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 slips his shield and sword free and lays them down on one corner of the blanket -- both to keep them near and to weight down the blanket so the wind doesn't catch it.

That done, he turns back in time to see Brontë moving towards him.]

Anything else I can help with? [For their romantic little getaway by the lake? Because it is clearly romantic already.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë smiles even as he shakes his head, gesturing for Orym to take a seat on the blanket before he lowers himself onto it as well. ]

All I want is for you to enjoy yourself, Orym. You do so much for me, so let me take care of you for a while, okay?

[ Opening the saddlebag again, he then begins to pull out the wrapped up food inside; it's all simple fare; some bread, some meats and cheeses, fruit, all things that would be easy to eat while out as they are. But there are some choices that he lays out on the blanket around them. ]

I'd wanted to have some wine to drink as well, but that was harder to justify bringing on a hunting trip, and there wasn't really any way to sneak it out. [ Glancing at Orym, he offers an apologetic smile, even as he pulls out a bottle and some cups. ] I did manage to sneak some ale, though.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym raises an eyebrow at him, but he settles to a seat on the blanket nearby his prince. He smiles at the words with a shake of his head.]

I always enjoy myself with you.

[And Brontë did take care of him, gave him a reason to smile every morning when he woke up in those arms. But the halfling will try to relax if that is what the other man wants of him.

He ducks his head with a laugh at the ale.] That's perfect. Couldn't ask for anything better.

[He stretches his legs out in front of him and glances over at Brontë.] A romantic picnic with my handsome prince.

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë smiles as he opens the bottle of ale, pouring some into the first cup and handing it to Orym before pouring some for himself.

Then he holds up his cup for a toast. ]

To us. To a life soon where we can love freely like this, always.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

To us.

[Orym agrees, lifting the cup to tap against Brontë's lightly, expression full of sheer affection for the other man, like he can't hold it back even if he tried. And he has no cause to try to hide any of it right now.]

To our new life together, soon.

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë’s smile widens, and he can’t help stealing a quick kiss from Orym before drinking his ale. Then, he tears a piece of the bread and fills it with some meat and cheese, making a simple sandwich of sorts that he hands to Orym before making one for himself.

And despite how plain the food seems, it’s more than enough for them to eat their fill, and they pass their meal with some easy conversation.

Once he senses that they’re just about done, though, Brontë reaches for the saddlebag again, retrieving two wooden boxes. He carefully opens one to peek inside, and when he’s satisfied with what he sees he places the box in Orym’s lap. ]

I hope you saved some room for dessert.

[ Inside the box is what appears to be a pie - not as big as a regular pie normally would be, about maybe a fourth of a standard pie size. But the size makes it easier for a single person to enjoy it, as well as being easier to probably smuggle on a trip like this. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[The kiss has the halfling beaming before he sips at his drink as well. And crisp and lovely as the ale is, Brontë's lips are far sweeter. But he will try to behave at least long enough to focus on eating.

He looks curiously at what's been placed in his lap, opening it up and laughing in surprise.]

You brought pie.

[He looks up at him before nodding.] There's always room for pie.

[Especially when it's a sweet gesture like this, when Brontë has brought something that is one of Orym's favorites. He just, he's touched. That's all, and it's clear on his face.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë laughs a little. ] I did. I remember you saying it was your favorite, although I admit I…don’t remember what you said is your favorite flavor.

[ Hope you like mixed berry, Orym.

Clearing his throat, he then taps the lid of the box. ]

Here, why don’t you get started on yours. [ Reaching into his personal pouch, he carefully pulls out his flute. ] Because I have one more surprise for you.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

I've never met a pie I didn't like.

[Orym informs him with another smile. Mixed berry is entirely a welcome surprise as he takes his first bite, looking curious before his eyes caught sight of that flute.]

Brontë... [He smiles with a shake of his head.] You should know, I'm already fully wooed. But this is... really great.

[Alone time? A picnic? Music? It's by far the best date Orym has ever been on.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë’s smile softens, and he leans closer to kiss the top of Orym’s head. ]

Well good, I’m glad. But I wanted to do all this for you. I know we don’t get a lot of time together, so I wanted a chance to show you what you mean to me.

[ Then, sitting back a bit, he places the flute to his lips and begins to play a soft, low song; gentle but powerful, a song he had written that was full of all of his love for Orym, and the hope of the future life they would have together, infused in every note. Everything he had ever felt, everything he feels, and how he would feel for Orym for the rest of his life, breathed into life in the melody. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym ducks his head with an almost shy smile. He feels special in a way he can't remember feeling before, treasured even.

He wonders if he really deserves this, deserves Brontë, but he's also not going to question his good fortune. He will never question it.

The prince starts his song and Orym falls silent, listening to not just the music but the feeling behind it. And oh he can feel it, resonating through his heart, through all of him. By the time Brontë has finished the song, Orym's eyes look a bit shinier than they should, tears that have risen but he doesn't plan on letting fall.]

[makingmyway]

[ It’s everything he wishes he could say, but can’t because of who they are in the castle. But someday he hopes to, hopes to be able to say the words out loud for the world to hear, how much he loves Orym.

