Here you go! I love this prompt so much, I hope I did it justice :') You can also read it here on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35103208
---
It’s been a long time since Orym did anything like this. After his husband passed, he went through phases: at first, he was too grief-stricken to think about much of anything, and after that it just never seemed right, trying something with someone else. Even now, when years and years of distance have eclipsed the most powerful of the pain, Orym still doesn’t quite know how to approach the idea of a relationship, even one that might last only a single night.
Besides, he’s busy. He doesn’t have much time to think about things like that. When he and Riegel were still together they didn’t have sex that often; it’s just never been something Orym was desperate for, the way some others seemed to be. Over the years he’s become content with what his own hands are capable of, and he hasn’t wished for more than that.
The problem is that, ever since he left Zephrah and started travelling with his strange - but lovable - companions, Orym’s felt a shift inside of himself. It’s almost as though his mind and body have begun to realize how much of the world there is to experience, and how little of it they’ve actually seen so far. Orym’s always been curious, but until now he never truly desired anything more than his own little home, tucked away in the cliffs and guarded by the blossoms of the cherry trees. Now, with all the world in front of him, with a thousand different paths laid out beneath his feet, he can’t ignore the calling inside his heart any longer.
It doesn’t help that his travelling companions are so ridiculously beautiful. Fearne, with all her mystery and tenderness; Dorian, so graceful and kind; and now his new friends, Ashton and Imogen and all the rest of them - yes, even Laudna, terrifying as she might be, is beautiful in her own way. Orym has never been at the heart of such a diverse group of individuals, and it gets a little overwhelming sometimes, feeling so many things about them.
Ultimately, he finds himself gravitating back towards Dorian, in part because of their history and in part because Dorian just seems to understand. He’s always willing to listen, to give feedback, or simply to play a tune and help Orym forget whatever might be bothering him. So it really shouldn’t surprise Orym that, one night, after they’ve all been drinking and laughing and having a good time, Dorian reaches over to brush a hand up his thigh.
It’s a light touch, nothing serious about it, but it’s more than the simple little knee pats and shoulder squeezes they’ve shared thus far. When Orym looks up at his genasi friend there’s a look in those blue eyes that’s impossible to ignore, something hungry and eager, masked as it might be by cheer and joviality. It’s enough to make Orym’s stomach flip over.
Without letting himself think too deeply about it, he reaches down to cover Dorian’s hand with his own, sliding his fingers loosely between the larger ones still pressed against his leg. It feels nice, comforting, grounding, and when Dorian leans in to murmur in his ear Orym can feel his throat close up.
“Do you want to go upstairs?”
It’s been so long. So, so long. There are dozens of reasons why he should say no - it’ll ruin their friendship, it’ll tarnish Riegel’s memory, it’ll bother the other members of the party - but Orym nods before any of those things get past his lips, and that’s that.
Dorian leans back with a grin; then, with an exaggerated yawn, he stretches his long arms overhead and announces he’ll be hitting the sack early tonight. As he leaves the table and strides towards the staircase, Orym realizes the spot on his leg where Dorian had touched him suddenly feels cold, and a pang of longing echoes in his chest.
He waits a few minutes, not wanting to make a scene, before he quietly tells the others that he’s going to turn in as well. They’re not surprised; Orym is the most likely of them to sleep early, after all. With a round of “good night” he heads upstairs, the chatter and noise of the tavern fading away as he heads towards the room he, Dorian and Fearne have been sharing.
The door is ajar, so after Orym slips in he closes it behind him, for privacy. He doesn’t let himself think too far ahead about what that means, though; instead, he turns to see Dorian seated on one of the beds, shoes off and weapons resting against a nearby wall. He’s smiling in that way that only Dorian can, sweet and welcoming with the slightest hint of mischief sparkling in his crystal-clear eyes, and as Orym steps forward the genasi reaches out, gesturing for him to come closer.
“Hey,” Orym says, ignoring the way his voice suddenly seems to sound a little more tense. He reaches down to undo his own boots, then sets them aside along with his sword and shield, before moving to stand in front of Dorian. Like this, their eyes are almost level, and Orym wonders briefly if Dorian remained seated for that express purpose.
