Chapter Text
You were probably taking a little too much pleasure in Ororon’s squirming.
He’d gone silent for an amount of time that you might’ve found concerning if you hadn’t known him any better; but where his mouth fell short, his body spoke volumes. Long legs rocking from side to side as he shifted in his spot on the couch, nails busying themselves with picking at the loose threads of his scarf, and odd eyes darting up to make fleeting contact with yours, only to stray away again when your gaze set off another prickle of heat in his cheeks.
All you’d done was ask him a simple question, really.
“Why don’t I teach you?”
A simple question, but maybe, still just a bit too complicated for the man in front of you, judging by the way he was struggling to string even a single thought together, much less speak it. You’d made the offer half-expecting it to be dismissed, to be met with nothing more than a deceptively clueless head tilt or his best attempt at imitating the scoldings the tribe elders gave him whenever he said something that even they deemed too bizarre. He was easy for you to tease, sure, always just a few playful touches or whispers away from being reduced to an awkward mess, but rarely this flustered over an innocent little joke.
Maybe, because he sensed that it wasn’t entirely a joke. And maybe, because it wasn’t innocent in the slightest.
Finally, eloquent as ever.
“Huh?”
Ororon cringed at himself. Nearly a minute of fidgeting in his spot, trying his best not to evaporate into mist under your attentive eyes, and that was the best he could muster up. It got a grin out of you, at least, but for some reason that only added to the temperatures rising beneath his scarf.
“Why don’t I teach you?” you repeated. Slow and deliberate, the same way you’d train a pet to understand brand new commands.
“I—” he swallowed, reaching up to scratch behind his ear where it was flattened against his head in deep deliberation. “I’m not that bad. Am I?”
The first time you’d ever kissed Ororon, he’d held his breath. Or, rather, he’d forgotten how to breathe for a moment.
He’d been anxious enough already just leading into it—clammy fingers fiddling with the chain that dangled from his wrist, unsure of where they were supposed to rest as you pulled him closer than he’d ever had the courage to get to you, not to mention how his heart had been pounding so fiercely in his ribcage that he was certain you could hear it. The instant your lips had pressed against his, softer than he’d ever dreamed of and bolder than he’d ever anticipated, he’d stiffened up, breath trapping in his lungs. He couldn’t even think to move his mouth against yours, let alone remember to take in another gulp of oxygen before the lack of it started to make him dizzy.
Instead, he sat there, cheeks puffed out and lips puckered uselessly, letting the new sensation consume him. He’d felt mushy and rigid, frozen numb and crackling with electricity, all at once. Your mouth had encased his like the clouds of steam that rose from Ameyaclo Waters. It spread heat to corners of his body that had never been touched and made his abdomen flutter with something he could only describe as a cave of bats being awoken from their slumber, taking flight in a frenzied swarm.
By the time you’d pulled away with one last gentle tug at his lower lip, half-concerned and half-amused, his face was burning such a vibrant shade of red that you couldn’t help but wonder out loud if he’d ever actually kissed anyone before. To which he’d defensively clarified that of course he had—nevermind that he was referring to the pecks he’d give Granny Itztli on her cheek when apologizing for the many, many times he’d troubled her with his antics.
With each kiss you’d shared since then, Ororon had loosened up, little by little. He began learning how to melt into you instead of immediately tensing up, allowing his ever-curious eyes to flutter shut and his jaw to slacken so that you could twist and turn him in any direction you wished. But every single time without fail, he’d still break apart far too soon with a sharp sputter for air, breathless and disoriented and thoroughly embarrassed by his lack of stamina.
It didn’t bother you—not in the slightest, it was cute enough that you’d never once considered it a problem. Those traits of his that he’d long resigned himself into accepting that most others found off-putting, you found irresistibly charming, with every oddly phrased sentence and lovingly chosen nickname for his crops only drawing you in further.
The oblivious air he surrounded himself with was, more often than not, just as much of a ruse as the spells he would cast to evade the Spiritspeaker’s wrath, you knew that better than anyone, by now. When it came to his relationship experience, however, no amount of illusions could mask that he was every bit as clueless as he liked people to believe. You weren’t sure what it said about you, that you were endeared by how hopelessly lost he was when it came to even the smallest forms of intimacy. It was like the cherry on top of your favorite dessert—or as he might put it, the honey on top of his sour sauce ceviche, transforming an acquired taste into something addictively sweet.
You pretended to mull Ororon’s question over, and the flash of panic that crossed his face, as though his whole world might come crashing down on him if you actually disagreed, made you soften.
“No, baby. You’re not bad,” you reassured him, and his nose scrunched up when you gave it a playful tap. “But wouldn’t you rather be good?”
His tongue felt dry and heavy in his mouth, not quite fitting right in the confines of his teeth and preventing him from mustering up another answer—not because he wanted to say no, but because he wanted to say yes. But admitting that to you felt infinitely more dangerous, somehow. A trap set in the woods, designed to land him in your clutches no matter which response he gave.
