for Dorian (makingmyway) - Prince Dorian /Palace Guard Orym AU

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym spends too much time watching the prince. In fairness, it is his job to do exactly that, but it's gone so far beyond just the act of guarding a young noble. Of course it has.

When he'd first been assigned to this position -- the personal guard to Prince Brontë, a promotion really, after he'd managed to be in the right place at the right time to thwart an unexpected assassination attempt against the King and Queen -- he hadn't known much about the younger Prince Wyvernwind, save what he could tell from afar -- that he was beautiful, fair-faced and strong-shouldered, that he always managed to look the part of dutiful and perfect prince.

As he got to know him though, he'd seen more. So much more.

The prince is genuinely kind, not only for show in public. He's gentle and soft spoken, surprisingly down to earth for a young royal who's been sheltered in his kingdom all his life. He's funny too, clever and quick-witted once opened up. It took some time, really, but they've both let their guards down around each other. Orym has to remind himself again and again that he's nothing more than bodyguard, here to keep the Prince safe. Not to keep him company.

But oh he likes his company, has come to look forward to hearing that musical laugh, come to treasure when he's managed to convince Brontë to play or sing for him. There's a warmth in his chest when the Prince confides in him, when he's given glimpses into those surprising insecurities, his hopes and dreams.

It's several months into spending day after day with the Prince that he realizes he's fallen for him. It's foolish. It's utterly foolish and it can never be anything. So he wraps those feelings away and pushes them down as deep as he can.

Today they're in the palace courtyards. The sun shines bright from a sky that is a perfect shade of blue interrupted only by a few white clouds. Orym is rolling his wrist to let his sword dip and then rise, the familiar heft and weight of the blade comfortable in his hand.]

You know, you're good with a blade. I've seen it. But I could probably teach you a few tricks, if you'd be interested.

Comments

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Of course, yes. Lead on then, my Prince.

[There's still that sense of wild hope in him, even if he's trying to hold it in, trying to ground himself in the reality of the situation.

And it really isn't anything strange, the two of them spending time alone together in Brontë's chambers. It's nearly an everyday occurrence. This does feel different, weightier, thrilling and terrifying and dangerous.]

[makingmyway]

[ He can’t help a frown at the return of his title, but remembering where they are he lets it slide (for now).

Instead he nods and turns so they can head back towards his private chambers, trying to keep his composure as he politely greets anyone they pass, all while his heart is racing at the thought that maybe, just maybe, his daydreams weren’t as impossible as he’d assumed.

When they finally reach his chambers, he dismisses the maids, delayed a bit to ask them to draw some water so they could clean up a bit before essentially kicking them out as nicely as he could manage.

And then finally, they are alone. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym manages to wrap himself in a cloak of professionalism, playing the part he has been so very good at for so very long of dutiful guard, entirely devoted to his prince. And that's entirely true, but that devotion runs far deeper than it should.

Once they're finally alone, once the maids have left and Orym closes the door securely behind them, he turns to look at Brontë with green eyes brimming over with unspoken questions, that lingering spark of hope.]

We have privacy now, Brontë.

[His name again, fully overstepping his position, but he's taking this chance apparently, still lingering by the door he just shut.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë suddenly feels awkward, standing in his room as Orym shuts the door. As much as he wants to know, to find out if there is something here and he isn’t just imagining things, he isn’t really sure what to say.

Then Orym turns back to look at him with those brilliant green eyes, and he shivers at the way he says his name. And he can’t help blurting out the first thing on his mind. ]

…I really like you, Orym.

[ He cringes, because of all the ways he imagined ever confessing his feelings, they were never that terrible. But with the words out now, more start tumbling out and he can’t stop them. ]

I mean, I…I do, I like you a lot. And I…I know you’re probably just doing your job, and maybe this isn’t really appropriate, but you’re so much kinder to me than anyone, and I always feel so much safer knowing you’re nearby. And I like talking with you, and learning more about you, and I just…

[ He trails off as he realizes that he’s rambling, and with an embarrassed flush he turns away, unable to meet Orym’s gaze anymore. ]

S-Sorry…

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[The way those words are just blurted out is so purely Brontë, that something in Orym absolutely melts. He's seen the Prince be perfect and polished in public, but also seen that self doubt and uncertainty surface when he's not playing his part.