“Hey yourself,” the bard replies, his own tone quieter now, more intimate. There’s a pause, and his expression flickers, before he continues, “I don’t want to presume anything, Orym. But lately -- well, I’ve been having a hard time keeping my eyes off of you.”
The confession is followed up by a soft chuckle, but all Orym can hear is an echo of Dorian’s words repeating themselves over and over inside his head. He can feel blood rushing to his face, and he knows he must look ridiculous, cheeks tinged pink at the merest mention of Dorian’s apparent attraction to him.
It’s been so long.
Unsure of what to say, Orym reaches out to brush his fingers over Dorian’s knee, mirroring the genasi’s touch from earlier. As Dorian reaches to take the halfling’s hand in his own, Orym hears himself say quietly, “I’ve been having that same problem.”
It’s impossible to miss the way Dorian’s expression brightens at that, and Orym feels a swoop in his stomach as memories of times past float to the surface of his mind. The first time Riegel looked at him like that, the first time they kissed, the first time they --
“Better do something about it, I suppose,” Dorian is saying, and Orym allows himself to be drawn into the space between the other’s knees, allows Dorian to cup his cheek gently - so gently, always, with him - allows his face to tilt ever so slightly as they draw closer, and then --
Oh.
Dorian kisses him like he might float away: chaste, barely there, but with an unmistakable fondness. Orym allows himself to get lost in it, just a little, and by the time they break away his heart feels like it’s aching. They stay close, quiet, for a long moment: Dorian’s hand is still on his cheek, his expression tentative, as if waiting to see how Orym will respond.
He doesn’t know how to do this anymore. He doesn’t know how to tell Dorian yes, I want this, this is good. He doesn’t know how to reconcile the tiny spark of desire that’s been growing in his gut for the past few weeks with the fact that the man he loved most is the only one he’s done this with, that he’s gone, that they’ll never be able to be together again and it’s okay, it’s okay to want this, to need this --
“Orym.”
Dorian’s voice shakes Orym out of his reverie: he blinks once, twice, and realizes Dorian’s expression has shifted into one of concern.
“Is this alright? We don’t have to do anything. I don’t want to push you, if this isn’t what you need right now.”
Need. Orym needs this. Needs Dorian.
He shakes his head. Murmurs, “Please.” Pushes himself forward, into the crook of Dorian’s legs, his slim body pressing itself flush up against the silken fabrics covering Dorian’s larger form.
“Kiss me,” he says, soft but not shy, and Dorian nods before acquiescing.
When their lips meet now it’s different; there’s heat to it, hunger, and Orym can feel Dorian’s hands moving to wrap around his waist, keeping him close. The difference in size isn’t that huge, but it’s enough: Dorian’s palms span the expanse of Orym’s body easily, and the thought of him holding the halfling there in his lap flits through Orym’s head.
It’s a thought Orym catches, holds onto, and before it wriggles free he takes action, hooking his arms around Dorian’s shoulders and pulling himself upwards. It prompts a surprised gasp to rise in the genasi’s throat but then he’s moving with it, allowing Orym to press a knee to either side of his hips, those large hands helping to hold him in position as they get closer than they’ve ever been before. The kiss deepens, and it’s impossible not to notice the way Dorian’s growing hard against him; Orym presses his hips down and forward, just once, testing, and the sound Dorian makes in response has him grinning ferociously.
“You have the nicest voice,” he mutters against the genasi’s lips, before pulling back just enough to take in the way Dorian’s skin has transformed into a light purple shade. Orym’s seen the bard blush before, but it’s different now knowing he’s the one causing it. That hunger from earlier grows inside him and he leans in, pressing a series of kisses and bites along Dorian’s neck.
“Orym -- ” Dorian’s voice has gone breathy, and he tilts his head to allow better access, hands squeezing against Orym’s sides.
“You still want this?” Orym whispers, his own hands moving upwards to tangle through that beautiful, perfect hair. The sudden urge to mess it up, to leave it tangled and sweaty over the sheets fills Orym’s brain and he presses his hips forward again, rocking against Dorian’s body.