Finally, he found it in him to lift his gaze from his boots for the first time since you’d proposed the idea, too intrigued by the possibility of satisfying you to let it slip from his fingers so easily. “Good, how?”
“Well, by breathing properly, for one.”
His face hardened into a comically serious look, one that he hoped imitated the male lead of that Fontanian film he and Ifa had begged you to watch with them, even after they’d seen it more times than either of them cared to disclose. “You take my breath away,” he said solemnly, pitch lowering an octave too deep and making his voice crack in the process.
You puffed out a laugh, and his chest lit up with pride just like it did every time he managed to coax that rewarding sound out of you, even if he had to make a fool of himself to do so. No amount of reprimand for embarrassing his elders would ever be enough to dull the warm glow your laughter bathed him with.
“Uh-huh. Gonna report me to the special patrol for theft?”
Ororon frowned at you, clearly thrown off by your refusal to follow the script. “That’s not how the next line goes. I knew you weren’t paying attention.”
You clicked your tongue, though it was more fond than exasperated. Leave it to him to distract you with a test of loyalty, now, of all times. “Please, you wouldn’t let me look away from the screen for a single second without nagging. I just need to watch it a couple hundred more times before I can recite the whole thing like you.”
Rather than reminding you of the proper line that he’d so proudly memorized (largely for the purpose of impressing you, though that part was best kept secret), he went quiet again, thick brows furrowing thoughtfully. It would’ve been so easy to move on from there, to take advantage of the opening he’d created and drop the subject entirely. Still, something stopped him—that being, the very simple fact that he didn’t want to, not when the promise of approval dangled tantalizingly above his head, just out of reach.
To do something well, to be someone he knew you would like, to be good. It was an affirmation he’d chased after his entire life, eluding him every step of the way until he began to believe that the only thing he was capable of bringing to this world was bad. Learning what “good” entailed in your eyes may just be the closest he could ever truly get to achieving it.
“You really do, though,” he mumbled, picking at the silver teeth of his vest zipper. “Take my breath away, I mean. Not really sure how to fix it.”
His words had a strange effect on you; a surge of affection battling it out with something that wasn’t quite as wholesome, something you’d been working tirelessly to suppress since the day he’d so adorably choked on air when your lips had first tasted the chasteness of his. You inched a bit closer to him on the couch, knee pressing against his thigh just enough to make it jerk.
“That’s what I’m here for.” You brought your index finger up to your lips, pushing back a smile when Ororon’s gaze fell to them like clockwork, pools of magenta and cyan dilating in the light that filtered through his cabin window. “I’ll guide you through it, so we won’t have to worry about you passing out every time I try to kiss you.”
“We might still have to worry,” he pointed out a bit too honestly. Your eyes glimmered with amusement, and he didn’t have the heart to tell you that it was a very real concern of his, not just another joke. Your proximity to him alone was already beginning to play with his pulse. As he watched the plush skin of your lips pursing around your finger, however, he made the very swift and noble decision that passing out seemed well worth the risk.
“Okay.” He nodded, straightening up in his spot with newfound resolve. “In that case, please teach me, Master.”
For once, it was you struggling to keep your composure over something he’d said. He tilted his head, blinking innocently when he caught the strange sound that erupted in your chest, something between a cough and a snort.
You cleared your throat, grateful that your voice came out steady enough. “You don’t have to call me that.”
“But—”
“Trust me,” you interrupted, already anticipating the lengthy recitation of The Masters of Night-Wind customs that had been drilled into both of your brains since childhood. “It’s for the best. Just…don’t tell the shamans, okay?”
Though he didn’t seem completely satisfied with the excuse, he relented out of respect for his new mentor, and you felt a tinge of both relief and regret. Had Ororon insisted on using the title for you—a very real possibility given how stubborn he could be—you were certain you’d end up teaching him about far more than just kissing, today.
“Breathe in,” you ordered softly, inhaling through your nose as a signal for him to follow. He did exactly that, sucking in a long, deep breath that swelled up his chest a bit more than necessary. “When you’re kissing someone—”
“You,” he corrected with the slightest huff. “You’re the only person I kiss.”
“When you’re kissing me, inhale through your nose, okay? You’re gonna run out of oxygen if you try to move your mouth and breathe through it at the same time. That’s why you always have to pull away so soon.” Mid-explanation, you began to notice Ororon’s face darkening in shade at an alarming rate, cheeks still dutifully puffed full of air. “You can exhale,” you reminded him.
He obeyed immediately, and the corner of your mouth twitched a bit over how pleased he looked with himself for following orders so well.
“Did you get that?”
His pupils flickered down to your lips, then back up to meet yours again, full moons swimming with a very obvious longing. “Mhm.”
