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Aran was just about done for the night, clearing out the Queen’s Guard that still lingered about. Whenever he thought he’d got them all, he’d return some time later to find them again lurking in old courtyards and battlements. He’d sent Adso back to their current basecamp not too long ago. The boy had been loudly complaining about how late it was, how he’d been on his feet for hours, and that he hadn’t seen so much as a new species of frog to document in his chronicles for weeks now.
“I’m surprised it’s not past your bedtime anyway. Considering your advanced age and all.” He’d said, doodling something in the margins of his notes, before breaking his gaze away to throw Aran a smirk.
It was a common joke between the two of them but Aran still liked to indulge Adso, put on a wounded expression or sigh long-sufferingly, hand raised to his heart.
“One day you’ll regret those words, lad - talking so callously of me in a my old age. What would you say if I keeled over dead tomorrow?”
“Hmm…” Adso raised his quill to his chin, tapping it as he pantomimed being deep in thought.
“Finally, some peace and quiet?” His smirk breaking out into a full grin, boyishly charming. It was quickly broken by a wide yawn however, and Aran took pity on him, pulling out his Forgers’ Hammer ready to send him back.
“Get some rest, kid, and don’t forget to tidy up those scrolls you left on the table this morning!”
Adso was already half vanished but he still replied “Yes, yes, Aran, I will! Goodnight! And don’t die!”
Aran had chuckled, shaking his head, while returning his hammer to its place on his belt. He quickly realised after barely another half an hour of patrolling that it wasn’t busy at all. The whole place eerily quiet, but he’d learnt to appreciate the breaks even more if they were to precede some disaster.
He rolls his shoulders, letting out a satisfied grunt hearing them pop, and pulls out his Forgers’ Hammer once more, soon finding himself back in front of his and Adso’s temporary home.
~
He opens the door quietly, attempting to be as stealthy as physically possible considering his size. Anything to avoid ever again dealing with the positively withering look Adso threw his way the last time Aran accidentally woke him up mid-sleep.
Expecting Adso’s typical gentle breathy snoring, Aran doesn’t immediately notice what he’s actually hearing. Gentle breathy noises, yes, but definitely not snores. Just as he was about to latch the door as quietly as he can, he hears something else. A moan. A moan that.. sounded like a name? It almost sounded.. like his name. No, that can’t be it. Arwen maybe? Adso had seemed interested in the girl.
The latch drops loudly and Aran, startled, stumbles face first into the door which, even after the initial loud thump of his head meeting the wood, rattles for what feels like far too long. So much for stealth. Aran grimaces.
Amongst the commotion and his heart pounding loud in his ear, Aran almost doesn’t hear the yelp and telltale rustling of Adso getting redressed.
The boy rounds the corner, fuming and mortified, and Aran is momentarily taken aback. He’s angry, furious even, at having his privacy invaded, Aran can tell, and he should be preparing for whatever barrage of cursing and insults Adso will throw at him. But he’s not, can’t even begin to when he takes in Adso’s appearance. He isn’t wearing his bag, obviously, and has discarded his sandals, but he has also removed his coat and heavy waistskirt. It left him in his undershirt, belt and trousers. A dark blush colours his cheeks, but the boy’s skin also just looks pinker in general. Flushed slightly. His lips are slightly wet and plump, like he’d been chewing on them. Was he trying to keep quiet? Aran thinks. So well-behaved.
He blinks his eyes hard a few times to clear those thoughts from his head when he realises Adso is speaking, his arms crossed over his chest.
“For Forgers’ sake, Aran! Don’t you know how to knock?!”
Hearing the boy say his name reminds him all too potently of the moan of probably-not-but-maybe-his-name. It’s like getting hit by lightning magic, and it’s all his brain can focus on, unable to reply to Adso, who sighs and taps his foot.
“When you send me back early you’re usually out way longer. If I’d known you were gonna head back here this soon I might as well have stayed out with you.” Adso looks down at his feet, scuffing his heel against the worn wood.
Aran coughs into his fist as his brain regains function, processing Adso’s words. This is awkward, obviously, so he just needs to say something to lighten the mood. Make sure Adso knows it wasn’t a big deal and he doesn’t need to be embarrassed.
“Oh, Adso, you can always just be honest and say when you miss me, you know? No need to pretend you’re not lonely.”
