#...meanwhile these are mostly compliments

⟢ Naoya Zenin is the type to professionally maintain his bleached hair at an expensive salon. His appearance is tied to status for him, so cheap bleach that fries his hair is out of the question. He grew up wealthy and expects high-end grooming; he wants an appointment-only salon where he gets a quiet, private room and sees the same excellent stylist every time.

⟢ He gets his roots touched up every 3-4 weeks like clockwork and pays extra for expensive toning shampoo to maintain the exact shade and hue he wants. He’d probably lose his mind if someone pointed out his root growth, so he stays very much on top of it. And he refuses to let anyone except his stylist touch his hair.

⟢ The lucky stylist in question? You.

⟢ At first, Naoya is frankly displeased that the stylist he requested is a woman. He demanded the most in-demand senior stylist at the salon with the most prestigious client list, and lo and behold, you were the one who appeared.

⟢ “You’re the senior stylist?” he asks, with thinly-veiled condescension. It’s not that he doesn’t think a woman isn’t suited to serve him professionally. He just doubts your abilities and makes it clear he’s going to be scrutinizing your every move. If you somehow prove excellent at your job, well, he’ll ultimately tolerate you. For pragmatic reasons, obviously.

⟢ There’s a very transparent evaluation phase he puts you through where he tests your competence. And to his mild surprise, you are as good as your reputation suggests.

⟢ You handle his consultation with the right mix of confidence and deference. You treat him the way a VIP client ought to be treated. And you don’t waste his time.

⟢ Turns out, you do actually know what you’re doing. It doesn’t hurt his pride to admit that. Naoya can concede that it isn’t out of the realm of possibility for a woman to be good at styling hair.

⟢ It takes a handful of visits, but eventually he’s got standing appointments booked with you for months in advance. He’s stingy with his praise. When he does compliment you, it’s arrogantly framed. “Don’t want someone else to butcher it.”

⟢ You have clients who like to yap, some who you can even chat with like you’re lifelong friends. Others are practically silent. Naoya Zenin likes to listen to himself talk.

⟢ Mostly, he talks at you about things you find inane. He likes to humblebrag and name-drop and complain about people he finds incompetent. He enjoys having a captive audience and thrives on being listened to.

⟢ In the beginning, you respond when you need to and mostly stick to the professional salon service script: “Would you like another drink?” “Is this temperature okay?” “Can you tilt your head a little?”

⟢ Meanwhile, you’re internally rolling your eyes at the stuff he says. But you’re a professional, so you know how to handle difficult clients and just let him talk without directly challenging him.

⟢ Instead, you remember certain details he mentions for his next appointment and try to anticipate his needs and preferences. As a result, he’ll keep talking because he assumes you’re impressed by him (like everyone else).

⟢ Eventually, deep down, some part of Naoya realizes he’s fallen into a bit of a trap. Namely, if he manages to cross a line or burn that bridge, he’d be losing your services. And sure, he could go out and find a new stylist, but you already know his exact bleach formula, he’d have to explain his hair history to someone new, and he’d be taking a chance on that somebody overprocessing his hair and making him look bad for weeks.

⟢ It’s not him making excuses; it’s just not ideal in the slightest. And to be honest, it scares him a little straight.

⟢ So, Naoya keeps it to himself whenever you shows up to his appointments looking especially slutty. He honestly wonders how your boyfriend lets you out of the house like that. Plunging necklines, body-hugging tops, tight little pencil skirts.

⟢ You’re obviously not wife material for a Zenin, not dressing like that. But that’s not necessarily a reason why he can’t appreciate the view. Neither is the fact that you’re taken. It’s really just that he’s not sure if you’re one of those sensitive women who can’t take a joke or would get all up in arms about a misplaced comment.

⟢ Thing is, though, you’ve got eyes. It’s hilariously easy to tell, despite his best efforts, when Naoya is pretending not to ogle your tits through the gap in your blouse as you lean forward to check his roots.

⟢ You never comment on it because, as sad as it is to admit, you’ve had more egregious clients in the past—creeps who got grabby or tried to follow you to the station that had to be outright banned from the salon.

⟢ Plus, if you’re being honest, you actually finds Naoya a little entertaining. You’ve long gotten used to being little more than professional wallpaper for the rich and spoiled, so Naoya’s particular flavor of pretty-boy entitlement isn’t the worst you’ve had.

