6
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
And he's beautiful like this, Roland's lover - his prince - on his knees in the grass, his face buried into the soft pubic hairs of Roland's genitalia, sucking at his cock like it's the tastiest popsicle that he has ever eaten. Were someone to walk by it would be unmistakable what they are doing - Roland with his pants around his ankles and his hands making a mess of Olivier's fine hair - there would be no questioning it. Likely, it might even lead to his own execution, and yet, even that thought is not enough to make him stop. He inhales shakily, fingers tightening fractionally, and then gives an imperious tug, his hips jerking despite themselves as Olivier moans.
He has no right to sound this beautiful, this lovely when he is like this, and yet he does. He is Roland's in all but name, and that thought alone is what sends him coursing over the edge. Legs trembling as he orgasms into the warm heat off that mouth, feeling rather like his brain is leaking out of his ears. Olivier looks up then, and Roland only has eyes for the way that his throat bobs as he swallows, the small trail of semen that is even now escaping from the corner of his mouth.
"Beautiful," Roland says and laughs. Hears the sound bounce off the nearby stone and become lost amid the calls of birds and forest fauna. Olivier's nose scrunches, but Roland cannot contain his joy. Rare is the opportunity for this sin of theirs, and he hasn't been visited by such a sight in months. He can be forgiven a compliment or three. Allows his fingers to release their grip on the dark strands and slides them down his cheek, over the bridge of his aquiline nose, and down to his narrow lips. Sets his thumb on the corner of his mouth, his own breath shuddering as Olivier's lips part, and delicately wipes away the drool that had sought to escape. "Thank you." Speaks the words simply, allowing the truth and honesty of them to ring out through the air, and cannot help but smile when the other turns his head and presses the softest of kisses to his palm.
His heart swells at the simple action, and if he hadn't been doomed already, then he most certainly is now. Each kiss that his prince bestows upon him is a treasure, something to be hoarded like a fine wine. Meant to be savored and indulged in, but ultimately prone to disappearing in the blink of an eye. Soft lips trace across his hand, lingering briefly on the scars that crisscross his fingers, and he feels his chest fill with warmth. Brushes dark bangs out of Olivier's face and goes to his knees, his hand caressing his cheek gently before taking a hold of his and lifting it to his own lips. Presses the gentlest of kisses against the pale skin. "My prince, how may I serve you?" He asks, letting his lips linger a moment longer and then sitting back on his heels, careful to not let his pants be dirtied further. Watches through his lashes as Olivier's cheeks turn the faintest shade darker, and his own lips curl in amusement. Were he in their own chambers or preferably in the mountain cabin that they call home every summer, he would push his prince down and entice every shade of red out of him until he dissolves into the incoherent rambles that Roland prefers.
They are not at home, however. Not even behind closed walls and though the surrounding trees keep them safe from eavesdroppers, Roland has heard tell that vampires can smell the scent of lust from a mile away. He's not entirely sure he believes that, but Astolfo's complaints about his own royal nuisance would suggest that there may be a grain of truth to it. All the same, he's finding it increasingly difficult to collect himself. The scent of the flowers, the expression that Olivier is gifting him, he can turn a blind eye to none of it, and the arousal brewing in his stomach surges again. He should pull his pants up and retreat inside, he knows. He should not endanger his prince by partaking in dangerous games on a foreign land but Olivier –
"I'm going to fuck you."
The words, spoken in a tone so soft that he had merely missed them among his own roaring thoughts, reverberate through the air, and he blinks, looking up into Olivier's own steady gaze. He's certain that his questions are written all over his face, for if engaging in sexual activities is rare, then Olivier himself doing the work is twice as uncommon.
"I am not feeling inclined to soreness," Olivier continues coolly as he straightens slowly to his feet, using Roland's shoulder as a crutch. "Thus, I shall do the fucking, now close your mouth before you inhale something unpleasant." Looks at him askance as if daring him to mount a protest.
There are many words that Roland would like to say, but as none of them are protests, he closes his mouth and leans up to kiss him instead. Soft and chaste. Olivier has called his kisses obnoxiously religious in the past, and when pushed, had informed him that he kisses like a holy man. Roland still doesn't know what that means, nor why that would be an insult when the cross sewn into all his garments marks him as a man of the cloth. He feels no shame at being called a servant of God. After all, his parents had worked themselves to the bone to provide the tuition that Notre Dame had requested for his education. Roland remembers well the way his mother had cried when he'd been awarded his diploma. Even his father, normally stern and unbendable as an ancient oak, had cracked a smile, and that alone had made the years of sweat, toil, and tears worth it. He's earned his rank, and through the grace of God, he's even captured the heart of the Crown Prince.
