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Will had always been so good with his tongue.
Orym’s fingers tangled in his hair as his husband took him back into his mouth and sucked, drawing all of his blood and focus downwards. Will had told him he was the perfect mouthful, big enough to rest heavy on his tongue but short enough not to choke him as he took Orym straight to the root. He arched back against the bed, the vibrations of Will’s laughter around his cock a soft tease, only drawing him deeper into the bliss. Will swapped between teasing the head and licking down along the length, just the way he knew drove Orym crazy and made his toes curl. His husband had always known the exact buttons to push to tease him, the ones to draw it out and the ones that made him rush towards climax. Tonight he’d chosen the latter, no holds barred as he worked Orym over methodically, single-focused on drawing as much pleasure out of him as quickly as he could. Orym was blissfully mind numb, simply along for the ride, letting his appreciation known through the noises that left his lips.
All too soon he was on knife's edge, stuck between sensitive and over-sensitive, right on the precipice of orgasm with Will’s name on the tip of his tongue-
Orym woke with a start as something collided painfully with his shin. He blinked blearily for a few seconds, coming to consciousness and grounding himself with the sights and sounds around him. Firstly he wasn’t in a bed; he was curled on his side atop his sleeping roll, the thin mattress little protection from the uneven forest floor. Despite the hour he’d spent last night clearing the space for camping there were still sticks and rocks that poked through and now he was awake could feel them jabbing him uncomfortably. Secondly, he could hear the sounds of the other Crown Keepers around him. Dariax must have been on his back as he was snoring loudly, almost masking the low crackling of the fire which Orym had curled up next to. Thirdly, as he blinked his eyes open he could make out Fearne sleeping curled to face him, Mister tucked into the circle of her chest. He glanced down to see her hoof inches from his still throbbing shin. The last thing he became aware of was his own body, still humming with lingering arousal from the dream.
With a soft groan of effort, Orym pushed himself to sit up. Though it wasn’t unusual for him to dream of Will, it had been a long time since he’d had a dream like that. A dream that left him hard and aching and wanting even after he woke. A little morning wood was happenstance, but this, this continued burning arousal was new. As he scratched at his head, considering his options, a soft voice drew his attention.
“Orym?”
He turned his head and locked eyes across the dying embers of the fire with Dorian, who was sitting between the sleeping forms of Dariax and Opal, his sword laid across his folded legs. Orym finds himself caught for a moment. He’d always known that Dorian was handsome, he had eyes after all, but something about the low light of the fire accentuated Dorian’s sharp features and the glow in his eyes suddenly had Orym’s cheeks burning. Maybe it was the lingering remnants of the horny dream he’d been having, present in the half-hard cock in his pants, but there's a second where he considers crossing the camp, putting himself in Dorian’s lap and kissing him senseless. Then he blinks, shoving the thought aside and tried to focus back in on the moment, realising he hadn’t spoken a word, just stared at Dorian with widening eyes. There’s a terrifying moment where Orym wondered if he can read it in his face, what he was thinking about, before Dorian just simply smiled.
“It’s still a few hours from dawn, you should rest a bit longer.”
Orym swallowed heavily and battered down the intrusive thoughts that supplied what Dorian’s voice might sound like in the throws of pleasure.
“I have to-” Orym scrambled to his feet and pointed wildly off into the forest. “Uh…you know, nature calls?”
“Oh! Right, of course. Don’t go too far though? Or at least take your sword if you do.”
“Right.”
Orym nodded and snatched up his sheathed sword, slipped it into his belt before, without another look back, marched off into the forest away from camp. He stuck to a direct line as much as he could until the sights and sounds of the camp had faded from focus and he found himself completely alone in a small clearing. With a heavy sigh, he sank down against the roots of one of the trees, thumbing at the tip of his sword handle absently. His body was just on edge from the dream, from the memory of Will’s touch and it lingered now because he hadn’t done anything remotely sexual in a long time. That was all. Orym took a moment to centre himself, breathing deep, relaxing breaths, trying to calm the thundering heart in his chest.