“Good,” you murmured. “Follow my lead, okay?”
He nodded. That was something he could confidently say he was good at—following you, listening to you, copying the things you did until all your little mannerisms became his to the point where neither of you were sure which traits he’d taken from you, and which you’d taken from him. You cradled his face to hold him steady, brushing your thumb gently over the dark blue marking on his cheek. As you leaned in, his eyes fluttered shut to give you the perfect view of those long, dark lashes that rested so delicately against his pale skin.
“Breathe in.”
His nervousness was palpable in the quick flick of his tongue passing over his lips, desperate to get things right, this time. Careful as you wanted to be with him, the sound of his harsh, shaky inhale coupled with that first taste of innocence had you crashing into him with a bit more force than intended. He stiffened at first, just as he always did, shoulders tensing and mouth pressed into a tight line as you encased it with a warmth that shut down all his thoughts, leaving the roar of blood in his ears to fill the empty space. A small, helpless noise rose in his throat as he fought to regain control of himself.
“Breathe out,” your whisper brushed over his skin and brought goosebumps to the surface. With everything else overwhelming him, he poured all his focus into your commands, dutifully pushing the air through his nostrils and easing some of the tension in his body with it. You let out a hum of approval that spread like Xocoatl on his tongue, and when your hand slid up to his hair to card your fingers through those indigo locks, he all but melted into you.
The fullness of his lips met yours properly, no longer pursed and awkward, moving in a slow, careful rhythm. No matter how much time had passed, he was still so tentative in his every move with you, like one tiny misstep might make you change your mind about him altogether and realize that all of his shortcomings truly were as unpleasant as they seemed.
But even as he began to struggle for air despite his best efforts to follow your guidance, your nails continued to scratch softly at his head, as if scrubbing away all those pesky doubts that plagued it. You sucked in a long, deep breath through your nose, hoping that the sound of it would remind him to do the same, and, to your delight, he obeyed immediately. The excitement had your lips parting against his without any warning, bringing about a fresh wave of heat that made his whole body jump, hands flying up to grasp at you.
“Sorry,” he choked out. He went stiff again for just a split-second before trying to pull away in a panic, only to be stopped by the feeling of your hands resting over his, holding them in place. “Ah. Didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay, baby. You can touch.” You pressed down gently on his hovering fingers, encouraging them to latch on fully to your waist. “Just don’t forget to breathe."
Ororon had most definitely forgotten how to breathe up until that moment. He inhaled another gulp of air, though it was more akin to a hiccup this time, blunt nails digging into your hips the instant you gave him permission to keep them there. Your own hands found his thighs, sliding up the expanse of his jeans and eliciting a low whimper from him, one that you swallowed down ravenously. A delightful tension began to build in both your bodies as your tongue dove into his mouth, wet and dizzyingly smooth. When he tried to tilt his jaw and let you in deeper, his fangs accidentally snagged your bottom lip, sending a tingle through your nerves that did more to thrill you than cause pain.
“Sorry,” he gasped again, barely able to slur out his apology when you dragged your tongue along canines without missing a beat. “Sorry—hah—‘m sorry.”
You gave his thigh a reassuring squeeze, catching his lips again before he could get carried away. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re doing well.”
A faint sigh met your ears at that, every bit as weak to your words as he was to your touches. Regardless of how his broken little apologies always disrupted your kisses, it had never once crossed your mind to wean him off that habit, not when the sound of him stammering them out, winded and oh so polite, was just as gratifying to you as devouring the unexplored corners of his mouth. Even if you did try to teach him to stop, you doubted any amount of practice could ever prevent those words from spilling from his lips, not when apologizing came as instinctively to him as breathing—or, perhaps even more instinctively, considering that you never had to remind him to do it.
He’d more or less gotten the hang of it now. A growing pattern of inhales through his nose, and exhales fanning out as heavy, shuddering huffs. Not exactly steady, but consistent enough compared to his usual breaks for air. His hands even began to find a tempo of their own, pawing experimentally at your sides, playing with the fabric of your shirt between fingers that grew more and more urgent the longer they traced over the curves of your body. With all his concentration channeled into making sure his lungs had enough air, he didn’t even notice his soft, needy little whines that were beginning to mix with wet smacking of lips.
His thigh muscles contracted under your palms, taut and thick. Every squeeze of your hands sparked something deliciously foreign inside of him; two pieces of flint being scraped against each other, threatening to ignite at any moment. When your fingers brushed over the frayed, open tears in his jeans that you’d always found so utterly maddening, you couldn’t stop yourself from sliding your fingers underneath, familiarizing yourself with the slivers of his exposed skin and burrowing further up his thigh.
Ororon moaned, completely involuntary and loud enough to snap him out of his daze all at once. It was such a simple touch, hardly past the threshold of what could be considered innocent, but it set off alarm bells in his head, making him bump his forehead against yours while his hips shot up off the couch.
