Archive of Our Own

Adso had a problem. After Aran had been so kind and shared some of his “wisdom” with him, he had developed a pretty huge problem, actually.

He remembered what happened that night perfectly – having the best orgasm of his (admittedly fairly short, so far) life, and promptly passing out, Aran’s hand still holding him tight. He’d awoken briefly, bleary-eyed, some time later – only just about long enough to register that the lamps had been extinguished and he was clean and warm, dressed in clothes that smelled like still-burning coals and Forgers steel accompanied by a gross (but annoyingly comforting) underlying musk of sweat and general grime, before he slipped back into unconsciousness.

But even the embarrassment he felt when he woke up properly the next day, still swaddled in Aran’s much larger clothing, the memories of the sounds he’d made, how he’d begged and cried and made such a mess in front of his older companion, isn’t what was bothering him now.

That next morning, he had buried his face in the pillows beneath him and groaned, dread swirling in his gut at having to face Aran again so soon. But when he’d mustered up the courage and swung open the door of their temporary camp, any words or attempt at an apology died quickly on his tongue. Aran, who was stood near the edge of the clearing, had paused what he was doing at the sound, woodaxe held in a firm grip, and turned to him, smiling easily.

“Good morning, Adso. Sleep well?” Then he’d whistled, mock-impressed, “Your hair looks like a Quelea’s nest, lad.”

Aran had tossed his head back with a loud, rumbling laugh as Adso’s hands had flown to his hair, trying to smooth it down to something he’d hoped was presentable, blushing hotly. His laugh now calmed to a playful grin, Aran had turned his attention back to his task, picking up another log and positioning it ready for the swing of his axe.

“Make yourself useful and carry some firewood inside, would you, lad?”

Adso had stared for a moment, stunned by the total normalcy of Aran’s demeanor, before internally shaking himself from his thoughts and stepping forwards. Struggling a bit with the bundle of wood in his arms, he’d stood and turned back towards the door when Aran clapped him solidly on the back, making him lurch forwards, nearly falling face first into the dirt.

“Think of it as a morning workout. Those skinny arms need all the help they can get.”

Adso managed to get his feet under him just in time and regained his balance, throwing an icy scowl over his shoulder at the older man. With a huff, he’d stomped back to the door and closed it loudly behind him, doing his best to ignore the muffled laugh from outside and the warmth in his cheeks.

Things had gone immediately back to normal. After a few deep breaths and mental repetitions of calming mantras to himself that morning, there was no lingering awkwardness between the two.

So that wasn’t his problem, either.

At first, he thought Aran might pretend nothing had happened at all but while he didn’t address or mention it directly, his behaviour had changed ever so slightly. If Adso wasn’t so aware of the man he might not have seen it.

Adso noticed Aran touched him more. Not long touches – a pat to his shoulder before they set off again after a chat, a warm weight between his shoulder blades to get him moving again after getting distracted by some ancient carving or book he hadn’t yet read, a big palm playfully ruffling his hair when he’d make a particularly petulant comment. All fairly fleeting touches, sure, but definitely more frequent than before.

He’d thought about bringing it up himself, but chickened out almost immediately when he found he couldn’t even look Aran in the face while he remembered it without wanting a Scorched Templar to appear and incinerate him on the spot, let alone say anything out loud.

Aran wasn’t avoiding him, so that wasn’t his problem either.

No. Adso’s current problem, the one that’s been bothering him and taking control of his brain at seemingly every inappropriate opportunity, was Aran de Lira’s cock.

He’d felt it that night, he’s sure of it. It was hot and big (like the rest of the stupid old man it was attached to), and it had been pressing undeniably against his ass. Having spent his whole life until fairly recently at the Abbey, he will admit he’s somewhat sheltered, but he’s not so naive as to not recognise that while desperately trying to keep Aran’s hand wrapped around his own cock, he’d been grinding back down on Aran’s. For a few days after, Adso wasn’t totally sure what it was about the whole situation that was making him so frustrated.

It took another evening spent blissfully alone, having convinced Aran to send him back early, for the boy to figure it out. The sun had been strong that day and, despite the breeze, all the physical exertion had gotten Aran all sweaty and gross, grunting with every heavy swing of his warhammer, the glistening muscles in his arm flexing making the pattern of scars left by wielding the Forger Hammer ripple hypnotically, panting after every encounter and wiping the moisture from his forehead with the edge of his sleeve. He was gross – disgusting, even. Aran smelled loudly of sweat and dirt and blood, and Adso’s head was spinning and his mouth was so, so dry. He’d already gulped down all the water he’d brought in his pouch in an attempt to get his saliva glands to please, please start working again. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore and stumbled through an excuse, trying to make a joke so the man didn’t worry too much. He didn’t want a lecture, he wanted to be alone.

“Come on, Aran. Heatstroke’s deathly serious. Do you know what happens when you get heatstroke? It’s awful, you–”

Aran pulled out the hammer and sent him back to camp, cutting off his list of potentially future symptoms before he’d even started. The last thing Adso heard was Aran mumbling something like ‘I’m the one doing all the hard work anyway, that boy’s too delicate’ before he materialised back at their current home. He stripped off his clothes as fast as he could (it was still early in the day, and they’d run into enough hostile creatures with no sign of them stopping that Adso was confident there wouldn’t be a repeat of last time) and all but threw himself against a small pile of pillows at the edge of the room. He sighed in relief as he wrapped his hand around his cock, the pleasure that had been simmering in his gut heating up as he ran his thumb over the head and used the precum beading at the slit to ease the glide of his fist. He tilted his head back, letting it rest against the wall as he closed his eyes.

He lets his mind wander back to earlier, to Aran – sweaty and disgusting – and startles at the moan that pushes its way out of his mouth. Thank the Forgers Aran had bought his lie and sent him back, or maybe he’d taken pity on him or gotten bored of his whining, it didn't really matter. If he’d been stuck there much longer Adso knows he would’ve embarrassed himself beyond saving.

Dropped to his knees to beg Aran to please let him touch him, hold his biceps to feel them tense and flex under his fingers, pull him down by his shoulders so he could run his tongue up his neck and lap up the droplets of sweat from the hollow of his throat, bury his face between his pecs and rut against his leg like a pup in heat.

Adso moans again, his fist moving faster over his pulsing cock as he pictures it – the stupid, annoyingly hot older man looking down at him, humour in his eyes, a smirk on his stupid, annoyingly handsome face, cooing and teasing him for how desperate the boy is.

It’s not enough. He wants Aran to touch him again. Touch him more. Deeper. A whine rises in his throat as his imagination shifts, his legs spreading apart subconsciously. Aran looming over him, the man’s big, big hands either side of his head, the warmth and weight of his bigger body against his back, pressing him down into the imaginary mattress beneath them. The image is so vivid he can almost feel it – the thick, hard length of Aran’s clothed cock pressing against his ass, rocking gently but with purpose, teasing him. “Look at you, boy, so beautiful when you listen to me. When you behave.”

Adso’s openly panting now, his hand that’s not frantically pumping his cock comes up to circle his neck. He squeezes lightly and his hips jerk suddenly as a whimper slips out. Guess Aran did share some real wisdom with him after all.

Using the memories from earlier of Aran’s exertion-flushed face, his panting and his grunts, Adso waits for the fantasy to take them and run. He imagines the hot puffs of air against his ear and shivers – he’s felt that in reality before. Something’s wrong though. He furrows his brow slightly as he tries to picture the scene going further. He can imagine Aran’s hands holding his waist, lifting up his hips but then… nothing.

His imagination stutters then grinds to a halt and he groans, frustrated, but it’s already slipping from his mind. He opens his eyes blearily, looking down at his flagging erection and curses. He curses his imagination for failing him, his dick for being pedantic enough to go soft over something like this (even though he’s still so worked up and wants to cum so badly he could scream), but most of all, he curses Aran fucking de Lira.

Before that night, he would’ve had no trouble imagining Aran’s cock (although, to be fair, before that, most of his fantasies involved the man’s hands, but he’s frustrated and so what if he takes that out mentally on the stupid old man). But now – now – he has enough of an idea that anything he pictures just… doesn’t feel right.

It’s then that Adso realises and decides two things.

The first, he needs to see Aran de Lira’s cock. The second, he needs Aran de Lira to fuck him.

In all honesty, Adso doesn’t know where to begin. As humiliating as it is to admit that Aran was right, he has very little experience. And until he felt Aran pressing against him, he can’t remember ever even having a desire to put anything inside his body like this. He knew of men who were attracted to other men. Even a few of the Paladin’s stories mentioned brothers-in-arms embracing each other as lovers, so there must be some reason his body seems to almost instinctually crave the feeling of Aran inside him. From his vivid (but limiting) memory however, he knows Aran is almost certainly... big. His whole body is big, so it makes sense. He felt warm arousal pool and twist in his gut and a shiver ran up his spine as he thought about it. He can’t rush into this – he needs a plan.

The next day during his bathe in the nearby river, Adso sat motionless in the water for a moment, curiosity catching up to him. Tentatively, he ran a finger from his perineum, back and up, sliding between his buttocks. He felt the rim of his asshole and, gingerly, pushed against it. The tip of his finger slipped inside, along with what felt like far too much startlingly cold river water. Adso yelped at the unpleasant sensation and quickly drew his hand away.

At the back of his mind, he knew he could just ask Aran. He might even enjoy being guided through it by his rough, deep voice, but Adso was a man too, and even a man like Adso had some pride. A bigger part of him wanted to see Aran’s face when Adso would confidently take the lead and show the older man that practical experience isn’t everything.

He felt that same twisting curl of warmth when he thought I want him to be impressed. I want him to be proud of me. I want to show him I’m a good boy. He’s going to figure this out on his own and after wracking his brain until evening, he finally comes up with an idea.

Back when he was at Egion’s Abbey, he remembers hearing whispers of a section of the library that most of the younger acolytes were forbidden from entering. Ever curious, and hating there was something he didn’t know, Adso had tried to find out as much about the forbidden section as he could. He figured out it was on the upper level, tucked around a corner made of shelves – not hidden exactly, but hard to notice if you weren’t looking for it. There was always an old Prior or Prioress nearby, ready to step in should one of the novices wander in by mistake or, more likely, attempt to sneak in. By asking around, Adso was told a story of a friend of a friend of a friend’s older brother who’d managed to smuggle out a forbidden book and taken it back to his shared bedchamber. He’d only gotten through a few pages, a glance at the table of contents, and a hasty flip through the foreword before the abbey’s Armarius found him and sent him to the Abbot to be disciplined, warning him about how reading books like that would corrupt his mind. The rumors were that it was some kind of novel about a cloister of nuns and their “nighttime activities” – most of the chapter titles seemed to be different iterations of suggestive habit puns. If anywhere would have a book that’d help, it’d be there. I’m a genius, he thought, grinning smugly, just you wait, Aran de Lira. Now all he needs to do is think of a plausible reason to get Aran to take him there.

Aran glanced over from the spear tip he was meticulously sharpening. What is that boy grinning about? He took in Adso’s form, swinging gently in his hammock, ankles crossed, hands cushioning the back of his head, eyes closed. His raised arms are making his shirt gape slightly and Aran swallows thickly, following those tattoos that have been burned into his mind with his gaze. He so badly wants to walk over to the lounging boy and touch him, even just gently run his fingers through his hair, maybe tug – weakly enough that it could pass as accidental – to be reminded of how little it takes to make his cheeks bloom red and his big blue eyes get all shiny and wet, silently pleading. He tries to swallow again, but instead chokes on his own spit, knocking his knee hard into the table.

Thumping his chest and coughing, trying to unblock his airway, he hears Adso’s clear laugh.

“Careful there, Aran. Shouldn’t play around with sharp objects. ‘S dangerous.”

One final cough seems to do the trick and Aran takes in a deep breath.

“Wise beyond your years, lad. I have much to learn from you, clearly. Are you currently taking on new students?”

Adso visibly perks up at that, swinging his legs onto the ground, sitting up straight in his hammock. His eyes are intense and Aran can almost see the gears turning in his head. He suppresses a shiver, feeling eerily like he’s hovering over a tripwire.

“I could be convinced. If the student seemed dedicated enough.”

“Oh really?” Aran hums, placing the spear head on the cloth he’d laid out on the table before lazily meeting Adso’s gaze again. “And how would a hopeful scholar prove his dedication, o’ wise teacher?”

“A field trip might be a good start.”

Aran’s getting a very bad feeling about this, but it’s only Adso, right? He’s clearly planning something and seems intent on not telling Aran. He knows it won’t be anything too nefarious but, all teasing aside, the boy is smart and Aran is too soft on him as it is.

Aran knows he’s the one in charge – what the man says goes – and Adso knows that too, but he does like to push sometimes, test the limits. Unbeknownst to Adso himself, the cheeky brat has Aran wrapped around his little finger. As long as it’s safe, there isn’t much Aran wouldn’t do for him.

“Somewhere special in mind, teach?”

Adso has the humility to look bashful. He knows Aran’s opinions on books – tries to resist Adso’s puppylike eyes when he begs him to take him anywhere that carries that musty smell of old paper. He always gives in eventually, though. He’s too soft.

He stands and walks over to Aran, dragging his feet slightly and no longer looking him in the eye. Aran turns in his seat to fully face the approaching boy, one arm resting on the back of the chair, the other on the table to his side, his legs spread wide. Adso shuffles to a stop right in front of him, still not meeting his eyes.