His heart is racing in his chest again, and he closes the distance between them, emboldened by that confession to reach out and take the prince's hand. He lifts it slowly, eyes on Brontë's face even if the other man has looked away from him, before he presses his lips to the back of his palm, soft and lingering.]

I like you too. More than I should, more than I'm allowed to. But I do. You've never just been my job.

[makingmyway]

[ He hears Orym coming closer, and even as hopeful as he is he can’t help still bracing himself for rejection.

So he doesn’t expect when Orym takes his hand, and he turns his head just in time to see the other man kiss his palm. His eyes widen as he draws a breath, and his heart skips as the words fall from Orym’s lips. ]

R-Really…?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[He's touching the prince, and while there'd been an occasional touch here and there (which were oversteps enough), this is new. And dangerous. Orym has no right for any of this. He knows that. He really does.

But he can't just pretend all this away. So another kiss against his hand before he leans to nuzzle against it, digging his grave deeper and silently asking for Brontë to touch him in turn.]

Really. I'm probably the one who should apologize. I'm overstepping myself. I know that.

[makingmyway]

[ Something warm lights in his chest, and as he shakes his head he kneels down so they’re more at height with each other. He turns his hand over to gently cup Orym’s cheek. ]

Don’t…Don’t be sorry. I don’t…I don’t care about our stations. I care about you.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym can't help the quiet laugh that escapes, not in amusement but in startled and unexpected joy. He turns into that touch, eyes falling shut for just a moment.

When he answers though, he opens his eyes again to look to him, one eye level now. He steps in closer, his hand lifting to brush the back of his knuckles along the prince's cheek in turn.]

Were you going to kiss me, out there on the training grounds?

[makingmyway]

[ He can’t help a smile of his own, a weight he didn’t know he was holding lifting from his chest.

Then Orym steps closer, and he leans into his touch, even as he flushes slightly at the question. ]

I…I wanted to, yes.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[His fingers shift, fingertips tracing along Brontë's lower lip gently, slowly, like he's imagining what kissing him would feel like. He's imagined it before, more times than he can remember.]

I wanted you to.

[And now, well, now his fingers slip from his lips to cup gently at his jaw so that Orym can lean in and press his lips to the prince's. Oh he's doomed, but he's never been happier for being doomed before.]

[makingmyway]

[ He shivers at that light touch, pressing a light kiss to those fingertips. Then, as Orym catches his jaw, he leans in a bit as well to meet those lips that he’s wanted for so long.

And he’s read a lot of novels about romance, and had dreamt of what kissing Orym would be like. But none of those compared to actually feeling those lips against his, of Orym’s scent and presence so close to him. It’s everything he’s wanted and more. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Oh gods help him, it's really happening. It's not a dream this time, not some passing fantasy that he'll have to feel guilty for having in the next moment -- because Brontë somehow wants this too, wants him too, and that may be the sweetest realization he's ever had.

Dorian's lips are soft against his own, and the halfling lingers, tilting his head enough to slot their mouths together more firmly, not deepening the kiss just yet, taking his time learning the other man's lips, the way they feel against his own, the way Brontë reacts for him.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë shivers as their lips fit together, and he can’t help a soft moan as his hand drifts from Orym’s cheek to his jaw, then back to behind his head and lightly combing through his short hair.

He’s more than happy to take it slow for now, to savor being able to do this after so long of wanting but thinking it could never happen. And the fact that it is sends such a thrill through him, and he just wants to hold this for as long as he can. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym hums a soft, relieved sound to Brontë's lips. In the back of his mind he fully knows this is dangerous, a terrible idea. If anyone finds out, he'll never see his prince again. He knows that. And could he bear that?

