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]

[Orym will hop up to take that space on the bench for better reach. Now he's the one humming to himself as he carefully works the brush through his hair, though Dorian had already done a good job of that. Eventually he sets the brush down and instead lets his fingers run through soft, silky strands -- ostensibly to make sure all the tangles are really gone, but realistically just because he wants to touch.

Eventually he begins to divide it into sections and begins plaiting. It's a surprisingly complex braid, though nothing too ornate. He's clearly got some experience with this.]

Your hair is so pretty... [He murmurs quietly.]

[makingmyway]

[ Feeling those fingers combing through his hair - fingers rough from years of wielding a blade, and yet so gentle - sends another rush of heat through his body. Especially at the compliment, coloring his cheeks once again. ]

Thank you. I try my best to take care of it.

[ Selfishly, it’s one of the few things that he gets complimented on more than Cyrus. So he makes sure to keep it nice. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym takes his time with this, an excuse to let his fingers play through Brontë's hair really. He's not taking this for granted right now. How could he? He'd been quietly pining for his handsome prince for so long now, to actually have him is astounding.]

I think you do a good job.

[He finishes off the braid now carefully, with a small twist of vines and a few small flowers.]

There. What do you think?

[He's actually quite good at braiding, which may be surprising given how short he keeps his own hair.]

[makingmyway]

[ He can’t help blushing a bit at the compliment, nor can he help the soft sound he makes as Orym continues running his fingers through his hair. All of this is already more than he could have ever hoped for, and yet it’s somehow not enough.

When Orym finally finishes, he carefully feels along the braid, and he’s surprised when it doesn’t feel like the simple kind that he’s used to. Grabbing the hand mirror from his vanity, he turns in his seat so he’ll be able to see the braid in the reflection, marveling not just at the braid itself but also the flowers and vines included. ]

Oh, it’s lovely… [ He turns to Orym with a smile. ] I didn’t realize you were so good at this.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

It's a hidden talent.

[Orym admits with a quick grin, hopping back down to the ground.]

My sisters taught me, when we were kids. They taught me the druidcraft too.

[They'd tried to cajole him into growing his hair out so they could braid flowers into it, but he'd never had the patience for longer hair.]

[makingmyway]

[ Dorian nods a little, still admiring the braid. Orym had told him a bit about his sisters before, but this is the first time he’s heard about this. ]

I really like it. [ He glances over towards Orym as he lands back on the ground. ] Would you do my hair like this during the day sometime?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

I'm also good at painting nails making flower crowns.

[A multitalented man this one, Brontë. Put a ring on it now.]

I'm glad. [Very glad. He beams at hearing that his prince is pleased with it, and brightens further at the request.]

Of course, whenever you want. It's a good excuse to get to play with your hair, so count me in.

[See, now he's being transparent with his motivations.]

[makingmyway]

[ Dorian laughs a little, finally placing down the hand mirror to give Orym his full attention. ]

Is that so? I might ask you to do my nails sometime too, then.

[ The admittance has Brontë blushing again, but he smiles as he slips off the bench. ]

Well, that works out then, because I really enjoy the feeling of you playing with my hair. So we both win.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Your wish is my command.

[Orym teases with a smile, but he means it. He'll happily paint Brontë's nails, do his hair, shower him in the attention and affection that the halfling knows the prince deserves but so rarely seems to receive from his family.

And now he's decided he has permission to be the one to do it, which is thrilling.]

That a fact? It's nice when things work out so well.

[He holds out a hand to him.] Come, my Prince. You should get some rest.

[makingmyway]

[ Those words send a different kind of warmth through him, causing him to fidget just a bit. Whether he feels ready for physical intimacy or not, it doesn’t stop him from imagining certain things for when he is ready.

But he ignores it for now, as he nods and takes Orym’s hand, leading him over to the bed. It’s certainly large enough for them both to lie in it with a lot of room for them to be comfortable, but he honestly doubts they’ll need it.

So turning down the sheets, he slips under them and moves to the middle, glancing over at Orym and waiting. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym is doing his level best to keep his own thoughts proper for the time being. This deserves their taking their time, Brontë deserves this being done right, in their own time.

That doesn't mean he doesn't fully intend to hold the other man while they sleep tonight. Orym is a tactile thing, easy and generous with touch when he can be.

Once Brontë is settled, Orym climbs into the bed to join him. There's plenty of room in the bed, yes, but he scoots himself right up close to the other man.]

Hi.

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë’s breath hitches softly as Orym settles so close to him. ]

H-Hi.

[ It isn’t that he minds the closeness. Quite the opposite, really. But it doesn’t help that Orym is shirtless, which he had noticed before, but this close he can’t help but notice. Even in the low light he can see the lines of wiry muscles in his lithe form, or the raised marks of scars across his body. He’d always known Orym was handsome, but being this close now has his mouth going a bit dry. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Is this all right?

[Because oh Orym heard that hitch of breath, and he has to force himself to breathe as well. He reaches a hand up to brush his fingertips along Brontë's cheek, soft. If the prince needs his space, Orym will give it to him without question.

