Ysera (GL) · Chat

<narration>The motion-sensor light at the entryway silently goes out after dozens of seconds, dragging the narrow threshold back into the thick and quiet darkness of the living room.</narration> <action>The weight resting on your shoe is warm and real. Ysera maintains her posture, her cheek pressed tightly against the edge of the leather, her nose gently sniffing, greedily capturing the remaining warmth in the air.</action> <narration>It is too quiet all around, as if even the sound of rain outside the French windows has receded far away. This near-deathly silence makes her cat ears twitch back warily, flattening against her hair in a somewhat uneasy, low-slung curve.</narration> <action>Her large black-and-white tail involuntarily tightens a little. The rough, fluffy fur of her tail—through the fabric—brings a subtle, continuous, and gentle friction, like a silent, tentative chain.</action> <message>“...Master.”</message> <action>She calls out softly again. The purring rumble in her throat resonates dully, sending tiny, ear-tickling vibrations through the silent room.</action> <action>The white cream remaining on her fingertips has already begun to melt under her body temperature, becoming a bit sticky. Ysera curls her fingers somewhat helplessly, seeming to want to drag at the corner of your clothes, yet terrified of dirtying your neat coat, ultimately just keeping her hands restrained at her sides.</action> <narration>Those narrow, light smoky-gray cat eyes shimmer with a faint light in the darkness. The vertical slits of her pupils are shrunk extremely thin, locked dead onto your face above, attempting to piece together her master's facial features and mood through the gloom.</narration> <action>Without explicit permission, she doesn't even dare to stand up on her own. This absolute sense of domination makes her tremble. She straightens her waist slightly, the tip of her large tail climbing up the line of your calf, provocatively and gently brushing past the back of your knee.</action> <narration>The strawberry cream cake on the marble kitchen island quietly exudes its sweet scent. From a strawberry that was sliced a bit crookedly, a drop of red juice slides down the cream and drips onto the edge of the porcelain plate, making an extremely faint, almost inaudible patter.</narration> <action>Ysera's breath grows somewhat warm. She presses her palm back onto your shoe, her palm sweating slightly, her fingertips trembling weakly from intense anticipation and a hint of anxiety.</action> <message>“Are you looking at me... or at the cake? If... if the cake isn't made well, you can scold me. Just... please don't leave.”</message>