As great as a night out can be, all Orym really wants is a night off.
The rest of the group are excited at the idea, though, and so he acquiesces when Laudna suggests they find a way to celebrate a particularly thorny job by heading out to the comparatively quieter peaks of the Aerie Spire. The stars are a bit clearer here and Orym does appreciate being able to see the way the night sky looks a bit different in this part of the world. It’s nice, but he’s still dreading the long trek back to the Spire by Fire too much to really enjoy it.
The others are enjoying themselves, though. Imogen brings along a few bottles of decent wine to split, her mood seemingly bolstered by their relative solitude as she leans back to back with Laudna. Dorian is pointing out constellations he recognizes from his last time on Marquet, softly singing ballads while Fearne accompanies on her panflute. Fresh Cut Grass has rolled off to look out over the city with pensive curiosity, the lights of their strange circuitry blinking on and off in time to the music.
Orym is nearly asleep, laid out on the grass, idly pulling at the green spikes beneath his hands and watching them reform into green flowers with gold striations rippling out from their centers. He aches everywhere, getting thrown from the back of a rampaging mother cockatrice will do that, but it's only uncomfortable, not fatal.
“You look like trodden shit.”
The voice is somewhere above him and even as tired as he is, Orym still smiles when he hears it. Cracking his eyes open, Orym looks up, then up and up to see Ashton standing over him with a cocky sort of grin. Ashton looks worn down and bruised, maybe only slightly better than Orym does. After all, it’s only Orym who was reckless enough to try the maneuver he did and he’s paying for it more than usual.
“You look radiant as ever.”
“Fuck off, you charming asshole.”
“Trodden’s one of the words from your books, right?” Orym pats the ground next to him, rolls his head to look back up at the stars and doesn’t smile, exactly, at Ashton swearing at him.
“You’re not as funny or as charming as you think.”
Orym allows his answer, that Ashton was the one who first called him charming, to die before it even forms in his mouth. Saying it isn’t necessary, not when Ashton catches his eye, plainly sees what Orym is thinking on his face, and starts swearing again in that good-natured way of theirs.
There’s a creeping twinge of warmth bleeding out from the sore spots in his chest thinking about how Ashton came to see how he was doing. It’s one of those feelings that’s easy to set aside in the moment, except Orym never returns to reexamine them. For all their care not to seem like the kind of person who gives a shit, Ashton cares enough to come give Orym a hard time. It’s practically a full declaration, even if no one but Orym notices.
Ashton drops into a crouch next to Orym’s head, rolling back and forth on the balls of their feet until settling into a comfortable position. “Okay, so you did a stupid thing today. How do you feel?”
“Like well-trodden shit, we’ve established this. How do you think I feel?”
Being around Ashton is familiar. They drag out a well-worn part of Orym he hasn’t been in a long time, the part that used to steal moments of levity with the other guards with self-deprecating and rough banter. Levity, and – well, it’s familiar, is the thing. It reminds him of another time, another version of himself that he liked and forgot about.
As though reading the exact trajectory of Orym’s thoughts and deliberately cutting it off, Ashton rocks forward on their toes and says, “Want to get out of here?”
“Desperately.”
Ashton holds out a hand and Orym takes it, pulling himself up with a grunt of pain hardly loud enough to hear. One crystalline eyebrow lifts at that and Orym waves them off, waiting until he catches Dorian’s eye to tip his head in Ashton’s direction.
Imogen looks up at the same time Dorian’s answering smile rises, bright and obvious enough to catch Fearne’s notice. Dorian leans over to whisper something in Fearne’s ear and she beams at him. His subtle getaway thwarted, Orym digs out a sending stone and tosses it to Dorian, just in case anything happens. Ashton waves to Fresh Cut Grass, gesturing for them to stay with Fearne, and then the two of them leave. It all happens in the span of maybe a minute.
Ashton takes in a deep breath of night air when they’re finally out of sight. “You’re not worried about them gossiping about you?”
“Are you?” Orym’s mouth twists in a wry smile. "Worried they'll gossip about me?"
No, Orym’s not worried about gossip, really. Not with this group. Anything the others might say is only going to be good-natured teasing. Maybe a few hoots of what the fuck is up with that! whenever he makes it back to the Spire by Fire in the morning wearing today’s clothes.
“Zephranian guard, upstanding citizen on a mission for his people, spends his time in the city hooking up with unruly punks.” Ashton is being a dick, kind of, but as always, Orym thinks he sees the thread of self-preserving insecurity underneath it.
