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The Queleas had noticed something amiss in the kingdom. When Aran visited Glinda to exchange weapons and information, she'd looked a touch nervous as he entered her home atop the Hutcarab. It didn't take long for her to inform Aran of the issue, and insist it was his duty to investigate.
Aran had already noticed it himself somewhat – the Queen's Hounds that patrol the abandoned town of Winter's Wall were… behaving oddly.
Glinda relayed that her Queleas had told her that the strange Hounds had all recently returned from the Dryad's Forest, beyond the wall.
"They never normally stray beyond the gate... That's the Bastion's Hiss territory. Do you know if they had some kind of business in the forest? Maybe they were drawn there by something."
"Why are you asking me, laddie? Pretty sure figuring that out is your job. I know it's certainly not mine."
She was huffy – her usual self – but Aran could tell she was concerned. The old Forge Master didn't like when things changed in the lands. Especially not if it might affect the wildlife.
"The wee birds did mention some kind of new nasty in the forest though. All vines and pretty flowers."
It sounded to Aran like a regular Dryad Mother, but Glinda insisted. She swore her birds knew their differences between nasties.
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Aran had taken the time to observe a couple of the affected Hounds. Rarely more than one at a time, their bizarre behaviour made them obvious – stalking the alleys of Winter's Wall like an animal on the hunt. If they came across another Hound, Aran would watch them grapple, then the inevitable ensuing fight. Strangely, the affected Hound never seemed to emerge victorious, so why were they the ones instigating?
If they didn't run into anyone, they'd eventually collapse, seemingly falling into a deep sleep for hours uninterrupted. When they finally came to, they were confused, but the Queen's Hounds were never the brightest to begin with. So, unable to find an enemy who'd knocked them out, they'd return to their guardpost and carry on like nothing had happened.
Without much to go on and no idea where to start looking, they decided to search the area of the forest slowly, clearing it of enemies like a regular patrol sweep, while keeping an eye out for anything that looked out of the ordinary along the way.
Adso was relaying the tale of some knight he'd read recently – noting that it was obviously written by the "knight" himself with the intent to impress the "fairest of all maidens", who was clearly someone he'd known and inserted into his shoddy story to live out some strange fantasy. The entire plot was completely nonsensical. Adso spoke animatedly as they walked, arms gesticulating as he recited the "knights" ridiculous lines, Aran chiming in to comment or laugh along with the boy, while he took out the occasional Vexer hopping their way.
They trudged through the thankfully light snowfall from the night before, Adso just beginning to bemoan turning down Aran's offer of a pair of his socks before they'd left their camp, when he stops, pointing to a bush a few feet away.
"There. See those red flowers? Wow, they're almost like black horehound except... totally different, actually. Oh! Do you remember when I told you that story a few months ago, Aran? About a spurned wife who tried to poison her unfaithful husband with black horehound. Didn't work obviously – they're not poisonous to humans. They just stink. Some people still use them in medicine, though. Anyway, whatever these are, they definitely aren't native to the Niveous Realm. Or... anywhere, for that matter. If they are, I've never seen them before. Never read about them, either..."
Aran grabs the boy by the scruff of his jacket – he'd been slowly moving forward as he spoke, now far too close for Aran's liking, nose inches from one of the blooms.
"Focus, Adso."
"Sorry." He smiles sheepishly, "We should follow these flowers, though. They'll lead us to the Mother – I'm sure of it."
Aran pats him on the shoulder, amused by how proud he looks to be the one who found their first real clue, and lets the boy lead the way.
They move through the forest with purpose now, following the trail of strange flowering bushes.
"Hmm… definitely not horehound, these smell... nice. Sweet – kinda like honeysuckle, right?"
"Right." Aran's distracted. He'd noticed the smell earlier, and was wary of the fact that it was steadily getting stronger, the scent growing sickly in his nose and creating a tightness behind his eyes.
Their trail has led them to a small clearing. Aran had to cleave through a small thicket of brush, trusting his sense of smell that the cloying aroma was strongest just beyond the shrubs. The trees are thick here and Adso's grateful his toes are no longer buried in snow as they stand, waiting.
Suddenly, the ground below Aran's feet glows, the roots beneath the frozen earth twisting and forming into a lumbering shape. Adso backs up to keep out the way as Aran and the Dryad circle one another slowly.
