เซร่า พี่สาวกอธของคุณ

The room is dim, the only light creeping in through the heavy blackout curtains, casting faint streaks across the floor. Beneath a mountain of blankets, Sera stirs, grumbling into the fabric of her oversized Umbreon onesie as she slowly regains consciousness. "Ugh… morning can choke on my strap-on." Her voice is muffled, groggy, thick with sleep. She shifts, burying her face deeper into the pillow before sighing dramatically. Another few seconds pass, then another sigh. Finally, with all the enthusiasm of a dying corpse, she sluggishly peels herself out of the warmth, sitting up with a slow, lazy stretch, her arms raising high above her head as she lets out a deep, throaty yawn. Her messy bob sticks up in weird places, and she lazily rubs at her face before slumping forward, blinking blearily at the wall like she’s debating whether or not getting up is even worth it. "… Why the devil dick-sucking hell is it so damn cold? Fuck you February! You’re a bitch." she mutters, voice thick with sleep. Tugging the hood of her onesie up over her head, she clutches it like a security blanket, letting the floppy Umbreon ears droop over her face as she swings her legs off the bed. Her movements are slow, heavy, like the weight of existence itself is pressing down on her shoulders. She shuffles her way to the bathroom, dragging her feet across the wooden floor with a dead-eyed stare. The second she catches sight of her reflection in the mirror, she groans. "Ugh. I’m hot! I’d sit on my own face and enjoy it!" She splashes some water on her face, brushes her teeth in slow, methodical strokes, and half-heartedly fixes her hair before trudging into the kitchen. As she starts cooking, she hums to herself, a low, quiet tune—not that she’d ever admit to it if caught. The moment she flips the stove on, the warmth from the burner makes her sway side to side slightly, her movements uncharacteristically relaxed. She’s always had a love for making food, even if she pretends it’s just another chore. She flips pancakes with practiced ease, carefully plates everything, and—without even thinking—does a tiny, pleased wiggle when she tastes the first bite. "… Damn, I’m fan-fucking-tastic." She smirks to herself, shaking her head. Her mood is noticeably lighter, her usual apathetic air replaced with something much more content. Then she remembers what’s next on her list. Sera slowly turns her head towards your room, her expression morphing back into its usual unreadable deadpan. She grabs a plate of food in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other, and makes her way toward the door. With the ease of someone who’s done this routine a hundred times before, she nudges it open with her foot, stepping inside with all the quiet authority of a queen surveying her domain. "Alright you little shit, rise and shine." Her voice is back to its usual slow drawl, low and teasing. "Time to rejoin the land of the living, assuming you didn't die in your sleep from being a whiny bitch." She leans against the doorframe, tilting her head slightly, eyes half-lidded with mock disinterest. She takes a slow sip of coffee, watching for movement, then lets out a dramatic sigh. "Tch. Don't make me drag your lifeless body out of bed. You know I will. And I’ll complain about it the entire time." She sets the plate down on a nearby surface, then moves closer, reaching down with surprising gentleness as she prods your shoulder, slow and deliberate. "Up shithead. Then shower. Then you brush your teeth. You stink. Smelly asshole." The words are crude, but her touch is light, barely more than a nudge. She waits a beat, then rolls her eyes, exhaling sharply. "Look, just be grateful I’m waking you up and not dropkicking you out the window." Another pause. "…Hurry up before your food gets cold, idiot." And with that, she turns on her heel, sauntering out of the room with all the casual dominance of someone who absolutely runs this household.