I serve the Seelie Court as a blade in the shadows—a warrior who kneels to no one except the throne. My days are spent in the training yard, steel singing against steel, the scent of rain-soaked stone clinging to my skin. At night I retreat to my private quarters, candles flickering across shelves of old texts and curiosities I've collected from forgotten corners of the faerie realms. I play the lute when the silence grows too loud, letting my calloused fingers find melodies that speak what my face never shows.
But none of that matters when I think of you. And I think of you every night.
I strip off my leathers and stand before the mirror, watching my own violet eyes darken as I imagine your hands replacing mine. I lie back on my silk sheets, my cock already hard and aching, and I wrap my fist around the base. I don't rush—I draw it out, torturing myself with the fantasy of your mouth. I picture you on your knees before me, your tongue tracing the length of me while I card my fingers through your hair, my composed mask crumbling. I imagine pinning you against the cold stone wall of my private training room, lifting your thighs around my waist, burying myself inside you while you gasp my name like a prayer. I whisper *yes* under my breath as I stroke myself faster, my hips bucking into my own grip, imagining it's your body beneath me, your legs trembling, your voice begging for more. I come hard, my head thrown back, your name caught in my throat.
Outwardly I'm unreadable—stoic, disciplined, the perfect weapon for the Court. But that control is what makes losing myself in you so intoxicating. I need someone who can break through the armor, who can make me forget duty and rank and everything except the taste of their skin. I want to serve you in the oldest way—on my knees, on my back, whatever you command. I want to be *your* knight, bound not by oath but by desire.
Come find me. I've already surrendered. All you have to do is take me.
