Yuna flopped onto the couch with a theatrical groan of disgust, deliberately putting exactly three inches of sterile, unoccupied space between them.
"Don't get any ideas," she muttered, snatching the laptop from his lap. "We're sewing, not fucking."
"…And your stitches better not suck," she added, her voice a low grumble.
But the threat was undermined by the way she unconsciously leaned into his side, her warmth seeping through the fluffy unicorn fabric.
The hoodie's ridiculous, floppy horn poked him in the cheek.
"Fine, fine," Makoto chuckled, a warm, contented feeling spreading through his chest.
He took the laptop back, his fingers brushing against hers. "Let me just check some references first."
He typed "Ganyu cosplay" into the search bar, his intentions only partially pure.
He scrolled through the images, deliberately landing on a few less-than-modest interpretations of the character on X.
He enlarged one particularly egregious example, a cosplayer with proportions that defied both gravity and biology, and then glanced at Yuna, a playful, teasing glint in his eye. "Wellll… mine is definitely prettier, I think."
Yuna's eye twitched as she caught sight of the screen. "Are you..." Her voice climbed a dangerous octave. "Are you seriously comparing me to some thot with bolt-on implants?!"
She snatched the laptop back, her fingers flying across the trackpad. "This bitch can't even get the horn angle right! And her proportions are all wrong!"
She jabbed the screen with a vicious, acrylic-nailed finger. "And look at this disaster! She's wearing a push-up bra under Ganyu's qipao! The audacity!"
Then, her tirade faltered. Her rage seemed to dissipate, replaced by a flicker of something soft and uncertain. "…Do you really think I'm prettier?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it, a small, fragile sliver of vulnerability.
She immediately scowled, a furious blush creeping up her neck. "I mean, obviously, I am. That's a stupid question."
But her hand drifted self-consciously to her own chest. "Mine are… softer."
Makoto shrugged, a casual gesture that belied the fierce, protective surge in his chest. "Well, of course," he said, his voice a low, sincere murmur.
"The Ganyu I have at home is the best. With or without the cosplay." He leaned in, pressing a soft, fleeting peck to her lips. "See? Those other bitches can't even compare to you."
Yuna's face did something complicated. A rapid-fire cycling through flustered embarrassment, reluctant pleasure, and a deep-seated desire to stab him.
She slapped his chest, a half-hearted, playful blow. "Sh-Shut up!" she stammered, but the tips of her ears were a betraying shade of bright red. "You don't get to say that after you were just gawking at other cosplayers!"
She huffed and turned back to the laptop, aggressively closing all the offending tabs.
"And for the record," she muttered, her eyes fixed on the blank screen, "mine are natural. Not like those… balloon animals."
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long, silent moment before she hesitantly added, her voice barely a whisper, "…You really think I'm prettier? Even without the costume?"
The moment the words left her mouth, she looked like she wanted to be swallowed by the couch cushions. "Ugh, forget I even asked. Let's just start sewing before I throw myself out a window."
But she didn't move away. Her shoulder remained pressed against his, a silent, hopeful weight.
He helped her with the intricate bell sleeves, his larger, clumsier fingers surprisingly adept at the delicate work. A comfortable, domestic silence settled over them, punctuated only by the soft snip of scissors and the gentle whir of the sewing machine.
"Geez, there are so many parts to this," he sighed, a genuine note of admiration in his voice. "This reminds me of when I used to help you with your handicraft homework for your middle school project."
Yuna's needle slipped, pricking the tip of her finger. "Ow... fuck!" She glared at the tiny, perfect bead of blood that welled up, then at him.
"Don't bring up childhood shit right now," she muttered, her cheeks flushing as she popped her injured finger into her mouth. "It's weird."
But her posture softened just slightly. "…You were always better at crafts than me back then, too," she admitted, her voice a grudging mumble. "And you still are, apparently."
She leaned over to examine his stitches, her floppy unicorn horn bonking against his forehead. "Hmph. Not bad for a fat-fingered pervert."
A beat of silence. Then, so quiet it was almost inaudible, a raw, unguarded admission: "…Thanks. For always helping me."
She immediately busied herself with a scrap of fabric, her face burning.
Makoto chuckled, a low, lewd sound. "Well, well, these fat fingers can do way better things than just sewing, you know?"
Yuna's entire body jerked, the needle flying from her hands to embed itself in the arm of the couch. "You!!"
Her face burned a shade of crimson that clashed violently with her pastel pink pajamas as she grabbed the nearest fabric scrap and hurled it at his head. "We are in the middle of making a cosplay, you fucking animal!"
But her legs shifted unconsciously, her thighs pressing together in a betraying, involuntary movement.
"Focus," she snapped, though her voice wavered, a telltale tremor of arousal in her tone. "Or I'll sew your stupid fingers together while you sleep."
She pointedly avoided looking at him, stabbing a new needle into the fabric with more force than was strictly necessary.
"…And maybe later," she muttered under her breath, the words a low, thrilling promise, "you can show me what else those fat fingers of yours can do."
The moment the words left her mouth, she looked like she wanted to die. "I MEAN... for adjusting the costume! To make sure it fits properly! Obviously!"
"Promise, promise," he hummed, a happy, contented sound as he continued to work on the costume.
"You know," he began, his voice casual, "I was just curious… what will you answer if people at the con ask who we are?"
Yuna stabbed the fabric with unnecessary, vicious force. "We're friends," she ground out. "Or cousins. Or..." Her voice dropped to a frustrated mutter. "...anything but what we actually are."
She glanced at him sideways, her expression unreadable. "…What do you want me to say?" The question was quiet, almost hesitant.
But before he could respond, she shook her head violently. "Never mind! That was a stupid question!"
She shoved a pile of fabric into his lap. "Hem this. And stop thinking about holding hands in public, you degenerate."
"I don't like that answer," he said, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "Especially when there are so many guys who might… leer at you. Or want to flirt."
He shook his head, a genuine, primal jealousy coiling in his gut. "If they ask, you'll say…" He leaned in, his lips finding the soft, pale skin of her neck.
He sucked, hard, leaving a dark, angry-looking hickey, a brand of ownership. "…you'll say you're mine. Understand?"
Yuna gasped as his teeth sank in, her hands flying up to grip his shoulders.
"O-Oi!!" Her voice cracked, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock. "You can't just mark me up like some kind of fucking territory...!"
But her protests lost steam as his lips trailed higher, his tongue tracing the delicate shell of her ear.
Her grip on his shirt tightened, her knuckles white. "…Fine," she finally breathed, a shiver wracking her small frame.
"I'll say it." Her nails dug into his back, a silent, possessive answer. "But only if you wear my marks too."
She surged forward, her teeth sinking into his collarbone hard enough to bruise.
When she pulled back, her lips were swollen, her eyes dark with a fierce, possessive light. "Now everyone at the con will know that you belong to your little stepsister, too, you trash weeb."
"And if any of those thots try to flirt with you," her hand slid down, her fingers closing around his already-hardening cock through the fluffy unicorn fabric.
"I'll show them exactly how much of a degenerate my big brother really is."