This wasn’t always how the three of them slept together on the road. There’s now, and there’s the way it was before: Dorian sleeping back to back with Dariax and Fearne coiled up with Opal, Orym dozing lightly in a tree. A certain way of things that made sense then, but is unrecognizable to each of them now.
Dorian still sometimes thinks of the night Orym got word from Zephrah, of finding him folding his things with soldier’s efficiency and no emotion on his face at all. The stony facade crumbling when Dorian asked if he’d finally gotten tired of the rest of them, feeling hurt and betrayed and ready to fight Orym again. How awful Dorian still feels for assuming the worst of Orym in that moment, while his rebuilt world was crashing back down around him.
But that’s why everything else is after.
That first night on the way to Zephrah, Fearne grew them a soft bed of flowers and sweet-smelling grass, beckoned both Orym and Dorian to it, and they slept better than they had in months. Dorian woke without the cotton-like sensation of spiderwebs inside his mouth. The circles under Orym’s eyes weren’t as dark. He told them happier stories about his life as it had been while they walked together. The whole, crushing weight of everything he’d lost.
The way they’d bundled together that first night, Fearne and Dorian forming a loose circle around Orym, is how they’ve slept nearly every night since then. Dorian curls a little tighter around Orym’s compact body, an arm around his waist and his face pressed into soft bristles of Orym’s hair. Fearne is a loose crescent on the other side, head tilted back and her hand tracing shapes on the part of Dorian’s arm that isn’t covered by his sleepshirt.
Dorian could comfortably afford rooms for all of them, but it was Orym who asked him not to, who pulled him to bed and climbed between them. It’s a miracle none of their new companions have noticed, and Dorian says so when the three of them finally settle in for the night. They’re in a good mood, basking in the warm glow of having made new friends and feeling considerably better for their baths.
“I doubt they’d have any reason to think it’s strange,” Fearne offers from the fireplace, crouched down to scratch Mister before he goes to sleep among the logs. “Imogen and Laudna told me they share a bed.”
“They’re far too interested in what we’re doing here to think about our sleeping arrangements,” Orym agrees, removing Dorian’s hairbrush from his bag and guiding him onto the low stool next to Fearne. Dorian thinks his voice sounds a little slurred, although everything he’s said has been sensible as ever.
“You should have let me finish my own drink,” Dorian says over his shoulder, unwinding his hair from the top knot and sweeping it around for Orym to reach.
Orym stretches onto his toes to reach the top of Dorian’s head with the brush. “I can handle my drink,” he says, bending forward to whisper it into his ear. “You can’t.”
“You don’t give me enough credit,” Dorian pouts, but it washes away the moment Orym cards his fingers through his hair, the blunt tips of his fingers massaging the base of his skull.
“One of us made it through a single drinking game without spilling their darkest secrets to our new friends.”
“I can drink far more than either of you,” Fearne assures them both, leaning over to kiss Dorian warmly on the mouth before standing up. “And I made it through the evening without divulging any of my secrets.”
Her breasts brush against Dorian’s face as she leans over him to steal a kiss from Orym, too. Close enough that he hears Orym’s soft sigh in answer, can imagine just the way his shoulders drop by half an inch as he relaxes into her mouth. Then Fearne draws away, leaves her clothes on top of Orym’s things, stretching luxuriously as she crosses the room.
Orym resumes his work, brushing with one hand and gently working through any snarls in Dorian’s hair with the other, while Dorian stares at the fire with heavy lids. This isn’t always part of the routine and it seems like neither of them should have the energy to do more than simply collapse into bed, but Dorian loves when Orym does this.
“Thank you,” he breathes when he feels the scrape of knuckles along his neck as Orym winds Dorian’s hair into a loose braid. “You didn’t need to.”
“I wanted to.”
Orym rocks back onto his toes and kisses the now exposed expanse of Dorian’s neck. Dorian turns so he can pull Orym up onto his lap, cupping his face in his palms and kissing him with the same sort of slow laziness. When they finish, Orym winds his arms around Dorian’s neck, resting his cheek on his sternum with his eyes dropping closed.
