Clevon sighed in sheer relief. He'd drunk deep and not a little greedily at the cold, soothing milk, drowning the grit in his throat and softening the great, raw ache from shouting. He was finally starting to relax, curled close against his promised husband's chest. Clevon stroked his mate's hand with a hum. A slow, gathering thrill of comfort spread through him, and he gently circled those captive knuckles with one finger, fascinated.
Was this the hand that penned such wonderful letters? Now that they were safe together, there would be time to find out. Not just this night, but all of them, and the whole road from here to home.
In his own keep they were exceeding aware of the cost of everything. They worked in literal coin, and in goods by extension--food, furnishings, shelter, and in relative currency: enemies, alliances, neighbors' business as tight as they could, down to parts of a penny wherever possible. Clevon himself was a line in the ledger, as were his matron and sister, and all their cousins. Much was expected of him, but he received no special or particular treatment: they were all inputs in the Plan.
He thought of it always capitalized: the Plan, an orchestration four generations deep, the dream of an all-beta landed house rising to the height of society.
It had come to an abrupt left turn with his own unexpected blossoming. It was one thing to be the only son, but another again to be the only omega. Men he'd fought beside asked him for dances now, or kisses, or battle tokens for their lances, and once in a while how the knitting was going.
His father cared for him still, but his grandfather? His uncle, always narrow-eyed at him, but now with a certain hunger? And certainly his second and third cousins!
Some days Clevon was in a dark temper. The letters were a haven then. A private chance to reach out to a kindred soul, trying out ideas, bounding them in with ink. And to read, to learn, to enjoy the mind unfurling before him on the page, bright and clever and kind. Often, Caleb had answers for things Clevon himself almost could not name, or new solutions for bitter puzzles. Clevon was not quite so riddle-clever as he, but it was a pleasure to watch, and wonderful to tease.
Caleb did not seem to mind at all. Clevon knew his verse was, unfortunate and sort of blubbery (like the time he'd tried to find a match for loss and got stuck between moss and roster before giving up) but Caleb must have gamely read all of it, in its entirety, because here and there he offered back bits of it, and in this way their words had come to fit together like new lines of a familiar song.
They'd never exchanged a missive that could cover all of this--but one day, far ahead, it would be wonderful to try.
But here, now, he knew he'd drain the goblet if he got the chance, and so he made himself stop, pushed it away instead. Caleb smiled at him, a bright slice of mirth that caught and held Clevon's attention--until it was riveted again for being shushed. It amazed him, how good it felt to be...told, simply directed to the right course of action, and so gently. It stilled the worry and stirred something warmer in him.
He kissed at those fingers in passing, but let his alpha withdraw them. His soft, low sound of pleasure matched the low heat of his promised husband's whispers against his ear, and he arched into being nuzzled with as little shame as a cat.
"Better?" Gently, delighted, and careful not to squirm. He had some idea of what that might mean.
He wanted to learn the feel of every part of his promised husband, to discover exactly how he liked being touched, and give him pleasure as best he could, with both of them a touch ragged as was. Clevon tightened his grip, not hurting but insistent, demonstrating, enjoying the way it slid them together. High, crooked in his teeth: "Is this better?"
How would that work, how would they get there from here, by, just--ah. His eyes widened as understanding dawned: he could easily be lifted into alpha's lap, his hips rolled up and back, and all it would really take was a simple shift in their weight.
But his promised husband hesitated, and for right and real reasons. Clevon followed his lead. He took a steadying breath and pushed his thoughts past warm and safety and rut like wolves. He made himself form full, accurate sentences against the treacherous racing of his pulse.
"They were many and they were strong, but poor swordsmen. Couldn' cut me at all. An' once they pulled me down, they didn't--" he grit his teeth on it, "want to damage me."
"I hurt here," flexing his wrists with an exploratory wince, "and my shoulders, mainly, though they're in the socket still." Grumbling. "I'm certain I'm taller now than when I went in," huff of not-laughter that put a twinge in his ribs.
His indrawn gasp was not at all from pain, and he spread his knees to prove it. That this pressed his rump more firmly flush with his husband to be, was more instinctive, but not an accident. He wanted them close.