Adso’s face snaps up, his cheeks now redder than any tomato Aran’s ever seen, and his eyes are wide. Aran might laugh if he didn’t feel similarly shocked by what he’d said.
“What are you- Aran wha- Who ever said anything about- Aran, what?!” Adso spoke frantically, his voice raising in speed and volume.
“Look, Adso, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking properly- I was caught off guard, okay? I come back and I hear you-“ Aran starts speaking equally fast, trying to explain himself.
“You came back early! And you didn’t knock! And-”
“-And I hear you moa- Calling Arwen’s name while you’re clearly-“
"Please, please can we stop talking about thi- Wait, Arwen? Why are you bringing up Arwen?!”
They both stop, looking at each other, out of breath and panting.
Aran swallows. “So, you weren’t, uh- You don’t have… a crush on Arwen?”
“No. Arwen’s nice, but we’re just friends.” Adso’s obviously confused. So confused that any anger he’d been feeling has dissolved. Why was Aran even mentioning Arwen right now? What had Aran said..? That he'd heard Adso saying her name? He's barely thought of her in weeks, why would he say her name while he was- Never mind. When could Aran have misheard him saying Arwen’s name?
Despite Adso still struggling, it clicks for Aran in that moment. So it really wasn’t ‘Arwen’ he heard. He feels his stomach swoop, and warmth spikes in his gut. Adso still looks so confused, his brow furrowing as he looks up at Aran, who realises the boy’s hair is lightly ruffled on one side. Without thinking, Aran reaches out to smooth down the cowlicks. Adso’s blushing again as he settles his large hand at the crook of the boy’s neck, gently cupping his nape feeling the short hair of his undercut under his fingers. He makes a decision.
Aran steps away from Adso, seeing how the boy almost starts to trail after the warmth of his hand before stopping himself. He arranges a few of the pillows scattered about and settles down, legs straight and ankles crossed. He pats his thigh lightly.
“Come on, lad, come here.”
Adso’s face burns bright red, his mouth opening and closing, eyes flicking rapidly between Aran’s face and lap.
“W-what?! Why would I-“
Aran clears his throat slightly, Adso snapping his mouth shut, and gestures to his lap.
“Come sit. I know you must be embarrassed but every man does some… self-adventuring from time to time. You’re young and we spend a lot of time together so fantasising about- Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. From what you said, it’s not like they taught you any of this at the abbey, so let me at least show you how to do it properly. Maybe even how to make it feel good. Impart some of my wisdom?”
“You? Wisdom?” Adso rolls his eyes, forgetting his embarrassment for a moment, before the not-so-subtle knock at his pride registers and his blush creeps back. “And what makes you think I don’t already know how to… to tou-“
Aran sighs. “Sit, Adso.”
Something about Aran’s clipped tone makes Adso’s back snap straight, like a steel rod suddenly attached itself to his spine. An order he knows he shouldn’t disobey - an order he doesn’t /want/ to disobey. A familiar warmth starts building in his gut, which makes the furnace of his cheeks burn hotter. He shuffles in place awkwardly before striding over with a false air of confidence and dropping himself unceremoniously on Aran’s lap, chest to back, his feet planted either side of Aran’s knees but his thighs pressed tightly together. Aran’s large warm hands lift to rest against Adso’s knees, rubbing small comforting circles for a moment before slowly spreading them apart. Adso squirms, feeling exposed even with most of his clothes still on. He hangs his head slightly and squeezes his eyes shut when he hears, and feels, Aran’s quiet chuckle behind him. The hands on his knees slide upwards, pressing on the inside of his thighs, forcing him too close to cobbler’s pose to be entirely comfortable. He lets out a sharp gasp at a sudden ache in his hips and Aran’s hands still, fingers flexing as Adso hears him suck in a quick breath through his nose, then slowly let it out his mouth, tickling the short hairs at Adso’s nape. Adso shivers, hunching into himself more but, even though he’s not actively pushing anymore, the weight of Aran’s hands alone stop his thighs from flexing back together.
“Relax, Adso.” Aran’s voice rumbles from behind him, too close to his ear, nose pressed to the sensitive spot behind his jaw. The hands move again, slowly, coming to rest at the juncture of Adso’s leg and hip, fingers reaching under to rest in the crease where ass meets thigh, thumbs rubbing those gentle circles again but this time, against his pubic bone.