“Do you feel okay with what you told the others tonight?”
“I suppose I’ll have to be,” Dorian answers, although he’s far more worried how Orym feels about the answers he gave tonight. Fearne asking Ashton if they’d ever been in love seems like the sort of question that might have inspired more intrusive questions that Dorian doesn’t want Orym to have to answer unless he chooses to. They’re lucky, in a way, that the others have only thought to be interested in the person they’re seeking, and less why it matters.
“Prince Dorian. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it, Fearnie?”
“You’re impossible.”
Dorian curls both arms under Orym and stands up without missing the smile that catches on the corners of Orym’s mouth. He’ll never admit that he likes being carried around. Dorian is more than capable of doing it, and if it makes Orym feel even a fragment of how Dorian feels about him, then carrying him to bed sometimes is more than worth it.
“I like it,” Fearne yawns, openly admiring the two of them from her place on the bed, winding ribbons through her hair. “What does that make us? Consorts?”
“Not tonight, I’m not,” Orym groans as Dorian sets him in the center of the bed, doubtlessly feeling sore from the events of the day. He’d seemed dizzy on the walk back to Eshteross’ manor, the poison taking its toll on him.
When Dorian looked him over earlier, it hadn’t seemed too bad, and Dorian’s magic is too depleted to do more about it tonight. He can make it easy for him to go to sleep, though. Dorian unlaces Orym’s breeches and kisses him again as he slides them off, taking the extra few seconds to fold them up.
“It doesn’t matter who I am.” He lifts Orym’s leg from its place on the bed before climbing in, bends and kisses his ankle bone while Orym shivers with half-closed eyes. “You’re both beloved, and that’s all that matters.”
Fearne stretches out on the other side of Orym, her legs tucked up a little beneath her as she hums a bright, lilting song, like a fey rendition of the ballad Dorian played earlier in the evening. “There are songs about you. A prince who became an adventurer. A noble bard. A legendary lover.”
“You mean there will be,” Orym says, rolling so his back is pressed into Dorian’s chest. He exhales, relaxes a little more.
“Oh.” Fearne gives that whimsically fey laugh of hers, leaning over Orym to kiss Dorian again. “I suppose here it’s still something that will be rather than simply is. It’s hard for me to remember sometimes.”
Orym settles in closer, eyes already closed when he asks, “Do we earn a mention in the ballad of Dorian Storm?”
Fearne lifts Orym’s chin. “I don’t think that’s been decided yet,” she says when she finishes kissing him good night.
Dorian waits for them both to fall asleep before curling tighter around Orym, breathing in the fresh, herbal soap Orym packed from home. “I don’t think the ballads are going to be about me, Orym,” he whispers into his ear and falls almost immediately into sleep.
Dorian often wakes in the early part of the morning, when the sky is only just beginning to lighten from inky black to charcoal to the dove gray that precedes dawn. Waking before the two of them is one of the finest parts of this arrangement, watching the two of them move from deep sleep to wakefulness. Rather than risk waking them by leaving the bed, Dorian typically has the better part of an hour before Orym wakes, and then Fearne.
It’s not so this morning.
His innate sense of the coming dawn is the thing that greets him from sleep, the simple knowing that the first gold twinge is about to break on the horizon. Then he hears the soft rasp of skin against skin, hands and mouths moving against one another, a deep, feminine groan, and the wet pop of broken off suction from another mouth.
“Fearne,” warns Orym in an urgent whisper, sounding a little breathless. “Let him sleep.”
“He never sleeps this late.”
“All the more reason we ought to let him stay that way.”
“I want–”
Whatever it is Fearne wants, Dorian doesn’t hear. They’re talking about him, about trying to let him rest, which is sweet of them. Or, it would be if Dorian wasn’t immediately hard from listening.
He dares to crack his eyes open, hoping that they won’t see just yet, and is treated to the spellbinding vision they make together. Orym is straddling Fearne’s ribs, bent over at the waist to kiss her, a hand tangled in her hair and another thumbing circles around her nipple. Her back is arched and her mouth falls open when Orym leaves a line of kisses down her neck and chest. When Orym closes his mouth around one nipple, Fearne earns a reproving stare as she cries out loudly.
