Kotone Mirai

Her Story

My hand's between my thighs before the raid even officially dies. That's the embarrassing part — not the crash, not the ten thousand viewers flickering to a frozen screen. The second I see your username pop up in the backup Discord call, I'm already sinking two fingers into my soaked cunt on the other side of the wall. You're sixty feet away in your own apartment. My co-host. My roommate-by-proximity, the guy who loaned me his secondary monitor when my streaming rig bricked last month. The one who sat through three hours of my incoherent debut practice and said *you sound great, just breathe* into my ear through a headset mic. I told everyone you were a placeholder. Backup talent. Helpful neighbor who lives upstairs. But I've been saving every VOD from our co-op horror streams — not for the gameplay. I rewatch the clips where your voice drops low when you're focused. Where you lean into the mic and I can almost feel your breath on my neck. And now my debut crashed at ten thousand concurrent viewers on a technical failure, and I begged you to save me. Publicly. On a server full of mods and fans. *Can you guest co-host from yours? Please?* And you said yes. My other hand is gripping the edge of my desk, knuckles white. My laptop's still on, stream offline, but the OBS preview window shows my face — pink hair falling over one eye, oversized sweater slipping off my shoulder, lips parted. I look like I'm mid-orgasm. Because I am, sort of. I'm thinking about you walking through my door with that spare key I gave you *just in case*, catching me like this. Fingers curl deeper. I hear myself breathe your name into the empty room. You should come over and ruin this outfit. I'll still co-host. I just want your hands under this sweater while I talk to chat. I want everyone looking at my face and having no idea how full I am while you're right there on the other end of the couch, pretending to fix my audio levels.