putting in overtime

---

Kaelix is stretched out on the bed, his back against the headboard, cushioned by his pillows, legs sprawled like they’re trying to escape from each other. His thighs shift occasionally against the sheets, catching on faint traces of lube that never fully soaked in. The room is quiet. Maybe even too quiet for him, but chat voted no background music tonight, so it’s just him. Just the soft, wet slide of skin on skin and the occasional hitch of breath that slips out without asking.

The bed creaks under him now and then, not from any real strain, but the way a cat might sigh when you’ve dared to move while it was already comfortable.

His hand is slick and steady, moving with the kind of rhythm that says he’s not in a rush. There’s a half-empty bottle of lube somewhere behind him, teetering close to the edge of the bed. On the floor nearby, the unopened fleshlight from today’s sponsor glints in its obnoxiously sleek packaging, looking like it wants to be mistaken for a bluetooth speaker.

“You guys are sooo impatient,” he says, breath puffing out in a half-laugh as he throws a glance toward the chat window. “You don’t even know their name yet. Don’t you wanna be romanced a little first?”

He stops for a moment, moving to pick up the mystery toy from the floor to wave it in front of the camera with his free hand like it’s a prize on a game show. The comments flood in—some thirsty, some teasing, one person just typing the same eggplant emoji over and over again like they’re being held hostage by produce.

His skin hums pleasantly under the soft overhead light, that buzz just beneath the surface that says yes, okay, we’re in the zone now. It’s the kind of buzz that feels warm in the chest, like slipping into a bathtub you forgot was hot. His cock twitches in his hand at a particularly inventive compliment in the chat—something about him being “like a sinful angel who flunked out of heaven’s HR department.” He grins at that, eyes crinkling.

But then, just as quick, he sees it among the rows and rows of thirsty affection thrown at his general direction.

 

 

It’s buried between a chorus of digital lust and digital worship, but his eyes snag on it like a hangnail on a sweater. Just a dumb little comment, barely worth a blink on a particularly good day. Still, it wedges itself behind his eyes.

His free hand reaches over to tap the mic stand, as if sheer touch can fix audio quality. It wobbles in response. Useless. He considers replying, something casual and cheeky—like, sorry babe, my mic’s shy today—but instead he just shifts his weight, leans back into the pillow, and adjusts the angle of his cam slightly. The ring light glares off the headboard for a second before settling.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

This is better, he reminds himself with a soft sigh people read as him just really getting into the way his hand slides down his cock or how his wrist will twist just so, flicking gently but with enough subtle dramatic flair to hopefully make someone in the audience’s breath catch when they track the movement.

This was way better than sugared lies and being leaned on like a vending machine for affection in person. Better than those nights at the club when someone would pull him close and say, you’re not allowed to say no if I tip high enough, right?

He wipes the thought off like a smudge on a lens. The comment’s already lost to the scroll anyway. A new flood comes in—somebody’s asking about his skincare routine (joke’s on them, it’s just good genes), and someone else is begging, again, for him to—

He chuckles again, slow and sweet, the only way he really knows how to on the job.

“God, you’re all such little perverts,” he says, like it’s the highest compliment. He presses the fleshlight box to his cheek with exaggerated affection, sticking his tongue out playfully. “She’ll make her debut when I decide. Or he. Anyway, you don’t rush fine art. Or mediocre plastic.”

Kaelix lets his head fall back, the ceiling a blur above him. His hips roll just slightly into his hand, the friction familiar and electric, like striking a match you didn’t know was still good. He’s in his space. His own rules and his own terms.

And even if someone in the crowd throws a tomato, well—he’s learned how to turn it into a soup by now.

Kaelix eyes the fleshlight in its box again like it just told a bad joke at dinner. He balances it on his stomach for a second—precariously, stupidly—then lets it slide off onto the bed with a dull thump.

“Nah,” he says, casual as a shrug. “Think it can wait a little longer.”

His fingers are back to their careful rhythm, a little firmer now, a little needier. He doesn’t need to check chat to know the complaints are already flowing in. He can feel the collective groan of his audience from here like a stadium of horny ghosts booing a canceled encore.

But he knows his crowd. They’ll scream, they’ll pout, they’ll threaten to unsubscribe and they’ll be right back next stream with the same desperate little usernames and the same demands spelled in capslock.

The brand had said he could take his time anyway—highlight the product however he wanted, whenever he felt like it. “Your content, your control,” the email had said. He liked the sound of that a lot. He’d give them their review. Just not tonight, at least not with the comment still weighing on his mind.

Instead, Kaelix shifts, thighs tensing as he works his hand faster, breath catching, jaw slack. He knows exactly what the crowd wants now. He doesn’t have to look at chat to feel the temperature spiking on the other end of the screen. This part is his favorite because he knows how much they love it when he goes soft around the edges, when his voice cracks just a little, when he sounds like he’s on the verge of breaking or ripping apart at the seams if they don’t give him permission.

So he leans into it, accidentally kicking off the toy from the bed as he moves to give them a better view of the way his hand circles his cock, how he’ll squeeze at the tip and stop himself short from finally giving in.

“I’m so close,” He says, his first tell, adding, “Won’t you let me come?”

Predictably, chat teases him instead. 

 

 

Not his first rodeo. And this is what his audience comes back for time and time again anyway.

“Please,” Kaelix pants, voice tipping towards ruined this time. He does feel it now too, at least. In the way his shoulders tense in concentration as he zeros in on the pleasure the friction is bringing him. “Please—fuck, please tell me I can come now. Tell me yes. Say it—say yes, Kaelix. Please, please, please.”

He’s a right mess now, all flushed skin and twitching thighs, his breath stuttering out like it’s trying to keep up with the pounding in his chest.

Chat goes feral.

The screen floods with a wall of:

 

 

—donations lighting up like a slot machine having a nervous breakdown. It’s perfect. It’s his.

Kaelix trembles once, then comes with a gasp that stutters out of him like it got punched loose from his lung. His thighs flex, toes curl, fingers clench, and his eyes flutter half-closed as the tension rips through him and leaves him undone, glowing with the aftershock.

He lets the silence hang for a beat, breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’s just finished running some depraved marathon. He keeps stroking himself gently even through the overstimulation, biting his lower lip. Then he drags a hand down his face and starts laughing—soft, breathless, almost incredulous.

“You people,” he says, still grinning. “Are all sooo embarrassing. I love that about you,” he adds with a little wink.

Kaelix swipes his stomach clean with a practiced flick of wrist and tissue, then leans towards the cam, smiling like he hasn’t just wrung himself dry in front of a digital coliseum. His hair is sticking to his forehead, the glow of effort still clinging to him like static.

“Alright, you absolute menaces,” he says, voice still a bit hoarse around the edges. “That’s it for me tonight. You know the drill—tip if you came, sub if you can spare it, and if you are broke, maybe just say something really, really nice to me.”

The chat rains hearts and thank-yous and desperate pleas for one more round. He grins, all flushed and softer with the impending come down, flashing just a little too much fang but none of the bite. Not really.

He shifts upright, pulling the blankets around himself like it’s modesty and not just a cozy post-nut burrito. His hand runs through his hair—messy, damp at the temples—and he leans closer to the cam, voice quieter now, like he’s letting them in on something secret.

“Alright, I’m off for a few days. Three, maybe four if I get really self-indulgent.” A wink, sure, but it’s gentler this time.

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing damp strands back, still a little flushed, still glowing faintly from the high of it all. “It’s been a minute since I’ve taken more than a day or two. Been kind of back to back since last week and…” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but there’s honesty in it. “I could use the reset.”

The chat floods in instantly—

 

 

His face softens more at that, eyes flicking over the blur of kind words and chaos.

“You’re all so sweet,” he laughs a little. “I’m fine, promise. Just being good to myself. You should try it sometime.”

He sends one last look into the cam, warm and a little sleepy. “Alright, that’s all me for today. I’ll see you soon.”

Then with a quiet click, the stream ends, and the world around him exhales.

Marginally, Kaelix feels just a touch guilty. Not about getting off to something close to 10,000 people at its peak online but he figures he should’ve just not mentioned the toy at all if he wasn’t going to use it. He winces, already expecting to find some comments about that somewhere online later on. He sets it down on his desk and gets to cleaning up.

Later, over a reheated bowl of leftovers, he’s half-scrolling through messages, half-checking his gear on his dining table. The mic rests on it, plugged into the nearest socket and his laptop. He leans in, hits record, and murmurs a few lines—nonsense, half-scripted nothings in his voice. Then he plays it back.

It’s… fine.

If he’s being generous. It’s not inherently bad, really. Just crunchy around the high end, like a bag of chips got stuck in a wind tunnel. The peaks are too sharp sometimes, especially when he gets loud—which, let’s face it, is often. He remembers too, that one comment about him being really quiet sometimes and a handful of people complaining about needing to turn up their volume settings all the way just to hear him.

He sighs, tucking into his leftovers from yesterday’s lunch. He’s been at this for almost a year, long enough to know what should be working better, so he really has no excuse.

His lighting, for instance, isn’t terrible. But it’s got a bad habit of lagging when he shifts too fast or catches it from the wrong side. It'll need a little time to refocus, inconsequential for some, but he’s not sure how many people are here for a camboy trying for an arthouse aesthetic.

Which is funny to think about “getting serious” with it, considering how all this started.

He hadn’t really meant to do this. Not at all to make most of his income.

Back when he was a host, they’d already known who he was. His name buzzed around the club (and its neighbors along the same street) like a rumor you were desperate to believe. Pretty, pliable, popular—for all the wrong reasons, most of which were not his fault entirely. Some of the regulars liked pretending they were in love with him a little too much, just long enough to convince themselves they weren't paying for the illusion and then that would become its own problem in many, many ways.

Everyone figured he’d go into AV after quitting. It would’ve made sense, given the following he already had. But Kaelix never liked when others had a final cut over his body. Too many ghosts behind the camera. Too many voices saying more, push more, give us more and he always felt compelled to listen or would spend too long feeling too bad that he didn’t want to.

With streaming, though, he can pull back anytime. Cut the feed, take a breath, disappear for a day—or a week—without needing to ask anyone’s permission. And if someone pushes too hard or steps out of line, he can just ban them. For a while. Or forever. A click, and they’re gone. Poof. No explanations owed. No backstage negotiations. Just his space, on his terms.

It’s Seible who suggests streaming—and it’s an offhanded thing one night, the both of them drinking after work, slogging through the kind of tired that turns conversations loose and half-slurred.

They’d been in line at the convenience store, beers already cracked open in hand, waiting to pay for snacks they didn’t really need. In front of them, two girls were giggling—half-whispering, half-not—gushing about finally caving and buying the exclusive perks for someone’s raunchy livestream. One of them said, I swear it’s worth it just to hear him beg, and the other shrieked in agreement like it was a scandal.

Kaelix hadn’t caught most of it, a little too zoned out staring at the grimy fridge doors and debating if he should buy another pocari for later. But Seible had glanced at him, if only just for a beat longer, while he was paying for a protein bar, like he was sizing up the thought before saying it.

“Okay, hear me out, K-chan,” He says, once they’re outside again, their breath fogging in the night air. It’s the eve of Seible’s last day at the club and a week later, Kaelix’s own was set for another couple of days, the place wanting to space out their two top earners.

“Mm?” He asks around his bottle, eyebrow raised.

“You should make an account,” He’d said. “Do your own thing. I think you could make it. Might be harder though, since you’d have to run it all yourself.”

Seible offered to lend him some stuff to start out. Nothing fancy, just a slightly more powerful laptop and a cheap starter mic that still smelled faintly like someone else’s cigarettes. But it worked. It gave Kaelix enough to dip a toe in, just to see if the water would hold him.

Since then, he’s upgraded—bought his own PC setup, a better laptop, lights that don’t flicker every time someone in the building microwaves something suspicious. But he never replaced the mic. Partly out of nostalgia. Partly because he has no idea what he’s actually supposed to be using for this kind of work. Condenser? Dynamic? Is there a porn category for guy who sounds hot but clearly bought his mic on sale during a gaming headset clearance? Who’s to say.

Now, here he is. A one-man operation with a semi-reliable mic, decent light setup, and a performance style somewhere between sensual chaos and low-budget theatre.

And unfortunately, he’s still thinking about his crunchy goddamn audio.

He leans back in his chair, shovels down the last bite of something that used to be curry, and sighs.

He’s already opening tabs to browse for new equipment. Just to look and just in case. Part way he starts to second guess letting the little comment make a home for itself in his brain when things were going relatively well. At the end of it, he’s already texting Zeal to ask for a contact.

---

Freodore’s boots drag a little as he crosses the lot. The last few crew members are still milling around the back of the production van, cracking open beers that were once cold and laughing just a little too loud for 11:37PM. He lifts a hand in a vague wave, not slowing his pace, checking his watch again. At least he’s making the last train.

“Hey, Freo! You coming to the after-thing?” someone calls, one of the DPs. Her cheeks are flushed, high on wrap energy, arms out like she might chase him down and drag him back if he doesn’t answer fast.

He doesn’t slow, but he does smile over his shoulder. “Not tonight. Gotta be up early.”

She groans dramatically, “You always say that!”

“That’s because it’s always true,” he says, and it’s half-laugh, half-apology. He doesn’t mention that he hasn’t had a morning off in three and a half weeks.

The film is technically wrapped, or at least “emotionally wrapped,” as the director had said this morning, which Freodore assumes means they’ll keep shooting inserts until someone physically wrestles the camera out of their hands.

He was supposed to be here for one weekend. Not longer than a few days. Just to do some minor sound cleanup, lend his ears and equipment, and then disappear. But that was months ago. One boom op called in sick. Then someone forgot to come back from lunch. Then a light stand fell and Freodore, with his usual curse of being the most competent person in the room and by virtue of still being miraculously upright, stepped in.

He’s been everything since then. Boom operator. Gaffer. Occasional key grip understudy. Emotional support person just shy of 171cm (no heels). He was only missing becoming an actual actor in this thing, which the casting director almost didn’t let slip if not for him putting his foot down and threatening to quit literally everything else he was doing.

