The Knight's gauntlet brushes gently against his Highness' throat as he brushes his hair back behind his ear. Leather against flesh. A fleeting touch that isn't meant to linger. It was just to fix something, as they stand alone in the hall. So that his Prince was in his best condition when they joined the others in the great hall.
But the Prince clasps his hand gently over the metal and holds his hand to his throat. He looks up at him with such a gentle look- like a fawn. And before he can talk reason into the Prince- to tell him that here is certainly not the place and that what he's thinking is highly inappropriate- he's being pulled closer. The Prince is pressing his gauntlet down onto his throat firmer. He's leading the Knights other hand down to his hip.
"I need you."
The Prince gasps out like a prayer. And it's all the Knight can do to at least shove the boy into a dark spot of the hall to at least try and save him from being seen.
"You're being indecent. We're not even in your chambers and you're acting like a harlot."
He warns. But it's never really a warning, is it? If he really cared, he wouldn't encourage it by tightening his fingers around the boys throat. Or by sliding his hand from the Prince's hips to the waistband of his trousers- and pulling them down just enough to press the tip of a gauntleted finger to the boys throbbing clit.
"This is what you think you need, hm? When you're supposed to be in there- mingling and courting? Then so be it. But you will be quiet, or we will be caught. And what would the people think- finding out their Prince is such a harlot that he needs a hand on his cunt in the middle of their halls because he can't even wait an hour."
It's not like the boy is even listening anymore. How could he pay any attention - with his dear Knight finger banging him in the hall. His own moans drowned out by the sounds of music and cheers from the Great Hall on the other side of the stone wall. Not that the Knight minds. Really- the Prince doesn't need to think. He does just fine looking so cute and mewling so sweetly with metal and leather shoved up his cunt.
A prince is a creature that, when left unattended, will sexualize even the most ill-advised parts of a sword. It is your duty as a knight to ensure he engages only in pre-approved hilt-play with a loyal and attentive swordsman.
Her highness won't stop bringing the visiting royal back to her bedroom on the nights you're on shift to guard her door.
The first few times you thought it might be coincidence, but she's done it 6 times in as many nights as you've been at post, and when you tried to swap shifts to get away from it, you caught her page running around the guard's mess hall asking for when you'd be there.
It's some cruel game she's playing, that you can't quite wrap your mind around. She makes enough noise you're sure she knows you can hear it through the door. Every moan, every gasp, every breathless giggle - you have to white knuckle the hilt at your hip just to make it through your shift.
Tonight, it seems like that might not even be enough. You've still hours to go and you're already hard and aching inside your plate. You buck and rock your hips even as you stand, palming between your own legs, chasing that brief rush of pressure when you angle yourself against the armor or your hand just right. It's a dance that would prove thoroughly embarrassing if you weren't alone in this hallway. It doesn't take long until you're rutting in perfect rhythm with her muffled noises.
That's when she starts crying. Not of sadness, nor fear - the momentary stop of your heart can cease - but of pure, uncontainable pleasure. Pleasure you're being kept from sharing with her. Kept only by the thin planks of a door.
Well.
You throw them open.
There's a look of shock on the royal's face, of course, but not on hers. She's grinning. She's been waiting for you to break like this.
Infuriating as that is, you've got more pressing things on your mind, and you beeline for the royal, clamping a cold, metal hand down over one of their shoulders and yanking them back from between her legs. The metal tips of your gauntlets prick into the soft skin of their neck as you press their shoulders against one of the bedposts and snarl.
"What do you think you're doing here?"
You cut off their spluttering response with a shove that pins them even harder against the wood.
"What gives you the right to make her highness cry so? Have you no consideration for how it must feel to be overwhelmed in such a way?"
The royal shakes their head, murmuring all sorts of things that aren't quite words. They're not hurting her, they swear, she asked them here, you misunderstand.
