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

[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.]

[makingmyway]

[ He can’t help shuddering at the the thought. ]

I know. I’m afraid of that too. Especially how they might do that.

[ One of the worst things they might do was reassign Orym to protect the kingdom’s borders. Out there on the outskirts, there were all kinds of dangers he might face, and he couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to him. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[That has crossed Orym's mind -- if they didn't just decide he ought to be executed for daring to cross this boundary with the prince -- but he isn't worried about danger so much as never seeing Brontë again.]

Then we'll be careful. You're clever. I'm paranoid. We can be careful.

[He tilts his chin so he can press a kiss to Brontë's lips, lingering a long moment before drawing back.]

You shouldn't be on your knees, my Prince. It can't be comfortable.

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë nods, though he still can't help worrying. His parents always seem to find out what he's up to at some point, no matter how careful he tries to be.

But he's far too selfish to give this up now, as he smiles a little while returning the kiss. ]

If I can keep kissing you like this, I don't really mind.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym can't help a quiet laugh at that.] Is that so?

[He is all for continuing the kissing, so he fully understands that. It has been a dream for so long, the fact that it's happening, really happening, is still an overwhelming rush.]

We could kiss somewhere else too. [It's such a beautiful room, royal chambers.] I have this theory that I'd fit really well in your lap.

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë blinks, flushing at the unexpected comment. But his heart skips at the thought, imagining the halfling’s warm body sitting in his lap, pressing up against him.

Then he grins. ] Really? Well, that certainly is worth testing out.

[ Then he suddenly scoops Orym up, holding him in his arms and carrying him over to a nearby chaise lounge. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym laughs as he's swept up into those arms, an almost giddy sound. His arms wind around Brontë's neck to hold on.]

It's really the only way to find out for sure.

[For science, clearly. Once Brontë has settled onto that chaise, Orym will settle himself right in that lap and molding himself up against the prince's chest.

Oh, yes. He fits perfectly.] What do you think?

[makingmyway]

[ As he settles against the chaise, he smiles and absolutely purrs at the way Orym fits against him. Oh yes, he loves this feeling. ]

Yes, I think this works quite well. [ Slipping him a quick kiss, his grins turns a bit playful. ] But we can’t just accept it as true based on a single instance, you know? We need to test it out more to make sure the results are the same each time.

[ That’s real science. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

So thorough, my prince.

[Orym teases, thrilling softly at the sound of that purr, the kiss, that playful look on Brontë's face. Too often his prince has seemed so melancholy, like a bird caught in a cage that is keeping him from the sky where he belongs.]

But you're right... it needs more testing.

[For the moment though he is going to steal another kiss, sneaking in a quick nip at Brontë's lower lip that he soothes with a brush of his tongue.]

[makingmyway]

[ He chuckles a little, his arms wrapping around to hold Orym closer. ] Well, I do have the best tutors that money can afford.

[ He shivers at that gentle bite, followed by his tongue brushing over it, and with a soft sound he presses into a deeper kiss, immediately taking Orym’s tongue into his mouth and lightly nipping it in return. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

And it shows.

[Those arms around him are an absolute dream come true, and Orym only melts further into him. His voice catches as Brontë takes the kiss deeper, and the teeth against his tongue. The sound is nearly a growl, soft and wanting, and he's probably getting a little swept up a little too quickly, but how can he help it? He's been pining silently for this man for so long.]

[makingmyway]

[ The growl has his heart skipping, and he nips at Orym’s tongue again before lightly sucking on it. Even though he’s still new to all this, he’s wanted this for so long, and he’s letting his desire and instinct take over. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym shifts in his lap, rising up on his knees, straddling those legs. This gives him a bit more height, changing the angle of the way their mouths meet as he loses himself in that kiss, muffling another moan into Brontë's lips.

His hand settles against his chest, through the fine fabric of his shirt, but still slowly exploring, marveling at being able to touch him like this -- his beautiful, untouchable prince.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë can’t help a moan himself, tilting his head up to meet the change, one hand reach up to rest on the back of Orym’s neck and hold him there.

He shivers at Orym’s wandering hands, arching his body a little to curve into his touch, silently asking for more. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Oh, well. That is a sound, isn't it? Orym wants to swallow it whole, taste the other moans and cries that Brontë will make for him. The pressure of that hand at his neck has him losing a soft whimper to the prince's lips in turn.

