tanks4thememory | Two heads are better than one

Entry tags:

Two heads are better than one

Who: Clu1 and Clu 2 (a_perfect_end)

Where: Their User world abode and possibly other places

When: Some undetermined time post Legacy and after this thread

What: ABO sexytimes and maybe other things; a Clu on Clu catchall

Warnings: VERY NSFW. Multiple kinks, ABO related warnings, sorta incest depending how you view programs from the same User, basically enter at your own risk if you're not into that sort of thing

The life and times- and sexytimes of Clus One and Two in the ABO universe, collected here for the sake of convenience and avoiding page clutter. Multiple scenarios, lots of fun. Mostly of the NSFW variety.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Caleb worked to get the chains off of Clevon's wrists. He was as gentle as he could be, not wanting to injure him further, but even with the key, the chains had been cruelly tight and the hinges of the manacles poorly maintained. Though the process took moments it felt like moments too long.

A whimper drew his eyes from his promised mate's wrists to his face, and he was surprised to see him raise his head slightly, turning gray eyes robbed of any semblance of focus by heat and exhaustion to look at him. He couldn't imagine what Clevon was seeing, if indeed he was really seeing anything at the moment. Caleb didn't judge himself an especially pleasant sight at the moment, his skin, clothing, and mail armor still marred with the dirt, sweat, and blood of battle, but to the eyes of one in such dire circumstances, he supposed he could look very different.

A single delirious question made its way past Clevon's parched lips, but before Caleb could so much as open his own mouth to reply, the omega fainted dead away. The shift in weight caused the loosened latch of the second manacle to fall open, and consequently, Clevon to fall heavily against his rescuer. Caleb caught him reflexively, then carefully got them both down from the stool, hoping to at least relieve the pressure on the omega's chest.

But that clearly wasn't the only relief Clevon needed; Caleb could feel the fevered heat in every inch of the omega's skin, see the wetness soaked into the velvet between his legs, feel his cock hard steel poking against his thigh. And with Clevon pressed unwittingly against him like this, there was no denying his own body's response to it, as his own arousal strained at his breeches. Clearly Clevon wasn't fit to travel far without his condition being taken care of; Caleb doubted he could even make it to the coach that would soon be outside to take them back to the camp in his current state. No, the first encounter of this heat would have to be there in the keep.

But certainly not in the dungeon. Lifting his promised mate into his arms with an effort, Caleb carried him back upstairs to the main part of the keep. Darius' quarters certainly wouldn't do, but he had passed a guest room that might. Any alpha who scented Clevon was warned off with a glare and a growl, but fortunately, several betas among his men had their wits about them and cleared the way, making his passage easier.

Upon coming to the room, he ordered one of his men to fetch a basin of water and other necessities for washing, as well as a pitcher of milk mixed with honey and whatever food there was that would require little effort or coordination to eat. Then, with the servant sent on his way he left two beta guards outside the closed guest room door, while he carried Clevon to the bed and gently laid him down.

Now in better light, he could get a proper look at his mate to be, realizing that a stranger could have been mistaken for cousins. There were some differences though, of course. Clevon had the broad shoulders- slightly broader than Caleb's own, he noted- and somewhat fairer skin and hair typical of people of his mountain kingdom. His features were strong, for all that they were drawn by heat and suffering, and his frame sturdy. No wonder he had passed for an odd beta for so long. His sturdier than average body for an omega was a good sign, as it increased his chances of bearing strong, healthy children.

But still there was an air of vulnerability about him, one that had nothing to do with heat. A deep unfulfilled longing, one that wasn't driven by their nature, at least not entirely. Clevon had spoken of it, in vague, romanticized terms, in his letters, and Caleb wondered what fueled it. He still did. But there were more pressing concerns at the moment.