“Gods, yes.” Orym feels more than sees Dorian swallow. “As long as you’re sure -- ”
Orym leans back once more, catching the other’s eyes and giving him a serious look. “I want this,” he says, as clearly as he can. “I want you, Dorian.”
The groan that spills over Dorian’s lips is a sound Orym never wants to forget.
The next few moments are a hurried scramble to get each others’ clothing off as quickly as possible: Dorian has no trouble tugging Orym’s tunic up and over his head, but his flowing robes are a little more challenging for Orym’s small hands. Eventually, though, they manage to get everything removed, and end up tumbling into bed together side-by-side, their lips meeting once again as the heat between them continues to grow.
They’ve been naked together before - being on the road for weeks at a time means you get used to a certain lack of privacy - but this is different, and there’s a certain shyness in their hands even though it’s clear that they both want this. When they break from yet another deep, hungry kiss, Orym can see the slight hesitation in Dorian’s face.
“How do you want to -- ?”
The question doesn’t need to be stated explicitly for Orym to understand what Dorian is getting at. Another memory of Riegel passes like a shadow over his mind, but he tries his best to ignore it, to focus on the present moment. “I want you inside of me,” he answers, trailing his fingertips down Dorian’s smooth, broad chest, then lower, lower, until --
“Oh!” The bard’s head snaps back as Orym grasps his length and squeezes. “Oh, gods, Orym -- ”
“Yeah?” Orym presses his lips to Dorian’s now-exposed neck, licking a stripe up along the darkened skin.
“Whatever you want,” the genasi replies, looking back down at him, eyes blown wide and dark. He feels huge in Orym’s hand, and yet another surge of desire shoots through the halfling, making him almost growl with how badly he wants this.
He hasn’t been filled in such a long time. Now, presented with exactly what he’s been missing, it’s impossible not to grow more and more desperate for it with each second that passes.
“Do you have any oil or anything?” he asks against Dorian’s skin, still stroking him. He can see the genasi’s abdomen quivering in response; he must be pretty sensitive. Then again, Orym has no idea when the last time Dorian did this could’ve been - he doesn’t particularly remember his friend sneaking off in the middle of the night for a tryst, but then again, he hadn’t been paying much attention to that sort of thing until recently. Thankfully, Dorian nods in response and reaches out with one long arm to fish around in the nightstand drawer, returning with a small vial and an eager, if somewhat shy, grin.
“I won’t hurt you, will I?” he asks, and Orym gets the sense he’s not really worried but he’s still checking to make sure Orym will be okay. It’s sweet, and Orym gives him a quick kiss before sliding onto his back.
“I’ll be alright. I’m tough.” He flexes a little, playfully, and Dorian laughs with the sort of bright, playful tone that Orym has long since become used to hearing - albeit in situations quite dissimilar to this one.
Dorian takes up position between Orym’s thighs and uncorks the vial, giving his fingers a liberal coating of the oil that pours slowly forth. A floral scent fills the air and Orym quirks an eyebrow; “Cherry blossoms?” he asks, to which Dorian replies with an embarrassed grin.
“I just like how they smell.”
Orym eyes him carefully, but doesn’t say anything else. Surely it’s just a coincidence. Even though Dorian probably knows it’s Orym’s favourite scent, why would he purchase such a specific product with that in mind? Unless --
“I almost wonder if you were planning this,” Orym says, before he can stop himself, and they both go quiet as Dorian’s face turns a darker purple. A long moment passes, before:
“Planning is too strong a word, I think.” Dorian sets the bottle on the nightstand carefully before returning to Orym, not quite meeting his eye. “I simply… I thought you would like it, if something ever happened between us.”
It’s such a kind thing, the thought of Dorian discreetly purchasing an item as salacious as this with Orym in the forefront of his mind, that Orym feels his chest go tight. It doesn’t help that the aroma drifting into his nose reminds him acutely of home, of his little house and the man he once shared it with.
Thankfully, he’s distracted by the press of Dorian’s hand against the back of his thigh, and he spreads his legs somewhat to make things easier. A slick finger slides between his asscheeks and Orym sighs quietly, his eyebrows knitting together at the first press of Dorian’s fingertip against his hole. The halfling lies back, willing his body to relax, and allows himself to drift a little as Dorian preps him.
