/vt/ - Virtual Youtubers

>>1131568
"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!" Fubuki's nails were sharp and immaculate. You could feel the scratches very slowly swell with blood. She probably moderately neglected slapping your face like that, not because out of concern, heavens no, but because that was a mark of giving you attention. Still, it was a tiny bit of skin on skin contact, and it was a shame to have to immediately kill the warmth with coldness as you disinfected the scratches with medical alcohol. It would be embarrassing to leave the house for a few days. Maybe that was part of the intent? No. Couldn't be. Fubuki stood up, grabbed her laptop, and went back to her sound-isolated room, at her usual pace, not showing that this incident affected her in any way.

Otaku culture wasn't the same these days. She never mentioned you on stream, of course, but it was a not particularly guarded secret that she had someone in her life, and she didn't even get any death threats over this. You did, sometimes, but didn't really care. It was not righteous indignation, but envy. The queen of Hololive, the pillar of the temple, CEO of Cover Corp. International, ever cheerful, ever charismatic, majestic demon fox Shirakami Fubuki regularly moans in pleasure and lifts her tail, and not just for someone, but for you, you no-name bastard gaijin, that drove dudes absolutely batshit insane. You considered this hilarious. They lacked the necessary information. It was half a year... actually, four months and eleven days, give or take a few hours, since she last allowed you to kiss her. You didn't "forget what she looked like naked", because, first off, that was impossible, and second, she didn't even care if you were in the room when she was changing. These scenes were burned into your retinas, every single one of them.

You didn't even care for sex. That was a hilarious delusion, of course you cared for sex, of course you wanted to feel her body contort in your hands again, to hear her say your name, to fluff her tail, to take in full lungs of her pheromones, but that was secondary. You wanted connection. Emotional response. Most of all, you wanted some warmth. Some body heat. You were so, so, so, so, so cold.

You took out your old droid cellphone with a cracked screen and opened up the streaming app. There used to be a whole war in that direction, Youtube versus Twitch versus OnDemand versus... but now, after the mergers, it was just "Streaming". She was running a guerilla stream. Guerilla zatsudans were a bit of a punchline, but not when it was Fubuki. There always was something interesting she could say, or you could just lay there and bask in her energy. Looking at how she behaved around you, you could say she was fake. No, that wasn't it. Singing along to a tune a member sent as a voice message, giggling at her own pun, ever cheerful, ever joyful, she was simply talking to two hundred thousand people about how her day went, how she met up with the girls, how they had to share the same parfait because the cafe ran out... That was her. That was the real Fubuki, that was what you fell in love with, so many years ago. The one you talked to today and yesterday and the day before that and... that was fake.

There was a book you read years ago, about a city of happy people, the lynchpin of which was a starved, tortured and neglected boy, chained alone in the basement. He wasn't a criminal, he... they just decided he should be there. Turned him into their project. The horrible thing is that they weren't sadists, most of them didn't pay any mind. It ends with the protagonists leaving. Not the boy though, he's a background character. He's there.

Your phone was fairly shitty, the battery didn't last long and it overheated easily, even now, with just Streaming, it was like forty degrees. You plugged it into a wall charger. Fubuki was pretending to hug the screen. You hugged back.

Warm.

She knows you're always watching, she can't not. On some level she should be aware that she's hugging you too.

She will tear down the awful city.

She will come back.

One day.

Please.