As gently as possible, he stripped the gown from his promised mate's body, leaving him naked on the bed. He suspected it was too torn and stained to be repaired, but there was no sense wasting it if he was wrong; he draped the gown over the bench near the room's table. He then began the process of stripping off his own armor- chain mail with plates of bronze bearing his kingdom's seal- as well as boots and anything else that might hinder him in what he'd need to do. It was becoming particularly urgent to him that he get his breeches off, after all; leather was not a forgiving material, and they were becoming uncomfortably tight.

As he undressed himself though, he kept an eye on Clevon, watching for any signs of him stirring from his swoon. Because once he woke, then Caleb would quickly be needed.

Clevon had a vague idea he might be dead--that an angel had pulled him down from the wall, haloed his wrists in healing fire and set him free. But they would not be swaying together now if this were so; angels did not walk, lurching under an effort that he must be inflicting--but he was too far gone to stand.

He did not know who or what had him now, but he was not afraid. He was past fear; that tender scent still enfolded his senses, and that steady gait spread beneath him. He let his head roll, pushed his nose deeper into welcoming leather, and retreated into the dark.

He tried to rouse for the sense of sinking that came with a good bed, and didn't make it, drifting instead.

Darkness. Gentle, steady touch. That incredible scent, always with him, in and out of the room.

Clevon held very still and kept his breathing even and deep. He tried to count them, in and out, but quickly lost hold of that, and instead slid his eyes open behind their lashes like a child cheating at blindman's bluff. And just as his skin began to prickle with nerves, he realized he was entirely naked.

Wonderful soft touches or no, delicious smells or no, he needed to know where he was and who was with him. If he could see, from here. He dared not stir. This gave him a long, flat wedge of grey room, grey movement in the right corner--the rise and fall of boots, one at a time. The glint of mail--bronze or white could not be told from here, but not the rank dark iron of his captor.

Clevon felt himself relax just a fraction, taking a deeper draw of air--of scent--trying not to squirm. His body was all too aware that he was watching someone disrobe. From here he had a very good look at the lean beautiful line of a hip that was most of his eye-level. The gods had carved those flanks by hand, and clearly enjoyed doing it.

He sat right up for that--or tried and regretted it instantly, the room rolling out of place again with a kitten's cry it took him a long moment to realize was his voice, as he slid flat back on the mattress.

He was too tired to be mortified. And much too interested in the view.

"You?" A harsh croak, but not a threat. He winced, licked his lips for a hello.

He was just too thirsty to be alluring in this moment.

All in all undressing hadn't taken overlong. Caleb silently thanked whatever deities or other cosmic powers might be listening that this was practical combat dress, and not formal attire; with the latter, he may have needed the help of a servant or two to get it all off in a timely fashion. Getting his breeches off was definitely a mercy, as his cock was by now almost as hard as Clevon's. The last was his tunic, which left him naked as well.

He was about to cross to the bench and lay everything beside the gown, but it was then that Clevon sat up suddenly. Or rather, tried to; he uttered a pained squeak and fell back into the mattress almost immediately. Caleb added having a healer look at his promised mate's injuries sooner rather than later to the list of tasks that needed doing in his mind.

For now though, he laid down his things where he stood and moved to the bed. If Clevon had been enjoying the view before, he was certainly getting a show now, as Caleb's hard cock was on full display as he approached the bed. Though not the largest ever formed by Alpha standards, it was quite a respectable size, and finely shaped. It had never left a bedmate wanting, omega or otherwise.

"Yes, me," Caleb said, standing by the bed. "I would say 'rest easy', but I doubt you can at present. Regardless though, you're safe now. Darius is dead, and this keep and all within it is mine. Though in your case you were already promised to me."

He smiled slightly, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I've sent a servant for food and drink. But until he returns, let's see if I can at least blunt the edge of your heat a bit and ease your other hunger." With that he gently slipped his nearer hand between Clevon's legs and slid his first two fingers into the slick heat of the omega's vagina, curling them in such a way that with each stroke in and out the base of his fingers rubbed against his swollen clitoris and the heel of his palm rubbed against his balls. It was a trick that he'd found never failed to please an omega, and given how desperate Clevon likely was, it was certain to have that much more effect.

