Chapter 5

A sigh of relief escaped me as I sealed the final commissioned item into a cardboard box and sent it off for delivery.

Finished nearly a month ahead of schedule, by late November, I’d crossed a significant milestone after half a year of grueling work. Utterly drained, I collapsed onto the floor at the entrance, limbs splayed out in exhaustion.

“Good work!” a familiar voice chirped. “Taking a break for a bit this time?”

“That’s… the plan,” I managed, turning my head toward the sound while still sprawled on my back.

There stood my sister, decked out in a cosplay outfit that left little to the imagination. As usual, she was practically half-naked—torn stockings, sheer underwear, and a skirt so tattered it was little more than a strip of fabric clinging to her waist. Her top barely covered her shoulders and stomach, with only a scorched-looking corset holding it all together.  The outfit was far too provocative for a teenager like me to handle without flinching.

She’d invited a photographer friend over and was shooting at home. When time didn’t allow for a studio, she often used our house. With the props we kept for shoots, the photos never betrayed their “home cosplay” origins.

“What about you, Onee-chan? Taking a break?” I asked.

“Yup, just checking the photos. Gotta make sure nothing’s sticking out, or it’ll be trouble,” she replied, a hint of caution in her tone.

“Don’t get banned again…”

“It’ll be fine, It’ll be fine. …Probably,” she said, glancing away with a flicker of worry. With a skilled photographer, though, she’d likely avoid any issues.

Event rules varied slightly, and pushing boundaries at stricter ones could lead to a ban—sales halted on the spot. Some shady cosplayers leaned into this, flaunting “Comiket banned” as a marketing ploy to peddle risqué content elsewhere. My sister, though? She wasn’t like that. Hauling inventory was a hassle, she had no time for gimmicky phrases, and frankly, her work sold out without them.

“Oh, if you’ve got time, wanna watch the rest of the shoot? Y’know, for photography practice,” she suggested, her eyes glinting mischievously.

“Ugh, no way…” I groaned.

“Why not?”

“Watching you strike sexy poses is kinda awkward…” I admitted, cringing at the thought.

She burst into laughter, brushing it off, but I was dead serious. Her photos didn’t faze me much, but seeing her in person—transforming into a predatory leopardess stalking her prey (read: fans)—was overwhelming, to put it mildly.

“What about Hiyori-san, then?” she teased.

“Huh?”

“She said she’d take photos once her costume’s done. Why don’t you be her model?”

“…Selfies?” I asked, confused.

“Probably. Yocchan’s heading home after her shoot.”

“She’s not even staying for dinner?”

“She’s got work left, so she’s going back to the office after this.”

“It’s Saturday evening…” I muttered.

My sister laughed heartily, clearly used to it. I couldn’t wrap my head around it, though. Working nonstop for five days, barely coming home, and still having tasks on Saturday night? Were they trying to work Hiyori-san to death?

“What about you, Onee-chan?” I asked.

“I’m free ‘til noon tomorrow, so I’ll be chilling at home.”

“…Just so you know, tomorrow’s Sunday.”

Her casual reply drew a heavy sigh from me. I’d suggested she consider a less soul-crushing company, but she wasn’t ready to quit. She claimed the pay was good, her responsibilities were growing, and she found it fulfilling—classic black company employee mindset.

I’d been thinking I might have to forcibly intervene someday, but she seemed healthy enough for now, so I hadn’t pushed it. If her mental health ever tanked and she stopped cosplaying, though, I’d step in without hesitation.

“Rikkun, sew the back for meeee!!”

Frantic footsteps clomped down the stairs, interrupting our chat. Hiyori-san, barely covered by loosely pinned fabric that exposed more than it concealed, spotted us at the entrance and shouted, “What are you guys doing out here?” By now, I was used to her parading around in just panties. So was my sister.

“Just sent off a package and collapsed from exhaustion,” I explained.

“I’m on my way to the bathroom!” sis declared.

“Then hurry up and go.”

“I can’t take it off myself, so help me out!”

“…Fine, fine,” I sighed as I stood up.

Moving behind her, I unzipped her corset, unhooked the skirt’s clasp, and carefully undid the fasteners on her top, letting it all fall to the floor. Sliding her tattered stockings down gently to avoid further damage, I handed them to her. “Thanks!” she chirped, now topless and in just panties, before sauntering off to the bathroom.

“…Eh, what was that just now?” Hiyori-san asked, blinking at me.

“What?”

“You do that much for Umi-san!?”

“That much…?”

It was pretty normal for us, so I tilted my head, unsure what she meant by “that much.”

“No, that’s weird! The corset’s one thing, but she can’t take off her skirt and stockings herself!? And she didn’t need to strip everything to use the bathroom!”

“Well… sure, she could, I guess…” I mumbled, scratching my head.

If I thought about it, she could probably manage the corset too with some effort…

When she came home drunk, slurring “Take iiiit ooooff,” I’d have to carry her to the bathroom. Her walking to the toilet in just panties was progress, honestly.

I stripped everything because parts like the stockings and corset had sewn-on details to mimic damage. Forcing them off could tear them, and it was easier for me to handle than explaining the outfit’s structure. So, when she shot at home in costumes like this, I always helped.

“…Your sense of normal is broken,” Hiyori-san muttered quietly.

Yeah, probably. I nodded, conceding the point.

Living together, just the two of us, for ten years had obliterated any sense of restraint. It was wild that she was perfectly professional at work. She could even use the bathroom alone.

“Oh, right. Can you sew the back for me?” Hiyori-san asked, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Uh… hold on, that’s a bit vague. Where exactly, and how?”

“I just pinned it roughly and tried it on. It’s smooth fabric, so I was gonna stitch it tight, but since you’re here, I figured I’d ask for a proper baste.”

“Got it. Needle and thread?”

“Right here!”

“…This is Schappe Spun 60, right? What about Regilon?” I asked, touching the thread she handed me.

“Huh?”