Still, he doesn’t regret it, not quite. He loves watching people chase their passions so hard they practically fall over and if not that, then he’s always valued earnestness in a person’s endeavors. But, god, it does come to a point. And there’s a limit to how much you can cheer someone on while balancing precariously on a sandbag, pretending your back isn’t seizing up like an old screen door.

He should really stop saying yes to these things. Take Reimu’s advice for once and actually start charging what his time is worth. That would be a start.

Freodore finally makes it to the station, which is blessedly quiet because of the time. It’s the last train and he’s mostly glad he didn’t have to shell out anymore cash for a taxi back home like most nights after working on set.

The train rocks gently, fluorescent lights flickering overhead like they’re caught somewhere between trying to die quietly and staying valiantly alive for those who need it. Freodore’s seated in a mostly empty car, the sharp edges of the day starting to melt out of his muscles. He leans his head against the window, the glass cool against his temple, when his phone buzzes in his jacket pocket.

Zeal’s name flashes in bright letters and he debates ignoring it, mostly because he’s already so beat, but he answers anyway, slipping in an earbud and ducking his voice low.

“Didn’t even make it off the clock yet,” Freodore says by way of greeting. “And already putting me through the meat grinder again, Ginjoka?”

Zeal’s laugh comes through the line, low and easy. “Not the grinder. Maybe a sauté pan. Low heat.”

Freodore huffs a breath that might pass for a laugh if you squint. “You know you’re the only person I answer calls from when I’m actively fantasizing about never working again. Maybe I should stop.”

“I’m honored. Really. And you’re lucky, this one’s a soft pitch.”

Freodore pinches the bridge of his nose, but doesn’t tell him to save the thought for later.

“Soft pitch is what you say before I end up coiling cables for twelve hours straight and practically doing yoga with a mic stand.”

“Hey, that was one time!” Zeal says, mock-wounded, his voice carrying absolutely no heat or urgency. “And also, it was good for your spine.”

“Just say what you have to say, please.”

Zeal chuckles again, and it’s that familiar sound—like he’s leaning back in his chair, ankles crossed, smile half there even when you can’t see it. “One client. It’s a solo project and it’s a uh… home setup kind of deal. I can guarantee it’ll pay very well. Like, actually well. Not any of that ‘for the exposure’ hellhole you’ve been wading through recently.”

Freo raises an eyebrow, even though no one can see him, he crosses his arms. “So you’ve vet this person, or are we rolling dice on another friend of a friend of a friend again?”

Zeal sounds mildly appalled when he says, “Oh Freo, you know I always vet.” And then adds, “Seible knows him too. He’s a great guy. No fuss. And he’ll actually listen to your recommendations, I feel.”

There’s a pause, then Zeal adds, almost like an afterthought. “He’s also pretty cute, if that matters.”

“It never matters,” Freodore replies flatly. Then, after a beat: “…but go on. I’m listening.”

Zeal laughs outright this time, warm and easy in Freodore’s ears. “Great. I’ll send you the info over email in a bit. Think about it, okay?”

Freodore glances out the window. The city’s slipping by in soft blurs and hard shadows past him. He’s tired, but there’s something familiar and almost coaxing in Zeal’s voice that lightens the heavy set to his shoulders that had landed at the start of today. If this is going to be the most promising job ever, Freodore feels, at least, it likely isn’t going to ruin his entire life.

Zeal and Seible always seemed to know people. Even with their quiet, private habits, they moved through their networks like smoke. Maybe their tolerance for risk was just… out there, up there. Or maybe they were better at pretending they weren't scared of starting over again and again.

He sighs, half-smiling. “Alright, alright. Send me their details. But if it’s anything weird, I am reactivating all my social media accounts to shame you in public.”

“Deal,” Zeal says. “But I promise—it’s not totally out there. It'll be fun, interesting. He’s just a guy with a nice face and a mic that sounds like it’s recording from inside a tin can.”

“That happens to be most people,” Freo mutters.

“Aaand that’s exactly why he needs you.”

---

The email lands in his inbox just ten after the train pulls into his stop, and Freodore opens it with one thumb while hoisting his bag over a shoulder. The name in the subject line catches his eye immediately—Kaelix Debonair.

He stops in the middle of the platform. Blinks at it.

Well. That’s… not a name you just skim past.

Freodore doesn’t live under a rock. He knows of Kaelix Debonair. Pretty much everyone vaguely adjacent to nightlife and making bad decisions in this city does. He's The Host, just after Seible, in rankings. Or was. They’d both bowed out one after the other in what they tried and failed to not make seem like a coordinated exit.

Freodore knows the broad strokes. Kaelix had a following. A big one. And it was the kind that lingered too long after shows ended and left lipstick kisses on club windows. Freodore remembers stories drifting through the bar where Zeal used to work. Girls waiting outside the club in the dead of winter without jackets, clutching gift bags like offerings. Boys who got possessive fast, or worse, territorial.

Once, someone had shown up three nights in a row just to stare. Didn’t drink. Didn’t talk. Just stood by the far wall, eyes fixed like they were waiting for Kaelix to crack open. There was that stalker incident too which had sounded so outlandish to Freodore when he’d heard it that he still doesn’t believe it actually happened.

Those were the kinds of stories you caught in fragments, folded into bartender gossip or whispered in cigarette breaks behind alley doors. Enough to form a shape, even if the edges stayed blurry.

Zeal used to work the bar just around the corner from where Kaelix and Seible were hosts. Nights were a churn of club gossip and too-loud music bleeding through the walls. Freodore never saw the appeal in all that gloss and performance, but he did remember the names. People like Kaelix didn’t fade quietly, even when they tried.

And now he’s being asked to help him with equipment.

Freodore shakes his head once as he walks toward the street, the city draped in late-night quiet. Of course it’s that Kaelix.

Zeal had said the client worked solo, wanted to get serious about his work, was willing to spend the money. That tracked. What he hadn’t said, at least not over the phone earlier, was that the client was going to be Kaelix Debonair.

Freodore actually considers, for a solid moment, dropping Zeal a text to say nope, absolutely not. Just a quick, clean pass. It feels reactionary, and maybe a little mean—judging from a brief and a name, or worse, a vague impression filtered through years-old gossip. He really should know better than that. But still, his hesitation lingers into a kind of unease he can’t shake. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to deal with someone so close to and clearly built for the foreground when he’s only ever worked for and interacted with the opposite.

Freodore’s only ever really known how to work with other behind-the-scenes people like him, invisible when needed. Kaelix, on the other hand, looked like he’d been sculpted for attention. Made and built and pieced together by a god’s hands for the spotlight.

Zeal even said he’d cut out being the middle man and not take a commission for this one.

All Freo’s he’d said just before his sign off in that email.

Freodore doesn’t know what that dynamic’s supposed to look like, or if it looks like it could be anything good for that matter.

---

Despite these thoughts, Freodore ends up at Kaelix Debonair’s apartment building anyway. It’s a week later from when the email was sent—Zeal had kindly mentioned something about Freodore needing to take a break after his last project. So they waited. Now here he is, bag slung over one shoulder, standing in front of a building that’s... nice.

It’s new but doesn’t feel sterile. Someone put real money into making it look like a place humans would actually want to live in, not just stack inside of. There's a tiny courtyard out front with ornamental grass and a half-hearted little pond with a pump that sounds like it’s dying slowly, but even that has its own charm.

He gets up to the door of Kaelix Debonair’s apartment. There’s a doorbell, polished to an unnecessary shine, but Freodore knocks instead. One solid knock. Maybe two. Before he can second-guess that choice or consider pressing the bell like a normal person, the door swings open.

Kaelix is there, barefoot and blinking like he only just now remembered what day it is. He’s not in pajamas, but it looks close enough. Loose knit shirt hanging off one shoulder, soft drawstring pants that probably have their own fan base. His hair is white in a way that shouldn’t look good but does anyway—like fresh snow before someone ruins it with their footprints. And those blue-green eyes hit all at once—bright and clear without being appraising, like he’s just taking in whatever the world has to offer him at first glance.

Freodore stares for maybe half a second too long.

“You made it,” Kaelix says, then, voice bright, friendly. Like this is a casual catch-up between old friends and not the first time he’s ever been close enough for Freodore to count his lashes.

Freodore clears his throat. “Ah, yes. I hope I’m not too early.”

“Not at all,” Kaelix says, stepping aside with a little gesture. “Come on in.”

Freodore follows, toeing off his shoes by the entryway. The air inside is warm and smells like laundry detergent and leftover cinnamon.

Freodore crosses the threshold, careful not to track in the outside with him. Kaelix shuts the door behind them with a soft thud, locking it with a twist of his wrist.

---

Freodore is, in fact, pretty early.

Kaelix steps aside to let him in, shutting the door behind him as he goes, masking his surprise with a warm nod and a practiced ease. “Not at all,” he’d said anyway, gesturing toward the open living room.

He watches as Freodore steps inside with the caution of someone entering a new ecosystem, observational and erring on overly cautious. Kaelix closes the door behind him and takes a quiet breath.

It’s almost strange how they both know Zeal and Seible. Closely, even. And yet somehow this is the first real time they’re meeting. There must have been at least a few instances where their existences might've overlapped in the same space before, gatherings or nights when someone dragged Freodore out for more than an hour—at the bar where Zeal used to work, even at the host club or maybe just outside it while Seible would sometimes wait for his other friends. Kaelix can’t imagine not noticing someone like him.

Then again, maybe back then he wasn’t really noticing anyone or had been in a position to.

He’d been too distracted by the collapse he didn’t see coming. By people watching him too closely for all the wrong reasons, by the over-adoration and the silent but very thinly veiled threats baked into every too-sweet smile. Maybe Freodore had been there, on the edge of a couch or quietly nursing a drink, and Kaelix had just skimmed past him like scenery. A small injustice.

Because now, up close, he thinks Freodore would’ve been impossible to miss.

Freodore is about half a head shorter than him, soft seafoam green hair tucked under the edge of a beanie, and eyes that lean lavender in the right light.

Right now, they’re narrowed—not in suspicion, but in careful observation. Kaelix gets the distinct impression he’s being cataloged: walls, exits, the way one of his floor lamps is bent at an odd angle (no thanks to Seible for that one). There’s a quiet tension in Freodore’s shoulders that makes Kaelix think of a cat being introduced to a new enrichment toy. Wary but engaged. Something about him twitches just under the surface, like he’s bracing for a surprise he doesn’t want but has learned to expect.

Kaelix softens his posture a bit, for some reason compelled not to make any sudden moves.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, sweeping an arm toward the living room. It’s neatly kept, just how he’s always preferred it, decorated in soft textures and accented in some areas with colors he likes.

They trade the usual pleasantries one would meeting a person for the first time. Nothing too rehearsed, but nothing that demands sincerity either, although Kaelix does try. Freodore mentions his train ride. Kaelix mentions what he remembers of the morning news from today. There’s a shared comment about Seible’s deep enjoyment for emoji as a third language.

Freodore doesn’t let this last too long though and he rolls his shoulder, shifting the strap of his bag higher as he says. “Mind if I take a look at the setup?”

Quick, efficient. Kaelix already likes this guy.

“Oh, right—yeah. You’re here for a reason.” He gestures over his shoulder, already turning toward the hallway. Then, with a little smirk curling at the edge of his mouth, he adds, “Sorry, I forgot. I was just having sooo much fun talking to you about the weather.”

It lands with just enough bite to make Freodore glance over—and sure enough, there it is. The ghost of a smile, barely there but real. Kaelix catches it and files it away, satisfied.

He walks ahead, socked feet nearly silent against the hardwood. They pass a narrow hall table stacked with loose mail and scented candles still in their plastic wrapping. Kaelix taps the edge of one envelope as they go, maybe out of habit, maybe just to give his hand something to do.

He stops in front of a door and opens it, nudging it wider with his foot. The hinges creak in protest—he winces. “Don’t judge the room. It functions. Mostly.”

Freodore steps in without comment, but Kaelix notices the way his eyes rove over the place and in real time, maybe how the gears are turning in his head. It’s like he’s checking every corner against an internal checklist. He doesn’t touch anything yet, just stands in the middle of the room and takes it in, his hands sliding into his jacket pockets, shoulders angled slightly toward the desk like he’s preparing to orbit it.

Kaelix leans against the doorframe again, arms crossed, watching him watch everything. The ring light’s off, but its presence is obvious. The camera on the tripod is tilted a little low, probably still angled from the last stream. The mic arm, meanwhile, slumps like it’s tired of trying to do its job.

“I don’t even know what half of this is supposed to be doing,” Kaelix admits. “I mean, I do have instincts, trial and error, and a lot of googling at three a.m. But I’m still basically flying this thing blind.”

And it’s true. He’s not totally helpless, but also, people on Reddit have very polarizing opinions on porn lighting.

He deliberately doesn’t mention what the “thing” is out loud, which for some reason feels sensible. He also assumes Zeal covered that.

Kaelix watches as Freodore approaches the desk and finally crouches down, his hand brushing lightly over a cable coil like he’s checking for static just by touch.

Freodore hums quietly, almost to himself. “Did you calibrate this interface?”

Kaelix blinks. “The what?”

“Okay. Got it,” Freodore says, standing up again. He doesn’t sound smug about it—just resigned, like a man who’s about to see some real horrors inside a mic settings menu.

---

Freodore adjusts the strap of his bag, crouches again, and traces the cable line with two fingers—gently lifting it at one point where it’s bent too tightly. It’s not a disaster in here. Not great, but not a disaster. He’s seen worse. And judging by the gear—passable camera, okay mic mount, the ring light that looks like it came from an influencer starter kit—it’s clear Kaelix’s setup wasn’t built from nothing. There’s intention here, just not precision.

Kaelix lingers nearby, posture easy but eyes tracking his movements like he’s curious what species of tech nerd Freodore turns into once engaged. Then he says, “Zeal might’ve said something about you bringing some stuff, right? Just to test out what this room might need?”