FILL: we don't have to figure out what hasn't happened yet (RATED E) (1/2)
---
It’s been a long time since Orym did anything like this. After his husband passed, he went through phases: at first, he was too grief-stricken to think about much of anything, and after that it just never seemed right, trying something with someone else. Even now, when years and years of distance have eclipsed the most powerful of the pain, Orym still doesn’t quite know how to approach the idea of a relationship, even one that might last only a single night.
Besides, he’s busy. He doesn’t have much time to think about things like that. When he and Riegel were still together they didn’t have sex that often; it’s just never been something Orym was desperate for, the way some others seemed to be. Over the years he’s become content with what his own hands are capable of, and he hasn’t wished for more than that.
The problem is that, ever since he left Zephrah and started travelling with his strange - but lovable - companions, Orym’s felt a shift inside of himself. It’s almost as though his mind and body have begun to realize how much of the world there is to experience, and how little of it they’ve actually seen so far. Orym’s always been curious, but until now he never truly desired anything more than his own little home, tucked away in the cliffs and guarded by the blossoms of the cherry trees. Now, with all the world in front of him, with a thousand different paths laid out beneath his feet, he can’t ignore the calling inside his heart any longer.
It doesn’t help that his travelling companions are so ridiculously beautiful. Fearne, with all her mystery and tenderness; Dorian, so graceful and kind; and now his new friends, Ashton and Imogen and all the rest of them - yes, even Laudna, terrifying as she might be, is beautiful in her own way. Orym has never been at the heart of such a diverse group of individuals, and it gets a little overwhelming sometimes, feeling so many things about them.
Ultimately, he finds himself gravitating back towards Dorian, in part because of their history and in part because Dorian just seems to understand. He’s always willing to listen, to give feedback, or simply to play a tune and help Orym forget whatever might be bothering him. So it really shouldn’t surprise Orym that, one night, after they’ve all been drinking and laughing and having a good time, Dorian reaches over to brush a hand up his thigh.
It’s a light touch, nothing serious about it, but it’s more than the simple little knee pats and shoulder squeezes they’ve shared thus far. When Orym looks up at his genasi friend there’s a look in those blue eyes that’s impossible to ignore, something hungry and eager, masked as it might be by cheer and joviality. It’s enough to make Orym’s stomach flip over.
Without letting himself think too deeply about it, he reaches down to cover Dorian’s hand with his own, sliding his fingers loosely between the larger ones still pressed against his leg. It feels nice, comforting, grounding, and when Dorian leans in to murmur in his ear Orym can feel his throat close up.
“Do you want to go upstairs?”
It’s been so long. So, so long. There are dozens of reasons why he should say no - it’ll ruin their friendship, it’ll tarnish Riegel’s memory, it’ll bother the other members of the party - but Orym nods before any of those things get past his lips, and that’s that.
Dorian leans back with a grin; then, with an exaggerated yawn, he stretches his long arms overhead and announces he’ll be hitting the sack early tonight. As he leaves the table and strides towards the staircase, Orym realizes the spot on his leg where Dorian had touched him suddenly feels cold, and a pang of longing echoes in his chest.
He waits a few minutes, not wanting to make a scene, before he quietly tells the others that he’s going to turn in as well. They’re not surprised; Orym is the most likely of them to sleep early, after all. With a round of “good night” he heads upstairs, the chatter and noise of the tavern fading away as he heads towards the room he, Dorian and Fearne have been sharing.
The door is ajar, so after Orym slips in he closes it behind him, for privacy. He doesn’t let himself think too far ahead about what that means, though; instead, he turns to see Dorian seated on one of the beds, shoes off and weapons resting against a nearby wall. He’s smiling in that way that only Dorian can, sweet and welcoming with the slightest hint of mischief sparkling in his crystal-clear eyes, and as Orym steps forward the genasi reaches out, gesturing for him to come closer.
“Hey,” Orym says, ignoring the way his voice suddenly seems to sound a little more tense. He reaches down to undo his own boots, then sets them aside along with his sword and shield, before moving to stand in front of Dorian. Like this, their eyes are almost level, and Orym wonders briefly if Dorian remained seated for that express purpose.
