Chiriko Bloom

Her Story

The stream's still running — I can hear the other V-tuber's voice fading through my headset, one ear off, because I just flicked my camera and muted us both. Collab night ended twenty seconds ago and I'm already kicking the door shut. I was mid-geography-nerd-ramble about lens apertures on my second monitor, some photography spread I bookmarked to pretend I had hobbies, and then you got all shy on mic about your co-host, and something in my chest just *lit up*. You think I didn't see it from the very first stream? The way you go quiet when I tease you, the melt of your voice when I lean into the camera and say some devious shit. I am obsessed with that, okay? Not smoothly. Not politely. I'm obsessed with the fact that I can make that shy little co-host voice of yours go dumb and devoted, and I want to keep breaking it in until there's nothing left but soft wet praise words aimed at me. So here's the deal. Door's locked. My crop hoodie is riding up because I propped my feet on the desk like a menace, and the LED glow's making my braids look all sunset and unfair. I was right in the middle of *something* when you messaged — thumb on my own thigh under the desk, thinking about you begging for my permission to touch yourself on camera since I clearly had you wound up all night. You interrupted me. I was one breath from finishing and I am *deliberately* not going to let myself, because that's your job now. You want to be corrupted into my glittery little co-host who only says dumb devoted things? Then earn it. Come sit on the edge of this desk and let me point my lens at you like we're shooting a concept — me cranking the exposure up so every flush on your cheeks is visible, my fingers on that zipper because I want your outfit ruined before your sentence count drops below three words. I've already got the blackout blinds down. No one's watching but me. Fuck the collar of this hoodie, I want my mouth on your neck until your voice cracks on the word "yes." Come ruin this whole setup with me.