call and i'll come

21 | he/him | bi | switch | ftm yearning, pining, knightposting, etc. mdni please & thank you! this is an 18+ blog

[ser-lark]

hail and well met!

you can call me lark 🌞

i have been DESPERATE for an outlet for my relatively newfound knight/royalty kinks, so here we are

have something regarding a knight you urgently want someone to write? post me a letter <3 and i'll write it (you can send me a letter about anything, really. salacious asks welcome and dare i say encouraged. i'm at your service)

mdni please & thank you! this is an 18+ blog

[ser-lark]

“Lark, won’t you get me some water?” the prince asks, his eyebrows lifted beatifically. My jaw clenches. I stare at him. He stares back, oblivious. Acting oblivious, anyhow. I take a half step forward, leaning over his shoulder, slow as molasses. My gauntlet-clad hand pushes the glass and pitcher across the table to him all of half a foot. I am certain his ask entailed me pouring it, also, but I refuse to stoop to that. I wouldn’t have done anything at all if it weren’t for the company milling around.

He grins, triumphant, and I exhale slowly through my nose, standing back up straight. There’s nothing quite worth eavesdropping on today, so I scan the room and nothing more, settling in to wait the event out.

“Lark?” the prince asks. He barely glances back at me. “Could you pick up my handkerchief? I seem to have dropped it.” I narrow my eyes, and narrowly resist the urge to click my tongue in annoyance. I crouch to retrieve it, holding it out to him, but he makes no move to grab it from me, and merely looks at it in my grasp.

My jaw works again. I have had enough of this.

“What’s that, Your Highness?” I say, my voice loud enough to be overheard. “You’re not feeling well, and you feel as though you ought to lie down for a while? And you were so excited to see everyone, as well… it would be a shame if anyone else were to catch your illness.”

This at least prompts him to meet my gaze, his brow furrowed, lips slightly parted as though to speak. I take him by the shoulder none too gently, urging him out of his chair. 

“Well, if you’re sure,” I continue. “I’ll escort you back to your rooms at once.”

I tug him out of the room behind me, my stride long enough he has to quickstep to keep up.

“Lark!” he whispers loudly. “What is the meaning of this? Let go of me at once!”

I retain my grasp on his bicep, my jaw firmly set as I stride through the halls to the royal wing. I do not let go until my boots are firmly planted on the stone floor of his room, and the heavy wooden door is shut and bolted, and when I do let go, it is with a shove in the direction of the armchair in the corner.

“Lark—”

“Firstly,” I say, jabbing a finger at the center of his chest, “I am not your manservant. I am not your butler. I am not your attendant. Hand me my water, fetch me my scarf, shine my boots; these are not my job.”

“Secondly,” I continue, my frustration mounting, “it is Ser Lark. I worked to earn my title, unlike you, who merely had to be born. God knows you wouldn’t have it through merit.” His eyes take their turn narrowing, and his mouth opens again to speak. “I am here for the single purpose of keeping you alive, do you understand that? It is awful enough I have to spend every hour of my day by your side, even without your constant and incessant nagging.”

His nose scrunches, the corners of his lips turning down. His infuriating lips. “I don’t nag.”

I scoff, shaking my head as I turn away. “You’re an unbelievable pain.” I ought to stop now, lest he turn snappish, but I can’t now that I’ve begun. 

“Do you know what I think it is?” I say, turning back, a mere few inches from him. “I think you’re jealous. I’ve seen you watch the squires and the knights in the training yard; I feel your eyes on me constantly when we’re in the Hall. I see the way your gaze lingers on the scouting parties as they leave the gates. I think you wish you were one of us, and you take it out on me that you’re not.”