You chuckle. "I assure you, I understand perfectly well that you've no idea what you got yourself into, putting yourself between me and my Lady."
You drag them again, pulling them around to the far side of the bed with one hand while you begin to fumble with the buckles of your belt with the other. You maneuver them to sit, then lay back, and as you shed the straps holding your sword, dagger, armor, and even pants to your body, they open their mouth to begin commanding you to stop.
"Oh, my liege," the word drips from your mouth as you step to stand over them. "This isn't your kingdom, now is it? Your word does not have final power here."
They look to her, eyes wide, and in turn she looks to you.
A nod.
You run your thumb across your tip, smearing some of what's already leaked out across it, some small benefit for the hole about to take you raw. You step forward.
"I think it's high time you came to understand what our Lady here has been experiencing, don't you?"
You press into them slow enough - you are chivalrous, after all - but it doesn't take long for your thrusts to grow faster, and deeper and for their whines to grow more and more desperate beneath you. They look pathetically ecstatic, face scrunched up with sensation, tears beginning to prick at the corners of their eyes as you pound and pound and pound, refusing to falter for even a moment, pressure building to what seems like an impossibly high peak.
At least - you assume that's what they look like. You wouldn't know, you haven't checked. Your eyes haven't left hers, not since you stepped through those doors.
Because you can't have her.
It's not in the oath that you swore, it's not in the law she represents, it's simply not the order of things, and every last person in the kingdom knows it. Every last person in the kingdom would end you for it, if they found out.
So you look. You can't have her, so you look. You look at her, stretched out on the far side of the bed, her thigh mere inches from your hand on the silk sheets, twitching as she teases along everything she's left so perfectly spread on display for you.
You look, and you have them instead. You fuck them with everything you wish you could give her.
You run your hands down their chest and leave the kind of scratches that would have you hanged if they were on her skin, watch her arch her chest into thin air as though she felt it anyways.
You lean over, tilting your head down in her direction, and nip at their jaw. Suck marks into their neck. Watch her press her fingers to her throat each time you pull your mouth away from a new bruise.
You rut into their ass and pretend it's that perfect soaking cunt she's started dipping her fingers into, matching the rhythm you've kept so even and steady for her, shaking the bed so hard you're practically rocking her anyways.
You moan and grunt and whine, making noises both when they tense around your cock, but also when the shocks rack her body and leave her pulsing around what you wish could be more than her own hand.
You put on a show for her, so she can look too, and have you, to the exact extent that will still leave you both alive and unchained come morning. You look, and she looks, and it's still not enough.
You look down. At the royal beneath you, red-faced and panting and - oh. They've already spilled a load across their own stomach, and you hardly even noticed. Not that it makes much of a difference to you. Their role in this isn't much more than a ... means of conveyance.
"Get up," you say as you pull out of them, "and get yourself nice and hard again."
They sit there, frozen, perhaps confused, perhaps just too fucked out to think. You sigh and take their hand in yours, wrapping it around their cock and guiding them through the first few strokes until muscle memory takes over again.
"Good. Now turn around. And move up a little. Closer to her." You have to shove them around a bit, guide them where you want to go, but eventually you maneuver them into the spot you want.
They're knelt between her legs, close enough their tip just barely drags across her cunt with each heaving exhale. You crawl up behind them, positioning yourself quite carefully, sure to keep your legs from brushing hers.
You can't have her, nor can she have you. The rules won't change. But they can be bent. Over. Between you and her.
You line yourself up against the royal and press into them again, earning a gasp as you slip your full length into their hole. You wrap one hand around their hip and pull back, hard, locking them against you, as deep as you can possibly get yourself inside them.
You take your other hand and grab one of their arms, moving it to settle on her chest. You flatten your hand to theirs, palm pressed against the back of it and fingers wrapping over fingers. You squeeze, and underneath you their hand cups her perfect, soft breast.