"Oh," with a sharp little growl, trying not to wriggle, "alpha--"
He could be more definite. He was no delicate flower.
A not at all stalwart, entirely unwarlike squeak escaped for being nipped: "Yes."
no subject
Was this the hand that penned such wonderful letters? Now that they were safe together, there would be time to find out. Not just this night, but all of them, and the whole road from here to home.
In his own keep they were exceeding aware of the cost of everything. They worked in literal coin, and in goods by extension--food, furnishings, shelter, and in relative currency: enemies, alliances, neighbors' business as tight as they could, down to parts of a penny wherever possible. Clevon himself was a line in the ledger, as were his matron and sister, and all their cousins. Much was expected of him, but he received no special or particular treatment: they were all inputs in the Plan.
He thought of it always capitalized: the Plan, an orchestration four generations deep, the dream of an all-beta landed house rising to the height of society.
It had come to an abrupt left turn with his own unexpected blossoming. It was one thing to be the only son, but another again to be the only omega. Men he'd fought beside asked him for dances now, or kisses, or battle tokens for their lances, and once in a while how the knitting was going.
His father cared for him still, but his grandfather? His uncle, always narrow-eyed at him, but now with a certain hunger? And certainly his second and third cousins!
Some days Clevon was in a dark temper. The letters were a haven then. A private chance to reach out to a kindred soul, trying out ideas, bounding them in with ink. And to read, to learn, to enjoy the mind unfurling before him on the page, bright and clever and kind. Often, Caleb had answers for things Clevon himself almost could not name, or new solutions for bitter puzzles. Clevon was not quite so riddle-clever as he, but it was a pleasure to watch, and wonderful to tease.
Caleb did not seem to mind at all. Clevon knew his verse was, unfortunate and sort of blubbery (like the time he'd tried to find a match for loss and got stuck between moss and roster before giving up) but Caleb must have gamely read all of it, in its entirety, because here and there he offered back bits of it, and in this way their words had come to fit together like new lines of a familiar song.
They'd never exchanged a missive that could cover all of this--but one day, far ahead, it would be wonderful to try.
But here, now, he knew he'd drain the goblet if he got the chance, and so he made himself stop, pushed it away instead. Caleb smiled at him, a bright slice of mirth that caught and held Clevon's attention--until it was riveted again for being shushed. It amazed him, how good it felt to be...told, simply directed to the right course of action, and so gently. It stilled the worry and stirred something warmer in him.
He kissed at those fingers in passing, but let his alpha withdraw them. His soft, low sound of pleasure matched the low heat of his promised husband's whispers against his ear, and he arched into being nuzzled with as little shame as a cat.
"Better?" Gently, delighted, and careful not to squirm. He had some idea of what that might mean.
He wanted to learn the feel of every part of his promised husband, to discover exactly how he liked being touched, and give him pleasure as best he could, with both of them a touch ragged as was. Clevon tightened his grip, not hurting but insistent, demonstrating, enjoying the way it slid them together. High, crooked in his teeth: "Is this better?"
How would that work, how would they get there from here, by, just--ah. His eyes widened as understanding dawned: he could easily be lifted into alpha's lap, his hips rolled up and back, and all it would really take was a simple shift in their weight.
But his promised husband hesitated, and for right and real reasons. Clevon followed his lead. He took a steadying breath and pushed his thoughts past warm and safety and rut like wolves. He made himself form full, accurate sentences against the treacherous racing of his pulse.
"They were many and they were strong, but poor swordsmen. Couldn' cut me at all. An' once they pulled me down, they didn't--" he grit his teeth on it, "want to damage me."
"I hurt here," flexing his wrists with an exploratory wince, "and my shoulders, mainly, though they're in the socket still." Grumbling. "I'm certain I'm taller now than when I went in," huff of not-laughter that put a twinge in his ribs.
His indrawn gasp was not at all from pain, and he spread his knees to prove it. That this pressed his rump more firmly flush with his husband to be, was more instinctive, but not an accident. He wanted them close.
"Oh," with a sharp little growl, trying not to wriggle, "alpha--"
He could be more definite. He was no delicate flower.
A not at all stalwart, entirely unwarlike squeak escaped for being nipped: "Yes."