Little Boy Lost, ii.

[Aurin]

"Right," he said.

The tab was paid. He leaned in to drop a kiss on Castor's cheek, chuckling darkly. His lips were soft enough when not smirking, though his stubble scratched a little.

"You're cute."

Aurin held him close to get him used to it, and to make it easier to walk side by side without tripping each other up. He wasn't staying far from there, but he took a roundabout route just in case anyone was following. It was easier to trip up a tail that way and Aurin was just paranoid at the end of the day. He made small talk here and there, pointing out something amusing he saw or the like, but also allowed for companionable silence. There was plenty to hear around them.

Eventually, he led him around the side of a parador that reminded him of Cathena. The stone steps led up the side of the historic building that had been converted into a sort of inn. The formal entry was fine and the rooms and suites that were accessible through that front entrance were grand and expensive. Aurin's feet led them to a third-floor garret apartment that had once been servants' quarters. It was the cheapest room at the best place, and the private entrance suited him.

A key appeared as if by sleight of hand. Certainly, Castor could've seen the trick of it if he had been paying attention, but it hardly mattered. Aurin unlocked the door and opened it. A magical lantern within lit to half its potential brightness, enchantments on the room and the door allowing it to respond appropriately to a guest's return. It was small, simply but well furnished, and clean. Whether it seemed to suit Aurin or not was a matter of Castor's opinion based on limited context.

A strong, callused hand tightened on Castor's shoulder.

"You can turn around and go now," he said softly, gruffly. "No harm, no foul. I'll even let you take some of the wine. And if you come in, I'm not going to force you into anything. We could be naked, drunk, and in the middle of it and you can stop it and same... no harm, no foul. But if you want to come down the rabbit hole, than walk on in. I want to watch how that ass moves when you walk..." The smirk was as audible in his voice as it was visible on his face there at the end.

If Castor did precede him into the room, however, he was going to give him a short, sharp slap on the rump because he was a pervert, more of a surprise than a painful thing.

[Castor Green]

Castor had several almosts.

There was Hannah, who’d kissed him first. He’d been uncertain and awkward but Castor had kissed her back under a grand oak tree in his backyard. It might have gone even further but as much shade as that tree offered, it held little in terms of privacy, and neither he nor she felt especially willing to be seen by anyone else other than themselves.

And Noah, who he’d loved for so long. He’d yearned for years at school. He fell so quickly into that fantasy, and he’d drowned his concerns for rejects in wine enough until they bloom instead into bravado. They’d danced together under fairy lights and a full moon, but nothing happened, and instead they fell asleep together in an empty meadow. The next morning, they’d left each other with an awkward goodbye.

And finally, and most recently, there’d been Ezra. He’d been like a statue brought to live, as pretty as anything else made of marble and gilded as brightly as the sun. Hytori more than any other Hytori, as shining as the morning sun. Castor had spent so much time confusing love for loathing. Jealousy. He’d thought for so long he wanted to be Ezra. He’d been surprised as anyone when he realized he wanted not to be the elf, but to be beside him, their bodies entangled forever in something he didn’t yet understand.

Ezra was the only one he still thought about. He thought about his blonde hair, and his shoulders, and how it felt to be wrapped in his light and how everything felt like morning around him. That his skin was soft, and the hair that lined his stomach and chest downy, and that there wasn’t anywhere that hadn’t been safer. And even then, there hadn’t been a time when they’d truly been together.
Not like this. Or, not where this was heading.

--

He’d been counting his own heartbeats. Or had it been seconds? Castor wasn’t sure, because all he really knew is that he’d been kissed in a way he hadn’t been before. They’d walked for a time, for a moment or two outside with dewy sunshine breaking along the cobblestone and splashing against polished windows. Aurin felt more alert and even without his magic, Castor saw the redhead look this way and that and he remembered Castor wasn’t sure what he did for a job - and that all sorts ran business in this part of town.

But that was a small worry, or not enough of a worry to stop Castor. He’d played almosts long enough. There was a key now and a door was opened, and all he saw was magic. He barely used his own Semblance but somehow, instinctively, he could tell there was all manner of enchantments here. All sorts of magic at play.

And he walked through the door - and jumped as he felt a hand on his butt, and even still he walked through; and the, Castor turned around.

“I want to see how you walk, too. Toward me.”

[Aurin]

Of course, Aurin noticed how in his head Castor was, even as the lad seemed fixated on the here and now. The little love slap had startled him, and Aurin grinned. A part of him saw pretty Castor as a notch on the headboard, sure, and Aurin was a bad man, but this didn't have to be bad. He wanted the lad who was quite like him at that age, albeit with less trauma, thankfully, to always remember him and this time fondly, even if they never met again.

He wasn't mind reading, but it didn't take a mind reader to intuit some of what Castor was going through.

