#forgive the two best knights in the kingdom fighting like unathletic faggots who have had one (1) hema lesson. ie me fnsnfm

[knights4knights]

heyyy for knight scenarios 👀 what about some knight4knight jealous fighting turned rough fucking? (interpret as you wish - knights in a love triangle, possesive knight dealing a punishment to their lover, whatever you fancy)

WHAT ABOUT IT INDEED

knight4knight dynamic I've been spinning around in my head is being one of two knights who are both favorites of their prince, always competing against each other for the prince's attention and admiration (and each other's)

(tw for dubcon and rough fucking with a sword hilt)

One night, the prince has called you to his chambers to thank you for a service you've recently rendered him. You pass by your fellow knight, posted at his door, and though his helm is on, you know he's glaring at you as you pass. You smirk at him, and say nothing; you know that will make him angrier than any jab you could make, and sure enough, you hear the clank of him shifting, the huff of his irritation within his helm.

Your prince bids you kiss his ring. You don't question why he's asked you to his chambers in the night for this rather than doing it before all your peers; you know why, and it's not your place to question your liege, besides. This, the honor of taking his hand, your lips lingering on his ring, that hand turning to cup your jaw, run a thumb over your lips, turn your face to look up at him where he sits in his fine chair, is greater than any public honor. He guides your head to rest on his knee, his thumb poised teasingly on your lower lip as he thanks you. You wonder if this will be the evening he awards you the great honor of doing him the service you truly desire, but instead, he awards you a fine new sword, fingers running reverently over the hilt in a way that makes your mouth water. He gestures at last for you to stand and hands you the sword, extracting an oath from you to use it in his service alone, and dismisses you.

"Tell my guard not to be too jealous," he says as you go, and you smile, knowing he called you here with your rival at his door on purpose.

As you exit the prince's chambers, you repeat his message to your rival. "Don't worry, sir knight," you tell him, resting your hand on the hilt of the sword that now hangs at your side. "Perhaps you too may one day please our prince as I have." As you walk away, you pause consideringly, and add, "or perhaps not. Certainly not as well as I have, at least."

Youve scarcely turned away again before you hear the clank of his sudden movement. Your hands have already unsheathed your new sword before you even fully comprehend his advance. You came to the prince's chambers unarmed and unarmored, vulnerable as you rarely are. He is out of your measure; a single step could bring him in it, but he is fully armored. Still, he has not drawn his sword.

"Drawing your sword outside our lord's chambers?" Your rival says. He still doesn't unsheath his own sword, but you remain on guard, eyes tracking him. "I do not think spilling my blood would impress him."

"I've already impressed him," you point out, tilting your sword slightly so the true edge catches the gleam of the nearby torches. It's this slight shift, this momentary distraction of your own smugness, that he takes advantage of.

He moves swiftly; you hesitate for just a moment--you have never honestly considered your rivalry such that it would come to blows, and truly, you don't believe the prince would be pleased if you wounded him here--but that moment is all it takes, and he is too close to strike.

He moves to grab you by the back of your neck and your hip; you attempt to thwart him, jamming one hand into his elbow and trying to catch the other of the arm going for your neck with your right hand, but the sheer weight of his armor prevents you from taking control, and he throws you hard against the wall, knocking the wind from you. Your head cracks against the stone, and in your shock, he grabs the wrist of the hand holding your sword and pins it against the wall, taking the sword. His other hand remains against your hip, painfully tight, pushing you into the wall.

You wrap a leg around his, attempting to pull on his knee and tip him over, but the weight is simply too much, and it only brings you closer together, hips meeting hips, and with the greater closeness, you realize there is something hard beneath his chainmail skirt. He freezes at the contact, the press of your body against his cock. You shift, and it's a testament to his sudden distraction that you're able to move your hips despite his grip. You press against his groin, and--yes, you can feel it; beneath the mail, there is only his braies and tunic. He flinches, hand tightening again on your hip.

"You're a worm," he spits. "Gnawing your way through the sweet apple of our prince, tempting him, corrupting him."

"I don't think it is the prince who finds himself tempted, sir knight," you murmur, and the gauntleted hand around your throat tightens. You think it will probably bruise, and the thought makes you dizzier than it should. "What is it that excites you? Brutality? Laying hands on your fellow knight? Or is it the thought of me, alone in his quarters with our prince?"

"How dare you?" He growls, but you can feel him throb as you speak. "You don't deserve this sword." You feel the point of it slip beneath the skirt of your tunic and up to against your stomach. There's a moment of alarm--surely, he doesn't mean to kill you right outside the prince's chambers with the very sword your liege only moments ago awarded you?--but then you feel it push behind the knot of the drawstring of your braies.