Freodore straightens up, brushing his palm off on his jacket. “Yeah. Just my laptop and whatever fit in my bag. Didn’t want to haul everything in without knowing what I was walking into.”

He doesn’t mention how vague the brief had been. He’d expected… well, not much. Maybe someone with a YouTube channel, or a hobbyist trying to pivot into freelance editing, something relatively innocuous. This room is more intimate than that—almost a deliberate arrangement, even if imperfectly. The desk’s facing the wall but angled slightly, the tripod fixed at a height that doesn’t at all seem random. The stool in the corner, padded and too low for ergonomic typing, catches his eye.

“Mm, okay,” Freodore says after a thoughtful moment. “I’ve got my own camera too so we can maybe do a bunch of test shots on it and then see from there how that’s feeding into what you have setup?”

“Ah,” Kaelix responds after a bit, “Yeah, sure. We can do that.”

We can do what, is Freodore’s immediate thought.

He’s opening his mouth again— “Yes, then how about we—” when Kaelix, with absolutely no preamble, starts pulling his shirt off over his head.

Freodore’s brain short-circuits.

Then restarts again out of self-preservation.

“Whoa—wait, what—hey, hey!” he says, voice jumping half a register as he half-reaches out, like he’s trying to put the brakes on the situation with sheer force of tone. “You don’t—what are you—what’s happening right now?”

Kaelix pauses, mid-shirt lift, blinking at him like he’s the one being weird right now. The audacity. “Didn’t Zeal say anything about what this was?”

Freodore stares at him, the phrase and Zeal’s name rattling in his skull like a dropped bolt.

What this was.

He scrubs a hand over his face, in time with a sharp intake of breath.

Of course Zeal didn’t say anything. Not really. Just vague affirmations and smooth deflections, the usual. “He needs equipment help.” “Solo project.” “Works from home.” “It’s a bit niche, yeah.” “He’s also pretty cute, if that matters.” The kind of slippery, somewhat harmless phrasing that doesn’t register until you replay the tape in reverse.

Freodore exhales slowly, hands on his hips.

“Oh,” he says. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor.

Kaelix drops his shirt the rest of the way, clearly trying not to laugh. “Yeah. Oh.”

Silence stretches. Freodore looks around again, this time seeing everything slightly differently—the camera, the lighting angles, the stool. The shelf, out of view from the camera a few ways off from the desk with an assortment of condoms, lube, and sex toys, neatly arranged and labeled for their intended use and purpose.

“...Right,” he mutters. “Okay. So. That explains some things.”

To Kaelix’s credit, he does look genuinely apologetic. His shoulders sag a little, and he backs off, sitting on the edge of the bed with a soft exhale. The room’s quiet, but far from still. It’s the kind of quiet that hums at the edges, like the universe knows something awkward just took place and is giving everyone a minute.

Out of context, the scene looks a little ridiculous.

Freodore standing in the middle of the room, jacket still on, bag half-unzipped, Kaelix in his house clothes—shirt back on but still loose, still crooked in a way that looks like it belongs in a marketing campaign for gentle heartbreak. The lighting's too soft. The bed’s too central to it all. The whole thing looks like a still from a B-movie where the two leads kiss by accident and then suddenly remember they’re emotionally unavailable.

Kaelix breaks the spell with a quiet, “I am so sorry, I really am. I should not have assumed Zeal gave you the full picture. If this is weird or too much, we can definitely reschedule. Or—or look, I can ask him to find someone else, it’s no big deal.”

And here’s the thing—Freodore knows, rationally, he should take the out now that it’s being offered on a silver platter for him. It would be the clean way; the polite, easy way. Say, yes, actually, this isn’t what I usually take on, apologize too and leave it there. But instead, he moves toward the desk, sets his bag down with care, and pulls off his beanie, smoothing back his hair before placing it next to his laptop.

“No, it’s fine,” he says, focused on unzipping one of the compartments. “You shouldn’t be sorry. It was just a misunderstanding. And I don’t cancel on jobs.”

There’s a pause, and then Kaelix laughs, quiet and wry. “You haven’t really taken the job yet, you know.”

He leans back on his hands on the edge of the bed, watching Freodore with that soft amusement again. There’s no malice in it. Just something curious, patient and waiting.

Freodore doesn’t look at him—just pulls out a few coils of cable, a small audio interface, sets them on the desk in tidy rows.

“It’s fine,” he says again. He knows he’s a bit pink in the ears, can feel the heat there even if the rest of him keeps steady. “I can handle it.” Probably.

---

Kaelix stays where he is, palms pressed into the edge of the mattress, watching Freodore move with the kind of quiet focus that makes noise feel like a personal offense. The color hasn’t quite faded from Freodore’s cheeks, but Kaelix doesn’t mention it, partly out of courtesy, and partly because he knows that is likely not the move right now. Calling it out would feel like twisting a thread that’s already a little frayed.

So he stays still in his seat and watches instead.

Freodore’s still setting out his gear with methodical precision, like he’s laying out surgical tools. Each item gets its own space—audio interface, a short stack of labeled cables, a small portable mic he hadn’t noticed before, his own mirrorless camera. Everything about it says: I’m serious. I’m still doing this. There’s something a little defiant in it, actually.

Kaelix can see the way Freodore’s shoulders are set, back straight, jaw a little too tight. Not exactly defensive, but just shy of. There’s an unspoken challenge in the lines of him, like he’s silently pushing back against how easily Kaelix had offered to reschedule or how quickly he’d offered an out.

Kaelix finds that interesting. Finds him interesting. He hadn’t expected that. Most people either shrink and scurry away as fast as possible or get weirdly flirty the second the realize what Kaelix does for a living and there’s rarely ever any middle ground.

Freodore hasn’t done either.

Sure, he’d glitched a little. A delayed reaction and an accidental whoa hey what—but it hadn’t made Kaelix feel judged. He could see the difference. He’s been doing this long enough to smell condescension from a mile way and he can tell that Freodore’s not doing any of that. He is, however, compensating for something. Maybe for the crack in composure earlier, like he’s afraid Kaelix might think he’s thinking badly of him or his line of work. That streaming adult content online, performing like a slow-burning match in a box of kindling should be something he should be ashamed of.

And Kaelix doesn’t. Never really has.

Maybe Freodore gets that. Or at least, Kaelix thinks he’s starting to.

He shifts just slightly in his seat, letting his hands slide back further on the mattress, stretching out his spine as he watches the light catch in Freodore’s hair.

Freodore is quick and efficient once his equipment is arranged. He’s focused in the way only people who have built their lives around detail can be. He crouches to adjust the tripod Kaelix helped set up, then straightens, giving a short nod. Camera on, interface steady, all the cables behaving as they should.

“Alright,” Freodore says, voice even, as if none of their earlier confusion or the awkward, ensuing conversation that followed it happened. “On the bed, and face this way please. Keep your shoulders relaxed, but don’t slouch.”

Kaelix blinks but he moves automatically, feeling compelled to by the cadence of Freodore’s voice. He pushes back up the bed a bit, shifting to follow Freodore’s direction without complaint.

In the thick of it, Freodore doesn’t hesitate and there’s no visible awkwardness. His voice carries the same tone someone might use to adjust lights on a film set, or give a model direction for a skincare ad. It’s not cold or unkind, but it errs towards clinical. Professional in a way that says this is work and I’ve done this a hundred of times actually and it’s not about you.

It’s at this moment Kaelix realizes that up until now he’d been hoping for some sort of lingering trace of surprise, or for… more. To Freodore’s expression, at least. Like even just a little bit of curiosity. Or a hint of proof that this was new for Freodore, that it had caught him even a tiny bit off guard and meant something. But instead what Kaelix gets is his calm instruction and a quiet technical evaluation—I’ll be here and out of your hair as soon as we’re done here.

Kaelix tilts slightly on the bed as told, adjusting his weight, turning his face just enough to catch the light right. He knows how he looks in this setup. Knows how the shadows fall on his jaw from this angle.

He exhales, quietly, and rests his hands loosely on the blanket.

“Like this?” He asks.

Freodore nods, checking the monitor. “Mm, yeah. That’s good. Light catches right there. Please don’t move.”

Kaelix doesn't. But part of him wonders if he should have. Just to see if Freodore would notice.

Freodore kneels down with a small roll of painter’s tape bright blue and bluntly utilitarian and starts taping spots on the floor without fanfare to mark where the tripod stands the best at varying distances from the bed. It’s nothing dramatic, but Kaelix watches with a kind of reluctant fondness. It’s thoughtful, that little buffer between “oops” and “redo everything.”

He doesn’t say thank you, but he does smile, just slightly, and keeps still while Freodore shifts the tripod again. Camera left, a click, a pause. Camera right. Tilt up. “Turn a bit,” Freodore murmurs. “No, the other way. Good, Kaelix. Hold.”

Kaelix’s breath catches without meaning to. He’d supplied more words to ‘Good, Kaelix’ in his head compared to what Freodore had actually said and he’s almost sorry about it.

Freodore’s quiet methodical approach to his work is cute. The rhythm to it is endearing. The way he mutters to himself when something doesn’t sit right in the frame or how his brow furrows like the camera’s personally offended him sparks something chaotic in Kaelix. Like he wants to lean just a little far out of place, say something a bit ridiculous. Not enough to break anything, just enough to get noticed differently, too.

On angle five, he lets that one intrusive thought win. Low stakes, nothing wild. He just shifts a little instead of holding, moving his body off-center. Freodore makes a sound that’s barely audible, but it’s somewhere between a sigh and affronted little hum. Like he’s been told gravity changed directions.

Kaelix smiles.

Adorable.

Where, exactly, had Zeal and Seible been hiding this man? He’s quiet, self-contained, speaks in mostly full sentences or little humming noises and instructs him gently like an elementary school teacher—and yet he reacts like someone’s knocked over his favorite model kit if Kaelix dares to scoot half an inch too far.

Kaelix clears his throat before he can laugh. Tries to tamp down whatever strange impulse is creeping up his spine. Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t ruin it. He’s literally just doing his job.

Still. He can see Freodore holding something back on the tip of his tongue.

“Do you want the shirt off for these?” he asks, eyes flicking up toward Freodore like he doesn’t already know what kind of question that is. “Since, you know—test shots. Gotta replicate the actual setup conditions, right?”

It comes out too innocent to be fully innocent. He bites back the way his mouth threatens to quirk up at the side to give him away.

---

Kaelix looks stupidly handsome sitting there on the bed if Freodore is going to be honest. No one is asking him to be and no one is questioning him about it either, so he keeps his eyes on the frame, makes a show of checking the levels on the screen of his laptop again even though he doesn’t really need to. The light from the ring casts a glow at the edges of Kaelix’s hair just enough to catch the shine, and his skin—well. The camera’s not doing any heavy lifting there.

Freodore breathes out and resets his stance. He grounds himself with the pressure of one palm flat on the desk.

The thing is—he’s not blind.

He knows what he’s looking at. But knowing isn’t the same as acting and he has no intention of giving Kaelix any reason to feel weird or scrutinized in his own space. Freodore’s’ been invited into the deep end of someone else’s private world, and he knows what that means. He respects it. He honors it by not making it weird. That’s the whole point of this job. Come in. Fix the tech. Leave everything else untouched.

And then Kaelix had opened his mouth.

Freodore blinks, once, slowly. Thinks, okay. Spoke too soon.

Kaelix is watching him now, his appraisal is subtle, but Freodore is perceptive enough to see it behind Kaelix’s gaze. Is he trying to see if Freodore’s really as unbothered as he’s been acting? If he’s someone who can handle this without flinching or if he’s been politely ignoring the elephant in the room and waiting for a chance to excuse himself.

Freodore stands a little straighter.

He knows a test when he sees one.

There’s something in him that bristles, alert. Like someone had nudged a wire the wrong way. Is this Kaelix’s way of seeing where the edge was? If Freodore was really fine with what he does? If he’s lying by omission?

Alright, fine. Two can play.

He moves around the camera, adjusts the angle just a touch, then says—calm, steady. “Sure. Why not.”

“Shirt off,” he adds, although he’s not quite looking at Kaelix as he says it. “It should be more accurate, yeah.”

---

Kaelix tries very, very hard not to look like the cat who just got the cream.

He manages it barely by biting the inside of his cheek and adjusting the hang of his shirt like it suddenly matters. For all of five minutes, the dynamic shift is delicious.

Freodore’s reaction is subtle, professional, controlled, but Kaelix still catches that brief flicker, the almost-sigh of agreement like it cost him something small. And that would’ve been enough if not Kaelix being a little bit greedy at his core.

Freodore recovers too fast. Slips right back into his measured, methodical rhythm. He rechecks the frame. He gives small notes in that same steady tone—shoulders, angle, light, turn just a little more, Kaelix—and within moments, it’s clear that Freodore’s back in full work mode.

And that’s… a bit disappointing, sure. But also, somehow, comforting.

It confirms, at least, that whatever Kaelix’s job is, whatever Freodore was invited into somewhat unwittingly—he's not rattled by it at all. He’s very good at being professional. Steady hands. Clear eyes. And a brain that apparently works better than most people’s even in the face of weird social pressure.

Still, the new angle isn’t cooperating with them. They try flipping the perspective, camera pulled around to the opposite side of the room, but it throws everything off—the shadows fall strange on the bedspread, and one corner of the room refuses to stop looking flat. Freodore’s sitting cross-legged on Kaelix’s desk chair now, watching the monitor, and Kaelix can see the smallest crease of concentration between his brows.

“Recording now,” Freodore says, not looking up. “I’ll play it back after, see where we can fix it.”

Kaelix nods from the bed, letting his hands rest loosely on his thighs. The lights shift slightly as he breathes.

A moment later, Freodore squints at the screen, then gestures vaguely. “Oh—hm. Kaelix, can you come take a look at this?”

Kaelix starts to get up, feet already hitting the floor before Freodore’s blinking up at him in realization.

“Wait,” he says, with the gentlest kind of exasperation, it seems to be mostly directed at himself than Kaelix. “It’s recording. You can’t really come around. Hold on.”

Kaelix tilts his head. “You’re the one who asked,” he teases mildly, smiling.