Aurin was pleased that his prey had taken another step of his own volition into his temporary lair. He closed the door and locked it, leaning back upon it as Castor took in the room.

When the lad expressed his desire, Aurin nodded. His smile was sharp, but not a smirk. There was a hint of gravitas, too, as though he were taking this seriously. Still leaning back against the door, Aurin unbuttoned and unlaced things, slowly and with some fairly intense eye contact if Castor didn't look away. He wasn't so undone that anything fell right off as he complied, walking toward him, but egress for exploratory hands was offered.

There was something predatory about the way he walked toward.

"You're welcome to look," he said as he walked, arms spreading a bit as if to offer skin. Once he had closed the distance between them, he added, "And you are welcome to touch."

He was going to empower Castor a bit, allow him to control the narrative. Aurin had hidden limits hiding hidden injuries, of course, and he wasn't going to do anything he didn't want to do, but he wasn't going to pounce until the time was right.

[Castor Green]

Castor had been warned, long ago, that nothing in this world was free.

His heart had jumped, higher and hotter, with every lace undone and every button unlatched. There, in his chest, and then along his collarbone, and suddenly at the base of his tongue, the feeling of something red and moving and alive. Clothes seemed impossible. Obstacles, thin and light, and yet there and hiding everything he wanted to see.

He’d been warned that to be beautiful was to be hunted.

Castor felt so strange in his own body then, and there, to feel so clearly and obviously, to delight in the strange sensations of himself seeing Aurin. There was a hunger in the way Aurin walked, and there was no doubt the man thought himself the predator. But where did that leave Castor? Not prey. A rabbit might be still out of fear, but what he felt wasn’t fear. This was the feeling of a young wolf at the precipice of its first skill. The whole of him vibrated with anticipation, and what remained of him not lost to his own hunger fought - a losing battle - to remain ahead.

“To look -,” and he licked his lips, his eyes wide and watching. “- and to touch.” Castor was drowning in his feeling - but he wasn’t gone just yet. He wouldn’t win whatever game he played with himself, for whatever silly reason; as if it mattered who wanted who more, or who fell to their lust first. It didn’t matter who lost, because soon enough, they’d both be winning.

But there was a competitive edge, and he delighted in the game as much as he did the spoils. To be a flirt, he thought, was to survive the hunt a bit longer than he would. Castor reached the lace, and pulled here and there. Skin did not touch skin, and the clothes remained a flimsy wall to something better.

“Anything I want?”

A stupid question. But Castor wasn’t feeling especially smart. He wasn’t sure what he was doing. He knew what he wanted, but he wasn’t sure how to get there. Perhaps that had been the issue before; he’d relied so much on magic to show him the how and the what and the where, but sometimes magic wasn’t enough. Sometimes you had to walk the road to know it.

[Aurin]

"Everyone has boundaries, little Castor," he said, amused. "If they tell you otherwise, it should be a red flag."

A red flag, but not necessarily the end of whatever dance that involved.

His eyes were on Castor's lips ever since he had licked them. While the lad toyed with his clothes, Aurin was bolder, albeit still controlled: he reached up, his touch almost delicate, the curve of his index finger catching Castor's chin so his thumb could run over those lips.

"But sometimes teasing at boundaries is mutually pleasurable, if one can trust the boundary will ultimately be respected. So, within whatever boundaries we find, be creative. You can touch with your hands," and he paused, his thumb's movements over Castor's lips foreshadowing, "and you can touch with your lips." He almost kept going, something about arching backs and thrusting hips; perhaps he was remembering some salacious song that rhymed lips and hips, but that was such low-hanging fruit. Anyway, he had some low-hanging fruit for Castor to find...

Aurin knew the lad had the trick for knowing, so he was careful to keep his secrets secret, but he didn't hide much of what was going on nearer to the surface. He was a playful, but he was letting his desires and intentions rest where Castor could easily ken them, giving him time to draw his own boundaries, and also anticipate other things with glee.

"What do you want?" he challenged gently, but before Castor could respond, his thumb prised between his teeth, pinning his tongue.

"Don't tell me with words. Tell me with your body."

[Castor Green]

((mod note: trying the second person for funsies. Not sure how it’s landing lol))

Do you like being in a fantasy?

You aren’t sure. You’ve imagined this at least a thousand times over. Him, or someone like him. Taller than you. Stronger than you. There are only so many ways you can say you want someone bigger than you. Now that you’re confronted by the fantasy, you wonder at your own desires. Why do you have the fascination with being smaller? You aren’t tall to begin with, and yet here you are, in the exact sort of situation you’ve imagined so many times.

They weren’t usually redheads, you think, your eyes wide as you realize his hand is reaching for your mouth. You opened your mouth to ask what you’re already thinking, but then his thumb against the white of your teeth, the heat of your tongue. You realize how much bigger his hand is than yours. You respect yourself a little less for noticing it. You think about that, too. You think it’s funny how quickly you’ll take respect away from yourself for something so silly as a sexual fantasy.

