Two heads are better than one

[tanks4thememory]

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.

Comments

[tanks4thememory]

He did tend to be warm. Part of that was simply the environment; even with the sun setting, the air was still warm and would be for awhile, as night's chill was slow to creep in at this time of year. But part of it was His divine nature subtly showing; filled with energy and life and the power to quicken it, His current human form couldn't fail to be equally warm and full of life.

He listened as Cyr described not just his skills but the areas in which he was lacking, and nodded both in understanding and approval. Some might have talked themselves up or deliberately neglected to mention weaknesses, but Cyr's honesty did him credit. "You may call me Caleb," He said. "And Cyr will serve for the present, unless you truly wish to change it. Only senior priests are required to take a both a new common name and a sacred name."

A common name was, as the term implied, meant for daily use; it was what one was called when meeting others, and was how one was named in most records and correspondence. A sacred name, by contrast, carried far more weight, both secular and religious. It was needed for certain prayers, ceremonies, and invocations and added weight when signed to temple edicts and official documents. It was always written in sacred script, unlike common names or indeed most words with could be written in either the common or the sacred.

And both scripts could be found in Dumont's records room. He likely had, at one time or another, had occasion to read, copy, or add to most of them. Many were in the language of their country, but some were not. Part of the work of temple scribes was in translation, copying such texts into their own language to both preserve them and make them more accessible to scholars who might have need of them. They contained everything from fantastic tales of distant lands, to treatises on religion, medicine, and other scholarly topics, to common records of people and goods.

It was to the latter Dumont went now, retrieving a scroll whose wooden handgrips told the story of long use even better than its contents; where once they had been lacquered, much of that was now worn away by much handling, leaving it somewhat resembling its keeper. Dumont brought it to a vacant worktable near where they sat, and retrieved the quill and pot of ink from where he'd been working previously.

'Caleb' smiled at Cyr's thanks. "It's simply my duty," He said, "but I won't deny that it's one that I enjoy. You're quite welcome."

"And speaking of duties," Dumont said, settling onto the stool before the new worktable and unrolling the scroll, "I'd best be about mine as well." His eyes scanned down it with practiced ease til he came to part which currently bore no writing, something that was about to change. He dipped the quill into the ink and began to write, asking Cyr for his name, the names of his parents, his Alpha, and the village of his birth. He was asked to confirm that he was indeed a male-mother, and to provide a rough schedule of his heats, if they conformed to any, so his needs could be provided for during such times.

Such basic information Dumont wrote down with a neat and practiced hand on the scroll. "It'll be too late to get you settled in the servants' dormitory tonight, by the time all's done and said," he said as he got down the last of it, "so I'll make arrangements for you to stay in one of the heat rooms tonight, as none of them are currently in use. But after tonight, I hope you have no objections to sharing sleeping space. You'll be quartered with a group of other male-mothers, and will bathe and take your meals with them as well unless you're told otherwise, so you'll likely get to know them fairly well."

"Now then, I don't expect you're lettered?", he asked. Upon confirmation that he was not, Dumont nodded. "I hope you've no objections to learning, then, as all those who live and work here are expected to be able to read and and write at least the common script to a minimal standard. I'll make note that time is to be allotted for lessons among your daily tasks. Given that you were looking at the records in my keeping the way a child looks at honey cakes, I suspect you'll be a diligent student, which I'm sure your instructor will find refreshing." He gave Cyr and 'Caleb' a bit of a wry smile; clearly the temple's instructors often found their students' efforts lacking.

He then asked about the skills Cyr did have, noting them down, and also noting that he wasn't to be tasked with cooking. A few more notes were added as well; the dormitory where he was to be housed and what was to be initially provided for him from the temple's stores in the way of clothing and the like. When the last bit of it had been scratched onto the parchment, Dumont inspected his work to make sure he made no errors before nodding in satisfaction. "That ought to do for now," he said. "You're now officially on the temple rolls. I'll see to making arrangements with the appropriate individuals, and you can get on with the other necessary formalities." There was a twinkle of amusement in his eye as he glanced between Cyr and 'Caleb'. "I expect there are people you'd much rather be spending time with than a crotchety old man."

[a_perfect_end]

Without quite meaning to, Cyr bent toward him a little, much as noonday flowers extended their faces to the sun. Perhaps it was simply the length of his journey, tiring him at last, or a touch of that weakness for comfort male-mothers were known for. Maybe it was simply that, with one thing and another, that slight touch was the friendliest he'd known in a while.

Maybe it was all those things. But there was something else, too, that drew him in, that loosed his tongue and let him tell the truth: the priest was listening to him. Had waited for him to find his words.

Cyr tilted his head in thought. Only the other mothers and their little children really paid him any attention--and then usually only when he had a story to tell, or a kiss to give, or in richer days a sweet in his pocket for the best-behaved.

No one had taken him seriously, much less asked what he was capable of or what he wanted. So he made the effort to answer true.

"Thank you," softly, "Caleb." Remembering: "Brother. But I think--" the door to the old world was shut, but he'd stepped through it as himself. "Cyr will do. It's who I am."