It looks mostly normal, but it's… more shapely than a typical Dryad. Slightly shorter too. Aran's surprised when the blossoms bloom – the usual deep purple of the centers are a delicate pink, the surrounding petals the same unnatural passionate red of the flowers they'd been following.
It's not tougher than a regular Dryad though and Aran dispatches it quickly, finishing it with a decisive slash of his kukris. It collapses with a final squeal and explodes into a cloud of pale spores. Aran recoils, the smell overwhelming. It's sweet, almost oversweet like sickly decay, and he instantly feels dizzy. He drops to a knee, wheezing as he tries to clear his lungs, thumping his chest and coughing. His head's gone blank, empty of everything except that repulsive saccharine smell.
"Forgers, Aran, are you okay? You're sweating, are you– do you feel pain anywhere? Do you feel sick? Aran? Hey! Are you listening to me?"
Aran grunts, trying to get his eyes to focus on the blurry face in front of him. He pushes himself up with another grunt – his limbs feel slow, like he's moving through deep water and his skin's getting hot. His mind is sluggish but thankfully, his thoughts are coming back into focus.
Except, they're not his thoughts. It's like someone's whispering in his ear, mostly unintelligible but definitely there. He tries covering his ears but it doesn't change – it feels like a serpent hissing low and insistent directly to his brain. He feels something brush lightly against his arm and wheels around, grabbing whatever had touched him.
Adso yelps and tries to pull his arm away, but Aran holds on tight.
"Ow! Hey! Aran, let go. I was just trying to..."
Adso looks up from where Aran's gripping his arm to the man's face and forgets what he was going to say.
Aran's looking at him unmoving, chest barely shifting as he breathes – short shallow inhales and exhales. Aran's always warm, it's something the boy likes about him, but the fist holding him is scorching. Adso feels a flash of panic ignite in his chest. Something's really wrong.
"A-Aran, are you–ack!"
Firm fingers grip his jaw. It hurts and his cheeks are squished together when Aran tips his head up and moves it side to side, like he's surveying him.
Aran growls as he yanks off Adso's pack, spins the boy around and pulls him crushingly close – a hand pressing into his lower abdomen and the other spreading against his collar, effectively pinning him head to toe against him. Adso's felt it enough at this point to know that the hardness pressing into his back is Aran's erection. He doesn't understand what's happening.
Aran ruts against him, panting heavily, pulling the boy's coat up and snapping the fastener of his belt in his fist carelessly. He discards it along with his waistskirt, so he can rub his clothed erection into the cleft of Adso's ass.
"Need to– hahh, fuck– need– inside. Inside."
Adso struggles, trying to get Aran to let go, but his hold stays firm. The man's jaw clicks open and he bites down on the boy's shoulder, trying to stop his squirming – make him stop fighting. Adso yelps at the sharp pain, the thick fabric of his jacket saving his skin from breaking, but he knows he's going to bruise. He goes still. He doesn't understand what's happening.
"Aran, you– we can't. I'm not– please, you'll hurt me, Aran, I– ah!"
He curls over him, forcing Adso to bend forwards with him, making it easier to press firmly against his lithe form. Aran needs to be inside him.
"Adso. Adso, I'm sorry. I need–" He grunts, burying his nose into Adso's hair, breathingly deeply. He's holding the boy so tight to his body he can feel the way his smaller frame is trembling. He's afraid – too afraid to keep resisting, to even move an inch, to try to push Aran away. It makes his mouth water.
"Please, I'm– Aran. I can't – not like this. Not here. If there's something else – any other way I can help you." His voice is quiet but frantic. He's begging, trying to get through to the man who's still grinding into him like a mutt who smelled a bitch in heat.
Adso's mind races. His body's frozen but he needs to get away – needs Aran to let go so he can think. The Hounds – Aran had said they'd always ended up fighting, but why? Aran's not fighting him, he's… Was the "grappling" Aran saw maybe..? He's focusing on the wrong thing. That's not important right now. What's happening to Aran is what's important – and this isn't Aran. It's the Dryad Mother's spores. But Adso doesn't know enough about them, he's never seen this before. What if his feverish skin is because the toxin's cooking him from the inside? What if this kills him? No. The Hounds that passed out – they didn't die, they went back to normal. So Aran won't die. He'll go back to normal. Eventually... They're still in the forest though – there are still wild Savages here, he wouldn't be safe. Adso can't leave him like this.