“The thread’s name? Wait, I always use that…”

“……You’re making costumes with just Schappe Spun?” I asked.

“Yeah…”

Her tone implied she saw no issue, and I sighed deeply. Schappe Spun was standard for regular fabric, but Regilon was meant for stretchy fabrics (like the smooth knit she was using). For skin-tight costumes, specialized thread was a must. And yet, this girl…

“……Give me a sec. I’ll grab the sewing kit from the workshop.”

“No, it’s fine like this!”

“It’s not fine. …Have you seriously been sewing everything with just Schappe Spun 60 this whole time?”

“Y-Yes.”

“…I see. I’ll teach you properly next time.”

“O-Okay…”

“Bring the leftover fabric, patterns, and… your sewing machine too.”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, Sensei!” she exclaimed, saluting energetically.

“I’m not your sensei,” I retorted, heading to the garage to fetch the kit.

There was no single correct way to craft cosplay costumes. Bringing 2D designs into the 3D world inherently defied strict rules, transcending dimensions from the outset. But there were definitely wrong ways—cutting corners out of laziness was bad enough, but choosing the wrong method through sheer ignorance? That was unforgivable.

I hauled out the sewing kit—a toolbox so massive it could fit a person, picked up from a home center—and spread its contents across the floor. Hiyori-san came clattering down the stairs, arms laden with fabric scraps, a small sewing machine, and a few odds and ends.

“…Uh, patterns… I didn’t make any!” she admitted, almost sheepishly.

“……Well, plenty of people skip them, I hear,” I replied, unfazed.

Patterns—paper templates for shaping fabric before cutting—were useful but not essential. Many cosplayers forwent them entirely, so her confession wasn’t surprising.

“Oh… this is the standard Arcadia school uniform, right?” I said, eyeing the fabric pile.

“What!? You can tell just from the fabric!?” she gasped, wide-eyed. “How!?”

“The color’s a dead giveaway. Though, personally, I’d go a shade darker…”

“For spicy photos, brighter costumes pop better, y’know,” she countered, a hint of pride in her voice.

“Is that so,” I replied flatly.

“You sound so uninterested~”

“Because I am.” I shifted focus. “So, the sewing machine…… this one, right? Really, just this?”

“……Is it weird?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Weird’s one way to put it… it’s impressive you manage with this.”

“Ehehe~!” she giggled, beaming.

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Whaaat!?”

Her beloved sewing machine—a compact, toy-like contraption small enough to balance on your palm—was the kind you could snag online for under 2,000 yen. It only did straight stitches, had weak power, and was so unstable it couldn’t handle thick fabrics.

“Not to brag, but for clothes I wear once and toss, I don’t even use a machine!” she declared proudly.

“That’s not something to brag about. Stop doing that.”

“But otherwise, I can’t keep up with my posting schedule!”

“Is that so. My condolences.”

“Have mercy…” she whined, pouting.

To refocus, I tested her machine with some scraps from the sewing kit. It rattled with a loud gagagaga, and after a few seconds, I nodded. “Yup.”

“It’s no good.”

“What!?”

“It’s too unstable to even sew a straight line. I’m amazed you made costumes with this.”

“……Impressive?” she ventured, hopeful.

“You’ve got money, so buy a proper one.”

“I’ve got money, but no space to store it!!”

“Fair enough,” I conceded, heading back to the garage.

I returned with my pride and joy—a top-of-the-line sewing machine from a major brand. Hiyori-san’s eyes widened. “Ooh…”

“You can use this whenever I’m not, so feel free.”

“Wait, hold on, I’ve never touched a machine this fancy before!?”

“Find the manual online and study it.”

This machine, a 250,000-yen beast, was my sister’s gift for my 12th birthday. Not exactly a typical gift for a 12-year-old, right?

“Alright, I’ll sew, so hand me the fabric. Let’s start with the inner layer.”

“Got it! Wait, you can make it without references!? Have you made this before?”

“No, never made it, but I’ve memorized the structure.”

“That’s insane…”

And so, our sewing session began.

“Hm… what’d you cut this fabric from? You didn’t make a pattern, right?”

Without a pattern, I’d have to adjust the size on the fly. After basting and having her try it on, the fit was oddly baggy, especially around the chest.

“Uh, I usually just press fabric against random clothes…” she admitted.

“Aah, you’re using regular clothes as a reference?”

She nodded. It was a valid approach—turning existing clothes inside out, cutting fabric slightly larger than the seams, and mimicking the construction. But it only worked if you owned something similar, which wasn’t practical for most cosplay designs.

“We can take in about 5 cm here,” I said, pinching the fabric.

“That much? Won’t it squish my boobs?”

“There’s a trick to the sewing. By stitching three-dimensionally instead of flat, you can naturally recreate the breast pouch—”

The machine roared dogagaga, forcing us to shout over its clamor. The breast pouch—a 2D trope where the chest magically bulges—was tricky to replicate. Cutting fabric based on real-world clothes often led to a baggy, unflattering fit beneath the chest, which this game’s designer clearly hadn’t intended.

“You’ve got a great figure, so we need to cinch where it counts and highlight what stands out. Otherwise, it’s a disservice to your body.”

“I’m disrespecting myself!?” she exclaimed.

“Here, try this on.”

“……Isn’t it too small? Won’t it rip?”

“It’s fine.”

I handed her the fabric, sewn into a tube-top shape. With stretchy fabric and thread, it might look small unworn, but—

“See, it’s fine. Not too tight?”

“It was tight to put on, but… wait, what!? My boobs are standing on their own!? No bra, no wires, how!?”

“That’s what three-dimensional sewing does.”

“Hold on, Rikkun, you’re too good at this…?”

“You’re welcome. Alright, give it back so I can keep sewing.”

“Right, right!”

I let my guard down.

Deep in work mode, focused on sewing and explaining, I hadn’t glanced at Hiyori-san or checked her after she tried it on. So, I hadn’t noticed.