He was very sure he'd never make a senior priest, at that! He had so much ahead of him--a great deal to know, and do, and learn. Maybe on some far off day.

The priest had taken him seriously, and led him through Brother Dumont's door in good and patient humor. And now that they sat together, it was an effort of will not to reach out greedily for his hand, just resting there on the table.

So Cyr sat trying valiantly not to fidget, not to stare after the laden shelves, and not to gawk too openly at the sheer speed with which Brother Dumont's hand moved.

He tried not to stare at all of it.

Cyr grinned at Caleb, bigger than he meant, going broader under the combined attention of not one, but two men new to his acquaintance who hadn't instantly brushed him aside. This much company wasn't proper, normally, not without a train of uncles and sisters and wives.

He wasn't frightened at all--they were very kind--only, it was a bit intense, to be noticed so, when he was used to the hearth and the nursery. To invisibility, of a kind.

And he tried, tried, not to let his eyes wander after Caleb's bright gaze whenever a question gave him pause, but--the priest had also said he found his duties enjoyable.

"Oh, I--" his treacherous, greedy tongue curled against the back of his smile. "Then I'm happy you do, and lucky besides."

Shamless! The elders would've pinched an ear for that, for sure. But Caleb didn't seem to mind, or even necessarily to notice--which was good. Cyr shouldn't be trying to flirt with someone who was obligated to help him by temple rules.

He knew better. He should do better. His mind should be on the Record Keeper's questions.

Dumont was kind to explain when Cyr asked, and listened well when he answered: for family names, for his Alpha's name, for their village. Cyr looked down at his hands when confirming his alignment, feeling suddenly aware of himself: of how thin he must look, and how--well-traveled--with only his hands and feet clean.

His heats were always the same: every one hundred and forty days. They'd stopped as he'd gone hungry, and his lunar blood retreated the same way. Their wise one said it was only natural, Cyr's courses flowing backward to protect his heart and lungs against privation, and that they should return with better food.

The One grant it were so--assuming He also willed Cyr would ever have need of such.

He did already miss the little ones.

No, Cyr had never been wed or bonded. He was entirely unscarred and had never broken a bone. His only illnesses had been in childhood, though he was still young.

(And oh, Cyr had fidgeted then; it wasn't respectful to remind one's elders of their age.)

He was relieved to be bedding with other male-mothers. It was a bit like home, though the red-handed tent was only temporary, a place where those few undergoing a first heat--or those, like Cyr, whose next few had passed without a wedding--could shelter and care for each other, and help each other through.

Otherwise, all the families pitched their long tents together, grouped by bloodline rather than alignment. Alpha's was greatest, in the center, the others arrayed around it like the spokes of a wheel, their crops forming another, greater wheel around them in turn. In better times, the barley glowed like a sea of gold in the high wind, runner beans holding it down and making good food for their chickens and sheep--though that, that caused feuding--farmers ever scrambling after their share of the beans they'd planted with their own hands, and the shepherds insisting that some free rein was their due, and only fair, for their yarn and cheese and once in a while a great, fluffy skin of one they couldn't save.

Mostly, marriages kept such spats at a dull simmer.

His village was small and sleepy, and their problems were insular ones. The gatehouse at the edge of their territory had sat empty for at least two generations, and neither princes, nor lords, nor tax men had come up that slim road of pale, broken stones for even longer than that.

Cyr was--a bit intimidated, but intrigued. What would it be like, to live among his own alignment all the time? Peaceful, maybe.

And as for reading:

"No, I'll be glad to learn!" Not least because he was often certain that their wise one didn't know everything, and had made up things to fill those gaps. The sun couldn't really have wings, and fourteen was just a number. "I've seen great men with these, whose voices ring when they recite, and rich men with long scrolls of figures, who keep from being cheated." Softly, head down, looking at hands whisked down from the table and curled tight around each other: "They don't share what they know, but that won't matter if I can do it, too."

He blinked hard, for that, trying to imagine a world where someone didn't want to know everything. He had to hide it, of course, couldn't make anyone uncomfortable, but that didn't stop him wanting it, like--well--

Like honey cakes.

He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I'll, do my best."

And as for who he would rather spend time with, oh.

Was he so very obvious? Oh, oh dear. He was going very red. His hair was warm with the force of the blood in his cheeks and trying valiantly to climb all the rest of his skin, too.

"You're too clever," he squeaked, trying for a rich hum of flattery and failing by the proverbial country mile. He cleared his throat. "I will have to study very hard, Brother Dumont, to even hope to catch you someday, but you're--"

He didn't falter, so much as pause to think about it. "You've been very kind."

Still: "I wouldn't mind knowing--or learning--where to go."

He did not say, I thought you were busy, though it shimmered at the edge of his tongue. Sometimes he teased too roughly, and he knew better than to try it with men he'd just met. Even kindly ones like Brother Dumont.

Besides, Cyr didn't want to hurt his feelings even in play.

Though he did very much wish to follow where Brother Caleb might lead. He realized that he was exhausted, and a place to sleep sounded perfect.