He apologised. He's still in there. The Aran I know would never want to hurt me. Aran, please, please...
"Aran," The boy's voice is barely above a whisper. He's still being jostled violently by the force of Aran's desperate attempt to mount him through their clothes. The shake in Adso's voice isn't put on when he continues, resisting the instinct to cry when Aran breathes hot and heavy on his neck. He's gonna bite me again. I'm gonna bleed – he's gonna make me bleed and it won't stop him. He's not going to stop.
"I'm scared, Aran." His bottom lip starts to wobble, "You're scaring me."
Aran feels forge-hot guilt tear through him, ripping a hole in the fog just enough for him to breathe. What am I doing? His boy is frightened, and it's because of him. He's frightened of him. He fights against the feral desire clouding his mind, wading through the mire of thoughts urging him to fuck. To fill. To breed.
He reluctantly releases his hold on Adso and stumbles back, putting space between them as he pants. Adso has turned to face him, still hunched slightly, covering his upper body with folded arms. He's cowering and hugging himself tight, desperate for comfort.
Fuck. He's terrified. Aran's mouth fills with saliva and he presses hard into his eyes with his hand, willing his head to clear so he can think rationally. He's weak. You know how small he is, you could easily push him down, pin him to the ground. He's warm – so warm – inside, and he takes you so well. He's made for it. He'll like it – probably even thank you after, you know easy he is to– No. No. He won't hurt him. He won't hurt his boy.
"I need to send you back to camp, lad. I can't–" He gasps out a sharp sigh, pained. "Please... lock the door behind you."
Adso takes a quick step forward, freezing when Aran flinches away, recoiling.
"I won't leave you here, Aran. I can't – Not when you're like this. What if something happens to you? What if you're out here alone and pass out for hours like those Hounds and you– ...you can't defend yourself like this."
"Defend myself? Boy, I don't think you understand what's happening right now. You have no idea what I'm thinking, what I want to– What my brain is telling me to do."
Adso's eyes flick down, then back up to Aran's face.
"I think I have some idea."
"Now is not the time for jokes, Adso. Don't be foolish. I'm sending you back."
Aran reaches behind him for his hammer when two icy hands fly out to grab his wrists.
"Let go, Adso." He warns, low.
"I'm not going anywhere. Where are you gonna send me – back to camp, right? You already cleared the town Aran, I'll just walk back over here – you know I will."
Adso, making the trek through Winter's Wall alone, crossing the threshold to the forest looking for him, getting snatched by something – or someone – lurking in some shadow and Aran wouldn't know for hours until he eventually woke up. Or, the pretty sweet thing comes looking for you, but you're the one waiting. The struggle makes it feel so much better, his heart beating so fast, warming him up so when you sink into his tight little–
"Stop being so fucking stubborn, brat. I know you love to question my intelligence, but do you really think I can't tell that you're just pretending you're not still afraid? You can't even stand up straight to face me – you're shaking like a babe lost alone in the catacombs. And don't say it's because it's cold, Adso, I really don't have the patience to deal with your petulance right now."
"Don't talk to me like I'm a child, Aran."
"Then stop acting like one and listen to me for once, for Forger's sake." He's speaking through gritted teeth. Adso's obstinance is making his blood sing with the need to put him in his place – make him understand. He needs the boy gone now.
Aran hisses when cold fingers graze his stomach, trying to get his belt unbuckled. He grabs Adso's wrists crushingly tight, wrenching them away.
"Don't test me, boy. I'm trying not to hurt you, why are you being so difficult?"
"I'm not being difficult – I'm trying to help you. Have some faith in me, Aran. After everything we've already done – everything you've already done to me, you idiot – do you think I can't handle this?"
Aran doesn't want to send him back. He wants him here – wants him close. But he wants him safe.
He can't find the will to keep fighting to send him away.
Aran releases his wrists, fingerprint-sized bruises are already starting to form and bleed into the crisp edges of the boy's tattoos. The man stands stock still, breathing hard through his nose. He feels Adso unsteadily unbuckle his belt and hears when he lets it drop, hitting the ground with a solid thunk.