“Sorry!” he yelped, legs flailing and hands darting away from you at the speed of light, like he’d been burned by liquid phlogiston. You made quick work of pulling your hands out from under his jeans as well, and when you caught sight of his frazzled expression; mouth parted as he panted heavily and fangs glistening with his own saliva, you were struck with a pang of guilt.
It was easy to forget how sensitive he was sometimes—not just because of his inexperience, but because of his unique constitution, as well. He was far more receptive to his surroundings than even the most powerful of shamans could hope to be, absorbing stimuli with a sharpness that must’ve burdened him to the point of exhaustion, sometimes. Every smell, sound, and touch, even the essence of people’s very souls, he was keenly aware of, all amplified for him far beyond the sensations an ordinary human such as yourself had ever experienced.
“Did I—hah—hurt you?” he rasped, still searching for the breath that had been stolen from him. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know why I, uh, did…that."
You gave your head a firm shake, realizing for the first time how your silence must have appeared to him. “I’m alright, baby. It was my fault, anyway. Shouldn’t have surprised you like that.”
Ororon swallowed, shifting in his spot as the lingering traces of your hands on his bare skin taunted him. “It was a nice surprise. I think.”
He ducked his head, and your eyes followed his, falling back down to where your hands had been feeling him up earlier. What snatched your attention away from the pockets of flesh peeking out from under his jeans, however, was the very obvious bulge straining against them. The realization had your heart leaping in your chest, but that was nothing compared to the absolute freefall that his went into when he caught wind of his little predicament a split-second after you did.
His cheeks, which had already been dusted with a pretty blush, were streaked fully red in an instant. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten worked up after just a few kisses, in fact, it was practically a given, by now. You’d always pretended not to notice how his pants grew visibly tighter every time you pulled away from his lips, leaving him starstruck and wriggling around with a lack of subtlety that was far too cute when you considered its cause. But the state he was in now went beyond that, to the point where it would take a miracle for either of you to ignore. It made sense; your kisses had never grown quite this heated before, nor had they lasted longer than a few seconds at a time thanks to his never-ending battle with keeping air in his lungs.
What you saw now was fully hard, pressed so tightly against his pants that you could see the outline of his length clear as day. Not only that, to your delight and to his horror, a tiny, wet stain had begun to seep through the fabric where you could only assume his tip was pressing against his underwear.
“Ororon,” you began. “What’s this?”
“Oh.” He lurched forward with a flustered squeak, throwing his scarf over his crotch in a fruitless attempt to spare himself yet another steaming dose of humiliation. “O-oh. Sorry. It’s…sorry, it just. I-it happens, sometimes. Not on purpose, though, I swear. Can’t really…control it.”
It was cruel of you, given how he looked like he wished he could dissipate into the clouds of mist he used to deceive others right about now, but when his arousal was served up to you on a silver platter like this, all the self-restraint that you’d worked so diligently to keep in check for months threatened to snap at once.
You feigned interest, leaning in a bit closer and trying not to smile when you heard his breathing pick up. “Yeah? What do you do when it gets like that?”
“I…I dunno. I just…” He pressed his lips together, letting the rest of his sentence hang vaguely in the air.
Ororon was squirming again, veins pumping with adrenaline that was nothing like what he experienced in the heat of battle, yet somehow, far more frightening. His eyes squeezed shut, thighs pressing together in a desperate hope that the growing problem between them would disappear before he died of mortification right then and there. Cute as it was, you couldn’t ignore a pang of sympathy that still managed to wiggle its way past the hunger that was quickly clouding your judgement. This was all uncharted territory for him, and you knew by now how fortunate you were to be one of the few people within his zone of comfort—that was far more valuable than the gratification it brought you to mess with him.
You mellowed, taking his chin between your fingers and tilting it up, voice lowering to a whisper that tickled his ears like a pleasant breeze. “Wanna stop? It looks pretty uncomfortable.”
Though still refusing to look at you, he accepted your touch reflexively, cheek turning so that it brushed against your knuckles. “It is,” he admitted without much prompting, even more hushed than usual, barely audible to your ears. “But I’d like to keep…practicing, I think. So I can be good, like you want me to be.”
You could feel his pulse racing under your thumb as he forced the words out, and suddenly, all that desire brewing within you emerged at full strength, buzzing at the tips of your fingers with a need that was almost carnivorous. To roam over every inch of that sensitive, untouched skin and make it your own, to accustom him to your touch alone, molding his body and mind into whichever shape you saw fit.
“Should we take care of this, then?”
His eyes snapped open, widening into black holes of wonder when your hand dropped from his face to ghost over his thigh again. “How so?”
“C’mon, Ororon,” you drawled. “You really expect me to believe you’ve never touched yourself before?”