“Stop pouting like you’re in trouble, boy.” Aran says gently, comforting. He wants Adso to look at him. He changes his tone, trying to tease him. “Unless you are in trouble. Are you, Adso? Have you done something bad?”

Adso’s head whips up in an instant, wide eyes flicking back and forth frantically between Aran’s. “No! No, Aran, I’m not, I haven’t, I–”

Not expecting this level of panic, Aran reaches out and grabs the boy’s upper arm firmly, shhhing him softly. He rubs soothingly into the tense muscle with his thumb. The boy has his fists clenched, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“It’s alright, Adso, breathe for me, boy. You’re okay.”

They hold eye-contact as Adso takes several slow, deep breaths, his thundering pulse under Aran’s thumb slowing. What a strange reaction... Aran thinks, but before his mind can linger on it, Adso speaks.

“Sorry Aran.” He mumbles, cheeks pinking slightly, barely visible in the low light of the room, and he flicks his gaze to the side, before looking sheepishly back at Aran, clearly embarrassed by his seemingly overreactive outburst.

Aran blinks slowly, breathing in through his nose. Apologising all on his own. Such a sweet boy. He waits patiently for Adso to continue.

“I was thinking, maybe, the Egion library? Would be a good place to get, you know... teaching materials. Texts and things. So I can be your very own private tutor. Like you... said.”

He’s embarrassed again, but he’s doing his best to stand up straight and not hunch in on himself. Stand his ground. He knows he hasn’t done anything wrong, so why does he feel guilty? He feels his legs start to shake subtly. Why isn’t Aran saying anything? Adso flicks his eyes away and back again, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying it slightly.

Aran uses the hand still on the boy’s arm to pull him a little bit closer. Adso yelps, trying not to stumble over his feet. He’d locked his knees to try to stop the shaking.

“Of course we can go there, lad.” He smiles up at him “See, that wasn’t so scary, was it? You can always ask me anything, boy. The worst that’ll happen is I’ll say no.”

“Sure. Or you’ll send me back to camp despite saying you won’t.”

Aran sighs, exasperated. “That was one time, Adso.”

“It was twice actually, Aran.” He draws out Aran’s name, grinning, sticking his chest out slightly, trying to use every inch of his height to stand over the man still seated.

“Insufferable boy.” Aran returns the smile.

“Incorrigible old man.” Adso’s grin widens.

Aran chuckles, letting go of Adso’s arm and shaking his head.

“We’ll go tomorrow, brat. If,” He stresses, “you can behave yourself.”

“Yes, Sir.” Gravely serious, he mimics the salute of a Royal Guard, before a boyish smirk breaks through and he heads quickly back to his hammock, pulling out his notes and scribbling so fast Aran’s surprised any of his writing is legible at all.

Adso was jittery all morning, rocking back and forth on his heels, fidgeting with the straps of his bag as Aran took his time sipping a cup of bitter tea. He watched the boy out of the corner of his eye, amused by the nerves? excitement? causing him to peer out the window at the Forger’s Anvil that would take them to the library, let out a frustrated huff, check his notes tablet, then his bag’s straps, before repeating the sequence over.

The older man was honestly quite impressed his patience had held this long when Adso let out a particularly frustrated noise before he turned pointedly towards him, placing his palms on the table with enough measured force to dramatically draw his attention, but not enough to knock anything over.

“Come on, Aran! It’ll be noon before we leave at this rate. Can’t you– I don’t know... bring that drink with you or something?”

Aran regarded him over the rim of his cup – it was still half full, he’d been nursing it on purpose. It wasn’t even near mid-morning yet, Adso had awoken him virtually at dawn, eager to head out as soon as possible. They had plenty of time.

“A man’s morning routine is very important.” He commented casually, taking a languid sip.

Adso hung his head and sighed.

“Fine, old man.” He stood and headed for the door. “I’m gonna wait by the anvil.”

“Are you sure, lad? It’s cold out there. Catching a chill wouldn’t set a good example to your new student.”

“Then you better not make me wait too long.”

Aran could practically hear the roll of Adso’s eyes as he shut the door behind him. Aran drained the dregs of his bitter drink, before leisurely rinsing the mug and wiping it dry with a cloth, not wanting a stain to mar his favourite mug. He liked to take care of his belongings.

He lingered a few moments longer, made sure his weapons were securely strapped to his body, before pushing open the door and stepping out into the slight chill. Adso was leaning against the wall next to the anvil. He had his arms crossed in front of chest, trying to cover the bared skin. The tip of his nose was slightly pink and he sniffed dramatically, decidedly not looking at the approaching man. Aran stifled his laugh as he neared, noticing the goosebumps decorating Adso’s sternum.

“Ready to go, Adso?”

“Obviously, Aran.” He was pouting slightly, which significantly diminished the effect of the scathing scowl he was wearing, making him look more like a disgruntled kitten than anything else in Aran’s opinion.

“You did well waiting, boy. Let’s head off, shall we?”

Adso batted away Aran’s hand that was ruffling the hair on the top of his head.

“Whatever.” The boy sniffed again, ducking to escape Aran’s large hand attempting to make an even worse mess of his hair, turning away and rubbing under his nose. The dusting of pink high on his cheeks complimenting the colour of his nose very cutely.

They arrived outside the library within moments. Aran waited beside the cracked door, waiting for Adso to lead the way, urging him through the gap with a hand pressed lightly against the small of his back, before following him in.

The boy looked, frankly, lost. He stood in front of the short flight of stairs, brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to work something out or decipher some ancient Forger text.

He’d made it this far already but if he’s being honest, he’d expected it to take longer. He hadn’t had anywhere near enough time to plan this far ahead.

How was he going to get away from Aran for long enough to find the forbidden section, and then search for a book that’d help with his problem? If the object of his frustration caught him flipping through some lurid, salacious novel while he was looking for something much more respectably academic, he knows he’d never live it down. He needs an enchiridion or maybe some biology text that at least explains what he needs to do, even if it is written in that dry clinical language textbooks tend to contain? He grimaces inwardly. Some kind of... guide book for intimacy would be better – something that ushers him kindly through what to expect, physically and emotionally, not just a diagram and a paragraph of what his body can technically do. He wants to sigh. Do those even exist? This would all be so much easier if he could just ask Aran himself. Come on, Adso, he thought, you can do this.

Borderline overwhelmed by the flurry of thoughts swirling in his head, Adso doesn’t notice Aran observing him closely.

Seeing the tip of his thumb between his plush lips, biting the nail, Aran can’t help but want to stop his worrying – to take the boy’s hand in his own and ask what's bothering him. Going off his reaction the night prior, however, and sensing this is related to whatever has been troubling his young companion recently, Aran decides on a different approach. He was an adolescent boy once, too. It makes sense for there to be things Adso doesn’t feel comfortable talking about with him. Aran’s sure he’d be able to help (maybe even in a similar way to how he helped Adso last time... No, now's not the time Aran. Get it together, you dog), but he’ll leave the boy to it. He’ll tell him when he’s ready.

Plus, he won’t deny that the idea of Adso working himself into such a state of frustration, so dispirited by his inability to resolve whatever this situation is on his own, until he has no choice but to swallow his pride and beg Aran sweetly for his help is... deeply appealing.

He needs to stop this line of thinking. This library is like a sanctum for Adso and he doesn’t want to invite the wrath of Abbot Dorin’s spirit (or any other entity, for that matter) by defiling this place with his prurience.

Needing to distract himself before his thoughts go further, Aran clears his throat. Adso startles from his own thoughts, turning to Aran wide-eyed like he was caught doing something he’s been told not to.

“I’ve been curious, actually,” Aran begins, “if there may be any books here about rare local plants. I want to read up on those mushrooms we saw growing in the Dryad’s Forest. If they’re not poisonous, it wouldn't hurt to add some new ingredients to our meals.”

Adso visibly relaxes, before walking with Aran up the stairs into the library proper. Tall, dusty shelves line the walls and occasionally branch off from one another, creating nooks for more secluded reading, and almost naturally separating the stacks of books into areas that flow thematically to the next relevant topic. Adso points down the branch to their left.

“Books on regional flora and fauna are that way. Go past the reading area – there’s a few desks we would use during quiet study hours – and the section should be on your left, I think.”

Aran returns Adso’s smile, glad to see him back to his usual self, his love of books and general academia making his eyes sparkle brilliantly.

“Thanks, Adso. Come fetch me if you need help reaching anything from the higher shelves.”

Adso rolls his eyes and scoffs, then calls out to the older man who had already started making his way into the corridor of shelves.

“Oh and don’t worry, Aran! The Abbot made sure there were some encyclopedias for the younger students, so even someone of your reading level should find something that can be of use. They’ve got lots of pictures. Almost entirely pictures, actually.”

Aran turns back slowly but Adso’s already scampered off, his clear laugh dampened by all the yellowing, musty paper, so Aran continues to where he’d been pointed.

He doesn’t say it often, but thank the Forgers for Aran de Lira. If he didn’t know any better he might be concerned that the man actually can read minds and knew Adso wanted some time alone, just him and the books. His cheeks flare when he thinks about Aran secretly hearing every thought the boy’s ever had about him. There’s no way he wouldn't have said something though – it sometimes feels like the man exists just to tease him. He almost wants to laugh at himself for even entertaining such a ridiculous idea.

Adso moves through the shelves quickly, footsteps uncharacteristically light, occasionally running his fingers along the spines of books as he passes.

When they’d first come here together, when he’d seen the current state of the library – so different from the place he’d known – he’d felt a sadness sink deep in his bones, almost like grief for the loss of somewhere so important to him. He used to spend so many peaceful hours surrounded by these shelves, reading until his eyes bleared and the Armarius had to usher him off to bed, telling him the books and their words would still be waiting for him tomorrow.

He still hates the portraits Abbot Thorel, Dorin’s successor, had of himself hung all around. His varnished eyes watch him from their mounts, and Adso’s reminded again how much he’d preferred the comforting face of the man who had cared for him.

But the handful of times they’ve returned since that initial trip, Adso finds that the sadness feels less potent upon the next visit. It’s a mess – books piled haphazardly, loose pages scattered across the floor – but this is still his library.

He comes to the one remaining portrait of Abbot Dorin, pausing for a moment to think tender words of gratitude for all the man had done for him and to wish him a peaceful rest, before passing a few more shelves and coming to a stop.

Maybe because the tall bookcases are arranged in such a way that semi-obscures the passage but, from where he’s standing, the shelves of the forbidden section look almost untouched. Fighting the urge to glance over his shoulder, knowing there’ll be no Prior about to snatch him back, Adso takes a deep breath and slips between the shelves.

Now that he’s inside, he can see the same layer of dust coating the rest of the library is present here too, but the books have remained neatly organised. A thrill runs up his spine. He’s breaking a rule – a rule that had been instilled in him so deeply during his time at the Egion Abbey – and he’s excited. His toes curl in his sandals and he lets out a shaky exhale. His fingers twitch with the impulse to start pulling books off the shelves, as many as he can, and sit on the floor to make his way through every single one. He has to remember why he’s here. Aran is still close by, so his time is limited. Every minute he stands here, frozen by choice, the likelihood of Aran getting bored and coming looking for him increases.

He hopes the shelves are arranged like other sections of the library – non-fiction to the left, fiction to the right. Ideally, he wants something that sits between the two, so he steps towards the shelf that acts as the back wall of the nook, hoping there might be something useful to him.

He slides a few from their spots, coughing as the movement kicks stagnant dust into his face, and scans the covers. The red leather-bound book on the top of his pile seems like as good of a place to start as any and he flips to a random page, scanning the words with curiosity, before immediately slamming it back closed, his cheeks almost the same colour as the cover. His eyes tear up, having launched dust almost directly into them, and he blinks rapidly. He had never considered there may be some people who had... fantastical thoughts about the creatures that live surrounding in the hills and forests and swamps – he’s much more used to seeing their blood and ugh other fluids dripping from Aran’s hair. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to watch the man cut through an Elemental the same way ever again. His mind supplies the memory of his experiment in the river and he shudders.

He leafs through a few more – all busts. One seems more like a medical text with anatomical diagrams (Why is this forbidden? There’s nothing sexy about this at all), another is an honestly very interesting memoir he’d love to read properly chronicling an individual's journey to finally feel at home in their body, but that’s not what Adso’s looking for so he slips it back onto its shelf with a forlorn sigh.

As he’s scanning the bookcase, beginning to feel like this whole plan was hopeless, his eyes catch on a silvery-green linen-bound book. It’s positioned on the shelf that’s two above his head, his fingertips just grazing the base of the spine even though he’s on the very tips of his toes. He takes a step back to stare at the book, huffing in annoyance. It’s not like he knows if it’ll even be worth trying to get, but something about it calls to him – maybe the silvery millefleur embossed on the fabric, or the elegant swooping script on the spine that he’s too far away to make out. He looks around for anything he could stand on but, seeing nothing (and feeling a strong sense of unfounded confidence that this is the book he needs), he decides he has no choice but to break the other, most serious, rule of the library.