He swallows tightly, and I’m so amused at his obviousness that I have to laugh. There’s a slightly cruel edge to it, to be sure, but I don’t have it in me to care. It is not often that he is lost for words, insolent and mouthy as his nature is, so I take the opportunity to drink it in, my eyes roving over his face: his wide eyes, his caught-out expression, the rising flush high on his cheekbones…

“This is what does it for you?” I say. “Being told off? You’ve got to be kidding me; you parade around all day pretending to be so high and mighty and serious—”

“Stop it,” he says, cutting me off, shaking himself enough to step back from me and look away. “That’s not—I mean, I’m not—what kind of person do you think I am? That’s absurd.” He sniffs, turning his chin up. “I’m a prince, you can’t say that kind of thing to me.”

I frown condescendingly. “No? I’m so sorry, Your Highness, how about I fetch you some water, or pick up your washing, or serve your dinner. Would that be more in line?”

His mouth opens, then closes. His hands clench at his sides, his fingers twitching as though he’s unsure what they’re for. The flush on his cheeks deepens, spreading charmingly down his throat. 

“You’re being cruel,” he says, and though his tone aims for imperiousness, it comes out rather quietly. I tilt my head.

“I’m being honest.”

“That’s worse,” he spits, and then, more quietly, “You’re wrong, anyways.”

“About what?”

He hesitates, and I couldn’t resist pushing for anything in the world. I take a step towards him. He takes one back, bumping into the armchair, stumbling into the seat. His breath hitches.

“No, go on,” I say, my voice low. “What am I wrong about?

His throat works as he swallows. “I’m not jealous.”

“Mm.” My eyes rake over him, narrowing deliberately. “Not jealous of the knights? Not jealous of the bond we all share, the attention I pay to them?”

The words he had ready die on his lips, and he looks up at me. The look on his face is vaguely reminiscent of a sad dog. I lean in, bracing a hand on the arm of the chair. “If you want something from me, Your Highness, I suggest you ask for it outright.”

“Lark…”

“Ser Lark,” I correct firmly.

“Ser Lark,” he echoes. I could laugh again for how quickly he rushes to correct himself. “I didn’t mean to anger you. I—I wanted your attention.”

My hand tightens on the armchair. “Oh, I know. You have it now, Your Highness. I’m not so sure you’ll want it so badly when I’m done with you.”

[osamused]

who are you kissing all over the face tonight

[toasteaa]

Kisses wouldn't fix him but they'd at least give him a moment of warmth. So.

[some-call-me-menace]

you know how some people sleep with guns or knives under their pillows for protection? KEEP YOUR KNIGHT IN YOUR BED INSTEAD!! FOR SAFETY REASONS!! THAT'S YOUR LIVING WEAPON!!!! #mylivingweapon

[ser-lark]

23rd of June - Summer

***

Sometimes I feel as though I must be cursed. 

I have already gotten ahead of myself. Forgive me. I will come back to this.

Falling and staying asleep last night was a monumentally futile effort, so in the very early hours of the morning, I decided to abandon any hope of drifting off. I roused myself, stiff and aching from tossing in my bed, and joined the land of the living, leaving behind that strange and disquieting stupor of half-sleep-sleeplessness. The very moment my feet touched the stone of the floor, I was at once overcome with a sense of utmost urgency. I dressed hurriedly, and feeling as though I were being pulled along by some great and altogether irrefusable tether, I found myself rushing up to the battlements; that is where I am now.

I have made it here just in time to see the sun rise—the horizon over the fields and forest is beginning to turn a deep, frightful red. Soon enough, it will give way to the more classically resplendent golds and oranges and yellows of morning. In truth, I have missed my favorite part; the sky was already light enough to see by when I arrived. Watching the first ghostings of light drift up along the base of the sky… there is almost nothing like it. Now that I am here, the horrid sense of urgency has dissipated.

Was I talking of curses before? How foolish of me. I do not know why I would say such a thing. Here, awake at such an hour, I feel the furthest thing from cursed. The breeze is gentle, the newly dawned light has a cleansing quality to it; perhaps I had been sleeping before after all, and my earlier feeling was naught but the holdover of a bad dream.

