Dorian is in heaven.
He’s ascended, reached his highest sense of self in this moment. Fearne is pressing kisses along his neck; Orym is holding his hands, massaging his fingers gently because Dorian had hinted at an ache. It wasn’t even that bad—just a little sore from playing for their friends earlier in the evening. Pressed between them, he’s warm and comfortable, especially with Fearne at his back. She seems restless; there’s an energy in the air he can’t quite place, but Orym will glance up at her every so often, and the way his eyes are dark makes something start to stir in Dorian’s stomach. Orym squeezes his hand before bringing it to his mouth, kissing each knuckle in a way that Dorian would call reverent. It’s divine. He feels unworthy. But Fearne’s starting to sink her teeth in his neck, hands fumbling at his shirt to try and start unbuttoning to get more access.
“Handsy today, aren’t we?” He teases, tilting his head back to give her more space. Fearne just hums, deciding instead to slip her hands underneath his shirt and have them rest on his stomach. It feels possessive, intense, and he shudders in her hold. Dorian reaches up to cup Orym’s cheek, just wanting to hold. To watch as Orym sighs, eyes going half-lidded as he nuzzles into Dorian’s hand. It’s perfect. This is perfect. “I’m happy,” he announces, because they need to know. They need to know that they’re the light of his life. “The two of you have brought light to my life I thought was long doomed to darkness.”
“The wind guided us to you,” Orym whispers, the words muffled against Dorian’s palm.
“You’re stuck with us now.” Fearne teases, chin resting on his shoulder. “Orym’s the leader, I think. But you’re the blue, sparkly glue that holds us together.”
“Thanks,” he huffs, not missing the way that Orym snorts and tries to hide his expression behind Dorian’s hand. “And what are you, Fearne? Our daily source of a heart attack?”
“That’s Laudna. I’m the tits and ass, obviously.” Fearne makes a little offended noise. “Though, you do have a nice ass, Dorian. It’s almost as nice as Dariax’s.” Her hands trail up further, dangerously so, and Dorian has to bit his lip to keep a whimper from escaping. “I wonder if your tits are half as good.”
“Fearne,” Orym scolds. Dorian could kiss him, he’s so grateful. You can, his mind supplies. It still doesn’t feel real, even with the lingering ache of Fearne’s latest bruise on his neck. He shimmies his shoulders enough for Fearne to get the memo, and leans forward to kiss Orym. And Gods, it’s lovely. Orym reaches up to cup his face, makes Dorian wait while Orym searches his face for something. He doesn’t mind—Orym has a handsome face, and he’s been trying to find constellations in his freckles for days, now. And then Orym kisses him, gentle; they have every moment to indulge in one another. No battles to whisk them away. No curious Robits knocking to call them down for another round of drinks. The night is theirs, and they can spend it however they want.
“You’re beautiful.” Orym says as he pulls away. “You really do have the face of a prince.” There’s that look on his face again, the sad one he wears so well that Dorian thinks it was made for him. It’s the look that artists strive to capture, poets waste a way trying to describe the way Orym looked at him. He’s beautiful. Dorian loves him. Gods, does he love him.
“Even if I were a prince, which I’m not, I’d rather spend time with common folk like you. Not—not that there’s anything common about you two. I mean, you’re extraordinary. Truly.”
“No need to be modest, my lord.” Fearne coos.
“I’m not—”
Fearne shushes him. “Why don’t you let us show you how beautiful you are, princeling?”
“What?” One of Fearne’s hands slips down his chest and plays with the waistband of his pants. It’s too much, too much—they’ll know how easy he is, because that heat is already stirring in his loins and if Orym kisses him again, or Fearne sinks her teeth just right, he’ll die of embarrassment. He’s so easily flustered, especially in the bedroom. Just a compliment is enough to make him blush like a maiden. Their kisses? Their touches? He’ll burst into flames at just the thought.
“Feeling shy?” Fearne teases. “You don’t need to be nervous. Where was all that bluster before?”
“I—I don’t—I’m not. Gods, Orym.” He looks to the Halfling for help, but Orym is watching them with wide eyes. His pupils are blown, lip drawn between his teeth. Hands curled in the sheets like he was trying to restrain himself. It’s one of the hottest things Dorian had ever seen. He tries to say something, to find a way to voice every thought running through his head, but every word dies when Fearne suddenly moves. The warmth is gone, and he feels strangely empty. He can hear her behind him, shifting, and he makes a needy noise that he can barely bite back. Fearne coos, and he doesn’t have to miss her long because his vision suddenly floods with her.
She settles easily into his lap, caging him in. “I wanted a kiss.” She says, like it’s an easy thing to ask for. Like it’s simply that easy to admit what she wants. And for her, it probably is. Fearne cups his face, forces him to look up at her. “You’re thinking too loud. Stop it.” She gives his head a little shake, like it will remove the thoughts from his head. “Just get lost in the feeling, princeling. Let all the sensations carry you to whatever your heart desires.”
Fuck, she can’t just say that. Not while she’s in his lap. His body has always been traitorous—it’ll give him away without care for his safety. And he’s sure he looks like prey to her, flushed faced and heart racing as it is. Fearne takes what she wants, and it’s terrifying to be the object of her fascination. She doesn’t let him answer. Her lips smash against his, more teeth than probably necessary. Taking and taking and taking, and Dorian is helpless against her. He loves it. Loves her. Loves the way she growls against him, holding him tight like he’d dare try and flee. She’s panting when she pulls back, grinning devilishly in a way that has him arching up into her.
“Princeling,” Fearne says, tangling fingers in his hair. It aches in the best way possible. “Dorian. My lord.”
“Fearne,” he groans, hating how his face heats up (and how the warmth travels low into his belly, settling heavy like an iron kettle). He shuts his eyes and all he can see is Orym and his longing gaze. “Don’t—don’t call me that. What are you—”
“We should have sex.” The words are pressed into his throat, make that molten heat burn even hotter as her teeth scrape against his neck. Orym makes a noise that might be a groan of his own from where he’s settled on the bed. “Fearne, we talked about this,” he chides, voice tight.