⟢ He may be arrogant, but he tips well and (most importantly) always, always books through you, no matter how many weeks in advance. He’s loyal to his own convenience, which, for a stylist, is as much as one can hope for.

⟢ As months go by, the dynamic between you starts to actually get more familiar. It’s not friendly, exactly, but it is dry and comfortable.

⟢ Naoya lets this happen because you seem to know where to draw the line still. You’ll insert a few remarks while you work like, “Your hair grows fast. You shouldn’t have waited so long this time.” And he’ll throw out a comment like, “What is it your boyfriend does again? He ain’t a bum, is he?”

⟢ You learn quickly that he enjoys these little jabs and expects you to volley back. “He’s a bartender. I think that counts as a real job.”

⟢ “Tch. As long as he ain’t living off your tips.”

⟢ Things go on like this for a while, and it just works.

⟢ Then, about a year and a half after going blond, Naoya gets the phone call from the salon. It’s the receptionist calling very apologetically to say his appointments from here on out will have to be switched to a new stylist. At first, he can only pause silently as the words process. Then, he tersely asks why.

⟢ “She’s leaving. Personal reasons,” the receptionist tells him nervously. Typical of a high-end salon to keep things vague. But it’s not good enough for Naoya.

⟢ “She sick or somethin’? When is she coming back?”

⟢ Again, the receptionist demurs. So, Naoya hangs up and makes his way to the salon to find the answers himself.

⟢ The receptionist blanches a little when she sees Naoya striding in just before close. He ignores the nervous little bow she offers and is halfway through the salon already before she can even protest, scanning for signs of you.

⟢ The receptionist is sputtering behind him, trying to keep up, but Naoya’s not about to let some flustered desk girl slow him down. He wants answers, and he plans on getting them.

⟢ The first thing he notices when he reaches the back is that the lights are on in the private room in the back. He doesn’t knock. He just swings the door open and is immediately greeted by the sight of you sweeping up after your last client.

⟢ You’re not in your usual form-fitting clothes, instead opting for a baggy sweatshirt and modest skirt. Your feet are clad in an old beat-up pair of tennis shoes rather than the customary heels, and your hair is down today, a little messy.

⟢ You look up, a bit startled before quickly recognizing him, and offering the receptionist a small smile. “It’s alright, Ichika. You can close up. I’ll finish here soon.”

⟢ The receptionist hesitates, but she seems relieved to have an excuse to bolt. Her heels click quickly away down the hall, and then it’s just the two of you in the quiet, fluorescent-lit room.

⟢ Naoya’s not used to seeing you like this. No lipstick, no cleavage, no tight skirt. He stares for a bit as you lean the broom against the counter and dust your hands off with his brows drawn together, as if trying to reconcile this version of you with the one he’s used to. "Didn't know they let you dress like that here.”

⟢ You reply in a tone that somewhat betrays your exhaustion that, if you’re being honest, you prefer to dress comfortably like this. “It was my boyfriend who wanted me to dress like that all the time. Well, ex-boyfriend now.”

⟢ Naoya continues to stare from where he’s still standing in the doorway, not quite understanding. But then, it clicks. “You’re quitting this place ‘cause of that idiot?”

⟢ You cough and look away, carefully explaining that you’d been dumped and kicked out of the apartment. “I’m staying with a friend for now, but I can’t impose forever. I’ll be moving back in with my folks in Inabe.”

⟢ Naoya scoffs. “So, that’s it? You’re just ditching your whole client list and running home?”

⟢ You laugh and try to sound breezy as you reply. “It’s not like I have a choice. I can’t afford Kyoto rent on my own, not without someone to split it with. And the commute would be insane. That’s just how it goes sometimes.”

⟢ Naoya’s livid. In his mind, you’re throwing away something valuable—your position, your clientele—and sacrificing status for personal feelings. Now, he’s just expected to lose someone who knows how to handle his shit? Whose expertise he’s come to depend on? It’s unacceptable.

⟢ He steps into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Were you even going to tell me personally if I never came in? I always knew that guy was a damned loser, and now, it’s directly inconveniencing me.”

⟢ You can’t help but bark out a laugh at that. Because of course, he’s more concerned with how your breakup affects him. “You’re not the only client who’s upset. Anyway, I left your bleach formula in your client notes for whoever takes over.”