However, after five or so minutes of this and his heart hadn’t calmed, he began to worry. Every nerve in his body still hummed with keen arousal, his cock still persistently hard between his legs. How long had it been since he’d gotten off?
With a curse, he shoved the handle of his sword aside and palmed at the front of his pants. Sparks flashed in front of his eyes as pleasure shot through him and he groaned softly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this, so keyed up that he might explode at any given moment. Orym glanced over his shoulder, past the tree he was propped up against. He couldn’t see camp from here and the sound of Doriax’s snoring barely drifted on the whispers of wind that reached him. For the moment he was completely, blissfully alone. He had enough time to knock one out and return to camp as if nothing had happened. At the thought, his cock throbbed and Orym cursed low in the back of his throat before fumbling for the ties of his pants, shoving his hand down to grasp at the offending organ. His body practically sang at the touch and he leaned back into the tree, setting a gruelling pace. With how high-strung he felt, it felt reasonable to assume wouldn’t take him too long to tip over the edge.
Orym smothered his mouth with his hand, bringing forth what pieces of the dream he could remember. Will’s warm mouth around the head of his cock, teasing him with his tongue before taking him down to the root and burying his nose in Orym’s curls. He imagined sinking his hand into his black hair, pulling taunt and-
He stopped his hand at the base of his cock. Will didn’t have black hair. But Dorian did.
Orym shook his head to clear it. He’d just seen Dorian compared to Will, it made sense he might recall some features wrong. He took a breath, closed his eyes again and continued stroking with his hand, sinking back into the memory of the dream. Will kissing at his cheek, his neck, his chest, sliding further down his body to where his cock rested, blinking up at him with glowing blue eyes-
He stopped again harshly with a half-snarled “Fuck,” that was much louder than he intended. He practically threw his cock out of his hand to catch his head instead as it dropped forwards in frustration. It was one thing to masturbate to the memory of his dead husband but it was a whole nother thing to jack off to the idea of his friend who was sitting back in camp probably wondering where the hell he was. He couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. Dorian’s trust meant everything to him and he wouldn’t betray it for the sake of getting off after a dream. With a sigh he tucked himself back into his pants and stood, annoyance now simmering on the edge of the arousal.
Well, he knew one thing that always calmed him down, maybe it would work now. Finding the biggest part of the clearing, Orym drew his sword and took up the first position of the Zeph’aeratam. He didn’t have high hopes for it to do much more than calm the thundering storm that was his frustration, but that was better than sitting there and doing nothing. As he stepped through the paces, slow even breaths, moving about the uneven ground around sticks and rocks, he thinks to himself about his predicament.
He’d never been a person who needed creature comforts such as sex. With Will, it had been a way to be close to him, to share their enjoyment of one another, to show their love and affection physically. He had never needed it to know that Will loved him though, it had just been a facet of their relationship that he’d never thought much about. After he’d died, Orym had figured he would never feel that way again about anyone. Sexual desire wasn’t something he felt even when faced with beautiful people; they were just kinda nice to look at. So why, when he looked at Dorian, thought of Dorian, did his body want to be close to him? Why did the desire suddenly flair to life when they made eye contract? Why did his body sing at the thought of being touched by him? What was so different about Dorian that made him want to be foolish?
He paused mid-movement, firstly at the rustle of leaves as someone approached his grove, and secondly as the realisation hit him like a ton of bricks. He’d been attracted to Will as a person first; not just by his body but for who he was. And as Dorian stepped into the space, faintly glowing scimitar raised ready to defend, Orym let his fall as his mind supplied the answer he’d been ignoring. He cared about Dorian, liked him as a person, as a friend, and somewhere along the line he’d developed an attraction to him as a result.
“I heard you cursing?” Dorian said glancing around the space cautiously. “I thought you might be in trouble.”
Orym shook his head. “No, just...just uh…” He waves his hand dismissively. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
Dorian nodded and slowly lowered his scimitar.
“What are you doing out here, Orym?”