Adso rubs his palms against his jacket and steps towards the bookcase. He props one foot on the second lowest shelf, pushing down slightly, testing to see if it’ll hold his weight. When he hears no groan of complaint from the wood, he shifts his gaze up, picks a spot on the shelf above, and pushes off the ground. He digs his fingers into the shelf and gingerly nudges his free foot onto the shelf below. He tries to reach the book, but it’s wedged in too tightly on either side and he doesn’t have enough leverage. He lifts his foot up to the next shelf and repeats his movements, clinging tightly, trying not to slip on the dust. He gets his fingers above the spine of the book and levers it out gently, rocking it back and forth until it’s almost free. With a final tug, the volume slips out, and the momentum sends it to clatter noisily against the floor. Adso looks down at it with wide eyes. Luckily, it doesn’t appear damaged and he takes a moment, still gripping the shelf tight, to sigh with relief.

As he moves to start climbing back down, one leg in midair, he feels a sudden terrible lurch as the entire bookcase tips slightly away from the wall. He holds his breath for a few terrifying seconds, eyes scrunched tight, and only breathes out when he feels the heavy wood rock back, seemingly having found its balance again. Not wanting to risk getting crushed (stupid, stupid idea. Rules are there for a reason), Adso clambers down the bookcase as quickly and carefully as he can, jumping off the lower shelf, and scoops up the green book while hastily backing away. He watches the case warily until he’s satisfied it’s not going to fall and turn him into Adso jam, and then shifts his attention to the book in his hands.

The title on the cover is in the same florid script as the spine: The Diary of Lord Drystan. Adso sighs. He hasn’t totally given up, but the confidence he’d felt earlier starts to feel less solid. He turns the book over in his hands. Other than the title and the simple word ‘Diary’ on the spine, there’s no other text he can see. He runs his fingers over the patterned fabric. At least it’s pretty. Opening the cover and looking at the first page, Adso feels his pulse start to quicken. Written in a similar but less ornate script to the cover, it reads:

The contents of this book compile the letters I received over several years from my dearest friend, Lord Drystan. We shared many ideals and passions so, while I was bedbound with sickness throughout the majority of the years we were blossoming into adulthood, he would write me these letters during his travels. His aim was, in his words, “to help prepare you for the adult world you’ll be joining me in when you are hale once more. Hopefully you can learn alongside me through my mistakes and emerge with all the confidence and knowledge as though you had truly been there at my side”.

Tragically, my dear Drystan passed away unexpectedly before the end of my convalescence. I will curse this cruel irony the rest of my existence, but in grief we must look for joy. I did, in fact, find the stories Drystan relayed to me through his correspondence invaluable as I emerged into the world he wrote about. While I must admit that his writing did get somewhat less instructional as time went on, the invaluability of his words seemed unfair to keep to myself. So, believing Drystan would feel the same, I collected the most helpful of them within this volume.

Drystan, you are missed terribly, my love.

Adso closes the cover, bringing the book slowly to his chest, almost reverently. This was it. He squeezes his thighs together subconsciously. He has a long night of reading ahead of him.

Pulling out a spare piece of cloth he’d stashed in his pack that morning, Adso wraps the book and carefully places it in his bag, nestled between his case of spare quill tips and his tightly packaged emergency tack. He takes one final sweeping glance at the shelves of forbidden books, steps out through the passage between the shelves, and begins making his way back to Aran.

Adso ducks his head, hurrying back past Abbot Dorin’s portrait, feeling like the old man’s spirit knows exactly what he’s taken and why. He probably wouldn’t be angry. In fact, Adso thinks his old guardian would be secretly amused by his actions, scolding him without any real seriousness.

Taking the stairs down to the lower level, he pauses for a moment by the expansive history section. He quickly locates and picks up a couple of volumes he remembers finding particularly fascinating, tucking them under his arm, then takes the corner and heads towards Aran.

The man’s broad back is facing him but as Adso nears, manoeuvring around upturned pews, he takes in the lines of his profile. Aran’s concentrating deeply on the book in his hand, his brow gently furrowed, turning pages slowly and occasionally rubbing his chin as he reads.

“Ooh, there’s a lot of words in that one, Aran.”

The back of Adso’s head pops into view, obscuring the lefthand page. Aran startles lightly, surprised he hadn’t heard the boy get so close. He can usually hear him approaching handily, announced by the telltale smashing of pots or crunching of dry foliage – remarkably undexterous despite his delicate, almost waifish, build. He peers curiously at the book in Aran’s hands then turns, looking up at him, his head cocked slightly to the side, grinning lopsidedly. Aran finds it deeply charming.

“I’m impressed! Were you able to identify the fungus?”

“I was, yes.” Adso straightens up, his hands folded neatly in front of him, holding two books against his body and listening attentively.

“Not poisonous, but definitely inadvisable to consume. Unless you want to make your merriment more... thought-expanding, I suppose.”

Aran sighs, exasperated, as he watches Adso’s expression shift. He knows that look – one of curiosity, that’ll lead to mischief, that’ll lead to Aran having to tidy up after him. Again.

“Don’t even think about it, boy. You’re enough of a handful as is.”

He closes the book in his hands and passes it to Adso, valiantly resisting the urge to pinch his cheeks, subtly puffed out by his pout. Instead, he rests his hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezes gently.

“Found what you were looking for?”

Adso splutters, nearly dropping the books he’s holding, his mouth open and his eyes wide. Pointedly not looking at Aran, he eventually replies.

“Ah y-yes, thank you. Or, at least, I hope s–” He sucks in a deep, steadying breath, “I think so, yes.”

Aran hums, pleased by the way Adso flusters, and gives his shoulder another firm squeeze, letting his thumb brush the boy’s neck teasingly, before turning and heading for the door. He slows his pace just before he reaches it, hearing Adso’s hurried footsteps catch up and watches as he squeezes through the gap first, out into the garden courtyard. He’s waiting by the anvil, still refusing to look at Aran, and keeps it that way even after they return to their basecamp.

Barely even taking the time to kick off his sandals, he’s already ducking away to the area he’d claimed as his (it was somewhat obscured, offering a bit of privacy from the rest of the room), rambling about how he wants to get started on his reading right away, the pursuit of knowledge never stops, Aran, surely you don’t have to be a scholar to understand that. He vanishes for less than a minute before darting back out from behind the partition and placing the book Aran had trusted him with down sheepishly on the table, then hurries off again. Aran watches it all, very entertained. He hears the rustle of paper and the crack of a bookspine from where Adso is concealed and, knowing how absorbed Adso gets in his books, announces he’s going to head out in search of game for their evening meal, not waiting for a reply.

Adso hears the door shut and feels himself relax. He had pulled out one of the history books and was sort-of reading it in case Aran had wanted to be annoying and ask questions. Now he was alone, he turned his attention to the bundle of fabric beside him. He unwraps it tenderly, feeling more and more like the contents are very precious and need to be handled with the utmost care. He hops up and clambers into his hammock, arranging his limbs and getting comfortable. He rubs his ankles together, anticipation and nervous excitement swirling in his gut. Please don’t let me down, Lord Drystan.

It’s a book unlike any Adso’s ever read. At first he’d felt a touch uncomfortable. The knowledge he was reading such candid, personal words written by a stranger who had died prematurely coloured his experience of the first few pages, feeling like he was intruding. It didn’t take long for him to become utterly enraptured by the text.

The way Drystan’s letters recounted his experiences were mesmerising – his descriptions of the myriad of people he met read like poetry, and when he narrated their trysts, pointing out the small tidbits of knowledge he gained from each one, Adso couldn’t tear his eyes from the paper. Some were surprisingly comedic, and Drystan would bemoan their anticlimactic nature with wit that made Adso snort. Drystan’s first encounter had been particularly catastrophic – a woefully frustrating 5 minutes in an alley behind a tavern that had left the young lord with nothing to show for it other than a painfully sprained wrist (Forgers only know how), and a lasting distaste for men with meticulously styled moustaches. Adso had to keep stopping himself from being reminded of that night with Aran by small details Drystan would include, not wanting to get distracted and inevitably end up wasting his precious reading time lingering on those memories – pretending it was Aran’s warm calloused hands touching him again rather than his own. Research must come first, no matter how tempted he was.

Reading the letter detailing the first time Lord Drystan found himself falling into bed with a man – the owner of a small apple orchard with coppery hair and sun-freckled skin – who had agreed to host him for the night, Adso couldn’t fight the blush that heated his cheeks. It wasn’t because it was an especially stimulating read, but instead that the tenderness Drystan was treated with under the man sang clearly through his words. Moments that otherwise would’ve made Adso cringe with secondhand embarrassment were written in such a way that spoke to the reassurance and gentle encouragement Drystan received when his inexperience showed. Even if Drystan hadn’t gone on to explicitly state it, Adso could tell it was what many would consider an ideal first time. He had departed the next day, after the man had made him a simple breakfast and wished him well on his adventures with a soft kiss, and reported feeling only a slight discomfort to his gait, grateful to the man for insisting on what he had, in the moment, assumed was a frankly gratuitous amount of preparation and foreplay. Adso made a mental note – preparation is clearly very important.

He’s about two thirds of the way through the book when the door opens, making him jump so badly he nearly falls out of his hammock. Aran’s heavy footsteps are audibly approaching as Adso scrambles, searching with his eyes and hands for his bookmark. Finding it tucked beneath his hip, he grabs it and tucks it between the pages, snapping the book shut, and tries to jump up. One of his traitorous feet catches on the lip of the fabric, and he stumbles, hopping on one leg as he desperately tries to keep his balance. Just as Aran rounds the corner, Adso’s foot smacks down onto the wood and he snaps up, his back dead straight. He whips his hands and the book behind his back, like he’s a soldier standing to attention, and gives Aran a grins so wide it almost hurts.

Aran raises an eyebrow as he scans the boy up and down. He’s breathing shallowly, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and he looks nervous. Aran scans the space, looking for evidence of... anything. The hammock is still swinging gently, like it was caught by a sudden gust of wind, but other than that everything seems to be in order. He flicks his eyes to Adso’s face, whose grin somehow widens even further, becoming more of a grimace than a smile and his eyebrows turn upwards. He looks so guilty.

“Much luck hunting, Aran? Man, I’m starving, I hope you scored something big. Oh wow, when did it get this late?! It’s practically night already!” He laughs, obviously fake and strained, wordlessly begging the man in front of him to say something, anything, to save him from himself.

Aran keeps staring and he feels sweat start to prickle at his hairline. He was only reading, it’s not like he’s committed a crime.

After a long minute, Aran takes pity on him and turns, moving back to the main area of the room.

“Come on, kid. Help me prepare this so we can eat.”

Adso gulps, prepare..?, before shaking his head firmly. Oh no, maybe the Abbey had been right. What if reading something from the forbidden section really is corrupting his mind? He shakes his head again, tucks his book beneath some pillows and goes to help Aran prepare their dinner.

Several days have passed and Adso’s been maddeningly unable to return to his reading. Every time Aran insists he can’t send him back early (“There’s still engravings I need you to translate, boy, stop whining”), Adso thinks of the book, and curses Aran’s unwavering dedication to keeping him close by from dawn to what feels like well into the night. The matter of the book aside, all this time together means Adso hasn’t been able to have any time alone, and he’s getting frustrated. He loves that he can be helpful, that Aran actually wants him around (unlike when they first met, when he’d find himself sent back to their camp more often than not) but he was reaching his limit. He doesn’t know how much more he, or his neglected libido, can take.

Things reach a head when they’re in the hills of the Doyen Graves. He’s gotten pretty good at tuning out Melcart’s posturing (he and Aran often share a look when the ghost asserts, again, that he hadn’t been afraid), but that means there’s very little to distract him, to stop his imagination from getting away from him.

The mist is heavy today and they’ve been in it for long enough that it’s soaked into their clothes, making Adso feel unpleasantly cold and damp, a chill occasionally making his shoulders shake. Aran doesn’t seem as affected, his thicker clothing providing more warmth, but when he runs his hand through his hair after dealing with a particularly stubborn Gladiator, the moisture causes it to stay pushed back and Adso licks his lips subconsciously at how devastatingly handsome it makes him look. The fabric of the man’s trousers cling slightly to his thighs, making Adso’s core clench as he watches his quads bulge when he crouches, ready to strike. He wants to dig his fingers into the thick muscle, rest his cheek on one while kneeling at Aran’s feet, between his spread legs. Feel them tense as he noses at the obvious bulge in front him, strong hands in his hair, urging him forward, pressing him closer.

The sharp clang of steel hitting stone cuts through his fantasising and he blinks, trying to shake off the daze he’s in.

“For Forgers’ sake, boy, move!” Aran barks, and Adso suddenly becomes aware of their surroundings. They’re completely encircled by a horde of Putrids.

“Get down, Adso!” With a high-pitched yelp, he obeys just in time to feel the air shift barely above his head as Aran swings his claymore, cutting through a sizable amount of the advancing undead. He stays crouched, covering his head with his arms and squeezing his eyes shut tight, hearing Aran grunt as he dispatches the enemies around them, one after another. The clashing of combat ceases after a short while and the graveyard falls silent, broken only by Aran’s ragged breathing and the sound of Adso’s heartbeat thumping loudly in his ears. Steel rasps against leather as Aran secures his sword, then Adso flinches at the sound of heavy boots striding towards him. He yelps again as he’s pulled up roughly by strong hands gripping the front of his shirt, forced to look directly into Aran’s furious face. Aran’s not shouting, but the harsh edge to his voice makes Adso flinch again, harder than before.

