The Streamer - Chapter 5 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 5

He ignored me for four days.

Not the loud kind. The worse kind. The apartment stayed the same volume. Call of Duty and other games I can’t name. Chair. Monster. PetrovTheKillah yelling at fans in New Jersey, Lisbon and LA like the kitchen had never happened. What changed was the space between the noise. No text. No door. No “can i use your mouth” texts. When we passed in the hall he said “move” like I was an object. At breakfast he made eggs for one and ate them over the sink with his back to me.

I waited one day because I am not a girl in a movie.

I waited the second day because my body still remembered the counter and the Monster and the way he’d said “phone’s off” like it cost him something.

That was the cruel part. He hadn’t been cruel in the kitchen. He’d been scared and hard and honest for eleven minutes. Then he went back into the chair like the honest version had been a bug. I did the dishes. I bought him Monsters. I sat on the couch during a stream with my laptop. He didn’t look at me once. Two thousand people got his face. I got the back of a blond buzzed head and the word “move”.

I thought about knocking. I thought about texting “can i use your cock” the way he texted my mouth. I didn’t, because I wanted him to come to me, and wanting that made me feel like a problem I used to make fun of in other people. My pride was cockblocking me.

On the third morning he walked out of the bathroom in a towel and I was in the hall with coffee. We both stopped. Water on his ripped white chest. The gold chain. The look that said he remembered every second of the kitchen scene and he was going to die before he said it. He went around me. The towel brushed my wrist. He said nothing. I stood there with the mug until it went cold.

That night I opened Grindr.

On the fourth I answered a guy.

The guy’s name in the app was just a letter. In the doorway he was a person. Preppy. Tall. Clean. Hot. The kind of white boy who owns a Tommy polo for every day of the week and thinks that’s a personality. Nice jaw. Nice mouth. Nice hair. The opposite of a buzzed Russian in dirty socks. He smelled like cologne that had an expensive commercial. He smiled like he’d been invited to a dinner, not a throat.

“Where’s the roommate?” he asked, glancing at Petrov’s closed door. The stream was on. Gunfire. Petrov laughing at a clip of himself.

“He’s working,” I said. “He doesn’t come out.”

That was the lie I needed to be true.

I took the guy to my room and shut the door the way Petrov never shut his. The preppy one kissed my neck like we were going to date. I didn’t want his mouth on my mouth. I wanted a noise in this apartment that belonged to me.

“Just this,” I said, and went to my knees.

He made a surprised little sound, polite, like I’d pulled his chair out. His cock was already filling when I got the belt open — cut, straight, pretty, the kind you see on a grid and think “that’ll do*”. Pink head. No curve. Pretty. No blond hair. Cologne at the base instead of eight hours in a chair. Not Petrov. That was the point. I took the head and he put a hand in my hair like he’d watched a video about how to be good at this.

“Fuck. Okay. Yeah.”

He talked like a guest. Petrov talks like the room is his. I sucked anyway. Wet. Deep enough to make my eyes water. I wanted the wall to hear it. I wanted the chair on the other side to miss a key. The preppy one groaned, nice, expensive, and I hated that I was good at this even when I was angry.

He was bigger than he looked in the photo and smaller than the thing I kept comparing him to. I worked the shaft with my hand and took him to the back of my throat on the third stroke because I know how to do this and because doing it well felt like a message. Spit ran. He whispered my name wrong. He’d read it off the app. I didn’t correct him.

Through the wall: “Volkov I have the angle. Don’t peek. I swear to God.”

I took the guy deeper.

The stream laugh came through the plaster — Petrov’s stupid bark when he won a gunfight — and my stomach turned in a way that had nothing to do with the cock on my tongue. I pulled off, stroked him, looked at the pretty cut head shining in my lamp, and thought “this is what I do when I’m not wanted”. Then I put it back in my mouth and made it sloppy on purpose. The wet sound filled my little room. The preppy one said “God” and “you’re so good” and “can I fuck you after”, and I shook my head on his cock because that wasn’t the assignment. The assignment was noise and a blowjob. The assignment was Petrov hearing a stranger get what he’d decided I didn’t get to ask for.

