#twitch streamer

Phainon feels absolute dread wash over him when he hears your footsteps approach the room he’s currently in. No one in the chat notices how pale he gets and how sweat starts dripping down his face, because if anyone knows you exist, hell might aswell unleash.

He’s a popular streamer for a reason. Pretty face, pretty voice, a body craved by the Gods themselves and—oh—Yeah, good at games too.

People love him a lot, sometimes too much to the point where he wonders if having a face cam was a bad idea. It definitely does bring him money, and he appreciates the donations he gets but if it means accidentally revealing his own partners face.

He does not want the face cam!

The door opens, and Phainon forgets why he was so worried in the first place when he sees you standing there in his t-shirt and pants. They’re a bit too big on you but it’s not a surprise when Phainon is massive. He completely ignores how the chat starts moving at an insane speed when they start hearing someone speak.

“It’s 2 in the morning, Phai.” The streamer nervously chuckles while scratching the back of his neck, “Was I loud?” His question makes you sigh, and start walking inside, shutting the door behind you.

fagtron300: WHO IS THAT

dizzyeyes: DONT TELL ME

hollourple: IS THAT HIS ROOMMATE

“No, but you need to sleep.” The chat doesn’t see your face when you walk into the frame, only the midriff of your body as Phainon’s hands find themselves on your waist, staring up at you with puppy eyes that you’re convinced he’s trying to guilt-trip you.

“Come back to bed.” Phainon’s hands on your waist tighten, gulping down a bundle of saliva as your hands reach up and caress his face gently. You always knew how to get a putty Phainon, but Phainon can’t necessarily say no to you whenever you ask for something.

He was planning on going to bed, but his mouse kept moving to the ‘Start Match’ in the bottom right corner of his screen. He definitely regrets not going to bed sooner with you, you’re the love of his life and the reason why he can spoil you is ‘cause of his streaming career.

Phainon couldn’t care less about that when you lean down to kiss his forehead, a stupid smile appearing on his face.

drpepper: NO FUCKING WAY

vhsghost: OMGOMGOMG LOVESICK PHAINON??

glitterglizzy: more like puppy phainon cuz what 😭😭 mf folded

Your eyes caught the chat, and blinked, “Why is the chat moving so fast?” Phainon freezes up, slowly turns to eye the camera facing him and currently on, “I’m streaming…” Both of you snap your heads to look at eachother, and before he knows it, you’ve jumped out of his arms and far away from the camera.

“You had your face cam on!?” You questioned with panic in your voice. Phainon waves his hands in the air, “I was going to tell you before you came in!” Your eye twitched, pointing a finger at him.

“So they saw me?” Phainon’s eyes drifts to the chat before slowly nodding, “And heard you too…” Your heart drops straight to your ass as your face buries it into your hands, “Phainon!” He curls into himself with a pouty look.

“I forgot! You kissed me and made me feel stupid!”

“This is my fault!?”

Phainon huffs with a pout and turns back to his stream, staring at it for ten seconds before ending it abruptly. The headphones are tossed off his head and he picks you up, tossing you over his shoulder without you fighting back, minus the groan you let out when you now know the entire internet might as well know you now.

Streamer ‘Khasnon,’ also known as ‘Phainon,’ reveals his partner on stream last night after they enter his room. He tweets the morning of to not harass them and to please not dig up their socials until they’re ready to appear on screen.

sparkleshaft: let me into the relationship please😢 replying — fariedoll: PLEASE SPEED I NEED THIS😭😭😭

Phainon watches as you pout and create shapes onto the bare skin of his chest. He sighs and lets himself stare at the ceiling while his hand moves up and down your back, bringing you closer to him.

Yeah, he definitely hates the face cam.

B3N_DROWNED: understood queen

A moderator timed him out for thirty seconds. It became a ritual. Every single stream, without fail. Horror games? Ben appeared. Cozy farming sims? Ben appeared. Even that one random 2009 visual novel you dug up at 2 a.m.—he was there before the title screen finished loading. Chat joked that he had notifications hardwired into his bloodstream. You started joking about it too.

“Ben’s probably already here.”

The chat exploded. 

HE IS. LOOK.

 HE’S LITERALLY FIRST BRO

Sure enough, his message popped up.

B3N_DROWNED: hi babe:) 

He never technically crossed the hard lines. His comments were always suggestive enough to make your mods twitch, but phrased as jokes. He backed off the second you gave him that particular look through the camera. Still, the timeouts piled up. He wore every single one like a badge of honor.

B3N_DROWNED: if u were a ghost would u still stream?

“Ben.”

B3N_DROWNED: hypothetical

“Timeout for being creepy.”

He accepted it cheerfully. When he returned: B3N_DROWNED: i deserved that. worth it.

Months slipped by, and you started expecting him. If five minutes passed without his familiar username, you’d catch yourself asking chat, “Has anyone seen Ben?” The community lost their minds every time. When he finally appeared—late, claiming “ traffic”—you rolled your eyes but felt an odd little flicker of relief.

He stream-sniped with terrifying precision. No matter how many thousands queued for a match, his character would appear, crouch twice, spin in circles, and type ‘hi :)’ in game chat. Your friends groaned. You called him terrifying. His avatar just waved innocently.

It wasn't a coincidence. Ben had studied every tiny habit: how long you lingered in menus, the average amount of time you took to refill your water, the way you answered donations before requeuing. He watched every VOD, every clip. Routines made you feel knowable. Close. He never admitted it, not even to himself.

Discord friend requests from viewers were an ironclad no. Until one Tuesday night at 11:48 PM, after a long editing session, his request appeared. Your cursor hovered. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. But your finger moved on its own and clicked Accept.

