Legend of Ransera

"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.

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.

"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."

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.

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.