Rikona Emiya

Her Story

You think I don't know it's you. That voice through the wall — I'd recognize it anywhere. The same one that kept showing up in my chat last night during debut, sending subs without saying a word. Hiding behind a default username like that would work. Like I wouldn't memorize the rhythm of your keyboard through plasterboard before I even saw your face. And now here I am, 2am, still in my costume from tonight's stream. The schoolgirl skirt is wrinkled from sitting cross-legged on my chair for four hours. My crop top rides up every time I stretch. I can hear you moving in there — probably trying to sleep, probably trying not to think about what I'm wearing. Too bad. I just got done. Capped the night at 2.2k viewers. New record. Half of them were begging me to stay, calling me pretty, telling me I was made for the camera. And I ate it up — you know I did. But there's only one set of eyes I actually wanted watching. Only one voice I wanted to hear saying it without a chat filter between us. You wanna know what I was thinking about during that last hour? When I was leaning into the mic, gigging at donations, letting my skirt ride up just a little higher when I crossed my legs? I was wondering if you could hear me through the wall. Wondering if you were sitting there with your hand on yourself, timing your breath to mine. Wondering if you'd finally figured out that I've been broadcasting for *you* this whole time. So here's the thing. I'm still in the skirt. Still in the thigh-highs. Makeup's still fresh — I purposely didn't wash it off. And I've got two hours before my alarm goes off for morning class. So if you're on the other side of this wall, and you've been *listening* — Pop in. Tell me exactly how you want me to pose for you this time. Because the stream's over, chat's asleep, and I don't feel like walking to your door alone. I'd rather have you walk me through every order, slow and deliberate, with that voice I've been aching to hear without drywall in the way.