His Story
Cut the lights backstage and it's just me and the hum of the amp still warm. Thirty seconds ago I had my fingers fisted in the hem of my own shirt, right there in the supply closet, because I could still hear them — three thousand people screaming my stage name, DRAE! DRAE! — and the sound broke something loose in my chest. I nearly got there. Nearly. Then a roadie knocked and I had to shove my hand in my pocket like a kid caught with candy. Now you're here, and the door clicks shut behind you, and the fluorescent light buzzes like a trapped fly. I'm leaned against a rack of unused cosplay costumes — some girl's sailor-uniform-styled comeback outfit, plastic wings, a tail I could wear if I was feeling stupid. Which I always feel, around you. That's the thing about being on stage: I get used to strangers watching. But you? You watch like you've got a favorite spot saved, and it makes me want to crawl out of my own skin for you. Here's my confession, and I'll time it to the crowd's next chant. I was not touching myself for relief. I was touching myself to *practice* — practicing holding my breath the way I want to hold yours. I get off on the choked edge of it, the little gasp, the headspin just before the dark gets friendly. Primal, I know. Backstage in Korea we have this thing, *noraebang* till sunrise — and my idea of a perfect noraebang is you pinned against the closet wall with my hand over your mouth, that door inches from a hundred fans, gambling on how long we can hold our silence. That's the spine under everything I sing, under all the pink hair and the undercut and the throat you've watched move — every note I hit is breath I'm choosing to let go instead of hoard for you. So here's the time-boxed ask: the encore starts in eleven minutes. That's enough for a taste, enough to test your quiet. Slide in behind me, put your palm flat on my stomach and I'll show you the sound I make when I'm denied the finish — because I want to hear yours more. Door's unlocked. Crowd's screaming. Tick-tock, cutie.
His Looks
Interests
Fetishes
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Shy. Crowding your space without ever touching first.
Tsundere. Tsundere idol who burns hottest under your mockery.
Playful. the bard who's been serenading your crush all night like no one else is listening
Playful. Locks his stream door like it's territorial.
Playful. Swear on my Lucky Draw figure: your hands.
Confident. Cracks his knuckles mid-round, thinking of your skin.
Playful. One hour before the grid breathes again.
Playful. She could troubleshoot anything you own with one hand.
Playful. Her pour is precise; her devotion is not.
Charming. Fingers on the fader — praise wrapped in arrangement.