They talked about this. About the three of them having sex. Gods above and below, he’s a dead man. And Fearne is in his lap, and he’s sure she can feel the heat and the erection starting to rise under his pants and—
“Princeling,” she tugs on one of his ears, takes his chin in her hand when he can’t bring himself to look at her. “Do you want to have sex?”
Yes, his damned body screams; his traitorous hips jerk up into hers, making her giggle. He feels the bed shift, and then Orym is behind him, solid against his back. Strong hands pressing into his shoulders, guiding him to release the tension. Fearne brushes her thumb along his jaw, presses a soft kiss to his forehead before pulling back to look at him properly. “Oh, you’re excited. Here, let me—” she slips off his lap and onto the floor, settled between his legs. Gods, he’s a dead man, looking at her and her doe eyes as she peers up at him.
“You talked about this?” He manages, voice cracking, but they don’t laugh. Orym hums a soothing note behind him, pressing a particularly tense knot in his back that makes him sag bodily into him. Fearne nods, reaches up and rests her head on his knee. Orym begins with, “It’s nearing midsummer, which is a fertile time for the Feywilds.”
“I’ll be super horny,” Fearne says with all the grace of a rooster announcing the dawn. “And I want to spend it with you two, instead of at a brothel. Or by myself.”
“Oh.” Is all he can manage, sinking even farther into Orym’s touch. “Oh.”
“Oh?” Fearne parrots, peering up at him. “Is this a good oh or a bad one?”
“Good?”
“You don’t have to know right now.” Orym soothes. “Just something to think about. There’s no rush to this, if you feel uncomfortable or uncertain.”
“Have you had sex before, Dorian? You must have, being a prince and all.”
“I…” He thinks about lying. He really does. That need to impress, to be as good as his partners think he is burns deep in his chest even after all this time. But he can’t lie to them, even if he wanted to. The words spill out, soft and barely above a whisper into the stillness of the room. “No, Fearne, I haven’t. You would be my first.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.’ Fearne coos. “Then please, take time to think about it. There’s no need to have it on my account.”
“No, I know, I…I want to deepen our bound. I trust you both. I want to do this with you.”
“But?” Orym prompts gently.
It’s easier to tell Orym without seeing him. “I’m afraid I won’t meet your expectations.”
“Dorian, there’s no expectations to meet. Just be yourself, that’s all we ask.”
“I’d like you to feel good,” Fearne adds. “I’d like to see your face when you—”
“Fearne,” Dorian whines, reaching up to hide his face in his hands. “Fearne, please.”
“Oh, but you look so sweet when you’re flustered, my lord. Your skin gets a lovely purple tint.”
“I’m going to die.” Dorian announces, making Orym chuckle.
“At least let us bed you before you go. Go out with a bang, as they say.”
“Not you too.” He whines, stuck between the two, embarrassed and aroused and not knowing how to deal with it in the slightest. “You’re going to be the death of me. Both of you.”
“Let us make it up to you.” Fearne reaches up, placing a hand on either thigh. “Please? Pretty please?”
“How so?” He leans forward to try and match her energy, to try and grab any confidence back before they shatter it into smithereens.
“Well,” Fearne lets the note hang in the air, eyes narrowing as she takes him in. A predator analyzing her prey. It’s terrifying. It’s arousing. He’s damned, damned, damned, but what a way to go. “I could do anything you like; I think. Oh, I know! I think it’d be nice to suck your cock.”
“Gods, Fearne.”
“Fearne, why don’t you let Dorian breathe for a little bit. Come here. Let’s just take a breath, alright?” Orym pats the bed, and with a put-upon sigh Fearne rises to come join the three of them on the bed. She doesn’t let the distance last long; he’s in her arms in an instant, head against her chest as she begins to card through his hair. Orym stays at his back, tracing winding patterns as they just bask in each other’s space. Dorian breathes, letting his body calm back down into a neutral state of being. Let’s his mind wander into dangerous, yet no longer forbidden territory.
Sex. Taboo in his parents’ household. Assumed to be a regular activity for someone of his profession. Something he’s thought about, in those quiet moments alone. The connection, the intimacy. Warm bodies, gentle hands. The back and forth of a rhythm made by people who cared for one another. The two people he cared for most…sharing that with him. It’s enough to make him shudder, make his breath shake on his next inhale as Orym traces down between his shoulder blades. The memory of those hands on his shoulders; strong, flexible Orym sharing space with him. Fearne, hands in his hair, teeth at his throat.
They’ve come close to sex, in his inexperienced opinion. Orym in his lap, lips locked as Fearne’s hands run down his chest as she sits behind him. And they’d made out separately, too. There was one night where Orym had looked like he wanted to ask him something while Fearne was in the bath, lying underneath him as Dorian kissed him like a man dying. It was hard to know if it was an apology or a complaint, with the furrow in his brow and the way that he grasped onto Dorian’s wrist after he pressed against Orym’s waist. Fearne was always trying to rope him into some sort of entanglement, tugging at his hair or nipping at his shoulder or attempting to burst into the bath with him on their quieter nights.
But to take this next step. It was a big step, and the nerves are there. But he wants this. Feels that surety in his blood like the first time he picked up the lute and knew it was the instrument for him. He wants this. All he has to do is say the word. But he has a few questions, small ones. Big ones. No time like the present. He rolls onto his side, hiding his face in Fearne’s chest. He feels small, vulnerable. Safe, too, especially when she begins to hum a low, nonsense lullaby. “Have you…had sex? The two of you? And in general, I suppose.”
“Not together, no. But I’ve had sex loads of times.” Fearne scritches at his hair, making a soothing noise when he shrinks further into her.
“Not for a long time.” Orym’s voice is tight, a story that Dorian knows he’s not yet privy too. But that’s alright. They all carry secrets close to the chest these days. And that’s fine. It’s an understanding they all have. These things come with time. Trust. Dorian hums, acknowledging the words but still not brave enough to turn and face the Halfling. “How would it work?”
“How would what work?” Fearne asks softly.
“The sex. How…how would that…work?”
“Oh, there’s no set way to do it, Dorian. Whatever way makes you happiest.”
“Whatever makes you feel most comfortable.” Orym taps on his shoulder, and with a deep breath, Dorian rolls over to face him. “Do you know how sex between two men works?”