⟢ He really goes off on you after that. “I ain’t risking some random turning me orange. Didn’t I tell you not to let that bitch bum off your tips? Maybe if you listened, you could afford your own fuckin’ place. It ain’t enough that he made you dress like a damn whore all the time but now he gets to screw you over, too?”

⟢ Your annoyance flares. You don’t hold back on your retort and match his energy, because how dare he speak to you that way? “I didn’t hear you complaining about how I dressed while you were in my chair, staring at my tits! Besides, I’m not gonna beg him to take me back just because you want me to touch up your hair.”

⟢ Naoya just sneers down his nose at you. He can’t believe he wasted all that energy holding himself back just to avoid accidentally offending you, and now, he feels like it barely matters since you’re leaving anyway. So, he doesn’t bother filtering himself. “I don’t want him to take you back, moron. And if you must know, I prefer you like this. That dumbass ex of yours was actually stupid if he got off letting other men look at what should’ve been his.”

⟢ You roll your eyes, feeling your cheeks warm with some mix of irritation and something else. “Oh, so now you’re gonna tell me how a woman should dress huh? Well, save it. It’s not your business anyway.”

⟢ Naoya presses forward confidently, until you have no choice but to back into the counter. “I’m just sayin’,” he drawls. “That guy clearly didn’t know what to do with you.” His eyes rove over your form without shame, and you can practically feel the weight of it on your prickling skin. “I mean, he was really okay with you being around real high-status men?”

⟢ You scoff. “What, like you?”

⟢ Naoya’s grin is sharp and mean. “Damn right. I wouldn’t trust you around a guy like me.”

⟢ Stubbornly, you lift your chin, but your fluster is painfully obvious even under the shitty fluorescent lights. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not my boyfriend, then.”

⟢ He laughs lowly and leans in until you can smell his expensive cologne and the faintest trace of salt. “If you were mine,” he murmurs, “I wouldn’t let anyone else get within a mile of you.”

⟢ “That sounds exhausting,” you huff, trying to keep your voice from wavering. “I don’t need some jealous freak breathing down my neck.”

⟢ His hand comes up deliberately, and tugs at the hem of your sweatshirt. “You’re full of shit. You like it.”

⟢ You bat his hand away out of reflex, but it’s a weak motion with barely any conviction behind it. Naoya’s standing so close now that you have to tip your chin up to meet his eyes. He clicks his teeth.

⟢ “You’re not denying it.”

⟢ Your pulse patters a little faster. “Maybe I just put up with it because you tip better than the other creeps.”

⟢ He smirks, shifting his hand under the sweatshirt and splaying it wide over your bare stomach. "Don't kid yourself. If that was the case, you’d have gotten me banned already. You could, if you wanted to.”

⟢ Fuck, he’s right. You can’t even argue, and he knows it. The next thing you know, Naoya’s on you, one hand on the back of your neck, roughly tilting you as his mouth crashes against yours.

⟢ It’s actually shameful, realizing how much you wanted this. How much you wanted the distraction from your whirlwind of emotions, the rough handling, Naoya himself.

⟢ You suck in a startled gasp, and he takes full advantage, tongue sliding in greedily. He takes from you demandingly, pinning you against the counter’s edge until you have nowhere to go. Your hands move on their own, curling urgently into the front of his shirt.

⟢ “Knew it,” he breathes smugly before tearing your sweatshirt up over your head and making short work of the bra underneath. Fuck, he’s been dreaming about your tits for months, and now that he’s got them bared in the harsh light, they’re even better than the fantasy. “You got pretty tits, ya know that?”

⟢ It’s honestly unbelievable, how perfect they feel in his hands, soft and perked to attention from the cool air. Naoya doesn’t waste time easing into it, harshly palming your breasts, flicking his thumb across the nipples until they stiffen tight. He likes the way you gasp and squirm as he teases you mercilessly, giving your nipples a sharp little twist just to hear you squeal. “You’re a sensitive little thing, ain’t you? Guess your ex wasn’t giving you what you need.”

⟢ You can barely bite out a breathy, “Asshole,” before he ducks his head and closes his mouth around one nipple. Naoya rolls your other nipple between his fingers while sucking hard, teeth scraping. You’re almost certain he’s not even concerned with making you feel good; he’s playing with your tits for his own pleasure, not yours. But fuck, you’re wet already, heat pooling between your legs, and throbbing hard.

