they always know when you're riled up in that specific way after games, especially a melee.
"I'll expect to find you in your guest chambers," says your lord, tone perfectly innocent, seeming somehow softer and stronger at once now as you buzz with the energy and the exhaustion of the pitch. they reach an ungloved hand, hands you just watched with mouth watering as they plucked a bow so expertly, into your lifted visor and wipe a drip of blood from your blazing cheek. "and I expect you to wait for me."
you smile as you huff a scoff. "I take no such order from you, my lord. my time in my quarters is my own."
a sly smirk cracks through the innocence. "we'll see."
they leave you then in your tourney tent and you watch their shadow play across the outside of the canvas as they go. you get doffed and cleaned up, all the while with thoughts painfully single-minded.
when the door finally shuts to your chambers and you collapse into the downy bed, you think on their words. you chuckle and free yourself from your codpiece and braies, the recent dress again undone.
your hand hesitates as you watch the door. you fear no consequence of disobeying. no, not fear. something else, something with teeth, something starving.
your hand dallies across your chest, fingers brushing your nipples. your trail down your own stomach, venturing further and further on each stroke, dancing closer to your crotch. you feel yourself twitching as you hear footsteps out in the corridor, but they pass your room by.
you take the whole routine again after rucking up your tunic to you chest, fingers playing across bare, hot skin. you press into darkening bruises, circle a fingertip round gashes of broken scarlet, gasping. you buck a little when you dip a touch lower that before, the ghost of your hand finding sensitive needy flesh. but you refrain. for now.
your lord takes their time. you figured as much, and probably on purpose, too, the bastard. you wanted to humour their request, enjoying the playful dally while you keep keen watch of the door, but soon you grow impatient, and your body aches for relief.
soon you're flipped onto your stomach. soon your hands rub and fingers plunge instead of lighting and teasing. soon you're panting and moaning, rutting into the mattress, massaging relief and thrusting pleasure into yourself. soon, you don't bother to be quiet unless someone passes by your door, which you keep one eye on over your shoulder as your face is smushed into the bedspread. even then, not so much.
your hands slows when you feel a peak building, though not without some difficulty. your muscles ache from the day's games and your mind grows foggy with beckoning sleep. but the hunger is more powerful, and the delay is strawberry-sweet.
you lose track of time as you bring yourself to the edge again and again without allowing the catharsis of falling, thinking with envy of icarus. you barely hear the door over your own puffed moans until it's shut again behind you and familar boots are clucking against the stone floor.
"I thought I told you to wait," they murmur, voice under the spell of a smile, and you hear them undressing. the excitement of being found this way has you thrusting harder, trembling, unable to reposition yourself to get a look at your lord in all their glory.
but they do not leave you wanting long.
as they climb into your bed, their clever hands landing finally upon your skin, you hiccup a gasp. you moan their name, a plea sitting behind your teeth. they grunt as they mount you, their heat and softness complemented by the clear strength in their movements, the pressure of their body, as well-trained as yours, pressing you down into the mattress.
you relent easily when they remove your hands, giving yourself to them. you feel their hardness like a river to a man parched as they grind against your ass, and you go limp to their control, allowing them to position you as they like, raising up your hips for better access to your hole. your injuries sting under the pressure and sweat, but you can't be bothered.
"you just couldn't help yourself, hm?" they ask.
you gasp back a tight "aye."
they chuckle, breathier now, as they tease your entrance. "you're lucky I'm just as impatient as you are, my friend."
they sink into you in one long-drawn stroke, leaving you panting high and broken-voiced into the sheets. you have strength enough still to roll your hips back and to beg for more, but not both at once, and distantly you think the sight of you must be well pathetic. your lord, however, revels in it, bracing a hand on your back and giving you the attention you've been so sorely craving.
"you're so darling like this, knight," they coo, huffing and grunting with the dance of their hips. "I should like to have you like this for as long as you've been indulging yourself here without me. seems only fair. and you're not the only one riled up by a good game, you know. I'll give you what you need—"
with a particularly ruthless thrust, you see stars, teetering on the very edge of your peak. they reach around your hips and a skilled hand doubles your pleasure, drowning you in sensation. you can hardly breathe, your lips deseperately forming their name.
"—and you'll give me what I'm due, for however long I want. understood?"