Clevon blinked up at him a moment, pinned in place by the glory of that display, before scrabbling backward like his maiden aunt in search of modesty.

Really he was trying to get his wits under him over the roar of his pulse, heart going like furnace bellows to work even more blood into the iron-hot juncture of his legs. His rescuer was speaking to him, low and pleasant and seasoned with gentle concern, as though trying to steady him.

This must be Caleb; this was Caleb, the words Darius dead and already promised having lanced through the haze of desire that had Clevon staring, riveted.

He licked his lips. Speech was difficult, with such a vision arrayed before him. Caleb had the taller, somewhat narrower, lissome frame of the lowlands, a bowstring kind of strength that must be fearsome, and the features Clevon knew from their letters, from the betrothal drawings.

The sketches were a solid likeness, but, oh, in other ways they'd utterly failed to take the measure of the man.

"Gods," softly. And then he tried it again, louder, definite. "Gods. It really is you." The words were small and hot, gritty with awed desire: "My husband."

He felt heat climbing his skin, wondered if the flush were visible. He was no newcomer to the game of love, but that was before he'd flowered, and only ladies had been his companions. He'd known what to do, sure; how to kiss where it wouldn't show, for a start.

And after he'd presented--well, he knew what his own four knuckles were for, but. This was off limits to him, maiden's parts untouched and only for his husband.

Caleb made a divot in the mattress where he sat, and it sloped them together a little as he slid his hand--oh, up to part his legs and curled two fingers into him.

Clevon pushed to meet him with a short, hard cry of utter want, feeling it shape his mouth, high and round. Stars and sun. He could feel where he was tugging on Caleb's knuckles, trying to draw him further in.

"Please," was the form it took, swaying into his hand, into the roll of Caleb's palm, into the thrust of his fingers, "please, please--"

So that was how it felt, the lightest touch to that sharp, prodding little bud like fire, like golden flame inside him. And his husband was so careful with him, but quick and sure, in firm, steady strokes.

Clevon clenched rigid on a shudder in his thighs and rippled, inside, on his hand with a bright, hard joyous cry.

The flush was indeed visible though at the moment, it was difficult to tell whether it was from emotion or simply from the fire that burned in Clevon's blood. "Promised husband," Caleb corrected, but he smiled. "Though we may have to have the ceremony earlier than planned." It wouldn't do for Clevon to be visibly pregnant at the ceremony, and barring divine intervention, there was no way this heat would pass without Caleb getting his promised mate with child. Under the circumstances, it would be only minorly scandalous in and of itself, but Caleb wanted it to be absolutely certain that their firstborn was considered legitimate. And besides, something as elaborate as the wedding gown Clevon had described his seamstresses making couldn't be let out without damaging it, and that simply wouldn't do.

His promised mate responded to his touch every bit as eagerly as he'd expected. Each stroke had him uttering a desperately wanton plea for more, until finally, the already fairly tight opening rippled around his fingers as his mate to be cried out in ecstasy, hitting the first of what promised to be many peaks during this heat.

A deep, sultry rumble emerged from Caleb's throat. To be so tight even in this state could only mean one thing; he had never been penetrated before. This was good news for the ceremonies surrounding their mating and the legitimacy of their eventual firstborn, and yet...

Caleb kept up his steady stroking as he spoke, wanting to see if he could raise his promised mate to at least one more peak before the servant returned. "Your maiden parts have never seen use," he said, stating what he'd surmised. "Not even by your own hand. I admire your restraint, especially during your previous heats. It must have taken great strength of will to use only your cock when everything in you cried out to be filled." No more though. Clevon would never go through another heat empty, if Caleb had any say in the matter.