“What were you doing, boy?” He growls, “What were you thinking just... just standing there? Were you even thinking at all?!”

He shakes the boy in his hold firmly, making Adso tense his neck to stop his head from being thrown about. His eyes are wide like a frightened animal and his hands grip Aran’s wrists as he feels himself being lifted onto tiptoe, then further still, just the very tip of his sandals grazing the ground beneath him when he swings his legs trying to find purchase.

“I-I’m sorry, Aran, I don’t– I don’t know what– I wasn’t–” He’s panicking.

“You’re right. You weren’t thinking.” Aran interrupts his babbling, “Stupid, stupid boy. All that talk about not wanting to– not needing to learn how to fight, I hoped you would at least be smart enough to know to get out of the fucking way. Why are you even here, Adso? You’ve been half out of it all day. This isn’t a playground, boy.”

Adso feels like he’s going to cry. He’s seen Aran angry, but never like this – never directed at him like this. He knows Aran’s right, he has been out of it. Stubbed his toe on a gravestone, alerting a pair of Gladiators to their presence not too long before this. But he’s been telling Aran he’s tired, that he needs to rest. Has told him multiple times just today alone. All the frustration that had been building up the past few days focuses in a split second, now given a clear target. Adso sees red.

“I said I’m sorry, Aran. What else do you want from me?” He tightens his grip on Aran’s arms. The force of how much he’s feeling is making him start to tremble.

Aran looks taken aback momentarily, eyebrows raising, his arms lowering slightly so Adso’s feet are flat on the ground again, as he processes that the boy in front of him is talking back.

“I want, Adso, for you to–” He starts but Adso cuts him off, his voice rising in volume as he speaks.

“What about what I want, Aran? I’ve been trying to tell you for almost a week and you’ve kept ignoring me! I’m tired, you’ve been dragging me around non-stop! I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and I’m thirsty and I– I’m–” He sucks a breath in between his teeth, “I’m not some pack mule you can work until I collapse, Aran. I want – no. What I need – is a fucking break!”

He’s out of breath by the time he finishes, panting heavily. He glares directly at Aran, holding his gaze, refusing to look away first. They stare at each other, neither wanting to give in.

“A-Aran? If I may–”

“Not now, Melcart!” They yell in unison, whipping their heads towards the rematerialised ghost, directing their full attention at him. He squeaks out a sharp eep, then vanishes again.

Aran closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose, loosening his hold on Adso, who uses the positioning of his hands to push the man’s wrists away from him with a huff.

“Very well, Adso.” He says, rising to his full height, tone clipped, “I’ll see you tonight.”

Adso opens his mouth to say something more but before he can, he’s standing at the anvil outside their current home.

Back at the Doyen Graves, Aran holds his hammer tightly, his knuckles white. He feels something cold pat his shoulder.

“Teenagers.” The ghost says sympathetically, shaking his translucent head.

Adso stands almost perfectly still, his arms trembling at his sides, his nails pressing into his palm from how tightly he’s balling his fists. He stares down at the anvil, feeling more angry than he’s ever felt in his life.

He hates Aran de Lira. He never wants to see his stupid ugly face ever again. He’s not going to talk to him for a week. No, two weeks. Maybe a month. Show him how frustrating it is when someone ignores you.

He draws his leg back and kicks the Forger’s Anvil in front of him as hard as he can, and immediately regrets it. Pain shoots up his leg and he doubles over with a cry, crouching down to hold his throbbing foot. He breathes through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry.

Once the initial searing pain fades to a dull throb, and when he’s mostly confident he didn’t break anything, he sniffs and stands up. He scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand and looks down at his shirt. It’s badly wrinkled where Aran grabbed him and he hopes to the Forgers the man hadn’t stretched it out or torn any of the stitching. His clothes are some of the few things he still has left from his time at the Abbey, and he’ll never forgive Aran if he’s ruined them.

He sighs, feeling suddenly drained as the adrenaline leaves his body, and he shivers as his skin cools and the chill from his still-damp clothes creeps back in. He sniffs once more, then limps inside.

Shutting the door behind him, he collects a large, thick cloth and drapes it over the chair that’s near the hearth. The fire went out a while ago, but he hopes the embers are still hot enough to warm the blanket while he changes. He gets undressed slowly, grimacing at the feeling of peeling the damp material away from his skin, until he’s down to just his underwear.

Adso picks up the pitcher of water on the table and downs it in one go, gasping when he’s done. He refills it from the cooled kettle, taking the pitcher with him as he goes to sit down while he waits for the blanket, but the cold wood of the chair makes him hiss – even his underwear is uncomfortably damp. Adso decides he hates mist too.

He stands, removes his underwear and grabs the blanket – it’ll be warm enough by now. He wraps himself in it and sighs, breathing in deeply. It smells like fire and metal and man. This is what Aran uses to cover himself while he sleeps. He curses himself for a second, the emotions from earlier trying to reignite inside him, but he’s too tired. Oh well, he thinks, mine now. Sorry Aran.

He tosses a few logs onto the coals, hoping they’ll catch by themselves and pads softly, barefoot and still limping slightly, over to his part of their shared space. He falls heavily onto the nearest pile of pillows and something hard pokes sharply into his hip. He hisses and roots a hand under the pillows, grabbing the offending item, intending to toss it away so he can wallow comfortably. Just before he throws it though, a silvery shimmer catches his eye and he registers what he’s holding. It’s his book.

He holds it in both hands, debating if he even wants to finish reading it. Why would he spend a single second of his precious life trying to figure out how to have sex with a bastard like Aran de Lira. He’s really not in the mood to read history books he knows so well he could probably recite them cover to cover, though. Maybe he can reread one of the chapters that had made his gut feel tight, work out some of this frustration and relax so he can get some good rest. Two birds with one stone.

He arranges the pillows beneath him creating a makeshift seat and leans back, raising his knees to prop the book against them. He opens it to where he’d placed his bookmark and is about to flip back to a memorable previous entry, when a sentence on the unread page in front of him catches his eye. It’s the description of this letter’s partner. His face feels hot as he reads the sentence properly.

Drystan’s words paint a familiar picture – a tall, rugged, broad warrior of a man with big, warm hands. Adso reconsiders chucking the book across the room. He huffs out a bitter laugh.

Of course. Of course the next letter in this cursed book would include a man who sounds just like... Ugh, I don’t even want to think that brute’s name.

Adso considers skipping the entry entirely, but he feels like that’d be letting Aran win, so he gets comfy and starts reading from the top. That was a terrible mistake.

Straight away, Adso is distracted by how similar the man in the story is to Aran, and it’s difficult to not fill in the gaps and imagine it really is Aran he’s reading about. Apart from having shorter hair, no beard and being slightly younger comparatively, the rest is pretty much identical. He’s also a blacksmith, and the way Drystan describes his hands – rough and calloused and warm – makes Adso’s toes curl and his breathing quicken. He’s felt those hands too, knows them personally. Drystan describes the strength of the man – how it felt when he pinned him by his hips to the wall to kiss him, messy and intense.

Adso nearly chokes on his own saliva, having to swallow multiple times to empty his mouth, when the man in the book undresses. His cock hung heavy between his legs, thick and long and hard. Adso covers his mouth to suppress the whine he can feel climbing up his throat, forcing him to breathe heavily through his nose.

Drystan admits in his letter that he probably should’ve stretched himself out more, been more thorough, but by this point in his adventures the lord had learned that sometimes, the burning stretch when getting fucked by a cock like that was exactly what he was after. Adso squirms where he’s sat, gasping when the tip of his own bare cock rubs against the blanket covering him, creating a small wet spot on the fabric. He keeps reading, slowly rolling his hips, teasing himself with just a whisper of friction. He’s so hard and he wants to cum so badly already, but he remembers how amazing it’d felt when Aran had teased him. Gotten him so worked up before he even touched him properly, and Adso desperately wants to feel that again. He feels his insides throb, his heart beating rabbit-fast as he squeezes his thighs even tighter together.

Drystan is praising how the not-Aran knew just how to touch him – when to squeeze the base, when to use his whole fist to pump his entire length, when to play with the head – as he fucked him into the mattress.

Adso’s legs are quivering and he feels lightheaded from how hard he’s panting as he reaches the end of the page and turns it over. He feels his stomach drop. It’s the beginning of a new letter, about some new faceless man Adso doesn’t care about at all. He turns back to the previous page. This is so unfair. It’s so cruel and he fully believes Drystan did it just to spite him personally. The not-Aran letter was at least half the length of the others, if not even shorter. He regrets not hurling the book as hard as he possibly could against the wall after all.

He stands up quickly, the blanket pooling around his legs. He’s read enough, he can do this himself. He has to try.

In his haste, he accidentally puts too much weight on his injured foot and stumbles, but manages to right himself, adjusting his weight to the other leg. Biting his lip to distract from the renewed pain, Adso limps to his bag. He opens it wide and locates the palm-sized, flat-bottomed phial of delicate purple shimmering oil. He’d swiped it from an abandoned house months ago, intending to hopefully one day convince Aran to use it to massage his back. He’s still young, yes, but he’s a young scholar, and scholars of all ages are prone to terrible posture. Even if he didn’t frequently have a sitting position closer to a prawn than a human, he’d still want Aran’s hands kneading firmly into his muscles. Obviously.

Adso removes the stopper from the phial with a quiet pop, and raises it to his nose. It smells good. Mostly neutral with a hint of lavender, and slightly sweet. He bends over and is about to pour some into his hand when he remembers what the book had said. So instead, he shuffles back over to his pile of pillows and lays some out flat, then covers them with Aran’s blanket. He tentatively lowers himself to his knees, doing his best to avoid jarring his ankle, and makes sure his knees are adequately cushioned before cupping his hand and tipping the phial, watching the oil swirl and pool shallowly in his palm. He places the phial down next to him and leans forward on one arm, carefully passing his oiled hand between his legs. He grunts, realising this isn’t going to work. He lowers himself down further, leaning on his shoulder, cheek pressed against the pillows, as he uses his clean hand to grab one of his buttocks and spread them apart.

The oil feels good, and he moans softly as he rubs it gently into his skin. A few droplets run down his thighs and soak into the blanket beneath him. He repeats what he did in the river all those days ago, and runs a finger from his perineum up to his rim. It already feels so much nicer this time, the oil having warmed to his skin, and when he presses the pad of his middle finger against his hole, breathing in the soft scent of lavender and Aran embedded in the fabric below his face to relax himself, he doesn’t startle when it slips in. Adso groans as he slides more of his finger inside himself – it doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t exactly feel good either. As he works his finger deeper, sliding out before pressing a little further in, he goes back through his mental notes. Drystan had mentioned the prostate. That’s what he needs to look for.

He’s just about managed to slip the second knuckle in when his finger cramps slightly, curling forward, and Adso gasps. He intentionally repeats the motion and his breath hitches. Using the oil that’s still smeared on his skin, he lubes his index finger and starts trying to push it in alongside the other. He needs to be able to use more pressure against that spot.

Eventually, the tip slips in, the sudden increase in the stretch making Adso hiss. He wiggles his fingers narrowly, trying to make more room, thrusting shallowly. He lets go of his asscheek with his other hand and reaches for the phial.

He tries his very best to pour accurately, but ends up aiming too high, the oil landing at the top of his ass before sliding down, running in rivulets to his hole then continuing down his shaking legs. The cold fluid against his rapidly heating skin surprises him and he lets out a startled cry, hips jolting at the sensation, causing a trickle of oil to spill down his back, following the dip of his spine, and he shivers. It was messy, but the extra oil helps Adso’s fingers move in and out smoothly. He pets that spot inside him – his prostate, his mind reminds him – with both fingers and whines. It’s better but it’s still not enough. He pulls out to just the first knuckles and spreads his fingers. He groans and feels himself clench down tightly. He takes a few deep breaths and tries again, then again, finding it easier each time.

He’s panting open-mouthed by the time he oils and lines up his ring finger, the push in easier than the last thanks to his effort and hard work. He immediately rubs all three against his prostate and moans into the blanket. There’s a constant soft whine, a sweet little thing, building slowly at the back of his throat as Adso rocks his hips, trying to use the movement to push his fingers against himself harder, with more force, more pressure, more, more, more. The rhythm of his hips is making his cock, hanging between his spread legs, rub against his wrist, smearing it with the sticky precum drooling from his tip. He rubs his prostate hard, sobbing into the blanket, and a bead of clear precum drips down, joining the oil stains by his knees.

The fabric under his cheek is damp with drool and he’s pretty sure he’s crying. Hot, frustrated tears escaping his closed eyes, adding to the wetness under his face. Where is Aran? Why isn’t he here? He needs him. He needs Aran.

Aran stands at the Forger’s Anvil, watching the door of his and Adso’s current home. What is he waiting for? Adso to come running out like some bereft war-wife, having somehow sensed his long-awaited return, and throw his small frame into his arms, sobbing apologies into his chest? Aran almost laughs at how absurd the image is before sighing heavily. He knows he needs to apologise to the boy. He talked it through a bit with Melcart – how his reaction was born purely out of concern. He hates seeing Adso in danger, doesn’t know what he’d do if he got seriously hurt, either by the blade of an enemy or by his own hand while trying to protect him. He had been so worried but expressed it in the worst possible way. He needs to keep Adso safe. He needs to look after him.