The implication of her earlier words, “No bra and all”…

As she slipped off the tube-top, her breasts spilled out with such force it felt like a barun sound effect should’ve played. They bounced upward, defying gravity, before settling back into place.

“Huh,” I muttered, staring directly at them.

—I’d completely seen everything.

“Huh?” Hiyori-san, standing close enough to touch, belatedly realized I’d glimpsed the pinkish hue slightly distinct from her skin tone.

“Hya~” she squealed softly, hurriedly covering her chest with her hands. Her face flushed crimson as she stammered, “…Did you see?”

I nodded silently.

“”………………””

The living room, alive with the sewing machine’s clamor moments ago, fell into a heavy silence.

“…Sorry, it’s an inner layer, so of course you’d wear it directly on your skin,” I mumbled.

“S-Sorry, I showed you something weird,” she replied, equally awkward.

“No…… uh, oh—”

A trickle of blood dripped from my nose, and I scrambled to stuff tissue into it. —Is this seriously happening? A sudden rush of blood like this, for real?

Trying not to stare at Hiyori-san—still topless, flailing her arms in a panic while forgetting to cover her chest—

The door to the living room burst open. My sister, mid-shoot, had clearly sensed something and charged in.

“Pervy chance!” she declared with a gleeful grin, striding over and suddenly grabbing Hiyori-san’s chest.

“Hya!?” Hiyori-san yelped.

What’s this woman doing?

“What were you two up to?” my sister asked, still groping.

“…I accidentally showed Rikkun,” Hiyori-san admitted, mortified.

“And then, nosebleed?” she asked, glancing at me.

I nodded, and she responded with a nod, satisfied.

By the way, my sister was, predictably, stark naked—no corset, no fabric, nothing. Hiyori-san, at least in panties, had her beat in modesty. But seeing my sister naked? I felt nothing. I was used to it.

Yocchan-san—the photographer, known only as Yoshimi—poked her head into the living room, camera in hand. “Hn?” she hummed, tilting her head. “Fumu-san, do you show your nipples in your ROMs?”

“N-No, I don’t! Just the areola! Well, sometimes it’s a bit see-through, but never directly!” Hiyori-san protested.

“Oh, got it, makes sense,” Yocchan-san replied casually.

“Makes sense how…!?” Hiyori-san sputtered.

“That face. Girls who show their nipples to cam-guys never make that face. Lemme snap one!”

Pashari.

“W-Wait, what!?” Hiyori-san cried.

“I’ll DM it to Mei-chan’s account later,” Yocchan-san said.

“I don’t need it,” I deadpanned.

“Mei-chan can’t get off to her big sis, huh? What a waste,” Yocchan-san teased.

“Is that true!? Rikkun, I’m no good!? You can’t get off to me!?” my sister exclaimed, leaning forward and pressing her chest against me.

I pushed her away—it was in the way. What, does she have water balloons stuffed in there? Talking to a high school boy like this? That’s something only high school boys would do.

“Onee-chan’s shocked…” she mumbled, feigning hurt.

“This is a wild situation, though,” Yocchan-san chimed in. “A high school boy with two naked women at his beck and call. If this were Othello, I’d be stripping too.”

“I’m not having anyone at my beck and call,” I shot back. “And please don’t strip, Yocchan-san.”

“I’m not gonna. I haven’t cosplayed in, like, ten years, and my body’s not fit for showing off anymore,” she said, laughing as she pinched her stomach. She didn’t look that chubby—honestly, my sister’s boob weight probably tipped the scales more.

“Yocchan, let’s do some yuri-yuri again!” my sister said, leaning against Yocchan-san, who patted her back with a “Sure, sure,” like soothing a baby. I was used to it, and Yocchan-san seemed unfazed—they’d known each other forever, after all.

“Onee-chan, stop crashing your brother’s pervy event and let’s go take some spicy photos,” Yocchan-san urged.

“Okaay. Rikkun, if you’re gonna… y’know, do it in your room, alright?” my sister teased, winking.

“I’m not,” I replied flatly.

“What’s that supposed—wait, Yocchan, sorry!” she yelped as Yocchan-san dragged her back to the shoot.

—And so, the two of us were left behind.

“…Rikkun?” Hiyori-san’s voice broke the awkward silence.

“What?”

“Um… wanna look?” she asked, her tone half-teasing, half-hesitant.

“No. I’m gonna keep sewing, so just wait over there,” I replied, keeping my eyes on the fabric.

“…Okaay,” she agreed reluctantly, but for some reason, she plopped into the chair directly across from me.

Her embarrassed expression peeked over the sewing machine. Curious, I glanced her way—

“……” I froze.

“Eye candy? Thought it might help,” she said, a shy grin tugging at her lips.

“I can’t focus, so please stay out of my line of sight,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Can’t you phrase it a bit more gently!?” she protested, her cheeks flushing.

“…I can see it flickering in my peripheral vision. Even if I don’t want to look, I end up seeing it, so please at least make sure I can’t.”

“……Okaay,” she mumbled, her face now fully red. Too shy to flaunt it boldly, she leaned forward, collapsing onto the table.

Her soft mounds pressed against the surface, flattening under the pressure. Caught at the edge of my vision, they resembled elastic water dumplings, holding their shape against the hard table. My sister once said they don’t hurt, even under such strain. The sewing machine’s vibrations pulsed through the table, making them tremble faintly in my peripheral view—barely human in their surreal motion.

If I couldn’t see the tips, they were just lumps of flesh. Switching to that mindset, I sewed on autopilot—

—About 30 minutes later.

I finished the inner layer and skirt, checking the sizing. Spreading out the fabric for the jacket, I ran into a problem.

“…This fabric,” I said, frowning.

“Is something wrong!?” Hiyori-san asked, startled.

“It feels like we’re a bit short on fabric.”

“Huh? I thought I cut it pretty generously… Wait, how can you tell in that state?” she asked, peering at the fabric laid out on the table.

“I measured you before, remember?”

“You remember that!?” she exclaimed.