His face went as red as the beets that grew in his garden, providing you all the answer you needed. He was reminded, yet again, that the sole reason he ever got away with playing dumb around you was simply because you enjoyed playing along. That oblivious air he put up and his genuine bouts of innocence—you differentiated between them just as easily as he differentiated between good and bad quality Aphimead.
“I…um. Is it—” he choked a bit as your hand drifted back up his thigh, cupping the hardness in his pants with a touch that was feather-light, yet still managed to hit him with all the force of a gut-punch. “Is it bad if I have?”
“Of course not, baby.” You studied him for any signs of discomfort while your fingers curled tighter around him, properly feeling up his shape through his jeans. He hissed softly, head falling forward and bulge throbbing under your hand in gratitude, far more open about its needs than he was. “Why don’t you show me how you do it?”
He stiffened up. “Huh?”
Compared to the panic straining his every word, your voice lapped at his senses with all the calm of a summer breeze, cooling his fiery skin. “I wanna watch you touch yourself. Show me what makes you feel good, and I’ll make you feel even better.”
Ororon’s ears twitched uncontrollably, the mere suggestion enough to have him tugging his tattered hood down over his eyes—partially out of the shame that consumed him, and partially to mask how wildly the idea turned him on. The only problem was, you could feel it in the palm of your hand, an answer made abundantly clear in the way his dick pulsed again.
Your voice lowered to a murmur, and ironically, the gentle understanding in your tone only did more to overwhelm him. “Is that okay with you?”
He dug his canines into his lower lip, then nodded. Even if—for some incomprehensible reason—he had wanted to say no, there wasn’t a chance his body would be settling down anytime soon now that your touch had found it. Somehow, spending the rest of your time together with the both of you pretending not to notice that he was on the verge of spilling into his pants felt even more humiliating than baring himself to you.
You uncurled your fingers from around his length. Much to your satisfaction, he reacted instantly, jerking up in search of you once again, not quite ready to lose the taste of relief he’d been granted for the first time in his life.
“Take these off, baby,” you ordered, snapping at the waistband of his jeans. Light, but still enough to make him flinch. “Or do you want me to do it for you?”
Ororon straightened his posture, but his chin remained tilted down, long bangs obscuring his face as his fingers clumsily found the buttons of his pants. “No it’s…I can do it,” he mumbled.
Fingers so deft with his arrows and so careful with his crops, now fumbled awkwardly to undo the clothes that he put on every day. You said nothing, but the amusement he could practically feel bubbling off of you made it even more difficult for him to focus. With a cute, frustrated huff, he finally managed to unzip his pants, wiggling out of them only until they reached about halfway down his thighs. Trying to keep himself as concealed as the situation allowed, you mused. Had you been in a less forgiving mood, you would’ve asked him to remove them altogether until he was completely undressed for you. But he was way out of his element already, and your urge to cherish those purer parts of him overpowered your desire to taint them—for the time being, at least.
He hesitated for several seconds, then, his hands dipped beneath the waistband of his underwear, thighs lifting off the couch to tug them down in one fell swoop. Anything you’d planned to say was cut off by the strangled whimper that slipped out of him as his dick sprang free, so hardened that it slapped against his abdomen.
From all the times you’d snuck glances at him in the past, you’d taken notice of his considerable size, and now, seeing him properly for the first time, you understood why it’d always been painfully obvious to you when he was turned on. His dick was heavy against his stomach and dripping with an amount of precum that made your eyes widen. It glazed over his cockhead in a translucent sheen, almost as though he’d come all over himself once already.
“You’re so wet,” you marveled. “Do you always make this much of a mess?”
Ororon bit back a whine of protest, thoroughly ignited with embarrassment before he’d even had the chance to lay a finger on himself. “Just not used to…this. It only really gets like this when—”
He clamped his lips together, realizing a moment too late that he’d backed himself into a corner.
“When?”
“When you…um, w-when you kiss me.”
You let out a coo that contrasted how fiercely his words affected you, a twist in your stomach that was so, so gratifying after holding yourself back for so long. To think that every time you’d left Ororon’s cabin, his dick had been leaking so pitifully like this, crying out for attention that he didn’t even know he needed.
His throat bobbed as you veered dangerously close to his cock, moving away at the last second to grab hold of his hand instead. “Do you usually leave these on?” Your fingers slid under the gaps in his leather gloves that he’d forgotten to remove, and the contact alone was enough to make him shudder.
Teasing or not, he couldn’t take the accusation lightly. “O-of course not. I’d get my vegetables dirty.”
“Can’t have that,” you hummed in agreement, followed by the jingle of his chain as you tugged his gloves off of his hands to reveal how clammy they’d become underneath the leather. “There we go. Now you can show me exactly how you like to play with yourself.”
His fingers flexed, nervous and uncoordinated as he wrapped them just barely around the base of his length, tattoos stretching with the contraction of his skin. Tightening his hold just barely, he remained frozen like that, peering up at you through that dark curtain of hair as if to ensure that he had your permission to keep going.
