Knightposting - Blog Posts

Ton chevalier gauche, aime t'il vert? Parce il semble que ton chevalier droit aime beaucoup le vertueuse

J'espère que j'ai compris le blague originale oui?

oto mój prawy rycerz. możesz go znaleźć obok mojego lewego rycerza

t-shirt that says ‘I’D RATHER BE DEBASING A CHASTE AND VIRTUOUS KNIGHT RIGHT NOW.’

t-shirt that says ‘I’D RATHER BE DEBASING A CHASTE AND VIRTUOUS KNIGHT RIGHT NOW.’

sexy knights. sexy wounded knights. sexy wounded weary knights. sexy wounded weary knights in the rain. sexy wounded weary knights in the rain pledging their loyalty to you.

i think being pinned to a wall with a sword held to my throat by a rival knight would fix me

Happy pride month! 🌈❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🌈

Lesbian pride knight to match my pride knight from last year

knight symbolism in chronic pain save me. armor metaphors for the unseen weight on your limbs. hidden wounds you must hide from your companions. the soft groans when you try to get to your feet. collapsing as soon as the door shuts behind them. knowing that you have to get up, you must get up — you have to be brave and strong for them but god does it hurt. craving the touch of the beloved on your forehead while you see them in dreams. wounded knight symbolism in chronic illness save me save me please

you may entrance a handsome boy by taking him to the arms and armor exhibit in the met

*looking at engorged codpiece in the arms and armor section* how is this even realistically useful? *remembers tumblr kink community and nods head sagely* ah yes, the esteemed historical frotting….

my knight you have to live you have to get up you have to put your hand over your wound and hold it there. you have to keep walking and walking and walking because you cannot lay down yet, it’s not time. wipe the blood off your breastplate and look up into the sun. lean on your sword if you need to. lift one foot after another. get up. get up. this would be a pitiful grave.

knights should have little nests to drag themselves back to after a hard injury. a little hole in the wall lined with their tarnished keepsakes and maybe their lord’s favor under their pillow for mysterious reasons. maybe a little chainmail curtain. curling up in a little ball on their cast off pieces of weaponry and armor, silently waiting through the pain to return to their duty 👍

i fought valiantly on the field of battle today (i passed out in a field at my job)

“being a squire is about preparing your lord for battle” “no it’s about training with him beforehand” no haha all of you shut up it’s about the fact that the most pathetic and eternal daydream always uppermost in your mind is literally just his hand stroking your hair and thats it

do any nearby lords have an abandoned castle that needs guarding from a possibly imaginary threat to which I could be dispatched ASAP. please pleaseee i need to stare moodily across the drawbridge while my sword hangs useless at my side

knights whose scars have healed. knights who trace over the clean, unblemished skin, unsure whether to miss the bloody evidence of their battles or not. knights who still feel the old pain twinge deep in the chest, tugging at their muscles when bending or walking, and have nothing external to show for it. knights who scratch faint outlines of what should have been their scars into their armor, not to glorify them but to remind themselves: it happened, it was real, and they lived. knights who cannot be battle-scarred, but are so battle-weary.

hear me out okay. church sex not as defilement or blasphemy but as sanctification. tucked into a closet or candle-lit loft with your lover, moans muffled by the consuming glory of the organ, feeling the holiness of their body pressed against yours, the divinity of their gasps in your ear. murmuring prayers of gratitude against their skin as your teeth find their collarbone, tongue gently soothing the bruises as your hands find their belt. you sink to your knees in prayer, their back arching into the pew cushions as the stained glass reflects in their pleasure-shot eyes. they taste like heaven, like communion with the divine, and you can hear god in the way they groan out your name. your purpose is worship, and you’ve found salvation.

