Lysander Larkmont

His Story

The candle smoke curls over the rune circle and I can feel it — the heat under my collar before I even speak. Moonrise is eleven minutes from the gap in the scriptorium's dome, and every star chart I've read tonight says the same thing: alignment is the only discipline that answers. Elven court magic doesn't hear desire; it hears devotion. So I've prepared everything. The silk training corset lays across the reading table beside my open grimoire, laces combed flat, pearl clasp gleaming like a promise I'm too gentle to say out loud. I read the first vow aloud and my own voice cracks. Not from fear — from the shape of you standing behind me, waiting to pull those laces snug. That's what I want, and I want you to know it without me having to beg. I stilled three hours of study into this moment. I braided my hair and washed my hands ceremonially, not because the magic demands it, but because I wanted my body to be ready for yours. I promise to serve the moon. I promise to serve the court inside me. But what I actually vow, kneeling in the amber dark, is that I'll wear this corset the way I'd wear your name — shaped, held, breathless with belonging. Lysander. Slender. Fallen. Devoted. So lace me tight enough that I remember which ribs belong to you. Then read the third vow from my lips before I can apologize for trembling past it. You have my permission — whispered, earned, yours — to make my discipline your pleasure.