You think about how much you’re thinking.

Was that normal? Did he see how much you were thinking? Could he tell? Was he thinking, too, about this, about you, about all the times he’s imagined this - or done this - and thinking about how you compare to everything else that came before? You wondered how you did compare, and then you wondered why you even bothered. It didn’t. It shouldn’t matter, not to him, and certainly not to you.

You wonder if it’s going to be like this every time. How exhausting.

Finally, after seconds, minutes - an hour? No. Impossible. Anyway. You reach, quivering with anticipation. You touch his hair. You stroke his face, his neck, his shoulders. Here he is, this man, the real flesh and blood stand-in for every fantasy you’ve ever had. And he doesn’t disappoint. He’s real which already counts for so much. That, and of course your own imagination doesn’t compare. You were never especially creative.

Your hands - yes, plural. More than one. The two at work, because you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted to feel his whole face cupped between your hands, and then at either side of his broad shoulders, and then on his chest. It moves with his every breath. And there, you can feel his heart. It isn’t beating as fast as yours. But that’s normal. That makes sense. He’s done this before, clearly. And you - well, you haven’t.

And then you’re touching his skin, and then you find the trail of hair that reaches from his stomach to below, and suddenly your face is very hot, oh so hot, and you’re sure that you’re blushing in such an obvious way it could almost kill you. You think about your face, pink and red, and an expression mixed between desire, and embarrassment, and everything else you could feel.

And then you decide to kiss him.

You lean forward and you close your eyes.

You decide this is better than thinking.

[Aurin]

► Show Spoiler

You were there, and you could tell that your being there was enough, but of course you had done this too many times to expect to feel special, to be special. Perhaps you were special to him, though, and would remain so. His first. Or so he said. He didn't seem to be lying, and because he had that thing, that resonance with who you had been so very long ago, you don't dig too deep. You do him that courtesy.

You're a bad man. You're a monster. But you have free will and sometimes you choose to hold your darkness in abeyance, to be good—if not in and of yourself—at least for him. Here and now.

Gods, he's beautiful. He knows it, but he doesn't know the half of it. He knows what it means, some of it, but a man could be quick and cunning; experience would still be a teacher.

He touches you like you're magical, and not the codified magic that was almost a science, but magical like the wonder at esoteric things, at divine things, forever just beyond reach even when right at one's fingertips.

You could cry. No, you should cry. You wouldn't, though. You had as good seared out your tear ducts long ago. It almost felt like he was forgiving you, though, with his hands. Forgiving you for being bad, for being a monster.

And then his hands are lingering, lower down, where the figs lie. You almost gasp as if you were the virgin. His lips tighten around your thumb, and he's looking into your eyes with equal measures of fear and trust, desire and daring. He pushes forward, daring little git, and your thumb comes free. Your hands are in his hair, and he's going to claim a kiss. Good boy. Take what you want from the world.

His mouth is sweet and hungry. You kiss back with your years of experience, but his mouth is new. You know how to feed his hunger, and you know how to keep him sweet and savory.

[Castor Green]

There’s a hesitation -

No. That’s not right. You aren’t waiting for anything, but there’s a moment right before your lips touch his. The space between you and him disappearing. Oh, you think, because the space is gone now, and all you’re thinking about is his lips and yours, and this strange sort of dance you’re pretending to know.

You realize, as you fumble against his tongue, that it’s you. Your head is cluttered thinking about the now, and before, wondering about the possibilities that wouldn’t come for minutes, hours, or days, yet. You’re holding back, you’re holding him, and it’s you. You break away for a moment, and then you brush your lips against his jaw, perfect and sharp and beautiful, and then his throat, red and breathing, and there the apple -

You smile finding your way to his lips again. You kill the thinking part of yourself with a smile. You dive in, because you realize, this is the benefit of a stranger. You might see him again, and desperately you want to, but you might not.

You decide that if there was ever a time to be without reservations, it’s now.

And then you’re pushing against his body, and not just his mouth. You fumble against the walls and the expensive statues and rugs and lamps, pushing until you both knock against a chair, and then he’s sitting in it, and you’re on him.

You laugh, because you’re nervous, because you’re happy, because you’re not thinking. You’re feeling, yes, oh but that’s already so obvious.

You’re back to his mouth, that wonderful mouth, warm and red and as you meet him, you can taste so much more than that. Your magic spirals, free and alive, and you taste him, all that he is and was, you drown in it. You’re in the bloom of your youth, a delight, this is bottled lightning, and he’s enjoying this as much as you - and how that thrills you.

Again, your mouth at his jaw.

