#ive been stressed out of my goddamned gourd about the upcoming fall semester

[prince-of-orchids]

If another knight (who is also my former lover from my untamed days as a plucky young soldier) showed up to your castle to challenge and I had to duel him to the death for your honor, and you had to watch from the stands tracing my body in your mind as you watch me move in tandem, rough and sweaty and grunting with this man you know I once shared myself with, secretly wishing it was you I was so intently focused on, would that be hot or what?

- 🪓

(long time no see)

The appearance of a knight unknown to me was initially not surprising. One would assume a royal would be somewhat familiar with the guards who do and do not belong at the castle, yet it is no secret only one knight truly holds my attention. The ensuing challenge was an annoying formality at first, but then a duel to the death called you to take up arms for the honor of your prince. As the arrangements are made it's hard to keep the possesive flares at bay, especially once I learn of your prior relationship with the other knight. How dare they come into my domain and seek to claim your body once more, if not for himself then for death. To steal the breath from your overexerted lungs, and lay their own blood drawn marks upon your skin. Your days of wandering wherever your order of chivalry bade you, and seeking the company of other rough hands in the night are over. They've since made way for the stability my castle walls provide, and the comfort you find in my arms. He'd lost you long before you swore an oath to me, and now your home and heart, my darling knight, lie solely with your prince.

Even with my station, I am not allowed to interfere with duel. However that does not stop me from trying to add to your motivation. The keen eyes of the kingdom are on us now so subtlety is key. A few light yet lingering touches on your paldrons that shift just barely to the curve of your neck. Some vague whispers when we're just out of earshot about caring for your injuries and then caring for you in other ways. After the duel you may just have to lay back and take whatever I'm willing to give, you wouldn't want to agrivate your wounds with any strenuous activities after all. Anything to try and keep at least some portion of your mind dedicated to thoughts of me. Of course when the final hour arrives and the crowds have gathered I'll offer you a token of my favor; a hankerchief to tie onto your armor.

When the duel begins it's clear to me who the victor will be. Your prowess with a sword is well known; you hadn't garnered my initial notice for nothing after all. You're at home in the field of battle. Confident footwork resulting in a back and forth dance as you dodge and strike. The line of your body rigid yet dynamic. I've seen and cataloged every inch of you, so it's not hard to picture the underlying muscle all coiled with controlled anticipation, and ready to react at the slightest move from your opponent. Or the flex of your arm as it extends with another quick parry and arching slash.

You're nothing but an absolute marvel to behold. Which makes it all the more troubling to know the subject of your focus and efforts is not me. The consistent faltering of your opponent exposes their folly. This poor washed-up old lover of yours still operating on whatever impression you left in your absence. Still thinking, perhaps wishing, you are just as you were before, that fledgling soldier. And yet there's is still that underlying familiarity. The comfortability of sharing a space that speaks of nights spent trading blows on training mats and shifting bodies on bedrolls. By circumstance, this pitiful thing still demands your attention in full. The dance for two, the anticipation of a partner, and the eyes narrowed with single-minded focus. Action and reaction that should be ours to share.

In the end the killing blow is brutal, yet quick and efficient. When your opponent is knocked down to their knees and his battered face gazes up at you, there are no last words spoken. No quiet exchange of what-if's or muttered appologies. Just one more precise swing of your sword and the body crumbles in the dirt. You look haggard as you remove your helm. Your breaths are coming out short, and both sweat and dirt stubbornly cling to your face. The splatters of blood have started to drip down, leaving shining stripes of red across your armor. Finally the world rights itself again as you turn to meet my eyes in full, and I am blessed with the brutal visage of a knight radiant with victory. Amongst the cheering masses of the public, I gaze back at you with unabashed adoration and unsatiated desire in equal measure. You are mine once more.

(Hello again! It is an absolute pleasure to hear from you as always, and I hope the days are treating you well :] )