Olivier thinks little of God; Roland knows, has seen the scars that decorate his back. Has counted them on nights where the moon hides behind clouds and the only light comes from the flickering candle resting on their bedside. Thirty-nine lashes for sins that he can only begin to guess, Olivier has never answered his questions when asked, and Roland knows enough about the traumas of his past to not press him. It's why he's never asked to which deity Olivier prays too when he's on his knees in the chapel. He knows that it is not to his heavenly father, nor the maiden mother, or even her son. Asking, however, would bring knowledge, and that is dangerous with the lives that they live. A dalliance with a man would not send Olivier's head toppling from his shoulders, but a failure to follow the religious teaching of the saint catholic church is a crime that not even a prince can be absolved from. Should the Church learn of his transgressions, the punishment would be as brutal as it was swift, and Roland can not bear the thought of his prince brought so low. So, he does not ask, and Olivier does not explain; it is better that way.
"Roland, cease your languishing and come here," Olivier's imperious voice cuts through the flurry of his thoughts, and Roland lifts his head, noticing with a jolt that his prince is already several strides away, holding back the stringy limbs of a plant.
"Sorry, Oli," Roland says and jogs to his side. Peeks over his shoulder at the newly revealed gap in the ferns, swiftly calculating the amount of space available. "You'll get dirt in your hair," He points out, "what was wrong with where we were?" Gestures back at the hall he'd been leaning against a scant few minutes ago.
"Too exposed," Olivier murmurs and shoulders him into the space, allowing the ferns to drift shut behind them. "The ground wasn't comfortable." Steps past him and settles his broadsword against the roots of a tree and turns away as he undoes his belt.
"You should have said something," Roland scolds automatically. "If your knees were bothering you, we could have moved." Turns away to give Olivier his privacy as he strips down to his own undershirt and hangs the rest of his clothing on Durandal's hilt. "You didn't need to endure it if it wasn't pleasant."
A hand settles on his shoulder, and he falls silent, turning to look up at the older man. Olivier has pulled his hair up into a ponytail, although messy strands still frame his face, his lips slanted in a fond smile. One that sets Roland's heart thumping with happiness, treasuring the sight the way a child treasures a prized beetle. "Simmer down, soldier. I didn't say it wasn't enjoyable," the prince says mildly and moves away again, settling down on Roland's discarded cloak as if it were a throne. "Besides, there are more pressing manners to deal with at the moment, are there not?" His foot – still encased in its leather boot – lifts up and nudges at Roland's cock, curving proudly against his stomach. It hardens a little more at the touch. Roland yelps and goes to him, kneeling down like he's 19 again and swearing fealty to the then 3rd prince.
"Does his lordship have something particular in mind?" He asks, peering up through his eyelashes in a manner that he knows causes Olivier's arousal to spike. Today is no exception either if the immediate inhale is anything to go by. Allows his fingers to trace across the soft inner skin of his thigh, unmarred by toil or suffering, inching them towards a dick that he knows needs relief.
"A gag."
Roland freezes, his heart accelerating suddenly. "I b-beg your pardon, sir?"
"A gag to render your silvery tongue silent," Olivier replies coolly, his hand settling on top of Roland's and moving it aside with irrevocable firmness. "The cloth of your sash will do if nothing else is suitable." Roland shivers as long fingers trace across his cheek and then grip his chin, forcing him to raise his head. Stares back into impassive eyes, and were he anyone else, Roland is sure that he'd be fooled by the control in them. But he is not just anyone else, and he has known Olivier for so long that imagining a life without him is not only impossible but so painful a thought that it haunts his nightmares.
"You don't like the sound of my voice, sir?" He says and flutters his eyelashes, shifts closer to pout at him, and watches gleefully as the heat in Olivier's eyes grows even more potent. Settles his other hand on his leg and leans up to kiss him, planting the most obnoxious of kisses on the end of his pointy nose. Olivier squawks and shoves him away, his stern demeanor breaking like ice beneath a pickax. One of his flailing arms catching Roland in the shoulder, and he goes sprawling, laughter pooling out into the quiet air. Rolls over onto his side and grins impetuously up at him, admiring the pinkness of his cheeks.
"Shut up," Olivier grumbles when he sees him looking, his face only darkening further under the weight of his attention. Roland only grins back, enjoying the sight of his flustered prince. "If you have time to be a brat, then make yourself useful and open yourself up," he adds huffily and crosses his arms.
"You're cute when you pout," Roland tells him blithely and scampers past to get the oil from his satchel. Takes a seat once more in front of him and holds up two fingers, waggling them in the air. "Never fear though, pout or not, my prince has requested the privilege of fucking me so I would not be cruel enough to deny him." Eases the two fingers into himself before Olivier can lend voice to the thoughts that are written all across his face and whines. The sound only partially intentional as he accidentally slides deeper than he had intended to. Arousal and pain sparking through his body.
