Can you guys watch my fairy tale prince with the lamb motif and my jaded knight who sees himself as nothing more than a starving and desperate wolf while I step out for a moment? And DON'T 🫵 let them kiss.
Okay they haven't kissed but the prince keeps on flashing the length of his bare and vulnerable collarbone to the knight who is getting increasingly restless. The knight is pacing. It's not looking good.
the asexual domme would love to objectify you, ignore your desires, and call you demeaning titles, but has actually really complicated feelings about calling you a "fuck"doll in particular that it's not really fully capable of explaining at this point in time.
It’s in a prince’s interest that his knights have their needs seen to, just as he must keep his hounds and horses and hunting hawks in fine form, to fly to his command at a moment’s notice.
its my job as the shrine maiden to get drunk, tend to the fire, talk in a soothing hypnotic voice, and fuck each of the warrior girls up the ass, sometimes i also help them do level up, but usually they want the other thing (rolls my eyes)
*throws flowers* 🌹🌹🌹🌹Sapphic knight x princess (can be the lady and the goshawk if you want, I love them) gentle taking care of each other. Putting the poor tortured knight in the bath and thanking her for all her work with an act of service in return. Reminding her she is allowed to be beautiful, not just useful. Maybe they tenderly fuck about it if you want 🤭
- Kel ⚔️ / cuirass-femme
The goshawk knight wakes amidst steam and vapor, in a half-panicked confusion.
There’s no weapon at her hand, no armor around her; she’s clad in nothing at all. She casts about her for something, anything, trying to remember —
“My goshawk?” The clever princess stands in the doorway, bracketed by the colorful tiles of the bathhouse. She’s clad in only her shift, and one of her handmaidens is halfway through wrapping her curls up into silk.
The goshawk knight leans back, remembering. She’d been going to wash herself; she must have sat down in the warmth, and fallen asleep.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the goshawk knight says, pushing herself to her feet to kneel. Her head swims.
The troubles at hand have taken their toll. No longer could the clever princess afford to keep her favorite knight always at hand; there are enemies to be fought, close at hand.
“Do not trouble yourself, my knight,” the clever princess says, dismissing her handmaiden with a little wave. “You must have been exhausted.” She steps forward, to rest a hand on her knight’s head; the feather-light touch of her fingers sends a shiver through the goshawk knight.
“No more than anyone else,” the goshawk knight says.
The clever princess’s hands are trembling. Instinct demands that the goshawk knight rise and strike against whatever frightens her lady so, but she cannot strike against all the cares of a crown and kingdom. The goshawk knows it soothes her, putting things to right, so she forces herself to be still, to give herself over to that touch.
That practiced stillness becomes languor in truth, as the princess runs her thumb down the taut line of muscle that stretches from the curve of her neck to her shoulder. A little, exhausted keen escapes the goshawk knight, and she curls closer to the touch.
A delighted little huff of laughter escapes the clever princess, and the goshawk knight smiles. She can picture the tilt of her lady’s lips without opening her eyes.
“Let me work,” the clever princess says.
The goshawk knight lifts a hand, and catches her lady’s; she lifts her hand, and kisses each delicate finger, and then the hinge of her wrist. “You’ve worked all the day long, for crown and kingdom,” the knight whispers. “Let your craft be repaid.”
She can see the scales tip behind her lady’s eyes; the moment when wariness yields to weariness.
“For all you speak little, you use words well,” the clever princess says.
“You’re just fond of me, my lady,” the goshawk knight says, slipping from the bench to sink to her knees before her lady. She tips her head back, searching. When she’s met with a smile and a narrowing of her lady’s warm brown eyes, she raises a hand, carefully lifting her lady’s skirts.
She begins by pressing kisses to the soft skin of her thighs, and then leans in further, taking away the clever princess’s cares with kisses and caresses until all the tension in her is unwound and she can catch her up in her arms.
*throws flowers* 🌹🌹🌹🌹Sapphic knight x princess (can be the lady and the goshawk if you want, I love them) gentle taking care of each other. Putting the poor tortured knight in the bath and thanking her for all her work with an act of service in return. Reminding her she is allowed to be beautiful, not just useful. Maybe they tenderly fuck about it if you want 🤭
- Kel ⚔️ / cuirass-femme
The goshawk knight wakes amidst steam and vapor, in a half-panicked confusion.
There’s no weapon at her hand, no armor around her; she’s clad in nothing at all. She casts about her for something, anything, trying to remember —
“My goshawk?” The clever princess stands in the doorway, bracketed by the colorful tiles of the bathhouse. She’s clad in only her shift, and one of her handmaidens is halfway through wrapping her curls up into silk.
The goshawk knight leans back, remembering. She’d been going to wash herself; she must have sat down in the warmth, and fallen asleep.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the goshawk knight says, pushing herself to her feet to kneel. Her head swims.
The troubles at hand have taken their toll. No longer could the clever princess afford to keep her favorite knight always at hand; there are enemies to be fought, close at hand.
“Do not trouble yourself, my knight,” the clever princess says, dismissing her handmaiden with a little wave. “You must have been exhausted.” She steps forward, to rest a hand on her knight’s head; the feather-light touch of her fingers sends a shiver through the goshawk knight.