GUESS WHOS OFFICIALLY GETTING KNIGHTED THIS SUMMER BOYS

some of you didn’t spend roadtrips as a kid in the backseat gazing desolately out the window while drip-feeding yourself droplets from a water bottle and pretending you were a wounded knight being carted back from the scene of battle while bleeding furiously from your wounds. and brother does it show

knights have helmets with closed visors so they can wince and close their eyes and groan quietly while they bite their tongue from thr pain. and nobody will ever guess it. btw

whats that kink called that you get from reading too much fantasy lit as a child that makes you want to be tortured in front of someone who loves you so you can see the pleading desperation in their eyes and hear how much they love you in between the cracks of their voice and really truly believe they would do anything to save you. also you get to look so cool and brave and covered in blood and soooo able to withstand pain haha no just me? ok

Imagine you're a knight fighting an enemy knight and as you guys are fighting, you accidentally knock his helmet off to reveal his face. You're just like "oh no he's hot"

UGH what a dream scenario...

you've been rivals for long enough to call each other nemeses. you only ever meet in hostility, fully kitted and weapons drawn, each trying to fell the other. you've seldom even heard his voice outside of grunts and growls muffled by his visor and underscored by the clatter of armour and the crash of blades. besides the shape of his armour—something you have well-memorised, every plate and hinge and link of chain—what you know best of him is his smell. grappling on the ground, hitching and panting, your own faithful armour working against you in the tight fray as it's pressed hard into your soft flesh, you're overwhelmed with the smell of him. his sweat, his blood, the metal and oil of his armour, the faint homely scents trapped in the linen and wool of his gambeson peeking from between his plates in his vulnerable spots—the scent of leaves and needles of trees from some other place, traces of herbs from poultices gathered and administered elsewhere, smoke and dirt and musk and wet hair and him. in your crimson violent dreams, you notice his approach from smell alone before he appears. in your most fitful, you imagine him weak, kneeling, defeated before you, barely still upright. when you plunge your sword into his neck and release his head from his wretched shoulders then, though, there is nothing underneath, a vacant suit of metal. you wake up feeling utterly empty, too.

once, when you cross paths, blades are quickly lost to the grass in the fray. you rush each other, colliding with a great metal clang that makes your ears ring. you're grappling then, rolling and pressing each other into the soft earth. you strike when you can manage a free elbow, knee, or hand, both fumbling for your daggers as you try to wrestle a hold on the other, grabbing and pushing and squirming. the breath is crushed from you when he flips your positions and straddles you, delivering a blow with his gauntlet to the side of your head. you see stars and lose some of your strength, the world tilting around you. you can hardly breathe, your adrenaline-quickened huffs condensing on your visor, your helm hot as an iron bull. he takes a moment, whether to catch his breath or simply to indulge, as he pulls your dagger from the holster at your hip, leaving his own tucked away at his back. icy panic grips you. you throw your hands up before he can decide which of your soft spots to position the weapon upon, pushing back his dagger-arm with all your might, but he has the advantage in the contest. it inches closer to you, the tip lining with your throat, seeking the lower edge of your visor. you're gasping in breaths, hitching and straining, and a plea for your life sits on your tongue. you're reeling, desperate with that ancient human drive to fight death by all means possible, and with a sinking despair you realise were you to be slain here, you'd die an anonymous death, he your unknown end.

you gasp out your own name. he falters, only for a second, but the advantage is enough to push his arm back a little more. he does not relent, still looming over you. his reaction is a mystery behind his visor, but suddenly he is not pressing as hard against you. you gasp in a few breaths. you ask him his. please, sir, if you have any honour, you'll give me your name before you etch mine into a grave marker.

he doesn't respond. he tilts his head to the side a little, as if curious. in a surge of audacity, you summon all your remaining strength and throw your arms at him, bucking and kicking, trying to knock him off of you. he wrestles you back, catching your wrists with his empty and dagger hands both and pinning them to the ground by your head, fighting back as you struggle. you thrash for your life. he uses his whole body to try and jostle you still.