She threads her hand into their hair, pulling their head down just enough that she can see your past their shoulder. You buck your hips a little, and they rock along with you. The motion pushes them an inch or so into her cunt.
A wise man once said, “A people without history is like a tree without roots.” What’s missing from the wise man’s history? When did story replace record? When all the facts fall short of believability, fantasy feels reassuringly solid. And since this is my history, I get to decide which parts have been subtracted, which have been added.
A wise man once said, “A people without history is like a tree without roots.” What’s missing from the wise man’s history? When did story replace record? When all the facts fall short of believability, fantasy feels reassuringly solid. And since this is my history, I get to decide which parts have been subtracted, which have been added.
I originally made this post for instagram for lá fhéile Pádraig but yall seem to enjoy my book recommendations so I'm posting it here too
"Lá Fhéile Pádraig shona daoibh! Happy St. Patrick's day! I've seen some people posting their Irish-related books to combat the 'Plastic Paddy' version of Irish culture that's so pervasive here in the U.S. so I'm hopping on the...trend? I've only seen like 3 people do it tbh. Here's some (but not all) of my favorite Irish & Celtic Studies related books!
1. "Defiant Irish Women" by Eddie Lenihan
2. "Irish Fairy and Folk Tales", Fall River Press
3. "The Celtic Revolution: A Study in Anti-Imperialism" by Peter Berresford Ellis
4. "An Old Woman's Reflections" by the amazing Peig Sayers
5. "North", a collection of poems by Seamus Heaney
6. "The Book of Irish Curses" by Patrick C. Power
7. "Irish Customs and Rituals: How Our Ancestors Celebrated Life and the Seasons" by Marion McGarry
8. "The Course of Irish History", Mercier Press
9. "Gods And Fighting Men" by Augusta Lady Gregory
10. "The Morrigan: Celtic Goddess of Magick and Might" by Courtney Weber
11. "The Druids" by Peter Berresford Ellis
12. "Ireland: A Graphic History" by Morgan Llewellyn and Michael Scott"
here's a list of cool PDFs I have saved on my drive that I thought other people might like too:
"Cleaning Bones" by Stephen P. Nawrocki, PhD, University of Indianapolis Archeology & Forensics Laboratory
"Cultural Appropriation in Contemporary Neopaganism and Witchcraft" by Kathryn Gottlieb, University of Maine
"The Voyage of Bran (Imram Brain)" translated by Kuno Meyer
"Duanaire Fionn (The Book of the Lays of Finn)" Cumann na Scríbheann nGaedhilge/Irish Texts Society
"Early Gaelic Dress" by Scott Barrett
"The Voyage of St. Brenden: Celtic Otherworld Tale, Christian Apologia, or Medieval Travelog?" by James E. Doan
"Is Deithbir Disi [it is appropriate (that she would behave in this way)]: Applying the Lens of Gender Parody to Medb in the Old Irish Ulster Cycle" by Diana Veronica Dominguez
"A Discussion of the Magical Attributes of the Hero in Fenian Literature, with specific reference to the tale 'The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne'" by Oliver Gerler, University of Limerick, IE
"The Plain of Blood; a Study of the Ritual Landscape of Magh Slecht, Co. Cavan" by Kevin White
"The Iona Chronicle, the Descendants of Áedan mac Gabráin, and the 'Principal Kindreds of Dál Riata'" by James E. Fraser
Issue of "An tÓglach" magazine, vol. IV no. 12, with a detailed article about Cumann na mBan's efforts during the week of the Easter Rising written by Nora O'Daly
"Gaeilge Gan Stró! Beginners Level" by Éamonn Ó Dónaill
Every man has his torments; demons born of past wrongs that hound and harass him. You percieve the effects of Captain Flint’s demons, echoes of their voices, but I know their names. I was there when they were born. I know the things they whisper to him at night. So you can believe me when I tell you…
LOUISE BARNES as MIRANDA BARLOW
BLACK SAILS (2014 - 2017)
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