But for now, this is enough. For Orym to know is enough.

As the song slowly fades to an end, he opens his eyes and glances at Orym. He catches sight of the look in his eyes, but still ducks his head shyly as he glances away. ]

So, um… [ He laughs a little nervously. ] I take it you liked it?

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym watches Brontë look away, that shy way that he's seen in him so often. His heart feels like it's going to burst from his chest. Without answering he sets aside what's left of his pie (not much) and rises up on his knees, moving close enough reach out and catch the prince's chin gently, to urge him to look back to him.]

I loved it. It was beautiful.

[And Orym needs to kiss him in this moment, and he does.]

[makingmyway]

[ He shivers at that light pressure, drawing him back to meet Orym’s eyes. He can’t help a relieved sigh, hearing that Orym enjoyed the song he had written for him.

And when Orym kisses him, he moans softly, wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him closer as he’s more than happy to return it. The kiss is tender, but there’s a passion in it, a hunger for something more, something that, up until now, he had been to nervous for.

But secretly, something he hoped for with all of this today. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Closer was the halfling's goal all along, so he shifts further into those arms. His voice hitches in the kiss before it escapes in a moan, echoing that hunger. He's wanted so very much, but has made certain not to push, not to press Brontë for more than he was ready for.

And he wonders if it's his own imagination -- or hope, perhaps -- that he can feel that push for something more in the way that Brontë is holding him, kissing him.]

[makingmyway]

[ It’s exactly what he’s thinking, but Brontë doesn’t want to leave any room for doubt.

So after another moment of letting the kiss linger, he gently draws away, barely enough space between them to breathe as he speaks the words against Orym’s lips. ]

…make love to me, Orym…

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym takes the moment their lips part to take a breath, shakier than he would have expected, but he should know by now that being near Brontë always does this to him, leaves him breathless and swept up in everything about the other man.

And it does not help his breathlessness at all when Brontë goes and speaks those words. Orym swallows a sound that wants to be a groan and a growl at the same time, and move sto take the prince's face between his hands, cupping gently, holding before kissing him again.]

Yes. Of course. I want you, my love. I want you so badly.

[He will happily make love to him, do everything he can to make the other man feel as wanted and needed and loved as he is in this.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë shivers a little at the sound Orym makes, as it sends a thrilling sensation through him. Leaning into one of Orym’s hands, he gives a soft sound into the kiss, one hand resting over one of Orym’s as the other tangles in the fabric of his shirt. ]

I want you so bad too…and I’m ready now. Ready to give myself to you.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Those words are somehow even sweeter than the music that his prince had just played for him, even if he would not have thought that even possible. Another kiss pressed to those lips, a brief flick of his tongue along Brontë's lips.]

I'll take care of you. I promise.

[In this, with this gift that Brontë is giving him. And forever after.]

[makingmyway]

[ His breath hitches softly as that tongue darts across his lips, and with his fingers still gripping Orym’s shirt he leans back until he’s lying on the blanket with the other over him. ]

I trust you, Orym.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym moves with him, bracing one hand against the ground to one side of Brontë's shoulder. He holds himself up enough to look down at him, to let his other hand trace along his jaw, over his neck, slowly down over his chest, fingers catching at the fabric of his clothes.]

Did you... ah... bring anything?

[Orym did not pack for a tryst in the woods. But even if not, he is certain they'll find a way to make due.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë sighs softly, shivering at Orym’s touch across his body, and his heart skips as those fingers catch in his clothing.

The question gets a small laugh from him, though, and he nods as he reaches into his pack, retrieving a vial. ]

I’ll admit, I was…kind of hoping things would turn out this way.

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[Orym smiles as Brontë draws forth that vial, reaching to take it from his fingers before leaning in to steal a quick kiss from his lips.]

My scheming prince. I can't even tell you how sexy that is.

[That Brontë planned all this, put it together -- all the things they'd talked about, so many of his favorite things. And now this, their first time together, and Orym will do whatever he can to make certain it's good for him.

The vial is set aside for now and he begins to ruck the prince's shirt upwards, until his hands can go wandering over bare skin, warm and supple beneath his touch.]

[makingmyway]

[ Brontë can’t help blushing at that, even as he returns the kiss. He’s received many a compliment before, but coming from Orym always feels different somehow. And he’s certainly never been called that before, which sends another rush through him to know that Orym thinks so.

He draws in a breath as his shirt is lifted higher, and he shivers as calloused fingers leave a heated trail over his skin. This at least is familiar, they’ve done a lot of feeling and exploration over the past month. But knowing where it’s leading to now leaves him trembling with anticipation.

And still quite a few nerves. ]

[bigmoonlittlemoon]

[His shy prince. Orym adores him, adores the way that blush warms his skin, all of him. It washes through him, the love that he feels for this man. The idea of finally being able to experience each other in this way, to have Brontë completely, as his, it's a dizzying, wonderful thought.

He ducks his head to begin kissing slowly down Brontë's chest, down further, a slow and deliberate path to the waistband of his trousers. His eyes flickered up to look at Brontë's face, his expression, wanting to make certain he isn't moving too fast.]

How do you want to do this, my love? Would you have me inside you? Or do you want to take me?