⟢ Naoya’s greedy as hell and fixated, biting at the soft flesh until you’re arching into him, sucking hard enough to leave marks. It’s almost agonizing how good it feels.

⟢ Just when you think you can hardly stand it anymore, he’s dragging you off the counter by the hips and toward the chair. Skirt hiked up haphazardly around your thighs, he settles you atop his lap, straddling his legs, only to continue his assault on your chest once it's closer to eye-level with him. His tongue lashes your nipple as you grasp his shoulders, keening and mewling at the sensations.

⟢ “Fuck, these fucking tits,” Naoya groans, shoving his hand between your thighs and hooking his fingers into your panties to yank them aside. You shudder as he slides his digits through your folds. “Your pussy’s already this soaked?”

⟢ He grins as he works you between your legs, using your own slick to stroke along your slit and circle your clit. When he shoves two fingers into you, he does it without warning, and your thighs spasm around his hand, face flaming. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re tight. Bet your ex never made you drip like this.”

⟢ You can only moan needily, clinging to him as he fingers you. The stretch is thick and perfect, exactly what you’re starved for. Naoya fucks his fingers in deep, chuckling at how you grind down against him, chasing that friction while he’s still got you by the tits.

⟢ He wants to see them bounce while you fuck yourself on his cock. He can’t help it. The idea nearly makes him delirious. He’s already hard, straining in the front of his expensive slacks, cock pulsing every time you moan or writhe against his hand. “Look at you, making a mess all over me. You want it so bad, don’t you? Like a needy little slut.”

⟢ Naoya all but rips open his belt and zipper and pulls his cock free. You practically choke at the sight of it, thick and flushed and already leaking. He fists it, gliding the head through the abundant wetness of your arousal. “C’mon, let’s see if you ride as good as you moan for me.”

⟢ He lines himself up and tugs you down without ceremony, making you sink onto him in one brutal stroke. The stretch is so intense and searing, all you can do is gasp and wriggle on top of him, nails biting into his shoulders.

⟢ Naoya grunts, eating up the sight of you split open and trembling on his cock. “Stop squirming and take it. Fuckin’ take all of it.”

⟢ Your hips move on their own, despite the burn, despite the all-encompassing fullness. You bounce on his cock like a woman possessed, making the blunt head of his cock drag against a spot inside you that makes you see stars.

⟢ “Oh, look at you. Panting like a bitch in heat. You really need it, huh? Acting like you don’t want a man bossing you around, but you love it. Can feel you clenching on my cock.”

⟢ His eyes are glued to your tits as your body rolls desperately over him, watching them jostle with every slap of skin. He kneads them and pushes them together just to watch the soft flesh spill between his fingers.

⟢ “Mmnh, fuck.” You finally find your voice, feverish from the sweet overstimulation. “You’re such a dick.”

⟢ Naoya just grins up at you wolfishly and slaps your tit. His palm cracks against the sensitive flesh, making you yelp. Your back arches, the sting blooming and radiating straight to your core. He drinks in the shock and pleasure mingling in your expression and does it again, harder this time, enough to make you whimper.

⟢ “Shit, you like that, don’t you?” he rasps. “Knew you’d be good. Bet you want me to mess you up, yeah? Want me to ruin you for anyone else?”

⟢ You groan and ride him harder. The chair creaks beneath you, and the room turns cramped and torrid. Your movements drive his cockhead into that delicious, spongy spot inside you over and over again, working in tandem with the ache of Naoya’s teasing.

⟢ When your orgasm slams into you, you nearly sob as a blinding rush of pleasure floods you from the inside out. Your cunt cinches so tight around Naoya’s cock it rips a long groan from his throat. “Holy shit—oh my god, Naoya—fuck—”

⟢ “Yeah, that’s it,” he goads in response. “Squeeze my cock just like that.”

⟢ He grabs your hips then and starts thrusting up into you before you can even come down from your climax. “Where do you want me?”

⟢ “Inside,” you answer deliriously. It’s safe, but it’s still absurdly inappropriate. Though, you figure that particular ship has sailed. “Want you to come inside.”

⟢ Naoya laughs. “Yeah? That’s what you want, huh? Want me to fill you up like a good little whore. Then, you better work for it.”