“Roughly. If we sew it to fit your chest, the shoulders will probably feel tight…”

“…So the reason my homemade jackets are always hard to put on and take off…”

“That’s probably why. For someone with your size, you need to account for the chest’s shape. Regular clothes in larger sizes are usually made for heavier or taller people, right?”

“Yeah, even cute clothes often don’t fit right…” she sighed.

“With a big chest and slim waist, we’ll need to adjust here—” I grabbed scissors and boldly cut into the fabric.

“You’re cutting it!?” she yelped.

“To give the shoulders room and create the breast pouch, we need to sew this less noticeable part three-dimensionally. Can I use the leftover scraps from earlier?”

“Uh, yeah… How are you gonna sew it?”

“Here, like this—” I arranged the finely cut pieces like a puzzle, matching them to the pattern in my head before pinning them and taking them to the machine.

—Ten minutes later.

I handed her the basted jacket. “It’s just basted, but how’s it feel?”

“Whoa, amazing!! My arms slide in, but my chest doesn’t get caught!?” she marveled, twisting to test the fit.

“The waist… looks fine as is,” I noted, eyeing the unbuttoned jacket. It was an estimate, but we shouldn’t need more fabric. Her habit of buying cheap fabric randomly made finding a match a hassle—fabrics don’t come with product names, and starting over would be a pain.

“You cut it so much, but the seams don’t stand out at all…”

“I switched to finer needles and thread. Alright, I’ll do the final stitching.”

“Thanks!!” she beamed.

After another ten minutes of sewing, I had her put on the full set. “Looks good,” I said as she spun around, letting me check the details.

“This is insane… It’s like official merch…” she murmured, awestruck.

“Not sure if that’s a compliment, but okay. Are you using this right away?”

“Yup!! …But it seems like Umi-san’s shoot isn’t done yet?”

“Yeah. Why don’t you do your makeup or something?”

“Guess I’ll do that. …Thanks,” she said softly.

“Nah, you always cook for us, so consider it a thank-you.”

The whole process took less than two hours. With the fabric mostly pre-cut, adjusting while she wore it let me work leisurely, resulting in a solid piece. It was apparently faster than Hiyori-san expected, and my sister still wasn’t back. Was there anything left for her to take off? I didn’t get it.

They were probably deep in their shoot, so I decided not to interrupt. I stowed the sewing kit and machine in the garage and returned to the living room—

“……You’re wearing something underneath, right?” I asked, eyeing Hiyori-san in the kitchen.

“Huh?”

She stood in a white frilly apron, the costume I’d just made neatly folded on the table. From the side and front, it looked like nothing but a naked apron—

“Nope, not wearing anything,” she admitted.

“Why……” I groaned.

“Oh, but I kept my panties on!”

“You’re not Onee-chan. Don’t take off anything you don’t need to indoors.”

“Umi-san strips even at home…”

Apparently, this was a genuine naked apron. Why? She usually wore shorts and a tube top to fake the look.

“I realized we hadn’t had dinner yet. And I didn’t want to dirty the costume you just made…”

“Fair, but couldn’t you have brought some underwear?”

“…It’s not a big deal, right? Sounds like Umi-san’s shoot isn’t wrapping up soon, so let’s eat first. Hang on a sec!”

As she deftly chopped green onions, I muttered, “Sure,” and waited quietly. I knew better than anyone how futile it was to make someone who refused clothes wear them.

Tinkering with a 3D model on my laptop, I barely noticed when a bowl was set before me. The rich aroma of dashi hit my nose, stirring my forgotten hunger.

“Tonight’s dinner is… kitsune udon!” Hiyori-san announced.

[T/N: Kitsune Udon is a dish where udon noodles are topped with aburaage (deep-fried tofu pockets) and a broth made primarily from ingredients like kombu (kelp) and mackerel flakes.]

“Whoa… First time seeing it not instant,” I said, genuinely impressed.

“Really? You don’t eat out?”

“When I buy for myself, I go for soba… Itadakimasu.”

Pushing the laptop aside, I clapped my hands and picked up chopsticks. I went for the tofu skin first. Biting into the large, almost untouched piece of aburaage, a sweet juice burst in my mouth—refined yet flavorful, unlike instant versions. With it still in my mouth, I slurped the udon, its chewy, mochi-like texture a rare treat compared to our usual fare. Alternating bites, I polished it off quickly. More udon and aburaage appeared in my bowl, clearly prepared in bulk. I dug in gratefully.

After my second helping, I loaded the dishes into the dishwasher. My sister finally emerged, shoot apparently done, still completely naked. “Food! The smell of dashi…!!” she exclaimed, diving into the udon, yelping “Hot!” between bites. (obviously, and go put some clothes on). After slurping down the broth, she mumbled, “Thanks for the meal… Hiyori’s food is so good…” in a small voice, staggered to her feet, and faceplanted onto the sofa, motionless.

Clearing her dishes, I glanced at the sofa—she was beckoning me.

“Me?” I asked, since Hiyori-san was busy with her makeup.

“What?”

“Take off my makeup.”

“……Fine, fine,” I sighed, grabbing a pack of makeup remover wipes.

Rolling over, my sister was—predictably—buck naked, her body faintly shiny, likely from some product. Even compared to Hiyori-san’s gravure idol-level figure, her massive chest was on another level, spreading into a figure-eight under gravity’s pull. She usually wore at least underwear, despite her nudist tendencies, because the weight was too much without a bra. But relaxed, she often ditched panties entirely, especially after a bath. Don’t strip. Wear something. Apparently, only the bare minimum counted as necessary.

“Keep your eyes closed,” I instructed.

“Okaay. Gonna do something naughty?” she teased.

“No.”

“Sneak it in so Hiyori-san doesn’t notice…?”

“No.”

I started with the heavy eye makeup, then moved to the thick foundation, carefully wiping it off, even cleaning the foundation on her neck used to even her skin tone. I finished with a cleansing wipe for a fresh feel. Normally, she’d either sleep like this or bathe if she felt like it, but—

“Let’s take a bath~” she mumbled.