“I had a...dream.” Orym rubbed at the back of his neck and sighed. “It messed me about a bit. I thought maybe if I went through the motions it would clear my head but I think I made it worse?”
Orym then narrowed his eyes. “Whose watching the camp if you’re here?”
“I woke Dariax. The others are still asleep.” Dorian placed a hand on his chest, a look of mock offence across his features. “It pains me that you think I would leave the others unattended like that Orym.”
Orym couldn’t help the smile that curled onto his features. “If you’ve left Dariax in charge you might as well of.”
Dorian snorted. “Hopefully he’ll still be awake by the time we get back.”
“By the time we get back?” Orym asked, confused and Dorian cocked an eyebrow.
“You said you had a dream? It messed you around? You said you made it worse?” Dorian moved over to kneel before him, making them roughly the same height. “I know a thing or two about bad dreams. If you want to talk about it I’m here to listen or I find sparing often clears my head.”
Orym considered for a moment. On one hand, they should really return to the others and make sure Dariax hadn’t fallen asleep again right after Dorian left. On the other hand, maybe sparring would clear the last of the dream from his mind and banish this lingering arousal. Or it could make it worse considering now he knew that Dorian was partly a cause. Steeling himself, Orym took a half step back.
“Let's spar, just quickly and then head back.”
Dorian nodded and stood, stepping back to face off against him. Orym took a moment to centre himself, breathing deeply before taking his stance. There’s a beat, a pause before Dorian grins and lunges. Orym parries the blow to the side, moving smoothly out of the way as Dorian follows through with his momentum and turns on a dime ready to launch at Orym once more. By this point they’d sparred enough to know each other's techniques down to the millisecond, each minute movement he could read to know what Dorian intended to do next. However, therein now lied a problem. Watching Dorian’s graceful form move about the space, as he kept Orym on the defensive only, only made him realise just how damn attractive the bard was. Between the determined grin on his face and the way he easily countered any of Orym’s attempts to flip the script and attack, he was starting to wonder if perhaps this hadn’t been the best idea.
Dorian’s next strike catches him off guard, leaving him wide open. There's a moment where his eyes meet Dorian’s and a flash of heat burns across his cheeks and the back of his neck. The split second of hesitation was all Dorian needed apparently and he knocked Orym’s sword clean from his hand with a casual flick. Before Orym could right himself, or even think to scramble after his sword, Dorian swept the legs out from under him, sending him tumbling backwards, landing flat out on his back. Dorian was instantly on top of him, a knee pressing into his breastbone, one hand at the side of his head, the other holding his scimitar steady, inches from the bridge of Orym’s nose. Orym heaved his breath as he looked up at Dorian, who smirked.
“I win.”
Orym could only stare, bewitched by the sight of Dorian, his hair tumbling down around his face and shoulders, his face illuminated by only the glow of his scimitar. Orym’s body burned, every nerve ending sung for the touch of the man hovering over him, his face slowly morphing into concern the longer that he just stared at him. Dorian quickly cast aside his scimitar and took Orym’s face into both his hands. At Dorian’s gentle touch, Orym felt his face heat up, the once-dimming arousal flaring back to full force and he gasped.
“Hey, hey, stay with me, Orym. Orym? What’s wrong?”
Dorian shifted his knee off Orym’s chest, now practically straddling him, and Orym took a deep breath. Not that he couldn’t before but every second Dorian touched him, he felt like he was being deprived of air. Dorian’s expression knitted into a panic.
“Orym, breathe, please.” Faintly Orym could feel the familiar tingle of Dorian’s healing magic but it fell away without helping. He grabbed hold of Dorian’s wrists and tore his hands from his face, holding them aloft between them. Dorian, thankfully went willingly. Orym closed his eyes and took another deep breath, willing both his heart rate and his erection down. After a moment his heart did ease but the boiling tension in his gut did not.
“Are you okay?” Dorian’s voice was soft and concerned. Orym opened his eyes to find Dorian watching him, his hands limp in Orym’s grasp. “You look almost feverish.”
Orym had to laugh at that. “Not a fever…but I feel like I’m burning up.”