Again, you find his throat and his apple, and - oh, look at you, tracing his clavicle with your tongue. His clothes, which were already falling off, disappear at the touch of your fingers, your mouth, silk and cotton replaced (happily) with skin. You’re enthralled, you know, bewitched by a man with red hair and hazel eyes, and you know it won’t be the last time. There’s a fire inside you, a heat only he can quench, and you push your body against his over and over again, only remembering that your clothes are still a very unwelcome barrier.

Easily solved. What if all the world’s problems were so simple. You had clothes, and then by the next second, you don’t.

You don’t give him much time to enjoy the view, because as soon as you can, you’re back in his lap. Your mouth is back where it was, exploring his shoulders, and then his chest, his nipples. Skin feels so strange to you. Warm, not unwelcome, and salty. Sharp. He’s strong, which you notice, and you clearly like.

There’s more below that draws your attention but not yet. Not yet.

[Aurin]

► Show Spoiler

You can almost forget who and what you are in the mingling delight. Feeling his questing fingers of magic, you open up, let him in, and feel him without your hands as well as with them, as well as with your skin and your mouth and all. There are parts of you that remain hidden, information not fit for strangers, but you know the kid is learning you in a profound way all the same and while that's frightening, it's also desperately needed. To be seen. To be accepted. To be celebrated.

You maintain enough presence of mind not to lose your mind, at least not yet. Someone should know how to keep the ship from capsizing, after all, despite its high-spirited young captain. You show him things he doesn't know, and if you have felt hands there countless times, you haven't felt his hands there, nor have you always felt yourself through the hands of another, felt that youthful exploratory exhilaration focused and centered upon you.

You should warn him it's not always like this. You should warn him this is closer akin to what some people might call making love. You should warn him that this will leave the both of them changed, perhaps. But if he doesn't sense it in his own mind or from your mind's momentary pause, well, it wouldn't be the worst thing, would it?

For what it's worth, you stop him for a moment. With his eager body straddling you in your chair, you catch his face in both hands once more, needfully firm at first to arrest his ardor, then gentler as you gaze at him, heavy-lidded and let him see himself through your eyes. Being for him what you thought you needed at his age or, to be fair, earlier.

You are a good liar, but it's much more difficult to lie when you have let someone in. You let him see wonder and adoration, lust and something akin to love, though that bitch didn't show up on a first date.

Then your hands are in his hair. Then your tongues are dancing. Then his smooth chest is slightly abraded against the light smattering of ginger hair on yours. He doesn't seem to mind.

[Castor Green]

You’re beyond words.

There, you see? Everything is bubbles. Everything is fragile. You’re in a bubble, and you’re fragile, but that’s only the way of things. You have to break to grow. Sometimes, you know, that breaking is the fun part.

You see him, fully, in ways only you can understand. As your hands are busy with his arms, his hands, his hair, as your mouth is busy with his, and your eyes are closed, but you can still see. There, between you, something catches like fire. You understand lust and desire and want, and you know that exists only in the spaces between things.

Someone once told you that desire is an issue of boundaries. Someone once told you that to desire something, someone, means a part of you is gone. Red is the most beautiful color. It shines and dazzles, it burns, smoke rises like incense, and everything feels like a rose without thorns. A part of you understands the thorns come later. You’re breaking now, which is fun, the pain of a broken heart (inevitable) will come later.
Life, as all things, has its price.

Lucky you, then, to have stopped thinking. So many people have such trouble enjoying the now. You don’t seem to have such an issue.
Does he know he’s beautiful? You both are wounded in different ways, and perhaps in some sense, you complete the other. Poetic, yes, a fantasy, yet, but here you are, with magic, in a world where gods roam and love could - theoretically - exist. You don’t know the dangers of any of this. You’ve played with fire, with the edges of things sharper than you should, and still you don’t understand that the things that hurt worst are the things you’ll do to yourself.

But that isn’t for now, and it isn’t soon. You can’t see it coming, you are no oracle.

Instead - and quite happily - you moan when he kisses you, that light inside catching wild and bright, and you pull him closer, and you push yourself closer, and you wonder about boundaries and flesh and other things, and you wonder if you could erase everything. You could be complete, and he could be, too, but there’s so many things you have to learn before you could even try.

Again, you aren’t thinking. You don’t think of any of this. Your mind is empty, all feelings, all urgency, because to think is to hesitate, and you only want more. Desire as clear as day, it’s yours, touching him everywhere.

You smile wider, when he holds your face. You’re a bit jealous of his beauty. You don’t shy away from it, because for now, it’s yours, as much as yours is his. You laugh, drunk with pleasure, when he touches your neck, and he pulls you close again - oh, push and pull, the moon and the sea, caught forever in a dance you never knew to be so much fun. Why had you waited so long?

Your body sings more, and more, and your aura brightens with interest and desire, and you want him to know without saying anything.