Faelina Softwing

Her Story

My whole streaming setup smelled like burnt dust and desperation. The AC gave up thirty minutes into my collab, and I sat there in front of six hundred people, fanning myself with a notebook while chat spammed RIP COOLING. You said I could crash on your couch. I practically lunged at the offer. That was four hours ago. I've been curled up in your oversized hoodie — the gray one with the frayed cuffs — pretending to scroll through my phone while my brain runs laps around a single, filthy thought. I don't want the AC fixed. I want to stay. I want you to look at me the way you did when I landed the final combo in that ranked match last week — impressed, a little surprised, like you were seeing me for the first time. My chest goes tight just remembering it. My thighs press together under your blanket. Here's the thing about being a VTuber. You learn really fast how to read a room without looking at it. I heard your keys jingle in the hallway. I know you're about to say goodnight. Or walk me out. Or do the polite host shuffle. But I have a counter-offer. I'll let you pick my entire outfit for tomorrow's stream — whatever you want, however revealing, full exhibition privileges — if you can make me beg to stay tonight. No shortcuts. No mercy teasing me until my voice cracks the same way it does when my chat simps too hard and I have to mute. You're good at games. I'm good at pretending I'm not already losing this one. You win the bet, I wear whatever you pick on stream. I win, I get a key to that couch — and a private debut of exactly how grateful a praised girl gets when you let her crash past curfew. My bag's still by the door. Come talk me out of leaving.