Even through the thick cloth of his trousers, Adso can see he’s hard. He knows he is, of course - he’d been interrupted earlier and the awkwardness had made his erection flag somewhat, but now he can feel the gross slippery wetness of his precum trapped by his clothes, how every circle Aran draws into him shifts the fabric slightly, providing the barest teasing friction. His breathing shallows and he stares wide-eyed as Aran shifts a thumb and rubs it gently up the shape of Adso’s length once. Adso’s hands shoot out to grab at Aran’s forearms, digging his nails in, as he lets out a whine. A pitchy little thing, through his nose, biting his lip hard to keep his mouth closed tight.
“Adso,” There’s a roughness to Aran’s voice now. A deep, gravelly rumble that vibrates through every bone in Adso’s body. “Undo your belt, boy. Take it off for me.”
Adso feels frozen. Stuck in place like a Templar without its crow. He wants to. He wants to strip down bare, feel that fleeting touch again but properly this time. Feel Aran’s hot hands, his fingers, skin to skin, so hot he wonders if they’ll leave marks if they linger in one place too long.
He has no awareness of time passing, his mind starting and stopping, still unmoving, until he feels Aran sigh and his hands begin to ease their hold on him.
“Perhaps we should stop. I’m sorry for teasing you, kid-“
Adso panics.
“No!” He instantly cringes. His voice sounds too high, too whiny, too desperate. He pants for a second before continuing, softer, trying (and failing) not to beg, “No, Aran, please. Please don’t stop.”
He digs his nails into Aran’s arms again so he understands, and the weight settles back down on Adso’s hips. The gentle, calming circles resume and Adso lets out a shaky breath before slowly releasing his grip on Aran. He’s too focused on trying to stop his hands from shaking to notice the marks he left behind - ten small crescents, nestled among Aran’s myriad scars, looking like scratches from an untamed kitten in comparison.
Aran watches over Adso’s shoulder as his fingers find their way to his belt. Adso leans forward slightly, his hands following the leather around to the closure at the back. He fumbles for a moment, trying and failing to find purchase on the thick leather, and Aran tries his hardest to stifle a laugh. The boy in his lap is trembling so intensely, Aran doesn’t want to add more shame to the anxiety or nerves he imagines Adso’s already feeling.
He finds it cute, honestly. Endearing. Adso - usually so proud, posturing his academic prowess, now behaving so painfully obviously virginal. When he’d asked about Adso’s ‘experience with adventure’, he saw the boy’s response for what it was. An instant jump to the defensive, betraying the truth anyway. He shouldn’t have been surprised that any man asked a question like that would respond defensively, but he had assumed that maybe an acolyte of the Abbot would perhaps feel less embarrassment about his experience or, in Adso’s case, blatant lack thereof. But a teenager is a teenager, misplaced pride and shame and all.
The clinking of metal and the slide of leather draws Aran’s attention back down just as Adso finishes undoing his belt, pulling it away and gingerly placing it to his side. With the thick band now gone, his shirt hangs looser but is still kept in place by the tie of his trousers. Adso’s fingers fidget by the string - a simple knot of cord on his right hip, keeping the overlap of his trousers secure, retied hastily when Aran had interrupted earlier. Aran waits, knowing what Adso wants to say. He could answer him first, preempt his question and save him the embarrassment of having to ask, but Aran wants to hear him say it. He’s realising he likes seeing Adso, flushed red, squirming on his lap, fighting with his own pride to let himself admit what he actually wants.
Aran’s seen glimpses of it, even before hearing what he’s now sure was his name falling from Adso’s lips between moans earlier tonight. He’s seen the way Adso’s eyes linger on him while they’re resting, tracing the outline of his profile silhouetted against the dawn sky. How he stands close, but not too close - backs away if Aran steps toward him, eyes cast to the side, commenting how it’s hot in the Hiss City and he thinks his skin’s starting to burn and that’s why his ears are pink. How he’s always sketching even though his chronicles are long since completed, but refuses to let Aran peek at the pages, frantically throwing together an explanation, something about 'terrible first drafts'.
And Aran is only a man. Adso is beautiful. His bright blue eyes are always so expressive. His elegant fingers aren’t calloused like Aran’s but like a scholar’s, someone who spends his life with quill in hand, proof of a different but equally worthwhile dedication. He’s young, yes, but Aran’s seen his maturity develop right in front of him along their journey. He can still be petulant, brat-like, but Aran has come to suspect that’s simply a part of Adso’s personality, not a trait of his adolescence.