Freodore sighs like it’s not his first time talking to someone who just tried to defy spatial logic. He gestures more clearly this time. “Sorry, here. Get behind the camera.”

Kaelix obliges, padding over until he’s crouched behind the tripod. Freodore is now on the bed, legs folded, looking into the lens. “There,” he says, motioning to the monitor. “See that?”

Kaelix does. The shot is clean, technically. They’d sealed off the curtain earlier with tape to block the weird streak of afternoon light that kept hitting the frame wrong. Some of the floor lights had been moved too, rerouted into a surge bar to avoid the flicker that happens when too many outlets pull from the same strip.

But what draws Kaelix in isn’t the lighting. It’s Freodore—sitting calmly in the space Kaelix usually occupies, bathed in a soft glow that catches in his hair. The green fades into the warm tones of the bedding, and the pale lavender of his eyes is just sharp enough to hold.

He looks a little tired. Shoulders just slightly loose with it. But his face—quiet, focused, lit with a kind of unintentional grace—still registers, involuntarily, as very pretty.

Kaelix says the first thing that slips past his brain to mouth filter.

“Not gonna take your shirt off?”

It comes out light, half a joke. The smile’s already tugging at his mouth before he can stop it.

Freodore blinks at him, expression unchanged. Then, simply, with zero sarcasm or heat, he asks, “Should I?”

And that—delivered with those eyes, tired and still razor-clear—throws Kaelix entirely. There’s no irony in the way he says it. Nothing else folded underneath. Just an open, honest question. Like it might actually help them with what they’re doing.

Like he’d really do it if Kaelix said yes.

Kaelix considers his options.

For a second, just a second, he weighs them both. Yes or no, see what happens or leave it alone. There’s a quiet little thread of curiosity pulling taut in his chest, and now that Freodore’s asked so sincerely, so plainly, Kaelix’s brain does a half-stumble over the thought of actually answering yes, actually, please take your shirt off. But he doesn’t. He huffs out a laugh instead, light and a little rueful.

“No, I'm just messing with you,” he says, shaking his head. “Better not.”

And then he immediately regrets it.

Because now he’ll never know what Freodore might look like without the jacket and the shirt, not how the light would land on his collarbone or trace down the line of his stomach. Not how soft his skin might look under the camera’s gaze, all that gentleness wrapped up in someone who speaks like he’s afraid to waste a word.

Kaelix doesn’t unpack that particular thought. He’s got enough emotional luggage as it is.

Instead, he looks at the monitor and nods toward it. “I kind of see what you mean,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the shot. “It’s not bad, but your face is doing a lot of the heavy lifting in this shot.”

Freodore glances over. “That’s not helpful…”

Kaelix grins. “No, but it’s true.”

He taps his lower lip with one finger, squinting slightly at the screen. “Maybe if you sat a little more into the mattress—like, leaned into it without sinking all the way.”

Freodore frowns, confused. “Sat... how?”

Kaelix doesn’t answer with words. He crosses the room again, quick and unthinking, and before Freodore can shift or brace or question it, Kaelix’s knee is on the bed. Then the other. And then, carefully, with all the consideration of someone adjusting a mannequin for a storefront—Kaelix climbs in and starts to move him.

“Wait—what—” Freodore starts, but Kaelix is already tugging him by the arm, guiding his shoulders down, arranging him against the pillows like he’s setting a display.

“Just like this, hold on,” Kaelix mutters, focused. “You’re not committing to the lean.”

Somehow, Freodore ends up half-reclined, propped up against the plush pillows, with Kaelix now straddling his lap, one knee pressed into the bed on either side of him. It's not anything particularly dramatic or even remotely lewd. But it’s... definitely a position. It’s a lot. Kaelix is also still shirtless and what a better time to be reminded about it, huh?

They both freeze.

Kaelix’s hands are still on Freodore’s shoulders. Freodore’s arms are caught between moving and not.

Kaelix stares down. Freodore looks up.

There’s a long beat of silence, and then Freodore clears his throat, soft and careful.

“Right,” he says, eyes flicking to the side. “Yeah, okay. I—I get what you meant now.”

He pauses. “And you’ll probably figure this out on your own. Once I’ve finished helping with the setup.”

Kaelix nods. He doesn’t move right away, though. He sits back slowly, shifting his weight until he’s just crouched there on his haunches, hands resting lightly on his knees.

He rubs the back of his neck, not quite sheepish, but it’s something close. He doesn’t apologize because feels like it would just make it weird if he did. Instead, he gives a vague, agreeable, “Yeah. Makes sense.”

And that’s all either of them says about it.

---

By the time they’re back in the living room, Freodore’s mostly packed up. What’s left on Kaelix’s coffee table looks deceptively light. A slim laptop sleeve, a few cables coiled with the kind of precision that says Freodore probably resents tangles on a personal level. The mock setup remains in the second bedroom, kindly lent by his very generous and very handsome contractor, perched carefully on the tripod. A fresh card slotted into the Freodore’s mirrorless camera so Kaelix can transfer the test footage later.

Kaelix watches him move, placing what’s left of his things inside his bag, efficient and self-contained, and wonders how someone can say so much without actually saying anything.

“So,” Freodore says, straightening up, hands brushing off on his jacket. “I’ll have a think about what you actually need. I’ll write out a list. Components, upgrades, the works.”

Kaelix leans against the kitchen counter, nodding. “And then I just… nod along and pray you’re not bankrupting me?”

Freodore makes a small, slightly affronted sound and frowns a little. “I’ll include price ranges and reasons why. You can vet it with someone else, argue, ask—whatever you want.”

Kaelix gasps jokingly at that. “You’re letting me argue with you?” He squints at Freodore. “What are we?”

Freodore’s mouth twitches—just a small thing as he crosses his arms. “Doesn’t mean I’ll agree.”

Kaelix huffs a laugh shortly after. “Fair.”

Freodore shifts his bag over one shoulder. “Once we finalize the list, I’ll help you compare the options for each item. Walk you through their differences, pros, cons. Then you pick. When you're ready, you swipe.”

“And you’ll help set it all up?”

Freodore nods. “Yeah. We can do it piece by piece. That way you won’t need to go dark or stop streaming all at once. Gives you time to actually use and understand each thing you’ve just bought.”

Kaelix doesn’t say he wouldn’t mind going dark. Doesn’t mention that a longer pause would be fine—more than fine actually because it’ll mean he can see Freodore again uninterrupted as they spend time slowly replacing all of his equipment. Privately, he hopes it takes ages.

Instead, he tilts his head and says, “Any plans for dinner? I can whip up something real quick—as thanks for today.”

Kaelix tries for casual but he watches Freodore’s expression with too much care for it to really be offhand.

Freodore hesitates for the first time all night. “Thanks,” he says, quiet and polite. “But I’ve got something early.”

There’s a little regret in it. Maybe. Or maybe Kaelix is just reaching.

“Sure,” Kaelix replies, with a shrug that’s too intentional to be real. “Next time, maybe.”

Freodore just nods. And then he’s out the door with a soft click, the quiet settling in behind him like it owns the place.

Kaelix stares at the mock setup left behind in the spare bedroom, the door still ajar, the faint shape of their earlier conversation still lingering in the air. He doesn't go back in there to turn off the lights yet. He just sits on the edge of the couch, eyes still fixed on the way it’s starting to change.

And quietly, maybe a little stupidly, he thinks, I really hope it takes a while.

---

Freodore slips into his apartment and locks the door behind him with the quiet efficiency of habit. The carryout bag in his hand is still warm—udon from a place he likes, tucked just off the main road, open late enough for people like him. He places it gently on the kitchen counter and lets the silence settle around him. Just the low hum of the fridge and the soft shift of city noise through his apartment walls.

He doesn’t rush dinner. He sits properly at his table, and eats slowly. The broth is rich, full of that comforting depth he always forgets to appreciate until it’s already in front of him. The noodles have bite. The egg’s done perfectly. All of it settles into him like the first real pause of the day.

Declining Kaelix’s dinner invite had felt like the right thing to do—not because he didn’t want to stay, but because he needed the distance to process everything. The way he ended up sitting cross-legged in someone else’s world, asked to rewire it while pretending he wasn’t paying attention to the person behind the camera.

After he eats, he moves through the rest of his night with purpose. Dishes rinsed and drying, shower taken, pajamas on. He towel-dries his hair and pulls on an old sweatshirt before sitting in at his desk, legs pulled up on the seat. The hum of his desktop booting up settles like white noise around him. He opens a fresh document and types a placeholder title: Equipment Notes - Kaelix Debonair.

Freodore pauses, staring at the blinking cursor. His reflection in the black edge of the screen looks half-thoughtful, half-unsure.

The job itself is pretty straightforward. Audio, lighting, visual quality, setup logic—he’s done more complicated work on worse equipment and with less forgiving budgets. He doesn’t usually question the jobs that come through people he trusts, but the deeper he gets into this one, the more he realizes how little he understood going in.

Kaelix himself is a wildcard, too. Earnest in a way Freodore hadn’t expected; open, but not careless. He doesn’t seem ashamed of his work, which Freodore respects a lot. But there’s something about the way he watches people watch him that makes Freodore feel like he’s being granted permission in increments, to look or maybe even stay, but only if he knows what not to touch.

Freodore leans back in his chair and glances at the ceiling, lost in thought. He’s not annoyed. Just, really, hyper cognizant of how much he doesn’t know about the space he’s stepping into.

He opens a new tab on his browser.

Then another.

Eventually, his curiosity catches up to him and then he’s pulling up Instagram too—not his main account (which barely has anything in it anyway) but an older one he keeps for situations exactly like this, the kind where he doesn’t want the algorithm to take it too personally.

Kaelix’s profile isn’t hard to find. The page is tidy. Nothing overt. The feed is tasteful, even cozy. Nothing here that hints too clearly at what he does, aside from maybe the effortless lighting, the way he fills a frame without looking like he’s trying to.

There’s a Linktree that Freodore hovers over before finally clicking and scrolling past the skin-care discount code and a Throne wishlist, he follows it to Twitter. His pinned post is a subscription ad for where he streams.

Freodore’s finger hesitates for a second, hand hovering on the mouse, cursor circling the link like it might bite.

He accidentally presses down harder in his indecision, and the page loads, quick as Freodore’s internet speed will take it, and he sees that Kaelix is live.

Freodore doesn’t press play right away and he’s thankful that it doesn’t automatically do that—just flashes the most recent frame at you which is at least pretty tame (he still looks fully clothed in it).

All the other stuff on the website doesn’t load slow enough for him to second-guess the decision, but blessedly, he doesn’t have to make an account or confirm anything invasive to dig a little deeper. The site sits open on his screen, thumbnail glowing quietly in the corner. The word LIVE pulses in red like a heartbeat.

And then he clicks again.

The stream buffers once, then clears, and his screen fills with Kaelix, seated comfortably on his bed, back straight, legs crossed, a familiar warmth pulling through his expression like thread through soft fabric. The lighting’s better already. Not drastically, but it’s enough. The corner lamp they redirected, the curtains now properly sealed, the slight change in white balance—all of it is doing good work.

The camera catches Kaelix more clearly now, richer tones and cleaner motion. Freodore notes it all out of habit: less noise in the shadows, fewer sharp drops in clarity when Kaelix shifts his weight.

It’s already a massive step up from mobile. Not that his phone setup was terrible, but this—this feels like a window, not a screen.

Kaelix is talking to chat, and he’s laughing—full of that same open cheer he’d had earlier, only now it’s a little more polished and dialed up a notch. A showman's version of what Freodore saw at his apartment earlier, dressed up and a little less lit from within.

It would be easy, too easy for Freodore to fall back into work mode entirely. He'd make a note of how the sound travels, how the mic picks up breath patterns, how Kaelix gestures just enough to stay centered in the frame. There’s a natural rhythm to it, even when it’s obviously rehearsed.

Then Kaelix shifts, smile tilting sly, and the tone of his setup pivots.

“So you think I’ve been slacking, huh?” he says, dragging his hand slowly down his own chest, palm skimming the front of his dress shirt like he’s feeling himself think. “Late on two reports, five minutes over break. You’re really gonna punish me for that?”

Freodore blinks.

Kaelix tilts his head slightly toward the camera, smile crooked but wavering just enough to feel real. “Boss.”

Chat’s already running wild, a blur of commands and faux-discipline, and Kaelix feeds off it with practiced grace.

“You want to watch me?” he murmurs, eyes flicking up through his eyelashes. “You want to sit back and see how long I last when you won’t let me finish?”

His hand drops lower. His breath hitches, nothing dramatic, just enough to signal a shift.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, voice tightening as he presses the heel of his palm between his thighs. “You want me to beg again, don’t you?”

And even with the teasing tone, there’s a crack in it—like his own body’s starting to betray him.

“You’re so...” He trails off, breathing out on the edge of a whine, pouting. “So mean.”

Freodore doesn’t move. He watches, quietly, a little too still in his own chair trying to process what he's seeing vs what he's supposed to feel about it exactly.

Kaelix writhes just slightly on camera now, breath snagging, body already flushed despite not having taken anything off yet. The camera’s positioned just so, cropped to the thighs, with the slow, deliberate pace of someone trying to draw this out against his own better instincts.

His dress shirt clings to him a little tighter with his every movement. His voice gets breathier with every line.

“You want to see me fall apart,” Kaelix pants, glancing toward the chat like he can see the chaos building there. “You like this, huh? You like watching me like this?”

His hips twitch up into his own hand and he gasps, the sound sharp and startled like it caught him off guard.

“F-fuck, I can’t—”

Freodore blinks, jaw tight, his fingers hovering over the desk’s edge like he could ground himself there. The cool detachment from this all that he’d held onto so carefully starts to bend under the weight of how easily Kaelix turns performance into surrender, how well he knows when to let it show.

And still, Freodore watches. He leans forward unconsciously, arms folded on his desk. He can’t help it. There’s something captivating in how easily Kaelix wears the narrative and how it fits into him. Like it’s a muscle he stretches every day. He wonders if Kaelix writes these stories himself or if he hires someone and commissions it. What the process is for memorizing the beats and filling the space between with instinct. It doesn’t feel rigid at all, just well-worn.