He released Dorian’s wrists and covered his face with his hands instead, groaning lowly.
“I’m sorry, Dorian. I’m okay, it’s nothing you can help with. You tried.”
“Oh?” Dorian sounded confused for a moment. Then. “Oh.”
He didn’t sound angry or upset. Surprised if anything. Orym kept his face covered, willing himself to be swallowed into the ground below.
“You didn’t have a bad dream did you?” Dorian asked, his voice low and suddenly right beside Orym’s ear causing him to shiver.
“No,” Orym choked out softly. Dorian carefully pried one of Orym’s hands away from his face, pinning it up above his head instead. Orym blinked up at Dorian still hovering over him, hesitation across his brow.
“I can help you with that…if you want.”
Orym gaped a little, the words stuck in his throat for a moment.
“I couldn’t ask that-”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”
Orym chewed on his lip, staring up at Dorian who stared back.
“Are you sure?”
Dorian nodded. “Yes. Let me make you feel good.”
The resistance drained out of Orym and he slackened against Dorian’s grip.
“Please. Please.”
Dorian smiled and gently brought Orym’s other hand up to join the other before he encircled both wrists with one hand.
“I won’t bite,” He murmured before leaning down and tilting Orym’s head to the side so he could press kisses into the skin there.
Orym shivered against the touch as he trailed from just under his ear all the way down to his collarbone. Meanwhile, his free hand wandered down Orym’s chest, alighting nerves as it went until he paused just above the line of Orym’s pants.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.” Dorian whispers before his hand is palming Orym’s cock through his clothes and he loses his sense of time and space.
With a moan that is barely contained by the trees, Orym arches back against the ground, pushing up into Dorian’s hand as it moves against him. Had it always felt this good or was it simply because it had been so long since anyone had touched him? He’s vaguely aware of Dorian releasing his wrists but he’s too lost in the fire of his nerve endings to move, even as Dorian fumbles with the ties on his pants. Then a hand properly touches his cock, warm and gentle and he is lost once more, riding the high as the tension in his gut winches tight like a tether. Dorian strokes him slowly, smoothing a hand down his thigh like he’s soothing a horse. He presses a kiss to Orym’s cheek before shuffling down and the next sensation he knows is a hot mouth wrapping around his cock, tongue swirling around the head. Orym whined and clenched his hands into fists.
“Fuck.”
He can feel the vibrations as Dorian chuckled, sending sparks like lightning up his spine. He moaned, toes curling as Dorian takes him down to the root with no issues, his cock completely engulfed in warmth just like in his dream.
“Shit. Will.”
The name had left his lips before he could stop it. Even as he stuffed his fist into his mouth he could feel Dorian pause before his mouth slipped off his cock completely. With the knowledge that his face was no doubt bright red, Orym looked down, meeting Dorian’s now unreadable gaze. When he opened his mouth, ready to apologise, Dorian cut him off.
“Will I what?” Dorian smiled coyly but it didn’t reach his eyes.
He was offering Orym an out, a way to pretend that it never happened. He was going to owe so many apologies to him after this. Orym sank his hand into Dorian’s hair, tangling the locks between his fingers.
“Will you let me come down your throat?”
Dorian shuddered and nodded, taking Orym’s cock back into his mouth and sucking him down hard and fast. Orym grasped at the ground, forcing himself not to clutch too tight to Dorian’s hair as he worked him over. It was messy and different but it still brought him so sharply to the edge of perfect that had him rolling his eyes back softly begging for release. He could practically feel Dorian’s smirk around his cock as he swirled his tongue once more before pulling off with a hollow-cheeked wet pop. Orym made the mistake of looking down at Dorian between his legs, purple-lipped and glistening wet.
“Are-” Dorian cut off as Orym suddenly came, hitting him square in the face with his spend. Dorian cursed and flinched away, sitting up hurriedly, his hands hesitating halfway to his face. Orym shuddered, panted and forced himself up onto his elbows.