Your lip curled with mischief. “What? Need me to teach you how to do that, too?”
Sucking in a deep breath, he slid his hand up his cock, gathering up all the slickness that had trickled from his slit and spreading it along his path. His exhale came fragmented, split into short puffs that gradually turned up in a whine. He lingered at his tip for a moment, seemingly mustering the courage to drag his fist back down. His strokes were slow and experimental, no real rhythm to them yet, but each one created a filthy wet noise that made his insides coil with shame, and yours with desire.
Watching him like this—wrist as stiff as the shaft he was trying to work—it was difficult to tell whether he was moving so awkwardly because of your presence, or because he simply knew no other way. He treated his own body with a lack of skill akin to his hopeless attempts at threading woven scrolls—even the expression on his face wasn’t all that different, brows pinching in a mixture of focus and frustration. Every now and then, a sharp, involuntary jolt would send his hand flying up his length far faster than the tentative pace he’d set, as if his own movements were catching him by surprise.
“Do you always do it like this?”
His shoulders jumped a bit, an apology already building on his tongue. “I…huh?”
“You just look a little tense,” you clarified softly. “You can let go, baby. Do whatever feels right.”
His fingers, though still shaky, curled tighter around his cock, adding a newfound pressure that was nothing short of electrifying when combined with the sensation of your watchful gaze raking over his body.
“That’s it, go a little faster. I can tell how badly you need it,” you urged him. “Wanna see you make an even bigger mess.”
“Mm. Yes, Mas—” He caught himself in the nick of time, mind scraping for an alternative. “M-Ma’am?”
You decided not to correct his choice of words, even if the effect this honorific had on you was no less dangerous than the previous one. For whatever reason, it seemed very important to Ororon to address you as his superior, one way or another. Now that he was on full display for you, chasing his pleasure for your own entertainment, hearing him speak to you so politely was enough to have liquid heat pooling in your underwear, too.
Despite you being the one puppeteering his actions, he still felt so inexplicably rotten for showing you such an obscene sight. It might’ve had something to do with the squelching sounds his cock made as he glided with more intensity than before, each one banging against his sensitive ears like a drum. Or, maybe, it was the indefensibly filthy moan that spilled out of him when he dared to swipe his thumb over the tip of his cock in a brief moment of ecstasy. Even as he clenched his jaw to silence himself, it still broke free, reverberating against the walls of his cabin like a jeer.
Regardless, he didn’t slow back to his earlier pace, partially because he didn’t want to disappoint you, and partially because his arousal was beginning to push back against his self-consciousness. All he needed was some sort of confirmation that he was meeting your expectations, some sort of—
“Good boy,” you murmured. “You already know how to listen so well.”
He choked on the saliva that had pooled on his tongue, hips surging up against his will so fiercely that his fangs nearly cut into his cheek. He’d touched himself plenty of times before—there was no use denying it, now—but never like this. With the burn of your eyes searing his skin harsher than any engraving ever could, with the honeyed lilt of your voice praising him for doing something so inappropriate. Calling him good for his most shameful desires.
Through the static that was quickly filling up his head, his brain screamed at him to say something back, with the hope that he might earn even more encouragement if he did. It’d be rude not to accept the compliment, after all. He’d been taught better than that.
“Well, I have sharp ears, s-so. Pretty good at—ah—listening,” he stammered. It was so matter-of-fact, such an earnest response that you had to hold yourself back from pouncing on him and pumping him to completion right then and there.
“Mhm. Bet they can hear all the cute little sounds your body’s making real well.”
Ororon ducked into his scarf with a weak, flustered noise, suddenly far less willing to reply. Still, his ears weren’t flattened against his head anymore, they were perked and alert, hyperaware of every wet drag of his hand and every poorly concealed whimper that rose in his throat along with it. “Sorry. It’s t-too loud, right? Am I doing it wrong—?”
“It’s adorable,” you reassured him. “You’re adorable.”
That only seemed to make him writhe around harder, thighs shifting from side to side in an attempt to build up more friction wherever they could, flexing erratically with each pump of his hand as if he were losing control over his muscles.
His cockhead was swollen now, trickling out more tiny beads of precum to add a fresh layer of stickiness to his strokes. Though he’d managed to build up a careful pattern, there was still a discernible stiffness to his movements, one that you were beginning to conclude wasn’t just because he felt shy in front of you, anymore. Just as you’d suspected, he didn’t seem to know any other way, like every time he pumped himself, it was on instinct rather than a genuine understanding of how to make himself feel good. The thought excited you more than it probably should have.
“You look like this is your first time touching yourself, Ororon,” you remarked. Sweet, but with a condescending edge to it that nipped wonderfully at his skin. He wasn’t sure if that was normal—then again, nothing about this situation probably was. You scooted closer to him so that your thigh pressed against the bare skin of his, and he sucked in a sharp gasp, mustering all his willpower to not come undone over the first hint of contact with you.
