Just a super short one-shot featuring Garen/Jarvan IV. Unlike the Graves/TF fic, this one is M and has m/m sex. It's basically PWP with little effort put into it. It's cliché in every possible way. And yet, I regret nothing. If I didn't ship Garen and Kat so hard this would probably end up being my favorite pairing in LoL. Well, anyway, on with the man-lovin'!
Liar, Liar
Garen stands on the platform beside the Crown Prince of Demacia, the best man at the royal wedding. He is wearing a black suit that feels more appropriate for a funeral than the happy occasion, but he finds it fitting. Though he has chastised himself for being dramatic a hundred times that day, it still feels to him like there may as well have been a death. From the corner of his eyes he can see Jarvan fidgeting uncomfortably, and, for once, he is glad that he is a normally somber person. It means that no one questions the grim look on his face.
The bride is a girl from the house Laurent and Garen can understand why King Jarvan III would choose her to become the next queen of Demacia. Blushing prettily under a veil of white, the girl is beautiful, the picture of a demure wife. Garen hates her. By gender alone she is better than him in the one way which somehow matters.
His blue eyes shift again to his friend.
He is eight and they are playing in the makeshift fort which they made by hand. Jarvan smacks him on the arm with a stick and informs him, "Father says I have to be good at fighting because one day I will have a wife, like my mom, and noble girls are supposed to be protected by princes."
The young Garen wrinkles his nose at this sentiment, the same nose which would be broken later that day by his father. "That's stupid," he says. "I think it would be way cooler to marry a soldier 'cause they can already fight."
Jarvan pauses in his onslaught and taps his stick against the ground. "Yeah, but most girls don't stay soldiers."
He thinks for a moment, then declares, "Then you should marry a boy!"
His friend laughs. "Boys can't marry boys, stupid!"
For the first time in his young life, Garen feels an alarming new mixture of confusion, despair and embarrassment. "Well why not?" he demands, crossing his arms.
The prince shrugs. "When you're married you have to do things like kiss and-" he lowers his voice to a whisper- "make babies. Didn't you know that? Only girls can have babies."
It is a real struggle for the young Crownguard to wrap his eight year old brain around the ideas being presented. "So," he says slowly, "does that mean it's bad or something for a boy to want to kiss another boy?"
"I don't know," the dark-headed boy admits, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Then without further question, he leans forward and presses his face to Garen's. At eight years old, Garen does not have the extensive vocabulary to describe the electric feeling that shoots into his stomach. He thinks it's kind of like when he has to recite something for his tutor and he isn't ready, except that this feels infinitely better. They stay locked like that for another moment until Jarvan pulls back and reasons, "Well, it doesn't seem bad, right?"
Garen shakes his head in agreement, a little dumbly. Jarvan kisses him again, for science.
It is that evening when Garen informs his parents that he would rather marry Jarvan than a boring girl that a particularly vicious backhand connects with his face. He's not sure why this is a bad thing since their experiment had proven that it didn't feel bad, but he realizes now that it's something he should keep his mouth shut about. He doesn't get to see Jarvan for four weeks while the swelling in his face goes down. His mother makes him practice telling people that he fell on the stairs.
When he is finally allowed to see his friend again, Jarvan asks what happened to his nose.
In what would eventually become a pattern in his life, he lies.
"It is a great honor that we are gathered here today to witness the sacred union between Jarvan Lightshield the fourth, Crown Prince of Demacia, and the Lady Irenia Laurent of the Noble House Laurent."
Gone are the moments of precious innocence as Garen is snapped back to reality when the ordained minister begins his speech. He quickly tunes it out in favor of staring blankly into the crowd. He can see his sister Lux near the front, but her eyes tear up when she sees him and she drops her gaze. The minister drones on and on about fidelity and the beauty of love between a man and a woman. It would make his stomach churn if he hadn't already heard a thousand variations of that sentiment his whole life.
"Hey Jarvan?" he asks, resting his cheek on the book in front of him. The two are sixteen and sprawled out on the floor of Jarvan's room studying the military practices of Demacia in years long since passed, but Garen is having a hard time keeping himself focused. He has already studied this particular book in his spare time, but their tutors feel it is necessary for them both to read it again. In two years, Garen's conscription will take him into officer candidacy training, while Jarvan will continue on in higher studies.
