Mercury
The dark-skinned creature in his bed was an ethereal vision tangled in milk-white sheets, one smooth, slender arm cast across his eyes, the other over his gently rising and falling chest. Lingering outside, Spain ever so gently pushed the door open with a single finger, waiting for the boy to stir. He only huffed and settled, cool air nosing into the room, drifting disinterestedly about ruby carnations and rose-wine canopies and that sensual curl bobbing like a coaxing finger.
His boots were noisy against terracotta tiles. Swiftly undoing the laces, he swept them free of his feet and discarded them near the door. Like tired soldiers they sagged, panting tongues stained with a distinctive metallic splatter faded rust in colour.
Predatory approach now silent, he arrived successfully secret at the edge of the bed, a sultry grin curling his lips. The sheets weren't quite thick enough to hide the streamline elegance of a boy coming into his own, a white mold of gangly legs and rounded hips and the delicate bulge between splayed limbs so deliciously discernible.
Never had he felt this niggling, churning urge in his belly; a blistering, pulsing, ravenous urge to touch and taste and take. Sweat tickled the back of his neck, prickling hot. Sweet was he, his little protectorate, all angry innocence and naivety, dozing little kitten curled in his cot. Oblivious, the arm covering his eyes drooped and fell beside his head, a lock of hair fluttering with a single, heavy exhalation. Spain lifted his hand, letting it hover just above parted pink lips, sampling that warm breath with the look of a man left starving.
He could barely stand it, two fingers outlining delicate features, not quite touching, imagining the texture of sun-browned skin, the sticky heat under his arms and between his legs, the flex of muscles embroiled in ecstasy. His hand reached the valley of his thighs, pausing before descent when the boy whimpered and lifted his hips as if magnetised, his curl standing to immediate attention.
Spain's eyes roared with fire, the unusual, coiled quirk drawing his lips down, down, down until the thing was swaying in soft breath. Then his tongue, obscenely red, tracing a tantalising trail from root to tip. The boy shuddered, a wave of goosepimples crashing over his arms and up his neck, each tiny little hair erect. Spain's chest rumbled with laughter. His tongue swept across white incisors, testing the blunted point of each fang and then those fangs sank haplessly into that helpless curl, drawing a sing-song wail from the owner beneath.
The boy's eyes shot open, his hips a confusion of need and disgust and unbridled fear. Arms instinctively raised to push away his assailant, only captured and pinned at his sides as cruel lips massaged the pleasurable hurt, over and over and over; teeth and tongue and teeth and tongue and teeth and tongue. His protectorate's strained cacophony only spurred him, excited him. Spain would send him to the brink and hurl him over, then he would watch him tumble helplessly...
An unusual sound met his ears and so he paused, the curl slipping from his lips and sinking sadly. The boy's eyes were narrowed, watery, a little 'T' forming between his eyebrows. He was angry. Hurt. Frightened.
As though there was a sudden release of pressure, Spain's features softened, easy smile as warm as summer evenings. The boy's expression faltered only slightly, bottom lip trembling with the effort not to cry. He flinched when Spain wiped clear the little drop at the corner of his eye and bent to press a kiss to his forehead, a kiss meant with all innocence and kindness and love.
I'm home, Romano, he whispered in his ear, inhaling the oak scent of his hair.
I'm home.