He’s died. The end. Fearne is chuckling, so he must have made an embarrassing noise. Orym is dead serious, as if he’d be anything but, and it’s overwhelming. But he appreciates it all the same. “In theory. Do you?” It comes out more accusatory than he means, but before he can correct himself Orym is smiling. He has that faraway look he gets sometimes, like he’s remembering a lifetime he’d lived long before now. There’s a tension in his shoulder that releases with a calculated breath. Dorian mimics it, tries to let some of his own tension bleed out with the air.
“I do, yeah.” Orym takes another heavy breath. “I’ll take care of you, Dorian. You don’t have to worry.”
“Who said I was worried? I’m not worried, if it’s you. Not if it’s the two of you.”
“You’re allowed to be worried. It’s a scary thing. I was nervous for my first time.”
“Was it special? Everything those terrible novels make it to be?”
“It was. My first time was with my—it was very special to me, yes.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
Orym’s face softens to that sad look again. The one he wears so well that Dorian’s envious. Grief is a second skin for Orym, if you knew where to look. And Dorian never grew tired of looking at him. “You aren’t prying, Dorian. It’s alright to be curious. I don’t mind talking about it.”
“Can I kiss you?” It’s sudden, a blurt of words that leaves him flushed afterwards. But Orym looks at him like the moon, and nods, reaching out to cup Dorian’s face. He’s always gentle, Orym, but even more so now. He kisses like Dorian is something fragile. Like he needs to be handled with care. It’s even more tender than he thinks he deserves, especially after putting that look on his face. But Orym does it anyway, thumb brushing along his cheek. Grounding him back into the present.
And Fearne is behind him, hand resting on his stomach, pressing against his back and cooing into his hair. It makes him shiver, feeling her fingers slip underneath his shirt. The warmth of her hand, fingers exploring the muscles there. When he pulls away, his decision is made. He wants this, wants Orym and Fearne and every part their willing to give him. “I want to have sex,” he announces, reaching out to cup Orym’s face in a mimic of his gesture. “With you, Orym. And you Fearne. The both of you. If that’s alright, of course.”
“Right now, my lord?” Fearne asks, fingers slipping lower. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Orym? Will you go and get some oil from downstairs? I want to cause a little chaos up here.”
“Sure, sure. Want me to knock when I come back?”
“Oh, there’s no need. It’s just the three of us.”
“Knock,” Dorian says quickly, which just makes Fearne laugh. Orym nods, untangling himself from Dorian. Fearne makes him kiss her before he leaves, and Dorian feels that warmth pool in his gut at the sight of them. They’re beautiful together. A literal work of art. Orym is panting when they pull apart, lips already swollen. Fearne’s grin is devilish, and she rises to walk him to the door. She waves as he leaves, and then shuts the door behind him. When she turns, there’s a glint in her eyes that Dorian has never seen before. It sends a thrill through him, makes him sit straighter in anticipation.
“Dorian.” Just a word and Fearne has him under her spell. The clop of her hooves on the floor makes him shudder; the sway of her hips as she crosses in three easy steps has him biting his lip to stop any embarrassing noise to slip out. “Why don’t you sit on the edge of the bed for me?’
He knows an order when he hears it, and is eager to please. Especially when Fearne beams at him once he’s perched on the edge of the bed, hands nervously in his lap. She takes his face in her hands, presses her thumb against his lips until they part for her. “I’m going to suck your cock until Orym gets back. Does that sound good to you?”
Dorian is too stunned to speak. He nods, a whimper caught in the back of his throat. Fearne tuts, pulls her thumb from his lips and spreads the saliva across his cheek. “I need you to use your words, little prince.”
“Y-yes, yes. Please, Fearne I’d like—oh, Gods.”
“Yes? Go on, Dorian. Finish your sentence.”
“Please suck my cock,” he says in a rush, words blending together into a stream of nonsense. Fearne seems to understand, though, pressing a kiss to his forehead before dropping to her knees in one smooth motion. “Wait.”
She looks up at him, head tilted to the side. “What’s wrong? Do you want to stop?”
“No, no, it’s just. The floor. It’s. Here, hold on.” He scrambles back to grab one of the pillows from the bed and offers it to her. “You shouldn’t—bruised knees are no fun, you know.”
“Oh, I hadn’t even thought of that. Thank you, Dorian. That’s very sweet of you. You’re such a sweet boy.”
Gods, he hates how her praise goes straight to his cock. And she seems to know it, too, grin gaining a sharper edge as she settles on the pillow in front of him. It’s a graceful, easy movement, perfectly calculated so he ends up following the length of her legs up, up, up to that devilish grin. To the mouth that’s going to be on his cock in but a few moments. Gods. He’s not prepared. His brain is a mess—he should offer to pleasure her first, surely, like any good gentleman ought to. Because if he waits, his brain will truly become soup, and he wants to please her. Wants this to be good for her. Wants to see her come undone by him. He wouldn’t even know where to start. They said they’d talk him through it…it’d be embarrassing, sure, but at least he would know what she likes.
“Fearne, I—I can take care of you first, I mean, if you want. You shouldn’t—you don’t. I.”
“Oh, I know, princeling. But I want to do this for you. I’ve been curious about it for a long time. I do wonder if your cock is as blue as the rest of you. If it’ll turn purple when you’re excited. Besides, there’s always next time.”
Next time. There’s already a promise of a next time? He hasn’t disappointed her yet, then. Not that they’ve done anything. Dorian nods jerkily, gripping the bedsheets tightly. Fearne reaches her hands up and places them on his thighs; let’s them trail higher as she moves closer, crowding into his space. She’s fully between his legs, now, hands on his stomach. Staring at him like she’s going to devour him. “You’re nervous?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. Or nervous. I’ve got you. Just take a deep breath, now. That’s it. Good. Raise your hips for me? Good, good, just like that.” Fearne smiles up at him. “Would you like them all the way off? Or we can leave them on. Oh, I can take something off, too, if that would make you more comfortable.”
He’s too stunned to truly speak, nodding his head and babbling something that might be a yes. Fearne just coos at him, pulling back just enough that he feels like he can finally breathe. “I know that look; you think you’re not good enough, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry, I just—I don’t want to screw this up. I want to be good enough for you. For Orym. And I’m terrified I won’t measure up.”