"Take it easy," Olivier says, his voice barely audible over the pounding of Roland's heart. "I want you sore, not in pain."
Roland opens his mouth to make a quip about the size of Olivier's cock, but the seriousness in his eyes catches him off guard, and he nods instead. Focuses on fingering himself open, his tongue sticking out slightly as he concentrates. Twisting and scissoring his fingers until he feels comfortable adding a third one. Despite his efforts, his voice steadily getting louder and louder, whines and moans bubbling out of his throat and spewing into the open air. Throughout it all, Olivier's gaze remains steadily on him, his legs crossed neatly as if to hide his own arousal from Roland's gaze and his chin resting in his hand. The picture of poise. Roland knows better, however, can see the need lurking beneath the surface. Removes his fingers after a little longer and reaches for the oil, planning to move his attentions to Olivier's dick.
"Stop."
Roland freezes at the sudden command, gaze flitting around for whatever had caught Olivier's attention, but the birds are still singing, and his prince doesn't look alarmed, merely stern. "What is it?" Roland asks nervously, glancing at him and then around again. "Did you hear something?"
"No, it's not that," Olivier says and takes the oil bottle from his limp grasp. "Put your fingers back in. I don't recall giving you permission to stop." Says the words so matter-of-factly that Roland is already three knuckles deep before he realizes it. Feels his face burn with a blush as Olivier looks amused, his lips curling into a rare smirk. "Get yourself off on your fingers. You can do that, can you?"
Roland can. Has done so before, though never in a situation quite as dangerous as this one. Every second they spend here heightens the risk of getting caught. His dick twitches at the thought, and he gulps. Meets Olivier's gaze once more and hesitantly sets a hand on himself, preparing to jerk off, but a minute shake of his head stops him cold.
"Get yourself off without touching it," The prince says mildly as if he were talking about the time of day and not Roland's throbbing dick. "Surely you can manage such a simple task, soldier." Tilts his head as he speaks, his gaze doing a slow perusal of Roland's body as if assessing him for a task that Roland doesn't yet know.
Roland exhales shakily and withdraws his hand, fingers curling in the grass instead. Refuses to look at his shoulders, where he can feel the heat of his blush settling in, and instead promises himself that he'll make Olivier pay for it later. Awkwardly settling back into a rhythm, fingers sliding in and out as he searches for the place that will make him see stars. Eases in his littlest finger next to the others, and the stretch is so great that his eyes burn with instinctive tears, his arm trembling as he holds himself steady and breaths through it. Exhales slowly and lifts his head again, meeting his prince's expectant gaze. "I'm certain I won't disappoint," Roland says, aware even before the words tumble from his mouth that his tone fails to hit the nonchalant note he'd been aiming for.
Olivier smirks. His eyelashes lower, the smolder of his gaze only seeming to increase, and if Roland were ten years younger, he's sure that the gaze alone would be enough to get him off. As it is, he's far too old and experienced a player to fall prey to such tactics, but t doesn't spot him from collapsing onto his side and spreading his legs. Presses his face into the ground as he moans shamelessly, his fingers pistoning in and out of his ass, the feeling now one entirely of pleasure. The knowledge that Olivier is watching him finger himself open. That he is waiting for him to make himself fuckable, only increases the tightness in his belly. His prince is counting on him.
"If you do not hurry up, someone will walk in on you," Olivier says mildly, almost bored. "You wouldn't want them to see the great royal knight Roland Fortis moaning like a whore on his own fingers, would you? They might mistake you for a filthy slut."
Roland orgasms before the words have finished spilling from Olivier's mouth. He's not sure what did it. The threat of someone seeing him or Olivier talking in a tone that had sent all the blood rushing to his nether regions. Groans shakily as he withdraws his fingers, rolling over so as to not smear himself in his own seed, heart thundering like he's run from one end of the castle to the other. Briefly wonders if this was how Olivier had felt when he'd fisted him a few months ago before his thoughts derail once more as gentle hands land on his legs. "Good boy," Olivier says quietly, his fingers brushing his bangs out of his face. "I knew you could do it."
Roland blinks back at him, struggling to piece his thoughts back together, but the hand on his face is soothing, and he nuzzles into it instinctively. Leaves a kiss there out of habit before he smiles brightly. "Did you enjoy the show, my liege?" Winks at him for good measure, and for a moment, he thinks that Olivier will laugh. His lips curl slightly, but all that emerges is a singular fond huff as if the question had been so silly that it was not even worth an answer.
"Breathe." That is all the warning Olivier gives before his legs are being spread and a warm body is slotting between his own. Roland inhales raggedly, blinking the last of the orgasmic daze from his eyes and meeting Olivier's hungry gaze. Barely has time to inhale again before all the thoughts go flying from his head as Olivier moves. Hard and fast, his fingers pinning Roland's wrists above his head, the icy countenance of his mask slowly shattering into pieces and revealing the fiery passion that lives beneath it. Lifts his head to kiss him, and after that, the world blurs together. Soft pants in his ear kisses left across his face, his own cries loud and desperate as Oliver drives him straight over the edge. Fucks him straight through it, merciless and unstopping.
