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Across the tribes of Natlan, Ororon is known as the ‘Weirdo of the Masters of the Night-Wind.’ Over time, he grew to embrace it, accepting that his eccentricities were simply a part of who he is. If that made him weird, well, then everyone is a little ‘weird.’
But it’s Ifa who puts that idea in his head.
Their relationship has always been of this nature from the time they were too young to think about the implications of a failed sacrifice. Ifa lifts him up with ideologies and romanticism, and Ororon listens, because Ifa is the only one who understands him. They used to joke that it’s because Ororon might be part saurian, but that jest dies when Ororon seriously considers it. As amusing as it is, Ifa won’t stand for him thinking that he’s anything less than perfect.
Because Ororon is perfect.
He’s just the right amount of curious and quick to learn something new, especially if he takes an invested interest in the subject. He’s kind and gentle, but also blunt in a way that only adds to his charm. He’s brave in the face of adversity and has a sense of duty that makes Ifa’s heart pound in his ribcage.
And Archons, he’s the most beautiful creature Ifa has ever seen.
If asked, Ifa can’t pinpoint when his perception of Ororon changed, but it’s been gradual and as natural as the sun rising and setting into the ocean. Falling in love with Ororon lights him on fire from the inside out.
“Oro,” Ifa gasps as he’s guided to straddle his lap, and lips trail hot and slow along the column of his throat. Ororon’s hands rest on his hips, fingers feather-light as they dance teasingly along the small of his back and lower. They sink inside of him, pressing, stretching, and the cave they’ve stolen away into echoes with Ifa’s moans despite how he tries fruitlessly to bury them in the crook of Ororon’s neck.
“Like this?” He asks, but he doesn’t need to. Ororon is the only one who knows Ifa so intimately, and that’s the way that Ifa wants it. No one could ever compare.
Ifa manages to nod, even as a sharp moan rips past his lips, another sound that he tries to muffle. He slots their lips together, and it’s messy, even when he brings his hands from Ororon’s hair to cup his cheeks in a poor attempt to keep their kiss steady. Neither of them mind, though. Ifa is always like this, so lost in this icy fire that threatens to consume him every time, but Ororon keeps him here, grounded, safe.
Ororon…he’s a hero of Natlan now, but to Ifa, he’s always been his hero.
The fingers inside of him are replaced with something larger, thicker, and this time it’s impossible for Ifa not to toss his head back with an unabashed moan. It’s a raw sound that’s weighted with emotions that Ifa dares not speak into existence, not now, not yet. Their pace starts slow enough, easing into an easy-to-follow rhythm that distantly reminds Ifa of Ororon’s favorite song on the guitar. It’s one that he plays often, not because the saurians like it, but because Ifa can’t say no to the way those mis-matched eyes soften and shine with happiness when he plays it.
Ifa pushes himself upright, just for a moment, just to drink in the sight of creamy, pale skin decorated in black and cool neon tattoos from his neck to his toes. He can’t see the way their bodies are joined, but he feels it in the way Ororon is guiding his hips and dragging the curve of his ass across his thighs. A pleasurable shiver jolts through him, and he scans Ororon’s body up and down again before raising his gaze to meet hooded, darkened eyes, pupils blown wide.
“Don’t stop,” Ifa pants, hands once again tangling into long, indigo hair. Absently, his thumbs stroke the bat ears there, and he’s careful to be mindful of how sensitive they are, even though Ororon has never complained about him touching them. “Ororon…”
Something shifts, and suddenly the grip on Ifa’s hips tightens, forcing him flush against Ororon’s chest again. Ifa’s breath catches as they fall into a new beat that’s frantic and intense, he lost in it again. His body reacts with its own volition, hips rolling and driving Ororon deeper, deeper inside of him. Perhaps it’s some feral instinct to draw him in to keep him here, keep him safe, because if Ororon is here, joined to him by flesh, he can’t run off to save Natlan. He can’t leave him. He can’t…
“You’re close,” Ororon rasps, and he’s enveloping Ifa tighter, hugging him to his body uncaring of the sweat and fluids. “Me, too.”
Nodding, Ifa kisses him as though it’s going to be the last time, then presses their foreheads together. He needs to watch, needs to burn the way Ororon’s gaze pierces him into his memory. Ecstasy crashes over him, and his chest heaves as Ororon somehow manages to give him the most satisfied smile he’s ever seen on his face. It makes Ifa feel raw and exposed, like Ororon has known all along what Ifa has been trying to say all night.
‘I love you. Please, don’t be gone in the morning.’
Warmth paints Ifa’s insides. Ororon’s smile only grows as his eyes glow and he keeps Ifa firmly seated in his lap, ensuring that his body takes all of what he offers. Ifa groans and lets him empty everything he has because he needs it.
The rush fades, and silence falls between them. The moment is gone, and the dread that tomorrow brings settles into Ifa’s bones. He ignores the mess between them and keeps Ororon close. For just tonight, he needs to feel vulnerable, and he’s thankful that Ororon understands. Soft lips kiss his shoulder, then up his neck, until Ororon is tenderly kissing Ifa’s cheek. He doesn’t have to say anything. Ifa knows.
‘I love you. I’ll come back.’
Tonight, they’ll whisper tender words and share their dream as though they haven’t been doing this for years, and Ifa will pretend that tomorrows are something that can be promised.
Tomorrow, Ifa will rise before dawn and help him with final preparations. He’ll cup his cheek and kiss him, and say softly with a tender smile, “Go get ‘em, Hero.”