A goshawk swoops over and in and out of the forest canopy—I could nearly swoop with her. Robins and sparrows and swallows and the larks for which I am named cry and scream and sing their delight with the morning—I could nearly cry and scream and sing along with them. How lucky am I to see them, and to delude myself into grouping my own meager life in with their joyous ones. 

Cursed! What a silly thought.

I may be at times melancholy. I will not lie to myself and say I am always cheerful. But I am surely not cursed. Surely not. Surely not.

The red beginning of the sunrise has now indeed given way to his more highly lauded golden older brother, and more of the castle is rising along with this yellow-toned sibling. The night watch changes their shift over to the day guard, the maids and manservants are sure to be readying their lords’ and ladies’ things. If I listen very closely, I can hear the horses knickering softly in the stables.

The lightness of it all has some unconquerable part of my soul ache for the road; on a morning so crisp and clear, I ought to be saddling my horse, checking my supplies, seeking out some adventure in the name of a higher power… but a larger part of me is quite content to stay where and as I am. I’ve a minor wound near my knee I keep reopening because I am loath to sit still, much to the physician’s chagrin, and though I may not always listen to the full extent of her instructions, I do not really wish for it to worsen. Moreover, embarking on a quest would mean leaving behind my princess, and I would surely be a fool to do that.

Where to even begin speaking of her? How to begin speaking of her?

For all my delighted remarks on robins and sparrows and larks and hawks, their joy is nothing compared to hers. The striking red of the early sunrise is nothing compared to the vibrancy of her eyes, the gold brother that follows nothing compared to the radiance of her smile.

Cursed. I cannot believe I would think myself cursed when she is in my life. Even to think such a thing is surely treasonous. She would never say such a thing, of course. She is far too kind to. Her gentleness astonishes me. She would take me very seriously if I told her I thought myself cursed—she is altogether too good to me.

She is not a late riser, my princess, but she is likely not awake at this still very early juncture. She is beautiful when she sleeps—I have only been so lucky as to share her bed twice (God above, forgive me for ever thinking myself cursed, and strike me down should I ever think it again), but I shall never forget how completely at peace she looks while asleep. Her rosy lips part every so slightly, her fine eyelashes brush along her cheekbones, her hair sweeps like the flow of the river across her pillow… The second time I witnessed the marvel of her sleeping, I couldn’t help myself; I kissed her awake, overcome with the need to tell her how wonderful she looked. She had laughed, and hid her blushing face against my chest, and I had felt so in love I thought my heart would stop beating.

Cursed. How utterly selfish of me.

Ah, time has slipped away from me. I see the beginnings of activity in the yard; squires have begun to set up for morning training, and I was asked by the captain of the guard to supervise some of the younger knights.

I am glad of my sleeplessness—I feel as though I have come back to myself. Forgive my rambling.

– Ser Lark

[quiet-inquiries]

Come, good ser. I'm in need of an extra pair of hands to gather the herbs I need for my potions.

You may laugh all you like, but if you ever have need of them, they may save your life one day.

And if we finish the work early enough, I can think of a few pleasant diversions we may engage in by the stream where the two willows lie.

It's well shielded from prying eyes.

[yapping-princess]

Princess who was raised in a castle demanding chastity. Taught that her wanting was shameful and dirty and wrong, that the place between her thighs should remain untouched until her wedding night, even by her own hands.

(she follows this rule for a long time. Always a barrier of cloth between herself and deft fingertips).

Princess who is wary and shy, even skittish, around the brave strong knights. Who damns herself with reproach whenever her gaze lingers a little too long on muscular backs, on their hands, on their biceps, on particular helmets when she wonders how they'd feel against--

Princess who is assigned a personal guard. A man who will follow her in shadow. A man who will see her in every form; during soft sleepy mornings, busy afternoons, quiet (often vulnerable) evenings. Princess who does not (can not, will not) meet his gaze, even as he kneels, even as he looks up at her beseechingly.