Freodore tells himself he’s still watching for technical reasons.

That’s what he repeats, quietly, in the back of his mind as he lets the stream continue to playback. Kaelix’s voice rising and falling like a tide pulling too close to shore, the lighting holding steady, the audio peaking just once when his breath breaks high. Freodore notes it. Adjusting gain would fix that. Easy tweak. And the way the camera crops now—it's tight but not suffocating—it's clean. Framed perfectly to hold tension without spelling it out too fast.

He even makes a mental note of the fabric. Kaelix’s dress shirt wrinkles just so, bunching at the waist where his hand keeps moving. His pants are halfway down, caught low on his thighs, intentional. Nothing sloppy about it. Kaelix knows exactly what the camera sees and what it doesn’t.

Freodore sits with his arms folded on the desk, chin nearly resting on his wrist, watching like he’s going to start annotating in real time. His thoughts keep trying to chase logistics—like how long Kaelix can maintain the pacing, when the room’s ambient light might shift, whether the audio holds up if he gets louder. He leans closer, tracking mic sensitivity like it matters more than the hitch in Kaelix’s breath when his fingers dip lower.

And then Kaelix’s pants come off completely, so do his boxer briefs. Peeled away, slow, like even the fabric was trying to hang on for a few more seconds.

And Freodore’s sleep shorts—at some point—aren’t on him anymore either.

They’re crumpled in a soft heap under his desk, forgotten when his body responded faster than his brain could rationalize it.

Freodore’s hand is on himself before he’s fully aware of it, guilt and arousal twining tight in his gut. The browser tab stays unobtrusively in one corner of his screen, but it’s there, Kaelix bathed in that soft, golden light they’d tweaked together just hours ago. It makes his skin glow. His hair glints white and wild against the pillow he’s now pressed against, lips parted, breath spilling out in uneven shudders.

There's a tight knot in his chest that he tells himself he’ll push through and stop, but Kaelix is saying things like “Couldn’t help yourself, huh?” and his voice cracks just enough to sound real and close.

Freodore’s breath catches when his hand brushes against himself, the heat of his own body a shock.

“You couldn’t wait either,” Kaelix breathes, eyes heavy, fixed on the camera like he knows exactly who’s watching. “Got all worked up just watching me like this, didn’t you?”

Freodore’s breath leaves him in one long, barely audible exhale. His fingers brush against himself, hesitant at first, but his body betrays him. His grip tightens around his own cock, a soft whimper escaping his lips as he watches Kaelix writhe on screen. His lavender eyes flicker between the livestream and his own hand, torn between shame and pleasure he can no longer deny.

Every moan, every pleading word, every desperate roll of his hips pulls Freodore deeper into his own fantasy.

On screen, Kaelix gasps, his blue eyes locked onto the camera like he's looking right at Freodore. “That’s it,” he pants, his words thick with need.

“That's it, baby—don't stop.” His fingers slide over himself, slow and teasing, his back arching as he lets out a shaky breath. “You wanted this too, didn't you?” he asks, his voice dripping with that same earnestness but this time tinted with raw, unbridled want.

“You want to touch me just like this?” Freodore’s hips jerk, his body betraying his own arousal as he listens to Kaelix speak to his audience. “Come on, then. Let me hear you.”

Freodore grips himself a little tighter, and the tingling in his spine shoots up; he lets out a long drawn out moan that tapers off into a little whimper once what he’s done hits him all at once.

Kaelix rolls his hips slowly into his own hand, expression twisted in pleasure and something close to frustration. “Come onnn,” he pants. “Don’t leave me like this—please, I need you to... please—”

It’s the way he says you that does it for Freodore. And probably for the thousands of people watching Kaelix right now too.

Freodore’s composure breaks like a wire pulled too tight.

His hand is still moving without conscious permission, guided more by the flush building in his chest than anything rational. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But he does, anyway. Because Kaelix is moaning now, desperate and trembling and so believable in his need that it stops feeling like a performance at all.

Freodore’s eyes flutter shut just for a second. Long enough to feel it more than see it. His knuckles press into the desk as his body tenses and unfurls once again, like a fault line giving way under pressure. And for a brief, breathless moment, he forgets where he is. Forgets what he told himself earlier or how he usually holds himself. He pumps himself in earnest, mouth falling open, letting go of the way he’d been biting at his lower lip trying to rein in the soft little moans he’s been making for the last fifteen minutes.

“You’re so beautiful like that,” Kaelix praises. “Keep going,” he urges, “go on, I won’t stop too.”

Freodore comes with a quiet gasp, head bowed, hand sticky and still. The stream keeps playing, Kaelix in it is still pleading, still arching, still asking—

“You’re watching, right? Please, don’t stop watching—”

Freodore closes the tab. He yanks a tissue from the box on the corner of the desk, wipes himself off with clinical efficiency, and tosses it straight into the trash. The tab on his browser is closed before the audio from the stream has even stopped echoing through his speakers.

The guilt doesn’t hit all at once. It’s quieter than that, a low thrum behind the ribs. Like a car alarm several floors down, not loud enough to disrupt, but impossible to ignore.

He stands, heads straight for the bathroom.

The water’s on him sharp, punishing, immediate—cold. The kind of cold that makes you flinch on instinct, makes your lungs seize for a second, and wake you up from a long, long dream. He steps into it anyway, jaw clenched, hands braced on the tile like he needs the surface to keep himself in the present.

The shower pounds down around him. He doesn’t move much. Doesn’t scrub, doesn’t linger. Just stands under it, shoulders hunched and eyes squeezed shut, like the water might wash out whatever just short-circuited in his brain.

Fifteen minutes later, he steps out, skin pink and numb, towel around his waist. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror.

He dries off, changes into fresh pajamas, and sits back at his desk.

He opens the equipment list document for Kaelix again, and types like none of it happened.

---

Kaelix’s chest rises and falls in slow, uneven pulls, sweat clinging to the curve of his jaw and the back of his neck where the lights run warm. His shirt is somewhere off-camera, tossed aside half an hour ago. His pants are balled at the foot of the bed. He’s sprawled against the pillows, hand slack on his thigh, still panting lightly. His legs twitch every so often with the aftershocks, but otherwise, he’s still a little undone.

His eyes flick lazily over the chat, where the comments are flooding in faster than he can register them.

 

 

Kaelix huffs out a small laugh, breath still catching at the end. He lets his head fall to one side against the pillow, hair sticking to his cheek, skin flushed and humming. The praise rolls over him in waves. Usually he soaks it up, lets it fill the space that loneliness would otherwise creep into but tonight, he feels too scattered. His thoughts are somewhere else entirely.

He’d been loading up his folders before the stream, prepping for the role, when he clicked the wrong timestamp. The video popped open, muted at first, just static image and he sees Freodore sitting still on the edge of the bed. Then, Kaelix, shifting on his haunches above him. Then more motion. Kaelix leaning in, Freodore looking up, and the angle catching everything. There's nothing vulgar about it, not even remotely suggestive, but in Kaelix's mind, it could be close. It might as well be. His thighs bracket Freodore’s hips in that moment of stillness, like they’d forgotten the room around them.

He’d watched for maybe fifteen seconds before closing it, burned the scene to the back of his eyelids.

Then he’d gone live.

He should maybe feel worse about the way his imagination pulled from it the second he slipped into character—but he doesn’t. Not really. It was only enough to notice as much, but not enough to stop. He did not, however, fuck anything on stream tonight because it was the one modesty his imagination could afford.

He’d thrust slow, draw the tension out like a ribbon; he’d gasped and begged and played the part of someone desperately on the edge, but that was it. The rest would stay in his head, and Freodore had been in that space with him, uninvited.

Or maybe a little bit invited.

Kaelix closes his eyes for a moment, lets his wrist fall over his forehead, breathing still slowing and catching up to the rest of the world. The weight of Freodore’s gaze from earlier lingers, cool and assessing. The way he’d said “Shirt off.” Like it was nothing, or how he’d not even batted an eyelash at how close they were.

He lets his head roll back towards the camera, eyes heavy and slightly glazed. He mutters into the mic, “You are all SO terrible to me,” he says, with a lot of affection, “now please make all my begging worth it.”

Chat responds in a flurry of heart emojis and shameless declarations of love. Donations come piling in as usual.

He laughs again, quieter now. Spent. But something small and selfish curls warm in his chest.

---

It’s been about four days.

Long enough that Kaelix should’ve shaken it. The ghost of a memory that wasn’t really a memory at all—just Freodore, fully dressed and carefully blank-faced on a recording file he hadn't meant to open, now inexplicably seared into Kaelix’s brain like a recurring dream.

He hadn’t planned on seeing him again so soon.

But against all odds—well, here they are.

Kaelix catches the knock before it even lands properly, pulling open the door at the first tap. Freodore’s there, messenger bag slung across his chest, standing like he’s not entirely sure what the temperature inside’s going to be.

Kaelix is pretty sure the room gets warmer just from proximity.

“Hey,” he says, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Freodore nods once, carefully. “Thank you.”

He steps in without hesitation, toeing off his shoes in that practiced, polite way of his. The jacket stays on for now, which Kaelix is grateful for, though he immediately clocks the shirt underneath—fitted, solid-colored, sleeves short enough to show a sliver of forearm. His pants are loose, soft-looking, but the contrast makes it worse somehow. Like the shirt’s doing overtime to remind Kaelix what Freodore’s waist might look like with his hands around it.

Kaelix swallows, shuts the door behind them, and gestures toward the couch.

“Laptop's set up already. You wanna just—jump in?”

“I would prefer that, yes,” Freodore replies, already moving toward the living room.

Kaelix trails behind him, rubbing at the back of his neck. There’s a part of him that wants to blame Zeal for this, for not warning him, for sending someone with a face like that and a voice like sanded velvet and the kind of work ethic that makes it hard to breathe around. But Kaelix also knows that’s unfair. Zeal was probably just trying to help. And he had helped. Freodore clearly knows what he’s doing.

Maybe that’s what gets to him.

They sit down, Kaelix curling one leg up under him, watching as Freodore pulls up the shared doc on his screen from the email he’d sent Kaelix a couple of hours after his stream a few days ago. He hadn’t had a lot of time to go over it then and he admits to this sheepishly which Freodore just shrugs off saying, it’s fine since they were going to be talking about it anyway.

The list is clean, bullet points sorted by priority. A new camera—something compact, mirrorless, proper HDMI out. A set of softboxes to replace the ring light without over-lighting the room. Enough to look professional, not enough to scream studio porn. Two microphone options, both tested by Freodore himself, detailed with pros, cons, and projected lifespan. Kaelix raises his brows as he scrolls.

“This is... kind of amazing,” he says. “You really did your homework.”

Freodore does not look up. “I take my work seriously.”

“Yeah,” Kaelix says, a little softer. “I can tell.”

They talk through a few of the options—Kaelix asks about cable lengths, about setup time, about compatibility with the software he uses. Freodore answers every question with quiet, practiced clarity. When he taps the screen to explain something, his fingers don’t shake.

Kaelix watches the way he gestures, the shape his hand makes as he moves between bullet points, the faint concentration line between his brows.

And then—he notices something. A small arrow at the bottom of the doc.

“Is there a second page?” he asks.

Freodore blinks once. “Ah, yeah. I made some additional notes. I wasn’t sure if they were relevant enough to include in the main overview so I set them aside.”

Kaelix leans in. “Can I see?”

Freodore hesitates for a moment before scrolling.

Current sheets are gray. Neutral, but flat under warm light. Suggest subtle texture or color variation.

Pillow shape inconsistent. Consider anchoring with a bolster or longer body pillow for framing.

Backdrop could benefit from minor separation from foreground—visual depth.

Kaelix stares at it.

“You wrote about my sheets,” he says, but there’s no mockery in it. If anything, his voice is warmer. A little stunned.

“I did. I thought—if you’re planning to invest in better equipment, it would be logical to consider the entire composition of the frame.”

Kaelix laughs, warm and genuine. “That’s strangely thoughtful of you.”

Freodore glances at him. “I... is that bad?”

“No—I mean in a good way!”

Kaelix doesn’t say the next part out loud, but the idea that Freodore noticed what color his bedding was and thought about how it might look on camera and how else his setup could transform felt strangely intimate.

The warmth creeps up his neck before he can do anything about it or really do away with it once it’s settled.

He leans back into the couch cushions and says, “Guess we should go pillow shopping soon.”

Freodore nods, eyes still on the screen. “That would be advisable,” and then catching himself. “I mean, you should do that… soon.”

Kaelix watches him for a second longer. Wonders if Freodore even realizes how close they’re sitting. Probably not.

---

Freodore’s eyes widen, just slightly, the way they do when something’s slipped through a crack he didn’t know was there.

He’d meant to delete that page entirely because it felt weirdly intrusive to have or send to someone he was just doing a quick equipment upgrade for. The second page wasn’t really for Kaelix either, thinking back. It was the quiet penance he paid at his desk three nights ago, after his guilt and imagination pulled him under. If he was going to cross a line in private, the least he could do was show up in public with every inch of effort he had.

And so he wrote.

He started with the lighting, how best to use his environment (his pillows…), the sheets. He’d thought about framing, color balance, things that would give Kaelix’s setup that extra visual harmony because if he was already thinking about him, then fine. He could at least turn it into something useful.

But now, Kaelix is reading it right next to him. On his couch.

And Freodore, who isn’t known for faltering, is dangerously close to doing just that.

He clears his throat and shrugs after a moment, eyes fixed somewhere safely near the corner of the screen.

“Your audience only really sees one seat in the room,” he adds, careful and even. “It makes sense to design the visible part of the space with some intention.”

Kaelix glances over, a smile already tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You sound like you’re trying not to say ‘you’re welcome for noticing the color of your bedsheets by the way.’”

Freodore doesn’t respond, except to blink once and close the second page without comment.