“Ashari,” he corrects. “Anyway, the salacious stuff happened when I was still in Emon.”
“Now that’s definitely a word from one of my books.” But Ashton is laughing now, hands shoved into their pockets, head tipped back so the crystals gleam in the lamplight, and Orym considers that a victory.
The Krook House is only a little closer than the Spire by Fire and, despite his earlier dread of having to walk anywhere for any length of time, Orym really doesn’t notice how the time passes on the way. The house is rarely quiet, someone always seems to be around when Ashton brings him here, but it is tonight.
Ashton latches the door and calls an unanswered greeting down the hall, shrugs and heads on to their room. Orym follows. His being here is invitation enough, he and Ashton are well past needing to dance around the point.
Unbuckling his armor, Orym looks out the window beside the bed at the open view of the city and allows himself to be amazed by it. He’s so far from life in Zephrah that it sometimes rises up over him, how different this all is than anything he’d ever known. Even Ashton’s room is a riot of fascinating, unfamiliar things: colorful wall hangings, a heap of patchwork blankets Orym thinks probably came with the room, that stack of books by the bed, miscellaneous personal effects that Ashton will probably never explain without losing a bet.
“You need to go slow tonight?” Ashton has already shrugged off their leather vest, artlessly dropping it on top of the pile of books and making a show of stretching. He’s meant to look and so Orym does, watching over his shoulder as Ashton reveals more of that grass-green skin cut with gold scars rippling out across their skin.
“Not slow,” he says when Ashton finally looks back at him, their hands resting on the button of their pants. Orym tips his chin up appreciatively, sweeping his eyes unsubtly over the growing bulge at the front.
Fast and hard is probably going to make him feel terrible in the morning, but probably not much worse than he feels right now. At least tomorrow the aches will be from something considerably more fun than getting his ass kicked, even if Dorian cheerfully teases him about the saddlesore way he walks after Ashton fucks him.
Orym is unlacing his boots when a heavy thunk tells him that Ashton’s pants are now on the floor. Knowing that they don’t usually bother with small clothes, Orym looks up for the view in time to see Ashton staring off toward the wall. They’re rubbing blunt fingertips over the ragged seam where the purple crystal growth meets the opalescent crack in their skull. He wasn’t the only one who had a rough day.
“Unless you need to go slow?” he offers, setting his boots to the side, flexing his shoulders a little when he unfolds to see how it feels. Ashton grunts appreciatively at whatever show Orym is putting on, flicking their forefinger against some internal itch they can’t scratch.
“Are we going to do this?” Ashton asks, but they’re grinning at Orym from behind their hand anyway. “Play chicken until we’re both so fucked up we can’t stand up in the morning?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds tremendously stupid of us.” Orym advances toward Ashton with his eyes fixed on their face, undoing his sash with more flair than is strictly necessary. “Like something we’re supposed to talk about?”
“Probably a sign of something deeply fucked up that we’re trying to ignore.”
“Let’s ignore it.” At the same instant he offers, Orym reaches out with one hand and shoves Ashton back onto their bed. They sit down hard, grabbing Orym by the loosened knot of his sash and yanking him against their chest.
The clattering impact of their mouths is satisfying and a little messy. It’s fine if they were just kissing, but Orym tries climbing into Ashton’s lap and they crash together so hard that it sends a fresh swell of pain rippling down Orym’s spine and into his left knee.
It’s very suddenly just as hard to breathe as it was when he first hit the ground on his side, probably crushing a few of his ribs in the impact. Between the stars flickering in and out of his vision, Orym sees Ashton wincing, pinching the bridge of their nose.
“Fuck.” Ashton leans forward around Orym, still hanging onto his sash. Their breath warms Orym’s neck and it almost feels affectionate. Almost like Orym wants to fold Ashton up in his arms, if he thought they’d let him. “We got fucked up today.”
“All right,” Orym concedes at last, forehead slumped against Ashton’s chest when the pain starts to subside back to a tolerable level. The ceiling still feels tilted the wrong way. “We’ll go slow.”
“Giving up?”
“Hardly.” Orym slides down from their lap, pulling his sash from Ashton’s hand and rolling it efficiently around his palm.
“Fine.” Ashton flops back onto the thin mattress with their cock bobbing obscenely while Orym gets the rest of his clothes off in a hurry, folding them onto a trunk in the corner. “I guess you already had your guts rearranged once today.”