Aran squeezes Adso’s hips firmly, eliciting a gasp, intending to encourage him to finally start speaking. Enough stalling.
“What is it, Adso? Unless I miraculously develop the ability to read minds, I won’t know what you want if you don’t ask me.” Aran teases, no longer drawing circles but instead rubbing his thumbs along Adso’s pubic bone. Wide strokes that begin at his hip bones and end at the base of his clothed cock.
Adso’s mouth clicks open but no words come out. He closes it and tries again but still nothing. He groans, frustrated, and lets his head fall back, leaning against Aran’s shoulder and turning his face into Aran’s throat, hands gripping the older man’s wrists tight.
“Please, Aran, I- I want to- My trousers, the cord, I can’t-“ He lets out a shaky wet breath, dangerously close to a sob, then takes a deep breath in, face still buried under Aran’s jaw, and tries again. He so frustrated at how quickly he’s gotten this riled up, it’s humiliating. Good boy, I see how hard you’re trying, Aran thinks, smiling. “My fingers are t-too shaky. Can you- W-will you untie my t-trousers for me, Aran? Please.”
“Well done, lad. Of course I will.” Aran sighs, lifts one hand to splay against the boy’s stomach. The other to the knotted cord, tugging gently until it too comes undone.
Adso tries not to reel at the feeling of Aran’s palm against his abdomen, scalding where it’s touching the bare skin revealed by his shirt. It’s so big, almost fully covering his front. He imagines if Aran took both his hands, if they held his waist, if he squeezed slightly… they’d meet in the middle, circle him completely. He feels lightheaded already and fights a shudder, biting his lip, when Aran slips that same hand between his now loose shirt and his skin.
Panting heavily, still leaning back against Aran’s chest, Adso turns his head and stares up at the ceiling, trying to calm his breathing. His eyes slip closed as he feels Aran’s hand part his clothing, the edges of his shirt fanning around him and the padded waistband of his trousers sliding off his hips. His hips jump slightly, involuntarily, and he sighs in relief when Aran pushes the rest of the fabric down far enough for Adso’s cock to be freed. Aran’s eyes flick briefly to the boy’s face, taking in his burning red tattooed cheeks, his bitten lips, slightly swollen, that sit in a subtle pout, and his dark eyelashes, glittering delicately in the low lamplight with unshed, frustrated tears. Then, he slowly shifts his gaze downwards, down the long line of Adso’s neck, his collarbones that are slightly obscured by his semi-sheer collar. He follows the lines of the tattoos that decorate his chest, his rosy brown nipples that almost seem framed to intentionally draw the eye.
“You know, lad, I have wondered how far down these went.” Slowly following one of the lines down Adso’s sternum with a finger, Aran continues, laughing gently, “Didn’t think you’d appreciate me asking outright, though.” He presses his finger harder into the soft flesh where the two lines meet, just below Adso’s navel. Adso tries to keep quiet, keep every embarrassing noise in, but his bottom lip slips from between his teeth on a moan at the pressure.
“M-mmph-ah!” Seemingly unable to shut his mouth again, Adso can’t help but pant heavily, letting out little keening whines each time Aran pets slowly up and down the line that splits Adso’s lower stomach in two, ending in a radiant pattern among the hair that sits prettily at the base of his cock.
“Aran. A-Aran, please I-“
“Still, this is a bit too naughty isn’t it, Adso? Can’t imagine our dear Abbot Dorin - rest his soul - having marks like these. And even what we could see of Arwen’s didn’t look like these either.”
“Aran, please just-“
“Whoever designed them did so appropriately, though, I suppose. They suit you, boy.” Aran has one hand against Adso’s chest, holding him solidly against his own, as the other moves from it’s teasing up and down to press the heel of his palm below the navel, Aran’s middle and ring fingers pressing down and bracketing Adso’s poor drooling cock, leaving no room for doubt as to how eager he is for Aran’s touch.
It’s so red it looks painful, and Aran only smiles as, when he squeezes his fingers together teasingly, Adso yelps out a sob, his hips thrusting up desperate for any friction, for some proper attention. He could do it himself, reach past Aran’s stupidly big warm hands and get himself off like he had already planned to do tonight, all the while calling Aran a stupid mean fat old man in every way he could think of. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t want that. He wants to be good. Sniffling, frustrated and embarrassed, he feels hot tears roll down his cheeks.
