#smeared ink

[sir-fagdalene]

You once called me “friend” on a tired night. I’ve kept the word in my chest ever since, like a lantern.

[mardy-after-hours]

Princess pouring wax on her knight's chest and putting her seal on the still hot wax. She's telling them how good they're doing and how nice her seal looks on their chest. The knight is just so happy to be here. Just so happy to be hers.

[prestigious-poet]

When I can't even read my own feelings, what good are words when a smile says it all?

Y'know... Your Reality was supposed to be for the club. A love song, sure, but not particularly romantic. But then it just... spiraled. I changed lyrics, meaning...

...I miss them, but they're better off now, I think.

[sciapod]

Murder on the dance floor calligraphy sheet.

[sir-fagdalene]

Please - if I cannot be your knight, let me be your shadow, your hound, your blade in the dark - anything but nothing.

[sir-fagdalene]

The prince sat upon the balcony railing, one leg swinging idly over the edge. Below him, the gardens stretched out in the moonlight, quiet and waiting.

"You'll fall," the knight said.

The prince turned, raising a delicate brow. "Will I?"

The knight frowned. He knew better than to answer.

The prince would not fall. The prince had never fallen. The prince did not stumble, did not bleed, did not falter. The prince was not something so small, so mortal.

And yet -

The knight sighed, stepping forward, hands firm on the prince’s waist as he guided him down from the railing.

"My prince," he murmured, "indulge me."

The prince laughed, soft and golden, allowing it.

It was ridiculous, truly. To treat him like this, like something fragile. As if the knight's hands could stop him from doing anything at all.

And yet, the knight still tried.

It was a foolish devotion, and the prince had never quite had the heart to correct it.

"Happy now?" the prince teased as his feet touched solid ground.

The knight smiled, warm and adoring, as if he had won something.

"Immensely."

The prince sighed. Shook his head. Touched his fingers to the knight’s forehead, tracing over the scar just above his brow.

"You worry too much," he murmured.

The knight leaned into the touch. Always.

The war was over. The blood had dried. His fear had been real - had been right - but it no longer served him.

So he let it go.

His prince, his god, his reason for breathing, stood before him, beautiful and untouchable.

What did it matter what he was?

The knight would adore him all the same.

[sir-fagdalene]

You speak of mercy, but my prince, have you ever seen yourself? You are the very thing men would destroy themselves to possess.

[sir-fagdalene]

My sword is yours, my shield is yours, my heart - no, that was never mine to give. You took it with your first command.