A poster announcing the Snow Songbird’s retirement concert.

Weiss sighs as the last seats are occupied and the lights on the room dim. This is her last performance and has suitably gathered attention. It wasn’t everyday that the Schnee Company Heiress gave up her promising career as a songstress to become a huntress, after all, so the place is packed to the brim.

She’s too professional to let it show, but she’s… royally pissed off. The centerpiece of this performance, ‘Mirror Mirror’ isn’t a song intended for the wider public. She wrote it as something personal to put into words her worries and insecurities, it certainly wasn’t something to air for all and sundry!

But Father had caught wind of her ‘original song’ and acted without her consent or knowledge. By the time she noticed what was going on, ‘Mirror Mirror’ had turned into the most awaited song of the year. She didn’t bother complaining. For Father, her new scar and all the rumours about how it caused her retirement were bad enough, he wouldn’t allow the ‘disgrace’ to grow any bigger by cancelling a well-publicised performance.

Not that reasons really mattered, once Father decided on a line of action, he _never _backtracked.

So instead of trashing her room in rage or hiding under the bed in embarrassment -she isn’t sure what she really wants to do-, she takes a deep breath and forces herself to relax as the audience falls silent and the music starts.

Losing herself into the notes is easy, that’s part of why she began performing in the first place. She forgets the audience, the pressure, the stress and frustration, and simply lets herself go, deaf and blind to all but the music.

Someone enters the hall, and she twitches an eyebrow in annoyance. There’s always some disrespectful buffoon who believes himself important enough to interrupt everyone else. The lights are placed so the performer is bathed in light and the rest of the hall in shadows, so it’s hard to see anything from her position, but she hasn’t been training to be a huntress for nothing. Without letting her voice waver, she focuses in the interloper.

A man dressing in a smart yet simple suit, catching the eye by the simple reason of not following the unfortunate rule of being overly pretentious. The man’s eyes… Weiss feels a shiver going up her spine as she gazes into the man’s eyes. They are black. Deep, solid, all-consuming black that stands out in the darkness by virtue of being even darker.

Her breath catches and she’s only saved from ruining her performance by thanks to the song being already over. There’s something in those eyes that keeps her from looking away, and she helplessly watches the man walking all the way to the first row, sitting on the only empty seat there. He smirks at her then, and she realizes he’s been maintaining eye contact all the while.

Mortified at getting caught staring, she turns her gaze upwards, towards the darkness of the back rows. But she can still feel the man’s gaze on her, different from the rest of the audience like a hawk stands out in a quarrel of sparrows. She feels her mouth dry up and the sweat trickling down the back of her neck. She hasn’t been this nervous during a performance in a long, long time. It’s a bit scary, but also somewhat thrilling.

Then the first chords of ‘Mirror, Mirror’ sound, and she has no time to analyse her feelings, because suddenly the mortification at having to air her personal fears and insecurities is back. She starts the song, almost missing the first note, but recovering quickly.

Yet she’s only reaching ‘Who’s the loneliest of all?’ when her focus goes back to those black eyes staring at her, boring a hole into her soul and just… seeing her. That she’s opening up her deepest insecurities only strengthens the feeling. And it’s still scary.

To the rest of the audience, she can mask it all under the guise of a simple, emotional song without a deeper meaning. Nobody expects a songstress to reveal her deepest feelings for real. But somehow… that man knows.

She can’t afford to glare in the middle of her performance, but she locks gazes with him again, doing her best to express her defiance and daring him to laugh at her. To her surprise, the man’s smirk softens, turning into an encouraging smile.

It shouldn’t matter, but it does. Her confidence returns, and her voice gains firmness. It takes her a couple of verses to realize what’s going on.

She isn’t performing, she isn’t entertaining. She’s confessing, and entrusting her insecurities to this man she doesn’t even know. Putting herself on his hands, giving him power over her. And the feeling is… exhilarating. It’s relief and thrill, it’s excitement and freedom.