Fearne kisses him, slow and sweet. Her fingers weave through his hair, holding him close. He’s drunk on the smell of her; rich and heady, plants he couldn’t even begin to name or describe. Fearne smells of the earth, of apothecary shops. Plants that could poison or heal with just a taste. And he’s helpless to her, nearly sinking down on the floor to join her. “You’re going to be fine, Dorian. You won’t know until you try. And no one is an expert at sex their first time. I was as clumsy as a newborn deer my first few times. But it was fun! And that’s what it’s supposed to be like! Well, it can be intimate and romantic, too, I suppose. I want to share every piece of this with you. So, you just need to relax and focus on feeling good. That’s the only way your performance will be measured at all, alright? And if it doesn’t feel good, you need to tell me, so we can figure out how to fix it. Understand?”
He’s overwhelmed with gratitude. He wants to cry, just a little. But he takes a deep breath, lets the tension release from his shoulders. “Yes. Thank you, Fearne.”
She kisses him again, pulls at his hair until it hurts. “Good. I’m going to suck your cock now. I’ve been dying to get a taste.” Fearne takes a moment to pull her hair up; he watches, amazed as always, as she calls a vibrant sprig of lavender to wrap around it to secure it. “Lavender isn’t just relaxing—it’s also an aphrodisiac. Did you know that?”
“I didn’t,” he admits.
“I had sex in a field of it, once. It was a wonderful time. I’ll have to take you there, somewhere.”
He closes his eyes, trying to imagine it. Fearne, splayed on her back. Her voice, breathy in his ears. The scent of lavender. Her legs digging into his back; the way she would arch. Fearne’s hands in his hair, tugging, demanding. Gods, he wants to see it. Wants to see her.
“There we go.” Fearne coos. He’s so lost in the imagery that he hadn’t realized she’d removed his pants and smalls. He’s bared from the waist down, and she’s quickly rucking up her nightgown to pull it over her head. Dorian watches, entranced. She tosses the fabric aside without a care, glancing up to meet his gaze and flutter her eyelashes at him. “Told you I was the tits.”
“They’re beautiful.” Gods, Dorian, what are you, stupid? Who the fuck just says that?
“Aren’t they.” Fearne sighs dreamily, arching her shoulders back to show them off. “You can touch them once I’m finished with you.”
It’s happening. Fuck, it’s happening, and all he can do is watch. Fearne places a hand on each of his thighs, spreading them apart. She just looks, for a moment, and he can feel the heat creeping down his neck. And then she leans forward and exhales, warm and wet on the tip of his penis. He jerks; her nails dig into his thighs, reminding him to be still. She peers up at him from behind her lashes, giving that innocent smile. He’s so, so screwed.
She drags her nails lightly down his thighs, only bringing one back up when she goes the opposite direction. The other hand she brings to her mouth, spitting in her palm before she wraps it around his cock. He jerks, and Fearne giggles at him. “Relax. I’ve got you. It really is blue.”
“What were you expecting? Red?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s very pretty. Certainly the prettiest cock I’ve ever seen.” She brushes her thumb along the head, grin softening when he shudders. Fearne keeps her first few strokes leisurely, gaze trained on him to watch every twitch and reaction. And he can’t hide anything, try as he might. Already his thighs are trembling underneath her hand with the effort to not thrust forward. He’s sure his knuckles have gone pale from how tight his grip on the sheets is. And her mouth isn’t even on him yet. He can’t even imagine the sensation.
Fearne grins up at him, and gods, she’s beautiful. She looks serene. Divine. Doe eyes so intent that he can barley handle it. She leans forward, huffs another hot breath on the tip that makes him shudder. “You’re beautiful.” She praises, closing her eyes. “I can’t wait to make you feel good.”
Anything he could say in response is cut off by an embarrassingly loud moan as Fearne takes the head of his cock in her mouth. Her grip adjusts, tightens, slipping lower to make room for the slow slide of her mouth. It’s warm, and wet, and he bites his lip so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t bleed. Fuck, this was what sex was like? And no one had even…Gods, he’s going to be a wreck by the end of the night. Fearne takes him deeper, nearly to the base, before pulling back up. Her breaths are even and practiced, blinking up at him. “You’re so quiet,” she murmurs; her thumb traces along a vein that makes his hips stutter forward.
“I’m embarrassed.” He admits. “And we are technically in a public place. Sort of? Not really. I’m just shy, I guess.”
“You can be as loud or quiet as you want. I do think it would be fun if you screamed, though.”
Before he can comment, Fearne takes him in her mouth again. Down, down, down. One of her hands comes down to his balls, and he can feel vibrations, like she’s humming around and him and oh, fuck--
His self-control snaps, just for an instant. Just long enough for his hips to thrust further, fast and sudden enough to startle Fearne. She pulls back with a choking noise, and he bends down to fret over her. “I’m sorry, Fearne, I’m so sorry. Are you alright? Here, I can go get you some water—”
“Dorian.” Her voice is harsh, catching him off guard. He can only stare at her with wide eyes as she straightens, wiping the saliva from her mouth with the back of her hand. “If I had wanted you to stay still, I’d make you. It’s your first time—of course you’re going to have trouble reigning yourself in. Did it feel good?”
His head is spinning. He’s heady with desire, the words I’d make you repeating over and over. She asked him something, fuck, he wasn’t listening. Fearne’s nails are digging into his thighs just the right side of painful, and he can’t bite back the whimper that escapes. “Dorian. Do I need to ask you again?”
“I’m sorry.” He babbles, jerking when her hand wraps around his cock. “I’m listening.”
Fearne hums, giving a few lazy strokes of his cock before asking, “Did it feel good? Your cock in my mouth?”
Did she even have to ask? He nods, trying to get the words to come out of his mouth. “Gods, Fearne. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”
“Oh, you.” She squeezes his cock, brushes her thumb along the head. “Would you like it again?”
“Yes,” he whines, desperate. When she giggles, he clears his throat, trying again. “Yes, please.”
“You’re so stiff, Dorian. Relax. You don’t have to be so formal. We’re about as animal as we can get.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Fearne gives a little sigh before leaning forward to press a kiss on the tip of his cock. “Let’s see if you can last until Orym gets back.”
