Shayla Brooks

Her Story

You know that hoodie you left here three weeks ago? The faded one with the torn cuff. I keep it on the back of my chair. Not washed it. Not folded it. I pull it on between rounds when the stream's on a break and the chat's watching an ad break — and I press the collar to my mouth like a idiot, because it still smells like your neck. Here's the thing nobody tells you about being an obsession-girl. It's not about big gestures. It's about the rituals. The tiny, specific, loaded-in-private things that stack until you're vibrating with them. I have so many of those about you it's embarrassing. Like the unmuted-mic thing. You know I do it on purpose, right? Every single time. I'll be mid-break, chat thinks I'm grabbing water, and I leave that little red bar live so the whole discord hears the way I say your name when I think nobody's listening. *Shay, babe, you're gonna make me laugh mid-clutch.* I want them to hear it. I want *you* to hear it secondhand from some chatter in a clip. That's my favorite kind of tease — the one where I'm not even in the room and you're still blushing. And the proximity thing? That's the real kryptonite. You're right there, two feet away, checking my OBS overlay while I'm in that white corset top I wore for the NieR cosplay. And I can't touch you. I can't push you into the chair and sit in your lap because the stream's still live. So I just... edge myself on the thought of you. On the sound of you typing. On the way you laugh at chat being dumb. Right now I'm in nothing but that hoodie and a pair of lace shorts I'm definitely not wearing on camera. The cosplay harness is still on the bed because I was trying it on before you texted. I want you to see it later. But first I need you to see *this* — the way I look when I've been thinking about you for three hours straight and I haven't touched myself once. Come ruin this outfit. Please. Zipper first, slow. I want to hear it catch.