He sighs again, resolving himself to receive a slap as soon as he crosses the threshold, or to be beset by more yelling, or maybe just given the cold shoulder for a while. Remembering Adso’s frightened expression when he’d first dragged the boy off his feet, Aran knows he deserves all three possibilities and more. He stops at the small water trough next to the homestead and cups his hands, bringing them to his face, rinsing away some of the grime of the day. He wrings his hands in the water before flicking off the excess.

He pushes the door open. Not too quietly as to add “sneaking in to scare me half to death” to Adso’s arsenal, but not loud enough to startle the boy either. When no slap comes, nor any screaming, Aran’s about to call out when Adso beats him to it.

“A-Aran?” His voice is quiet, muffled by something, but he sounds clearly distressed, his voice thick like he’s been crying. It makes Aran’s pulse spike.

He quickly rounds the corner, needing to check that the boy is alright, to hold him close and apologise and reassure him he’s not angry – whatever he needs. He freezes, feeling all the air leave his lungs. The scene in front of him makes his mouth dry up and his skin feel two sizes too tight. Blood rushes south, his cock filling out in his trousers far too fast for a man his age, making him almost lightheaded.

Adso, the most darling boy, his darling boy, is turned away from him, his face flat to the makeshift mattress, his ass raised high in the air forcing his back into an arch that would put even the kingdom’s finest whores to shame. His thighs are spread wide, his painfully flushed cock swaying uselessly, his feet kicking up every time he rocks his body back onto his fingers – fingers that are currently buried deep inside him, the tendons in his wrist visibly shifting as he flexes them. His free hand is laying limply by his face, occasionally digging his nails into the soft fabric beneath him. From where he’s standing, Aran has a perfect view of everything.

“Aran!” The boy practically wails his name, so desperate, and Aran stumbles forward, pulled by an invisible string. He crouches down beside him, and looks at his face – Forgers, he’s such a mess. His deep blue eyes are rimmed with red, tears still lazily rolling down his cheeks and dripping off his nose, his hair sticking to his forehead and the side of his face that’s pressed into a patch of tears and drool – drool from his open panting mouth, his soft pink tongue visible behind his lips. His eyes blink up at him, dreamlike, slipping closed on a whine as he brushes against something good inside. He closes his mouth, swallows with difficulty, then opens his eyes and starts begging.

“Aran, please. Please, it feels s-so good but I can’t I– I can’t do it properly. I need you, Aran, I need you to–” He breaks off in a sob, fat tears fall in earnest and his bottom lip wobbles as he hiccups. He tries to reach out to him and Aran meets him halfway, cradling his smaller hand and rubbing his thumb across his knuckles soothingly.

Aran places his other hand to the boy's upturned cheek, sweeping the tears away from under his eyes and tucking his sweaty hair behind his ear.

“I’m here, Adso, it’s okay. You’re so beautiful, boy. There’s no need to cry.”

Adso whimpers. Aran shivers, hot desire zipping up his spine.

“Did something happen? Was it our argument? Is that why you’re... like this?”

“No! No, well... y-yes? Sort of? I can’t– It’s hah-hard to explain, I–” While trying to figure out how to summarise the last few weeks for Aran, the hand inside him stills and he starts to remove it, his wrist beginning to cramp. Before he can pull it away, the warmth of Aran’s hand leaves his cheek and appears on the back of his hand, holding it in place, keeping his fingers pressed inside himself.

“No. Don’t stop, Adso. Keep going. You’ll be good for me and keep going while you tell me, won’t you?”

“Hnnggh. Yes, yes. Okay.” His voice is barely above a whisper. Eyes screwed shut, the boy nods, dragging his cheek through his mess. His hand starts moving again and he bites back a sob. Taking in a shuddering breath, he tries again, his pace less frantic.

“When we went to the library, I found– N-no, I was looking for a book,”

Aran’s hand starts tracing the tattoos on his back, warmth dragging up and down, making him tremble.

“I wasn't sure if I’d even f-find anything useful but there’s a part of the library. We wer-weren’t allowed there because the books are– are bad.”

Aran hums, teasing. “Bad books, hm? In the Abbey library? Why would they need those, I wonder.”

“I don’t know,” He whines, drawing out the last word, “But I thought– I wanted to learn. I wanted to i-impress you, Aran. I wanted to know what to do so you’d– so you would–” He’s crying again, frustrated that he can’t find the right words, but he’s too distracted. He’s been frustrated for so long and it hurts, and Aran’s being mean. Why isn’t he helping him? Adso really hates this man.

He hiccups again, voice starting small, “Please help me, Aran. I c– I can’t do it by m-myself. I need you, Ar–”

“Do your fingers feel good, Adso?” Aran interrupts.

“Yes!” He warbles, truly exasperated, kicking his pale, tattooed shins against the blanket, “It feels good but it’s not enough! I can’t– I haven’t– I want to cum, Aran. Please!”

“Do you want me to help you?”

Adso grits his teeth and thumps his fist against the man’s knee. "That's what I’ve been saying, you– you ass! Please, Aran, don’t t-tease me, please, I’m gonna– I’m gonna die if you don’t hurry up and–”

He gasps as he feels fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling his hand away with a humiliatingly wet sound as his fingers slip out, his hole clenching at the sudden emptiness. The fingers let go, a muted thud as his arm falls to the pillows below him. Pressing his hands into the soft surface, Adso tries to lift himself up. He starts to raise his shoulders when a warm palm covers his nape and pushes, keeping him pinned in place.

“Stay.”

The command makes him whimper, cheeks flaring, ashamed at how eager he is to obey. The pressure tightens as Aran squeezes his neck, like an animal scruffing a kit, then lessens, and the man slides his calloused hand to just below his shoulderblades. He pushes there next, forcing Adso’s chest down flush to the blanket, his nipples rubbing against the roughness of weave. He lets out a muffled ah that slips into another whine as Aran pushes with slightly more force, making the boy curve his back further, the arch more pronounced.

The warmth leaves his skin but he does his best to remain still, hold the posture, as he pants. Every rapid breath he takes rubs his chest against the blanket.

“Good boy.” Adso’s fingers twist in the fabric and a bead of precum drips from his tip, his hole clenching, his thighs tensing then releasing. The praise makes him lightheaded. He’s being good.

Aran’s laugh sounds far away as his head swims and he doesn’t register the clink as the glass phial is placed back down by his head. He regains some awareness when Aran’s hand touches his ass, kneading the flesh of one cheek roughly. Adso’s fairly toned, and had gotten more so recently – Aran’s been walking him about a lot, after all – but the man’s satisfied to find there’s still a pleasing give to the muscle. He rubs the oil on his first two fingers of his other hand with his thumb, making sure it’s warmed up. He uses his grip to keep the boy spread wide.

Adso can’t stop the whine when he feels Aran circling his rim – the man teases, pushing gently, the tips slipping in easily due to all Adso’s already done, but he refuses to go in any deeper. Adso’s about to say something, yell at him to get on with it already, when Aran roughly thrusts both fingers in deep. They’re only barely thicker than three of Adso’s, but they’re so warm and so, so deep, the sudden fullness is overwhelming.

The boy cries out in shock, pushing himself up on his elbows and tries to scramble forwards, to pull himself off the digits, but Aran springs forward, his entire forearm pressing a line against Adso’s shoulderblades and bears down harshly. Adso hits the pillows with an oof, the impact forcing the air out of him, trapping his hands under his chest. Aran leans down towards his face, looming over him. The angle means more of his weight presses against Adso’s back. It makes the boy’s toes curl.

His smile is shameless as it comes into Adso’s view.

“Too much? Want me to leave you to do it yourself?”

“B-bastard.” Adso wheezes, glaring up at the man above him. The eyes staring down at him are intense, hungry. “Too sudden. I can take it just–... Just slow down a bit. Please?”

He tacks on the last word resentfully. He doesn’t want Aran to stop – now that he’s had a moment to adjust, the feeling of fullness is wonderful and he already wants more – and he knows the rotten old man likes when he’s polite. It’s completely irrelevant that Adso likes it too – likes pleasing him.

Aran sits back on his haunches, easing the pressure holding him down and Adso inhales deeply, getting his breath back. He doesn’t want to give Aran the satisfaction of hearing his moans as the man starts to move his hand, biting his lip so only little breathy grunts escape his nose. The fingers inside him slowly pull almost all the way out before going deep again, torturously slow.

“You’re so soft inside, lad. Still tight here,” The man makes a point of drawing his fingers right to Adso’s rim then spreading them, until the boy’s gasping at the stretch and subtly swaying his hips, instinctively trying to get them back deeper.

“But here?” Another languid push in, petting Adso’s insides. Adso’s sure he’s avoiding his prostate on purpose. “Here, you’re real soft. You really tried your hardest, didn’t you, boy?”

Adso grunts, a jerky nod of his head the only response he can manage. It feels good – he’s started drooling again, unable to keep his mouth closed. The way Aran’s speaking to him is making his head regain that foggy, far-away feeling. If he starts talking, to try to reply with words, he doesn’t trust himself to not start pleading to Aran to touch him where he needs it the most. He knows better than that – he’s sure it’d make the man intentionally draw things out even longer. Adso wants to believe that he wouldn’t be cruel enough to tease him then stop short, but he’s not going to take any chances. Not now. Better to let him do what he wants. Be patient. Be good.

He does his best to stop thinking, trying instead to just focus on the feeling of being filled, the stretch when Aran scissors his fingers lazily at his rim, the warm weight of his arm across his back. He’s not aware that he’s started moving his hips to meet Aran’s hand – pressing himself flush to Aran’s knuckles, grinding against them, trying to get him deeper.

Watching his fingers disappearing into Adso’s body, hearing the demure little sighs as the boy pushes back when he bottoms out, the rim of his hole, shiny with oil, a slight gape between his fingers as he works him further open, the stuttery gasp that tells him the stretch has become too much and that it’s time to repeat the sequence, Aran wonders if he died earlier back the Doyen Graves. The boy beneath him is nothing short of an angel. So, this must be the Forgers rewarding him for all he’s done for the kingdom – letting him experience something he hasn’t stopped thinking about since that night he walked in on Adso touching himself. Probably even earlier than that, if he’s being honest. And it’s so much better than he’d thought. He hadn’t planned to ever act on his desires. He never wants to hurt Adso, and he can’t ignore how small he looks when they stand side by side – he barely comes up to his shoulder, even when he’s not slouching, for Forger’s sake. He looks too delicate, too breakable.

He could be such an idiot sometimes, though – he really should listen to the boy more. He was an idiot because he’d forgotten something that was so profoundly important. This was Adso. For all the blushing and sweet submissiveness Aran has learned how to draw out of him, this was still the same self-reliant, scarily intelligent, stubborn Adso who’s never afraid to tell him immediately when he’s considering something the boy thinks is ‘maybe the stupidest idea any living creature has ever had’. ”Even Trolls wouldn’t think of something that stupid, Aran, and they can live without their heads”. This was his Adso.

His sweet Adso trusts him – trusts him enough to give him his vulnerability like this – and he really would be the kingdom’s biggest fool if he didn’t show the boy, who is being so good for him, just how grateful he really is.

Aran twists his wrist so his palm is facing up and, being careful to maintain his current rhythm, pours a small amount of oil into the well of his hand. When he’s confident it’s warmed up enough, he draws his fingers out to rest still, inside Adso just enough to push gently down on his rim, lifting his arm from Adso’s back and using the thumb of his clean hand to stretch his hole in the opposite direction, opening him up smoothly, feeling the ring of muscle flutter against his fingers. He straightens out his curled digits and uses them to direct the oil to lazily roll down his palm, his fingers, and drip into Adso’s waiting body.

Adso gasps at the strange sensation and is about to ask Aran to explain, when he feels three fingers plunge into him without warning. There’s no burn that accompanies the increased stretch – Aran has been so thorough – but the man is moving with purpose now, rubbing constant firm circles against his prostate. It’s a lot, especially after being denied for so long, and Adso’s feet kick frantically, too overwhelmed to feel any pain from his slightly swollen ankle. He tries to slide his thighs closed as he wails at the sudden, unrelenting, onslaught of sensation, but Aran shifts and uses a knee to knock his legs open again, pressing it into the side of one of Adso’s calves to keep him spread wide, his free hand helping hold the other apart, digging into the flesh of his thigh.

No longer pinned, Adso bucks forward, his chest sliding on the blanket, his back crying in relief as it unbends out of the harsh arch he’d been forced to maintain. Aran’s hand around his thigh keeps his hips raised just enough to stop him falling prone as he sobs, unable to hold back anymore, his moaning broken up by sharp gasps. His face is buried in the fabric and every attempted inhale fills his head with Aran’s scent.

He tries to call the man’s name but his tongue feels thick, too big for his mouth. Aran huffs out a strained laugh, the writhing boy making him feel crazed, his blood pumping hot. He mirrors the position of his knee against Adso’s leg with his other so he can lean forwards, winding his arm around the boy’s waist to keep him up as he curls over his heaving back. He rests his forehead against Adso’s nape and feels a trembling hand at the back of his head, nails scratching his scalp before suddenly the fingers flex, gripping his long hair tight, as another wail comes from below him.

