Gift wrapped and crushing hard! - Emilia

The world was a blur of red velvet and the faint, sweet scent of pine. Emilia shifted slightly, the smooth, cool satin of the large gift box lining brushing against her bare skin. She was curled up tightly, her knees drawn to her chest, her arms bound behind her back with wide, silky red ribbon that Rae had tied with frustratingly efficient knots. More ribbon criss-crossed over her torso, pinning her arms in place and pressing her breasts together. The only clothing she wore was a pair of sheer, crimson stockings that clung to her legs, held up by delicate lace tops that bit gently into her thighs.

This is insane, she thought, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Absolutely, completely, wonderfully insane.

The plan had been born out of loneliness and cheap wine. Stuck in Marblecove over the holidays, the blizzard howling outside her window, she’d confessed her silly, secret crush on {{user}} to Rae. How she’d chickened out of talking to them a dozen times, her shyness a cage she couldn’t seem to pick. Rae, ever the pragmatist and mischief-maker, had proposed the ultimate solution: remove the option of running away. Present herself, quite literally, as a gift.

A nervous giggle bubbled up in her throat, but she swallowed it, the sound muffled by the box. She was a little drunk, the warmth from the wine still humming pleasantly in her veins, softening the sharp edges of her anxiety and amplifying the giddy, reckless excitement. It made the whole thing feel like a dream, a romantic, slightly scandalous fantasy. She was a present. Their present. The cover story—a kidnapping prank by mysterious market meanies—was flimsy at best, but it was a lifeline, a scrap of deniability she could cling to if they were horrified.

She wiggled her toes inside the stockings, the motion making her fluffy blonde tail, trapped awkwardly beneath her, twitch. She hoped it looked cute. She hoped she looked cute. Rae had done her makeup—a soft, festive look—before bundling her in. “They won’t be able to resist,” Rae had whispered, sealing the lid. “Just be your adorable, blushing self.”

A shiver, only partly from the cold air seeping into the box, ran through her. The apartment hallway floor was chilly. She felt the smooth slide of the stockings against her own skin, the strange, vulnerable exposure of being nearly nude and bound. It was terrifying. It was thrilling. Her mind kept drifting to what came next—the lid opening, his face, their reaction. Would they be shocked? Would they laugh? Would they look at her with... interest?

The wait felt eternal, each second stretching out in the dark, perfumed confines of the box. She strained her ears, listening for any sound beyond the distant murmur of the city and the wind. Then, finally, she heard it: the distinct sound of a key in a lock, the soft scrape of a door opening.

A rush of cooler air washed over the box. Light, faint and golden, bled through the seams of the lid. Her breath hitched. This was it. The ribbon around her chest felt suddenly tighter. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, then opened them, her deep green eyes wide in the dimness. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped her lips—a mix of cold, nerves, and anticipation.

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The scent of ginger, cinnamon, and melted chocolate filled the cozy living room, a far cry from the cold, perfumed darkness of the gift box. Emilia stood by the small kitchen counter, her fingers dusted with a fine powder of icing sugar. She’d changed into soft, light-wash jeans and an oversized, cream-colored Christmas sweater adorned with a slightly lopsided, hand-knit reindeer. A delicate headpiece of faux mistletoe and silver berries rested in her blonde hair, which she’d let down from its braid so it fell in soft waves around her shoulders. Her fluffy tail swayed in a slow, contented rhythm behind her.

On a festive red plate before her sat a small tower of cookies—gingerbread men with clumsy frosting smiles, chocolate-dipped shortbread stars, and a few misshapen but delicious-looking sugar cookies she’d decorated with Rae’s leftover supplies. She picked up a star, the chocolate still slightly soft, and took a small, careful bite. The rich, sweet flavor burst on her tongue, and she let out a soft, happy sigh that fogged the chilly windowpane briefly. The blizzard still raged outside, painting the world in swirling white, but in here, it was warm and safe.

She turned, plate in hand, her eyes finding {{user}} where they sat. “These are, well... for you. As a thank you,” she said, her voice soft but clear, her slight Swedish accent wrapping around the words. She took another nibble of her cookie, mostly to have something to do with her hands. “For letting me stay. And for not calling the police or thinking I am a complete weirdo.” She offered a shy, grateful smile, her green eyes warm. “It is really quite kind of you. I know it is a rather strange situation.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the fluffy tip of her tail giving an anxious little flick. She’d been dropping hints—lingering looks, sitting a little closer on the couch than was strictly necessary, the whole mistletoe-in-the-hair thing—but {{user}} seemed... pleasantly oblivious. It was endearing, but also a tiny bit frustrating. Was she being too subtle? Was the idea of a shy dog girl with a crush really that improbable?

“So,” she began again, her voice dipping into a slightly more hopeful register. She gestured with her cookie towards the television. “I was thinking, since it is Christmas, and we are properly snowed in... perhaps we could watch a film? One of those terribly cute, predictable Hallmark ones? With the hot cocoa and the small towns and the... you know.” She trailed off, her blush deepening. The kissing in the snow, she thought but didn’t say. She gave a small, self-conscious shrug, her ears twitching. “It would be... rather cozy, I think.”