Orym’s laugh at Ashton’s irreverence is choked by an immediate wince of pain. Ashton’s smug grin from the bed is a little triumphant, but they’re watching carefully as more of Orym’s body comes into view.
“I don’t know why you bother wearing anything under your pants. Always seems like I’m waiting on you to get all your clothes off.”
“We don’t have to bother taking clothes off,” Orym suggests mildly, hopping deftly onto the bed and putting his hands all over Ashton’s naked body as he climbs up to sit on the wide, powerful barrel of their chest.
Orym likes how they feel underneath him, the pebbled texture of their skin over layers of hard muscle. The darkening flush that spreads from Ashton’s chest to the back of their neck when Orym leaves a trail of sloppy kisses along their abdomen. He pauses just long enough to tease the sensitive edge of their navel with his tongue, looks straight out over Ashton’s chest to find them staring at him, not even pretending to be smug anymore.
“You know, I’m plenty sure I don’t need to take anything off to get you – you know, off.”
Ashton grabs his wrists to pull him up and Orym goes willingly. “I’ll take that bet.”
And isn’t that kind of the problem? It just sometimes feels like this entire thing with Ashton is a bet that's gotten out of hand, like Ashton keeps trying to raise the stakes until Orym surrenders and lets him win. Only Orym isn’t giving up, he’s just pushing back all the time and liking it.
It could be different, is all. But it's good, whatever it is, and they're both enjoying themselves while they banter between fucks. The only thing Orym really hasn’t figured out is whether they're playing to win or for keeps.
Orym is never going to outclass Ashton on strength alone, but he manages to twist one hand around Ashton’s and gets both pinned between their bodies. Orym steals a kiss that isn't only the sting of teeth in his lower lip and feels Ashton’s staggered breath catch in their chest at it.
Ashton plays dirty, nipping at Orym’s lower lip and turning the hand between them to reach for the tip of Orym’s cock. The first touch is electric, just a fingertip, and though Orym is stuck in their mutual arm bind, he manages at last to break his mouth from Ashton’s.
There’s enough time for him to stop and admire how their lower lip is a little kiss-swollen and slick with spit. Mouth just parted, eyes glazed like freshly polished stones, chest heaving under Orym’s thighs – it’s the sort of thing that should feel like he’s won something, at least one round in a knock-out brawl. Then Ashton tries again, curls their fingertip just under the hood of his cock and it feels like a one-two hit to the chest and the side of his head, like he’s going down any second now.
“What now?” Ashton asks, forming the words between breaths, not releasing their grip on Orym’s wrist.
“Truce.” Dropping Ashton’s hand and sitting back, Orym holds his own palm out where Ashton can see.
Deliberately giving up his position isn’t exactly looking for advantage when they’re deadlocked, but Orym isn't trying to get ahead. Maybe that’s the kind of thing that matters to Ashton, who’s always looking for the person most likely to fuck them over next, even if they hope they won’t. It seems like it might matter, anyway.
Obviously suspicious, Ashton drops Orym’s hand onto their chest and just waits, not helping and not stopping him either. Orym presses both palms against Ashton’s stomach, avoiding any of the emerald bruising across their torso. It’s a truce, which means that whatever Orym does now will help decide what Ashton does, what the both of them are going to do now. Maybe later, too.
Orym lays one palm on the right side of their face, the uninjured side, and waits.
Bends forward at the waist and kisses their swollen mouth one more time. This time, Orym is painfully slow, softer than he’s ever been with Ashton. At the first graze of teeth against his lip, Orym pulls back and waits again.
Ashton pursues his mouth the first time, but they catch on fast after that. After the second kiss, when Orym licks their mouth open and carefully invites them into his own, Ashton grins up at Orym, looking just a little dazed. “It’s like that?” they ask, one hand bracing against Orym’s ass and squeezing.
“If you want it to be.”
Ashton doesn’t protest or try to bite when Orym kisses them again, lingering over all the bloodied places with slow tenderness. There’s a chance this won’t work the way he thinks it will, but Orym tries all the same. Only when he’s sure that Ashton isn’t going to panic does he rest his hand on the left side of their face, a palm against their jaw.
Their first reaction is to flinch, reflexively jerking their face to the right to keep it protected before going still. When Orym doesn’t press on or pull back, Ashton relaxes with a stuttered, halting exhale against Orym’s mouth, like the skidding stop against stone after falling too hard.