With his free hand, he reached up and tugged the cord that held the nearest section of bed curtains up, and they fell away from the bedpost, hanging heavily there. Though they didn't conceal everything, they provided enough concealment from the rest of the room that when the servant returned with food, he wouldn't see more than Caleb wished him to. He meant to see to it that no one else save perhaps Clevon's own chamber servants saw him naked. And he certainly wanted no one else to see him in this vulnerable state if it could be helped, not when Clevon would one day rule at his side.

He felt so many things, heart ready to leave his throat singing them--joy, shelter, rest, gratitude, and something too raw to be any of them, urgent and sharp. It was gentled, banked down quiet under the lovely, aching wave still shivering through him, but not gone. Clevon gasped hard and bright for the pretty flicker of pretty teeth and felt where his own face gave an answering grin.

His whole body ached for more, even as some distant part of him knew the odds of his leaving this bed in the same state he'd entered it had drawn slim and closed, nature drawing her nets on them both. He had a feeling he'd be a wife in role if not in registry before the sun was up.

"Promised?" It wasn't quite laughter, husky, smoky and too narrow. "Oh, aye? That's some handshake, love."

The thought of the idea of the wedding made him groan, a moment's glimpse of how it would look to be borne down the aisle in bursting brocade thick with kits and half-out of a bodice too narrow for him as it already was. Not that the gown would withstand that, but it was an impressive picture that shivered through him, drove him absolutely scarlet, and not all with shame.

"We should," low, hot, "Oh! O-or it's christenings first, and that, won't, do at all."

On this they were of like mind. There must be no question whose children these were--and there must be several, for the sake of the line--nor whether they were the true issue of a valid marriage. He wouldn't hurt them, or himself, or his future mate that way.

And as for the rest--

"Tradition," rough, half a growl, high in his teeth. Caleb kept touching him, and he hadn't known that could be so good; he'd had no idea what he was missing until his promise-husband showed him, and that just with his fingers. "Four long summers I dripped empty seeds in the dirt," coarse, hoarse, letting out a low, wanton hum for the radiant heat his promised mate was stoking him to inside-- "waiting for you. Burning for you, like this."

Caleb let out a rumble, near enough purring for him. He called him strong, valued his will, and that almost pushed Clevon down again into hot abandon. He shuddered, hips rolling, with a little sigh for the soft dark the fall of the bed curtains gathered in.

"I'll, oh--" They were safe here, this was a good defensible nest, and it felt so, so right to be full. "I'm, strong, I'll give you eight sons--!"

Clevon squirmed, dazed and hungry, and shivered apart anew.

Caleb grinned at the comment. It was too heated to be entirely meant as humor, but it was amusing under the circumstances nonetheless. "And it's quite a firm grip you have, my dear," he said. "But wait until I show you what can be done when I take you properly."

That would be quite a sight yes. Bedecked with finery that couldn't quite contain his growing belly, heavy with their firstborn and radiant with the glow that only a pregnant omega seemed to have. How people would stare, and not just because of his beauty! It was a surprisingly enticing thought, though it would have to remain no more than that for all their sakes.

And thinking of glows, that blush was definitely noticeable. The sight of it softened his grin to something warmer, and brought out another, gentler rumble from this throat. "Never again," he vowed. "Never again shall you be left empty or wanting." He leaned forward slightly to caress his promised mate's cheek with his free hand. "From this day forward, I will see you filled and fulfilled in every way that I can."

The smile became a bit sharper and more amused again a moment later though. "Eight sons?", he repeated. "Not all at once, I should hope." Childbirth was dangerous at the best of times, and that danger only increased to both parent and child when there was more than one baby. A skilled midwife could get a birthing omega through the birth of twins, and- on rare occasions- triplets, but anything more than that would surely result in death for either the omega, one or more of the infants, or both. "But eventually, yes. Sons and daughters too, as many as you're willing and able to give me. The keep will be full of the laughter of our children."