“Don’t be so shy, baby. I wanna see you feeling good,” you encouraged him. “Have you ever tried playing with the tip?"
His hips stuttered at that, his rhythm effectively crumbling as his fingers spasmed around his cock in cute, nervous little pulses. “It’s…mmph. Kinda sensitive there. I don’t usually t-touch it,” he confessed under his breath, well aware that he was more or less handing you the ammunition to load your gun and target him with. His meekness may have been genuine, but so was his hope that you would exploit it.
“Yeah? That just means it’ll feel even better if you do,” you purred. His muscles went taut as you wrapped your hand around his wrist, two-toned eyes locked on the sight of your fingers so agonizingly close to his dick, taunting him with tiny flickers of your body heat. You could feel his heartbeat going berserk under your thumb as you guided his hand to the head of his cock, urging him to drape his palm over it. “Cup yourself like this, and roll your wrist around it. You can stop if it gets to be too much for you, okay?”
Ororon hissed as his hand wrapped around his throbbing cockhead, and you instantly got the sense that he would not be stopping.
“Oh.” Was all he could bring himself to say.
He tried not to whine when you let go of him, instead focusing on the fresh bursts of pleasure ripping through his nerve endings with each experimental twist of his hand. Pain one second, and relief the next, just enough of each to keep him captivated with this new technique.
“Good boy. How’s that feel?”
You were met only with a long, trembling inhale, a meager attempt to retain some of the instructions you’d given him earlier so that he wouldn’t go lightheaded from a lack of breathing. It was impossible for him to get a sentence out without mewling pathetically in the process, so, much to his body’s dismay, he paused his movements just long enough to answer.
“I-I dunno. Feels…hah. Kinda feels like my stomach’s buzzing with aphids.”
You grinned. “Yeah? Are they making honey?”
The blush on Ororon’s face deepened so severely that he was dyed red in an instant, as though an Asha had mistaken him for a canvas and splashed vibrant graffiti all over his cheeks and nose. He sputtered out something incoherent, head falling forward to bury his burning hot face into the crook of your neck. You cradled the back of his head with a hum of faux-sympathy, wondering if you’d flustered him just a little more than he could handle. Then, to your surprise, you felt him nod weakly against your shoulder.
“Not the kind that tastes good, though,” he mumbled into your skin.
“You know what it tastes like?” You clicked your tongue. “Pervert.”
He jolted against you, whether out of indignation, or a fresh wave of arousal, even he wasn’t quite sure. He tried to object, but anything he wanted to say died as a groan rose in his throat, already disproven by the fact that he was clinging to you like an animal in heat, barely able to form a sentence and fisting his cock on pure, primal instinct, at this point.
With care, you tugged his hood down so that you could run your hand properly through his hair; gentle and calming as the indigo locks slipped between your fingers, completely unlike the absolute mess of sensations that were currently twisting his guts into knots. “It’s my fault you’re like this, right? Want me to take care of it?”
It took him a moment to gather the courage to pull his face from the safety of your shoulder and peer up at you, long lashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly in curious blinks. “What d’you mean?”
“I mean—” You played along for his sake, reaching your hand out so that neither of you had to say it outright. Ororon sensed the incoming touch before your fingers had even curled around the base of his length, a touch so delicate, you never would’ve predicted the wildfire it ignited in his stomach.
“Ah, wait. W-wait, that’s—!” he gasped. Body betraying the protests of his mouth, he surged into the newfound contact with an eagerness he couldn’t even be ashamed of, anymore. “...Dirty.”
“Dirty? But you were just touching it, weren’t you?”
“That’s different. I’m—ngh.” His hips bucked up entirely against his will, as if to silence his mouth from spewing nonsense that would put an end to the pleasure that he had only just gotten his first taste of. “I’m used to it. T-touching dirt, I mean.”
You giggled, and his heart flipped for reasons entirely unrelated to your hand at last forming a warm, snug cocoon over his cock. He throbbed wildly under your fingers as you slid them along his veins, tender, but more than enough to send his hypersensitive body into a frenzy. He tried his best to suck in some air, to calm the burst of adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream, but he ended up choking pitifully on it, instead.
“You’re not dirty, baby,” you soothed him, coiling your grip tighter around him as if to drive in the idea. “You’re as pure as they come.”
“Hah…a-am I?” he panted, strained and hoarse in a way that you rarely got to hear from him, not even under the weight of war. Fragmented, tainted, cursed, those were all words he’d use to describe himself before ever daring to think of himself as pure.
“Mm. No one’s ever touched you here before, huh?”
“No. Never.” It was so immediate, so sincere that you wondered if he had even the faintest idea just how crazy his next words drove you. “You’re the first. I-I never wanted anyone else.”
