chivalrychained

[chivalrychained]

whatever you do don’t think about a prince in a self-destructive fury over some loss and his knight kneeling at his feet and making him come over and over until he’s too wrung out to spiral further

[chivalrychained]

Knight who seeks to get injured in combat so she can be tenderly held by her Lady but she keeps absolutely killing it out there and she's too honorable to throw a fight

[chivalrychained]

the nastiest pornographers in the land are drawing your heraldic beast looking doe-eyed and lame in the jaws of my heraldic beast

[chivalrychained]

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.

The prince smiles. “Lead on, then.”

[chivalrychained]

It is not the first time the knight has shared a bed with his liege. A sign of favor, to be allowed so close.

There have been countless pavilions pitched in fields and in the tree-bough chapels of the forest. Tonight, after the battle, his king sleeps the sound sleep of the exhausted and pragmatic. Always, the knight lies awake, body still achingly alert, pulse still thrumming to rapid tempo of battle.

Sometimes, after the heat of the field, they both sleep fitfully; and in the toss and turn, find each other, and rut until sleep finally takes them. Practicality and service, as much as desire.

But now, he turns, and finds his king's eyes open, ochre slits in the sliver of moonlight.

"Restless creature," his king says, voice low and fond. He slips a hand up to trace the curve of the knight's bared throat, as the other hand reaches lower, to coax the last of the day's heat from him.

[chivalrychained]

"It aches," the knight says. "It aches to think of." Ache does not cover the way the memories warp and fragment at the touch of a thought, filling his skull with sharp shards of shame.

"I could absolve you of it," his prince says, cocking his head like a falcon. "Is that what you wish?" A hand touches the knight's face; cool and soothing, for only a moment.

"You cannot absolve me of a thing done before you knew me," the knight says.

His prince exhales, a little laugh. "Very well. Do not think of it then."

"My lord?"

"If you do not trust your own judgement, then leave it behind," his prince says. In the sliver of moonlight through the slat window, his eyes are pensive, but flint-sharp, fixed as the gaze of a hawk. "Trust mine, and think no more of it."

[chivalrychained]

butch knight, butch knight, butch knight !!!

felt fitting as a first post

[chivalrychained]

if anyone has any thoughts or requests, I am taking them 👀⚔️

[chivalrychained]

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.

The prince smiles. “Lead on, then.”

[chivalrychained]

That night, the prince is in no mood for argument.

His eyes are glass-dark and dangerous as the knight approaches. “Kneel,” he says.

The knight remains standing for a moment too long, his mind spinning through the half-tangled threads of his prince’s plan. The prince has never been so reckless before.

“I order you to kneel,” the prince snarls. His words are slurred with exhaustion and drink; there’s still a smudge of blood on his face, and beneath the graceful, pale tumble of his hair, his eyes are bloodshot. “Do you not hear?”

“I heard,” the knight says, and goes to his knees. “My prince, this plan — this course of action — it will not work. It cannot.”

The prince glares; and the knight fights the sudden, drunken urge to laugh at his sullen expression. Half in a fury, with mussed hair and sunken eyes, and that sullen look still tugs at something in his chest. I always wish to give you what you ask, but this is different.

This was a mistake, all of it; what place does he have to say whether the one he swore his life to is throwing it away?

“Whose creature are you?” the prince demands.

“Yours,” the knight says, lifting the prince’s hand to his throat. “Yours, and no one else’s, for as long as I draw breath.” He cocks his head, daring to look up. “And that is why I will not flatter you. What you mean for us to do will be certain death.”

“I never took you for a coward,” the prince snaps.

“I will die for you if you wish it,” the knight says. “But I will not see you die.”

The prince raises his chin, defiance sparking in his eyes; perhaps he will draw his sword, the knight thinks, the cool, rational instinct of a fight and the ache of lust twining in a way that leaves him dizzy.

Then, the prince laughs. “What, then, do you mean to make of such a day of defeat?”

Instead of using more clumsy words, the knight rises to his feet to kiss his lord.

[chivalrychained]

if anyone has any thoughts or requests, I am taking them 👀⚔️

[chivalrychained]

That night, the prince is in no mood for argument.