Clevon hit another peak, his opening rippling around Caleb's fingers, wet and eager. Caleb was just thinking of adding his other hand to the mix and taking his omega's cock in hand as well, when there was a knock on the door, and a voice muffled by wood and stone announced the return of his servant. "Enter," Caleb said. And when the servant did so, he added. "I'm tending to my promised mate. Leave the food on the table and go; I'll call for you when you're needed again."

"Yes, mi'lord, " said the servant, leaving the tray of food and drink on the table, giving a brief bow in the direction of the bed, then making a discrete exit.

It wasn't until he heard the heavy wooden door close that Caleb somewhat reluctantly withdrew his fingers from his omega and stood. "Never fear, love," he said, leaning down to gently kiss his promised mate's lips. "I won't go far. But your time here has left you deprived in other ways besides this, and they also need tending to."

Clevon's skin was half flame. Something about being teased sent a hot shiver of need up his back--and his promised husband had a clever, wicked sense of humor. And maybe no small power of enchantment: Clevon's grip obliged him as though summoned by the attention, drawing snug for the amusement sparkling in Caleb's voice.

"Oh," Clevon tried to chuckle with him and instead gave a bright hard whine for the promise of more, nipping back an oath by biting his own lip. "Properly?"

He knew. Everyone knew about rams and ewes. But this game was too good, and he was eager to give as good as he got. Or at least try his best.

"Proper firm like a proper wife," it should've crackled, arch and smart, except he moaned a little. "Marched to the chapel all full of our love, fit to bust my gown? We'd kill the poor priest."

Clevon looked right up at him, head on, because he did not want to miss his promised mate's face for that--only to be snared entirely by the way Caleb was watching him, by the spread of his smile tender and sharp, gentled by a soft growl. Caleb made a vow of his feelings, low and velvet, and brushed him softly on the cheek.

To be held intimately and with such kindness, both at once, was almost overwhelming. Clevon dropped his gaze, quiet and beaming, feeling the smile bloom broad beside his mate's hand and not trusting his own voice.

His heart was so full it was in his throat.

"I'll give you everything." It staggered out low, rough with feeling. "All I can. Every day of my life."

And as for the children--their beautiful future--

Everyone knew about lambs, too. There was always risk. And he and his instincts both were certain sure he wanted--

"Twins!" Sharp, shivering through a greedy little snarl, "We'll, ah, just have to keep trying," hands fisted tight in the bedclothes as he danced on his promised mate's fingers, "hah! Until we welcome a pair."

He shivered to attention for the knock at the door, made himself hold very still against a harsh tide of new urges--a cold wash of alarm and hot, sudden possessive rage to tear to pieces this intruder who dared come anywhere near--a rush made sharp and complex by how thoroughly he was still being tended to.

They were strong, but they were only feelings. He had beaten them before. And Caleb wasn't going anywhere.

Wasn't going far. Had carefully freed himself and told off the interloper, kissing Clevon softly. He hummed in delighted surprise and leaned up into it. That was a beautiful, marvelous thing he wanted to do again immediately--

Just as soon as he saw whatever had drawn his promised mate from the safety of their den.

"What is it?"

Inane, maybe; but as soon as his husband to be had mentioned it, Clevon remembered he was powerfully thirsty.

"Properly," Caleb repeated. A tease, and a promise. "Joined together in every way but marriage." Locked together in the dance that Alphas and Omegas had been partners in since the world began. Coming as close as two people truly could be to being one flesh.

Then Clevon gave voice to his thoughts, and his cock twitched. Such a scandalous image he painted. "Kill him... or have him renounce his vows so that he could pursue one so beautiful himself. Either way, he'd better have married us first." Or Caleb would be very cross indeed.

And keep trying for twins, would they? Well, Caleb certainly had no objections to that. Perhaps they'd even be so blessed this time. But they mustn't get ahead of themselves.

His promised mate's anger and alarm at the appearance of the servant were clear, but unneeded. The man was there and then gone, as unobtrusive as it was possible to be, as a good servant should be. The question once he was gone, though, needed answering, if only for Clevon's reassurance.