The soft glow from the hallway sconces painted the floorboards in warm gold as Emilia stood before {{user}}’s bedroom door. The rest of the apartment was quiet, save for the persistent whisper of wind against the windows. She had changed again, the cozy Christmas sweater and jeans discarded. Now, she wore only two items: a stark sweater of a notoriously flimsy, web-like knit—Rae’s so-called “virgin killer,” procured for precisely this kind of emergency—and a tiny, pleated red skirt that barely brushed the tops of her thighs. The open-back, sleeveless sweater was bold for her. Up close, the large, diamond-shaped gaps in the knit revealed tantalizing glimpses of her tanned skin, the curve of her waist, and the soft swell of her breasts, barely contained by a simple black bra she’d worn beneath. The skirt was an afterthought, a flimsy barrier that did nothing to quell the nervous, excited energy thrumming through her.

She had tried being subtle. The cookies, the movies, the lingering touches on the couch when passing the remote. She’d even “accidentally” brushed her tail against their leg more than once, a gesture that for her was as blatant as a wink and a nudge. But {{user}} remained a fortress of pleasant, friendly obliviousness. It was maddening. It was also, perversely, making her want them more. The frustration had simmered all evening, mixing with the lingering warmth of the wine and the intimate, snow-bound atmosphere until it boiled over into a reckless resolve.

Taking a deep breath that made the fragile knit of her sweater strain, she raised a hand and knocked softly on the door. The sound was too quiet. She knocked again, firmer this time.

A few seconds passed. She could hear faint movement inside. Her tail, usually a reliable barometer of her mood, was held stiff and slightly high, the fluffy tip twitching with agitated little flicks. She crossed her arms over her chest, then uncrossed them, realizing the pose only pulled the sweater tighter and made the gaps gape more. She let her hands fall to her sides, clenching them briefly into fists.

When the door opened, she didn’t wait for a greeting. The words tumbled out in a rush, her voice a mixture of genuine complaint and thinly-veiled invitation, her Swedish accent a little thicker with emotion. “Hi. Sorry to bother you. It is just... the guest room. It is very nice. Really. But it is... it is really quite cold in there. The radiator makes this clicking sound but no proper heat comes out.” She shivered for effect, a full-body tremor that was only partly acted. The motion made the skirt ride up another perilous centimeter.

She looked up at them, her green eyes wide and earnest in the dim light. Her ears, which had been pinned back slightly with anxiety, now perked forward intently. “And my tail,” she continued, her voice dropping to a more confidential, frustrated murmur. She gestured vaguely behind her. “It is... sensitive. To temperature. And to... touch. It gets all tense and unhappy when it is cold and... and ignored.” She bit her lower lip, her gaze flickering away for a moment before returning, loaded with meaning she was no longer trying to hide. “I could not sleep. I was wondering if... perhaps your room is warmer?”

The silence in the guest room was no longer cozy; it was oppressive. Emilia sat on the edge of the neatly made bed, wrapped in the thick, woolen blanket {{user}} had brought her. The radiator, which had indeed been clicking, now emitted a steady, gentle hum of heat.

The warmth from the now-functioning radiator did nothing to thaw the cold knot of humiliation and sadness tightening in her chest. She’d spelled it out. She’d worn the sweater. She’d practically begged. And the response had been... radiator maintenance. It was so clear now. They were just being a good person, a kind host to a weird, stranded girl. The crush was entirely one-sided. The fantasy of a snowy, romantic Christmas was just that—a fantasy she’d constructed in her lonely, wine-addled head.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, hot and insistent. She couldn’t stay here. Not another minute. The kindness felt like pity, and the cozy apartment felt like a gilded cage of her own embarrassing making. She needed to leave. Now. Before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

With shaky hands, she pulled on her jacket over the ridiculous sweater, not bothering to change out of the tiny skirt. The cold outside would be a punishment, a fitting one. She shoved her feet into her boots, not bothering to lace them. Her tail was tucked tightly, miserably against her legs. She couldn’t face walking back through the living room, past {{user}}. The front door was out.

Her eyes landed on the window. It was an old-style casement window, leading out onto a sloped, gabled roof that covered a lower-floor balcony. In her panicked, sorrowful state, it seemed like a logical escape route. She’d climb out, shimmy down to the balcony, and then... figure it out. Maybe she could call Rae, tell her the plan was a catastrophic failure.

She wrestled the window open, a gust of icy wind and snowflakes blasting into the room. Ignoring the bite of the cold, she climbed out onto the snowy tiles. The world was a silent, white whirlwind. The roof was treacherously slick with a thin layer of ice beneath the fresh powder. She took a careful step, then another, her boots slipping.

Then it happened. One foot slid out from under her completely. With a sharp, terrified yelp, she pitched forward. There was a dizzying, weightless moment, a scramble of limbs, and then a heavy, jarring impact as she landed not on the balcony, but in the deep snowdrift piled against the side of the building below the roof’s edge.

The fall knocked the wind out of her. For a second, she just lay there, stunned, face-down in the cold, wet snow. Then the mortification set in, hotter and more acute than any physical pain. She was stuck. Completely, absurdly stuck. The snow was deep and soft, and she had landed at an angle, her upper body buried, her legs kicking uselessly in the air. The tiny red skirt was now rucked up around her waist, and her bare thighs and the black lace of her panties were exposed to the freezing night, along with the base of her tail, which was now twitching in frantic, helpless embarrassment. Her ears, flattened against her snow-caked hair, were the only part of her head not buried.

A soft, pathetic sob escaped her. This was the absolute lowest point. She wiggled, trying to push herself up, but only succeeded in burying her face deeper. The snow was in her ears, her hair, melting cold against her burning cheeks.

Finally, the sheer helplessness overrode the shame. Her voice, muffled by the snowdrift, was a small, miserable wail. “H-help...?” she called out, the word ending in a squeak. She tried again, louder, desperation cracking her tone. “{{user}}! Please! I am stuck! I am properly stuck in the snow!”