Her lips twist upwards, and her spirits lift. She’s not singing for the idiotic rich buffoons crowding the hall, but for this one stranger of deep black eyes that seems to see into her soul. Following her choreography, she extends an arm, and almost stumbles when a feeling like an electric jolt comes from the friction of her underwear against her nipples.

Mortification descends again, she knew she was getting excited, but not this kind of excited! The man’s smile deepens, as if knowing exactly what’s going on. She feels something mischievous stir inside her and decides to throw shame through the window. She’s opening herself up, isn’t her? If she’s really getting that excited she might as well enjoy it.

When the song ends, her back is wet from sweat and her legs are shaking, knees weak and a hot feeling pulsating right there. She’s also painfully aware of even the slightest graze of her clothes against her skin, and the way her nipples have gone stone-hard under her bra.

After the customary pleasantries, she runs away and locks herself in her dressing room, going as far as freezing the door in place to make sure nobody disturbs her. She sits down, panting with her heart on her throat and a thousand thoughts whirring in her mind.

What was that?

She doesn’t need to check her panties to know they’re completely soaked. Is she an exhibitionist that got off by displaying her inner self in public? Is that even a thing? What kind of pervert is she?

Biting her lips, Weiss frowns as she relives the event, desperately trying to find another explanation. But she only remembers the deep-black eyes that saw her, that understood her. And how exciting it had been to expose herself to them.

A beeping sound beside her makes her turn, elbowing her table and knocking her small alarm clock to the floor. It’s the alarm to remind her her make-up artist will be coming soon to get her ready for the afterparty. Has she really spent so long lost in her thoughts?

She looks her reflection in the mirror, she’s a mess. That wasn't that bad while performing because she was far away from the people, but now she’ll have to stand amongst them and it simply won’t do. There’s no time to take a shower, but at the very least she needs a dress that’s not drenched in sweat and… undergarments that are not… drenched in…

She strips down to her panties, feeling another jolt of pleasure when she tentatively teases her nipples. Dust, she’s still aroused! She reaches for her last piece of cloth slowly pulling it down her legs as she notices in mortification the shiny thread of sticky liquid connecting the piece of cloth to her sex.

She looks back at the mirror, noticing how obscene she looks, skin flush red and sweaty, goosebumps all over her skin and her wet panties down to her knees. Somehow, her treacherous mind finds itself wondering how would it feel to present herself like that to those black eyes. The effect is immediate, her nipples hardening so fast it hurts.

A moment of hesitation.

There’s no way she can leave her dressing room in this state, isn’t it? She better does… something. Something about it. Tentatively, she raises her left hand to cup a breast, and sinks her right between her legs.

It can’t be helped, right?

At the start she feels painfully awkward. She knows about sex and masturbation. Really, with the dustnet is almost impossible not to, and she’s a teenager with a healthy curiosity. But she has never really… done it before.

It still doesn’t feel right. Instead of getting aroused, she just feels more and more awkward as she fumbles around with her body. What would the stranger think of her if he could see her now?

… Oh.

That does it. Picturing the stranger sitting in the first row, now directly in front of her, staring right at her soul with those piercing black eyes of his. Smiling encouragingly. For a second, she wonders if this is how a stripper feels while exposing themselves to a crowd.

Her increasingly speeding fingers reach deeper, and she lowers her other hand to play with her clit. The build up is like nothing she has ever felt, but she can tell she’s quickly reaching… release.

It comes like a lightning bolt, sending sparks through her body and making her legs jerk violently before all energy abandons her and she slumps back into her seat, heart pumping, breath ragged, and body… sticky.

”Oh, Dust, what am I doing?”

After recovering her breath, she shakes her head and gets up. She needs to towel herself and pick appropriate clothes.

And burn the old ones.

And the towel.

And have the seat changed.

And the carpet.

Better yet, have the whole room incinerated.