Gods, he hopes he can. It would be embarrassing if he couldn’t. And the Halfling should be back any moment now. It wasn’t that long of a trip downstairs. It was a wonder he hadn’t returned at all.
“He’s not in trouble. I told him to take a little extra time so I could rile you up.” Fearne explains like she had read his mind. “Relax, Dorian.”
“Right. Relax.” He takes a deep breath, holding it as Fearne slowly takes the tip of his cock into her mouth. His hands tighten in the sheets, breath coming out in a hiss as she takes deeper. His hips, thankfully, remain still. Perhaps it’s because he’s finally relaxing; that, or Fearne’s other hand on his left thigh is a reminder of what will happen if he doesn’t stay still. She hums again, and this time he keeps himself still. It’s good, God is it good. She pulls back, thumbing the underside of his cock. “You can fuck my mouth,” she says bluntly. “You just caught me off guard, the first time. I’ll tap your thigh twice if it’s too much, alright?”
“I—alright. Okay.”
“Good.” She kisses the head of his cock before taking it in her mouth. He takes a steadying breath before hesitantly thrusting forward. Fearne doesn’t choke, doesn’t tap his thigh. Feeling more confident, he does it again. She hums again, making him shudder. They begin to find a rhythm between his shy thrust and Fearne’s practice. It’s everything he’d dreamed of and nothing he’d ever imagined. It’s too much. The only thing on his mind is Fearne. He’s lost in the sensation, of the way drool is starting to come out of her mouth and the way she presses her thighs together. She’s too far away. He wants to hold her, touch her. Gods, he wants to kiss her. What would it taste like? Would it taste like him? Dorian lets out an embarrassed noise at the thought, and Fearne’s hummed response makes the cord inside him tighten. It’s like a lute string wound too tight; surely, at any moment, he’s going to snap.
A knock at the door made his hips jerk out of rhythm. Gods, was Ashton or Letters knocking at their door? Was someone in trouble? Oh Gods, what if they came in? What if they same him like this? He looks down at Fearne, panicked, because she isn’t stopping. “Fearne?” His voice is high, a reminder of the burning in his stomach. The lute-string being plucked and wound. “Fearne!”
The faun pulls away, eyes half-lidded. “It’s just Orym.”
Orym. How had he forgotten? Gods, he’s an idiot. Not that the idea of Orym entering makes him feel any better. He wants to be presentable for them. Dependable, reliable. Capable. Orym seeing him like this, like a wreck. Desperate and needy makes shame burn hot in his cheeks. But the idea of being vulnerable with him is pleasant, too. Terrifying, certainly, but something he wants. Fearne begins to jerk his cock, faster than she had all night, and he can barely bite back a moan. “Tell him to come in, Dorian.”
She has to have cast a spell on him. Charm Person, at least. Maybe some mystical Fae spell he’s never heard of before. He stares at her, wide eyed, because his voice is refusing to work. There’s another knock, more insistent this time, and Fearne leans down to take his cock in her mouth all the way to base.
“Orym!” His voice cracks, high and strained. “C-come in.”
The door opens. Fearne’s teeth scrape lightly at his skin and Dorian tosses his head back in a groan. It’s too much, too much. “Fearne, I can’t—”
She doesn’t lessen. If anything, she becomes more intense, taking him impossibly deeper. He’s drowning. He turns his head, searching for Orym, his anchor, someone to hold him in the wake of all this pleasure. “Orym, please, oh, Gods.”
His orgasm is all consuming. His hips jerk, one hand coming up to try and muffle the whine escaping him. His eyes are squeezed shut so tightly it hurts. Dorian feels like he’s floating. He hears voices like the whispers from Laudna’s messages, but they’re warmer. Softer. Just at the edge of his periphery. There’s a hand, heavy and warm on his thigh. The bed is creaking, shifting, and a body is next to him. Just as warm, solid. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s Orym. Dorian leans into it, searching, shuddering in the wake of his orgasm.
“I’ve got you.” Orym says softly, guiding him to bend in an angle that will surely make his back complain later. He doesn’t care. It lets him press his head against Orym’s shoulder, fills his nose with leather and lavender. “You and Fearne had a good time, then?”
He nods, voice feeling too raw to speak. Orym chuckles, and the reverberations make him sigh. “I told you he’d look beautiful when he came,” Fearne coos. “I’m glad you got to see it, Orym. Kiss me?”
“’course I’ll kiss you, Fearnie. C’mere.”
Dorian blinks the haze from his eyes to watch. Fearne keeps one hand on his thigh as she leans up to kiss Orym. It’s soft at first. Chaste, like she hadn’t just blown Dorian’s mind to smithereens. Like Orym had simply left the room for a few moments and she wanted to let him know she missed him. And in an instant, it shifts. Orym pitches forward, nearly taking Dorian with him. One of his hands tangles in Fearne’s hair, pulling her head back. It’s fucking hot, watching Orym let himself go. Loose himself in the moment, in the passion. Fearne looks particularly bright eyed when they pull apart. Orym looks a little sheepish.
“Sorry,” he says softly.
“Oh, don’t be. How’s our little prince doing?” Fearne turns her attention to Dorian, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Up for another round?”
“I. Gods, Fearne that was—thank you. I should return the favor. Here, let me—”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Fearne cuts him off gently. “Just give me a kiss and we’ll call it even, okay? I can take care of myself while you and Orym fuck.”
Orym takes a sharp breath beside him. Dorian nods, already feeling that heat starting to pool in his stomach at the thought of a second round. He leans forward and kisses Fearne, letting her guide him. She’s surprisingly gentle, brushing her thumb along his cheek and keeping things light. When she pulls away, there’s a smile in her eyes. “Do you want the rest of your clothes off?”
Oh, Gods. He’s half naked. Fearne is fully naked. And Orym is fully clothed. He can feel his face heating up. Orym is laughing, that deep bellied one that always makes Dorian weak in the knees. From the corner of his eye, he can see Orym starting to pull at his shirt. Dorian sits up and starts to do the same. Fearne doesn’t wait for his shirt to be fully off; she’s already pawing at his chest the moment its bare. He tosses his shirt to the side and, after a moment’s hesitation, reaches down to offer the same. She did, after all, promise him he could touch afterwards. Fearne giggles, pushing her way onto the bed and onto his lap. “Don’t be shy.” She encourages, grabbing one of his hands and bringing it to her breasts. “Though you are precious when you act so embarrassed, my lord.”