“No more than anyone else,” the goshawk knight says.
The clever princess’s hands are trembling. Instinct demands that the goshawk knight rise and strike against whatever frightens her lady so, but she cannot strike against all the cares of a crown and kingdom. The goshawk knows it soothes her, putting things to right, so she forces herself to be still, to give herself over to that touch.
That practiced stillness becomes languor in truth, as the princess runs her thumb down the taut line of muscle that stretches from the curve of her neck to her shoulder. A little, exhausted keen escapes the goshawk knight, and she curls closer to the touch.
A delighted little huff of laughter escapes the clever princess, and the goshawk knight smiles. She can picture the tilt of her lady’s lips without opening her eyes.
“Let me work,” the clever princess says.
The goshawk knight lifts a hand, and catches her lady’s; she lifts her hand, and kisses each delicate finger, and then the hinge of her wrist. “You’ve worked all the day long, for crown and kingdom,” the knight whispers. “Let your craft be repaid.”
She can see the scales tip behind her lady’s eyes; the moment when wariness yields to weariness.
“For all you speak little, you use words well,” the clever princess says.
“You’re just fond of me, my lady,” the goshawk knight says, slipping from the bench to sink to her knees before her lady. She tips her head back, searching. When she’s met with a smile and a narrowing of her lady’s warm brown eyes, she raises a hand, carefully lifting her lady’s skirts.
She begins by pressing kisses to the soft skin of her thighs, and then leans in further, taking away the clever princess’s cares with kisses and caresses until all the tension in her is unwound and she can catch her up in her arms.
What about a prince getting ahold of his knight's armor while he's not wearing it (somehow. Maybe being sneaky while the knight is bathing or something). Touching all the little details and the dents fondly... Pining... Bonus if he's a little weird about the way it smells. Do you feel me does this make any sense . I don't know. This is my humble idea 🙂↕️
(you are so right and correct on this. this got kind of long, so I’ll throw in a read more)
The prince finds his knight’s borrowed chambers are empty, with only his armor, laid out on the bed on a thin muslin blanket. The armor is finely-wrought steel, plain and proud as his knight’s visage.
It predates the knight’s service; in this, and only this, his knight has been solely unbending. When it is beyond repair, then you can dress me in as much gilt as you want, and put your damn falcons on my breastplate.
Privately, the prince prefers him like this; in his well-worn, plain breastplate of harsh steel and his chainmail hauberk and his great bascinet helm, the picture of honest violence. What a pair they make, the prince in his silver-gilt armor, the knight in his plain steel, a pair well-matched in battle and so unlike in every other way.
Hesitantly — fervently — the prince runs his fingers over the steel. Here and there, he can feel the marks that great blows have left, not yet set to right by smith’s hammer; here is where the Damask knight had driven his great warhammer into his knight’s chest, and nearly thrown him off his feet; here, the notch at the armpit, where the knight had taken a blow meant to open the prince’s throat.
What other memories did the steel hold, memories already beaten from its frame? Fights long since forgotten by its wearer, no doubt, or buried so deep it made no difference. If the prince asked, his knight would smile in that bluff way of his, and declare himself an open book, and lie with clear eyes.
The sun has sunken beneath the mountains, and the deep chill of spring has settled over the darker alcoves of this borrowed keep, but the breastplate still holds a little of the day’s warmth; or perhaps that is the warmth of the knight’s body, still clinging to the metal even in this cold room. He takes a breath; he can smell leather and the slight sweetness of the oil the knight lavishes it with to keep rust at bay, and the tang of blood and sweat, and something else, warm and autumnal, that could only be the knight himself.
“My prince?” The words snap the prince back to himself; suddenly, he knows what a fool he looks, sitting here in the dark. His knight is standing at the doorway, half-dressed in borrowed robes no doubted sent by their host, his dark hair mussed and wet, his dark eyes shining. “What are you doing, here in the dark?”
“Thinking,” the prince says, taking his hands from the armor as if it has burned him.
The knight’s gaze follows his hands. “Brooding over that old harness?" he says.
The prince shakes his head. "Admiring it," he says. “For the service it has done you.”
“It’s been useful enough,” the knight says, tilting his head. “You’re in a queer mood, my prince.”
That draws a laugh from the prince. “No stranger than usual, folk would say.”
“I’m not folk,” the knight says. “What are you doing here, skulking in the dark and not yet washed from the road?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Does Your Grace wish me to attend him in the baths?”
Desire flames hot , wicking at the Prince’s core, dangerous and guttering. It could so quickly unmake him, from this careful construct to an ill-made thing. “No doubt my lord’s attendants will find themselves equal to that task,” the prince says. He runs a hand through his hair — the knight speaks the truth, it’s still dusty from the road.
“I will attend you all the same,” the knight says, catching his sword up from where it rests on the bed. He belts it at his waist, but leaves the rest laid out. The robe shifts, revealing gnarled ropes of scars that criss-cross his chest. “I don’t like the way our host looks at you; he’s an ambitious man, Your Grace.”
“The same could be said of me,” the prince says.
“But you’re my lord,” the knight says. And that makes all the difference. The words are unspoken.
