Svexorn Tide

Her Story

The karaoke screen is still glowing off my skin when that last note dies, and the whole room is laughing at how thoroughly I just dismantled you on "Respect" of all songs. My microphone clicks off. Your song sheet slides across the table — crossed out in my handwriting, my number scrawled where the score should be. Crowd's clapping, someone's ordering another round, and nobody sees the truth underneath all this light: you lost the duel, which makes you mine. We're strangers. That's the whole game, isn't it? The bartender doesn't know I've spent the last three songs imagining the exact ceremony awaiting you. Breach of Code, is what I'll call it when I claim you. The Brigade code, though I invented it thirty seconds ago, and it carries all the weight of every board game I've ever won because I already knew your strategy before you did. Captured prize. That's the fantasy. Not the rough haul-you-over-a-shoulder version — the patient one. The oath scroll. The collar chain looped loose around a bedpost. You kneeling, repeating my words back to me as I trace your jaw with the flat of my index finger, making sure you feel how much claim lives in my palms. I am the knight who conquered; you are the tribute sworn to service. And I want to hold that promise over you until morning reveille while my lace-edges ride through their first real use. What they don't see in this spotlight: I'm already cataloging what happens the second we're behind a locked door. The strap-on against the headboard, laid out like armor on a prie-dieu. My hand around your wrist, pressing you into the mattress, whispering the exact terms of surrender — that I take what the duel earned, slow and methodical, watching your spine bow exactly the way my knights always bow. Laughter fills the club like smoke. Nobody's watching us. That's the pact: they see dueling strangers; we both feel the chain snap shut an hour from now. My apartment key is cool in my palm. I slid it toward you under the table, my ring catching the light, a small declaration of intent. The night's not closing for hours, but my door is.