⟢ You whine but comply on instinct, resting the weight of your top half against him for leverage so you can bounce your ass against him. You fuck your swollen little cunt on Naoya’s steel-hard length with as much strength as you can muster as he watches you, pleased.

⟢ “Ngh, good fuckin’ girl. God, just like that. You got it in you, huh? Knew you’d fuck yourself stupid if I gave you the chance.”

⟢ You moan loud enough that if anyone was left in the salon, they’d definitely hear, slamming down on him with abandon. When your thighs are so sore from riding him that you’re not sure how much longer you can hold on to the rhythm, Naoya buries himself deep and cums in you with a broken swear.

⟢ You collapse in relief against his chest and shiver on top of him as he empties himself inside in thick, hot pulses. He lets you stay there while his breaths come in ragged, enjoying the feeling of your tits pressed to him. The moment either of you moves, he knows the mess between your legs will start to leak, so for now, he keeps you crushed to him, rubbing circles into the sore flesh of your ass.

⟢ “You’re bein’ underpaid here, ya know,” he says eventually. “This place ain’t paying you enough if you’re their best stylist.”

⟢ You look at him, surprised. He’s let his head tip back, exposing the corded muscle of his throat and the beautifully sharp line of his jaw. Naoya peers down at you and raises one well-groomed brow. “Why do you care?” you ask.

⟢ “Don’t worry about it. Just find an apartment here in Kyoto. You can start charging me double if you want. I don’t care.”

⟢ You let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re ridiculous. You’re only saying that because you don't wanna risk getting stuck with someone who’ll make you look like a cantaloupe.”

⟢ “Don’t test me,” he warns. “If you leave, what’re you gonna do? Give perms to old ladies in the countryside? I’ll hunt you down in Inabe myself.”

⟢ You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to laugh again. He’s completely insane. You’re too wary to delude yourself into thinking Naoya Zenin would want you to stay out of any real kindness or sentimentality. At best, he thinks he can throw money at an inconvenience and make it go away. At worst, he wants to keep you around as a fucktoy. And fuck if you can’t even decide if you mind one bit…

The mutual pining crept in slowly, then all at once.

It was the little things at first. Kurt would leave coffee made for you on mornings he knew you had early shifts, scribbling shy little notes on post-its: Hope your day isn’t too bad :). You’d catch him staring when you came home from work, still in your barista apron, his eyes lingering on the way your shirt clung from the heat. He’d look away instantly, ears red, mumbling something about editing.

You weren’t innocent either. Late at night you’d lie in bed replaying the sound of his soft voice through the thin walls as he practiced his streams. The way he’d knock gently on your door around midnight, offering half his leftover takeout “because it’s going to go bad anyway.” Your fingers would brush when you took the container, and the spark felt electric. You started wearing shorter sleep shorts just to see if he’d notice. He always did, swallowing hard and finding sudden reasons to retreat to his room.

There were almost-moments. One night after a particularly bad day, you found him on the couch spiraling about his failing channel. You sat close, closer than necessary and rested your head on his shoulder for comfort. Kurt froze, breath catching, but eventually his arm came around you awkwardly. Neither of you moved for nearly an hour. You could feel his heart hammering.

Another time, you walked in on him fresh out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips. He yelped, clutching the towel, but not before you saw the trail of dark hair leading down and the flush spreading across his chest. “S-sorry!” he stammered, but his eyes had dropped to your chest for a split second. You pretended not to notice how hard he was breathing.

The tension simmered constantly, stolen glances in the kitchen, lingering hugs that lasted a beat too long when one of you had a rough day, the way he’d compliment your laugh during movie nights but immediately backtrack like he’d said too much.

Meanwhile, the bills piled up.

Kurt’s rideshare gigs were inconsistent at best. Half the time he came home defeated, muttering about rude passengers or low tips. His streaming channel? Maybe 200 dedicated followers who mostly showed up to troll him. “Kurt Kunkle’s World” wasn’t catching on, no matter how many hours he spent editing in the dark living room, blue light glowing on his anxious face.

Your barista job covered groceries and your half of rent, but barely. Then came the triple whammy: your hours got cut, Kurt’s car needed a $600 repair, and the landlord hiked rent by $200. One night you found him at the kitchen table at 2 a.m., hoodie sleeves over his hands, staring at a final notice from the power company. His laptop showed a rejected sponsorship email.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered when you sat across from him. His voice cracked. “I keep thinking if I just push harder… get the right angle, the right content… but nothing works. People don’t want real anymore.”

