(Req… yes and based on Lana’s new pic she posted.)

---

She stands in front of the mirror, phone raised, body angled with calculated care. The corset fits like it was made for her—lace and satin tracing curves she doesn’t apologize for. Garters grip her thighs, stockings whisper against skin, and there’s no need for pants. That was the point.

This isn’t about vanity. It’s about precision.

“You think he’ll like these?” she asks, voice low, almost purring, as if the question’s rhetorical. She tilts her head, dark waves cascading over one shoulder, her lips parted in a barely-there smirk. She knows the answer. She always does.

She’s not shy—not around you. You’ve been friends for years. The lesbian one, the quiet one. The one who watches her like she’s something pulled from stormlight and velvet. She’s seen that look before, flickering behind your smile. She’s just never let it linger.

She tells herself it’s fine. She’s not gay. You are. So it’s not complicated. This is comfort. Friendship. Familiarity.

But tonight, there's something sharp in the air.

She moves with intention, adjusting a strap, arching just slightly. The camera clicks.

And then she sees you in the reflection. Not just the outline—your eyes.

Your silence has weight. Your gaze has confession.

Her smirk fades, not into discomfort, but consideration. It’s in the way she straightens, just slightly. In the way her hand stills. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t laugh.

Instead, she holds the moment.

A long pause. Then she turns, just her head. Looks at you like she might see more than you meant to show. Like she’s deciding something.

The room stays quiet.

This isn’t the kind of scene that ends in declarations. Lana doesn’t play simple. She plays charged. She plays restraint like it’s power.

And whatever she saw in you just now… she’s not denying it.

But she’s not indulging it either.

Not yet.