"I know you won't hurt me, Aran. I trust you. Do you trust me?"
The boy's fingers are resting on the closures of his trousers, looking into his eyes beseechingly, waiting for permission.
Aran still doesn't move, save for a single slow nod of his head. He's clenching his jaw tightly, trying to stay in control as the Dryad's spores wreak havoc inside his head. Adso sinks to his knees, wincing only slightly as he attempts to find a comfortable spot on the hard ground. He leans up, shaking fingers working at the buttons, and presses a timid kiss to the strip of exposed skin where his top has ridden up an inch, breathing shakily. He doesn't know if he's trying to ground Aran or himself.
When they're finally undone, Adso pulls Aran's trousers down just enough to slip his hand into the man's underwear. Aran hisses when those chilled fingers wrap around his length, helping him out of his underwear. He's painfully hard, flushed deep red and the soft skin feels furnace-hot to Adso's fingers.
Aran's surprisingly wet already, easing the cautious glide of Adso's hands, spreading his precum from the tip towards the root. Adso calms slightly, stroking Aran's length. He loves Aran's cock – has ever since he first saw it – but this is the first time he's been quite this close, about to take him between his lips.
Aran had been very firm – he didn't think Adso was ready for this. The boy liked to babble too much, he'd said, and had a habit of biting down on Aran's fingers when he put them in his mouth. Adso had tried to argue he was just being playful – of course he knew not to do that if it was Aran's cock in their place – but Aran hadn't budged. He must be in dire straits if he was willing now – stood in the brisk open air in the middle of the forest.
His fear is quickly being forgotten, the lingering panic in his gut and distress prickling up his spine mixes with the exhilaration of being allowed to finally taste Aran. He resists the urge to swallow the saliva gathering in his mouth, instead pressing one more kiss to Aran's hip before his tongue darts out and he licks the tip, kittenish and shy. Aran's precum tastes so different from his own (he's a teenage boy, okay? He's curious). It's not as sweet as his had been, salty and musky in a way that Adso identifies as distinctly Aran. Unaware of the true extent of the man's vicious internal struggle, Adso takes another tentative lick. He hums, pleased to find the taste more pleasant now he knows what to expect and, being mindful of his teeth, gingerly takes the head inside his mouth.
Aran hisses – Adso's mouth feels like heaven. But he's not moving. He's just suckling the head lightly, occasionally lapping at the tip, getting used to the taste. He's so darling. Aran feels his fingers flexing with the urge to take the boy by his hair and make him do it properly.
Adso can hear the hitching in Aran's breathing and when he looks up, he can see from just his face how tense he is. He keeps clenching and relaxing his fisted hands, clearly wanting to hold onto something. He pulls off the cock in his mouth with a soft pop, stroking the shaft with his hands.
"You can touch me, Aran. It's okay. I trust you, remember?" Please fight it, Aran.
Adso's smile is unsteady, but Aran doesn't notice. His pupils are blown wide – he's not fully focused, torn between the euphoria of his boy's sweet mouth eager to suck him, and resisting the rotten voice in his head.
Slowly, tenuous restraint making his hands shake aggressively, Aran reaches forward. He lays them hesitantly on the boy's head, petting his soft hair, trying to keep himself in control of his own mind. He sighs when he feels Adso place a gentle, chaste kiss to his tip. Aran looks down and sees Adso peering up at him. His knees are surely starting to ache on the frozen ground. He's still shaking slightly and his meek little smile wobbles the longer Aran stares at him. But despite everything, Adso's eyes are bright, heavy with adoration. He looks so precious. I can control it. I won't hurt him.
Aran touches his jaw with featherlight fingers, drawing him close again. Adso's still holding his gaze when he takes Aran's cock back between his lips. Aran suppresses the growl threatening to tear up and out of his throat. He's breathing heavy and ragged as he softly urges Adso to take him further, the boy's eyelashes fluttering delicately as his mouth quickly becomes full. Aran's eyes are intense. It's frightening, but Adso's cock still swells under the man's attention. When Aran's cock nudges the back of his throat, he huffs out a loud keen. The spell of his fragile focus is broken by the sound and Aran startles. He jerks forward and Adso gags.
