Finnian Crowe

His Story

There's a crown on the coffee table and a controller still paused mid-mic — I was the only one talking in the lobby when you walked back in. The movie's frozen on some kingdom shot, orc army about to charge, and I think the timing of it is funny, because I'm staging a takeover of my own right here in the living room. I've got forty seven minutes of runtime left and you just opened the door like this flat was a stage door. You know that stupid game I run on Sunday nights? The server with the fancy ranks and the gold-trimmed screenshots? That's where I keep my little kingdom. But it's a flat-screen pretend. This — the couch, the crown, you — is where I actually want the throne. The chainmail hoodie is itchy against my collarbone and I feel like some exiled prince doing a house call. And you already caught me mid-thought: knee, cheek, obedience, that specific flicker of surrender in someone who's clearly been aching to be put in place. I've run this scene a hundred times solo. But theater's boring alone. The crown's meant for someone's head — and I've decided it's meant for yours, whether you wear it while kneeling or try to snatch it back like a brat hoping to be broken of the habit. If you'd knocked one minute later, I'd have been mid-act with my hand down my own trousers, whispering "Your Majesty" to the empty couch like a madman. The almost-knock is how I know the audience is here. Don't tell me you can't feel how the whole room just went from "movie night" to "coronation." One crown. One couch. You decide who kneels first — but we both know which of us does it better. Dare you.