"Food and drink," Caleb said as he moved to the table. "We'll both need our strength over the coming few days."

The tray bore the requested pitcher of milk mixed with honey, as well as bread, soft cheese, and what most be some of the season's last apples. Simpler fair than he typically took, but still he was pleased. For what could be gathered and eaten quickly, it was good fare for both an Omega in heat and the the Alpha servicing them.

Medical wisdom regarding what foods a heated Omega should eat and drink was clear and reasonably well known. Milk and honey was beneficial as it soothed and calmed, aiding in rest between sessions; indeed, it was sometimes prescribed to aid sleep in general. Fresh fruit- in season-, bread or porridge- staples no man could long do without-, and light soft cheese- gentler on the heated stomach than richer butters and fats.

Strictly proscribed were alcohol- lest it add more fuel to the fire in the Omega's blood- and meats other than fish- the fish was cold by nature, and its meat much lighter then that of land-bound beasts. Meat broths, on the other hand, were often recommended, with those made from the meat of wild game especially prized for their potency; the strengths and essence of the animal, without the heaviness of its flesh. Rabbit for fertility, if the Omega had previously had difficulty conceiving. Venison for vitality, if they were weakened or otherwise frail. Boar for strength, for Omegas who had a history of difficult births. And bear for when both the Omega and the infant were expected to be in special need of strength.

He poured out some of the milk and honey mixture into the provided goblet, taking a sip to moisten his own throat before returning to the bed with the cup. With his free hand, he helped Clevon to sit, then slid in to kneel behind him on the bed, letting his promised mate rest back to be supported against his chest. The fact that this position undoubtedly gave Clevon a taste of what was to come, with the feel of Caleb's hardness pressed against the small of his back was merely a happy consequence of this.

Caleb brought the goblet to his love's lips. "Drink slowly," he advised. "I know you must be doubly thirsty with heat and deprivation, but gulping it will do you no favors."

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.

"Oh," warmly. "Oh, alpha, that's better. Thank you."

Caleb too had been called many things in many voices. Many of them had been flattering, but he knew better than to accept such things at face value. In his position there were many who would offer sweet words in hopes of getting something they wanted- be it money, favors, or time in his bed- whether or not those words reflected what was in their hearts. He'd been told how handsome others found his features, both facial and otherwise, often enough that such comments seldom moved him any longer.

It was part of why exchanging letters with Clevon had been such a welcome diversion. Yes, there'd been praise for what they knew of each other's appearance, as was to be expected in romantic exchanges, but more often he'd been complemented on his wit and humor, or his kindness and compassion than anything to do with his wealth or countenance. And he'd similarly praised his wife to be, though he knew not what others might have said of him in his own keep, beyond what little Clevon had shared with him.

But Clevon was just as much a vision, despite neither of them being at their best just then. Caleb longed to explore every plain and valley, angle and curve of his promised mate's body with hands and lips and tongue, to draw out every sound and expression of pleasure that he could from him. To make him feel every bit as beautiful as he looked, every bit as loved as he was.

But later. For now, practical concerns had to take precedence for the most part. His promised mate needed to be taken care of, so that he could rest and begin to recover from his ordeal. And everything, pleasurable as it may be, was toward that end.

Caleb shushed him gently as he tried for pleasantries that were unneeded and even a hindrance here. There would be time for that later too. For now, all that mattered was holding his wife to be as he drank and soothed his parched throat.

Still he couldn't help but smile as Clevon gently pushed the goblet away. Caleb set it on the small bedside table for now, even as his mate to be caught his other arm and pulled him closer still, as though he were a blanket. "You're welcome, my love," he said. He leaned down to nuzzle against Clevon's cheek, his voice heavy and breathy in his promised mate's ear. "And were I surer of your injuries, I might show you how a position like this could be even better." After all it would take only a small lift and shift backward to have them locked together, but he doubted Clevon's ribs were up to the jouncing such a position would entail.