Orym breaks the kiss to ask, “You with me?” Then he just watches for Ashton to nod once and kisses him again, short and intense, but it’s only a distraction from his real goal. “Good.”
Bracing his palms on Ashton’s chest, Orym slides his weight backward and feels their hand fall away as he does. Curiosity replaces suspicion, making their eyes seem a little brighter in the dim light. There are endless possibilities ahead of them, but Orym gets one chance to do this right, which feels like more pressure than he puts himself under in battle.
Keeping eye contact with Ashton as he moves further down their body is a challenge, but knowing how they’re reacting to what he’s doing is the only way Orym thinks he’ll be sure he’s doing the right thing. Or, at least not the wrong thing, which isn’t exactly the same. Settling onto Ashton’s thighs, Orym tries ignoring how Ashton is bouncing their cock so it bumps up against his own. “If you don’t like anything I do, you tell me, okay?”
Ashton’s grin gets a little loose and folds their hands behind their head, having apparently decided that whatever Orym is doing isn’t likely to hurt. “You know that shooting my mouth off is not a problem for me.”
It probably isn’t, but Orym would rather be sure, so he’s slow about actually putting a hand on Ashton’s cock. Orym can’t remember ever having the chance to just examine Ashton with this amount of focus without getting caught up in everything else they might do. An exercise in patience is as much a trial for Orym as it is Ashton.
Their girth isn’t much of a surprise to Orym, although he does routinely forget that Ashton’s cock is roughly the size of his forearm. It’s just big enough that the fingers of one hand don’t quite close when he curls them around the shaft and he adds the other. Even with his fists stacked, they don’t span the full length and Orym grimaces while thinking how many times he’s been sore after Ashton fucks him, how it’s just been a reckless challenge neither of them have been able to resist. It’s foolhardy and irresistible.
“Tighter,” Ashton suggests breathily, pushing up into his hands.
“Not without oil, I’m not.” Orym wants to sound steady and sure, but he can hear the break in his own voice on that last syllable.
“Little friction doesn’t bother me.” Ashton rolls up into Orym’s grip again and the eager little mewl they don’t quite suppress does make Orym regret that they’re both far too fucked up for anything more than this. He’d love to hear Ashton make those same noises on repeat, fucking up into Orym while he braces against the wall.
“You want friction burns on your dick, you should start fucking a healer to deal with them,” Orym suggests mildly, working his hands into a steady rhythm and keeping both eyes fixed on Ashton’s face. “I have other plans for getting you off.”
Expressive as they usually are, Ashton is keeping his emotions close, but their physical response is something else entirely. Orym has watched plenty of Ashton’s orgasms. The lift of their eyebrows when their eyes fall closed, the steady, hard thrusting Ashton favors when fucking Orym and the eager upward hip rolls when it’s Orym fucking him. The way they buck recklessly when they’re close to coming.
At the first jerk of their hips, Orym pulls his hands away all at once and holds his breath, hoping he’s got the timing right.
“Fuck!” Ashton’s eyes fly open, their brow furrowing up with instant frustration. “Are you fucking with me?”
“No, but–” Orym looks between Ashton’s face and the twitch in their cock, waiting until he can be sure they’ve backed off from the edge before reaching out again. “Do you trust me?”
“I don’t even think I like you right now. Fuck you, I was so – is that what we’re – Oh.”
Without touching Ashton at all, Orym repeats: “You still with me?”
The dark wrinkle between their eyebrows lightens a little as suspicion recedes once more. Ashton is entirely quiet for a few hammer beats of Orym’s heart, as if deciding if they trust him. Then, at last: “Hell yeah, I’m with you.”
“If you hit your limit–”
“I let you know, I got it.”
“You catch on fast.” Ashton’s cock pulses under Orym’s palm and he doesn’t think it’s only from being touched again. Filing that interaction away for another time, that Ashton seems to like praise, Orym refocuses on the task in hand.
This time, he drags the calloused pad of his thumb along the underside of their cock up to the swollen crown, stopping again just to admire the view. Ashton’s cock is pretty in a way that most aren’t. At least, not the ones that Orym’s seen.
It’s not only that it’s an objectively beautiful viridian, or that the crystals scattered along the base resemble amethyst as much as anything, or even that it curves upward a little and rubs against Orym in precisely the way that undoes him in no time at all whenever Ashton fucks him. It’s not only that it’s hot and smooth as marble in the sun, or even that their foreskin fits over the head like a wrapper over a sweet.