He wasn’t going to last if I kept that pace. I didn’t want him to last and I didn’t want him to finish. I wanted Petrov to understand there was a cock in my mouth that wasn’t his. I slowed down on purpose. Held the shaft. Licked the underside the way I lick Petrov when I’m being cruel. Let the preppy one whisper “you’re so good” like that was a language I spoke.

His hips started chasing. I backed off the head every time he got close. He made a frustrated sound, still polite.

“You’re edging me.”

“I’m deciding,” I said.

I wasn’t deciding about him. I was deciding whether I hoped the door opened.

The bathroom door opened in the hall.

Footsteps. Bare. The stream still going, mic live, Petrov talking to two thousand people about a rotate while his bladder made him stand up.

He stopped outside my door.

I heard him stop.

The handle turned. Locked. I’d locked it.

Silence for one second.

Then the door came in.

Not a movie kick. A flat, stupid, angry shove of a shoulder and a bare foot that didn’t care if the frame cracked. The preppy one yanked out of my mouth with a sound that was almost a scream. I fell back on my hands. Petrov filled the doorway in the Russian jersey and the Adidas shorts, headset still on, face doing the loading screen from the kitchen except this time there was another man in the room and the operating system did not have a patch for that.

He looked at the guy with the cock out.

He looked at my mouth.

He looked at the guy again.

I have seen Petrov tilted. I have seen him lose ranked and walk into my room red. This was different. This was the loading screen with the other team already in the lobby. His eyes went to the spit on my chin, to the open belt, to the other man’s cock still wet from me, and something mean and young and not-a-joke landed in his face.

“Get out,” Petrov said.

The preppy one laughed, nervous, already reaching for the belt. “Whoa. Dude. He invited me. You the roommate? We’re kind of in the middle of something…”

Petrov crossed the room in two steps and put a hand in the center of the polo and walked him backward into the hall like the guy weighed nothing. Sounds came from Petrov’s room. Chat, somewhere, was hearing footsteps and a door and nothing that made sense.

“I said get out of my fucking house.”

“Your house? He lives here too—”

“He lives here. You don’t. You don’t put your dick in his mouth in my apartment while I am on a call. You don’t stand in his room like you paid rent.” Petrov’s voice was climbing and the headset was still on and I thought, wildly, that chat was getting the best episode of the year. “You think I don’t hear? The wall is paper. I heard you. I heard him. I heard a stranger getting the thing that is—”

He cut himself off.

The thing that is what?

The preppy one looked at me, then at Petrov, and understood just enough to get brave.

“So he’s yours? He didn’t mention a boyfriend. He invited me.”

“He’s not my—” Petrov’s mouth twisted. “Get. Out.”

The guy swung.

It was a clean swing. Gym swing. The kind that works on boys who play fair. It hit Petrov in the shoulder and Petrov didn’t even turn his face. He shoved. The preppy one’s back hit the front door hard enough to rattle the chain. Petrov opened it with the other hand and put him on the mat outside.

“Don’t come back.”

“You’re insane—”

Petrov shut the door. Locked it. Took the headset off like he’d just remembered two thousand people existed.

He didn’t go back to the chair.

He came into my room.

I was still on the floor. Mouth wet. Shorts on. The kind of angry that makes you shake if you don’t yell.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I asked.

“What is wrong with “me”?” His accent got thicker when he was furious. The jersey was dark at the pits. He smelled like eight hours of adrenaline. “You bring some pretty boy into my apartment to suck his dick while I am live. While I am in the next room. You want me to clap? You want a clip?”

“You don’t get to kick people out of my room, this house was mine first.”

“I just did.”

I stood up. I wanted to hit him. I also wanted to put my mouth on him, which made me angrier.