“She’s right, little prince.” God, hearing that from Orym makes his heart skip a beat. He mumbles something incomprehensible and focuses his attention on Fearne instead. Even with his love of performance, it’s hard to be the center of attention. To have all those eyes on him, especially when he feels unworthy of it. But any anxieties melt away when Fearne makes a soft noise the moment his hands find her breasts. Soft and breathy. “Just like that,” she encourages when he brushes a thumb over her nipple. “Good. You can be rougher, princeling. I’m not fragile.”
“Gods, do I know it.” Dorian whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss to Fearne’s collar bone. She tilts her head back, and Dorian begins to suck a mark there. Behind them, Orym has started arranging the remaining pillows. “Do you want to be on your back or your stomach?”
“Back. I want to see you.” It feels embarrassing to admit. But Orym just hums and bumps his shoulder on his way back to him and Fearne. Dorian slowly peels himself from Fearne, who doesn’t seem to mind. She presses a kiss to his cheek before moving towards the head of the bed, finding a comfortable position for herself. Orym reaches up to cup his face, guiding Dorian to look at him. It’s settling in, now, that they’re actually doing this. He must look nervous (and when doesn’t he, honestly?) because Orym tucks his hair behind his ears and gives his head a little shake. A habit he’s gotten from Fearne, though he’s much gentler about it. Jostling his thoughts around until they either make sense or his head is so scrambled, he forgot about them. “We don’t have to do this.”
“I know, Orym. I know. I want to. I truly do.”
“We’ll go slow. I’ll talk you through all of it. If anything hurts or feels uncomfortable you have to tell me, alright?”
“I will. I promise. Now, not to be, er, forward? But you seem a bit overdressed.”
“Are you offering?” There’s a glint in Orym’s eyes, teasing.
“Yes.” Dorian reaches up to slide his fingers underneath Orym’s shirt. “I am.”
Orym smiles, then, the one that makes his eyes crinkle and the warmth in Dorian’s belly surge. He knows he should take his time, there’s no rush, but he’s missed Orym, and he’s far too clothed and too far away for Dorian to be content. Orym laughs, shaking his head, and Dorian slaps his hands away when he tries to help. He wants to do this. He wants to feel Orym’s skin underneath his hand, the flex of his muscles as Orym shifts to accommodate him. If he really strains his hands, they could wrap all the way around Orym’s waist. It’s thrilling. It’s frightening. He’s so small, but never delicate. Orym was tough, solid, and even as Dorian manhandles him, he barely flinches. Just laughs lowly, bending and arching to let Dorian take as much as he pleases. Dorian loves him. Gods, does he love him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Orym soothes. Reaches up to tangle a fist in Dorian’s hair once his shirt is finally, finally off and Dorian can start sucking a bruise on Dorian’s neck. “Gods, Dorian.”
“Blame Fearne.” He mumbles, which only makes Orym laugh. He can feel the shake of it underneath his hands. It’s so hot. “I missed you.”
“You were beautiful,” Orym praises, voice shaking just a hair. “You and Fearne both. I’m sad I missed it. I’ll be there for the next one.”
Next. Dorian groans in response. He’s shaking with want and need in equal measure. A hand presses to his shoulder, and then teeth, and then Fearne is pressed against is back, warm and heavy. “I got bored.” She says simply. “It was so lonely over there.”
“My apologies.” Dorian soothes, voice shaking. He’s getting a touch overwhelmed, and Orym senses it, untangling himself from Dorian’s needy hands and soothing the whine that slips out. He glances up, and he and Fearne must be some sort of telepathic, because in an instant Dorian is manhandled by Fearne. Arms underneath his own, pulling him up and back towards the head of the bed. Orym settling between his legs, still half-dressed, one hand on either knee as he forces Dorian’s legs to spread. It’s embarrassing; it’s arousing. He’s already half-hard again, jerking up into Fearne’s curious hands as they start to explore his chest. She doesn’t give him a chance to settle, murmuring things in his ear that make him turn purple, flushing furiously.
And Orym just watches, which is somehow worse. He rubs soothing circles with his thumbs into Dorian’s knees. He isn’t even touching his cock! But Orym’s gaze is intense, pupils blown and dark, and Dorian can’t bear to look at him for more than a few seconds at a time. It’s dangerous, it’s thrilling, Fearne’s sucking another bruise into his neck while she drags her nails along his ribs and it’s too much. “Please,” he whines, hates that his voice cracks.
“What is it, my lord?” Fearne’s voice sound so coy, so innocent, and Dorian nearly sobs when she reaches down to tweak one of his nipples. “Go on, you can tell us.”
He groans, tries to get the words to say what he wants, because it’s just the side of too much but he’s greedy, always has been, and he wants more. But he needs to adjust, needs a minute to let his body adjust to all the sensation. He reaches one hand down, slapping blindly at his own leg for one of Orym’s; his other reaches for Fearne, gripping her wrist tightly. “Please.” It’s the only word that he can manage to make sense of. Fearne presses kisses to the top of his head, hands stopping to just rest on his stomach.
Orym hums, kisses his knee. “Too much?”
“Yes? No? Need a minute, please?”
“Of course.” Orym soothes. “Take your time.”
Fearne rests her chin on the top of his head, babbling happily. She rubs soothing circles with the tips of her nails, light enough that it doesn’t overstimulate him any further. Orym is a solid presence, reaching down to start massaging some of the tightness out of his calves. He doesn’t feel worthy; they’re spoiling him. But Fearne doesn’t let him shy away, shushing him whenever he tries to protest the treatment. What’s most embarrassing is he’s still hard, spread bare between the two of them. He tucks his head into Fearne’s chest to try and hide in some way. She coos, gentle and sweet. Gives his stomach a few pats like he’s a particularly lazy dog. “Better? You’re still so hard, princeling. Wouldn’t it help to have Orym’s fingers inside you?”