“Hey yourself,” the bard replies, his own tone quieter now, more intimate. There’s a pause, and his expression flickers, before he continues, “I don’t want to presume anything, Orym. But lately -- well, I’ve been having a hard time keeping my eyes off of you.”
The confession is followed up by a soft chuckle, but all Orym can hear is an echo of Dorian’s words repeating themselves over and over inside his head. He can feel blood rushing to his face, and he knows he must look ridiculous, cheeks tinged pink at the merest mention of Dorian’s apparent attraction to him.
It’s been so long.
Unsure of what to say, Orym reaches out to brush his fingers over Dorian’s knee, mirroring the genasi’s touch from earlier. As Dorian reaches to take the halfling’s hand in his own, Orym hears himself say quietly, “I’ve been having that same problem.”
It’s impossible to miss the way Dorian’s expression brightens at that, and Orym feels a swoop in his stomach as memories of times past float to the surface of his mind. The first time Riegel looked at him like that, the first time they kissed, the first time they --
“Better do something about it, I suppose,” Dorian is saying, and Orym allows himself to be drawn into the space between the other’s knees, allows Dorian to cup his cheek gently - so gently, always, with him - allows his face to tilt ever so slightly as they draw closer, and then --
Oh.
Dorian kisses him like he might float away: chaste, barely there, but with an unmistakable fondness. Orym allows himself to get lost in it, just a little, and by the time they break away his heart feels like it’s aching. They stay close, quiet, for a long moment: Dorian’s hand is still on his cheek, his expression tentative, as if waiting to see how Orym will respond.
He doesn’t know how to do this anymore. He doesn’t know how to tell Dorian yes, I want this, this is good. He doesn’t know how to reconcile the tiny spark of desire that’s been growing in his gut for the past few weeks with the fact that the man he loved most is the only one he’s done this with, that he’s gone, that they’ll never be able to be together again and it’s okay, it’s okay to want this, to need this --
“Orym.”
Dorian’s voice shakes Orym out of his reverie: he blinks once, twice, and realizes Dorian’s expression has shifted into one of concern.
“Is this alright? We don’t have to do anything. I don’t want to push you, if this isn’t what you need right now.”
Need. Orym needs this. Needs Dorian.
He shakes his head. Murmurs, “Please.” Pushes himself forward, into the crook of Dorian’s legs, his slim body pressing itself flush up against the silken fabrics covering Dorian’s larger form.
“Kiss me,” he says, soft but not shy, and Dorian nods before acquiescing.
When their lips meet now it’s different; there’s heat to it, hunger, and Orym can feel Dorian’s hands moving to wrap around his waist, keeping him close. The difference in size isn’t that huge, but it’s enough: Dorian’s palms span the expanse of Orym’s body easily, and the thought of him holding the halfling there in his lap flits through Orym’s head.
It’s a thought Orym catches, holds onto, and before it wriggles free he takes action, hooking his arms around Dorian’s shoulders and pulling himself upwards. It prompts a surprised gasp to rise in the genasi’s throat but then he’s moving with it, allowing Orym to press a knee to either side of his hips, those large hands helping to hold him in position as they get closer than they’ve ever been before. The kiss deepens, and it’s impossible not to notice the way Dorian’s growing hard against him; Orym presses his hips down and forward, just once, testing, and the sound Dorian makes in response has him grinning ferociously.
“You have the nicest voice,” he mutters against the genasi’s lips, before pulling back just enough to take in the way Dorian’s skin has transformed into a light purple shade. Orym’s seen the bard blush before, but it’s different now knowing he’s the one causing it. That hunger from earlier grows inside him and he leans in, pressing a series of kisses and bites along Dorian’s neck.
“Orym -- ” Dorian’s voice has gone breathy, and he tilts his head to allow better access, hands squeezing against Orym’s sides.
“You still want this?” Orym whispers, his own hands moving upwards to tangle through that beautiful, perfect hair. The sudden urge to mess it up, to leave it tangled and sweaty over the sheets fills Orym’s brain and he presses his hips forward again, rocking against Dorian’s body.