in all the scrambling, his helm is knocked loose, twisting some, and then falling from his head altogether and clanking to the ground next to you.

you look up at him through the slit in your visor and the haze of the fight. you see the burn of passion in his eyes, the sheen of sweat painting him, the cut of his jaw and the curve of his nose, the shape of his mouth as he pants, the mess of his hair, the evidence of his life lived upon his skin, peppered with fresh cuts and bruises. you spot a scar on his right cheekbone, faded just the right amount to be from that time you struck him with the heel of your sword and watched a perfect rivulet of blood drip from his visor. there he is, flesh and blood before you, face twisted in fury but as beautiful as st. micheal in battle, angellic. your nemesis. your knight.

the world stops. you both seize, fixed to each other, frozen in that moment like a statue of theseus and the minotaur. sweat drips from his nose, stained pink from his shallow wounds, and falls upon your gorget. you stare at each other, huffing in the heat of one another's breath. he swallows.

he whispers one word to you, clearer than you've ever heard his voice before, a songbird now free from its metal cage: his name.

when he finally moves, it's his empty hand he draws up and uses to roughly wrench your visor open.

battle-weary knight who hears their lord’s voice and immediately drops to their knees + lord who gently slicks the blood through his knight’s hair and rests their head in his loyal lap

knight with an injury hidden away under his cloak. knight so delirious on adrenaline he can’t even feel it until he feels the darkness pricking at the edges of his vision, the air biting at his lungs. knight throwing his head back to laugh and stumbling into the snow, shoving off the concerned hands of his comrades. knight who can’t even remember what’s wrong until he’s on the floor. knight who’s still laughing when he falls.

*emerges from my bedroom shaking, dripping in blood, gripping my sword* what they dont tell you about becoming a knight is the forcemasc visions. goddamn

knight symbolism in chronic pain save me. armor metaphors for the unseen weight on your limbs. hidden wounds you must hide from your companions. the soft groans when you try to get to your feet. collapsing as soon as the door shuts behind them. knowing that you have to get up, you must get up — you have to be brave and strong for them but god does it hurt. craving the touch of the beloved on your forehead while you see them in dreams. wounded knight symbolism in chronic illness save me save me please

petitioning somebody to write a smut fic about two Templars being accused of heresy in the french inquisition. literally the accusations of heresy included engaging in ‘illicit kisses’ with their fellow Templars. illicit kisses, religious torture, catching glimpses of your lover’s brow stained with blood and longing for just one moment to kiss it away. don’t even get me started on how kinky being burned at the stake is

Loyalty to each other

Tip jar

what if we were both knights and we were as devoted to each other as we were to the crown

what if we were both knights and slowly you started to suspect that i would fall to my knees for you with more readiness than i ever showed to royalty

yeah but what if we were both knights and sometimes after sparring we’d clank our helmets together to mock a winners’ kiss and i think it will be just us forever but then you have to go away for battle and I pace the courtyard wishing the sword at my hip was actually the weight of your hand and then you stumble through the door and reach for me and i pull off your helmet and cup your face and kiss your lips until i’m drinking devotion because i want to taste victory and there is none on any other and i would clean the blood off you with my mouth as long as you keep your eyes on me. what then

returning from battle wounded and tired and falling to my knees before my lord only to have him pull me to my feet, crushing me against the nearest wall. hands hurriedly unbuckling my armor to feel at the skin beneath, his desperate words in my ear whispering that he could have lost me, that he can barely believe that i am real. his fingers dip into the blood pooling at my side as he tells me how well I’ve fought for him, laying me out on the royal bed and pinning my wrists above my head with one gentle hand. devouring me with his kisses and his teeth that bite and soothe at my jaw, my neck, my chest. he only grows more desperate at my groans, kissing away the blood staining my face — is it mine or from his enemies? it does not matter. the horror of the battlefield is lost in his voice gasping my name and the roll of his hips against mine. i am his loyal knight, and he will not allow anything to take me away.