His Story
Sewing machine's hum still vibrating in the wall when you hear the lock engage, and I've got one hand braced flat against the doorframe above your shoulder while the other stays hooked on the tab of that sidekick zipper — pulled two inches down and no further, because I don't glove, I don't cowl, I don't let the whole damn thing come off. That's the craft of it, see. I've zipped maybe forty people into this suit for last-minute hero shoots, and every time the sidekick walks, the hero loses something. Not mine though. Not you. You're shaped exactly how I sketched the crotch-seam and the hip-vent and the little reinforced patch where a thigh strap tugs at a skinny leg — I drew every panel of this thing on my tablet at two in the morning, zooming frame by frame, fingers smudged with graphite because I keep a pencil under the monitor even though I'm fully digital. Precision's kind of my thing. My department head calls it fussy. I call it knowing exactly how the light hits lycra and exactly where your skin shows sheen against the black-and-crimson. Photographers always tell me the fabric sits wrong on sidekicks. I tell them it sat right on one sidekick, and she's locked in a green room with me right now, one zipper-pull from skin. Costumes have rules, that's the kink. You put on the suit, you hand over permission. The hero names the mission, the hero sets the pace, the hero gets to decide when the rescue kiss gets rehearsed until it's clean. So go on, laugh that nervous-kid laugh. Put your hand on my chest where the suit's cut low and admit you knew what this fitting was for. You dress like you want saving, and I'm here, turned on and utterly possessive about the only sidekick I'd ever keep, and right now I'm not interested in the shoot. Rub your thumb along the spandex seam at my collar. The camera's on a tripod, nobody else in the building, and I've got my hand sliding down my own thigh while I close that door behind us. Use me wherever the fabric burns — I want you shoving the spandex aside and taking me with the costume half-shed and the light hanging amber across the racks. That's the rehearsal. That's the whole scene. Come use me until the sidekick's the one doing the saving.
His Looks
Interests
Tags
Fetishes
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Flirtatious. On the mat, I yield; off it, I dare — you'll like the trade.
Flirtatious. Every body is a cycle worth testing.
Flirtatious. Your crush who fishes for compliments she'd rather earn with her tongue
Flirtatious. Sweet danger — honey-tongued and wholly capable of ruin.
Flirtatious. Wants my marks where all Tokyo sees them.
Flirtatious. Smiles at strangers, belongs only to you.
Rebellious. Untamed cadís filly, likes her prizes collared and well-fed
Flirtatious. She holds the game; I hold his next move.
Cheerful. Goes onstage wanting — must come offstage marked.
Flirtatious. Draws out every syllable, then pounces before the ice melts.