You gasp as the knight shifts the sword, slicing cleanly through the knot and grazing the soft skin of your stomach as he does. You feel blood beading, dripping down the trail of hair leading to your bush, and the sword is pulled away, replaced by the cold metal of the knight's gauntlet. He pulls your braies down rougly, and with them your hose, and you suck in a breath as you feel his gauntlets pass over your bush, across your inner thighs, and then press roughly between them. Your legs open obligingly, and his armor is so cold against your warm legs. Your hands adjust on his shoulders; you're not sure when, exactly, you decided to hold onto him rather than push him away, but it feels immaterial as the knight's cold gauntlets press against the warmth of your cunt. You can't say you've never imagined it before, alone in your bed at night, hands working between your legs, just as his fingers now move back and forth. He seems to notice something about the ease of how they slide, because he looks up sharply. "You're wet," he says accusingly, and you can't help but grin.

"You throw a man against a wall, press your hard cock against him, and pull down his trousers, you can't expect him to be unaffected," you point out, and you hear him take a sharp breath.

"You're demented," he says, disbelieving, but his hand has not stopped moving, and you feel one sharp finger press questioningly against your entrance. You gasp again, pressing against the finger, a little apprehensive of the overlapping plates, but also curious about how they'll feel within. It pushes in and you groan, bearing down on it--yes, you were right, the ridges of the plates are just what you wanted them to be, and the finger is so hard, so cold, so thick, but the knight pulls out immediately, making an irritated noise. His hand remains between your legs, and you grind down against it, sighing when your clit presses against the softer leather heel of his palm.

"You're degenerate," he tells you, and you nod impatiently, pressing against him. He presses his hand harder against you, his finger pressing again at your entrance. "You are a corrupting influence on our prince," he says, and this, you can't agree with; your prince remains faultlessly--well, if not proper, or formal, at least decorous. "You don't deserve this sword," he says again, and his hand leaves your cunt.

You make a noise of protest, but before you can even try to follow it, something else presses against you.

It's cold and hard and round, and before you can fully process it, it pushes into you, stretching you further than you thought you could take, and you gasp, a high keening noise slipping free.

"Sir knight--" you say, but his other hand covers your mouth, hard steel against your lips. His blank helm reveals nothing, and your eyes flick down to see--

Your tunic is rucked up around your waist, your braies and hose in a pool at your ankles, and between your legs is the sword your prince gave you, turned in the knight's hand. The round thing that entered you was the pommel of your sword. The knight is fucking you with your sword.

You try to say something against his hand, but he pushes it deeper into you, and all words are lost. The pommel is stretching you like you've never felt before, an unyielding metal ball pushing its way in, whatever your cunt has to say about it, and God, it feels incredible. He pulls out and pushes back in and he's fucking you with it, hard and fast, in and out, the pommel moving from your entrance to somewhere deep within you, finding deeper purchase with every thrust. You moan, hips pushing down to meet it, over and over, until you feel it hit your cervix. You cry out, but the knight doesn't react, continuing his ruthless pace until you feel what must be the guard meet your entrance, slamming against you, and your eyes roll, head falling back against the wall, realizing you've taken the entire hilt.

"You--you took it all," he says, sounding disbelieving, and he's breathing hard. You don't think it's with the effort of it, and when he's done, you'll have to take a peak beneath his mail skirt. You pant open-mouthed against his hand, the metal warming with your heat.

With every thrust, the guard hits your clit, drawing a moan. Heat builds deep in your stomach, the pommel moving hard and unyielding within you like--like the voice of God, like a revelation, and finally, you come hard with a shout. He rewards the noise with one last savage thrust before he pulls the sword out. The sound of the pommel's removal is a lewd pop that you'll remember for the rest of your life.

He releases you, stepping back as he inspects the sword. There's a bit of blood on the hilt, and he wipes it on his surcoat. "You don't deserve this blade," he says again, and you roll your eyes, trying to hide how weak your knees are. You can still feel the pommel within you, the pressure of it right at the heart of you. You think you'll feel it for a long time.

"So you said," you say, and hold your hand out for it, but he doesn't move. "The prince will notice if you wield it."

"Then you will tell him I won it," the knight says, and your face colors. It's not untrue. You wonder if the prince will guess how, exactly, he won it from you, and then you think to wonder why the prince never came to investigate the ruckus just outside his chambers. The knight hadn't been quiet, couldn't be with his armor clanking, and you certainly weren't either. You wonder what the prince might have made of the sounds outside his door--if he'd imagined what their source might be.

"I suppose I will," you say, and something about your smile makes him sigh.

"Get out of my sight," he says, resuming his post beside the prince's door.

"Gladly, sir knight," you say, and bow despite your shaking knees. "Goodnight."

He doesn't dignify you with a response, but you hear the sound of his head turning to watch you as you go.