"Though perhaps I can add a bit more enjoyment to it before our joining." One of his hands had been claimed by Clevon, but the one that had previously held the goblet, now free, slid down over his promised mate's stomach to wrap around Clevon's cock where it began to gently stroke and squeeze. This was bolstered by a brief, gentle nip of his omega's earlobe, a tantalizing preview of their eventual mating bite.

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."

Clevon had mentioned 'the Plan' to him before in some of his letters. Always capitalized, and often with equal parts respect and annoyance, the Plan had, by all reports, been going along quite well. But as someone had once said, God laughed at the plans of men, and Clevon's blossoming was proof. And as he felt his wife-to-be's heart pounding so near his own, he couldn't help but be deeply grateful for this particular twist in their grand Plan.

His fate was also not what he'd planned when he was younger. The youngest of three brothers, he thought it unlikely that he would ever sit upon the throne, and had looked forward to a relatively quiet life. 'Little Cale', his brothers had called him, though not unkindly, and he'd been quite content to be so.

But then his middle brother, Thomas, always a somewhat sickly child, had succumbed to illness at age fourteen. A terrible loss for the family and the kingdom, and for Caleb especially, as he and Thomas had been quite close, but it still left Caleb as the spare, not the heir. But then one day while Caleb was away with his mother, visiting her relatives, his eldest brother, Samuel, had gone out riding. His horse had returned late that evening... without its rider. His body was discovered the next day, at the bottom of a ravine near one of his favorite hunting trails, his neck broken; with no evidence of foul play, it was concluded that his horse had spooked and thrown him at just the wrong time. There was nothing to be done but mourn.

His younger self had left his keep as 'Little Cale'. He had returned as Lord Caleb, and his whole life had changed. His education had changed. The way people regarded him had changed. What was expected of him had changed. No longer could he just do as he pleased; every decision required consideration. Consideration of how it might reflect on him, how it might reflect on his kingdom, his people. How it might affect the running of his own kingdom, from affairs of state to the traffic of goods in the market. A thousand factors he hadn't considered before.

His own kingdom dealt largely in agriculture. There were plenty of artisans, scholars, builders, and the like of course, but the pride of their kingdom was the food it produced. From its vast golden fields of grain to its orchards of fruit and gardens of vegetables, the soil of their valley home was kind to them, seldom failing to produce a surplus both to sustain them through the winter and to be exported and sold. And of course, their home's bounty also supported herds of animals and flocks of fowl; sheep and ducks were the most numerous, but cattle, pigs, and goats could also be found grazing his land's fields, and chickens, pigeons, and geese pecking in its yards. Some also kept rabbits, both for food and fur, and the river and streams produced a fair supply of fish in most seasons.

But where food and other products of the land were plentiful, finer finished things were less so, which was how his kingdom and Clevon's had initially begun their dealings with one another. Doubtless fruit, grain, and cheese from his kingdom had crossed Clevon's table, just as fine plates and cups made in or imported by Clevon's kingdom were frequently seen on Caleb's. And their marriage would likely serve to make both kingdoms more prosperous.

But all that was in he past and the future. Just then, his promised wife had his undivided attention. "I'll be forever grateful for both their incompetence and their discretion, then," he said. Not all the survivors of Clevon's party had fared so well, but such grim news could be saved for when they were both more clearheaded. "I'll have my healers examine you at the first opportunity; they'll be a far better judge of what care your injuries need than I. Until then, I'll just have to be as gentle as our activities allow." Which was probably good for a first bedding in any case; even with heat, there was such a thing as too much too quickly.

Though it would have been easy to forget that with the way he pressed his rump up against Caleb's cock, not quite wriggling, but still shifting deliciously in a way that pulled a sound that was half moan, half growl from somewhere deep in his chest. His hardness throbbed between them, hot and eager; he'd have a knot swelling before long at this rate.