Everything about the way the other man responds to his touch is thrilling, more than he could have ever imagined. His fingers find their way down, lower, slipping beneath the hemline of a shirt and finding their way to brush over warm skin.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë drinks in that sound, enjoying the feeling of being able to make his stalwart guard make such noises. He lightly runs his nails along the nape of Orym’s neck, wanting to see what other sounds he can draw from him.

At the same time he can’t help a shiver at the touch of Orym’s hands, his skin tingling as those fingers trail across it. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[The sound those nails draw from the halfling is as close to a purr as he can possibly make. This all feels so surreal, far too good to be true.

His hand runs up over his stomach, fabric rucking up as he does.

Breaking from that kiss to take a breath he draws back just enough to look at Brontë.]

You are so beautiful. [It is not even remotely fair.]

[makingmyway]

[ He hums softly at such a pleasing noise. He is quickly becoming addicted to this, to the feeling and sound and taste of Orym. It’s a bit dangerous, but he’s already too far gone to stop now.

He draws a breath as his skin is exposed to the cool air, a sharp contrast to Orym’s warm fingers. When Orym draws back, he slowly opens his eyes again, and can’t help a small flush at the compliment. ]

Thank you. [ It’s something he’s heard pretty often from just about everyone growing up, well-known acquaintances and strangers alike fawning over his looks. But it feels different somehow, coming from Orym. ] You’re quite handsome yourself, though.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym's expression melts into a smile at that.] Glad you think so.

[And he is glad about it. Brontë is absolutely stunning; anyone with eyes can see that. The halfling is well aware that there are countless suitors out there who would jump at the chance to court the younger Wyvernwind prince -- for that beauty or for the political clout and wealth that came with it.

He knows, gods he knows, that he can never really have Brontë, that someday his kind, gentle prince will find someone who can take care of him properly. But the idea of someone who doesn't value Brontë for all that he is, that makes Orym's blood run cold. Brontë deserves to be loved wholly and without condition or limit.]

But that's not why I fell for you, you know. [He informs him, fingers still twirling through a lock of Brontë's hair.] Do you want to know why?

[makingmyway]

[ It’s one of the things he most fears, really - that sometime soon, his parents will arrange for him to be married. He knows it’s his position; as Secondsun, he’s bound to one day marry someone of status in order establish connections to support their family’s influence and continue their line, especially in the off chance that Cyrus wouldn’t be able to take his place as the next king of the Silken Squall.

He knows all that…but he’s always dreaded the day that his parents marry him off to the highest bidder, as it were.

For now, though, it’s not something to worry about, especially with Orym in his arms, and he shivers a little as the halfling plays with his hair. He’d had a feeling that the guard hadn’t fallen for him just for his looks - Orym doesn’t seem the type to be as superficial as that - but he does tilt his head curiously at the question. ]

Why?

[ ’Why me?’ ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym glances at the hair twirling around his fingers. He would love to play with it, braid it, twine it through with vines and flowers. He wonders if Brontë would allow him to, sometime.

For now though, he has a question to answer.]

Because you were a mess. [A pause as he realizes that this doesn't sound very complimentary, so he adds quickly.] I mean I've seen you be the perfect prince, not a step or word out of place, when you have to be. But when you're just you... sometimes you stumble over your words, or you fluster because you don't know what to say at all. You're always kind and sweet and funny and unsure, and it's real. It's not a show because people might be watching, it's just... a good man, doing his best. How could I not fall in love with you?

[Orym has known royals and nobility, and to find a genuinely good person in their ranks is rarer than it ought to be, often because they have no need to be kind.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë blinks, his cheeks once again colored with a dark flush. It was strange, because the things that Orym had noticed about him, these reasons that he’d apparently fallen for him, are the exact things that he tries so hard to hide. The side of himself that he can’t show to his family - or anyone - in fear of being rejected somehow, of being seen as not good enough. The parts of him that he’s most insecure about is what this man - this amazing, wonderful man - apparently likes about him.

No…he said loves. Orym is in love with him. He feels as though his heart is about to burst, so full of affection for him.

With a shaky sigh, he pulls Orym closer, resting his forehead against Orym’s as he closes his eyes. ]

You…You are the only one who sees me this way, Orym. You see everything about me…and still accept me for who I am. You’ve been so kind and patient with me, while being my guard and keeping me safe.

That’s…that’s why I couldn’t help falling in love with you. Because I know that I can trust you with all of me.