Roland blinks the tears away, not wanting to lose sight of the expression that Olivier is making. Meets green eyes that spark with a light rarely seen outside of the battlefield. "You're beautiful," Roland whispers. "Absolutely beautiful." Can think of nothing else to say, but Olivier's cheeks pinken in response, his mouth opening soundlessly before he closes it and tips forwards to kiss him instead.
Roland returns it as best he can. Meeting heat with heat, their tongue mingling as he arches up into it, licks his way into Olivier's mouth, tasting himself faintly in the back of his throat. Flops back down as Olivier withdraws, but the respite is temporary, for lips soon settle on his throat. His collar bone, his shoulders, kissing across scars and bruises with a desperate dedication that leaves his heart swelling from the love he can feel emanating. Lips seal themselves over his nipple, biting down harshly, and Roland keens. His dick making a valiant effort to tighten up once more, a weak spurt of pre-cum leaking out of the head. Roland squirms, cries out hoarsely when a hand hoists his hips higher, and Olivier speeds up further, hitting that spot inside him that makes his thoughts flee like fish before the incoming dolphins.
He loses track of who makes what sound, whether his moans or Olivier's harsh gasps. Can hardly tell where he ends, and Olivier begins; it is merely an incessant wave of heat, lips meeting his own in the darkness, grounding him, guiding him into an orgasm that whites out his vision and steals the very air from his lungs. He thinks he might have screamed. He's not sure. When he comes too, it is to the sight of Olivier going still as he orgasms, tremors running down his spine, his eyes wide. Frozen in a moment of pure ecstasy. If Roland were a painter, he would memorialize that expression on canvas, but he is not, and it is all he can do to store it safely within his heart. Cradles him carefully in his arms, hands stroking his back soothingly as Olivier descends from wherever he had gone and lies limply in his arms.
They remain like that for several long minutes, breathing in tandem, Roland's fingers running gently through Olivier's hair. Picking out the dirt and leaves that have snuck their way in, knowing that Olivier will still complain about it later regardless of his current efforts. Eventually, Olivier's sense of duty and Roland's own self-preservation instincts force them apart and back into their separate clothing. Roland groans as he fastens his pants, his ass and lower back throbbing steadily. He'll be feeling it the rest of the day, he knows, but he finds that he doesn't mind all that much, not when Olivier is radiating smug satisfaction. His usually icy exterior rendered soft and gentle, hair a loose sheet of dark locks hanging freely down to his shoulders. Roland treasures the sight of it, relishing the few moments of peace that exist before Olivier braids it into a bun, his frown returning the moment his hair has been styled.
Sometimes, Roland ponders on who taught his prince how to shut down his emotions like that. How to hide his fiery temper behind shields of ice and enclose his thoughts so deeply inside that, not even his eyes are readable. He thinks he rather wants to punch this person, but he doesn't think Olivier will be happy if he does so; instead, he focuses on every laugh he can coax out. Pokes and prods until his friend snaps, cajoles, and soothes the wounded heart that continues to beat despite the thorns encircling it. Roland may not understand why Olivier does the things he does, but he'll be damned if he abandons his prince, friend, and lover to his own inner demons.
"Well, that was fun," Roland says, struggling to his feet with a wince that he can't entirely hide, and slowly stretches out his muscles. "An afternoon well spent, I do believe; wouldn't you say so?"
Olivier only rolls his eyes and disgruntledly picks at his clothing, looking unimpressed by whatever he finds. "There are certainly worse ways to spend the day." Glances over at him and looks irate. "You need a bath."
Roland glances down at his clothing, covered in grass stains and twigs despite his best efforts, and shrugs. "I heard tell that there's a hot springs nearby," he starts.
"We're not fucking in the hot springs," Olivier says immediately, his tone one of categorical denial. "Perish the thought at once." He straps his sword back on, somehow managing to make the gesture look graceful despite the size of his weapon. He starts off, pace brisk and unbothered. Roland curses him internally as each stride he takes causes his ass to throb with pain. "Let us return before someone comes looking. The last thing we need is anyone accusing you of rolling around with a maid in the haystacks."
"Oli, Oli, my beloved prince," Roland says, a smirk blossoming to life on his face as he flings his arm around his shoulders and tugs him down so that his ear is even with Roland's mouth. "Why would I roll around in the haystacks with a maid when I can bed a beauty such as yourself in the grass?"
Olivier's squawk of offense is well worth the stinging slap of retribution he receives on his ass as he flees back to the safety of the castle.