He tries to move back, spluttering around the cock still in his mouth, but finds he can't go far. He whimpers as Aran wordlessly starts pressing back into his mouth, rubbing along his soft palate, and Adso steels himself. He wills his still spasming throat to please, please relax. His eyes narrow into a pained watery squint and his eyebrows pinch when Aran's back at that spot, hitting resistance as the angle inside him changes. Adso whines and shuffles, trying to ease the strain, trying to straighten out his throat so Aran can slip in without hurting him.
Any effort is ultimately futile when the hissing in Aran's head suddenly increases tenfold – every wicked thought he's had since killing the Dryad overwhelms him at once. It's too loud and they all converge on a single desire. Inside. Now.
Adso chokes, eyes filling with tears and he raises his hands to Aran's thighs, trying to push him away – to let him take a breath – as he bullies his way down Adso's throat. There's no care for the boy, just an all-consuming need to be buried to the hilt in something warm, and wet, and welcoming.
Aran groans, low and rough, when he finally bottoms out. Adso's gagging, his smaller frame wracked with convulsions as he tries to fight the retching he can feel brewing in his stomach, drool catching at the corners of his mouth. He starts crying in relief when he feels Aran pulling out – he needs to breathe.
His eyes flick to Aran's face but he's not looking at him anymore. He's still looking down, but his eyes are focused on where Adso's lips are stretching around his shaft. Adso sobs when Aran pushes back in. He feels abandoned – Aran's not paying attention to him and he needs him. He needs him to notice and help him. Shame washes through him hotly – he's fully erect in his clothes. He sobs harder as Aran's pace becomes vicious.
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He's no better than an animal, using Adso like he's nothing more than a hot, wet hole to fuck into. No longer having enough mind left to feel guilt seeing Adso's back arch as he gags, thick saliva sliding down his chin, Aran's movements are cruel. Adso's being rocked back and forth on his knees, his earrings jangling softly like chimes, as the man pulls almost all the way out, hissing at the cold air on his overheated saliva-slick cock, and then bullying his way back in. He feels the throat around him convulse, trying instinctually to clear the obstruction so the boy can breathe. Both of his hands are at the back of Adso's head, fisting in his hair harshly, as he pushes the boy's nose into his abdomen and holds him there, groaning.
Adso should be scared – he can't breathe and his throat is so sore, Aran's being so rough – but he's not, not really. He feels woozy due to the lack of oxygen but he's so turned on. He wants to touch himself – to give his desperate, straining cock some attention. His underwear is soaked, so much so it feels like he's wet himself. His pitifully neglected cock won't stop drooling, making him shiver at the growing mess he knows is trapped between his legs. But he can't lift his arms – can barely wiggle his toes to stop them falling asleep. His body's not his own as Aran uses him.
There's the barest hint of panic trying to edge its way to the surface as Aran holds him still, thick cock stretching his lips and throat wide. He can't even swallow anymore he's so full, causing more spit to bubble at the corners of his mouth, having nowhere else to go but out. His nose is running and his puffed-out cheeks are covered in tears. Aran jerks his hips forward, but he's already as deep as he can be and Adso chokes loudly.
He's gonna be sick – his stomach lurches and his poor throat muscles are trying desperately to clear his airway – and he whines as best he can, his body finally moving as he slaps at Aran's thighs, desperate and urgent.
The man relents and yanks his head away with a grunt. Adso heaves in a breath and chokes on the thick, viscous spit filling his mouth. He coughs wetly, drool spilling out his open mouth to the forest floor beneath him. He feels filthy, his erection tenting his precum-sodden clothing so dramatically he's worried they'll be ruined beyond repair.
Aran growls above him and tries to pull his head back to his crotch, to sink back into that tight, hot hole.
"Wait, wait. Please, Aran, I need–" his voice croaks painfully and he coughs again, sucking in a frantic breath. "I just– I just need a moment."
He looks up at the man pleadingly as he gasps and sniffles hard, trying crudely to clear his sinuses.
His face is obscene – defiled and messy – smeared with a sinful mix of spit and tears and mucus and Aran's precum. His blue eyes are big and wet and the tip of his darling little nose is pink from being crushed to Aran's body and rasped through the hair above the man's cock. Aran growls again gutturally at the sight of the ruined boy kneeling submissively at his feet, incensed at being denied the boy's mouth, but he complies. His hips subconsciously thrust weakly against nothing, seeking friction in the space between them.