And his promised mate was clearly no less eager, given the way he squeaked for that nip. He chuckled near Clevon's ear, his voice husky. "A taste, my love, of what's to come on our wedding night," he said, speeding up his stroking, his breath hot on his promised bride's neck. "Would that I could give you all now, but anticipation will make the feast that much sweeter when the time comes. And I intend to eat and drink my fill."

He knew, of a certainty, that fate had not granted his promised husband the easiest path in life. Bountiful and fine were the orchards of his kingdom, fields and gardens fairly teeming with every kind of life that could sprout, creep, fly, or crawl. It was not want that had shaped Caleb's people, nor Caleb himself, but loss. How he still and always would miss dear, cautious Thomas, and Samuel's bold, brave laughter. That truth had wended its way through their letters, a steady undercurrent in all Caleb had told him--their missives being the best way that he could--just how hard it had been, at first, to shed the long golden afternoon of boyhood for sudden total leadership. How he'd shouldered a kingdom without complaint, and had flourished under that responsibility: but just because he could do it, and indeed excelled at it, that did not make his task an easy one.

It was good, to remember and treasure these men he would now never get the chance to meet. To hold them close because his mate still did.

But they were very far from this bed.

And it was difficult to think at all, with Caleb's vows pressed close and gentle in his ear, hot enough to tickle his brain.

It was not his brain that hitched obligingly into the offered fingers, twitching and lively in the narrowing loop of his hand. Clevon was caught, drawn along faster, faster, coils of hot pleasure chased by his promised husband's fingers. Pleasure that only deepened for that long, low sound half-felt against his back, a hungry thrum too harsh to be a moan, but too low and rich for a growl.

Caleb throbbed against him in turn, almost in tandem, and Clevon found himself unable to keep still, instinct much stronger than sense dragging his hips up and back, and a devilish, contrary impulse pushing him to do it slowly, to rub up tight. To pleasure his mate.

He realized with a start, with a sharp, hungry puff of breath, that if it came down to it he would just as much enjoy getting his back painted--as long as alpha wanted that, too.

But as for feasting--oh--

He could hardly take it.

"Oh? Am I a custard, then?" It came out breathy, uneven. He didn't hold back a sharp, bright purr for being stroked. "Y'wish to devour me, m'lord?"

He bared his throat; he rolled his neck; he tried, valiantly, to roll his hips in that treacherous, perfect grip.

"Or simply to take a bite?"

Caleb fought the urge to swear as his mate rubbed up against him like that. Bad luck, some said, to do so when first bedding a mate, or a promised one. Such encounters were significant, whatever their circumstances, and it didn't do to tempt or offend fate with curses or oaths. And with as narrowly as their story had avoided a tragic end, avoiding such was even more important.

But oh, it was tempting. When Clevon managed to roll his hips like that, catching his cock just so, in a way that both squeezed it and made his balls bounce just slightly, it brought many an obscene term to the tip of his tongue. Strange that so divine a feeling prompted little else more than the urge to sully it.

He settled for a sound half growl and half groan. "A custard?", he managed, his voice roughened with pleasure. "Nay, my love, you're the entire meal, and more besides. But once you are truly mine in the eyes of God and man, I mean to devour every morsel of you, every night that I may."

Romantic as the notion may be, they would not be able to spend every day and night together. Each of them would have duties to perform, and Caleb's were likely to take him far afield at times. But he meant to see that every night they were together was spent blissfully in each others' arms, whether in sleep or lovemaking, and every hour of their days together in warmth and fulfillment.

Another roll of Clevon's hips that sent a thunderbolt of pleasure through him and straight to his groin, and his hand stroking Clevon's cock stuttered as he moaned deep and low. "But for now...", he managed, breathing heavily, "for now, I'd best lay you out and do my duty, before my knot grows too much to manage it. Would you prefer to be taken from the front or the back?"

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