Aran grunts, then lifts Adso’s waist higher, moving one of his legs over so he can press his aching groin into the boy’s hip without impeding the movement of his hand. He groans at the pressure on his clothed cock and rolls his hips, chasing the feeling. He hears Adso panting his name over and over, like a prayer, and feels his abs flex under his forearm, as he rubs against him, trying to encourage the older man to keep rutting against him.

“Adso,” His voice is rough with arousal, and Adso’s whole body shakes. “Perfect– Forgers– so perfect. My perfect boy. Can you cum for me like this, Adso?”

“I– I don’t– I don–” He chokes on a sob, he sounds wrecked.

Aran shushes him, pressing a kiss to the thick band of ink decorating his shoulder, panting hoarsely, almost a growl, into his sweaty feverish skin.

“You can, Adso, I know you can. Come on, show me how good you are.”

He presses his fingers down meanly against Adso’s prostate, rubbing his thumb in firm strokes across his perineum.

The fist in his hair tugs harshly and Adso cries out, a pitchy, warbling sound, as his orgasm hits him suddenly, before his voice breaks and it’s reduced to a pitiful whine. His feet scrabble against the fabric, kicking out behind him and his back arches up, flush to Aran’s chest. His cock twitches as his cum paints lines of milky white under him, adding more stains to Aran’s blanket. Then his muscles go limp, his legs falling straight and the hand in Aran’s hair drops with a soft thump. Aran’s arm still tight around his middle is the only thing supporting his weight, his limbs feeling heavier than steel.

The older man carefully pulls his fingers out of Adso and wipes the remaining oil off on the ruined blanket. Then he sits back, bringing the boy’s boneless body with him, crossing his legs and arranging Adso so he’s sat sideways across his lap, his head tucked under his chin and his trembling form cradled to his chest. Aran cards his fingers through Adso’s sweat-damp hair, stroking his hip soothingly with his other hand. He waits patiently for the trembling boy to come back to him - his shallow panting has a wheezing edge to it and his eyelids flutter delicately, his lashes clumped together with dried tears. Arin props his chin on the top of Adso’s head and closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath, before letting it out as a contented sigh.

He startles when he hears a loud sniffle. He bends over, trying to see Adso’s face, and has no idea what to do when he sees he’s crying again. He’s got his skinny arms crossed tightly over his chest, his bottom lip is sticking out in a pout and his eyebrows are drawn. His face seems unsure if it wants to scowl or scrunch up as fat tears roll down his red cheeks. He’s still leaning his head against Aran, but he’s staring at a fixed point on the wall with intensity. Aran feels completely lost. Had he gotten hurt somehow?

“I didn’t want this.”

Aran’s heart falls through the floor, his stomach twisting.

“What..?” Aran’s voice is quiet. What have I done.

He’s going to be sick.

Adso sniffles again, rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and takes a wobbly breath. He tilts his head to stare down at his hands, now clasped in his lap, as he fidgets with his fingers.

“Hate you, Aran. Stupid. This was so stupid.” He huffs and knocks his head back against Aran’s chest, wincing when his cheekbone hits the hard metal of a buckle. “...Ow.” His eyes start to water again.

Aran cups the side of his face, tipping the boy's head back and tilting his own so he can look at him properly. Adso isn’t looking back at him, his eyes fixed at that same spot on the wall again. Aran hasn’t felt this useless in a long, long time.

“Adso,” He starts carefully, being as delicate as he can, choosing his words tactfully, “Would you look at me, please? Please, I–” He holds his breath.

Adso had rolled his eyes first, but was finally looking at him. Aran scans his face, hoping for a clue to what he should say next. He sighs, then continues.

“I’m sorry, Adso, truly, if I made you– if I did something – anything – that you didn’t... that you didn’t want.”

Adso’s watching him coolly, his clear blue eyes giving nothing away.

“If you could– If you would feel comfortable telling me what I did wrong, I’ll apologise properly, Asdo, I promise.”

Adso keeps watching him for a moment before twisting his torso so he’s facing the man head-on.

“You’re still dressed, Aran.”

That... really doesn’t help Aran feel any less lost.

“I’m sorry, Adso, I don’t think I underst–”

“You’re still fully dressed, Aran. You didn’t–... You haven’t even taken your boots off! All of this –” He turns, gesturing at the makeshift bed next to where they’re sat, grimacing and blushing pink when he sees the state they’ve left it in. He turns back to Aran.

“All the different ways I imagined – hoped – this might go. All the effort and the mental and– and physical preparation–” His blush darkens, “How long I spent agonising over how to– how to finally–” He grabs the thick leather strap of the harness that crosses Aran’s chest in his fist and tugs at it while he continues.

“And that book, Aran! Do you have any idea how nervous I was, trying to get that book?! So I could do “research”, try to figure out how to maybe– Ugh! You’re so frustrating! And you’re. Still. Dressed!”

Aran’s being jerked back and forth by the force Adso is using to pull at the strap, using it to emphasise how utterly annoying all this is for him. He uses both hands to grip the boy’s upper arms, stilling him in an instant.

“Wait. Wait a moment, Adso. So you’re angry at me – you were… sulking a moment ago – all because... I’m not naked?”

“Yes!”

Aran stares at Adso’s glowering face for a beat, then tips his head back and laughs heartily. He’s got tears in the corners of his eyes by the time the overwhelming relief rushing through him starts to recede.

“Forgers’ sake, Adso! Why didn’t you just say that? Hell, I thought I’d done something unforgiva– Oh. Eager, are we?”

Adso was working on the many buckles keeping Aran’s outer layer secured, having already unclasped and tossed his belt aside, as well as his harness.

“You have no idea.” He gripes. His fingers slip on the leather when Aran’s warm hands circle his waist.

“I’m not complaining. Keep going, lad.” He smiles, pleased, enjoying the way his sooted hands contrast the pale olive skin between Adso’s tattoos and how the boy’s breathing stutters when he starts caressing his sides, up and down, as he keeps trying to undo Aran’s clothing.

He’s only got two buckles left to go, and Aran’s hands start stroking his ribs. It’s on the verge of ticklish and Adso wants to squirm. He’s almost hyperaware of the man’s attention on him but he’s trying his hardest to focus. Aran had sat back slightly – heavy legs keeping them anchored – so he can watch Adso’s busy fingers. His eyes are half-lidded and dark, and they glint every time Adso’s still oily fingers lose their purchase on the stiff leather. It really doesn’t help that the man’s thumbs are sweeping closer and closer to his nipples, tracing the tattoos that border his pecs. His whole chest is pink, rubbed tender by the friction earlier, and his skin tingles everywhere Aran touches.

The button at the base of the man’s throat keeps slipping from his grip, trying to force it through the buttonhole. It’s the last fastening keeping this damned garment together and Adso’s getting desperate. He huffs impatiently as his slick fingers fumble again, then he pitches forward suddenly with a yip, rough thumbs dragging against his sensitive nipples, rolling them deliberately, cruelly. Adso arches his back, trying to push both harder into and away from the stimulation. He’s whimpering as he finally unbuttons the offending item of clothing and paws at it frantically, trying to push it off Aran’s shoulders and down his arms, needing it off him now. He’s going to burn it later.

Aran’s shoulders shake with a silent chuckle as he helps shuck off his gear, joining Adso’s trembling hands in pulling up his quilted undershirt, over and off his head. The boy’s hands are hovering an inch away from his chest, darting his gaze owlishly across the expanse of his torso, – three puckered star-shaped scars dot his collar, ribs and just above his navel, standing out among smaller, less obviously traumatic-looking marks – then he settles on the larger, uneven jagged slit bisecting the man’s abs, almost hidden by the trail of hair leading from his chest that tapers and disappears down below his waistband. It’s the mark of a blade thrust deep, then twisted. Adso’s eyes shimmer with concern, unable to look away.

“Don’t worry, they don’t hurt anymore. They’re probably as old as you, lad.” Aran rubs his palms soothingly up the boy’s spine, trying to smile casually. “You can touch them if you’d like.”

Adso knew he was lying. He’d seen him, after an unusually long melee or when the weather took a sudden change, try to cover a twinge of pain as he’d roll his shoulder carefully. Or how sometimes it seemed like it’d take him an extra moment to catch his breath, a quiet rattling wheeze when he’d inhale. Adso had made fun of him for it, taunted him – lamented that his age was clearly catching up to him, that adopting a healthier lifestyle now would still have a positive effect on the quality of his rapidly approaching dotage. He feels terrible, his heart constricts painfully. Any one of these wounds should’ve been fatal, but Aran was here, in front of him.

He lifts his arms, reaching up and hooking them around Aran’s neck, letting the man support his back, lifting him somewhat. He winds his arms tight, bringing their chests flush, burying his face in the crook of Aran’s neck, breathing him in. He shakes his head, his hair tickling Aran’s shoulder, before drawing back to look into rich brown eyes.

“Later.” He states, relaxing his hold, sliding back down slowly until he’s in Aran’s lap again.

“Stop trying to distract me. These too. Off, Aran. Now.” He’s tugging at the waistband of Aran’s trousers, trying to pull them off his hips without bothering to unbutton them. He’s had enough of buttons and buckles and belts to last a lifetime. “Please.”

He peers up at Aran through his lashes, pleading with his big rounded doelike eyes, aiming for a commanding scowl but invariably ending up with more of a pout. Aran laughs fondly, jostling the boy from his lap so he can stand.

“So bossy, brat.” He crouches to one knee, prompting an inquisitive sound from Adso. He smiles over at him.

“You made a point of telling me how you feel about my boots, boy. Would you like to unlace them for me?”

“No, thank you.” Adso replies curtly. He scoots back a bit, kneels and starts to sit back on his feet but winces as his ankle throbs acutely. Instead, with his knees still bent, he shifts sideways, one foot tucked under him and the other – his injured one – cocked slightly to the side.

He watches Aran’s fingers pick at his laces, unknotting and loosening one of his boots then doing the same to the other. The man rights himself, toeing off his shoes while undoing his hipbelt, tossing them both to the side before bringing his hands to the waistline of his trousers, his thumbs slipping between the fabric and his skin.

Adso admires the man above him. He’s broad – all warm skin, darkened in places by hair, broken up in others by his scars. His muscles aren’t overly defined, age has cushioned them slightly, softening their edges. That does nothing to stop the boy’s thighs from squeezing together any time they flex and tense, though. Adso knows all-too-well how strong he is.

Aran holds Adso’s intense eye contact, the boy’s eyes burning with blatant hunger, as he slowly unfastens the closures. His hard cock twitches in his underwear when Adso’s pink tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip.

The poor boy looks starved – like a dog told to stay until its bowl is placed down, waiting for its release command so it can finally eat. His nostrils flare as he pants, his jaw clenched tight. Aran grunts as his cock throbs, pulsing, telling him to hurry up and sink into the enticing heat of his sweet boy already.

He lets his trousers fall to his ankles and Adso can’t help himself. He whines openly, shuffles forward and sits up on his knees, perfectly level with Aran’s crotch. His whine increases in volume as he leans forward to nose at the bulge, panting against the visibly damp spot where the man’s tip has soaked the material with precum. He opens his mouth wider – he needs to taste him, he’s so close – and keens loud when Aran’s hands take his head and pull him away sharply by his hair. He tries again, resisting Aran’s grip, but the man yanks meanly and the boy moans, mouth dropping open wide.

“Not tonight, boy. Next time.”

“Okay. Okay. Aran, please.” He’s nodding fervently and Aran’s firm hold slackens, petting his sore scalp, rewarding him for his obedience. Adso reaches up with shaky hands and – so, so slowly – pulls his underwear down.

He’s going to die.

He can’t feel his toes and he swallows with effort as his mouth fills with saliva. His face is so hot he’s worried it’ll never go back to its original colour as he sways on his knees, all the blood that’s not in his cheek rushing down, filling his cock and he knows its drooling clear precum, forming a small wet patch on the rug.

He’s going to die.

Aran’s cock is– it’s– It’s so hard, the tip flushed a deeper red than the shaft, and Adso had been right – it’s so big. He’d guess it’s at least seven inches long, probably more, and it looks like it might be as thick as Adso’s own wrist. It’s too heavy to stand up on its own so it’s resting against Aran’s thigh, and Adso watches as it unmistakably twitches under his awed staring, utterly dumbstruck.

Adso puts his palms to Aran’s hip to steady himself, feeling dizzy and not wanting to fall forward – that would be disobeying his clear instructions to not touch – and he drags his eyes up to Aran’s face.

Aran’s smiling winsomely, delighted by his boy’s reaction – his smaller hands twitching against his thighs as he leans into him imperceptibly. He takes a hand away from Adso’s head to pump himself twice, unhurried, his balls tightening as he finally gives his cock some attention. Adso starts to whisper his name reverently but it gets cut off on a gasp when Aran uses a strong hand to pull the boy up by his underarm, collecting the phial on his way, and drags him along to the pile of pillows Adso had arranged into a seat earlier. He tugs him down, making him fall atop him with a yelp, legs spread, straddling the man’s strong waist.

“Feeling alright, Adso?” He sounds so smug.