Of course, he doesn't think he could bear to give this up so easily now that he's had a taste of it either.

So instead he lets his fingers sink into his hair, taking the liberty of loosing the tie from his hair, sending it all cascading down about his shoulders. Softer than he'd even imagined.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë knows this is a risk. If his parents ever found out, they would be furious. But at the moment he can’t bring himself to care, especially as he feels his hair fall around his shoulders and Orym’s fingers combing through it.

He gives another soft moan, his lips parting slightly in a silent invitation. He’s never quite done this before, has only read about it in books. But more than anything he wants to experience this with Orym, to know what it’s like to share this with someone he cares about. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Worrying can come later, Orym has decided. For now all he can think about is Brontë. All he wants to think about is Brontë, this beautiful, kind prince who has never once treated Orym as anything but an equal.

When he feels those lips part against his own, he can't resist letting his tongue trace along that plush lower lip before slipping into his mouth. Orym means to take this slow, to stay gentle, but there is a long repressed desire that seems to spring into an inferno at the spark that his the touch of his tongue along the prince's.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë shivers as Orym’s tongue slips into his mouth, and while it’s exactly what he intended, he isn’t prepared for how overwhelming the sensation is, sliding his tongue over Orym’s. Tasting him properly, coupled with the smell and feel of Orym, has his head spinning, and suddenly he can think of nothing else except this man that he’s wanted for so long - this man who not only protects him, but listens and cares for him in ways he’s just now realizing.

With a sharp breath he wraps his arms around Orym, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss, greedy for more of the halfling. He’s never done this before, that much is clear, but what he lacks in experience he makes up for in earnestness. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Nothing could keep the halfling from moving closer as he's pulled, from molding himself up against Brontë, pressing close, closer. He feels almost dizzy with it, with the exhilaration of kissing him, with the feeling of those arms around him.

He'd take that earnestness over anything else any day. But he barely notices anyway.

Eventually he draws back for breath, looking at the other man in wonder.]

This is really happening, isn't it?

[makingmyway]

[ He loves the feeling of Orym in his arms, the way he seems to fit so well. He wants to feel the halfling against him all the time.

He doesn’t realize that he’s closed his eyes until Orym draws back, and he opens his eyes to look at him. His face is a little flushed, but his expression is hopeful as he swallows the lump in his throat. ]

Y-Yeah…I mean, I really hope it is.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym lets his gaze roam over the handsome face in front of him, for once mot feelin the need to sneak a look when Brontë isn't looking. One hand comes to let his fingertips brush along his cheek, along the flush visible there.]

Me too.

[His fingers roam down gently, playing along the prince's lower lip.] You look like a dream, but... this feels real to me.

[makingmyway]

[ Closing his eyes, he leans into Orym’s hand. ]

I know…I’ve been dreaming about this for so long. But nothing I imagined came close to this.

[ He shivers a little as those fingers brush over his lips, and he kisses the pads of the tips again. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym's fingers still briefly at the touch of those lips. His heart flutters. Leaning forward, he presses his forehead to Brontë's.]

No one else can find out about this.

[He murmurs quietly. Whatever this turns out to even be. He realizes he doesn't know if Brontë is thinking of him as someone to warm his bed or something more, and the halfling is so far gone for the prince that whatever it is, he wants it.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë leans against Orym, a soft sigh passing his lips. ]

…I know. [ He finally opens his eyes again to meet Orym’s. ] I don’t want you to get in trouble.

[ Whatever his parents do to him, he can handle it. But he knows that Orym would likely be punished far worse. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[His fingers find their way through his prince's soft hair, twisting a lock gently around his fingers, marveling at being allowed to do so.]

I'm not worried about getting in trouble.

[He doesn't want Brontë to get in trouble, really. But the thing that worries him the most is,]

They'd take me away from you if they found out. [And that, that is something he doesn't even want to think about.]