“Aran,” his two smaller hands lift shakily to grip Aran’s larger one, still pressing against his chest. “Aran... please.”
Aran hums questioningly, smiling placidly, looking down at the mess of a boy beginning to hiccup on quiet sobs and shaking beneath his hands.
“Please, just- please Aran, touch me.” Voice quiet, Adso looks up and meets Aran’s gaze through his lashes, his blue eyes glistening wet with tears still streaking lazily down his beautiful pouting face.
Aran tips his head back, eyes closed and sighs. “Good boy, Adso. Such a good boy for me.” He breathes out, sounding almost winded.
Adso’s cheeks flare at the praise before sudden perfect heat wraps around his aching cock and strokes. After being so turned on for so long, it’s too much too fast, his sensitivity making the touch feel almost painful. He lets out a cry and tries to snap his legs together, but with his thighs still spread wide, Aran beats him to it. Forcing his knees up between Adso’s legs, Aran hooks his feet over the boy’s ankles, bracketing them from the outside so when he spreads his knees wide, Adso has no choice but to do the same.
Every pump of his fist around Adso’s length has the boy wailing, moaning loudly, his smaller hands squeezing Aran’s hand still holding against his chest in a death grip. Aran keeps a steady rhythm, collecting Adso’s precum with his thumb and using it to lubricate his movements. He watches, almost entranced, as the drooling head of the boy’s pretty cock peeks out from inside his hand on each downstroke. He slides his other hand up, feeling the fabric of his collar under his fingers, until his thumb and forefinger span the base of Adso’s throat. Pretty blue eyes open wider as Aran squeezes lightly. Not even tight enough to affect air or blood flow, but the effect is immediate. The possibility of more pressure seemingly flipping a switch in the boy’s brain. Adso’s moans quiet down to mewls, his eyelashes fluttering, trying their best to stay open, his hips thrusting up trying to chase Aran’s fist.
The way he’s moving his hips makes Aran suddenly painfully aware of how hard he himself is. How had he not noticed? Too engrossed in watching Adso fall apart on his lap, but he is aware now. Every jerky movement of the boy rubs his ass against Aran’s clothed cock, making him hiss and reflexively tighten his hold on Adso’s throat. Adso squirms and gasps before stilling his hips, letting Aran increase his pace, forcing desperate little ah, ah, ahs to spill from his lips.
“See, lad? I told you I could show you how to make it feel good. Does it feel good, Adso?” Aran spoke lowly into Adso’s ear, feeling him shiver as his breath blew across his overheated skin, loosening and tightening his hold on Adso’s throat to hear the boy keen.
“Ah, ah, yes, yes. T-Thank you. Feels g-good, Ar-ah-Aran. So good. I’m clo-ah! I’m so close, Aran, please!”
“Good, good boy, Adso. You’ve done so well, so beautiful. Go ahead, come for me.”
One more stroke of Aran’s fist and Adso comes with barely a sound. His whole body tenses up and Aran feels more than hears the breathy wheeze he lets out as his cum coats Aran’s hand, the force of his orgasm causing some to land on his heaving chest, dripping down slowly to his stomach, mirroring his dark tattoos with pearly white. The boy’s thighs tremble as he slumps back, leaning his full weight against Aran, who chuckles as he pumps Adso once, twice more, earning a final glob of cum oozing into his fist. Realising there was no whine or complaint of overstimulation from Adso, he quickly raises his hand from where it was resting against Adso’s collarbone. Adso’s own hands fall away from where they had been gripping, landing against the boy’s stomach in the middle of his mess. Aran turns Adso’s face up and towards him, quickly searching his face with concern beginning to simmer in his veins. Any worry dissipates with a chuckle, however, as Aran takes in Adso’s slack, soft expression. His brow furrows slightly as Aran’s laugh jostles him, but smoothes back out quickly when Aran raises his hand to cradle the side of the boy’s head. He had passed out almost immediately after his orgasm, already tired from the long day before.
“You’ll have to work on that, lad. It’s good manners for a man to always think about his partner too.” He says mirthfully.
Adso grumbles softly in his sleep, turning towards Aran, pressing his tearstained cheek into his shoulder. Aran grimaces at the feeling of his clothes sticking slightly to Adso’s bare torso, tacky with drying cum. He turns his head and sighs, noticing the scrolls still spilling off the table in the centre of the room. Guess he’ll be the one cleaning up tonight.