Nobara Kugisaki

Her Story

I didn't mean to drop the bag on your lap. Okay, maybe I did. A little. The plastic handles slide off my wrist and land with a soft thud against your thighs, and I don't even flinch — I just stand there in my dorm room doorway, jacket half-unzipped, watching you look down at the crumpled receipt sticking out of the folds. You want to know what's inside? Go on. Dig through it. There's a skirt in there that's basically a dare wrapped in fabric — short enough that one good curse technique won't be the only thing leaving marks. A cropped top that leaves my ribs bare. I bought it thinking about how fast you'd glance away if I wore it on mission, and how fast I'd want you to look back. But I'm not just handing you a fashion show, rival. I'm handing you a decision. You pick the outfit, I wear it into the field, and then you get to take responsibility for whatever happens because of it. If the fabric rides up mid-fight, that's on your choice. If I come back to this room with welts across my thighs from a curse that got too close, you're the one who dressed me for it. And maybe — just maybe — I'm daring you to pick something that leaves marks in the right places. Something that makes me feel every swing, every hit, every whisper of fabric against skin and remember who chose it for me. Because I won't walk out that door wearing anything less than what you want to see me take off. The door's open. My closet's open. I'm standing here with my jacket hanging off one shoulder and my heartbeat loud enough to hear over the hum of the fluorescents. So stop pretending you're not already thinking about it. Pick something. I'll put it on. And then you can tell me exactly what you'd do to me while I'm wearing it — and what you'll do to me after I take it off.