Jarvan marks the page he's on. "What?"
Suddenly nervous, Garen chews on his lip and tries to steady his pounding heart. In eight years he had never talked about the realizations he's made about himself to anyone; he is bright and did not want to risk another broken bone. But at sixteen he feels a little rebellious and invincible, and he has been mulling over whether or not to finally tell Jarvan the truth for the last month. The last hour of boredom and not-reading only served to solidify his choice.
"We're friends right?" he questions hesitantly.
A dark look seems to flash across his friend's face which worries him, but Jarvan brightens and scoffs, "No, I just hang out with you because I hate you. Of course we're friends."
Garen emits a weak chuckle; his fists are clenched in front of him so tightly his knuckles turn white. "I just mean like… if there was something about me that was kind of… weird, would you still be my friend?"
He is surprised when the prince's cheeks color and his ocean-green eyes drop to the floor. "Y-yeah," he stammers, his voice a little thin. "I-I mean, you're already pretty weird, how much more weird can you get?" he jokes.
Garen rolls his eyes, but his display of attitude does not reflect the chaotic tumble of his insides. "It's just, I've never told anyone," he says. His voice cracks as it drops to a whisper. "So I mean, it's pretty bad."
Jarvan nods, adopting Garen's solemnity. "I promise."
It feels like his mouth is full of cotton, and for a second he cannot speak at all. Desperately, he licks his lips and clears his throat.
"You don't like girls."
In his anxious state, it takes Garen a moment to realize that it wasn't he who spoke.
"What?" he squeaks. "How…!"
The prince is looking intently at the rug on his floor when he says, "It's just kind of obvious to me. You don't look at the girls at court or at parties and things. You…" his face turns an even brighter shade of red. "Sometimes you look at their partners. Or… or me."
Garen had never felt more like he wanted the ground to swallow him. "I-I don't, I'm so sorry," he blurts. His own face feels like it's on fire and he can barely feel his legs as he rises to his knees in an attempt to leave. "I didn't m-mean to, I just, I'm sorry!"
"W-wait!" Jarvan pleads. "Garen, I… I don't either."
For a second he is sure that his eyes are going to roll from his head. Then he feels a lot like he might pass out as blood rushes back into his extremities. "What?" he repeats.
The prince, too, moves to his knees, then inches a little closer. "I said," he whispers, "that I... d-don't either."
This time when their lips connect, Garen does have the words for it: Ecstasy,he thinks. Completion. He cannot contain the quiet whimper the bubbles in his throat; he could almost cry in disbelief. One of his hands, too big for his body but indicative of the giant he would become, wraps around the back of Jarvan's neck while the other pulls him around the waist until they're nearly chest to chest. His prince's fingers are around him, digging into the area just above the band of his pants. It's a sloppy kiss and their teeth click together and there's more tongue than either know what to do with and within ten seconds they separate, gasping for air.
"We can't tell anyone," Jarvan breathes. Garen notices that his friend's shaggy hair is rumpled, can see the erection straining in his pants, and is nearly floored by how badly he's wanted this.
"I know," he mumbles, before he leans in to kiss him again. It is the start of another lie, but he is relieved that he will not be carrying it alone.
He wishes the bit about objecting the marriage was still part of the speech, but that custom had long since died. Realistically, he knows he wouldn't say anything for fear of the consequences. He has already done his duty and mechanically handed over the rings, his fingers lingering on Jarvan's palm just a second longer than is necessary. And finally, the part he has been dreading comes as the minister utters the words, "By the power vested in me, by Jarvan Lightshield the Third, King of Demacia, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride."
Garen hopes spitefully that Irenia Laurent can taste him on Jarvan's lips. It is a chaste kiss and Jarvan smiles politely at her afterward and takes her hand. He casts one look back to Garen, a neutral nod, before escorting his new wife down the aisle.
"You don't have to do this," Garen lies as he reaches to undo the buttons on Jarvan's dress pants. The prince whimpers as his hand wraps around his cock and he bites down on Garen's exposed neck in answer.
"There's still time to run away," he continues. "We'll go to Ionia. No one will know and you won't have to marry her."