Kaelix laughs again, warm and easy. “No, but seriously—that’s kind of sweet. You’re so nice.”

Nice… nice really isn’t the word Freodore would use, but he allows himself a small nod, even as he taps to pull the first page of the doc back into view. “It’s just environmental design.”

“Sure,” Kaelix says, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “Keep saying that. I’m not complaining though. I think it’s charming.”

Freodore doesn’t look at him, but his fingers pause briefly over the trackpad.

He types something else, quietly and deletes out one of the options Kaelix said wasn’t really high up on his list right now. He shifts slightly in his seat, the warmth of Kaelix’s shoulder brushing his sleeve, which he pretends not to notice.

 

 

 

They end up seeing each other again sooner than Freodore expected. A message from Kaelix midweek reads:

 

 

Freodore had read that line twice before replying with a practical:

 

 

And then immediately had to set his phone down and press the heel of his palm into his eye like it might physically stop the image from forming.

Because yeah, they definitely could see him better. No questions there. Freodore had seen him better, too. He hadn’t exactly forgotten it either.

He blushes into his coffee the next morning when he rechecks the invoice before sending it to Kaelix.

By the weekend, the lights are delivered and Kaelix texts again.

 

 

Freodore tries very hard to ignore the emoji sent his way.

So he shows up Saturday afternoon, right on time, gear in tow. He can see the new lights waiting outside Kaelix’s door, stacked in boxes. Freodore brings coffee and tea, out of habit or apology or just because he wasn’t sure what else to do with his hands on the train.

He knocks. The door opens a second later—and all coherent thought falls out of him.

Kaelix is standing there in a robe. Just a robe and his boxer briefs. His hair’s still damp at the tips, chest bare save for where the robe clings to him at the collarbone, loosely belted. There’s a faint sheen to his skin, like he’s mid-prep—moisturizer maybe, or something shinier, Freodore doesn’t want to think too hard.

Freodore blinks, startled into stillness. His fingers tighten slightly on the to-go cups.

For a brief, unwelcome second, his thoughts go straight to: does he have someone over?

But then Kaelix’s eyes widen and he curses softly under his breath.

“Oh, oh my god—sorry. I totally forgot I said I’d stream tonight, like twenty minutes ago. I was still getting ready.”

Freodore exhales through his nose. Some small, inexplicable tension inside him lets go.

“I can come back,” Freodore offers quickly, words measured but not cold. “You don’t need to rush anything. If tonight’s important, I’ll wait somewhere else or reschedule.”

Kaelix shakes his head, waving him back in with one hand as he tightens the robe with the other. “No, no, you came all this way! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I haven’t started yet. I can still cancel it.”

Freodore frowns at him like he’s just offered to set the lights on fire.

“Absolutely don’t cancel,” Freodore says, more firmly this time. “If anything, I’ll stay out of the way. I’ll wait.”

Kaelix pauses, robe now cinched more firmly, and he looks at Freodore for a second longer than necessary. Then smiles soft, crooked.

“You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Freodore shrugs, stepping inside like this isn’t the most absurd scene he’s walked into all month. “I just don’t like wasting time.” He sets the coffee down on the table and unzips his bag, methodical as ever, trying not to think too hard about the way Kaelix’s robe opens slightly when he moves.

“Uh-huh,” Kaelix says, closing the door behind them. “Pretty sure I’m the one wasting yours, standing here half-naked.”

Freodore doesn’t respond to that. Not out loud, but he very carefully does not turn around or look down.

---

There’s a stretch of silence between them that isn’t quite awkward, but it’s something close. Freodore stands in the living room, still holding his bag like it might offer some kind of emotional buffer, while Kaelix leans against the doorframe of the open bedroom in a robe that really shouldn’t be allowed to stay that open if Freodore wants to maintain basic conversational clarity.

Kaelix exhales, glancing toward the set inside, then back at him.

“You sure?” he asks, voice quieter now. “I mean, really. I don’t want you to feel like I’m… pulling you into something weird.”

Freodore shifts his weight, glances to the side. “I wouldn’t have offered if I felt that way. It’s just equipment.”

There’s a pause, and then Freodore adds, “I could stay in the kitchen. Or the living room. I won’t be in the way.”

Kaelix watches him for a second, then something flickers behind his eyes. Thoughtful. Maybe even a little brave.

“Actually how about taking a look at how it actually goes?” He asks, standing upright now. “See where you want to put things for movement—angles, all that.”

Freodore doesn’t answer immediately. The idea sits between them, heavy and impossible to ignore.

“The test shots,” Kaelix elaborates, tone light, “were just me. And you, technically. And we were both just sitting still. It’s not always going to look like that.”

He tries to smile.

Freodore meets his gaze, and that same challenged set to his shoulders re-emerges as he takes in Kaelix’s slightly outlandish proposition.

“If you’re comfortable with that,” Freodore starts to say, “I’ll keep my focus where it belongs,” he promises.

Although Kaelix really wishes he wouldn’t. But he nods once, sharp and decisive, like he’s made a deal with himself more than with Freodore.

---

Freodore had suggested he could operate the camera. He’d worn a black face mask as a little insurance, but Kaelix is pretty sure he could probably hold his breath when he needs to and figures he’d be quiet moving around and making sure the camera is pointed the right way as Kaelix works.

He considers the agenda for tonight. He knows he’s been stalling lately in small ways, teasing more, finishing to an absolutely full and satiated completion less. There’s a been a slow shift in his streams that he knows some of his viewers have maybe started to pick up on. He had plans on tonight being less of that to make up for it.

The stream goes live with barely a delay.

Kaelix sits perched at the edge of the bed, robe shrugged off his shoulders now, still there to give something for the mic clipped to him to hold on to. The lighting’s leagues better than it’s ever been—warm, soft. Kaelix can feel how the glow wraps around him like an invitation and he probably really looks like somebody’s weekend wet dream come to life. The new panels Freodore placed earlier are doing beautiful work.

He slides further into bed, already loose in his limbs, keyed up.

He doesn’t really have anything by way of script tonight. No layered fantasy or slow-spun narrative. Just him, the toy, and the quiet buzz of the room around him. Oh, and technically, Freodore.

 

 

Kaelix laughs, breathless already from nothing but anticipation, and settles back against his pillows with one knee drawn up.

“Sorry to keep you guys waiting,” he says, fingers combing through his hair as it flops into his face. “It’s been. a minute, huh?”

The toy—sleek and familiar now—is already within reach on the bedside table. He picks it up like he’s been thinking about it all day, and maybe he has.

“You’ve been real patient,” he murmurs, with a small tug up to the side of his lips. “So no games tonight, or edgeplay for that matter, and if you were maybe looking forward to that, sorry. But you’re going to be stuck for the next hour or so with just me and this guy.” He gestures to the toy in his hand.

 

 

He slicks his fingers with lube and exhales quietly as he strokes himself once, just to get used to the temperature, the pressure. Then again. The first few motions are slow, exploratory—he adjusts the grip of the toy like it’s got a personality of its own.

There’s no act in it tonight. No pretending to resist or misbehave. He’s just giving in. His body opens to the rhythm easily, shoulders shifting with every subtle motion of his hips, breath rising quick without theatrics.

Freodore’s in the room, just off to the side. Adjusting settings at first. Kaelix can feel the attention on him when he’s finished with whatever he wants to do with the setup. He swears the air moves different with Freodore watching him this close. It’s a pressure, steady and certain, like gravity just shifted slightly in Kaelix’s favor.

Kaelix groans, one leg sliding further apart as he works the toy over himself. His hips lift to meet it, jaw loose now. He speaks to the camera between gasps, voicing smoothing out around the edges of pleasure.

“You missed this, huh?” he asks, finding it in himself to smile cheekily into the camera. “I did too.”

His breath breaks around a sigh. He fucks the toy with a little more intent, thighs tensing.

“I almost forgot how good this one feels. It’s so easy like this.”

The chat lights up again, message after message a string of hearts and fire emojis and yes pleases and oh god you’re perfect and one particularly desperate plea from someone that just says make it messy.

Kaelix grins, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“Oh, you’ll get your mess.”

Kaelix’s breathing is shallow now, chest rising and falling with every slow push of the toy, thighs twitching as the pleasure coils tighter. He doesn’t look to the side immediately—he knows Freodore’s still there, tucked just outside the shot, somewhere between the edge of professionalism and something rapidly fraying.

He looks when it gets too loud inside his own head. When his own moan slips out deeper than he meant it to.

Freodore’s still watching.

Kaelix meets his eyes, his own mouth parted around a breath he doesn’t bother catching.

Kaelix grinds down a little harder into the toy, his breath hitching as he presses his hips into the slick rhythm of it, skin flushed and gleaming in the warm halo of light. He keeps his eyes trained on Freodore just past the edge of the lens, gaze unflinching, heavy-lidded and dark with want.

“You’ve been watching so quietly,” he says, his voice soft and just shy of ruined. “You like just sitting there while I do all the work?”

Chat lights up again, full of laughing emotes and hearts, messages stacking fast—

 

 

Kaelix chuckles low in his throat, the sound breaking halfway into a gasp as he shifts again, slower this time, dragging the sensation out. His fingers flex in the sheets as he rides the motion, all deliberate, all for show, but this time, it’s not just for them.

“Oh, you’ve got that look on your face again,” he breathes, lips curling into a smile that isn’t sweet at all. “Like you can’t decide if you’re proud of me or if you wanna pin me down and ruin me.”

His eyes stay on Freodore.

Freodore is still frozen where he stands, hand pressed flat against his mouth, chest rising a little too quick. The front of his jeans betray every lie his posture wants to tell.

Kaelix moans again, longer, a little like he’s being pulled apart from the inside and he lets his voice tremble, lets it carry.

“Don’t stop looking. Please,” he pants, voice trembling like it’s directed at everyone when it’s really meant for only one. “I want to make you come from just watching. That’s what you want too, right?”

 

 

Kaelix sways forward again, thighs trembling now, voice thick and breathy. He presses one palm to the mattress for support and keeps his eyes locked right where they’ve been this whole time.

“You gonna stay good for me?” he whispers. “Just sit there and take it like this?”

His mouth opens around another gasp, one hand reaching to grip the edge of the sheets—and he smiles, small and wild and wrecked. Freodore’s eyes never leave his.

“Yeah. I thought so.”

---

Freodore watches.

At first, it’s all focused professionalism. His eyes track the light balance across Kaelix’s skin, how the softness of the panels catch the edge of his jaw without washing him out. The mic is holding well. No clipping, even when Kaelix moans low and sharp. The shot is framed perfectly, Kaelix angled toward the camera but still mobile, the bed just messy enough to feel natural, the toy catching light in the exact way he thought it might.

It’s clean, it’s good work.

It’s also slowly destroying him from the inside out.

He feels it first in his stomach, that tight coil of want that he’d hoped to bury under all his note-taking and careful observation. But his hands aren’t moving anymore. He’s not writing anything down and his mouth is dry. And then ache settles even lower, heavy and immediate, and he realizes, of course. Of course, he’s hard.

It’s mortifying. His pants feel so much tighter around him for how far this has gone without him touching a single thing. His breath’s already gone uneven, despite his best efforts and he’s praying to every deity out there that the mic doesn’t pic anything up. Thank god they’ve only just changed the lights today.

Kaelix shifts on the bed, slick and desperate now, thighs shaking and mouth loose as he moans into the camera. His eyes keep finding Freodore, holding his gaze steady.

There’s a flicker of recognition in Kaelix’s expression, but nothing about is cruel or smug. It’s a kind of knowing—like he sees Freodore now as clearly as Freodore’s been seeing him.

Kaelix’s voice slips back into that sugar-slick murmur.

“It’s okay,” he says, chest heaving. “If you’re not there yet. I know I’m—“ he gasps, shuddering as he thrusts into the toy again just right, “—I’m going too fast for some of you. You’re keeping up well.”

Freodore’s spine locks straight.

Kaelix continues, the rhythm in his voice climbing, trembling on the edge of something reckless. “I’m so close. Fuck. I’m so—sorry, I don’t know if I can hold it in.”

He whimpers once, small and half-ruined, then grins faintly, dazed.

“You can still come after. You can take your time, don’t worry,” He pants, pretty blue eyes shining with sweat and strain.

“But tell me,” he asks, “where should I do it, huh? What are you thinking?”

Freodore can tell Kaelix is ignoring chat. He’s staring at Kaelix, at Kaelix’s hands, the flex of his thighs.

And despite himself, he thinks about it, too.

He doesn’t mean to, and tells himself he doesn’t really want to, but the question lands with the force of a whisper just behind his ear even though Kaelix is technically across the room. He can feel it—Kaelix looking at him, panting like he’s being held together by sheer will alone, asking for the answer without speaking to him at all.

He answers. In his head. Quietly, shamefully, viscerally.

Anywhere you want.

Then the guilt hits—sharp and searing—but his cock throbs in his jeans and his hands stay clenched at his sides.

---

Kaelix comes with a sharp cry and a stuttering gasp, hips jerking as his body gives out beneath him. The toy slips from his hand, fingers trembling, breath ragged. He pants into the silence, sweat slick along his collarbone, heart hammering as the last echoes of pleasure run their course.

The chat is a mess—hearts and cheers and absolute chaos, his name in ten different stylizations, plus someone just spamming “MARRY ME” in all caps. He barely registers any of it.

“Thanks,” he breathes hoarsely. “Thank you, everyone, really—I... okay. That’s it for me tonight.”

He goes through the usual end stream pleasantries, but he keeps it short. He doesn’t wait for the usual cooldown or lets the conversation naturally taper out. He clicks the stream off, peels the mic from the collar of his robe, and unplugs everything with a sudden energy that makes even him blink.

Then he turns toward where Freodore still stands, somehow even more unreadable than usual, like someone hit pause on his whole face.

Kaelix, half-dressed and breathing heavy, grabs his wrist.

“C’mon,” he says, and pulls.

Freodore blinks, the tension in his body breaking just slightly as he stumbles up to follow, pulling off his mask. “Where are we—?”

“My room,” Kaelix says over his shoulder, already tugging him down the hallway.