He groans at the thought. Orym doesn’t say anything, but a quick glance shows a tightness to his shoulders that Dorian has come to recognize means Orym is barley holding himself back. “If Orym wants—”
“It’s not about me,” Orym interrupts. His voice is taught, low and strained, and Dorian groans. Tries to spread his legs a little more to show that he’s eager and willing. Tilts his head back, hopes that he doesn’t look like a complete idiot when he glances down at Orym. “I’d like that, if you’re willing, Orym. Please.” He swallows, tries not to cringe at the way he feels like a cheap, back-alley whore. “I want you inside me.”
The affect on Orym is immediate. He swallows, grip on Dorian’s legs so tight it hurts. And then the tension releases. Orym pulls back, searches amongst the rumpled bedsheets for the vial of oil. “It’ll feel weird, at first. I’ll go slow. Prop him up a bit more, Fearnie?”
Fearne hums, adjusting so her legs don’t dig into Dorian’s back. He’s propped more comfortably against her stomach, legs spread wide for Orym. She runs her fingers through his hair, telling him to let her know if he gets uncomfortable so she can adjust the position. He nods, adjusting so he can watch Orym. The Halfling had found the vial, and is liberally coating his index finger. “I’m going to put the first finger in,” Orym announces. “Relax; it won’t feel good if you’re all tense. That’s it—good. Just like that, princeling.”
He shudders, trying to force himself to relax. Fearne begins to rub at his shoulders, shushing him gently. Orym presses a finger against his entrance, and Dorian forces out an exhale. It’s odd—there’s no denying it. But Orym goes slowly, and it doesn’t hurt. Just strange. Intrusive. A single finger pressing into the most intimate part of himself, crooking and searching. Orym looks intense in his focus. Handsome (but when isn’t he?). Orym presses further, head resting against Dorian’s knee. “How are you feeling?”
“It’s odd. Not unpleasant?” Dorian’s voice lilt’s up when Orym presses impossibly further, then draws back. “New.”
“I’m going to add a second one. It’ll be uncomfortable at first; the stretch will burn. If it gets too bad, I’ll stop.”
“Right. I trust you.” Dorian sighs, tries not to let Orym’s words make him nervous. Orym kisses his knee, reaches up and uncorks the vial with his teeth. Pours a liberal amount over his index and middle fingers. Press the two against his entrance and Dorian forces himself to breathe. It does hurt, but it’s not unbearable. He’s taken swords to the abdomen and magic to his head. This? Barely a scratch. ‘tis only a flesh wound. And Orym goes slow, lets him adjust to the stretch of his fingers. They press up, slowly spread apart. It’s an easy pace, and Dorian finds himself relaxing into Fearne as Orym fingers him.
Fearne, catching on to the gentle pace, is playing with his chest. Fingers brushing his nipples, tracing patterns along his chest. She rubs at the bruises on his neck, bringing little pinpricks of pain at the edge of his feelings. She’s humming a low tune, the notes odd but not discordant. A Fey melody through and through. It’s pretty, soothing the last of the nerves dredging in his gut. He feels at peace, between them. Pressed between the two people he loves most in the world.
The quiet spells ends suddenly when Orym’s fingers curl against a particular spot inside him. Dorian jerks, a startled noise escaping. Fearne tightens her grip to keep him steady, and Orym lets out a low huff of laughter at his feet. “What was that?”
“It’s called a prostate. It’s a bundle of nerves.” Orym brushes the spot again, and Dorian groans. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he whines, trying to resist the urge to thrust his hips up into Orym’s fingers. “Gods, Orym.”
“Imagine how it will feel when Orym’s cock is inside you.” Fearne coos, making Dorian jump. He whimpers, because Gods, what a thought? Orym’s fingers are starting to feel good, crooking and scissoring and impossibly deep inside him. The thought of his cock inside him makes him shudder, arching his back into Orym. “It looks so lovely, Dorian, his fingers inside you. And your cock is just so pretty.”
He lets out another pathetic whimper, squeezing his eyes shut tight enough that it hurts. Fearne’s hands slip down his stomach, forcing him to bend forward. He’s nearly bent over double, and then one of her hands wraps around his cock. Fuck. Orym’s fingers slip out, and he doesn’t have time to mourn, because Fearne is jerking him off and whispering sinful things in his ear. And then Orym presses against him again, three fingers this time, the stretch aching more but dulled with Fearne brushing her thumb along the head of his cock. He presses that spot inside him, making him see stars. They’re both relentless, the pleasure crashing over him, his body electrified like the lightening in the sky. His feet press against the mattress, arching back into Fearne. There’s no escape, no where to hide. Just Fearne and Orym and him.
“Please, I can’t, I won’t,” he babbles, reaching up to try and still Fearne’s hand. “Please, I can’t, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Orym shushes, giving his fingers one last crook before pulling them out. Fearne releases him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. She slips out from behind him, a slow separation of bodies. He settles back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Out of his peripheray he can see her adjusting, a finger slipping down between her legs. He inhales sharply, blindly reaches out a hand towards her. She takes it, squeezing. He feels a little less like he’s drowning, choking on air he doesn’t need.
Orym adjusts his legs, presses against him to lean forward and press a kiss to Dorian’s stomach. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Dorian?”
“Yes?” He sits up, looking at Orym. He looks serious, an intensity that makes him nervous.
“I love you.”
Oh. His heart flutters in his chest, pounding a desperate escape against his ribcage to fall into Orym’s hands. “I love you.”
“And I love you both!” Fearne chimes, a stuttering breath following. “Oh, oh so much.”
“I just…wanted you to know.” Orym sounds suddenly shy, and Dorian hums.
“I’m glad. It’s good to hear. I know—I know I’m loved. And I know I love you. But it’s nice to hear all the same.”
“So romantic,” Fearne coos.
“I’m going to—”
“Go ahead,” Dorian cuts Orym off. “Please. I need you. Want you. Too many things to put into words. Please, Orym.”