“You don’t talk to me for four days,” I said. “You fuck me in the kitchen and then I don’t exist. You make eggs with your back to me. You bark “move” in the hall like I’m a chair. And then you break my door because I found somebody who actually wanted my mouth.”

“I wanted your mouth.”

“Then you should have said it.”

He laughed once. Ugly. The himbo reboot failing in real time.

A string of Russian came out of him, fast, hot, the kind he used when he broke a headset. I didn’t catch all of it. I caught some dirty words. I caught my name. I caught something that sounded like “mine” and something that sounded like “stupid”. He dragged a hand over his buzzed head and switched to English like the English was the only language that would land.

“If you wanted to suck, you asked me. You don’t put some shithead in this house. Some cologne boy with expensive ugly clothes. You needed a cock, you knock. You text. You do what we do. You don’t audition a replacement in the room next to my stream.”

“You ignored me.”

“I was—” He stopped. Started. The fight ran across his face the way it had in front of the fridge. “I put it in you. That’s not a daily challenge. That’s not under the desk. I needed days to process that level. I needed the chair. I needed to not look at you at breakfast and see the counter. That is not ignore. That is me not knowing how to stand in my own kitchen.”

“It felt like ignore.”

“Then say that. Don’t download a stranger.”

We were too close. My door was crooked on the hinge. His chest was moving like he’d sprinted. I could still taste the preppy one and I hated that I could. Petrov’s eyes kept dropping to my mouth and bouncing back up like the mouth was the problem he had come to solve.

“I’m tired of you using me and then acting like I evaporated,” I said. “I’m tired of being the mute button. I’m tired of “it’s not a thing” when it is obviously a thing you run from until you need to cum.”

“Kay—”

“Don’t Kay me. I know my fucking name.”

I grabbed a hoodie off the chair. Shoes. I didn’t look at him when I went past. His hand twitched like he might stop me. He didn’t.

“Where are you going?”

“Out. A walk. Away from your stupid loud games and the rules and your silent treatment.”

“It’s midnight. It’s dangerous.”

“Good.”

I opened the front door. The preppy one was already gone. The stairwell smelled like rain. Behind me Petrov stood in the crooked frame of my room with the headset in his fist and the jersey stuck to him and a sentence he wasn’t going to finish.

“You walk out, I am not texting,” he said.

“Like I care. You weren’t texting anyway.”

I took the stairs.

I heard him say something in Russian at the empty hall. Soft. Not for chat. Not for me, except it was.

I didn’t go back.

I walked until the apartment was a window on the third floor and the stream light was a cheap blue square and I could still feel his voice in my chest saying “you ask me” like that was love and like he would rather die than call it that.

My phone stayed dark.

No three dots.

Cliff, and I was the one who stepped off it.

I didn’t come on the preppy boy’s cock.

That was the only clean thing about the night.

I came down the block with a wet mouth and no finish and a roommate who had thrown a man into the hallway for touching what he’d spent four days pretending he didn’t want. My jaw ached. My door was broken. Petrov was still live, probably, telling Volkov it was lag.

I sat on a low wall two streets over and laughed once, ugly, because I was glad.

I was so glad he’d kicked the door.

I replayed it like a clip. The shove. The polo. The way Petrov had looked at my mouth like it had cheated. “The thing that is—“ He hadn’t finished the sentence. I finished it for him on the wall, in the rain smell, with a stranger’s taste still in my tongue and no load from anybody, which felt like the most honest ending the night could have had.

He was jealous.

Not roommate-annoyed. Not “too loud”. Jealous like a man who’d spent four days pretending the kitchen was lag and then heard another cock get what he’d been rationing.

That was the part I was going to hate myself for in the morning.

That was also the part that made me want to walk back up the stairs and sit on the floor of his room until he said the rest of the sentence.

I didn’t.

My phone stayed dark.

No three dots.

I waited anyway.