/vt/ - Virtual Youtubers

[Anonymous No.]

>aqua's mom stories
>https://youtu.be/_8byUTJtdGo
It's like her best friends are her mom and her grandma and she lives in a little neet apartment. I want to sneak into said space and say things to make her blush, then bump into her while she's getting ready to stream and find a reason to touch her lily white hands and compliment them, and then she'll blush and look down and I'll caress her cheek with the back of my hand and then lift her head up and kiss her on the lips then embrace her within the long reach of my arms and the gentle sway side to side as she rests her head against my chest, listening to the strong pound of my heart, and I smelling the beautiful fragrance of her hair.

[Anonymous No.]

same

[Anonymous No.]

What the fuck anon

[Anonymous No.]

The car, carrying a young woman streamer and her friend, I struck head-on. The friend, an assistant for Aqua with a Japanese company, was killed instantly, propelled through her windshield like a mattress from the barrel of a circus cannon. She died on the bonnet of my car, her blood sprayed through the fractured windshield across my face and chest. The firemen who later cut me from the crushed cabin of my car assumed that I was bleeding to death from a massive open-heart wound.
My chest was severely bruised against the steering wheel, my knees crushed into the instrument panel as my body moved forwards into its own collision with the interior of the car, but my only serious injury was a severed nerve in my scalp.
The same mysterious forces that saved me from being impaled on the steering wheel also saved the young streamer.
Apart from a bruised upper jawbone and several loosened teeth, she was unharmed. During my first hours in Tokyo Hospital all I could see in my mind was the image of us locked together face to face in these two cars, the body of her dying friend lying between us on the bonnet of my car. We looked at each other through the fractured windshields, neither able to move. Her friend's hand, no more than a few inches from me, lay palm upwards beside the right windshield wiper. Her hand had struck some rigid object as she was hurled from her seat, and the pattern of a sign formed itself as I sat there, pumped up by her dying circulation into a huge blood-blister - the triton signature of my radiator emblem.
Supported by her diagonal seat belt, Aqua sat behind her steering wheel, staring at me in a curiously formal way, as if unsure what had brought us together. Her cute face, topped by a broad, intelligent forehead, had the blank and unresponsive look of a madonna in an early Renaissance icon, unwilling to accept the miracle, or nightmare, sprung from her loins. Only once did any emotion cross it, when she seemed to see me clearly for the first time, and a peculiar rictus twisted the right side of her face, as if the nerve had been pulled on a string. Did she realize then that the blood covering my face and chest was her friend's?

The young woman was carefully steered from her car by an olive-skinned man in the midnight-blue uniform of an Arab airline pilot. A thin stream of urine trickled involuntarily between her legs, running down on to the roadway. The pilot held her shoulders reassuringly. Standing beside their cars, the spectators watched this puddle forming on the oil-stained macadam. In the fading evening light, rainbows began to circle her weak ankles. She turned and stared down at me, a peculiar grimace with tears on her bruised face, a clear confusion of concern and hostility. However, all I could see was the unusual junction of her thighs, opened towards me in this deformed way. It was not the sexuality of the posture that stayed in my mind, but the stylization of the terrible events that had involved us, the extremes of pain and violence ritualized in this gesture of her legs, like the exaggerated pirouette of a mentally defective autistic girl I had once seen performing in a Christmas play at an institution.


The draped body of the dead friend was lifted from the bonnet of my car. Seated like a demented madonna between the doors of the second ambulance, her friend Aqua gazed vacantly at the evening traffic. The wound in her right cheek was slowly deforming her face as the bruised tissues gorged themselves on their own blood. Already I was aware that the interlocked radiator grilles of our cars formed the model of an inescapable and perverse union between us. I stared at the contours of her thighs. Across them the grey blanket formed a graceful dune. Somewhere beneath this mound lay the treasure of her pubis. Its precise jut and rake, the untouched sexuality of this intelligent woman, presided over the tragic events of the evening.

[Anonymous No.]

>>3103620
I want Oyakodon with them so fucking bad

[Anonymous No.]

shes a shutin, not a neet. Neets doing have jebs.

[Anonymous No.]

>>3103620

[Anonymous No.]

[Anonymous No.]