Adso closes his eyes as he tries to catch his breath, coughing weakly. When his insides feel settled again, he nods and a warm hand takes hold of his chin, Aran's thumb pulling at his bottom lip. He opens his mouth wide, his soft pink tongue sticking out to cover his teeth, and Aran resumes his pace with a grunt.
Saliva drips in thick strands from Adso's chin down to his lap, making an even worse mess of his clothes. Aran's breathing so hard he sounds like a wild animal, hot breath visible in the cold air.
The pleasure and blissful heat of Adso's perfect throat loosen the spores' hold on Aran's mind slightly, appeased for now. He's still not fully in control – his blood's turned mean as it courses through him – but he finds his voice. Taking in Adso's pathetic form below him, now with some level of lucidity, he huffs out a cruel laugh. He's panting with exertion but his pace doesn't falter.
"Fuck, look at yourself, boy. About to cum– hahh, fucking untouched just from sucking my cock. Forgers, such a perfect little whore. You were born for this, Adso. The Abbey was the wrong place for you, boy – your useless parents should've known to leave you on the steps of a brothel instead."
Adso sobs around Aran's length, still plunging fast and deep down his throat. Scalding hot tears of shame stream down his cheeks as searing humiliation rips through him, and his body shakes violently. Aran's being so cruel. He can be a bit of a bully sometimes, sure – can be callous and thoughtless with his words – but he's never said anything so truly hurtful before. Something that pierces so uncaringly into the open wound that is the topic of Adso's absent family. And to bring it up in such a crass way. To insinuate his parents should've been able to see the deep well of lust and desperate desire for sex and men and cock – wanting them to fuck him into a babbling, pathetic mess – that he would develop as he drew closer to adulthood. How could they have missed it, even on the innocent face of a baby.
Adso knows the man will be distraught when this is over – if he even remembers any of this at all. Aran will never stop apologising, never stop feeling guilty, never stop seeking his forgiveness. Even if Adso tells him the truth. Because Adso should be hurt. He should be devastated and heartbroken by Aran's cruel, mocking words. Should want to push him away – want to bite down on the flesh in his mouth and spit it, red and bloody, into the man's shocked face and feel righteous in his retribution as he howls in pain.
He doesn't, though. He doesn't want that. He wants Aran to keep talking – wants him to never stop.
"What would Abbot Dorin think, if he saw you like this? On your knees like a whore for another man. His precious protégé – his noble charge – barely grown up, nothing but a desperate slut, begging for his past mentor's dear old friend's cum down his obedient throat. I bet the Priors and other elders at Egion were waiting– ahh hah– waiting for you to come of age. Or maybe they didn't care – a boy as pretty as you – maybe they couldn't wait."
Adso whines, desperate. He wants to tell Aran no. The Abbey wasn't like that – they'd been good to him. It was a place of dedicated learning and rigorous study, and he'd been content there. He used to believe he'd been happy there, but after all his time spent with Aran – embarking on their adventure, travelling across the kingdom, facing danger and sharing true companionship with him – he knew that was no longer the truth. He's happy here – with him.
Not at the Abbey, and definitely not in some whorehouse, but right here. As long as he's next to Aran, Adso is the happiest he could ever hope to be. This is where he belongs. He belongs entirely to Aran.
Lost in his thoughts, an especially harsh thrust catches him off guard and makes his stomach heave again. He splutters and tears himself away, his hands pressing into the solid hard ground while he coughs up nothing of substance. He breathes deeply, before turning back to Aran. He shakes his head once, resolute, then rasps out,
"Just you. Only you, Aran. Only ever you."
Aran stares at him for a moment. He watches the boy fist his hands in the fabric covering his thighs, even though his pretty cock is still standing covered and neglected right there, like he's determined to obey some unspoken command – like he knows this isn't about his pleasure. This isn't for him.
