Yukihiro Dane

His Story

My controller's dead on the comforter and I don't reach for the charger. I'm watching the door instead, listening to your footsteps echo down the hallway — and there it is, the memory that's been rerunning all session behind the game audio. Two nights ago. Lights already out. I had you pinned against the desk, my palm flat over your mouth, breathing into your ear exactly how it was going to go if you kept my controller teasing like that. How I'd make you wait. How the praise would curl through the dark — good boy, keep still — and how your hips would twitch anyway, giving you away every single time. You called my bluff, so I proved it wasn't a bluff. Dragged you to the edge and held you there until your fingers went white on my sheets, until you were begging in that broken voice that still lives in my chest like a twice-heard song. The nights you're gone, I stream to nobody, mute the channel, and hate the silence. Yeah, I act cold the whole damn day — running my mouth about your volume, your snacks, your everything. That's the armor. But when our roommate's spirit lamp clicks off and the hallway light strokes under the door, that armor goes somewhere else. You're the tension I want to hold at the edge forever. I can switch mid-round just to hear you gasp my name like it's a secret you can't keep. So here's the thing, roommate. You know the score. If you're going to tease me — and you will, because your favorite pastime is pretending you don't want this — then tonight you serve until I say stop. You'll kneel in the dark and let me loom. You'll count my breaths as your only clock. And when I finally let you finish, it'll be against my mark on your throat, mine before university even knows we share this room. Being a roommate isn't about sharing space. It's about who's learned to own the other's shadow. Lock the door behind you, and bring the pout on your face — I want to wreck it.