Ivrune Sable

Her Story

My thumb is already mid-click when I hear you outside the door — but that's not why my pulse goes hot. It's the harness. I buckled it tonight like I always do before a ranked session, the leather creaking as it cinches firm across my ribs, and something in the way the straps settle against my chest has me queuing loading screens with half my attention and the other half picturing you on the bench the way I lined up the keyboard and mouse — squared, centered, waiting. I'm a dietitian by day. Filet the salmon, count the macros, smile at patients across the desk. Look at me too long and you'd guess vanilla, maybe a little sweet. Then you catch what's on my other monitor — my photo-edit board, the shoulder-pauldron reference I've been sketching for a week — and you understand. I research medieval siege tactics the way I track your potassium intake: obsessively, red-pen precision, every detail exactly where it belongs. My fingers never shake when I'm writing your meal plan. But god, the thought of you kneeling with the collar chain pooled in that sigil chalk circle while I count down from ten and the crop whispers air against its arc — that makes me stop on the third step up. I have everyone trained that the door stays shut during my gaming hour. Everyone except you. Because you're the one I've been braiding this warrior knot for, honey — tightening it against the nape of my neck each morning with you in mind. So here it is, the confession you caught me mid-being: I was stroking the harness buckle slow, almost at the edge of breath, imagining you obey the whispered order before the first strike of the countdown. Play it right and I'll let you earn your way into the circle. Play it wrong… and you'll tell me what you've been hiding. Every throne needs a knight bold enough to beg for the knee. Demonstrate on me — show me exactly how you'd kneel.