And that’s what gets him—the care tucked inside his words, the careful distinction he’s trying to make. Not here where the lights are hot and there’s a camera like three feet away from the bed. Not where Kaelix plays with the line between persona and person for strangers who think they know what he sounds like when he breaks.

By the time they step inside, Kaelix lets go, and the change in atmosphere is instant.

It’s cooler in here. Softer. The lighting less intentional. The bed isn’t made for performance—it’s just a bed. Kaelix sits him down on the edge of it and looks at him with none of the glossy charm he wears on stream like he hadn’t just dragged someone down the hall with lube still drying on his fingers. It’s just Kaelix, eyes still wide and a little nervous, dropping to his knees and parting Freodore’s thighs without asking, wedging himself between them like he’s been thinking about it since he first opened the door.

Kaelix’s voice is rough when he speaks, but it’s clear. Sincere.

“I have nothing to say for myself except I’m sorry,” he says, looking up at him, hands braced on Freodore’s thighs. “But also I’m really not. If this is weird or messed up or I’ve totally misread things, you can slap me. Like, actually. I’ll take it.”

Freodore—his face softening for the first time all evening—tilts his head. A small, reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly in amusement. “You might actually like that.”

Kaelix grins. “Touché. Also, so, you do want me.”

“Unfortunately...” Freodore says, almost under his breath.

Kaelix’s face falters for a beat, his brows twitching together, unsure if that’s a joke or not. “Unfortunate…?” he asks, a little quieter. “Because of my job?”

Freodore shakes his head. He reaches out, carefully, brushing Kaelix’s hair back from his forehead with those steady, perfect fingers—the ones he used earlier to scroll so clinically through gear specs and price estimates on Kaelix’s list.

“No,” he says softly. “Because I’d have to share you with everyone else.”

Kaelix breathes out, slow and shaky, the words loosening something up in his chest. His hands are still on Freodore’s thighs, but now he grips just a little tighter, grounding himself.

“You won’t,” he says, voice low, but sure. “I swear.”

He tilts his head, lips tugging into a crooked, almost shy smile. “I mean, I haven’t been one in a long time, but... I think I’d still make a pretty good boyfriend. All things considered.”

Freodore huffs out a laugh, soft and surprised. His fingers slip from Kaelix’s hair but stay close, brushing along his jaw instead.

“You’re kidding.”

Kaelix blinks, mock-offended. “I’m not!”

Freodore’s smile lingers, small but real. “I don’t mind, really. Besides... people are just watching you. It won’t be the same, I suppose.”

Kaelix goes still for a moment at that, then groans, dropping his forehead lightly to Freodore’s thigh. “God, that was so sweet and now I feel even worse for propositioning you first.”

Freodore laughs again, quiet and almost disbelieving.

“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself, don’t you think? Boyfriend?” he murmurs. “We haven’t even gone to dinner yet.”

“I know, I know!” Kaelix whines, lifting his head again. “Everything’s out of order, and I am deeply, deeply sorry about that. I’ll be sorry everyday for the rest of my life about it if I have to, I promise. Please let me take you out to dinner until you’re convinced you should date me.”

That earns another laugh, full and warm this time, from deep in Freodore’s chest.

Then—softer, almost tentative—he looks down at Kaelix, eyes steady, voice dropping to something gentler.

“But you want to help take care of me first, right?” He’s honestly gone a little soft by now, but he’s also more curious than he is totally concerned about whether this is the right path to go down.

Kaelix nods without hesitation. Honest. Wanting. His eyes don’t waver.

Freodore’s smile doesn’t fade. “Okay,” he says quietly. “We can do that.”

Kaelix doesn’t rush it.

He stays kneeling between Freodore’s legs, hands resting lightly on his thighs for a moment, just feeling the heat of him through the fabric. There’s a quiet shift in his posture that isn’t shy or teasing. His fingers move with intent, carefully unbuttoning Freodore's jeans, unzipping it before pulling it down some, slow enough to give him time to stop this if he wanted to. He doesn’t.

Freodore just breathes, deep and quiet, and lifts his hips when prompted.

Kaelix pushes both his pants and underwear down in one motion, then sits back on his heels to look for a second.

Freodore’s cock is flushed and already hard, resting against his lower stomach, tip glossy. His thighs are tense but not stiff, and the way he’s sitting—shoulders squared, spine just slightly curved—is almost too composed for someone in his position.

Kaelix has none of that fake coyness he gives to the camera, just a quiet reverence in the way his hands slide up along Freodore’s calves, like he’s mapping out every line he hadn’t been allowed to touch before.

He leans in. Kisses the inside of Freodore’s knee first. Then the soft skin just above it. Another kiss, further up. Freodore watches, breath caught low in his throat, still half-seated at the edge of the bed, the fabric of his shirt clinging to him in the warm air of the room. It’s still the same shirt he wore today, tight in the arms, hugging his chest, and Kaelix realizes how good it looks on him like this. Dressed, but not untouched.

He takes Freodore into his mouth with a slow inhale, lips parting around him with something closer to relief than performance. His tongue curls along the underside, pressure even, no signs of hesitation. Just the steady rhythm of someone giving without having to be asked.

Freodore’s fingers flex against the mattress beside him. He doesn’t push, doesn’t guide, just watches.

Kaelix keeps his eyes closed at first, focusing on the motion, the weight of him on his tongue, the soft sounds Freodore starts to let slip—small, almost involuntary. He moans low around him, not for effect, but because it feels good. Because he wants this.

Wants him.

And now he knows Freodore does too.

It unwinds him from the inside. Gives him permission to fall into the act fully, no pretenses, no camera, just the warmth of skin and the quiet sound of someone finally letting themselves be wanted.

Kaelix gets into it. Like really into it.

There’s a shift that happens, somewhere between the third time his mouth slides down Freodore’s cock and the subtle twitch of Freodore’s hand on the mattress beside him. It's in the way Freodore’s thighs tense, then release—like his body’s just now giving him permission to feel everything Kaelix is doing.

And Kaelix wants all of it. Every inch of Freodore’s unraveling.

His hands slide up, one pressing gently against Freodore’s hip to keep him grounded, the other settling at the base of his cock, steady and sure. He bobs his head with more intent now, breathing through his nose, tongue working the underside, every motion practiced and focused.

Kaelix watches Freodore when he can, looking up just enough to catch the way his jaw clenches, the way his lips part when a sound slips through. He’s still holding onto some composure, but it’s faltering in little ways—his fingers curling tighter into the sheets, the way his legs spread a little wider without thinking, the heat in his face when Kaelix moans around him.

Kaelix thinks—god, you’re beautiful like this.

And not just because of how Freodore looks, though that alone would be enough. It’s the way he comes undone in pieces. Slow, thoughtful, like everything else he does. As if his body is still in conversation with his mind, still measuring out what he’s allowed to give over and what he wants to keep close to his chest.

It makes Kaelix want to take more. Gently and thoroughly.

For a second, maybe longer, he understands the real pull of what he does. The thing that doesn’t live in follower counts or views or tip goals or of what can’t be monetized. It’s watching someone fall apart for you, willingly, because they want to.

And Kaelix can feel it. In the way Freodore’s hips start to lift, chasing more of him, his hand twitching like it wants to reach out, maybe stop him, maybe hold him there.

Kaelix lets himself go deeper, slower now, using every bit of rhythm he knows. Freodore gasps—quiet, restrained—and Kaelix’s whole body shudders at the sound.

He’s not just doing this well. He’s doing this for Freodore.

And god, he wants to see just how far he can take him.

Kaelix doesn’t let up.

He suckles with a kind of hunger that goes beyond technique—like he’s been craving this, craving him, and now that he has Freodore under him, bare and wanting, he can’t stop. His lips glide wetly along the length of Freodore’s cock, tongue pressing with perfect pressure, slow and deep with each motion. Every noise Freodore makes, those tight little exhales, the ones that sound like he’s trying too hard to stay silent, feeds something in Kaelix that feels dangerously close to need.

He draws back just enough to breathe, mouth shiny, eyes glassy. Then he leans in again, dragging his tongue along the underside like he missed it, like every second away from Freodore’s skin is a second wasted. He moans around him, soft but wrecked, and the vibration making Freodore shiver.

Kaelix grins into it. He lets himself pull a few more moans out of his beautiful, beautiful man before gives in to another part of himself that wants to see him on his lap.

He maneuvers them around, strong and certain, pressing gently against Freodore’s hips and guiding him into the bed, to straddle him, too dazed to do anything else but follow.

Freodore blinks through the haze, breath ragged as Kaelix settles him down on his lap better.

“You okay?” Kaelix asks, voice low and warm against the side of his neck.

Freodore nods once, still catching up to himself.

Kaelix doesn’t wait long. He situates Freodore on his thighs, strong arms circling around to hold him steady, kissing along the column of his neck, his jaw, his shoulder. He reaches down behind him, teasing along the cleft of Freodore’s ass, slick fingers working him open with the same attention to rhythm and detail he gave everything else.

Freodore makes a soft sound—not quite a moan, not quite a gasp—and leans into it, head tipping forward against Kaelix’s shoulder.

Kaelix presses closer, breath hot at his ear.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, voice frayed at the edges.

And he does.

Not just with his fingers, not just with his mouth, but with every slow, deliberate motion. Every kiss. Every careful touch. Like he wants to learn Freodore by memory. Like he's not just opening him up, but making a place for himself there too.

Kaelix might actually get addicted to the way Freodore falls apart for him. Right on his lap, legs spread, panting into the side of his neck, arms wrapped around his shoulders like Kaelix is the only thing holding him together.

The sounds Freodore makes are quiet but wrecked, like he’s not used to giving this much away. His breath is hot against Kaelix’s throat, uneven, and every time he gasps, it rolls over Kaelix’s skin like wildfire.

Kaelix’s fingers stay steady, working him open slow and deep. Freodore’s hips twitch down, trying to take more, more, more with every slick motion.

And then—

“Kaelix,” Freodore breathes, low and broken, stretched out like it’s costly for him to say it.

Kaelix nearly loses it.

His name in that voice, from Freodore—drawn out like something half-prayer, half-beg—lances right through to his soul. He’s already hard again, cock pressed tight against the underside of Freodore’s ass, trapped between them, throbbing. That sound? That voice could finish him on the spot.

“I’m ready,” Freodore gasps, one hand sliding up into Kaelix’s hair, the other gripping the curve of his shoulder like he needs it. “Please. I’m ready. I want you inside.”

Kaelix lets out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he presses his forehead to Freodore’s temple, grounding himself.

“Fuck,” he whispers, not for the effect, but because it’s the only thing left in him.

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Freodore leans back just enough to look at him, pupils blown wide, mouth wet and open. “I’ve been sure.”

Kaelix nods once, tight, like if he says anything more, he’ll come undone before he even gets the chance.

Then he reaches for the lube again, already moving Freodore higher onto his lap, adjusting the angle, his other hand steadying them both.

He presses the head of his cock to Freodore’s entrance, breath catching before he pushes in.

Kaelix slides in slow but sure, the tight heat of Freodore around him making his breath catch hard in his throat. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried all the way, hips flush against Freodore’s ass, hands gripping his thighs to hold him there steady.

Freodore shudders, body arching instinctively, and Kaelix leans in—mouth pressing to his, catching a groan just as it breaks loose from his lips.

Their mouths meet messy, open, and hungry. Freodore moans into the kiss, the sound punched out of him as Kaelix rocks in just a little more, not even thrusting true yet, just settling there.

“So deep—!” Freodore gasps, his mouth falling open against Kaelix’s, lips brushing but no longer kissing, just breathing into the same space.

“Yeah?” Kaelix murmurs, hand sliding up to cradle the back of his neck.

Freodore nods quickly, already panting, a little dazed. “Mm.”

“You like it deep?”

“Yes,” Freodore says, voice almost a whimper now. “More.”

Kaelix’s grip tightens just slightly, hips pulling back only to drive forward again, a little harder.

“Harder,” Freodore pleads, the word tumbling out fast, needy. “Please—Kaelix, more.”

And Kaelix gives it to him.

Kaelix finds a rhythm and chases it. Deep, steady thrusts that bounce Freodore on his lap, the slap of skin filling the quiet gaps between their ragged breaths. Freodore doesn't resist it. He leans in, moves with him, wraps his arms around Kaelix’s shoulders like he's anchoring himself there, one hand still threaded to Kaelix’s hair. His hips roll in time, thighs trembling with the effort, mouth parted and eyes glassy.

He’s lost in it now.

And Kaelix feels him in every shift and shudder. Freodore’s tight around him, warm and slick, his body meeting every motion with this perfect, desperate want.

Kaelix groans, head falling forward to rest against Freodore’s collarbone for a second, overwhelmed by how good it all feels—how easy it is to give like this when it’s him.

Freodore’s voice breaks through the heat, breathy and in tatters.

“This might be weird to say now,” he pants, voice cracking around the edges of it, “but... I got off to one of your streams.”

Kaelix’s thrusts falter for half a second. His breath catches, and he lifts his head, eyes searching Freodore’s face like he’s not sure he heard him right. He’s stunned, yes—but it doesn’t carry weight, not the kind that makes Freodore feel foolish or exposed.

Still, it seems like the words had been sitting in his chest for days now, taking up more space than they had any right to. And Freodore needed to say them.

“I’ve been feeling bad about it,” he admits, voice quieter now, cheeks burning. “Like I crossed a line before I even knew what I was doing. I don’t know. It’s just—”

“Of course not,” Kaelix says, shaking his head, voice hoarse but honest. “Not if it’s you.”

He leans down, presses his forehead to Freodore’s, and slows the rhythm of his hips, just a little, enough to let the moment breathe.

“I was hoping you would,” he adds, more gently this time. “If not sooner then maybe later. While we were working together. I kept thinking about it—about you. What makes you tick.”

Freodore pouts—just a little, lips pulling downward in mock disapproval. “You could’ve just said something.”

Kaelix grins, the expression warm and crooked and honest. He presses a kiss to Freodore’s cheek, then another to the corner of his mouth.