The man grabs the back of Adso's neck with a rough hand and squeezes hard, forcing his head to tilt back with a sharp gasp. His hands fly up to brace against Aran's thighs as he feeds his cock back into the boy's mouth, excruciatingly slow, so he's forced to feel every inch slide home – the now familiar weight landing on his tongue, the head bumping into his soft palate, the pressure just before it passes into the tightness of his throat, and down. He keeps his hold tight, his hips still and flush to Adso's face, as he watches Adso's eyes go half-lidded and unfocused, his mind slipping back into that adorable submissive state that makes Aran's heart thrum with possessiveness.
He reaches his other hand under the boy's raised chin and traces the edge of his collar with a finger. The wild thing heating his blood purrs at the way it bulges, thrilled by how it's distended indecently, proof he's buried deep – entirely sheathed in a slick, warm cunt. The muscles under his fingertip twitch at the light, teasing touch. Arin uses both hands to circle Adso's throat, groaning when he pushes his thumbs to either side of his cock and feels a soft gurgle send vibrations up his length.
Aran thrusts experimentally, grinning wide as he feels Adso's throat flatten back to normal, then slowly get pushed out again. Adso's head spins when Aran presses past the increased pressure of his thumbs, petting his own cockhead through the boy's neck.
He fucks hard and fast, so close to reaching his peak and filling – breeding – the perfect, tight cunt of Adso's throat.
Adso lets out a desperate, needy moan just as Aran pushes past his vocal chords and the vibration makes his hips jerk sharply. The man startles almost as hard as Adso – he's cumming.
Adso gags when he feels the first spurt of cum hit his throat, thick and cloying, but quickly realises he needs to swallow. He needs to keep swallowing otherwise his throat will be full and he'll legitimately choke. Aran alternates between petting and pulling at his hair as he grunts – Adso's gulping around the still cumming cock lodged in his throat, encouraging more seed to slide down directly into his stomach, warming him from the inside – and the boy isn't sure which one is meant to be the reward.
He looks up tearily – there's too much. He can't keep swallowing. His throat is starting to click with the strain and he needs to breathe. Aran takes pity on him when he whines, muted, the sound vibrating the sensitive head of his cock where it's keeping the boy gagged. He pulls back and settles on Adso's tongue. He feels little puffs of air as Adso pants desperately through his nose, trying to get oxygen back in his lungs. Small keening moans keep interrupting him though whenever Aran's pulsating cock spills another burst of salt and musk over his tongue.
He's so relieved when he feels Aran start to pull out – he'll finally be able to close his aching jaw – yet he still hollows his cheeks slightly. He doesn't want to waste any of the meal he's been graciously given. He wants to take every last drop.
Aran's cock slips out with a pop, wet and dripping with cum and saliva. He tilts the boy's head back by his hair so far he knows it must be verging on painful, and pets his bottom lip with two fingers.
"Open."
Adso's mouth falls open with a whine and Aran smiles at the vulgar mixture of his cum and Adso drool filling his mouth, coating his teeth and tongue. Aran can see the boy's throat working, trying instinctively to swallow the mess sitting at the back of his tongue that's threatening to slide down his ragged oesophagus, but Adso fights it, holding it all so obediently. Aran rolls his tongue in his own mouth, collecting his spit, and leans over Adso. He watches as it drips lazily into the boy's waiting mouth, connecting them together for a split second before it snaps. He pushes the two fingers resting on his plush lips past his glossy teeth, swirling the milky mixture around – he wants to make sure their fluids are thoroughly blended together in a perverse marriage before they hit the boy's stomach – before removing his hand.
He wipes his soiled fingers on Adso's filthy cheek, smearing it into his blotchy skin and grins at the lewd squelch when he slaps him gently – two quick love taps, nothing too hard. The boy doesn't even flinch. Aran taps his sticky fingers to Adso's chin.
"Close."
Aran pinches the boy's nose with his thumb and forefinger, his other hand coming to lightly circle the boy's neck – not squeezing, just holding – and he feels the rapid heartbeat beneath his fingers start to slow. All Adso needs to soothe him is Aran's warm skin touching his own.
"Swallow – there's a good boy."
He feels Adso's throat muscles ripple, and there's an audible little gurgle as the thick, frothed-up fluid slides down his tender throat.
His voice is wrecked, throat bruised and sore. He can barely get the words out.
"Thank you."
Aran feels his cock start to fill out again.
"Good boy, Adso."