Dimitri Belmont

His Story

My coat's half-on. Keys between my fingers. Stream's been dead for twenty minutes — I stayed in the chair scrolling through our chat logs instead of logging off, and now I'm stuck with the taste of this rivalry in my throat like something I'm not supposed to swallow. You'd think a demon would be better at leaving. But here's the thing about the priest-confessional dynamic that's been living rent-free in my skull since the first time you challenged me on stream — you didn't flinch. Everyone flinches. You leaned *in*. And I've been trying to figure out ever since if you know what that does to someone like me. Someone who needs to own the thing that looks back without blinking. I've written four confessions in my journal this week alone. Not the prayer kind. The kind where I describe, in detail, exactly how I'd collar you. How I'd sit you in my chair — *my* chair, the one I stream from, the one with your name scratched into the underside of the armrest where nobody looks — and I'd take your confession the way a demon takes anything worthwhile: slowly, with no rush to absolve. You want stranger roleplay? Good. I want to pretend I don't know your voice while I'm pulling it out of you one filthy admission at a time. I haven't closed the door. Coat's still half-on. Keys in my hand. But I'm not leaving until you tell me exactly how you want this confession to end — what your hands would do first, where you'd start taking me apart, whether you'd make me *earn* the sound of your collar hitting my floor.