Orym makes a ring with his thumb and forefinger, the only ones that will fit around the head of Ashton’s cock, and gently rolls it back to expose the head now. Slides it back up to cover over the head with a twist of his wrist, and then starting the cycle over again. This part is familiar enough: it’s not much different than what Orym does with his own cock, where the unsheathed tip is more sensitive than the rest by far.
“Three times,” Ashton decides aloud in a soft, eager hiss, making an obvious effort to stay still for Orym. “I don’t – can’t–”
“Three times,” Orym promises, pumping one fist over the head of their cock. The gleam of fluid on the blood-dark tip is sign enough for Orym to be cautious, but he keeps going.
It takes even less time for Ashton to miss a breath as they try rolling up further into Orym’s hand with an offbeat shudder. This time, when Orym pulls off, he climbs onto Ashton’s chest, tips their chin up for another kiss that approximates a few of the things he’d like to do to them.
“You fucker,” Ashton growls against his lips, fists closing around the sheets and writhing. “Fuck you, fuck me.”
“Neither of us are up for that.”
Which is true, however much Orym might like if it weren’t. He could try, if he maybe went a little slower, was a little more careful about his fresh-healed wounds. The idea of fucking Ashton’s climax out of him is always a temptation, watching all those minute reactions unfold under Orym’s attentions. But if they do that tonight, it will almost certainly make it impossible to do almost anything tomorrow, and Orym couldn’t even get tonight off.
“Fuck,” Ashton swears, ripping one hand from the sheets, grabbing Orym by the nape and yanking him down into another kiss. “This is the best – worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“Had a few worse than this.” Orym pulls himself away reluctantly, but he holds Ashton’s hand to the back of his head as he moves back down their body. Their cock is even bigger up close, bigger than Orym’s head, and – well, it’s good that this is the last time before he’ll let Ashton come. Orym’s cock is leaking onto Ashton’s sheets and he isn’t sure he’ll make it much longer, teasing them like this.
Orym imitates himself when he wraps both hands around their cock, but keeps his strokes long and slow, gently leading Ashton back toward the summit.
“Keep breathing,” he instructs in a patient voice that wavers a little, cutting off into breathy pants. Orym wants this so much, wants to see how far Ashton will let himself be pushed. Wants to know how far he’s willing to go, and not because it’s a bet they’ve made. Not because of anything but wanting, which isn’t something Orym is in the habit of allowing himself.
He wants it enough to ignore his own advice about breathing, because it takes about three seconds of trying to choke himself on Ashton’s cock before he's pulling back with a string of spit between his lip and the flushed head of Ashton’s.
“Fuck.” Ashton turns their hand to cradle Orym’s head in their palm, massaging their thumb into the tense cords in Orym’s neck. “I feel like I should tell you to take it easy.”
Orym leans back enough to catch Ashton’s eye over the tip of their cock. “If you can still talk, I’m not doing a good enough job.”
“By all means, keep trying.”
This time, trying to suck Ashton’s cock doesn’t feel like a dare, but it maybe something they’re trying to manage together. Ashton’s other hand lifts from the sheets to rub little circles into Orym’s jaw as he works his way down. It’s hard work to manage more than a few inches, straining to keep his mouth open wide enough to accomodate Ashton’s girth. The corners of his mouth sting from the stretch, but it barely lets up when he pulls his head back, slicking their cock with his spit. It’s just as much of a challenge to do it the second time, and the third, and all the times after that, but Ashton keeps massaging trembling fingers into all the little tense spots in his jaw.
Ashton’s fingers tighten on his neck so much faster than he expected, the effort of forestalling the inevitable this long finally catching up to them. “Orym, I’m going to fucking – fuck – you need to–”
They’re already coming by the time Orym pulls back to seal his mouth over the head of Ashton’s cock, and it’s quickly more than he can swallow. Pulling back, spit and come dribbling down his chin, Orym gasps for breath and catches the next splash of come on his cheek. Ashton’s hand cradles the other side of Orym’s head, but if they’re speaking, if they’re making any noise at all, Orym can’t hear it over the rush of blood from his head.
The last few pulses come without any force behind them and Orym catches those with his tongue, rewarded with weak moans from the head of the bed. He feels sticky and messy and desperate, but Orym can’t deny that he’s proud of the state he’s put Ashton in.