His eyes are glass-dark and dangerous as the knight approaches. “Kneel,” he says.

The knight remains standing for a moment too long, his mind spinning through the half-tangled threads of his prince’s plan. The prince has never been so reckless before.

“I order you to kneel,” the prince snarls. His words are slurred with exhaustion and drink; there’s still a smudge of blood on his face, and beneath the graceful, pale tumble of his hair, his eyes are bloodshot. “Do you not hear?”

“I heard,” the knight says, and goes to his knees. “My prince, this plan — this course of action — it will not work. It cannot.”

The prince glares; and the knight fights the sudden, drunken urge to laugh at his sullen expression. Half in a fury, with mussed hair and sunken eyes, and that sullen look still tugs at something in his chest. I always wish to give you what you ask, but this is different.

This was a mistake, all of it; what place does he have to say whether the one he swore his life to is throwing it away?

“Whose creature are you?” the prince demands.

“Yours,” the knight says, lifting the prince’s hand to his throat. “Yours, and no one else’s, for as long as I draw breath.” He cocks his head, daring to look up. “And that is why I will not flatter you. What you mean for us to do will be certain death.”

“I never took you for a coward,” the prince snaps.

“I will die for you if you wish it,” the knight says. “But I will not see you die.”

The prince raises his chin, defiance sparking in his eyes; perhaps he will draw his sword, the knight thinks, the cool, rational instinct of a fight and the ache of lust twining in a way that leaves him dizzy.

Then, the prince laughs. “What, then, do you mean to make of such a day of defeat?”

Instead of using more clumsy words, the knight rises to his feet to kiss his lord.

[chivalrychained]

what if i was on your lap grinding on your lap but making out with my sword pommel and every time you try to touch me i stop you really easily because face it i'm stronger and know your body better than you not that i'll use any of that for your pleasure because your lap which i'm grinding on is really just the most comfortable seat for the real love of my life which is my sword

[chivalrychained]

how do we feel about butch knights who think their first and most important role in the world is to Serve actually getting pampered and indulged in by their princesses and treated like divine beings and if they try to argue back getting told to shut the fuck up and take it (it being unconditional affection and blatant, spoiling pleasure)

[chivalrychained]

[chivalrychained]

dequitem

[chivalrychained]

The knight and his prince spend the morning on the training field, trading blows. The prince cannot touch the knight in strength; but he's falcon-quick with a blade, and the dull wood of his practice blade might have drawn the knight's blood a dozen times, if it had been a fight in earnest.

The knight isn't as fast as usual; the rains are coming, and he can feel it in the lines of his scars, the muscle-deep aches that map the ways his body has been wrent apart. So he fights sloppily.

"Focus," the prince chides. "You're too reckless."

The next blow is his only answer.

In a break, the prince leans close, eyes brim-full of sunlight, lips turned upwards the arrogant assurance that makes the knight's chest twist. He tugs at the sweat-soaked linen of the knight's undershirt, revealing the knotted scar tissue of the badly-knit wound beneath.

"And this?" the prince asks, another point in this game they have been playing. "You cannot deny it was reckless."

The huff of a laugh escapes the knight's lips. "You cannot complain."

"Do you think to tell me what I can and cannot do?" His tone is playful, but there's something in the way his eyes linger on the knight's scars that tugs at a thread hooked deep in his stomach. "You are sworn to me. All of you is mine."

The prince's pity, the knight finds hard to stomach, even when it comes with possession. He'll kneel before him, kiss his feet if he asks; he'd lift his chin and let the prince slit his throat, if it would please him. But under the bold face of the sun, pity is a different kind of cruelty.

"I would that you would take me apart," the knight breathes.

"Oh?" He's hooked the prince's interest; he can see that terrible, sharp light in his eyes, softening the cruel softness of pity. The prince's hand moves up his throat, fingers resting on the pulse point.

"Cut me apart and put me together," the knight whispers. "Set everything to rights." The prince's other hand lifts to rest on his shoulder, over the origin of the dull, prickly ache that seems to seep from the old wound into his very blood.

"That would suit me," the prince says, tipping the knight's head up with a little brush of his fingers.