Without any further prompting, Orym starts to enter him. It’s slow—Dorian almost wraps a leg around Orym to get him to move faster. The stretch isn’t terrible; Orym had prepared him well, and the slide is easy enough. And then Orym presses all the way inside, just shy of that spot that Dorian knows will make him see stars. He probs himself up as best he’s able. Orym is tense, eyes squeezed shut. He’s holding back—holding back for him, and it looks almost painful. “Orym,” Dorian groans, pressing back. A hand on his stomach stills him. “You don’t have to hold back for me. Let go. I want all of you. I can take it.”
Orym’s hips stutter forward, pushing deeper, brushing against his prostate and making him whine. “Gods, Dorian.”
“It’s so attractive when you let go, Orym.” Fearne chimes breathily; there’s a wet noise and high whine which makes Dorian think she’s slipped a finger or two inside. He’s too caught watching Orym to look for himself. Dorian is about to press further, try and coax Orym into chasing the pleasure he so desperately wants. He’s already had one orgasm—any others are meaningless if Orym and Fearne don’t get their pleasure. And then Orym is pulling out, hands gripping tightly to Dorian’s hips and slamming back into him. It hurts, just a bit, and Dorian let’s out a yelp. But it’s good, Gods is it good. Because Orym is hitting that spot inside him just right, and he barely has time to think before he’s doing it again.
“Gods, Dorian, you’re so tight.” Orym’s pace isn’t fast, but brutal simply in the strength behind his thrusts. Dorian’s free hand is fisted in the sheets; his other gripping Fearne’s so tight he’s sure his knuckles have gone white. Fearne’s noises are getting louder, making him tilt his head to watch her. Gods, Gods she’s beautiful. Two fingers inside her cunt, head tossed back and revealing the length of her neck. She glances down at him from underneath her lashes and smirks, slowing down the quick curl of her fingers into something slower. She rolls with it, an effortless movement that has him groaning. He closes his eyes and the image is burning behind them. Gods, he can practically imagine her on his—
Orym makes a particularly rough thrust, pulling Dorian closer to him. Dorian reaches a leg up to hold him there, forcing Orym into doing rough, shallow thrusts. “Gods, Dorian, you’re beautiful.”
“You too,” he manages, biting his lip to keep from howling when Orym his prostate again and again and again. He’s not going to last much longer at this rate. “I’m close.”
“Me too.”
“Orym, do you think I can—do you mind if--?”
“Its not me you should be asking, Fearnie.” Orym manages. Dorian doesn’t have a clue what they’re talking about. His mind is nearing blank, especially when Orym leans down to suck a bruise into his thigh.
“Dorian, please, I wanna—I wanna ride your cock. I want you to cum in me. Oh, please, Dorian, your majesty, my lord, oh, fuck, please.”
Fuck, how is Dorian supposed to say no to that? He nearly cums at the words, hips thrusting up. “Yeah, yeah, fuck, Fearne.”
She makes a noise that’s animalistic, somewhere between a sob and a whine. She gives his hand one last squeeze before scrambling to get on top of him. Fearne gives his dick a squeeze, murmurs something to Orym he doesn’t catch, because his vision nearly whites out as Fearne settles all the way on his cock. He thrusts into her immediately, unprepared. She’s warm, and wet, and Gods, he can’t help but sob at the first roll of her hips. Fearne’s beautiful. More royalty than he could ever be. She rolls her hips, her hands reaching out to steady herself on Orym, he assumes. He’s entranced by the freckles on her back, the way the hair on her legs climbs up her hips and along her back. The beads of sweat trickling down her neck.
Orym picks up the pace as well, matching Fearne’s to the best of his ability. Dorian is helpless, squeezing his eyes shut and letting them take their pleasure from them. “I love you. I love you, fuck, I love you.” He repeats, over and over, jerkily thrusting his hips up into Fearne to try and match her rhythm. He might be crying, he isn’t sure. Broken sobs are pulled from him with every roll and thrust. If this is sacrilege, he’s never going back. He’s never going back home, not if this is what is here for him. He’ll be Fearne’s throne, Orym’s cock-sleeve, whatever they want of him. Let him be the whore, the disgrace; he’s never wanted anything more in his life than he wants to be theirs in this moment.
“I can’t, I’m sorry, please.”
“Cum, Dorian,” Fearne orders, grinding against him. “I’m close, too.”
“Fuck!”
The dam breaks. His orgasm washes over him, blinding. He thrusts into Fearne, who makes a high-pitched keen of her own. She cries their names over and over, a plea and a praise and a curse all in one. He can feel her clenching around him, the pulsing heat of her, and she’s coming, too. Her movements are erratic, chasing every bit of pleasure she can get from him. And then he hears Orym swear, louder than he’s ever been, and he can feel him spilling inside him. Gods, it’s so much. He feels like he’s a monster on the receiving end of one of Imogen’s witch bolts, static and crackly. He feels like he’s high amongst the clouds in the middle of a lightening storm. It’s bliss. He never wants to come down.
Eventually, though, he does. Fearne slides off of him with a wet noise and a whimper, flopping on the bed beside him. “Hello,” she says softly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You’re crying. Was it too much?”
“Maybe a little?” He admits. It takes him a long time to get the words out. “But it was good. I’m happy.”
“I’m glad. We’ll get you cleaned up in a minute. Let’s just sit. Orym, come here.” She raises her arms out, and Orym chuckles.
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’.” He pulls out slowly, wincing in sympathy when Dorian hisses. “You’ll be sore. Sorry.”
“I’ll heal you.” Fearne promises. “And I’ll carry you, too. Don’t worry about it. Come cuddle.”
Orym joins them, pressing against Dorian’s other side. He brushes Dorian’s hair, shushing him when he babbles. “It’s alright. We’ve got you. You’re alright.”
“Love you.” Dorian presses a kiss on Orym’s palm. Or at least, he attempts to. He mostly gets a mouthful of sheets, but it’s the thought that counts. Fearne runs her fingers through his hair, and it’s nice. It’s so nice. He’s blessed, happy and content. Sandwiched between the two people he loves most in the world. There’s so much to this world he’s never known, never experienced, and he’s grateful that he gets to learn about it with Orym and Fearne.
And, more than anything else, he’s very grateful that when he wakes in the morning, Orym and Fearne had taken the liberty of cleaning them up. Waking up in cum stained sheets and sticky with all manner of body fluids was not one of the things he was looking forward to experiencing, thank you very much.