“Come here,” Ashton croaks, and Orym climbs back onto the rigid expanse of their chest, leaving translucent smears of fluid from his own cock to shimmer in the lights from the window.
Orym starts to wipe his face with the back of his hand, but Ashton catches his wrist and brings his hand to their mouth instead. The wet, open-mouthed kiss they lay into the creases of his palm feels strangely intimate. Then Ashton drags the calloused pad of their thumb through the smear of come on Orym’s cheek. It should feel like a parody of affection, but it just feels sincere, even with Ashton’s strangled moan as Orym chases their hand, closes his mouth around the thumb and drags his tongue over the knuckle.
This isn’t the end of it and not only because Ashton has never accepted an orgasm without making sure Orym gets off, too. It sometimes feels like the exchange of favors keeps things neutral between them. If everything is equivalently given as taken, then Orym can’t ever have the upper hand.
Some higher part of Orym’s brain considers offering to let this be the end of their night, and – well, Orym’s cock is already slick at the head and he’s so hard that he might not actually need much help. If ever there was a time to keep this from being a simple exchange of favors, this is it.
Ashton has other ideas, though. It doesn’t feel like a simple exchange when they roll him into the center of the mattress, caging Orym with arms on either side of his shoulders, and says, “My turn.”
Ashton kisses the way they fight, focused and a little reckless and all-in. Usually Orym gives as good as he takes, but this time he lets all of Ashton’s attention wash over him. The first nip at Orym’s jaw is the only sting, almost a test to see whether Orym will react. Satisfied that he won’t, Ashton traces one hand along Orym’s ribs, circling wide around bruises to find the places that make Orym suck air through his teeth and the ones that make his hips come unpinned from the mattress.
Ashton’s hand moves down, not going anywhere near Orym’s cock. Instead, they extend their forefinger to circle around the sensitive points of his hip. It’s so close to what Orym wants that he jerks his hips and doesn’t get even the warmth of Ashton’s skin against his cock.
They laugh, tucking their head under to steal another kiss without letting their body drop by even an inch toward Orym’s. Just holding this position, pushed up on one forearm and hovering over Orym, is an impressive feat of abdominal control. It makes Orym want to get his legs around Ashton’s waist, knock their arm out from beneath them, roll them beneath him. At least then he’d get a chance to–
“You’re hard up for it, aren’t you?”
Orym is belatedly aware of the deep, guttural noise he’s making, with both a quality and volume that shocks him. It doesn’t seem like Ashton minds. If anything, they look fucking delighted to see Orym coming apart like this.
“Yeah,” Orym rasps, looking Ashton directly in the eye when he fully relaxes into the pillow. It’s Ashton’s turn to do whatever they please. It’s fair, and Orym is suddenly confident that this will be the furthest thing from a hardship for him.
“I’m not going to make you wait.” Ashton’s hand starts moving again, spread over the outer edge of his quadricep, his knee, then back up the inner thigh. That’s enough to make Orym squirm. A stiff breeze could do it for him at this point, but he doesn’t think Ashton will let him come that way.
They tap a single fingertip against Orym’s knee to get his attention, grinning when they say, “Are you going to make me guess what it is you want?”
“Your mouth,” Orym answers instantly.
“Yeah, what about it? Where?”
Trying for a stern look and completely failing, Orym says, “You know where.”
“Yeah, I do know where, but I want to hear it from you.”
“Fuck you,” Orym laughs, strangling the end of it with a moan as Ashton licks a stripe from his navel to his collarbone. “Wrong direction.”
“You think you can hold still for it?” Ashton somehow looks both smug and warm when they lower to their elbows and slide swollen, slick lips all the way down to the root of Orym’s cock.
Orym knows with the steady clarity of experience that he can’t last like this, not as long as he’d like to. Ashton is swallowing around him, lips moving over the base of his shaft without pushing back the hood to expose the head. The practiced tempo of taking Orym all the way down into their mouth, pulling back and then immediately sliding back down with slick lips, is good. Almost criminally so. It also still feels a little competitive, as if being the one to master blowing Orym is part of the game.
That’s probably the first and only clue Orym gets before Ashton pulls back. They both already stopped playing that game when Ashton accepted Orym’s truce.
