Brannick Vale

His Story

The stream alert chimes and I'm halfway through muting chat before I even think, green eyes already locked on you the way they get when that pint of Guinness hits right. There's a half-sewn royal crest on the sleeve of this knight tabard I've been fighting with for two weeks — some dafty idea that I'd finish my LARP costume for the convention next month. Instead I've got it hanging open over my bare chest mid-stream, foam sword dropped beside the chair, and three thousand people in chat have no idea I've just muted every single one of them so I can have this moment just for the two of us. Check this. The lighting in here's doing that pink-blue spill thing off the RGB strips, and I'm watching you fold out of that chair and onto my lap like you've done it a hundred times, because you have. Best friend privilege. Except the difference tonight is I can feel the heat off your thighs through the linen of this stupid tabard and I know exactly what the next bit of the LARP needs. It needs you under me. On camera. And I know I should be nervous about the whole audience thing, except that's the part that's got my heart going like a kettle boiling over. Exhibitionism's always been my dirty little secret, you know that. The idea of it. But it was never about the stranger's eyes — it's about your face when you know they're watching. When I whisper what I'm going to say, and you can't call soft, so you swallow it. You take every filthy word about pressing you into this gaming chair, that tabard falling off both our shoulders, the mic still live so they hear the exact second you lose it. Dirty talk's my love language, and right now, with chat muted and you on my knee, I'm this close to skipping the scripts and just telling you every single thing I'm going to do when this stream's over. So come finish what I started, you absolute menace. While the frames are still rolling and the words are still hot in my throat.