“Oh, fuck,” Dorian breathes, a hand twitching toward his cock. Orym sits up straight, looking instantly sorry.
Fearne’s eyes blink open, languid and soft, and she reaches out to him with a blissful smile. “Oh, Dorian, I’m so glad you’re awake.”
Dorian shrugs his nightshirt off and wraps one hand around the base of his cock where Orym will be able to see, maybe instantly know that Dorian is anything but angry with them. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
“I’d rather you did,” Orym admits, bracing his weight on the mattress when he leans over and kisses Dorian, open-mouthed, deep and sloppy, as though he’s warmed himself up with Fearne and is catching Dorian up.
The absolute last thing Dorian wants is for them to feel bad, especially if the two of them were blowing off a little steam, which they all desperately need. And knowing they were trying to give him a chance to rest before a fresh day of who-the-hell-knows-what – well, Dorian is grateful to them.
“Well, I’d rather watch,” he says in his best, courtly voice, and gives himself a slow, obvious stroke. “Now, if you don’t mind continuing.”
Orym’s mouth twitches into a smile that he hides by planting another filthy kiss on Dorian, lingering long enough to make himself breathless before doing the same with Fearne.
“Well, that’s not fair,” she breathes, extending one hand over to grasp Dorian’s spare hand, which he squeezes reassuringly. “Orym, I don’t think he’s playing fair.”
“Then we won’t, either.” Orym sits back on her stomach and Dorian sees for the first time that he’s hard, too. Their eyes lock, Orym’s serious eyes glimmering with barely-concealed amusement when he says, “You’re not allowed to touch, Dorian.”
“Wait, I–”
“Oh, I like that.” Fearne beams at him, tracing fingers along Dorian’s jaw. “We can touch, though?”
“Now, that’s not fair,” Dorian protests, but his blood heats at the idea, spreading a purple flush down his shoulders and neck. The two of them and him, and then maybe, if he’s lucky–
“He can touch himself, and he can make suggestions.” Orym swings his legs around and rests between Fearne’s knees, a steadying hand on her thigh as he does. “Until we agree otherwise. Okay?”
“Okay,” Fearne sings, adjusting her pillow so she can see Dorian more clearly from her place.
Orym doesn’t move, keeping his hands on Fearne, ignoring the distracting gleam of precome on the tip of his cock. It takes Dorian several long seconds to realize that he’s waiting for an answer, waiting for Dorian to agree to the scenario he’s given them.
Dorian extends one hand to him, remembers what the deal is and pulls it back. “Yes. Until we – yes.”
It’s hardly the first time Dorian has seen Orym duck his head between Fearne’s legs or heard her shivering sigh exhale over him, but Dorian is usually in the mix somehow. Now he isn’t. There won’t be any chance of holding Fearne up against his chest, sliding inside her from behind with Orym’s mouth moving over the both of them. And memorable as that was, Dorian doesn’t suppose he minds if he’ll have another chance, and he knows that he will.
Fearne does sigh now, her fingers scraping along Orym’s nape, her mouth falling open when he does something Dorian can only assume involves his deft tongue.
“Tell me,” Dorian rasps, remembering that he’s still allowed to touch himself and bucking up into his fist with a soft hiss. “Tell me what he’s doing.”
“He has the sweetest tongue,” she says, turning her head so Dorian can see all her stripped down bliss, unfiltered and honest for him. For only them. “You know how it feels so – oh – it’s smaller than yours is, but he can make it curl up right around my clit, like a little hug.”
Dorian can’t help his smile, sees Orym’s shoulders shaking with laughter as he pulls back, nuzzling his face into the soft fur on her hip.
“Gods, Fearne, I’ll never finish if you make me laugh.”
“I think making you laugh is even more likely to make me come.”
