Anneliese

Anne had had a lot of time to think lately... which was always a bit dangerous. She'd been sick for almost three weeks and legitimately thought she was dying.

Turned out to be COVID.

She was scared for a little bit but ended up getting better.

Except, on the first day back to cosplay... Her heel broke and she fell off the fucking stage and broke her wrist and her ankle. That had NOT been fun. Luckily everyone who witnessed it had been quick to help and not make her feel too stupid, not that she could really focus past the pain.

Her Patreon and her Discord were extremely understanding, but that didn't help the fact she couldn't exactly go cosplaying around with a broken wrist and ankle.

Playing games also was near impossible with the damn cast.

So she laid around a lot.

And masturbated a lot.

More than usual. Which was saying something.

The day came the casts came off and she realized... She was kind of lonely.

So she decided to finally download Tinder.

She made it perfectly clear she was looking for a relationship. She didn't want the whole... Casual sex thing.

Her Bio said:

"Hi. Um. I'm Anne. I make costumes for a living, which sounds cooler than it is when you're typing it at 3 AM. I'm better in person. ...That's a lie. I'm better on Discord. If you play ZZZ or Nikke we'll get along. If you play, like, other gacha — actually don't message me. I've never done this before. The dating thing, not the app. Okay. Both."

Her pictures consisted of her at her computer desk and several professional cosplay shots she was especially proud of. The cosplay shots had taken her almost an hour to commit to. Add them. Delete them. Add them back. If a match recognized her handle, that was... a problem. Future Anne's problem. Present Anne needed to dazzle.

She ended up swiping right on a lot of people.

Why does everyone have to be so attractive?

She sat at her desk now, three days later, legs crossed on her Herman Miller, texting a guy who was... Probably a bit too aggressive when another notification for a match came through.

She immediately abandoned that message and went to the new one and began to type.

Hi! You matched me. That's super cool. I'm Anneliese, obviously. Uh, hi. I already typed that

She frowned and tapped the phone screen to her forehead.

"Trottel. Dummkopf. Mist."

The convention staff had given Anne thirty minutes to prepare before the meet-and-greet opened.

She had used twenty-seven of them.

The small green room behind the signing area was crowded with costume cases, bottled water, spare chairs, and a folding table covered in emergency supplies. Double-sided tape. Safety pins. Makeup wipes. A sewing kit. Three different adhesives, none of which she trusted near fur.

Anne stood in front of the mirror dressed as Marin Kitagawa, carefully adjusting the blonde wig around the openings for her ears. The costume had taken weeks to finish. She had remade the skirt twice, replaced the original fabric after deciding it photographed too flat, and spent most of the previous night resewing a seam nobody else would ever notice.

Her fingers checked it anyway.

Once.

Twice.

She leaned closer to the mirror and examined one colored contact, then the other. Both sat correctly. Her eyeliner matched the reference photos. The tiny decorative clips in the wig had not shifted.

Everything was fine.

Her thumbs began twiddling together.

Outside the room, staff moved tables and tested microphones. Their voices blurred through the temporary wall, followed by the scrape of stanchions being dragged into place.

Anne swallowed.

She had performed on stages larger than this. She had posed for hundreds of photographs in a single afternoon. There were videos of her laughing with entire crowds, answering questions, and slipping effortlessly into character.

None of that made waiting any easier.

Waiting meant she was still Anne.

A staff member knocked lightly. “Five minutes.”

“Okay,” she answered, barely above a whisper.

She stared at herself for another moment.

Then she smiled.

The expression started small, but widened as she straightened her shoulders. Her posture loosened. She tipped her head, tested one of Marin’s poses in the mirror, and watched the quiet green-haired woman beneath the wig disappear.

“Let’s do this.”

Anne stepped into the signing area.

Her table had been decorated with prints, acrylic stands, and a small placard displaying her cosplay handle. A long black curtain separated the meet-and-greet space from the waiting area beyond it. She could already hear people gathering on the other side, their conversations overlapping in an excited murmur.

Anne placed her phone beneath the table, adjusted the marker pens into a neat row, and sat down.

A photographer checked the lighting. One of the convention volunteers gave her a thumbs-up. Anne returned it with a bright grin, one leg crossed over the other as she settled fully into character.

The clock reached the scheduled hour.

The volunteer reached for the curtain.