"Garen, please," he begs, but Garen isn't sure if it's the lies or the teasing he wants him to stop. His eyes are squeezed shut, though, and his eyebrows drawn together in distress, so he assumes it's the former. He bends to bury a kiss in the trail of hair on Jarvan's belly because it never fails to make him smile, and sure enough, a weak chuckle resounds through his stomach, and so he continues down the natural route to the waistband of his trousers. The prince lifts his hips and he slides the clothing down his legs and folds it carefully; after all, it is the suit he'll be getting married in. With the same amount of care, his own pants join the rest of their clothes.
Hovering over him, Garen dips and catches his lips in a kiss, one hand cupped tenderly on his cheek, the other supporting his weight. With a sigh, Jarvan pulls back, presses his lips to Garen's palm, then takes two of his calloused fingers into his mouth and lets his own fingers dig crescent moons into Garen's hips. A small murmur of approval escapes the commander; his fist clenches in the sheets. He wants so badly to mark his prince, nip and suck at the tender spots on his neck and ears, but soon they'll both be in front of hundreds of other people, so instead he lets his lips linger on his racing pulse. He waits for his orders.
Jarvan whispers his name against his fingertips and it spurs him back into action. Abandoning their place between Jarvan's lips, his fingers drop to the line of muscle of Jarvan's inner thigh, and the prince bares himself obligingly, his easy compliance a rare thing reserved only for the bedroom. Garen takes his cue and carefully eases one slicked finger inside him.
There is a sharp intake of breath and he waits while Jarvan runs through whatever routine it is which relaxes him. After seven years of exploring each other, he knows when to move, and does so while stifling Jarvan's moans with a kiss. It is something they have done a hundred times, but today there is a note of urgency, of desperation. Their kiss grows heated until they are tugging at each others lips and tongues and the prince of Demacia is arching into Garen's stomach whimpering for more. Panting, Garen wrenches himself away. There is a lull as he maneuvers Jarvan's legs around him and seizes a hold of his hips, but then, with less caution than he normally affords, Garen pushes his way inside him.
Jarvan throws his hand up to his mouth and bites down, but not before a strangled cry breaks the quiet of the room. He can feel him, far too tight around his cock, but Garen is tired of waiting. They have already run out of time. So he angles toward the prince enough to run a comforting hand through his hair and brush gently across his collarbones and chest, then he begins to move. His name trickles from between Jarvan's clenched teeth in progressively louder whimpers as he thrusts against him, but the prince never indicates that he should stop, so he loses himself in the sight of his flushed face and needy moans. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he should stop: For seven years he had tried to ensure that Jarvan's needs were met before his own; he has felt lucky and awed at the fact that it was he who the Crown prince chose. But today he feels selfish because Jarvan will soon be sharing his bed with someone else, so he ignores the thought and presses harder until he is at the edge of his orgasm.
For a moment he teeters at the brink, feeling unsure as to what he's done, but Jarvan gives him a thin smile and it is all the reassurance he needs. With a choked cry of his own, Garen squeezes his eyes shut and comes, buries himself to the hilt over and over until there's nothing left but a trembling mess of limbs and fluids. Jarvan gingerly props himself up in an attempt to pull him into a kiss, but Garen shakes his head, his throat too tight to allow himself to speak. He pushes the man he loves back into the sheets, then bows over his hips and takes the hard length of him in his mouth before he can protest. Jarvan bucks into him with a soft yelp, grabbing a fistful of Garen's russet hair as he settles into the bed. It is only a matter of minutes before Garen can feel the tightness in Jarvan's thighs that signal the imminent end.
He comes whimpering in breathy tones and Garen does his best to draw out the moment. When he finally pulls away, the taste of him on his tongue, he finds that his vision is blurred and his hands are shaking. His wraps his arms around Jarvan and, for the first time since he was an eight year old with a broken nose, Garen Crownguard begins to cry.
When the new couple exits the church, Garen adjusts his suit and escorts the maid of honor down the aisle after them. He adopts his best polite smile as the press, Demacian and otherwise, snap copious amounts of photos of the procession and stands unflinching beside the Crown Prince as they arrange them all for one large group picture. He has had years of practice lying to others. When he sees Jarvan's hands clasped with his bride's, he wishes that he had practiced lying to himself instead.