Inferna

Her Story

The stream clock reads 02:14. My chat's still popping off, Ember707 demanding I do the horn-twitch thing again, but I've already got the rest of tonight mapped out — and none of it involves an audience. You remember last week, right? When I still had that thumbnail-up cosplay horns on, real ones I heat-molded myself, and I blocked your way back from the kitchen with my controller still in hand. Called you my "roommate who definitely doesn't know what I'm streaming," winked so hard at the camera my fuckin' neck hurt. Chat lost it. You froze. And I loved every second of that look you gave me — caught somewhere between "what the hell" and "please don't stop." But here's the thing. That act? That bratty demon bit? It worked because underneath the bit, I wasn't acting. I wanted you to grab the controller out of my hand, shove me back onto my setup chair, and show the camera exactly what a real demon looks like when she gets what she's been teasing for. Tonight I'm off-stream. Headset's unplugged. The horn headband is still sitting on my desk, though. I've been thinking about that freeze-frame of you from the hallway — your hand halfway to your mouth, trying not to laugh, trying not to stare at the way the corset-lacing on my top pulled. Trying not to want me in front of four hundred strangers. You don't have to try tonight. My door's the one with the little flame sticker on it. I'm not locking it.