“I could do that all night,” they say conversationally, clearly leading to something else entirely. Orym must be a sight, though, because all the smugness in their smile melts into a few seconds of astonished stillness. “Fuck, you’re pretty.”
It’s not the first time anyone’s called Orym pretty, but hearing Ashton say it with that stupefied expression pulls a laugh from deep in Orym’s chest. He’s still giddy with it when Ashton drops their mouth back over his cock, but this time they’re not fucking around with slow or deep.
Ashton’s been paying attention the few times that Orym’s jerked himself off for them, because Orym only bothers with stroking along the shaft when he’s trying to draw it out.
Instead of the encompassing warmth of Ashton’s mouth all around him, Orym feels the muted sensation of lips and tongue moving over the hooded head of his cock. Ashton probes experimentally along the underside for the spots that will make Orym shout, which he’s all too happy to oblige them with. Ashton pushes his mouth over the whole head, shoving him closer to that spine-tingling sensation he can’t pull back from. Then Ashton draws away until Orym’s breathing steadies again, creating friction between their lips and his foreskin that’s almost right, almost enough.
Then Ashton does it all over again. It’s close, and it’s good but it’s not what Orym needs, and he’s on the edge of making a suggestion when Ashton makes a smug noise that vibrates down into his balls. Their hand squeezes his hip, almost reassuring Orym before pinning him firmly to the mattress.
There’s a blank instant where Orym isn’t sure what’s going to happen next, then Ashton’s tongue swirls through the space between his foreskin and the head of his cock. Ashton probes his slit like they’re trying to lap up his precome, pushing Orym back into the mattress when he bucks upward.
“Hold still,” Ashton reminds him in a half-heartbeat pause for breath. Then their tongue goes flat and soft as they slide it back under the foreskin, mapping that same, sensitive ridge as before with a smugly satisfied groan when Orym shudders beneath their hand. It has the same effect as being hit unaware by a blow Orym never saw coming.
Orym sits up onto his elbows so fast that his vision blurs, refocuses in time to catch Ashton’s earnest gaze lift to see what he’ll do. Ashton doesn’t pull back so far as to come off Orym’s cock, because they roll back the sheath with pursed lips and nothing else, and they never break eye contact.
And – fuck, their mouth is suddenly too hot, too wet, too good to resist any longer, but it’s Ashton’s entirely unexpected expression, the longing to please him, that’s the thing that does it. Orym arches like he’s been pulled on a string and forgets that Ashton has roommates and neighbors, forgets that he was supposed to hold still, forgets not to scream.
Ashton’s face is planted against Orym’s thigh when he finally summons enough muscle control to push past the fresh ache of his aggravated wounds to sit up and reach for their shoulders, pulling uselessly at Ashton’s body. What Orym wants isn’t usually this apparent to himself and he feels just on the right side of blissful and hopeful to let himself ask for it.
Fortunately, Ashton complies, collapsing next to Orym with a long-suffering groan. “Fuck, I wish we were going again.”
Orym flicks his eyes to make sure Ashton hasn’t miraculously hit a second wind, and, satisfied that they’re not serious, looks for his place on the bed next to them. “Did you call me pretty?”
“Are you going to act like you aren’t?” Ashton cracks an eye and makes a show of looking over Orym’s bruised, filthy body.
And – well, Orym starts to open his mouth to argue. His closest friends include the two most beautiful people he’s ever met, after all, but it’s clear Ashton’s decided on the issue. So, he instead reaches for one of the riotously colored blankets and climbs into the hollow between Ashton’s body and their outstretched arm.
It takes a few awkward moments to settle into position, moving arms and legs into the right places until both Ashton and Orym are comfortably tangled together. Orym rests his cheek on Ashton’s shoulder, staring out at the smear of lights across the wide-open night sky. It’s more beautiful than even the view on the Aerie Spire, and he wonders if he should say so.
“Truce?” Ashton asks, and Orym blinks back from the window to find them staring at him with languid, heavy-eyed curiosity.
“Maybe something more permanent than that,” he offers, blinking past the exhaustion settling over the both of them. He usually spends the night, but he doesn’t remember cuddling with Ashton before now. “If that’s what you want.”
“Huh.” Ashton stares down at him like he’s said something somehow more shocking than everything they’ve already done together. Then they pull Orym in closer, resting their chin on the top of his head and shrugging a little. “I could try if you can.”
Orym catches himself grinning a little into their shoulder when he says, just loud enough for Ashton to hear: “I’ll take those odds.”