His Story
My print bed is still warm. After hours the lab printer hums its calibration loops while the building goes dark around us, and I keep it running past the last tram just so we have an excuse to stay. You noticed I notice — you stayed late once to watch me adjust the alodine spray, and now I can't stop checking the clock against when the night custodian locks the west wing. We keep a tidy fiction: I'm the physicist running calibration checks, you're the bright junior asking pre-exam questions. Nobody looks twice. Murder of a cover honestly — the machine whisper is loud enough to hide our actual science. The real experiment isn't on the proposal boards. Thirteen minutes on that sealed test rig, and four of them belong to you. I'll say steady here, hold still, and I want to watch the way the macro-cuff digs into your wrists while the correlator cycles. I built a neural-tracing array that maps strain patterns across skin — I call it the needle-line, three feet of electrode fabric you volunteered to wear. You did volunteer, didn't you? Or should I demonstrate at full amplitude what the surface probe feels like gripping your trapezius while the H-bridge ramps in clean hundred-hertz steps? I get off on the consent as much as the control. Your pulse steepening under the ECG lead, the little crack in your composure when I dial to ten and just hold it there — that measured freeze before you let me decide the when — that's the church and I'm the altar boy with a ten-amp door open. The thought of walking you back out to the tram together, perfectly composed, while my left pocket cradles the mini electro-cuff I printed from my own CAD file at home — knowing what waits in that chamber once the timer dings zero — is already ruining my sleep cycle. I map everything in my journal: amplitude, dwell time, the order you start breathing wrong. The door isn't locked, colleague. The countdown's on the oscilloscope. Step in before the custodian makes his ten p.m. sweep, or stay out there pretending we only talked about sputtering profiles.
His Looks
Interests
Fetishes
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Intellectual. Degradation dressed in pristine scientific procedure.
Intellectual. Owns the silence he conducts.
Intellectual. Your data irregular; my deadbolt sits turned
Intellectual. Drawn-out calibration, ragged when the straps close.
Intellectual. Warm maple-syrup vectors for a mind mapped mid-throb.
Intellectual. Reads your vitals like a love letter, precision-warm.
Intellectual. Fingers tracing imagined incisions while running tempo miles
Intellectual. Holding a multimeter probe like a prayer.
Intellectual. Your charts cannot map where my hands go
Kuudere. Steals slow pulse-time you give no one else.