“Eeeh… just take one yourself…”

“Stingy~ You always bathe with me.”

“Not always…”

A clatter came from behind. Hiyori-san, tossing her makeup tools aside, shouted, “W-Wait, you were about to gloss over that, but you bathe together!? I’m jealous… no, I mean, naughty… no, I mean, what!? What’s with that!?”

“We don’t,” I said firmly.

“We do sometimes, right?” my sister chimed in.

“Which is it!? Which is true!?” Hiyori-san demanded.

“……Only when she’s so out of it she might drown if I leave her alone,” I admitted.

“Ehh…” Hiyori-san replied, bewildered, as my sister dramatically whined, “I’ll diiie,” she moaned weakly. You won’t die.

When she comes home 90% asleep, demanding a bath, I can’t leave her alone—she’ll either fall asleep in the tub and drown or jump in fully clothed. She’s done both, sometimes simultaneously. So, in those cases, I bathe with her. That’s it. I don’t want to, and we only did it regularly until I was in middle school.

“…Then I’ll join!” Hiyori-san declared.

“No way three people can fit…”

The bathroom’s spacious, but the tub’s standard-sized. Even with my small frame, two people make it cramped. Three is impossible.

“Uhehe~ I’m just waiting for when Rikkun—” my sister started.

“Onee-chan?” I cut her off, voice sharp.

“…I won’t say it.”

“Good.”

“Umi-san!! …Tell me secretly later,” Hiyori-san whispered.

“Okay!” my sister replied, grinning.

“Onee-chan!?” I exclaimed, exasperated.

A strange pact had formed between them. Damn it. Just go to sleep and forget it.

“Seriously, run the bath… I’m gonna fall asleep,” my sister mumbled, her voice heavy with exhaustion.

“Then just sleep.”

“No waaay… I’m all stiiicky…”

“…What’d you put on?”

“Lotion, but…”

“……Right.”

It made sense—she’d been shooting spicy photos, so lotion was par for the course. What, is she wrestling with lotion solo? She’d wiped off enough not to stick to the sofa, but it clearly bothered her. Throwing her into bed like this wouldn’t do, so I glanced at Hiyori-san, who was still working on her makeup.

“How much longer for you?”

“About 30 minutes? …Oh, are you gonna shoot for me!?” she asked, her eyes lighting up.

“For practice. It’s not a real shoot for you either, right?”

““Real shoot!?”” they both echoed, startled.

“Wrong word. You’re not planning to use these for a photo book or ROM, right?”

““Oh, that…”” they said in unison, relaxing.

You two get along great. Well, you’re both perverts.

“Probably just posting these to my fan site,” Hiyori-san clarified.

“Feel free to use any of the gear or props lying around.”

“Oh, yes! I’ll borrow them!!” she replied energetically.

Hearing her enthusiasm, I glanced past the door. Adult shop purchases were clearly visible among the props. Did Hiyori-san know what she was signing up for?

“Then I’m borrowing Rikkun.”

“…Sure, see you.”

“You can do whatever later, but for now… sorry?”

Using my shoulder to stand, my sister shot a slightly displeased look at Hiyori-san, who was doing her makeup. As she passed by, she suddenly leaned in and planted a “chu” kiss by her ear.

A few beats later, Hiyori-san’s face turned red. My sister laughed “Ahaha” as she headed to the bathroom, dragging me along—

The chaotic situation settled, for now, as the two left the living room.

＊

“So, Rikkun,” Hiyori-san said, her tone carrying a faint edge.

“Yes?”

“You ran the bath for her, right? Did you get in together?”

“No, she looked like she’d fall asleep in the tub, so I just washed her body and hair and got her out.”

After drying my sister’s hair, dressing her in minimal clothes, and shoving her into the bedroom, I’d returned to the living room. Hiyori-san, now fully made up, wig on, and wearing the freshly sewn costume, was fiddling with her phone. I’d kept her waiting.

Is it really that upsetting for siblings to bathe together? We used to do it daily, but now it’s barely once a month.

“…So, you’re gonna take a bath now, right?” she pressed.

“Well, yeah…”

“After the shoot, I’ll join you.”

“No way.”

“Why!? You bathe with Umi-san!?” she protested, indignant.

“Onee-chan’s Onee-chan,” I said flatly. Other people’s business is their own.

“…Besides, you got embarrassed just from me seeing you naked. Bathing together is obviously too much.”

Hitting the mark, she clutched her chest and looked down, muttering, “Urgh.” Is she an idiot?

“Y-You too, Rikkun! You got a nosebleed and got all… big from seeing my boobs!!” she shot back, pointing accusingly.

“Stop saying tactless things.”

“It’s true!!”

“I’m a guy.”

“But you didn’t react at all to Umi-san’s naked body,” she said, smirking triumphantly with a “huhun.”

I felt like I’d lost this round. “…Aren’t we shooting?”

“……Right!!” she exclaimed, snapping back to focus.

The air had grown awkward, so I hurried to start the shoot. I’d used Hiyori-san’s camera before for props, so I roughly knew its functions. Still, I’d only shot inanimate objects, never a person.

To maximize shots, I turned off autofocus and headed to the white backdrop. The shooting room was split—one half a plain white backdrop, the other covered in brick-patterned tiles with chairs and assorted furnishings. Props and equipment were scattered everywhere: standard gear like strobes and tripods, a thick rod shaped like a male organ, a bizarrely shaped pink thing, an empty lotion bottle, and a trash bag with kitchen paper likely used to wipe it.

Realizing these were the “props,” I watched Hiyori-san casually pick up the pink rod and switch it on. It roared gyuin gyuin, thrashing violently.

“……You’re using that?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“She said I could, so yeah? I’ve got a similar one.”

“……Uh, we’re shooting the uniform, right?” Weird, I thought this was a normal cosplay shoot.