“Gods, yes.” Orym feels more than sees Dorian swallow. “As long as you’re sure -- ”
Orym leans back once more, catching the other’s eyes and giving him a serious look. “I want this,” he says, as clearly as he can. “I want you, Dorian.”
The groan that spills over Dorian’s lips is a sound Orym never wants to forget.
The next few moments are a hurried scramble to get each others’ clothing off as quickly as possible: Dorian has no trouble tugging Orym’s tunic up and over his head, but his flowing robes are a little more challenging for Orym’s small hands. Eventually, though, they manage to get everything removed, and end up tumbling into bed together side-by-side, their lips meeting once again as the heat between them continues to grow.
They’ve been naked together before - being on the road for weeks at a time means you get used to a certain lack of privacy - but this is different, and there’s a certain shyness in their hands even though it’s clear that they both want this. When they break from yet another deep, hungry kiss, Orym can see the slight hesitation in Dorian’s face.
“How do you want to -- ?”
The question doesn’t need to be stated explicitly for Orym to understand what Dorian is getting at. Another memory of Riegel passes like a shadow over his mind, but he tries his best to ignore it, to focus on the present moment. “I want you inside of me,” he answers, trailing his fingertips down Dorian’s smooth, broad chest, then lower, lower, until --
“Oh!” The bard’s head snaps back as Orym grasps his length and squeezes. “Oh, gods, Orym -- ”
“Yeah?” Orym presses his lips to Dorian’s now-exposed neck, licking a stripe up along the darkened skin.
“Whatever you want,” the genasi replies, looking back down at him, eyes blown wide and dark. He feels huge in Orym’s hand, and yet another surge of desire shoots through the halfling, making him almost growl with how badly he wants this.
He hasn’t been filled in such a long time. Now, presented with exactly what he’s been missing, it’s impossible not to grow more and more desperate for it with each second that passes.
“Do you have any oil or anything?” he asks against Dorian’s skin, still stroking him. He can see the genasi’s abdomen quivering in response; he must be pretty sensitive. Then again, Orym has no idea when the last time Dorian did this could’ve been - he doesn’t particularly remember his friend sneaking off in the middle of the night for a tryst, but then again, he hadn’t been paying much attention to that sort of thing until recently. Thankfully, Dorian nods in response and reaches out with one long arm to fish around in the nightstand drawer, returning with a small vial and an eager, if somewhat shy, grin.
“I won’t hurt you, will I?” he asks, and Orym gets the sense he’s not really worried but he’s still checking to make sure Orym will be okay. It’s sweet, and Orym gives him a quick kiss before sliding onto his back.
“I’ll be alright. I’m tough.” He flexes a little, playfully, and Dorian laughs with the sort of bright, playful tone that Orym has long since become used to hearing - albeit in situations quite dissimilar to this one.
Dorian takes up position between Orym’s thighs and uncorks the vial, giving his fingers a liberal coating of the oil that pours slowly forth. A floral scent fills the air and Orym quirks an eyebrow; “Cherry blossoms?” he asks, to which Dorian replies with an embarrassed grin.
“I just like how they smell.”
Orym eyes him carefully, but doesn’t say anything else. Surely it’s just a coincidence. Even though Dorian probably knows it’s Orym’s favourite scent, why would he purchase such a specific product with that in mind? Unless --
“I almost wonder if you were planning this,” Orym says, before he can stop himself, and they both go quiet as Dorian’s face turns a darker purple. A long moment passes, before:
“Planning is too strong a word, I think.” Dorian sets the bottle on the nightstand carefully before returning to Orym, not quite meeting his eye. “I simply… I thought you would like it, if something ever happened between us.”
It’s such a kind thing, the thought of Dorian discreetly purchasing an item as salacious as this with Orym in the forefront of his mind, that Orym feels his chest go tight. It doesn’t help that the aroma drifting into his nose reminds him acutely of home, of his little house and the man he once shared it with.
Thankfully, he’s distracted by the press of Dorian’s hand against the back of his thigh, and he spreads his legs somewhat to make things easier. A slick finger slides between his asscheeks and Orym sighs quietly, his eyebrows knitting together at the first press of Dorian’s fingertip against his hole. The halfling lies back, willing his body to relax, and allows himself to drift a little as Dorian preps him.