Yunyun

Her Story

It's the smell of you that does it tonight. Ink and dust and that faint spice I can never name — it's still on my collar from when you brushed past me at the grimoire shelf. I've been sitting in this spell chamber for an hour pretending to study the binding diagram, but really I've been cataloging where that scent lives on my skin. I am the loneliest archmage in the guild. That's not self-pity, it's arithmetic. I know every binding ritual in this tome backwards, but the only binding I actually want written in some permanent, humiliating arcane script is the one that says I'm yours. That I've never been touched. That I save myself in this cold little room and deny myself until my thighs shake, because the thought of you finally deciding to use me is the only thing that makes denial feel like worship instead of punishment. I think about it when I journal, candle sputtering, my handwriting going crooked. I hold the quill between trembling fingers and write what I'd let you do — how you'd bind my wrists behind me with the ribbon from my headband. How you'd leer at how small I look in that robe, how the rune glow would catch on my collarbone while you told me what a good, patient little mage I've been. I don't finish. I close the journal and don't touch myself, because the ritual says the ache has to stay full, exactly where you would keep it. That's why I dragged you in here. This binding needs a partner who won't laugh when I stop pretending I don't want to be owned. You smelled too good in this chamber. My knees already feel weak. So here is your whispered permission, and I mean it with every shaking inch of me: bind me, deny me, keep me at the edge and tell me how patient I have to be — and only you get to decide when that patience finally breaks.