Properly. Tangled together as one being in a dance older than the mountains themselves. And if he was strong and they were lucky, then their dance together would make a family. And he very much hoped so.
He'd been called many things in many voices once he'd presented. That Caleb found him beautiful felt nothing shy of wondrous. Caleb's eyes were burning into his, and he hadn't missed that sudden twitch down velvet lengths--or the slight, light growl that had come into his voice at the thought of any delay to their wedding.
Clevon beamed, caring and gentle, but the sound he made was wicked, a low, lusty hum.
"Yes," and he thought husband, but he said, "Alpha. He'd wed us straight away, else we might have to demonstrate."
Of course they would never. But he'd always had a strong, contrarian need to tease back--and he was very pleased with himself about it. And the twins, although of course they were only a fancy at this point. One that stirred every bit of him.
The servant was already gone before Clevon had thought to snarl at his back, an urge he'd swallowed patiently; the poor man was good at his job. He could smell some of the treasure on the tray, mostly the earthiness of bread and the sweet traces of honey, every scrap of his senses focused on gathering more energy.
And, well, on the view.
He simply could not resist a peek as Caleb slipped from the bed and strode past the edge of his vision, then back again. The sharp and tender mind of Caleb's letters was reflected in his bearing, even and strong. He looked snared in thought, storm eyes gone distant above the proud nose, a certain tension in a face that looked as though he laughed often, but not carelessly. Did Caleb know what a vision he was?
When Caleb turned to reach his objective, Clevon's eyes roved hungrily over firm, lean legs, skated the hard perfect curve of backside and the flicker of golden nest between, the dense dark flash of promise heavy there. When Caleb bent the goblet to his lips, his throat worked with the slaking of his thirst, up and down.
"Lovely," purred Clevon. He did not mean the things on the tray.
He knew better than to want water or whisky: sometimes those made ill in the guts even on perfect days. He yearned for a little ale, forbidden as it was--bread would have to do. (He did not need to be more fur-brained than he already was, or burn his wits out in a craze of wanton fire.)
The milk would be good, soothing and sweet, and if there was much in common between what fed a heated omega and a moody child, at least there was a fine cheese. And apples, even so late in the year. They would keep him gentle and lend his alpha the energy they would both need.
Caleb leaned into his arm to help him upright, and Clevon thrilled with it, shivered deliciously for the touch.
"Good," softly. "I--it, I mean, it looks good, delightful, and I'm pleased that--"
Random beta pleasantries: courtesies for wooing a princess from somewhere, showing off his keen ettiquette. Pushing silver words across his tongue out of endless coaching and deep habit, and ridiculous under the circumstances. Sometimes he felt a little like a dancing bear.
But Caleb slid in behind him, bed ropes singing faintly under the shift, and drew his arm around him for support. Caleb held him close and let the back of Clevon's head rest, gently on his chest. Suddenly things were all right, indeed.
Very firmly all right, just in the small of his back. He grinned up at Caleb.
The cool touch of silver to his lips helped drag his wits back to him; he nodded. Caleb was right. Gulping like a fish would cause them both misery, however much he burned.
"Yes," with the last dry swallow he intended to ever make, "alpha."
He fair trembled with the urge to take but sipped obediently with a rich hum of spreading contentment, stunned to realize it was at least as much for pleasing his mate. As for how marvelous it felt to wet his throat--deep, slow--he never wanted to stop, but he made himself. He nudged it gently aside with one hand and caught Caleb's free arm with the other, drawing him close as a blanket.
He could hardly help himself. He snuggled right in.
no subject
He'd been called many things in many voices once he'd presented. That Caleb found him beautiful felt nothing shy of wondrous. Caleb's eyes were burning into his, and he hadn't missed that sudden twitch down velvet lengths--or the slight, light growl that had come into his voice at the thought of any delay to their wedding.
Clevon beamed, caring and gentle, but the sound he made was wicked, a low, lusty hum.
"Yes," and he thought husband, but he said, "Alpha. He'd wed us straight away, else we might have to demonstrate."
Of course they would never. But he'd always had a strong, contrarian need to tease back--and he was very pleased with himself about it. And the twins, although of course they were only a fancy at this point. One that stirred every bit of him.
The servant was already gone before Clevon had thought to snarl at his back, an urge he'd swallowed patiently; the poor man was good at his job. He could smell some of the treasure on the tray, mostly the earthiness of bread and the sweet traces of honey, every scrap of his senses focused on gathering more energy.
And, well, on the view.
He simply could not resist a peek as Caleb slipped from the bed and strode past the edge of his vision, then back again. The sharp and tender mind of Caleb's letters was reflected in his bearing, even and strong. He looked snared in thought, storm eyes gone distant above the proud nose, a certain tension in a face that looked as though he laughed often, but not carelessly. Did Caleb know what a vision he was?
When Caleb turned to reach his objective, Clevon's eyes roved hungrily over firm, lean legs, skated the hard perfect curve of backside and the flicker of golden nest between, the dense dark flash of promise heavy there. When Caleb bent the goblet to his lips, his throat worked with the slaking of his thirst, up and down.
"Lovely," purred Clevon. He did not mean the things on the tray.
He knew better than to want water or whisky: sometimes those made ill in the guts even on perfect days. He yearned for a little ale, forbidden as it was--bread would have to do. (He did not need to be more fur-brained than he already was, or burn his wits out in a craze of wanton fire.)
The milk would be good, soothing and sweet, and if there was much in common between what fed a heated omega and a moody child, at least there was a fine cheese. And apples, even so late in the year. They would keep him gentle and lend his alpha the energy they would both need.
Caleb leaned into his arm to help him upright, and Clevon thrilled with it, shivered deliciously for the touch.
"Good," softly. "I--it, I mean, it looks good, delightful, and I'm pleased that--"
Random beta pleasantries: courtesies for wooing a princess from somewhere, showing off his keen ettiquette. Pushing silver words across his tongue out of endless coaching and deep habit, and ridiculous under the circumstances. Sometimes he felt a little like a dancing bear.
But Caleb slid in behind him, bed ropes singing faintly under the shift, and drew his arm around him for support. Caleb held him close and let the back of Clevon's head rest, gently on his chest. Suddenly things were all right, indeed.
Very firmly all right, just in the small of his back. He grinned up at Caleb.
The cool touch of silver to his lips helped drag his wits back to him; he nodded. Caleb was right. Gulping like a fish would cause them both misery, however much he burned.
"Yes," with the last dry swallow he intended to ever make, "alpha."
He fair trembled with the urge to take but sipped obediently with a rich hum of spreading contentment, stunned to realize it was at least as much for pleasing his mate. As for how marvelous it felt to wet his throat--deep, slow--he never wanted to stop, but he made himself. He nudged it gently aside with one hand and caught Caleb's free arm with the other, drawing him close as a blanket.
He could hardly help himself. He snuggled right in.
"Oh," warmly. "Oh, alpha, that's better. Thank you."