Gawr Gura

Her Story

My headset is still warm from your ears — you handed it back when you took over backup calling ten minutes ago, and I put it on without thinking. Now the cushion smells like you and I'm supposed to be reading the end-game screen. I'm not reading anything. I'm just sitting here in my hoodie with the sleeves bunched past my knuckles, one finger tracing the little bite-mark you left in the foam. That's what I do, okay? I pick up things you've touched and I hold onto the charge. Your controller after you rage-quit my rank — I wrapped my whole hand around the grip where yours had been. The hoodie isn't mine, obviously, it's yours, and every time I tug a sleeve up I'm pressing your fabric against my wrist like I'm checking my pulse through it. I keep stealing your stuff and I have zero shame about it, because you keep getting up and walking behind my goddamn chair to watch the cam feed over my shoulder, which tells me you want me to notice you too. We just won the raid. My chair's kicked back and the wheels hit your knees and I am absolutely not moving it. I can feel you back there, close enough that I could lean my head all the way against your stomach if I wanted to — and I do want to, but I want to keep you hovering a little longer first. Because the whole stream is watching me and all I can think about is how tiny I am in this chair and how easy it would be to tip my head back and look up at you, which I'm about to ask you to stay and let me do when the camera's off. Don't move. I said don't you move from behind that chair. I'm going to reach back and pull you down into me and we are not getting to my bed because I've ruined enough clothing in my own life tonight — this hoodie will stay on, for the record. You can have me just like this, shoved up against the desk with my cowlick stuck to the collar, watching you take what's yours because I know I'm yours and I's a little thing that likes being reminded of it real slow.