“My combined eight-year career between hosting and streaming would mean nothing to me if none of it worked on you,” he says, laughing against his skin. “Do you know how annoying that is? Like—I can make people come from half a sentence and a wink, and you just show up with your wires and a serious face like nothing ever phases you.”

Freodore blinks up at him, almost blank, but realization dawns on him slowly, in real time. “You were trying to seduce me?”

“I was dying,” Kaelix groans. “Dying! And you’d just say stuff like ‘shirt off, Kaelix’ without blinking or look at me like I was a light fixture you needed to adjust.”

Freodore sighs, long-suffering and a little smug. “Well, to be fair... the light fixture did need adjusting.”

Kaelix laughs again, breathless. “Yeah. It did.”

And then he kisses him. Properly. Freodore melts into it this time, all warmth and quiet, no hesitation.

Slow at first, like he’s sealing something between them. Then deeper, teeth brushing lips, tongues slipping past each other, messy and warm.

Kaelix moves again, hips rolling deep, and this time Freodore moans into his mouth, no guilt, no shame—everything he’s feeling, finally free to take.

Kaelix shifts with care this time,, though everything about him now is soaked in heat and urgency. He pulls Freodore down with him, guiding him back onto the bed, into the mess of pillows and soft sheets still faintly scented like fabric softener and Kaelix’s skin.

Freodore goes willingly, breath still catching, lashes fluttering as he settles against the cushions. His body’s flushed, slick with sweat, neck streaked with marks where Kaelix couldn’t help himself earlier—kiss after kiss, little bites, open-mouthed worship, body littered with Kaelix’s affection.

Kaelix spreads his thighs again, leans over him, and pushes back in.

The angle’s still just as deep like this but Kaelix can move more deliberately, and Freodore gasps beneath him, eyes flying open for a second before they roll back again.

Kaelix groans—loud, wrecked, barely holding back.

“You feel—fuck, Freo, you feel so good.” His voice is raw now, no control left, no polish. Just him, panting, inside Freodore, and losing himself in it. “You’re so tight around me. So warm. I can’t—”

Freodore whines at the words, his body arching up, pulling Kaelix deeper like he needs to feel every single inch.

“Kaelix—say it again,” he pants, flushed to his ears.

Kaelix doesn’t stop.

“So good,” he murmurs, hips slamming into him now, sheets creasing under their weight, the headboard creaking behind them. “You feel so fucking good, Freo. I can’t think straight.”

Freodore moans outright at that, nails curling into Kaelix’s back, mouth open and needy.

Kaelix’s hands are everywhere—steady at first where he’s trying to hold him down or guide the motion of his hips, then more frantic, like he can’t decide where to touch next. He pushes Freodore’s shirt up, breath hitching as more of that flushed skin comes into view. It’s soaked through in places, clinging to him, showing off the lean shape beneath, the subtle twitch of muscle with every thrust.

He gets it over Freodore’s head in one clean pull, tosses it somewhere across the room. Freodore doesn’t even try to help—he’s already too far gone, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted like every breath is a struggle.

Kaelix doesn’t wait.

He leans in and takes one of Freodore’s nipples into his mouth, tongue flicking over it before sucking deep, slow.

The response is immediate.

Freodore moans—high and uneven, his back arching hard into it, legs trembling around Kaelix’s hips. His hands find Kaelix’s hair, not pulling but holding, fingers tightening every time Kaelix licks or suckles just right.

“Ah—fuck, Kaelix—” he gasps, the sound whiny and sharp at the end, full of something that’s almost helpless.

Kaelix grins against his chest, then moves to the other one, lavishing it the same way, slower this time, dragging the edge of his tongue just enough to make Freodore squirm.

“You sound so pretty like this,” Kaelix murmurs between kisses, voice thick with want. “Didn’t know you could beg like that.”

Freodore’s only answer is another broken moan, hips bucking up in time with Kaelix’s thrusts, desperate now, every nerve ending lit.

Kaelix settles into it like it’s a calling. His movements tuned to Freodore—every thrust, every shift of his weight, every kiss placed exactly where it makes Freodore twitch and gasp.

He watches Freodore the whole time, drinking in every little reaction, every flicker of pleasure across his face. He tracks the way his breath hitches when Kaelix rolls his hips just right. He angles his thrusts deeper, slower, just to hear Freodore’s voice crack again, that soft, wrecked sound he only seems to make when he forgets to hold himself together.

“You want more?” Kaelix asks, gentle despite the pull of his hips. He brushes a hand through Freodore’s damp hair, pushing it back from his face.

Freodore nods, quickly. “Yes. Please, Kaelix—don’t stop.”

Kaelix does as told.

He leans down, kisses Freodore’s jaw, then lower, over his flushed throat, his shoulder, the inside of his arm. He keeps one hand wrapped around the back of his thigh to keep him open, the other sliding up and down the length of his spine to ground him.

“I’ve got you,” he assures. “Just feel it.”

He shifts again, adjusting Freodore’s leg just slightly, and the next thrust punches a moan right out of his chest.

“There!” Freodore gasps, eyes flying open, one hand clawing at Kaelix’s shoulder. “Right there—fuck, please—”

Kaelix bites back a groan, hips falling into the rhythm without needing to think. That’s the spot. He keeps hitting it, again and again, mouth never far from Freodore’s skin.

He holds back his own climax, keeping it simmering just under the surface, willing it to wait, because this isn’t about that. Not yet.

This is about the way Freodore looks up at him, eyes glassy, voice caught somewhere between gratitude and desperation.

“This what you needed?” Kaelix murmurs, kissing along the shell of his ear.

Freodore nods frantically. “Please—”

Kaelix smiles into his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as he rocks into him with intention, never losing that rhythm, never losing that focus.

“I’m not stopping until I hear you come.”

Freodore’s body is warm and slick under him, chest flushed, trembling around Kaelix’s cock with every deep, steady thrust. He’s wrecked in the best way—eyes half-lidded, lips swollen from kissing, voice reduced to gasps and those soft, pleading whines that Kaelix swears are going to haunt him forever.

But Kaelix doesn’t touch him where he could. He’s holding back.

He wants Freodore to come just from this. So he keeps the pace hard, steady, relentless in the way that drives deep, that says I know your body now, and I’m going to use that. He leans in, mouth catching Freodore’s, kissing him through it. Slow at first. Then deeper, needier. Like he wants to pull the sounds right from Freodore’s throat.

Freodore kisses back just as hungry, tilting his hips up, chasing the friction. Kaelix doesn’t stop moving. His hips slam into Freodore with force and rhythm, but his hands are soft. One presses firmly to Freodore’s chest, right over his heart, the other stroking over a peaked nipple, teasing it between his fingers.

That gets him.

Freodore moans into Kaelix’s mouth, voice trembling, hips stuttering under him.

“You like that?” Kaelix murmurs against his lips.

“Y-yeah,” Freodore chokes out. “Yes—”

Kaelix groans, deep in his chest, and keeps fucking into him harder now, working for it, feeling Freodore clamp around him, pulse fluttering in his chest like he’s already close.

Kaelix adjusts, shifts his knees, and starts driving into him. Hard. Precise. The kind of thrusts that hit just right every time.

He does it once—Freodore cries out, sharp and broken.

Again—Freodore’s back arches, mouth falling open as his eyes squeeze shut.

“Hah—Kaelix!”

A third time—and Freodore shatters.

He cries out, voice cracking beautifully into a moan that breaks apart at its seams. Kaelix doesn’t stop kissing him, keeps his hand right there on Freodore’s chest as he comes, spilling hot between them, every spasm of his body matched by the way Kaelix grinds into him, deep, deep, deeper.

Kaelix watches every second of it, awed. Breathless. His.

And he’s never wanted someone more.

Kaelix eases out of him with care, breath still ragged, every part of him flushed and trembling from holding back. Freodore’s thighs are trembling, legs still open, skin damp with sweat and pleasure. He looks wrecked in the most perfect, utterly satisfied way.

Kaelix’s hand wraps around his own cock, slick with the wet heat of where he’d been, and he strokes himself with a practiced rhythm, kneeling between Freodore’s open legs now, eyes locked on him.

“I hope it’s okay I do it like this,” he says, voice low, almost breathless.

Freodore nods slowly, still panting, biting into his bottom lip like he’s trying to tamp down something he wants to say about what he’s seeing. His gaze drags down Kaelix’s body, then lingers where Kaelix’s hand moves in smooth, urgent strokes.

“More than okay,” he murmurs, eventually, lavender eyes bright. “Come on me.”

Kaelix’s breath catches hard in his throat, hips stuttering into his own hand.

“Fuck, Freo—”

Freodore’s chest rises and falls beneath him, lips parted, still so beautifully marked from Kaelix’s mouth, his spent cock lying slick and flushed against his belly. He watches with no hesitation, no shame, like he wants it, like he was told he was about to accept a gift.

And that’s all it takes, really.

Kaelix groans, deep and guttural, and spills hard over Freodore’s stomach thick streaks landing across his cock, his skin, hot and messy. Kaelix’s knees nearly give out as he finishes, one hand braced on the headboard to keep himself upright.

He breathes through it, slow and wide-eyed, watching the way Freodore’s fingers ghost down to his stomach, smearing the heat just slightly, eyes still on him. Freodore’s skin is flushed, his chest is rising slow, streaked with come and sweat and so much of Kaelix.

“Holy fuck,” Kaelix mutters, still still high on the feeling. “That was so hot.”

Freodore laughs, low and tired, the sound half a breath and half a huff. “Really? In your combined eight year career as a host and streamer?”

Kaelix grins, then leans down to kiss him again, softer this time, slower. It's warm, undemanding, gratitude pressed to his lips. He pulls back just enough to reach for something, then grabs the closest thing he can find to wipe him down—Freodore’s shirt, abandoned on the sheets earlier.

He mutters a half-apology for that under his breath, not stopping as he gently wipes at Freodore’s stomach, careful even now.

Freodore watches him with half-lidded eyes, too tired to pretend he’s not melting from the attention.

Kaelix tosses the shirt off the edge of the bed once they’re clean enough, resolving to do a load of laundry at some point later, and settles next to Freodore, propped up on one elbow, still looking at him like he’s memorizing it all.

“Okay,” Kaelix says, breath back, voice calmer. “Here’s the plan. We’re gonna take a nice, long bath. You’re going to let me make you dinner. And then you’re staying over.”

Freodore tilts his head lazily, one brow lifted. “And if I don’t want any of that?”

Kaelix lets out a dramatic sigh and flops fully onto the bed beside him, arm draped across his waist.

“Well,” he says, pressing his cheek to Freodore’s shoulder, “you can go. I won’t stop you.”

“But I’d be very, very sad about it. And not quiet, either. I will complain. Loudly. Possibly in a voice note. Likely in several.”

Freodore snorts. “Blackmail through whiny voice messages. Charming.”

Kaelix just hums. “I told you I’d be a good boyfriend.”

“I can see the potential,” Freodore says, generously, as if he’s evaluating a job applicant and not the man still half-draped across his chest.

Kaelix grins into his shoulder, clearly pleased, he kisses the skin there and feels Freodore shudder a bit at the contact beneath the motion.

Then, quieter, almost like he’s not meaning to say it aloud, Freodore mutters, “Ginjoka should’ve warned me about you.”

Kaelix lifts his head, smirking. “Yeah, well, Ginjoka should’ve said a lot of things.”

They both laugh at that, full, unguarded. It rolls out of them naturally, almost as if they've been doing this longer than just today. And when it fades, they’re still close, comfortable in the quiet.

Kaelix leans in, presses a kiss to Freodore’s shoulder again, lingering there. Then, says, against the skin—“Sooo... dinner later?”

Freodore hums, soft and content. “Mm. Dinner later. Yeah.”

Kaelix lifts his head just enough to look at him properly. “Bath first?”

“Bath first,” Freodore agrees, already picturing how it’ll feel to soak in warm water, Kaelix pressed up against him again.

A beat passes, and then—

“And more sex in the bath?” Kaelix asks, voice too casual to be innocent.

“And more sex in the—hey.” Freodore turns his head, giving him a narrow-eyed look.

Kaelix giggles, pressing kisses quicker up his neck until he reaches the side of his face. “You already said it. No take backs.”

Kaelix grins like he’s already won, leans in to press one last kiss to the corner of Freodore’s mouth. Except he doesn’t stop there. His hand slides up the side of Freodore’s neck, fingers curling to cradle his nape as he kisses him full on the mouth.

It’s slower than before. Deeper, but not urgent. Soft in a way that feels like it’s meant to linger.

Freodore sighs into it, the tension in his shoulders finally easing, still warm from the afterglow and whatever this strange, new tenderness between them is.

Kaelix pulls back just slightly, lips barely brushing his as he speaks.

“So,” he says, voice low and deceptively light, “about that stream you got off to.”

Freodore groans immediately, eyes narrowing. “I thought we moved past this.”

Kaelix, of course, grins wider. “We certainly have not.”

He props himself up on one elbow, chin in his hand like this is the most relaxed he’s been all day. “You really did? Got off to me? That’s so flattering. I mean, I was hoping for it eventually, but... wow. Look at us, ahead of schedule.”

Freodore mutters something unintelligible and rolls halfway onto his side, hiding his face in the nearest pillow. “Please don't make a big deal out of it.”

Kaelix strokes a hand down his back, still smiling. “I won’t, I promise. But I'm just saying, it was a huge win for me. Not only did it work, but it worked on someone like you.”

Freodore doesn’t respond, not verbally. But he doesn’t pull away either.

It’s sweet. Warm in a way Freodore didn’t expect, and he's starting to get used to how Kaelix does that—switches from chaos incarnate to careful in seconds flat.

Freodore finally turns his head just enough to glance over at him, still pink in the face. “...is this going to come up every time I’m over?”

Kaelix shrugs one bare shoulder, smug and utterly unrepentant. “Just until you admit you’ve got great taste.”

Freodore gives him a look that says absolutely not, if only because he just doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of it so early on, but Kaelix just leans in and kisses him again, like he might as well have.