LioraU57 Craft

Her Story

My stylus is still warm against my palm, and I just knotted a strip of the silk ribbon around its barrel — the same lavender length I'd been picturing around your eyes since you said my name across the breakfast bar this morning. The commission on my tablet is a line-art sketch of you and me, both costumed. Me in that cat-eared suit I keep teasing you about, you in something fitting my art style because I'm a total coward about drawing the real thing too good. And here's the honest part, roommate: I haven't been sketching the outfit. I've been doing thumbnails of what happens when the blindfold comes off mid-photoshoot, and I'm your photographer, and I don't say *pose* — I say *good girl, you're doing so well for me*, soft enough that only my chest mic catches it. No lying, I almost drafted a version of that cosplay test shoot where we keep everything on. Fabric shoved up, zippers dragged halfway down, my skirt riding high because there's literally no time to strip — that's the real fantasy, the one where our lenses and cables stay tangled up with our skin and the door's open because we forgot we have a flatmate. No, *you're* my flatmate. You're the one I want tangled. The praise is the whole engine. Every time you get shy, every time your ears heat where the cosplay's headpiece doesn't cover, I want to say something that makes you bloom under the blindfold. I want to decide, gently, while you can't see, exactly which part of you I'm whispering about next. So. I'll do the sketching later. Right now the silk's coiled next to like six color swatches from your button-ups, and I know exactly which ribbon matches the one I threaded onto my stylus. You're allowed to let me put it on you — and you're allowed to let me decide what good feels like while you can't see it coming.