You reached across and touched his wrist. He jolted like you’d shocked him, but didn’t pull away. Tension crackled in the quiet apartment, the kind that had been building for months. Unspoken want. Shared desperation. The way his breath hitched when your thumb brushed his skin.

“Kurt,” you said gently, “we’re fucked if we don’t do something drastic.”

He looked up, eyes wide and vulnerable behind his messy curls. “Like what?”

You hesitated. The idea had been floating in your head for weeks, born from scrolling late-night TikTok and overhearing customers talk about side hustles. But saying it out loud to him felt dangerous.

“What if we made an OnlyFans?”

The silence was deafening. Kurt’s face went scarlet. He stared at you, mouth opening and closing, ears burning red. For a moment you thought he’d bolt to his room and never speak to you again.

“W-with… me?” His voice was barely audible. “You mean… like… adult content? Us?”

“Yeah.” You kept your tone casual even as your heart raced. “Roommate stuff is huge. The ‘we’re just friends but the tension is obvious’ angle. You’re naturally cute and awkward on camera — people eat that up. I’m comfortable with my body. We split everything 50/50. No pressure, no strings… unless we want them.”

He swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the table. But you saw the way his thighs shifted, the subtle press of his hand against his lap. The tension thickened. Months of stolen glances, late-night conversations where you both danced around the obvious chemistry, nights where you’d lie in bed wondering if he was touching himself thinking about you in the next room. (He was. You’d heard the muffled sounds once or twice.)

“I… I’ve never…” Kurt mumbled. “Not on camera. Not with anyone I—” He cut himself off, flushing deeper. “You’d really let me touch you? For this?”

The vulnerability in his voice made your stomach flip. Not just financial need anymore. This was crossing a line you both had been eyeing for months.

-

The decision didn’t happen that night. Tension simmered for three more days.

Kurt avoided you at first, hiding in his room, editing old footage with headphones on. But the power notice glared from the fridge. You ate cold cereal for dinner. He came home from a bad driving shift soaked from rain, looking defeated. That night you both sat on the sagging couch watching a movie neither of you cared about, the space between you charged like static.

Halfway through, his knee brushed yours. Neither moved away. When you turned to say something, his eyes were already on you, dark, hungry, terrified. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admitted in a rush. “The idea. You and me. It’s… it’s too much. But we need the money and I… I want to. With you.”

You leaned in slowly, giving him time to pull back. He didn’t. The first kiss was hesitant, soft lips, shaky breath, his hand hovering at your waist like he was afraid to claim it. When you deepened it, sliding into his lap, Kurt whimpered. Actually whimpered. His hands finally settled on your hips, gripping like you were a lifeline.

That kiss stretched into heavy making out, clothes half-pulled aside, grinding and panting until you were both too worked up to pretend it was just “for the channel.” But you stopped before it went further. “Save it for the camera,” you whispered against his mouth. “Make it real.”

Kurt nodded, dazed and painfully hard beneath you. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s… let’s do it.”

-

Before filming, you spent an evening setting up the channel together on your shared laptop. Kurt sat unusually close, his thigh pressed against yours as you created the account.

“We need a good username,” he said, voice still shy but excited. “Something that screams roommate vibes but isn’t too obvious.”

After tossing ideas back and forth, giggling over increasingly ridiculous ones you settled on KurtsWorldWithHer. It kept his original brand vibe while making it clear you were now part of his world.

For the bio, Kurt typed carefully, cheeks pink:

“Two broke roommates turning tension into content. Shy boy meets bold girl in KurtsWorld. Real chemistry, real firsts, real messy feelings. Exclusive videos weekly. 50/50 split but 100% real. DMs open for requests. #RoommateGoals”

You added a winking emoji and made him blush harder.

The profile picture was a carefully cropped shot you took together: Kurt in his black hoodie looking flustered, you in a tank top leaning against his shoulder, both smiling at the camera with just enough skin showing to be suggestive without being explicit. Kurt kept adjusting the crop “so it looks natural but hot.”

By the end, Kurt was vibrating with nervous energy, leg bouncing. “This is actually happening. People are gonna see us. Together.”