“Yup. The vibe… maybe like I’m being attacked by a thug.”

“A thug polite enough to use props, huh.”

“…He’s an old man. Probably can’t get it up anymore,” she said, deadpan.

“Your idea of a thug is way off from mine… Well, shall we shoot?”

“Yup! I’ll strike poses, so shoot whatever you like!”

“Got it.”

Hiyori-san, grinning moments ago, lowered her head and exhaled deeply.

—Then looked up.

…Incredible.

In seconds, she transformed into the character—Sendou Shanon from Super Flash Arcadia. The enigmatic classmate who shuns interaction, her motives for attending the academy shrouded in mystery. That complex expression—

—she crafted it in an instant.

My hand, gripping the camera, froze. I was captivated. Her face seemed ripped straight from 2D.

“Rikkun, photos, photos,” she prompted, not breaking character.

“…Right,” I muttered, hurriedly peering through the viewfinder.

…So this is… this is Tsukushi Fumu.

I’d always thought exposure-focused cosplayers were just stripping for profit, unlike those who lovingly recreated source material or coordinated with others. I’d assumed they chose characters solely for money.

I’d probably looked down on them.

…So, there are people like this too.

With my sister, I’d just think, “Well, it’s Onee-chan.” But seeing Tsukushi Fumu—Miyoshi Hiyori—one of those I’d judged through a biased lens, morph into a character’s essence in an instant left me stunned.

Mindlessly, I pressed the shutter. A human body moves—handholding the camera risked blur, and shifting poses altered the distance to the subject. Unlike static objects where focus could be set once, I had to constantly adjust, choosing where to aim.

Standing poses alone took about thirty minutes. After roughly 200 shots, my arms ached, and I lowered the camera.

“Tired? Wanna take a break?” Hiyori-san asked, noticing my fatigue.

“…Sorry. Holding it by hand is a bit exhausting,” I admitted, sitting down with a phew to catch my breath. Keeping the camera steady with both hands was surprisingly taxing.

Meanwhile, Hiyori-san, who’d been posing the entire time, looked unfazed. She had surprising stamina. She’d mentioned shoots often lasted half to a full day.

“Then I’ll do selfies while you rest.”

“Sure, go for it.”

Handing her the camera, she mounted it on a tripod, then clamped a tablet leaning against the wall to it. Connecting cables, the camera’s display mirrored on the tablet’s large screen, letting her see her poses in real-time.

“Wow… you can do that?” I said, genuinely impressed.

“People who don’t do selfies don’t need this,” she replied with a shrug.

Pasha, pasha—the shutter clicked automatically every three seconds, not a delayed group shot but a steady rhythm as she subtly tweaked her poses while watching the tablet.

If she can do this, does she even need a photographer?—I thought briefly.

“Well, you have to keep adjusting like this,” she explained, as if reading my thoughts.

For standing poses, the camera angle could stay fixed, but other compositions required constant tweaking. She’d nudge the camera, return to her spot, check the tablet, and repeat until satisfied before resuming.

Watching her selfie for about thirty minutes, she spoke up, her tone slightly apologetic.

“I kinda wanna shoot something spicy now…”

“Alright. Then—”

As I started to leave the room, Hiyori-san’s voice stopped me. “Wait.”

“It’d be… nice if you could hold the camera…”

“……Aah, right, yeah. Can I unplug this cable?”

“Yup. I’ll start stripping bit by bit, so just shoot what looks good, okay?”

“Got it.”

Taking the camera off the tripod, its weight felt heavier than before despite the break. For outdoor shoots, they add strobes too. Cosplay photographers must be built like tanks to haul this around events.

Exhaling lightly, I steadied the camera.

In Arcadia’s world, bras probably don’t exist. Whether it’s a uniform or battle outfit, if the inner layer tears, it’s just bare skin underneath. That makes the inner layer, peeking through the gaps of a half-removed uniform, essentially underwear.

As I photographed Hiyori-san gradually peeling off her uniform, impure thoughts barely crossed my mind.

—I have to capture this perfectly.

That drive had consumed me. Even as the jacket hit the floor and the skirt fell away, leaving only panties and the inner layer, it wasn’t Miyoshi Hiyori standing there—it was Sendou Shanon.

—Even stripped this far, she’s still maintaining the character.

I’d assumed that wearing something outside the source material would reduce her to an exposure cosplayer, but no—Sendou Shanon’s essence remained intact.

—And then.

Her fingers hooked under the inner layer. As the black fabric revealed white skin, the contrast was stark. Slowly, it rose past her navel, then her ribs, gradually exposing the chest beneath.

I shot frame by frame, determined not to miss a moment. Just as the underbust was about to appear—

Hiyori-san, still embodying Shanon, paused, her expression flickering with slight awkwardness.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“…Ah, nothing. …Whatever,” she mumbled.

“? Alright then.”

I didn’t fully understand, but the shoot continued. Focusing on her upper half through the viewfinder, I adjusted the frame. Despite the three-dimensional sewing, the stretchy inner layer acted like a bra, holding her chest in place. Without it, her breasts would shift freely.

As she lifted the fabric slowly, it reached the pink region.

—The most critical part still isn’t visible.

I wasn’t sure how much she typically showed on her fan site or ROMs, but since she hadn’t stopped, I assumed it was fine to keep shooting. Her movements were so deliberate, like a slow-motion reel—probably how she shot solo.

—The areola finally appeared.

Thumbnail-sized, before the camera. Yet her hands didn’t pause. So I kept pressing the shutter, holding the camera steady.

In what felt like an eternity, the entire pink region emerged from the inner layer. Almost simultaneously, her chest spilled free with such force I could almost hear a barun sound effect in my mind.

Perhaps there was no need to move slowly once her chest was out. With a slightly perplexed glance at the camera, she discarded the inner layer.

Sendou Shanon, baring her chest. Naturally, the source game isn’t adult-rated, so no such scene exists. Yet, in that moment, it felt like I was recreating a CG straight from the game.