Princess who is horrified when she catches herself imagining those eyes looking up at her as she slowly touches herself, bolder when she imagines these are someone else's hands. Knowing the man in her mind is right outside the door. Can he hear her stifled sounds? She doesn't know, she doesn't dare risk finding out, stuffing her mouth with clean linens to muffle any gasps that may escape her lips.

Princess who, perhaps someday, is caught. But it is not by the gentleman who greets her with a polite bow, eventually a slight smile in the mornings. It is not the brave fighter who rushes to defend her during an attack, it is not the tender healer who comes to soothe her when fever takes hold, it is not the patient protector who carefully guides her back to bed after too much indulgence. No.

In the man who is watching her now, all and yet none of those men are present. The man staring at her now is a starved animal. His eyes rove over her form writhing on the bed beneath her hands, his ears drink in each muffled whining sound that all but begs to be freed, his hands twitch with the desire to touch, to taste, to take.

Princess who is clueless about her knight's true wishes. Princess who doesn't realize how hungry the devoted servant at her door really is. Princess who is unaware that the man she has let into her chambers is different from the one she has come to know... that he may not be a man at all.

[venustapolis]

Roman Ruin at Twilight (Ferdinand Knab, 1894)

[thelegendofjenna]

I'm trying to take the high road but I'm like, dragging myself bleeding and sobbing along the high road while looking so so longingly at the low road

[tummyachequeen]

Knight with the princess on her knees in front of him, gauntleted hand holding her chin while his thumb presses down on her tongue. The taste of metal fills her mouth and the sharp angles of his fingers dig into the soft flesh of her throat. The knight is leaned over her so she cannot see beyond his form, hidden in an alcove away from the gaze of others that might pass by.

The shadowed eyes behind the visor pin the princess where she is and, for the first time in a very long time, she remembers that loyal dogs are still dangerous when provoked.

[ser-lark]

knight in service to a seaside kingdom or an island kingdom, who sneaks out with his lover to the beach late at night UGH

"isn't the moonlight on the water beautiful, ser?" they ask, resting their head against their knight's shoulder, their arms around his bicep. they look out over the soft, glittering peaks of the waves that roll against the shore, entranced.

"it certainly is beautiful," he murmurs, though in true cliche fashion he's only looking at them. for what could be more beautiful to him than they are? though the whole ocean looms in front of them both, deep and mysterious and enticing and wonderful, all he can think of is them.

their laugh, their smile, the furrow between their brows when they concentrate. how could the hush and crash of the waves ever hope to compare to the sound of his love's voice? how could the washes of cresting foam ever hope to be so smooth or so soothing as the touch of his lover's hand?

[basicbascinet]

Sorry, my lord is not available today. He has to arbitrate a dispute between two of his vassals because one called the other, uh... *checks notes* "an overrated little twink".

[noblekitty]

I just want to have a handsome knight to carefully and delicately grasp his face. To cradle and treat like he is fragile after he endured the strifes and violence seen in war. I want to bring him serenity and coo his name softly in the safety of my quarters.

[kknyght]

asking my lady if i've been a good knight despite falling off my horse twice during the tournament (my armor is covered in mud and i look fucking stupid)

[knightloverxoxo]

princess trying desperatly to hold back her moaning as her loyal knight overstimulates her sensitive skin. she had been begging for this all day, and her loyal knight was eager to let her have all the pleasure she could desire and more. her loyal knight who loves seeing the princess unravel under his touch.

[tiredvanprincess]

I can feel my knights piercing gaze from across the room as I put my soft hand into the visiting lords hand for a dance.

Goosebumps crawl up my neck when the lord spins me around and I catch a glimpse of my beloved knight. His hand grips the hilt of his sword tightly but his strong body is completely still.

I wonder who would feel the consequences his jealousy tonight.

Me in my chambers or the poor lord who asked me to dance?