You squeezed his hand. “Only the parts we want them to see. And we’re in this together.”

-

The first video took two days to film because Kurt kept overthinking.

He set up the ring light and tripod in the living room like it was a blockbuster production, adjusting angles obsessively. “Lighting has to be flattering,” he muttered, ears pink. “And the framing — people like authenticity but not ugly authenticity.” You wore a thin tank top and panties. He stayed in his black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. The second you stepped into frame, his hands trembled on the remote.

“Kurt,” you said softly, stepping close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. “We can stop anytime. This is just us.”

He looked at you like you’d hung the moon. “I’ve wanted this for months. Since you moved in. Every time you laughed at my dumb videos or made coffee for both of us… I felt pathetic for how much I liked it. And now we’re here because we’re broke and I still can’t believe you chose me for this.”

The camera started rolling. Red light blinking.

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing his burning cheeks. “Hey… kiss me, Kurt. Like you mean it this time.”

He leaned in, lips trembling against yours at first, soft, tentative, almost too gentle. His breath hitched when you parted your lips and invited his tongue. The kiss deepened slowly. Kurt’s hands slid up your sides, shaky but gaining confidence as you moaned into his mouth. He tasted like the mint gum he’d nervously chewed earlier.

“God… you feel so good,” he whispered against your lips, voice cracking. “So warm. I— I’ve dreamed about this.”

You straddled his lap on the couch, grinding down against the obvious bulge in his sweatpants. Kurt gasped sharply, hips bucking up involuntarily. “Fuck— sorry, I didn’t mean to— you’re just… really turning me on right now.”

You tugged his shirt off, revealing his lean, pale chest. Kurt’s hands finally grew bolder, sliding under your tank top to cup your bare breasts. His thumbs circled your hardening nipples, pinching lightly when you arched into him.

“Is this okay?” he asked breathlessly, eyes wide. “They’re so soft… perfect. Can I taste them?”

You nodded, pulling your top off. Kurt latched onto one nipple immediately, sucking greedily while his other hand kneaded the other breast. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as his tongue flicked rapidly. You moaned loudly for the camera, threading fingers through his greasy hair.

“Yes, Kurt— just like that. You’re so good with your mouth already.”

He whimpered at the praise, switching sides, sucking harder. His free hand slipped down, rubbing you through your soaked panties. “You’re wet,” he murmured in disbelief, voice muffled against your skin. “For me. Holy shit.”

You slid off his lap and knelt between his spread thighs. Kurt’s eyes were huge as you pulled his sweatpants and boxers down, freeing his throbbing cock, thick, veined, already leaking precum at the flushed tip.

“Fuck, look at you,” you purred, stroking him slowly from base to head. “So hard for your roommate.”

Kurt’s head fell back, a broken moan escaping. “Please— I don’t know how long I’ll last. You’re too hot on your knees like that.”

You took him into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head before sinking deeper, relaxing your throat. Kurt’s hand flew to your hair, not pushing, just gripping desperately.

“Oh my god— your mouth is so warm and wet— fuck— I can feel your tongue…” He panted heavily, hips twitching. “Slower, baby, please— I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that thing with your throat.”

You didn’t slow down. You bobbed faster, hollowing your cheeks, one hand cupping his balls while the other pumped what you couldn’t fit. Kurt’s thighs shook.

“I’m close— I’m so close— can I cum in your mouth? Please let me cum in your mouth—”

You hummed approval around him. Kurt came with a loud, pathetic cry, hips jerking as thick ropes of cum flooded your throat. You swallowed every drop, pulling off with a wet pop and licking your lips for the camera.

He stared down at you, dazed and flushed. “That was… incredible. You’re incredible.”

-

The video titled “Shy Roommate Finally Snaps. First Time Crossing the Line” exploded. $1,400 in 48 hours. Enough to pay the electric bill and buy real groceries.

-

The videos kept coming, each one peeling back another layer of tension. Kurt and you explored all kinds of content: teasing “accidental” walk-in showers where Kurt would get flustered and hard on camera; long, intimate nights of him eating you out on the kitchen counter while wearing his old streaming headset; risky quickies in the car after his rideshare shifts; even soft dom/sub dynamics where you praised him as a “good shy boy” while riding him slow and deep. You guys even tried light bondage with his hoodie sleeves tied around your wrists, sensory play with ice cubes from the freezer, and plenty of creampie-focused videos that fans begged for.

