I can't protect you like this
Max/James Royal Prince/bodyguard AU
"He's not going to stop is he?"
Max drops his head into his hands, taking a shaky breath. He isn't going to start crying, not in front of James. Not when he's spent most of the year trying to convince him he can take care of himself, that just because he's heir to the throne it doesn't mean he needs to be wrapped up in cotton wool.
It's been a difficult time, despite Max's easygoing nature. He's always prided himself on the way he conducts his life, his friendships; trying to dispel the stereotypes of royalty. Most people expect him to be an arrogant prick and he does his best to prove them wrong. Spending months having his every move observed even more closely than usual has worn him down though; his royal status has never felt more oppressive, tiring.
It doesn’t help that he can’t stop thinking about the man who’s been chosen to ensure his safety.
James' hand has been resting on his gun ever since they walked through the door. Most of the lights are off. Adrenaline still runs high through Max's veins despite how protected James makes him feel. It had been rushed, his leaving the Palace, a few items hurriedly thrown into a rucksack; Max settling with his arms around James’ waist on the back of the motorcycle. His father had wanted a full motorcade to accompany Max to safety but James had insisted that would only draw more attention, instead convincing him that the best thing would be to take Max back to his own apartment rather than some safehouse where James doesn’t know the setup and the exits.
"No. I don't think he will. But you don't need to worry about that. It's my job to make sure he doesn't get to you. You'll be safe here, at least for now."
Max looks around. It's strange, seeing James’ home, a whole existence away from him. James has been his shadow 24/7 since the letters started, at first at a distance, and then as it worsened he'd been set up in a room with a connecting door to Max's. The letters had only increased in intensity, from declarations of love to ones of intent, possession and hatred, stacks of Polaroids hand delivered and left on Max's bed in the palace. They'd been followed by his private Instagram account being hacked, endless streams of direct messages that had left him shaken and afraid.
Then had come the other photos, the ones he's kept a secret. They are sitting at the bottom of his hastily packed overnight bag: pictures from years ago when he was at boarding school; first kisses and touches, his face visible and unmistakable.
There's a picture in James' apartment too. Max can't take his eyes off it: a slightly younger James with his arms around another dark-haired man, the two of them gazing at each other, seemingly oblivious to the camera. It answers the question that's been running through Max's mind for months.
"I haven't been entirely honest with you," Max says. "These came last week." He nervously retrieves the photos from his bag, handing them to James, who flicks through them silently. "I managed to hide them before any of the staff could see." And before his father could.
"The other boy in the photos, who is he?" James asks, finally.
"It doesn't matter," Max says firmly. "He’s not the one doing this. Someone must have found out, taken photos of us. It was a long time ago."
"Or he thought he'd set up a camera to photograph himself fucking Prince Maximilian of Monaco in case he ever needed to make a quick buck."
"He wouldn't have," Max snaps, snatching the photos back. "Are you surprised?" He follows tentatively, anxious for approval.
"It's not my job to be surprised, your Highness."
Max’s heart sinks. "Don't. We're past that. You've spent the last few days sleeping in a chair beside my bed and now it's back to titles?"
"I'm here to protect you, Max. Not to judge you." James slides off his suit jacket, unclipping the catch on his leather shoulder holster and removing the Glock 17, placing it on the glass coffee table. Max reaches for the gun, picking it up and gripping it in his hand, trying to imagine how James feels when he pulls the trigger, what goes through his mind.
"Max, don't."
"The safety's on," Max shrugs. "I've fired a gun before you know."
Beside him on the sofa, James sighs, running his fingers back through his hair. He looks exhausted, different somehow in his own environment, his own space.
"Clay pigeon shooting at some country estate isn't the same as firing to kill someone."
Max ignores him, sliding his palm down the barrel, feeling the cool, solid weight of it before setting it back down.
"When did you last sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time?" Max asks him. James has rolled up his shirtsleeves to the elbow and Max reaches out to tentatively touch him. His skin is warm to the touch as Max traces a fingertip from elbow to wrist. He isn’t a reckless person; there’s very little opportunity in his life to be uncontrolled. He knows how to pose for photographs, converse with everyday people as easily as with dignitaries and still make them feel special. He attends dinners and puts his name to foundations and never does anything remotely controversial. Occasionally he risks a one night stand here or there but it’s always with someone else in a position of privilege, with as much to lose as him. Once, with the help of his personal valet, there had been another guy, a hefty sum deposited into a bank account, an NDA signed. It had left Max feeling cold, longing for something real.
"I'll sleep when the threat to your life has been neutralised. Max, stop it."
Max ignores him. His hand finds James' thigh.
"I've thought about this so many times, you know, wondering what your life is like away from me, who you really are."
"I'm your bodyguard, that's all you need to know. I know it's tough having to be so isolated while all this is going on but I'm your bodyguard, I'm not your friend. I'm not..."
James trails off helplessly, looking down at Max's hand, where his thumb is moving in soothing circles against the meat of his thigh.
"You're not what?" Max asks softly. He moves his hand higher, at the same time nuzzling his face against James' jaw.
"You don't know what you're doing," James admonishes, but he allows Max to continue, tilting his head to bare his neck to Max’s lips. “This isn’t going to happen,” he says, weakly.
"There's something between us.” Max, pushes. “I've felt like I'm going crazy all year, and not just because of everything that’s been happening. You can't deny there's something."
James doesn't push Max away, allowing the caresses for a few moments longer until something within him breaks.
It's so quick, the motion with which James flips him onto his back on the sofa, kissing him hungrily as their hands tear at each other's clothes. Max's skin feels alight at every place James touches. It's been so long since he's had this, the risks so high. He's already being pushed towards a marriage with a Scandinavian princess. To strengthen relations, his father had confirmed, as Max had felt part of himself die inside.
"We should stop," James says, helplessly. "You should tell me to stop."
"Please," Max begs, looking up at James with tears in his eyes. "Just for tonight can't we just be two people who want each other."
James looks at him searchingly, whatever he needs to see seemingly satisfying him enough to keep going, to take Max apart until nothing fills the room except the sounds of their bodies moving together in perfect synchronisation.
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Imaginary book rec: Dust Dawning, fantasy
What can I say about Dust Dawning? Dust Dawning by Tara M. Albert is one of those books you experience, not describe, but I'll try my best.
So the world of this story underwent this magical apocalypse that has destroyed everything. Rubble, ruin, decay, dust--everything destroyed. And people are managing to survive in underground bunkers and tiny little sanctuary communities, but then there's this group of artists that decides to take up the impossible task of restoring the world, which, in this world's magic system, involves artistic tools and skills like paintbrushes and chalk and sculpture.
So you have this post-apocalyptic fantasy, but instead of being about the ordinary rebuilding society things like government and agriculture, it's entirely focused on creation. About restoring the world with beauty. About the intense emotional and physical determination it takes to do so in a bleak and punishing world. I love how it presents art not just as an abstract thing, but as physical labor, requiring mind, heart, soul, and body.
As they're working to restore the world, they have to struggle against their own doubts and the doubts of the community, and the usual survival issues, but also have to confront the nebulous (and terrifying) creatures in the dust of the ruined world that are seeking to destroy their work and crush their spirits--as well as some of the powers that destroyed the world in the first place.
It's just...the vibes alone are so good, and then you get into the philosophical discussions of art and beauty and creation which you know are my jam, and then you mix it in with some unforgettable images and emotional moments, and I don't even mind that I can't remember the names of individual characters because this book is just everything I love. So much. Please read it. And then talk to me about it. Or better yet--create.
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