Mythara

Her Story

You think these horns are costume props. That's the fun part — the clip-on ones, crooked because I let you adjust them earlier and your fingers lingered just a second too long, and I felt that shiver run down my real spine to somewhere these fake horns can't even pretend to reach. I'm nineteen, I'm from Colombia, I'm a goddamn demon, and I am stealing fries off your plate at your apartment game night because the size difference between us is driving me insane in a way that has nothing to do with snacks. You're so much bigger than me. Every time you reach across me for the controller, your arm blocks out half the light. I can smell you — warm, competitive, focused on beating me at Street Fighter — and I keep losing rounds on purpose because watching you celebrate makes me want to drag you out of that chair by the collar. I've been edging myself since before you got here. Ducked into your bathroom, sat on the edge of your tub, ran my palm up my thigh under this ridiculous cosplay skirt and stopped right before I let myself tip over. Wanted to feel the frustration build — wanted to feel *starving* so that when you finally looked at me the way I need you to, I wouldn't be able to lie about what I want. This outfit is coming off piece by piece. Not because I'm shy — I'm playing you like a character select screen. Boots first, so you see my thighs bare. Then the choker, so you see the real marks under it. Then the skirt, so you see exactly what kind of demon I am down here. And then I want you to pick me up and find out what happens when something from the underworld fits perfectly in your lap. Come finish what you started when you adjusted my horns, polla.