“I know what you mean,” Dorian says, as though he’s confiding in her. “He’ll do this thing where he can – under the head, where–”
“That little ridge,” Fearne provides, closing her eyes and rolling her back into an arch. The fingertips on her hand cradling Orym’s head elongate a little, turning a little more into claws that prickle into the bare skin of his neck as she loses hold of her feral urges. “The one that’s a little ticklish.”
“Careful,” Dorian warns, dragging his thumb along that same, ticklish ridge along the head of his cock. “Don’t hurt him.”
The claws retract and the sparking glow like an ember catching flame, alights on her fingertips when she heals the reddened mark on Orym’s neck. “I’m sorry, Orym.”
His answer is invisible to Dorian except for the motion of his arm, an immediate answering shudder from Fearne. From that, he can deduce that Orym has doubled his efforts by sliding his fingers inside to the spot inside her that’s a little ticklish. Dorian loses himself just watching, sprawled over the pillows and stroking his cock slow enough to hold onto this a little longer, to stay here in this safe place with them a little longer. The sun will rise, they’ll start a new day, but for now, this is more than enough.
If he hadn’t already known how good Orym is, Fearne’s sudden cry cuts through the morning light, loud and unmuffled and far sooner than Dorian would have managed for her. It rings through the air of their room and very likely that of some of their neighbors, but Fearne doesn’t stop moving. Rather, she holds Orym’s head with both hands and arches up from the bed, her mouth parted as her climax keeps rolling through her, long after she’s gone hoarse.
Fearne collapses into the mattress, pulls Orym up onto her chest for another kiss. He goes easily, kissing her with the same focused intensity he seems to bring to everything, as if it’s the only thing he cares about. The two of them are a lovely picture: Fearne’s hair spilling like seafoam along the pillows, one of her hands disappearing between the two of them, Orym’s thighs trembling, his hips rolling in desperate, off-rhythm attempts to keep up with Fearne’s strokes.
It’s the sort of thing that would undo the strongest of them, and Dorian is not that. Teetering on the edge, wanting to hold off as long as he can, he squeezes one hand around the base of his cock, eyes pressed tight and waits for the feeling to pass. What Dorian wants is to steal Orym from Fearne’s chest, roll him onto his back and ravish him. He wants to see Orym undone, the way he’s close to being undone. He wants more than anything to be holding them both in his arms, to feel the familiar comfort of their bodies against his when he lets go.
The fantasy about the things he wants isn’t helping, not when he’s trying to hold off until he can touch them again. Then Orym chokes off a throaty moan, coming messily and long, his full-body tremors making Fearne’s tits tremble on either side of his head. Dorian catches himself a second before it’s too late, pulls his hand back and clenches it into a fist, sucking in a breath of air and hoping it’s enough.
“Oh, Dorian.” Fearne’s clawed fingernails scratch gently down his ribcage toward his cock.
Dorian means to say her name, but the noise that comes out from deep in his chest bears only the faintest shape of it. The mattress dimples between them and Orym is holding Dorian’s face in both hands, kissing him with Fearne’s musk on his tongue, and that’s it, he’s done.
Dorian blinks past the black spots across his vision to see Orym’s face backlit by the first light of morning, feels his heart flip at the sight. Orym stretches overhead to take Dorian’s tight fist in one hand, urging it open and pressing a fond kiss into his palm.
“You did so well,” Orym praises quietly, holding his hand against his chest and pressing another kiss into Dorian’s mouth as though they have all the time in the world for this. Dorian pulls his arm free and uses it to hold Orym against his chest, smearing their spend together.
“We’ll need to take baths again,” he says, puffing out a weak laugh as he remembers everything they planned to do today. “Before we go meet the others downstairs.”
“I’d forgotten,” Orym groans, and Fearne reaches over to pull the both of them closer without lifting her head from the pillow, back to their usual sleeping positions.
“Not yet,” she says, pulling Orym close and peering over at Dorian with a dazed smile. “I missed the way you touch me.”
“I’ll watch you two next time,” Orym offers, allowing his eyes to drift closed again. “That I should be so lucky.”
“Next time,” Dorian says, leaning over to kiss Fearne’s nose until she wrinkles it up. “Just wake me up.”