmed and drowned.

Castor curled his fingers hard into his own body, willing the sensations into a disembodied roving of hands more powerful than his own. He pressed just there, just so, masterfully owning his surfaces, and swooned as the heady overload crested through him, smoothed his trembling fingers over those delicious lines of light as he rode through the tremors disrupting his code. He writhed in the center of the floor until he was spent and dizzy, glistening with the pinpricks of energy escaping on his skin.

He indulged a luscious little purr of satisfaction.

Perhaps he could say quite enough with that little sound, after all.

- - - -