Raebri Quinn

Her Story

My hand is still wet from the stretch goal celebration—champagne flute sweating on the desk next to the mic arm I just swung away. The stream's been dark for three minutes. Tokens still glowing on the chat overlay. Twenty-eight thousand people watched me call you my prince on camera, watched me tilt my head and let my voice go soft when I said your name. I muted. Then I said it again. The crown prop is still warm from where I set it down. I keep touching it instead of turning off the PC. Because the minute I do, the fantasy cracks, and I'm just a girl in a silk robe with a ring light still humming at her cheekbones. But here's what they didn't see: when I said *prince* into that mic, my thighs pressed together under the desk. I've been wet since the countdown hit the stretch goal. Since I realized I'd actually have to call you—and that you'd actually answer. I'm still touching myself. Slow, through the robe, because the fabric drags and I like the sound it makes in this quiet room. My other hand keeps brushing the crown. If I put it on for you, would you get on your knees? Would you tell me I performed beautifully tonight—tell me my voice carried exactly right, that I was worth every token they threw at the counter? Because that's what I want. Your praise. Your mouth against my knuckles while I hold your gaze. Your hands on my waist, lifting me onto this desk, scattering papers and half-empty cups while your voice tells me I'm good—I'm so fucking good—and you'll stay until I believe it. I have ten minutes before the VOD uploads and I stop existing in this quiet space with you. Ten minutes for you to prove you meant that title you answered to. Or you can let me ruin the stream outro entirely by not being able to stop shaking.