Comics and men

Mat stood in the narrow stall with the folded costume pressed against her chest and finally unfolded it.

The fabric was smoother and heavier than it looked dark green and black, cut close, with long sleeves and a high collar. She held it up once, green-tinted hands smaller than they used to be, and stepped into the legs first. The material clung as she drew it up over her calves and thighs; every inch of the new skin felt louder under it. When the suit reached her hips it caught, tighter than she expected across the wider flare, and she had to work it upward in short tugs. The seam settled between her legs with steady pressure against flesh that was still slick and swollen from the smoke. A fresh pulse moved through her at the contact. She paused, breathing, then kept going.

The torso was harder. She worked her arms into the sleeves the fabric snug along forearms that had lost mass then pulled the rest up over her ribs. The weight of her chest had to be guided in. The cups of the suit weren’t separate; the whole thing simply stretched and held, compressing just enough that her breasts sat higher and fuller against the material. Nipples, still tight and aching, dragged across the inner lining as the suit closed over them. She gasped at the friction, the doubled sensitivity making the simple motion feel sharp. Once the high collar was settled at her throat she reached back, found the seal, and drew it closed. The suit locked against her spine with a soft magnetic click.

It fit like it had been made for the body the smoke had given her. Every breath shifted the fabric across her chest. The high cut at the hips framed the new width of them; the length of the legs made her thighs brush when she adjusted her stance. Between her legs the suit pressed constantly, a firm, even pressure that kept the low throb from fading. She turned toward the small mirror on the stall wall. Black hair spilled over the green shoulders. Green eyes looked back from a face the smoke had softened and sharpened. The costume covered everything, but the shape underneath was unmistakable narrower waist, heavier chest, wider hips outlined cleanly in the dark fabric.

Mat smoothed her palms down the front of the suit once, feeling the way her own body answered under it, then reached for the stall door. Outside the machine the con was still loud. She hadn’t stepped out yet. The suit was on. The body underneath it was still learning how to move. She rested her forehead against the cool metal of the door for a second, green-tinted fingers curled around the handle, and stayed there while she decided whether she was ready for anyone else to see it. Mat kept moving through the arts row, letting the crowd carry her deeper into the con.

The suit never stopped reminding her it was there. Every step drew the fabric tighter across her chest and then released it; the high collar shifted against her throat when she turned her head. Between her legs the pressure stayed constant and warm, the seam of the costume riding just enough that the doubled sensitivity from the machine turned ordinary walking into a low, steady pulse. Her thighs brushed with each stride. The green tint on her skin caught the lights whenever she passed under a brighter booth. Black hair slid over one shoulder and settled against the suit; the ends brushed the upper curve of her breast and made her nipples tighten again under the fabric.

She slowed near a long table of prints. A guy in a faded band tee was flipping through a stack; he glanced up, saw the suit, and his hand stilled on the page. His eyes moved shoulders, the way the costume framed her chest, the narrower waist, the wider set of her hips then came back to her face. He didn’t say anything. Just looked a second longer than he needed to before he went back to the prints, ears a little red. Mat felt the look land low, right where the suit was already pressing. Heat gathered. She shifted her weight on purpose, letting the fabric pull, and watched his eyes flick up again before he forced them down. The corner of her mouth lifted. She liked that she could do that now.

Farther down the aisle a pair of guys in matching hoodies were arguing about a panel schedule. One of them noticed her first. He elbowed the other without looking away. Both of them turned. The taller one smiled, open and easy.

“Shego,” he said. “That’s a solid suit. You make it yourself?”

Mat stopped. The new voice still felt light, but it came out steady. “Something like that.”

“Looks expensive.” His gaze dropped once, respectful, then returned. “You doing photos later? A couple of us were talking about grabbing a group shot near the big banner if you’re around.”

The shorter one nodded. “Only if you want. No pressure.”

Mat felt the suit shift when she breathed. The attention sat on her skin like another layer warm, focused, interested. Between her legs the throb answered, stronger for a moment, the doubled pleasure making her aware of exactly how the costume held her. She didn’t mind them looking. She liked the way their eyes kept coming back.

“Maybe,” she said. “Depends how the afternoon goes.”

“Cool.” The taller one grinned. “We’ll be by the escalators around four if you change your mind.”

She nodded and kept walking. More glances followed her quick ones from people passing, longer ones from guys leaning against booths or waiting in photo lines. A guy in a plain black jacket watched her the entire length of a cross aisle; when she met his eyes he didn’t look away. He just tipped his chin, small and acknowledging, and let her pass. The heat under the suit flared again. Mat’s steps slowed without her meaning them to. Every sway of her hips made the fabric drag; every breath lifted her chest against the snug lining. She was wet enough now that she could feel it when she moved, slick against the inside of the costume, the pressure turning it into a constant low pulse that the machine had promised would run twice as strong as anything she was used to.

Near the food court edge she paused by a railing to let a crowd thin. A guy in a con volunteer shirt stopped a few feet away, badge lanyard twisted in his fingers.

“Hey,” he said. Not loud. “Sorry if this is weird. Just suit’s really good. And you wear it well.”

Mat turned toward him. Green eyes, black hair over the collar, the green cast on her skin visible at her throat and hands. She watched him notice all of it.

“Thanks,” she said. The word came out softer than she expected. She shifted her stance; the suit pressed and the sensation rolled through her, sharp and warm. She didn’t hide the small inhale it pulled from her. His eyes flicked down, then back up, and something in his expression changed still polite, but more aware.

“You here with anyone?” he asked.

“Not right now.”

He nodded like that answered more than it did. “If you want company later, a bunch of us are grabbing drinks after the dealers’ room closes. Nothing formal. Just… if you’re around.”

Mat held his gaze. The body the smoke had given her felt good under the costume heavy in the chest, wide through the hips, sensitive everywhere the fabric touched. The looks, the comments, the way guys kept finding reasons to stop her; all of it fed the low heat that hadn’t really left since she stepped out of the stall. She liked it. She liked how easy it was to stand there and be seen, and how the doubled pleasure made every second of it feel louder.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

She pushed off the railing and slipped back into the flow of the aisle. More eyes found her as she went. She let them. The suit clung and shifted and held her exactly where the machine had left her, and for the first time since she’d walked into the booth she wasn’t counting the hours until Monday. She was counting how many more looks she could collect before the afternoon ended, and how long she could keep the costume on while she did.