You gave his cock a single pump, and just like that, he collapsed back into you, head finding a home in your shoulder once more with a high-pitched moan that vibrated against you, burrowing under your skin to shoot lightning straight down your spine. Petting his head, you kept the hand around his length perfectly still, trying to keep a smile out of your voice when, sure enough, he began wriggling around in a matter of seconds, already in search for more. “Is it too much, Roro? Want me to stop?”
“No, no. It’s just…” He nuzzled further into your neck as if that would be enough of an answer, feeling his brainpower dwindle by the second when all the relief he craved was quite literally resting in the palm of your hand. A bliss he’d only just discovered, yet was already completely hooked on, unsure if he could ever go back to living without. “If you keep…doing that something’s gonna—ngh—!” He bit back the tremor that was making his words borderline incoherent. “Something’s gonna come out.”
“Something?” you echoed playfully. To make matters worse, you gave his length another cruel squeeze, much stronger than before and making his hands fly out to grab at you in a plea for mercy. “You mean your honey?”
Ororon made a low, miserable noise in the back of his throat, but nodded nonetheless. He may not have known much about this kind of intimacy—nor had he ever really cared much to, in all honesty—but he did know two things. First; that finishing too quickly was generally frowned upon. Second; you’d given him all but a single stroke, and he’d already reached his limit. It was a wonderfully uncomfortable problem to have, an ache pounding at the confines of his skin, tightening up his muscles in ways he’d never known they could. He wondered if the sheer intensity of his dilemma had managed to transfer to you like some kind of telepathic spell, because you seemed acutely aware that one more flick of your wrist would have him cumming all over himself before you’d even touched him properly.
When you spoke again, it was barely above a whisper, but it rang out loud and clear in Ororon’s ears, a chill reverberating right down to his very bones. “It’s okay, baby. You can let it out for me.”
As if pushing a command button, your thumb pressed against the dripping underside of his cockhead, and with a sharp cry, he did exactly as you said. Hands that had been so hesitant to reach for you before, now fisted at your shirt in an iron grip as his entire body shuddered against you, a mix of grunts and curses spilling hot against your neck that sounded so deliciously foreign coming from him. You could feel every wave of his climax passing through his length, every throb spurting out another rope until your hand was coated with his release. There was so much of it, thick and pearly white like he’d been holding it back for years. Another testament to his purity, in an odd sort of way.
You weren’t sure how long you stayed that way, rubbing the back of his neck as he panted heavily into yours, still working to get his breaths under control even long after his high had ebbed.
“Everything alright?” you asked softly.
One of his ears swiveled to let you know that he’d heard. Not quite ready to face you yet, he opted for humming into your shoulder, so shy in comparison to the obscene sounds he’d been making moments ago. “Mhm. Sorry.”
“Sorry? Why?”
He hesitated, stiffening a bit when you used your clean hand to tug him up by his hair so that he had no choice but to look at you. The flush on his face had yet to fade, reminiscent of days when he’d spent more time working in the sun than his nocturnal skin was accustomed to. In a direct contrast, his pupils were blown wide as moons, dilated and alert to a degree that you only ever witnessed at night, at his most active. When he spotted the rivulets of his seed dripping from your fingers, they sealed shut in a flash, thick eyelashes shielding him from the depraved sight like a protective veil.
“I got you dirty,” he said sheepishly. "Like a beautiful carrot covered in pests."
It was difficult not to let a puff of laughter slip at that. From your perspective, it was very much you who had gotten him dirty, in a manner that wasn’t quite as obvious as the fluid coating your hand. Even with his vision obscured, he could picture exactly what you were doing when he heard the squelch of your sticky fingers spreading in front of his face, like you were showing off some kind of prize. “It's as natural as the soil you plant with, baby," you reassured him in the way you figured he'd understand best. "Besides, I told you to, didn’t I? You did exactly what you were supposed to do.”
He cracked one eye open, relieved to find your face smiling warmly back at him, void of any hints of scorn. “I didn’t mess it up?”
“Of course not. You were such a good boy for me. Listened so well with those sharp little ears,” you praised him, tucking his softening length carefully back into his underwear and leaning in to kiss his forehead for good measure. “Let’s stop here for today, okay?”
Despite how utterly wrecked he’d become after just a stroke and a half of your hand, part of him still looked ready to protest, to insist that he could keep going until he compensated for every ounce of his inexperience.
“Are you sulking?” You tilted his chin up with a chuckle, and when he met your eyes, he found them swimming with a fondness that he’d never been able to wrap his head around. “Don’t worry, there's still lots I wanna teach you. You're a fast learner.”
Ororon wanted to say something to impress you, to promise that he would do better next time. But with the way your words alone were enough to have his dick twitching with interest again, he got the sense that no matter how many lessons you gave him, he’d never learn how to last very long.