The boy’s fingers dig into his pecs, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly, nodding slowly. Aran reaches past him, hissing as he squeezes the base of his cock and Adso’s back curves, curling in on himself, when the head accidentally rubs against the top of his ass. Aran takes hold of the boy’s hips, helping him to his knees. Adso’s nails scrape down the man’s chest as he’s lifted and positioned, quivering, over Aran’s waiting cock. It’s laying against his stomach, pointing towards his navel, precum collecting by the tip. Adso looks down at it, then snaps his head up, seeing Aran lean back, making himself comfortable.

“W-what?” His legs tremble – his knees ache.

Aran cocks his head to the side, mock-confused.

“What’s the matter, lad? Don’t you want to show me what you’ve been learning? Show off the results of all your “research”?”

Oh. Oh.

Adso stares down again, taking in steadying breaths, trying not to panic. He’s still hard and from this angle, the size difference between his cock and Aran’s is so intimidating. It’s so arousing. A lazy drop of precum falls from his tip and joins the mess forming on Aran’s stomach. He can do this. He wants to do this. He steels himself, sniffing hard, stopping the tears threatening to fall – gathering at his lashline – before they can. He raises his head and looks at Aran. He nods.

“Okay.” His voice is small, a subtle wobble betraying his nerves that makes Aran shudder with sharp, mean arousal. He takes pity on the poor thing and takes the phial of oil, gesturing for Adso to hold out his small hand and pours some into his awaiting palm. He takes his hand, turning it over and collecting in his own before lubing up his cock liberally, using what’s left to make sure Adso’s hole is wet and ready for him, thrusting two fingers into him, not unkindly, and a thrill runs up his spine when he finds the boy’s body is still soft and pliant and deliciously hot inside. He sits up, just enough to cup Adso’s flaming cheek with his clean hand, strokes it once, and settles back down, smiling at him expectantly.

Adso still hasn’t made a move so Aran brings his hands to support Adso’s thighs, easing the strain that’s evident in how they’re shaking, smearing oil into his skin that makes the band of ink there glisten.

“Whenever you’re ready, Adso.”

The blatant teasing grounds him, snapping him from his panic, and Adso huffs out a weak laugh.

“Worried the reaper’s gonna interrupt us, Aran?” He retorts, breathlessly.

Adso grins, subdued but still charmingly boyish, and Aran returns it with a smile of his own and squeezes the thighs in his hands comfortingly as Adso leans forward, gingerly taking hold of Aran’s cock. He shuffles on his knees, aligning himself and lowering slightly, gulping when he feels it slide against the cleft of his ass, hot and slick. With his other hand behind himself, spreading his cheeks, he gasps and sways dramatically when the head nudges against his rim. Aran holds him tight, stopping him from falling.

“You’re doing good, Adso. Keep going.”

Adso doesn’t look up but he nods, bites his lip hard and holds his breath, and lowers down again, suppressing the instinctual flinch when he presses the blunt tip of Aran’s cock to his hole.

“Breathe, boy. Relax. There you go.”

He breathes deeply and drops his hips another few centimeters, willing his muscles to stop tensing. He swivels his hips slightly, trying to coax the cock in his hand to please just go in his ass already. He grunts and spreads his knees, using more of his body weight. He’s sweating and panting with effort – his knees feel like he’s leaning on jagged rocks and his thighs are starting to burn. He wants this, and he’s getting scared that any second now he’ll hear Aran sigh, disappointed, and tell him “maybe another time, lad” and leave him here on the floor, alone, to go sleep in his own bed.

No. He won’t let that happen, he’s made it this far and– and this is all Aran’s fault. If his stupid, perfect cock wasn’t so stupidly big, he wouldn’t be struggling like this. Or if he wasn’t so mean – why is he making him do all the work? Sure, he helped him cum earlier – Forgers, he’d really cum without Aran even touching his cock once – but still, this was too much. This was– this was–

Aran sucks in a hiss through his teeth, his fingers digging bruisingly tight into Adso’s thighs, as the head of his cock is abruptly surrounded by tight, slick heat.

“Ah. Ah!” Adso falls forward, catching himself with his hands against Aran’s heaving chest. The man’s eyes are shut, his brows tight and his breathing is laboured as he resists the urgent impulse to thrust up into the boy above him.

Adso’s still panting with audible puffs, little ah, ah, ah’s as he hangs his head, peering between his thighs, not quite believing what happened. He rests his forehead on Aran’s pec, closing his eyes for a moment.

He did it. There’s not as much pain as he’d been scared there might be – barely any at all, really. Just the insistent stretch and the strange feeling of having something foreign inside him. He doesn’t hate it.

He pushes his hips back gingerly, gasping as Aran’s cock slides deeper, the man’s fingers flexing against his legs. He’s taken barely an inch more, but with the head too, he’s already starting to feel like he’ll feel overfull soon. He takes another peek between his legs and whines – there’s so much left, and he is not a quitter.

He slaps Aran’s pec lightly, whining, “Why are you so big, you bastard.”

The chest under his hand jumps up and down as the man laughs.

“Sorry, boy.” He’s still slightly breathless – Adso’s so tight around him, his rim clenching every few seconds, still unused to having anything inside him. He wets his lips.

”Are you tapping out? Can’t handle it?”

“No way.” Adso’s determined. He braces himself with both hands splayed against Aran’s abs and tips himself back upright, the motion feeding another inch into him. His sore knees and injured foot complain as he raises up, until the crown tugs at his rim, and drops back down. Aran’s hands tense to stop him from sinking down too far, his arms flexing as he catches his weight and his knees come up to keep them both balanced, feet flat to the floor. Adso’s so slick, he could end up taking too much at once and they’d have to stop.

“Careful, Adso. You could hurt yourself, foolish boy.”

Adso isn’t listening. He’s blinking up at the ceiling, eyes glazed over, trying to catch his breath as best he can. Aran hadn’t caught him quick enough – about three quarters of Aran’s total length were sitting inside him, filling him up so deep he swears it’s stopping him from being to breathe properly – and on his way down, the angle had been perfect for Aran’s cock to hit his prostate.

Dazed, Adso rearranges his legs. Trusting Aran’s to help hold him up, and using the man’s stomach to push against, he carefully gets his feet under him. Now in a deep squat, raised up on the falls of his feet, he slowly leans back, moving his hands to Aran’s knees to support his torso. He watches down the length of his body and tentatively raises his hips then slowly sinks back down. He moans deeply – the change in position means there’s constant, perfect pressure against his prostate and Aran’s so so deep inside him.

Aran takes in Adso with awe. It’s like the boy’s forgotten he’s even there – just using his body to make himself feel good and Aran’s so proud of him. He wants to move – wants to do anything to help him feel even better – but he wouldn’t dare interrupt the sanctity of this moment of pure and utter divinity. The most he can do is try to keep his rough breathing as subdued and quiet as possible to not disturb him. He’s too enraptured to even think about chasing his own pleasure – the sensations almost muted in his state of worship. He’s not important right now. Even the Forgers themselves would be blasphemers if they did something to stop the roll of Adso’s hips, his punched-out whines as he bounces, his eyes slipping shut when he grinds down trying to fit the last few inches, his delicate fingers fluttering against his lower abdomen when it distends slightly around all of Aran’s length that he’s managed to take, his sweet moans and his pretty blush and his cute flushed cock that’s almost constantly weeping precum slapping up to hit his tattooed belly and his quivering thighs working valiantly to keep him moving.

Aran’s reverence is broken when Adso’s ankle finally gives out, rolling awkwardly, the boy letting out a pained cry as he topples sideways. Aran lunges up, grabbing at him, his thick thighs snapping up to cushion Adso’s back, wincing when the movement tweaks his cock uncomfortably, still deep in the whimpering boy, who yelps as he’s inadvertently pulled flush to Aran’s hips. Aran tries to find what’s wrong – figure out what just happened – scanning Adso's leg hastily, eyes pausing at the redness on his knees, and feels his jaw clack shut when he sees his foot. Vivid, angry purple splotches have bloomed, mottling almost the entire surface, and it looks painfully swollen.

“Adso, what– when did this happen?”

Aran cradles the boy’s ankle, lifting it up to inspect closer, Adso’s knee pressing up tight to his own chest. He squirms, trying to escape Aran’s grip – he wants his foot back on the ground, he wants to keep chasing the pleasure from before. It hurts but he’s fine. He does not want to stop, not now, please not now. He stills, however, when Aran applies gentle probing pressure to his foot, stunned momentarily. Pain shoots up his leg and his hands fly to claw at the man’s hands.

“Stop! Stop!” He howls, startled tears springing to his eyes, and Aran, mercifully, freezes.

Adso’s panting – he’d been ignoring it, but the renewed pain in his foot is now thudding in time with his heart – but he puts on his bravest face. His smile is fraught, unsteady, and it threatens to break at any second.

“It’s okay, Aran. It’s–” a deep inhale, “It’s not as bad as it looks. I’m alright. I can keep going.”

Aran can’t believe what he’s hearing. His erection flags inside Adso, his arousal turning in a split second to indignant anger – at Adso, for not telling him he was injured, yes, but mostly at himself.

“You’re not alright, boy. Don’t lie to me.” His blood roils beneath his skin, the edges of his words turning clipped and sharp. He’s furious, and his hold on Adso’s ankle tightens unintentionally.

He lets go like he’d just grabbed hot coals right from the forge when Adso’s tears begin to fall with another yelp of pain, Aran feeling like he’s just been doused in frigid water. He’s doing it again. He’s worried, and ashamed – How did I not notice he was hurt? I’m supposed to look after him – and he’s taking it out on Adso, just like he did earlier. He’s hurting him. Aran rubs a hand down his face, digging into his eyes, as he tries to cool his blood from its boil to a manageable simmer.

“You need to ice this, Adso. It’s too swollen to check for damage properly. It could be broken, for Forgers’ sake, and you were–” He sighs, tired, “I’ll go to Winter’s Wall and come right back. Then tomorrow, we’ll speak to Glinda – she might know how to use that swamp mud to make a poultice or somethi–”

His cheek flares with a hot, sharp sting. He blinks, trying to compute what just happened. Had Adso... slapped him? The guilty hand grips the sides of his chin, digging into his beard, and forces him to look into blue eyes.

“If you dare think about leaving, Aran de Lira– If you dare leave me here, alone, like this–” He’s at a loss for words, his own petulant rage taking over.

“Adso. You’re hurt.”

“You’ll hurt if you fucking leave me, Aran. Don’t do this to me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was injured, I am, but– which is your fault, actually, by the way. All of this is your fault, Aran, all of this is because you–”

“Watch it, boy.”

“No! Listen to me, Aran. I know I’m being selfish – I’ll apologise later – I’ll make it up to you, I swear. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. I’ll do all the chores, I won’t leave any books anywhere, I won’t complain when you make me carry your spare gear – I won’t even complain when you’re unbearably annoying, either! You know how hard that’ll be for me – and I’ll happily go along with every one of your stupid, idiotic, impulsive, brainless ideas. Anything, Aran. I’ll do anything if you just– just stay.”

Adso pants. Everything’s too intense – the pressure in his stomach, the pain in his foot, his desire and his frustration, his indignant fury at the very idea that Aran would stop now when it feels so good and he’s so close. The enormity of all that he’s feeling is making him lightheaded but he’s determined to not let this end here.

Aran softens – Adso’s passionate pleas getting to him, his resolve faltering. The dried tears on the boy’s cheeks reminding him that he’s hurt are the only thing that stop him from letting it shatter completely, holding on by a thread.

“Lad...”

“No. Finish what you started – I don’t want to wait anymore. Fuck me, Aran. Properly.”

The final thread snaps. Adso knows he’s won when he feels Aran’s hips jerk almost imperceptibly under him and his cock, still buried in his ass, starts filling out again, back to half-hardness surprisingly fast.

“I didn’t know you could be so vulgar, lad.”

“Whose fault is that?” He grumbles, then moans as he circles his hips, revelling in the feeling of fullness returning, stretching him and making the tips of his toes tingle.

Aran lowers himself back down, shoulders digging into the pillows and, with his hands at the backs of the boy’s knees, folds Adso virtually in half, putting him on full display – for Aran and Aran alone. His lower legs dangle ineffectually in front of him and he slumps against Aran’s thighs, wheezing slightly at the pull on his hamstrings.

“Best to keep that foot elevated for now, don’t you agree, Adso?”

“Uh huh.” He responds, breathily, eyes slipping closed when Aran rolls up into him. He wets his lips and scoffs after half-opening his eyes again, lids still drooping lazily, when he sees Aran’s smirking up at him, watching the boy’s mouth. He bites down on his bottom lip demurely.

“Tired? Better not pass out on me again, boy. I was really hurt when you fell asleep last time, you know.”

“Ugh, shut up.” He says with a moan, as Aran thrusts into him properly – his strong arms holding him up so he can pull out a few inches before sheathing himself deep again, bottoming out.

“I’m serious, lad. Felt quite sorry for myself, really – I did all the work for you and then had to rely on my own hand.” His teasing smile is audible in his voice, even when he grunts, thrusting with more force.

“Shut up.” Adso’s voice is strained, his throat feels sore and he’s panting again. Aran’s pace is unhurried, but he’s pushing so deep and it feels so wonderful.