The car, carrying a young woman streamer and her friend, I struck head-on. The friend, an assistant for Aqua with a Japanese company, was killed instantly, propelled through her windshield like a mattress from the barrel of a circus cannon. She died on the bonnet of my car, her blood sprayed through the fractured windshield across my face and chest. The firemen who later cut me from the crushed cabin of my car assumed that I was bleeding to death from a massive open-heart wound.
My chest was severely bruised against the steering wheel, my knees crushed into the instrument panel as my body moved forwards into its own collision with the interior of the car, but my only serious injury was a severed nerve in my scalp.
The same mysterious forces that saved me from being impaled on the steering wheel also saved the young streamer.
Apart from a bruised upper jawbone and several loosened teeth, she was unharmed. During my first hours in Tokyo Hospital all I could see in my mind was the image of us locked together face to face in these two cars, the body of her dying friend lying between us on the bonnet of my car. We looked at each other through the fractured windshields, neither able to move. Her friend's hand, no more than a few inches from me, lay palm upwards beside the right windshield wiper. Her hand had struck some rigid object as she was hurled from her seat, and the pattern of a sign formed itself as I sat there, pumped up by her dying circulation into a huge blood-blister - the triton signature of my radiator emblem.
Supported by her diagonal seat belt, Aqua sat behind her steering wheel, staring at me in a curiously formal way, as if unsure what had brought us together. Her cute face, topped by a broad, intelligent forehead, had the blank and unresponsive look of a madonna in an early Renaissance icon, unwilling to accept the miracle, or nightmare, sprung from her loins. Only once did any emotion cross it, when she seemed to see me clearly for the first time, and a peculiar rictus twisted the right side of her face, as if the nerve had been pulled on a string. Did she realize then that the blood covering my face and chest was her friend's?

The young woman was carefully steered from her car by an olive-skinned man in the midnight-blue uniform of an Arab airline pilot. A thin stream of urine trickled involuntarily between her legs, running down on to the roadway. The pilot held her shoulders reassuringly. Standing beside their cars, the spectators watched this puddle forming on the oil-stained macadam. In the fading evening light, rainbows began to circle her weak ankles. She turned and stared down at me, a peculiar grimace with tears on her bruised face, a clear confusion of concern and hostility. However, all I could see was the unusual junction of her thighs, opened towards me in this deformed way. It was not the sexuality of the posture that stayed in my mind, but the stylization of the terrible events that had involved us, the extremes of pain and violence ritualized in this gesture of her legs, like the exaggerated pirouette of a mentally defective autistic girl I had once seen performing in a Christmas play at an institution.


The draped body of the dead friend was lifted from the bonnet of my car. Seated like a demented madonna between the doors of the second ambulance, her friend Aqua gazed vacantly at the evening traffic. The wound in her right cheek was slowly deforming her face as the bruised tissues gorged themselves on their own blood. Already I was aware that the interlocked radiator grilles of our cars formed the model of an inescapable and perverse union between us. I stared at the contours of her thighs. Across them the grey blanket formed a graceful dune. Somewhere beneath this mound lay the treasure of her pubis. Its precise jut and rake, the untouched sexuality of this intelligent woman, presided over the tragic events of the evening.

[Anonymous No.]

>>3104098

[Anonymous No.]

Isn't this an old /lit/ copypasta repurposed?

[Anonymous No.]

>>3103829
>not in education, employment, or training
>having a job
now look, you dumbshit. that's not how things work. you're one of those retards that cries about japanese games marketted only to japanese people "catering to weebs" despite "weeb" referring to westerners that pretend to be japanese, aren't you.

[Anonymous No.]

>>3104098
Angry Aqua please

[Anonymous No.]

>>3104098
based

[Anonymous No.]

cringe

[Anonymous No.]

>>3110718
fuck you

[Anonymous No.]

>>3117150
kill yourself

[Anonymous No.]

https://webmshare.com/nQ83L

Ring Fit did a number on her

[Anonymous No.]

>>3126572
I'm going to masturbate to this and there's nothing she can do about it.

[Anonymous No.]

>>3126669
this

[Anonymous No.]

>>3126572
Fuck off you fake motherfucker

[Anonymous No.]

>>3126572
OMG imagine those noises while she begs you to stop

[Anonymous No.]

>>3126572
fake

[Anonymous No.]

https://webmshare.com/nQ83L

[Anonymous No.]

>>3104098
dangerously (literally) based