“Shit, sorry, are you okay?” Orym winced as he noticed that Dorian’s shoulders had started to shake. Orym cursed internally at himself. Not only had he just insulted Dorian by calling the wrong name, but now he was about to cry! He really couldn’t have fucked this up any worse, could he?
Then Dorian laughed. Slowly his eyes opened and he continued to laugh, low and almost hysterical. He looked to Orym then down at himself, the drips of spend on his shirt and let his hands fall uselessly into his lap.
Orym shoved himself up onto his hands, arms still shaking. “Here let me-”
“You’ve done enough Orym.”
Orym stopped. He’d never heard that tone in Dorian’s voice before, somewhere between commanding, disappointed and annoyed. Either way, it stopped him dead in his tracks and he lowered his head. From under his lashes, Orym watched as Dorian made a face of disgust before tugging his shirt up and off. He carefully turned it right side out and using a clean corner, proceeded to wipe off his face. He glanced up at Orym.
“Did I miss any?”
Orym took a quick look and shook his head, not trusting himself to speak just yet. Dorian folds the shirt over carefully, muttering to himself about having to clean it and Dariax asking questions if he was even still awake. Orym finally shifted to sit up properly, tucking himself away and retying his pants, double knotting them as if that would do anything to fix the awkward silence that hung over them. He had to try though.
“Dorian-”
“Oh, so you remember my name now?”
Orym winced. “I deserved that.”
Dorian grit his teeth and sighed. “No, you don’t. I’m sorry that was…that was too harsh.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry. I ruined…pretty much everything about that whole interaction.” Every instinct he had told him to reach out across the foot of distance between them and touch him, to soothe and reassure but he hesitated, uncertain his touch would be welcome.
“It’s fine.” Dorian waved a hand nonchalantly. “I’m happy to help. Anytime.”
“Dorian, don’t.” He gripped his hands together in an effort not to reach out to him. “Don’t tell me it’s nothing, I can see it’s bothering you. Ask. I’ll answer.”
“I don’t need to ask Orym,” Dorian snaps his hand clearing the space between them and for a wild second, Orym thought Dorian was going for his throat. But then his fingers curled around the leather cord Orym wore at all times and tugged sharply, drawing the two gold rings on it from underneath his shirt into view. One halfling sized, one half-elven sized. He feared what conclusions Dorian drew from them now, in this moment.
“I’m not an idiot, Orym. I know what these mean.” Dorian dropped the cord, the rings landing like nettle spikes against Orym’s chest. “I don’t care that you were thinking of someone else while using me. Just tell me next time. I only…I just wish it had been mutual you know? That you weren’t just missing him back home-”
“Dorian,” He hated the way his voice broke but he had to say it. “Dorian, he’s dead. He died. A long time ago.”
Instantly, the colour drained from Dorian’s face as did the fight in his shoulders. Almost everything angry or annoyed about him practically melted as Orym’s words sank in and his mouth fell open into a perfect little ‘o’ shape.
“Oh. Oh Orym, I…I’m so sorry-”
“Don’t. I’m sick of the pity.” Orym tucks the rings back under his shirt. “I dreamt of him tonight, he...you…”
Orym flushed. Dorian scooted a little closer.
“You had a dream about him and then I reminded you of him.”
“Yeah.” Orym finally chanced a look up at Dorian who was watching him. “I didn’t mean to…it was the only name I ever….I haven’t…not since he…I need a certain level of trust before…” He pressed his fist to his forehead. How did it figure that he knew what to do in a snap second decision between life and death but the second he needed to say anything, words abandoned him and he became tongue-tied? Dorian’s warm fingers wrapped around his wrist and gently pulled it back from his head.
“How long has it been? Since you slept with anyone in any form?”
Orym swallowed heavily. “Six years.”
Dorian let out a slow puff of air. “I’m sorry for snapping at you.”
“I’m sorry for making you feel like it wasn’t mutual. I’m sorry for hurting your feelings and saying the wrong name and…and coming all over your face and for-”
Dorian placed two firm fingers over his mouth, effectively shutting him up.
“It’s mutual?”