—And then.

“Rikkun?” Her sweet voice snapped me back to reality.

Lowering the camera, I regained my composure and muttered, “…Cover up.”

“I forgot my nipple covers, but you seemed really into it, so I felt bad asking you to grab them…”

That’s why you stopped? Don’t forget something that critical.

“…Sorry. Please delete those later.”

“Huh? I’m not deleting them.”

“You’re posting them online?” I asked, alarmed.

“No way! I don’t want anyone else to see!” she protested.

“I see.”

“You worked hard to shoot these, so I’ll keep them. …Want a copy?”

“No thanks,” I replied instantly, looking down.

Blood rushed through my body, my face heating up as I belatedly grasped what I’d been shooting. —I was earnestly photographing my housemate’s chest. It’d be a lie to say no impure thoughts arose, but in the moment, with my finger on the shutter, I’d been consumed by the act of capturing her.

Like a philosopher chasing cosmic truths, I wondered if some higher-dimensional being had possessed me. —I sank to the floor, sighing. “…Please shoot the rest yourself.”

“Wait, I really need you to hold the camera from here… Is that too much?”

“Right now, it is…”

My face burned. —Right now, I…

“…I’ll wait for you to calm down,” she said softly.

“Thanks. Sorry. …If you’re free, maybe grab something to cover up now.”

“Oh, good idea.”

She hopped past me as I crouched. Her footsteps paused, and I sensed her turn back, but I kept my eyes down, knowing she was still topless. After a few seconds, the door opened, and she left. I exhaled in relief.

“I’m never gonna get used to this…” I muttered, unsure who I was addressing.

＊ ＊

“…So, how was the response?” I asked, scrolling through SNS.

“Super good! I’d been focusing on Willhan for a while, so my followers and fan site were stagnating, but since Arcadia cosplayers are rare, I gained like 200 members overnight!” Hiyori-san beamed.

“Wow.”

“Ugh, you sound totally uninterested… You shot them, Rikkun! It’s your achievement!”

“More than half were selfies, though,” I pointed out, eyes on my phone. The response was indeed massive—photos posted last night (critical parts covered by stickers) were widely shared, and the fan site promo racked up likes.

After my first human photoshoot, the retouched and selected photos went straight to her fan site. Tsukushi Fumu’s site offered two plans: 2,000 yen and 10,000 yen monthly. Even if all 200 new members chose the cheaper plan, that’s 400,000 yen in revenue. A costume made from 100-yen-per-meter fabric had gained that value just because of the model.

—What a different world. I sighed.

“So, about your payment—” she started.

“No, I don’t need it.”

“Why not? You shot for me.”

“I bailed halfway, and I’m not good enough to charge yet. …I’ll take payment when I’m worth it.”

During the shoot, I’d retired mid-session as her poses grew too explicit, just sitting cross-legged and watching her selfie. She’d covered the essentials with nipple covers and a front patch, but partway through, she peeled them off, hiding with just her fingers. Apparently, they’re applied just to be removed. What a weird world. Naturally, fingers and camera angles couldn’t fully cover her private areas. Some things were visible, just not captured, and as long as they weren’t uploaded, it was fine—so the shoot continued.

I tried to escape then, but as “punishment” for bathing my sister, they locked me in the room, and it went on. She’s shy about being seen naked normally but totally chill in cosplay. I glimpsed a strange professionalism—exposure professionalism.

“Then I’ll thank you some other way.”

“You already cook for us, so I don’t need anything.”

As I kept refusing, she pouted. “The cooking’s canceled out by you making the costume. You said it was a thank-you, right?”

“Did I?”

“…Fine, what do you want then?”

“Peace.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Eeeh……” I groaned. The one thing I wanted most seemed forever out of reach. I just wished for quiet days to work on my projects.

“If you don’t pick, I’ll decide for you.”

“Fine, choose whatever.”

“A date, a bath, or sleeping together. Which one?”

“……Something else,” I said, wary.

“Then I’ll pick. Alri—”

“W-Wait, hold on!” I threw up both hands, panicking. Which is the right choice?

Since I’d left it to her, she’d probably make me do all three if I didn’t choose. If she got serious, she might ambush me after school, barge into my bath, or sneak into my bed. Onee-chan was enough for that nonsense. Why do they all have a rap sheet?

I needed the safest option to minimize damage. A date was out—Onee-chan and I only went out for Comiket or cosplay events, too lazy even for dining out. That left two, but sleeping together… a bath was what I was most used to.

“Just to check, would a bath be quick?” I asked cautiously.

“From undressing to dressing, the whole deal.”

“Is this a punishment?”

“It’s not a punishment! It’s every boy’s dream lucky perv moment!” she insisted.

“If it’s intentional, it’s just mixed bathing,” I countered, unimpressed.

What about sleeping together? It’d take longer, but I could just sleep. We’ve done it once—she choked me out, but still. The issue is she might sleep naked. Same skin exposure as a bath or bed? That’s insane.

“Can I hold off?” I asked, dodging the question.

“That’s just stalling forever!” Hiyori-san protested, puffing out her cheeks.

“…It’s a rare chance to have Hiyori-san all to myself, so I want to think it over,” I said smoothly.

Her face flushed, and she nodded, “O-Okay…” Good communication. Ten years of navigating troublesome older women had honed my skills.

“Changing topics, do you cosplay at Comiket even on days you’re not running a booth?” I asked, steering the conversation.

“Oh, yeah. I’m there pretty much every day… Why the sudden question?” she replied, tilting her head.

“You mentioned wanting me to make Arcadia’s battle outfit before.”

She shot up with a clatter. “Seriously!? You’ll make it!?”

“…Comiket’s still a while off, and I’m free until New Year’s.”

“For real!? Will it be done in time!? What’s with you, Rikkun? Finally hitting your dere phase?” she teased, eyes sparkling.

Don’t make it sound like a mating season. But I’d successfully derailed the topic.

