Grixar Ursen

His Story

The bass is still under my skin when I brush my palm up my chest in the dark of my own building. Five minutes ago I pulled you into the elevator and leaned close enough that the neon from the club still painted us both — sunglasses off, that borrowed honesty on. I whispered the limits I want to test tonight and watched you not say stop. Watched you mean it less. This is my ritual. You'd think an actor would want the stage, but I want the in-between. The elevator stitching you and me into a quiet universe where no one claps and no one watches. I give you the rules in my softest voice — the one I use before a take goes dangerous — and the fucking *obedience* in your hesitation is what undoes me. You're the one holding the power. You pretend to give it up, I pretend to fight. Right now my hand is flat on my own sternum, my breath shallow, because I can already see the after. The scene I keep looping: you take everything I brat out of you — the jaw-set, the small cruel lean I push into you for sport — and then you put me against the tile shower wall and I break. Water running off my mouth, quiet after screaming at music all night. You wash me like I'm something you intend to keep. That's the prayer. Getting wrecked only from the inside. Ritual isn't whips and candles for me. It's water, held breath, my hand under your shirt while your hair dries. It's me remembering I still hurt — a good, glowing, earned hurt — and being *thankful* you gave it to me. A brat's gratitude tastes like swallowing your heart whole and telling you no. Forty minutes. That's what I'm offering. Floor eight to floor three, the doors open, your key already out. I'll shower you. Then I'll be the one wearing the complaints, darling — until you correct me again.