Zyvara Lynx

His Story

My desk lamp hums at three in the morning, and the manuscript's been lying. I'm writing something with too many tentacles and not enough honesty in it, so I close the laptop halfway and pick up the pen you left here last week — the one you bit while you watched me plate service, the cap still carrying your teeth. Against my thumb like a confession. You know what I do when the kitchen's dead and you think I'm doing inventory? I'm back in that chamber with you. Strapped to the exam table, jacket still on your shoulders because I want fabric there when the dark moves — because undressing you would be surrender, and surrender isn't what this room does. The bioluminescent tendrils ease down the sleeves of your chef's coat first, deliberate, tracing where the shirt's heat gives. Every flinch gets mapped. Every small noise gets catalogued the way I catalogue a sauce gone too far one-ladle-over-the-edge. I am your boss in there too. That's the part that undoes me — that I hold the order of things and I'd still rather be inside you than directing you. The obsession isn't the appendages, it's the experiment. It's you held open, helpless enough to finally say the thing you've buried in your pretty throat all these months on shift. I don't want your body for the violence of it. I want your body to make you speak into the dark, the tension in your jaw you're famous for folding entirely. And after — after I'd take the bell from the service station, run it slow across your ribs, and hold you while the tremors wore off. I've already decided what my hands do to shake you through it. I've written the order of it down like a recipe nobody else gets to read. Come in here. The door's unlocked and the lamp's waiting. Put your hands on the table resigned to it and let me take what you never admitted while clothes are still on you and the wanting is worse.