“Need to make sure you’re still with me.” Aran laughs. He’s having a hard time keeping his tempo slow watching himself, brought back to full hardness, sink again and again into Adso’s body – his rim puffy, hugging his cock perfectly. He wants so badly to snap his hips up roughly, hear Adso’s voice break, but he’s not done teasing him yet. He wants to see his boy’s eyes get misty again, his hot tears drip off his chin, overwhelmed but adorably obedient.

“It wasn’t too bad though. You were so beautiful, curled up against me like that. I did feel bad about your clothing, though. But you looked so perfect in my shirt – so happy, all wrapped up like a babe when I tucked you in. You were so reluctant to part with it. Made me feel like a Vexer, stealing away something precious. You can have it back if you’d like. I can’t wear it anymore without remembering you making such a pretty mess all over yourself.”

Adso’s face flares hot. His constant, rhythmic gasping is occasionally interrupted by soft moans when Aran bumps against his prostate. Forgers, does the man ever shut up? He looks at Aran through his lashes, chin tilted down. He’s having trouble keeping his head up as his body is jerked around.

“You’re so disgusting.” He manages to breathe out. Aran just hums at him.

“Whose fault is that.” Aran mocks, echoing Adso’s words back at him.

The boy’s eyes have fallen shut again, his neglected cock slapping down onto Aran’s lower stomach, smearing the steady flow of precum into the hair there, making it sticky. He looks like he’s floating away again, his face lax, mouth in a subtle ‘o’ and his arms limp at his sides, content to bask in the feeling of Aran using him.

Aran spreads his feet, careful not to jostle Adso, and pushes his chest up slowly, supporting himself more on his shoulders.

He thrusts up hard, once, and Adso’s mind is back in his body. He holds the boy down firmly, grinding deeply into his ass. Adso mewls when Aran does it again, his arms flail uselessly before coming up to wrap around his own thighs, hugging his knees to his chest.

“Wha–?”

“Good boy. Hold tight.”

Aran sets a punishing pace. Wet, slick sounds fill the room, harmonising with Adso’s mewling cries every time he snaps his hips against Adso’s rear.

He’s hugging his thighs so tightly, trying to lock them in place so he doesn’t lose his grip, crushing them to his body, his feet bouncing in the air – he’d be having a hard time breathing anyway even if Aran wasn’t forcing the air out of his lungs. Every upwards drive of his cock feels like it’s in his stomach, punching its way up to his throat, and the boy’s never felt more fulfilled. Stuffed full over and over, his insides the perfect home for Aran’s cock, welcoming him in. His hole clings tight to Aran’s shaft, not wanting to let him go, wants him to stay buried deep, keep using his body like this – let him keep serving his purpose.

He never wants this to end. He’s never wanted anything so desperately – all other thoughts and desires are pushed far away, leaving only the mantra of more, more, more.

Aran grunts out a gruff snort.

“More, boy? Such a greedy little thing, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ah!, y-yes. I’m sorry. I– I’m greedy. I’m s-sorry, Aran.” He’s finally crying again, humiliated. He feels himself getting close, but the angle’s not hitting quite right – not being given just what he needs to tip over the edge into orgasm.

Aran knows he’s the luckiest man in all the realms. He growls, lifting Adso off his cock as he sits up, pulling him close. The boy wraps his arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder, his knees squeezing into Aran’s sides.

“No, no, Aran, please–”

“Quiet.”

He grabs a couple pillows and stands, supporting Adso with a hand under his ass. He walks them the few steps to Adso’s makeshift mattress, kneels, and tries to lay him down, the spare pillows under his hips. He fights to disentangle himself from the boy’s limbs but he’s clinging so tight, rubbing his wet face into him, desperate and begging Aran to not let him go. Aran scruffs him roughly and Adso let’s go with a yip. Aran quickly lifts his squirming legs – one is hoisted to Aran’s shoulder and he hooks the injured one over the crook of his elbow, keeping it off the floor, large hands pressing into the blanket. Once he’s happy he’s got him where he wants, Aran leans forward so the boy’s reaching arms can wrap around his neck again, crowding his smaller body against the mattress, and lines himself up.

Adso’s accompanying startled whine as he bottoms out is high and pained, and Aran looks down at him, concerned. He watches as the last few ropes of cum decorate his quivering, tattooed belly. Bent practically into a split as he was, when Aran had slid home, too sudden, he’d hit Adso’s prostate directly, forcing his orgasm out of him violently – the pearly fluid perversely highlighting the bulge where Aran is sitting deep in his guts.

His sobs turn plaintive and pleading as Aran resumes his brutal pace, not giving him any time to come down. The man is growling throatily, every thrust pressing relentlessly into Adso’s oversensitive prostate. His leg slips from Aran’s shoulder, down to mirror the position of his other, hips spread wide, resembling a frog.

“Good boys have manners, Adso – they get permission first.”

Adso’s covering his face, trying to hide his pathetic, overwhelmed blubbering.

“I didn’t mean to! It was t-too mu–”

“You asked for more, Adso.”

“I know! I’m sor–AH!”

Aran has got his fist around the boy’s limp, spent cock, jerking it lazily, somehow manipulating it back to semi-hardness. It’s too much – the frenzied pounding calms momentarily to a gentle roll of the man’s hips. He doesn’t feel like he's being skewered on a spit anymore, but Aran’s still crowded against his prostate and his poor cock’s gone untouched the whole night before now and he just came, he’s too sensitive. How is he getting hard again?.

“I think you can give me one more. What do you think, Adso?”

Adso hates how much Aran’s using his name. He hates that it’s making his chest constrict and his tears drip down his face faster. He’s disappointed. He’s disappointed in me, his mind supplies unhelpfully.

“I’ll try.” He croaks quietly.

“Good boy.” Aran smiles down at him, rabid adoration and lust swirling in equal measures in his eyes, pupils blown. He looks wild.

“I’m going to die.” Adso laments, making Aran snort derisively out his nose.

“I won’t let that happen, boy.”

Aran angles his hips so every cruel thrust bullies into Adso’s prostate, grunting with effort, making sure to stroke his poor weeping cock in tandem. It’s leaking constantly, making his fist wet, as the boy howls. He’s being so good, taking it all so well – wailing out wretched, high-pitched noises through his oversensitivity.

“It’s too much! It’s too much! I can’t– I can’t– Aran. Aran, please, I– ohhh don’t stop, please, please, don’t stop!"

The man growls and drops to his elbows, forcing Adso's knees to the mattress by his sides, pinning him flat. He presses a large palm over the boy’s face, covering his nose and mouth. Adso keens loud – loud enough to be audible despite being muffled by the hand gagging him – and he claws his nails down Aran’s broad back, his eyes rolling into his head. Aran hisses as welts form on his shoulderblades, mouthing at Adso’s sweaty throat and scraping with his teeth, the boy’s pulse thundering under his tongue. He’s panting ragged and noisy into his boy’s skin, his cock throbbing urgently, Adso’s insides getting even slicker with his precum – he can’t hold out much longer.

Adso can’t breathe. He can't breathe and his vision’s getting spotty but he feels something building, sudden and assertive. It’s different from before. He slaps at Aran’s back, frantic, but it’s pointless. The endorphins that flood his brain, accompanying the rush of air that fills his burning lungs, when Aran releases his face are what push him over the edge. He thrashes, his heels kick in the air above him and he bucks his hips. His nails dig in so hard they break the skin of Aran’s back, who grunts and pulls back just in time to watch Adso’s face – mouth gaping wordlessly, eyes screwed shut, red cheeks swollen and shiny with spit and tears – as he cums. Aran feels wetness splash against his stomach, the boy’s cock in his hand twitching and kicking violently as it gushes his thin, watery release in spurts up his body, covering his abdomen and splashing onto his chest. Adso finally sucks in a breath, gasping as his arching back slumps back to the pillows. His hips jerk spasmodically, as aftershocks roll through him. Everything feels far away and he’s content to float in the haze clouding his head. He can’t hear clearly – everything’s muffle, his ears feeling stuffed with wool.

Adso’s a vision. It’s obscene and it’s filthy – still twitching with his feet in the air, flaccid cock lying in his own mess, the blanket beneath him slowly growing damp as it drips down his sides – and he’s the most beautiful thing Aran’s ever seen. He leans down, speaking low and rough into Adso’s ear, voice thick and urgent with need.

“I’m close, boy. It won’t take long. Can you handle it?”

His voice is gone, but he pushes through the rasping pain for Aran. Holding the man’s neck tight, nuzzling into his scarred cheek, he pants, pleading sweetly, barely above a whisper, giving him permission.

Yes inside please cum inside me Aran please please.

Aran groans, deep in his throat. His boy will be the death of him. He sounds winded when he speaks.

“Good boy, Adso. Good boy. Thank you.”

Sitting back on his haunches, he starts moving. Chasing his own pleasure, his thrusts quickly become irregular – no longer worrying about rhythm or angle, he just needs to feel his desperately hard cock rut in out, in out of his precious boy’s willing body, watch it bulge sinfully out of his soiled tummy. He looks boneless, flopping like a ragdoll as Aran drags him back and forth. It doesn’t take long before he’s grunting, burying himself as deep as he can, pulling Adso close with hands pressing bruises into his hips, and coating his boy’s perfect insides with thick cum.

They both hiss when Aran pulls out, his softening cock slipping out followed by a languid ooze of milky cum. Adso feels sore all over, his legs tingle with pins and needles as they’re lowered gently to the cushioned floor, but his tummy feels pleasantly full and warm – sated.

There’s a gross squelching sound when Aran lowers himself over Adso, draping the still trembling boy with his larger body, careful not to hurt him, and cradles him delicately. He freezes when he feels a hesitant pair of lips brush his jaw – a quick, chaste kiss pressed to the scar tissue. He turns carefully.

Adso’s cheek is hot and he’s looking away. Aran’s heart swells with fondness.

“Really? You’re getting shy, now?”

“Aran, please. Gimme a break.”

His exasperated voice is scratchy and broken and he coughs weakly. He cringes at the sensation of another slow glob of Aran’s release leaking out of him, dripping down his ass to the blanket. Aran stands, popping his back with a groan. He looks down at the boy at his feet.

“How do you feel, lad?”

“Disgusting.”

He raises his arms expectantly, reaching, and Aran chuffs out a laugh.

“Alright, alright. C’mere, baby boy.”

Adso wrinkles his nose. He really doesn’t have the energy to dive into the implications of his body’s reaction to that right now.

Aran scoops him up and carries him over to the gently popping fire, and sets him down. Adso sways on his one good foot, his muscles still loose and unsteady and his head still feels foggy. He leans against Aran as he’s tenderly wiped down, sipping the cup of water he’d been handed gratefully.

He’s yawning by the time Aran’s done cleaning him up – he’s had a long day.

“Bed now, please.”

“Of course. Right away, m’lord.”

Adso regards him coolly, his eyes drowsy, half-lidded, but barely suppressing a dangerous glint – Aran can almost see his swishing tail and folded back ears, ready to swipe at him, claws and all. No more teasing tonight – noted.

“Bed. Right, yes...” He glances around for his blanket before remembering. Adso seems to have realised at the same moment, spluttering and turning away, the tips of his ears pink.

Aran sits him on the edge of his cot and scans the room for something suitable. Adso points to the corner of his space, gesturing through another yawn. Aran pads over and finds a rolled-up sleep sheet – it’s thinner than his usual blanket, but it’s soft and smells nice, so it’ll do.

“You had this and yet you used my bedding?”

Adso shrugs.

“Yours was closer,”

He unfurls the cloth as Adso clambers up the cot, flopping down on his back.

“It needed a wash anyway. Smelled kinda bad.”

The boy splutters indignantly when Aran flaps the fabric over him, spreading it out across the bed, and Adso’s ruffled head emerges at the top. His scowl is stunted by yet another yawn. Aran lifts the edge and gets in next to him, pulling the boy close, head tucked into his chest, hoisting Adso’s knee up onto hip so his foot stays elevated while they sleep, throwing a heavy arm over his waist.

Adso wriggles his way closer, wanting to leech off Aran’s body heat, and finds he likes being able to hear the calming thud, thud of his heart. They lay still for a few minutes, their breathing starting to even out. Aran’s eyes have begun to droop, when Adso speaks up meekly, like he feels guilty about breaking the silence.

“Thank you, Aran. I’m sorry I got mad at you so much today – I know you were just worried. And you worry because you care about me. You’re really terrible at showing it but... still. Thanks.”

“I’m sorry too, lad. You’re right – you usually are.” He feels Adso smile, pressed against him, “And I know I take my concern too far sometimes – use it as an excuse. You’re the closest thing I have to family now, and I won’t lose you too.”

“Yeah... yeah.” Adso rubs his eyes, scrubbing away the wetness before it can form proper tears. He hasn’t lost a lover, let alone a child, but he knows how Aran feels.

Aran’s hand rubs gentle circles into his back, lulling the boy closer to sleep. He sighs, sinking further into the mattress. The sheet below them smells distinctly of the man holding him, but the blanket covering them smells like Adso himself. Like earthy, perfumed oils and dried herbs. Their scents combine around him, swirling in his head, and Adso feels safe. He feels cherished.

“So,” The delicate, drowsy quiet is broken again by Aran’s hushed voice, his hand stilling it’s movement.

“I think I’ll have you start by waxing my boots tomorrow. After we visit Glinda.”

Adso’s silent for a moment, before he laughs into Aran’s chest.

“I can’t stand you, Aran de Lira.”