Orym nodded and gently took hold of Dorian’s wrist. “I wouldn’t have let just anyone touch me like that. I…I’m not…I have to know the person I’m with, there have to be…feelings, emotions, in order for me to be attracted to someone. I care about you Dorian. I trust you to have my back and to keep these guys safe. I...desire you. All of you.”
Dorian’s hand shifted to cup his cheek. “I desire you too, Orym. In case that wasn’t obvious.”
Orym couldn’t help the curl of his lips. “It wasn’t actually, up until you offered to suck my cock.”
“Yeah, usually pretty obvious at that point,” Dorian snorted then sobered. “And, don’t think too hard on it, but we’ve all said the wrong name in bed before. I’m sorry I was petty with you, I’ve never had it happen with someone I cared about before. Like playing the wrong chord in a song it just…hurt.”
“I’ll forgive you, if you forgive me.”
Dorian grinned. “Deal.”
Orym couldn’t help but match his smile. Then he thought of something, a rather important detail they’d skipped over.
“You have something in your hair, come here.” Orym reached up a hand motioning for him to come closer. Dorian ducked his head as requested and Orym took the opportunity to cup Dorian’s cheeks and pull him down the rest of the way into a firm kiss. Dorian let out a soft noise of surprise before melting against him, his hands coming to rest on Orym’s upper arms. After a moment Orym drew back, pleasantly surprised to find Dorian's eyes still closed.
“Mh, what was that for?” He asked, cracking one eye open to peer at Orym who smiled and stroked his cheeks.
“We’ve done everything else out of order tonight, I wanted to get this bit right.”
Dorian hummed and closed his eye again. “Don’t let me stop you then.”
Orym chuckled and brought him back in for another kiss.
--
Eventually, they made their way back to camp. Dariax was still awake and alert, waiting for them, watching as they approached. Opal too was now up and Orym would never be over the way his heart ached when he looked at her now, the crown of the spider queen still perched on her head, unmoving. Not for lack of them trying though. Opal watched them with a closer eye than Dariax, who grinned and waved, but she narrowed hers, seeming to linger on Dorian’s shirt tucked up under his arm and how Orym drifted close to his side.
“Where the hell have you two been?” Opal’s voice is in stark contrast to the quiet of the evening as she looks them over with a shrewd eye. Orym plants himself into the dirt by the fire as Dorian shuffles over to his pack to dig out a fresh shirt.
“Early morning sparring,” Orym says simply with a note of finality. A firm ‘let’s not talk about this right now.’
Predictably, Opal blinks and then grins. “Oh really…”
“Yes. I had a nightmare. Dorian offered to help me work off the adrenaline.”
Opal raises a delicate eyebrow. “A nightmare. Working off the adrenaline.” Before she can dig further, Dariax buts in.
“Oh, Orym, buddy I’m sorry you had a bad dream.”
“It happens.” Orym shrugs as Dorian returns with a fresh shirt, settling down between Orym and Dariax. Opal looked between Orym and Dorian for a moment longer but it was Dariax that broke the silence again.
“Hey, Dorian I think you got bird shit in your hair.” As Dariax reached a hand out towards him, Dorian flinched back physically and grabbed for the lock of hair in question with a hurried,
“Thank you, Dariax I can handle it.”
Opal squinted at them from across the campfire.
“I don’t think that’s birdshit-”
“IT’S BIRD SHIT.” Dorian’s voice pitched higher than usual as he clutched his strands of hair closer.
Opal grinned wildly and pointed across the fire at Dorian accusingly, shrieking in delight. The noise finally stirred Fearne and Mister. The former grumbled about being woken while Mister stretched and yawned. Dorian turned wildly to look at Orym like he always did when he wanted direction.
Instead, Orym buried his face into his hands feeling his cheeks burn. Gods help him, this was the path he’d chosen to walk and it involved a cackling eighteen-year-old wearing a vestige of divergence, a sleep-deprived satyr and a confused dwarf trying to catch up to speed and finally an air genasi vehemently denying everything and anything. And he loved each and every one of them.