There's dedication here, utter and complete, to his prince. He's been his guard; he always would have died for Brontë. But now, well, now he gets to live for him.]

[makingmyway]

[ A soft sound rises from his throat, and he closes his eyes as he leans into Orym’s touch. ]

Y-Yeah…it’s okay. It just, um…might take a bit of getting used to.

[ But oh how he wants to get used to it. Especially as he scoots a little closer, feeling the warmth of Orym’s body against his own. Hesitantly he rests a hand against Orym’s chest, opening his eyes again to watch the halfling’s face as his fingers brush over his skin. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Oh that sound does something to Orym, and he takes a breath to settle himself. Innocent thoughts, Orym. Innocent thoughts.

When Brontë moves closer, when that hand sets at his chest, Orym feels his heart flip over itself, and his hand drops from Brontë's cheek to set against the side of his neck.]

We have time to get used to it. But if it's ever too much, just tell me. Whatever you need, all right?

[makingmyway]

[ With a small smile, Brontë nods, even as his hand finds a small scar and he can’t help running his thumb across it. More than anything, he knows that he can trust Orym, that the halfling will take care of him and keep him safe. ]

I know…thank you.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Thank you, too.

[Orym murmurs softly as that hand finds what he knows well is a scar. He wants Brontë to know him and all his scars, all his flaws and imperfections in him, all the vulnerable and fragile parts of himself. He thinks he can trust his Prince with those pieces of him.

His hand runs up Brontë's neck to settle at the line of his jaw.]

I'm going to kiss you again. [Orym warns him before doing exactly that.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë wants nothing more than to know everything about Orym; to understand Orym the way that the halfling knows all about him. He wants to cherish every part of him, all the good and the bad and the strong and the delicate. He would be happy to keep it all safe in his heart.

He shivers at the brush of that calloused hand across his skin, and he barely has a chance to nod before Orym’s lips find his again. With a soft murmur, his own hand finds Orym’s wrist as he returns the kiss, his lips automatically parting to invite him in. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Kissing Brontë is quickly beginning to feel like coming home, like finding the place in the world where he belongs, finally. The hand at his wrist is warm. All of the other man is warm, and solid and absurdly perfect.

He takes full advantage of that invitation, tongue teasing along that lower lip before slipping into his mouth to chase the kiss deeper, letting his tongue slide along Brontë's, shivering at the frankly exquisite feeling of it.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë is also quickly becoming addicted to the sensation and taste of kissing Orym, feeling so loved and at peace with him. He loves the feeling of Orym’s body against his, and he gently pulls him closer with his free arm.

He can’t help a soft moan as Orym’s tongue moves along his, the taste of him overwhelming him in the best of ways. He curls around him, his heart racing in his chest at being able to do this at all. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Oh this is going to be the death of him, Orym thinks, and he's okay with that. Brontë is every temptation that Orym could imagine somehow made flesh and wanting him just as much.

One hand has come to rest against the prince's chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleepshirt, losing a low sound of his own to that kiss. He knows he needs to keep himself in control here, knows that if anyone deserves the time and patience he wants to give this, it's Brontë, but oh it's hard not to press the other man back to the bed, to climb on top of him and see what it would take to have his prince moaning for him, begging for more.

He forces himself to break from the kiss just long enough to take a breath, to stead himself and murmur softly.] How are you so perfect?

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë shivers a little as he feels those fingers tangle in his shirt. And it sends a rush of different sensations through him; a sort of curious thrill that rushes through his blood, but at the same time a sort of panic that squeezes his heart.

As much as he wants, he can’t help still feeling nervous about the idea of physical intimacy. And he hates it, hates how timid he’s being, because he wants nothing more than to give Orym all of him.

But he wants to try. As long as it takes, he wants to be able to give himself to Orym someday. Because he’s more than worth it.

Opening his eyes when the kiss his broken, he feels himself blushing at Orym’s words. ]

I-I think…I think you think too highly of me, Orym.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym would wait the rest of forever for Brontë. As much as he wants him, wants to know him and his body in that intimate way, he can be patient. And if his prince is never ready for it, even just being able to hold him, to be held this way. That would be enough.

Brontë is everything that he's wanted, and his heart has been the other man's for some time now even if he'd never admitted it.]

Mm-mm. Not possible. You don't think of yourself highly enough, you know. So until you do, I'll have to remind you.

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë chuckles faintly, though he doesn’t have much of an answer for that. Orym is really the only one who thinks he’s worth anything, it seems.

But more than anything, he wants to be that. To be everything Orym believes him to be.

With a soft sigh, he settles in closer to the halfling, listening to Orym’s heartbeat as he rests his head on Orym’s chest. ]

Is…this okay?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

Yeah. It's great.

[It's perfect. His fingers find their way to trace absentminded patterns against Brontë's back through the soft fabric of his sleepshirt.]

Sleep, my love. [He'd meant to say my prince but halfway to drifting off himself, other words come out, and they feel right enough that he won't correct himself.]