Six months later the channel KurtsWorldWithHer had nearly 200k subscribers. Kurt still got anxious in public when fans recognized you two. Like the time a barista whispered “I love your videos” while handing over coffee, making his face burn crimson as he mumbled a shy “thank you” and hid behind his hoodie. Or when a group of fans at the grocery store asked for a selfie, and Kurt’s hand trembled holding the phone while you laughed and played it cool. He’d get quiet and clingy afterward, needing reassurance that you were still his safe space, but it also turned him on in private, the thrill of being seen with you.

At home he was addicted to you, to the work, to finally being seen. After one particularly intense shoot, he curled into your chest, soft and clingy again. “I love you,” he whispered. “Not just for the channel. For everything.”

You kissed his head. “Love you too, Kurt. My favorite cam boy.”

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

yeah, he didn’t expect that either.

but he couldn’t deny the way his heart stuttered when you touched him gently like a wounded puppy.

“what happened this time?” you asked, guiding him to sit on the bed.

he grunted as he sat on the mattress, the latex swallowed him a little, his back pressed against the pillow with closed eyes. “that guy jabber.”

you made a knowing sound. “that noisy guy with a big ass claw?” you asked once more, earning a tiny humored snort and a slow nod from the other boy.

you started the usual healing ritual—sensing the wound first, giving them a light pressure with your palms to heal them slowly but surely.

“he’s strong, all right. but he's annoying.”

“who? jabber?”

“mhm.”

“mn, yeah. seems like it.”

it’s almost like an everyday routine.

you worked at the cleaners headquarter’s hospital, always minding your own business (and only locked in when there’s an emergency situation).

meanwhile, zanka liked to sneak into your workspace—mostly when it’s empty—just to check on you, or ask you to grab lunch together.

or simply to chat about what you like, or about stupid things that happened to him.

or after long missions; zanka always came in first, whining while clinging on your side, with simple bruises or small cuts—nothing too life threatening

you knew he was a strong and genius guy.

and you weren’t shy to tell him that.

“i’m glad it isn’t anything dangerous.” you murmured as you stepped back, watching the handiwork you just finished. “alright, you’re doing great. bet enjin’s proud of your work.”

that earned a cute, tiny blush on his cheek.

“it’s… nothing.” he'd try to dismiss, maintaining his composed face as you bit back a giggle at his tone.

yeah, that tone. the one that clearly shows how flustered he’s getting.

he shifted just a little, his body facing yours. “you’re doing a good job too—”

“hah! don’t even start,” you scoffed, “i just chant a stupid healing spell while you fight with your staff for your life out there. we are not the same.”

the actual thing is—

you don’t want him to ignore and dodge your compliment.

you wanted him to know that he wasn’t worthless like what he thought.

that succeeded, thankfully. just the slightest.

look how red his cheeks are!

you slipped out a giggle, daring yourself to pinch him on the waist. “wh— hey!” he yelped, “what was that for?”

“for being strong. and adorable.”

…

silence.

the kind of silence that screamed i’m offended.

“i’m leaving.” zanka grabbed his lovely assistant, stomping on the floor with an obvious red face now.

you rapidly pull the back of his collar, definitely not choking him. “the payment?”

he turned, slowly. deadpan. “… haha. tell me you’re joking right now.”

“my service ain’t for free, baby. even if it’s my own boyfriend.”

…

a long, dramatic sigh.

he reached for his wallet.

you clicked your tongue in disapproval. “who said i wanted money?” you watched his confused face twisted into something hopeful.

you simply pointed at your cheek, blinking cutely; the kind that made him visibly gagged up.

but managed to melt his heart into puddle.

he looked around for a second, and after making sure no one’s around (or going to enter the hospital suddenly), he leaned closer.

and kiss!

you beamed.

“payment successful!” you cheerfully declared, your legs swinging in delight. “don’t forget to come back again!”

zanka doesn't even look back as he approached the exit.

but god, he was smiling like an idiot.

bonus:

“why is zanka’s smile seem so…” rudo commented as he peeked out from the door. riyo followed.

“ugh. he’s being a lovesick guy again. i should tell enjin about this.”

“lovesick…? oh— he has a—?!”

she shrugged with a grin. “i know. shocking, right?”

“idiots. i can hear you two.”