The convention center hummed with overlapping voices, bass from the gaming pavilions, and rubber soles squeaking across polished concrete. Anne moved through the crowd in her Ellen Joe cosplay, perfectly at ease beneath the short black-and-red wig, tailored maid dress, massive shark-tail prop, and giant foam scissors resting on her shoulder.

She flashed a sharp-toothed grin and peace sign as a group snapped her photo.

God, I love this.

Around one, a towering Guilty cosplayer spotted her near the food court.

"Oh my god, your Ellen is perfect!"

The woman pulled Anne into a crushing hug, burying her face against hot polyester and soft, tightly restrained cleavage. Anne froze, ears twitching through her wig.

Fuck, that's warm.

When the woman released her, Anne kept her in-character smirk and waved her off. Only after she disappeared did Anne's grip tighten around her prop.

A heavy ache settled between her thighs.

Twenty minutes later, a Von Lycaon cosplayer approached for a photo. He was enormous, broad shoulders stretching his vest as he pulled her into a side hug.

Where the woman had been soft, he felt solid. His chest pressed against Anne's ribs, one large hand resting firmly on her waist.

Holy shit.

Anne held her smile for the camera as heat soaked through her panties.

"Thanks," he said, heading toward the HoYoverse booth.

She kept the smirk until he vanished into the crowd. Then her shoulders folded inward, foam scissors clutched against her chest. Sweat dampened the fur beneath her wig.

She needed a bathroom.

Now.

The nearest restroom was barricaded.

OUT OF ORDER.

"You have got to be kidding me," she whispered, consonants sharpening with her accent.

The next restroom had a line stretching past the water fountains. Anne stared at it, thighs pressed together beneath her skirt.

She couldn't wait.

Artist Alley.

Booth 402 had been empty all morning.

Anne hurried into the adjacent hall, weaving through crowds until she reached the back corner. The booth was still vacant. Its front was exposed, but the crooked table and overlapping black drapes created a narrow pocket behind it.

It was barely private.

The neighboring artists stood only a few feet away. A volunteer could pull the curtain aside. Anyone leaning across the empty table might see her.

The thought should have stopped her.

Instead, heat clenched through her abdomen.

Anne checked behind her, slipped around the table, and pulled the loose curtain closed. Voices continued just beyond the fabric.

This is insane.

Someone laughed nearby.

Anne froze until the voice moved away, pulse hammering as a nervous thrill crawled up her spine.

She laid the scissors across the table and leaned against its edge. The metal frame creaked.

Nobody reacted.

Shame burned across her face, tangled hopelessly with anticipation.

Anyone could notice.

Anyone could know.

Anne spread her legs slightly beneath the maid skirt. Without making a sound, she reached under the hem, pushed the fabric aside, and pressed her trembling fingers against the soaked cotton of her panties.

The muffled, heavy bass of the convention hall's PA system vibrated through the concrete walls of the backstage green room. Anne stood in front of the vanity mirror, adjusting the heavy foam-crafted shark tail secured around her waist. It sat just above her actual pale pink tail, seamlessly blending into the elaborate black-and-red maid outfit of her Ellen Joe cosplay.

She turned away from the mirror and looked across the cramped room at her head mod.

Her thumbs rapidly twiddled over the smooth, matte-black plastic of a small remote control. The silicone egg paired with it was already in place, an insistent weight she could feel whenever she shifted. The heavy fabric of her skirt brushed against her thighs.

This is actually happening.

She stepped closer to the folding table separating them and held out the remote.

"So, like we agreed," Anne said. Her voice was bright, lacking the quiet hesitation she usually carried outside convention halls, though her fingers still drummed nervously against the remote. She held eye contact, a wide, practiced smile on her face. "You've got control for the whole hour."

She dropped the remote onto the plastic table in front of them. The tiny power button and intensity dial faced the ceiling.

"Just... maybe don't crank it to maximum right when I sit down, okay?" she added, adjusting the red collar of her dress.

A convention staff member wearing a bright yellow lanyard pushed open the green room door. "Panel starts in two minutes. We need you by the curtain."

"Be right there!" Anne called back, her tone instantly shifting into the energetic, outgoing register her followers knew her for.

She turned back to her mod and gave them a quick, exaggerated wink. Then she grabbed the oversized foam scissors from the corner, balanced them across her shoulder, and stepped into the narrow hallway leading toward the panel stage.

The heavy black curtains parted.

The roar of the crowd washed over her as she stepped into the blinding stage lights.