“…Calm down. You once said, self-deprecatingly, that your followers might just be there for the exposure,” I pointed out.

She flinched dramatically, as if stabbed. “I haven’t seen you at events without stripping, but do you get mobbed even fully clothed?”

“At summer Comiket, I did Nadeshiko in a swimsuit for my booth, but on the first day, I was Claudia’s Roselinde, so no stripping. Even then, at Comiket, I never go out to the plaza without getting mobbed at least once,” she said casually.

As expected, she was a popular cosplayer. Sure, her exposure drew attention, but that wasn’t all. Getting mobbed without stripping meant her fame and striking appearance pulled in crowds, even strangers wanting photos.

Mob shoots were eye-catching, often photographed and shared beyond Comiket. But massive ones were rare, reserved for a handful of industry names. Cute cosplayers, skilled costume makers, and exposure-focused ones rarely crossed that threshold. Yet Tsukushi Fumu—Miyoshi Hiyori—had surpassed it.

So, what to do? As Yotsutsuji Mei, a prop maker, how would I handle someone who drew mobs just by showing their face and name?

“What if you could draw a mob without revealing your name?” I proposed.

“…Huh?” she blinked, confused.

“You know how exposure cosplayers put out signs with their names for clout?”

“It’s not clout, it’s a nameplate! It’s a pain to tell everyone my account individually! And it’s not just exposure cosplayers—lots of people do it!” she huffed.

“Without that, would fans recognize you just by your face?”

“…I get approached sometimes even out of cosplay, but I’m not sure,” she admitted.

Onee-chan was the same, always linking arms with me or clinging at events. Calling me her brother publicly kept me from being mistaken for a boyfriend, and few guys were bold enough to hit on her with her much-younger sibling in tow. I was like a talisman.

“Remember Shanon’s outfit in Chapter 3 when she turns to the enemy side?”

“The battle outfit that got a bit blacker with a mask covering her eyes, right? Less exposure than her usual battle outfit, but still sexy…” she recalled, her voice trailing off.

“If you drew a mob without your name, with a mask hiding half your face—”

Her eyes widened as she caught my meaning. “Ah.”

Drawing attention not with a famous name or striking looks, but with the costume itself.

—It’s not impossible. As Yotsutsuji Mei, I can make it happen.

“Not as the exposure cosplayer Tsukushi Fumu, but as an anonymous prop-focused cosplayer drawing a mob… how’s that sound? Would that boost your ego?” I asked.

“It’d boost it SO much!!!!” she exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Then I’ll make it with that in mind.”

“Can you really do that!?”

“Yeah, probably,” I said with a shrug.

“…Want a kiss?” she offered, leaning in.

“I’ll pass,” I replied, deadpan.

She pouted but quickly brightened, humming as she gazed at the ceiling. The outfit’s complex structure wasn’t an issue—Comiket was over three weeks away, plenty of time. I could even add movable gimmicks I rarely included. Unlike crafting for distant clients, I had a live mannequin at home. I could fine-tune it precisely, no shipping or explanations needed, and work right up to the day before.

“Oh, if we’re going from the first day—” Onee-chan, who’d been passed out on the sofa, suddenly sat up. When did she wake up? She was home this morning for once but had collapsed again after waking before noon, so I’d treated her as absent.

“Should we book the hotel for multiple nights? It’s a hassle for you to go back and forth, right, Rikkun?” she suggested.

“That’d be easier, but can we get a reservation? I hear it’s pretty crowded,” I said.

“Probably fine. What about you, Hiyori-san?”

“Uh, Umi-san, h-hotel?” Hiyori-san stammered, eyes wide.

“Oh, didn’t I mention? The two of us always stay at a hotel before Comiket,” Onee-chan said casually.

“N-No way, doing naughty stuff there…!?” Hiyori-san gasped.

“Not a love hotel. We could do that at home anyway,” she replied, unfazed.

“At home!?” Hiyori-san squeaked.

We don’t do that at home either.

“You know that C-shaped building near Big Sight? That one,” Onee-chan clarified.

Realizing the building, Hiyori-san nodded with a plain “Oh, yes.” Did she seriously think it was a love hotel? No way. We’re actual siblings.

Onee-chan, still sprawled on the sofa, made a call. Her usual languid tone shifted to a crisp, professional one, like a different person entirely. Hiyori-san, witnessing this for the first time, looked stunned. Sure, her tone’s like a career woman, but she’s a half-naked creature lounging on the sofa.

“They had openings, so I booked it,” Onee-chan announced, hanging up.

“Two rooms?” I asked hopefully.

“Nope, one.”

“Can’t we at least get two? We’re at that age, you know.”

I was used to sharing a room with Onee-chan, but Hiyori-san was just our housekeeper, no blood relation. Two rooms would let us split guys and girls, and I could offload Onee-chan’s care onto her.

“What, Rikkun, you care about that stuff?” Onee-chan teased.

“Of course I do… Hiyori-san, you’d rather not share a room, right?”

“Not at all! I’d hate it if it wasn’t one room!” Hiyori-san declared, shocking me.

What’s with her?

“…But, like, I didn’t even know that place was a hotel. You can book it this last-minute?” she asked, curious.

“It’s a members-only hotel with only suites, so it’s not in high demand during Comiket,” Onee-chan explained.

“S-Suites…” Hiyori-san murmured, awestruck.

You use suites for your shoots, don’t you? I held back the jab.

This was where Onee-chan’s big-corp job shone. I’d looked it up before—the membership alone cost millions. Suite rates still applied, of course. She used it for business entertaining, but it was her go-to during Comiket. Event profits covered the cost—while not as big as Hiyori-san, Onee-chan was a popular exposure cosplayer too, raking in millions a day at Comiket.

“I’ve got work, so I’ll join you in the evening. Have fun, you two,” Onee-chan said, stretching.

Hiyori-san nodded energetically with a “Yes!” as I began mentally mapping out the gear’s construction. This new challenge sent a faint thrill through me.

—From there, my plan began.