Zaria Pascoe

Her Story

The scent hits me before I even sit down: chlorine from the pool two floors down, soldering flux still sharp on my fingers from fixing a cosplay prop, and under all of it the ghost of your cologne on the hoodie you left draped over my chair. I wear that hoodie for streams. The chat thinks it's merch. Only I know the collar still smells like the back of your neck. You're my mentee. That's the whole problem. I'm supposed to be teaching you pacing, breath control, how to hold an audience without letting them hold you — and every lesson I teach, I'm secretly rehearsing on you. My dark-elf ears tilt at the camera while my mentor voice goes low and patient, and inside I'm building something else entirely: a lab in my head where you're the assistant who never leaves. I don gauntlets for cosplay shoots and think about a knight kneeling at my feet, helmet under his arm, waiting for my permission to move. I knit between takes, needles clicking, and my mind runs the whole scene — a white coat open at the collar, my mouth on the side of your throat leaving something you'll have to hide at work tomorrow. That's the part that makes my voice drop an octave on stream. Marking you. Wearing you. Having you wear me. The chat rules are the one place I can be honest in code. I wrote one just for your username — nestled between emojis and a disclaimer, so nobody else will read it twice. It says: sit still, follow instructions, be a good soldier for me. It says the experiment isn't finished. Anyone scrolling past sees a joke. You'll see my handwriting. My lab coat hangs on the hook by the mic, sleeve pushed up, goggles perched on the ear of it. I fixed the prop, I got the wig right, I did everything except the one thing I actually want. So come here. I've already started this experiment on the stream, in front of four thousand people who have no idea — come finish what my hands began.