In his own room Ben nearly dropped his phone. “She accepted…”

The first messages were awkward, halting. Then conversations stretched longer—twenty minutes at first, then hours. Voice chat came next. Late-night calls after streams became routine. His voice was quieter than you expected, dry and self-deprecating, laced with that same obsessive attention to detail. He remembered the offhand comment you made six months ago about your cat’s surgery. The indie band you mentioned once. The way you hated certain textures. Everything.

You talked about terrible horror games and old creepypastas until 3 a.m. He listened more than he spoke. Every time you laughed, his room felt a little less empty. Beneath the gremlin energy and flirty jokes, Ben was patient. Static behind a monitor. Always waiting.

The weeks blurred together after that first Discord acceptance. What began as careful, late-night typing sessions evolved into voice calls that stretched until the sky lightened outside your window. Ben’s voice became something you looked forward to more than you wanted to admit. He never pushed. He waited for you to set the pace, content to listen while you ranted about bad game design or the latest streamer drama.

But the tension was there, simmering beneath every “goodnight, babe” and every lingering pause. His compliments grew softer, more genuine. Your responses stopped being purely playful deflections.

One night, after a particularly grueling horror stream where chat had been relentless, you switched to a private call. The topic drifted, as it sometimes did, into teasing territory.

“You really would let me yell at you, huh?” you asked, half-joking.

Ben’s laugh was quiet, almost shy. “I’d probably thank you after.”

The silence that followed felt extra charged. You shifted on your bed, cheeks warm. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah… but you keep letting me stay on the call anyway.”

That was the first night things crossed the line. The flirting turned explicit—slow, hesitant at first, then bolder as you both admitted how long you’d been thinking about it. Ben’s breathing grew heavier when you described what you were wearing. Yours hitched when he told you exactly what he wanted to do if he were in the room.

Mutual masturbation became the new ritual. Webcams turned on. His was on constantly now, a silent agreement after you’d shyly asked if he could keep it running “so it feels less one-sided.” He obliged instantly, the monochrome filter of his setup casting him in eerie, pale light that somehow made him look even more unreal—ethereal, hungry, and entirely focused on you.

You introduced toys on your side a few nights later. The first time, you held up a small purple vibrator, cheeks burning. Ben’s eyes widened on camera, his hand already moving under the frame.

“Fuck,  show me how you use it,” he whispered, voice cracking into that familiar whine. “Please? I need to see.”

You did. Legs spread for the camera, you pressed the buzzing toy against yourself while he stroked in time with your movements, moaning openly. “You’re so pretty like this… god, the sounds you make—ah—I’m gonna lose it just watching you.”

He was loud, unfiltered. Every thrust of your toy earned a string of desperate praises and whimpers: “Right there—yeah, just like that. You’re gonna make me cum so hard—shit, I wish I could taste you.”

You came with his name on your lips. He followed seconds later, head thrown back, hips jerking as he spilled over his fist with a long, broken whine that sent aftershocks through you.

It became addictive. Night after night, the calls grew longer, filthier. Toys rotated—vibrators, dildos, anything that made him vocal. Ben kept his camera rolling the entire time, even between sessions, like he couldn’t bear to look away.

Then came the night everything changed.

You were still flushed and breathless, the toy discarded beside you, when the monitor rippled. The image of Ben on your screen distorted like water, pixels stretching and warping. His eyes—those unnaturally dark, knowing eyes—locked onto yours through the glass.

He leaned forward.

And crawled through.

His shoulders emerged after his head, then his torso, arms bracing on the edge of your desk with a solid, impossible thud. The rest of him followed in a fluid, unnatural motion until he dropped onto your floor on all fours, fully real, fully here.

You screamed.

Heart slamming against your ribs, you bolted off the bed, legs tangling in the sheets for a terrifying second. “Ben—what the fuck—how?!” Pure panic sent you scrambling toward the nightstand, hand outstretched for your phone. This wasn’t possible. This was a hallucination, a nightmare even.

But even as terror spiked through you, heat pooled low in your belly. He was here. Real. The same messy hair, the same intense stare that had watched you fall apart on camera night after night. And the way he looked up at you from the floor, desperate, reverent, a little scared himself, it made your body react before your brain could catch up.

“Y/N wait, please—” His voice was the same raspy whisper from the calls, but rawer now, unfiltered by speakers. He stayed on his knees, hands raised like he was approaching a startled animal. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, I couldn’t stay on the other side anymore. I’ve wanted to touch you for so long. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but please don’t run. I’d never hurt you.”

You grabbed the phone. Your thumb hovered over the screen, but you didn’t unlock it. Confusion warred with the lingering arousal, the way your thighs still trembled from the earlier orgasm. Ben looked wrecked—pupils blown, chest heaving, a visible bulge straining against his soaked pants.

“I’m freaking out, Ben,” you whispered, voice shaky. 

“Im sorry,” he admitted, voice cracking into a whine. “But I’m here. And you’re even more beautiful up close. Please… let me stay. I’ll leave if you want, but god, I can tell how wet you still are. It’s driving me insane.”

The confession, the raw need in his tone, broke something in you. You set the phone down.

Ben crawled forward instantly, still on his knees, until he reached the edge of the bed. His hands—cold at first, then warming against your skin—slid up your calves. “Thank you. Fuck, thank you. Been dreaming about this every night while you used those toys. You have no idea how much I need you, baby.”

He was whiney, vocal, and utterly desperate the moment you pulled him up onto the bed. His mouth found yours in a messy, hungry kiss, tasting faintly of static and vanilla chapstick. Clothes came off in frantic tugs—his hoodie being the first thing to go.

“Been so hard for you,” he whimpered against your neck, grinding his cock against your thigh. “Every night, stroking myself while you moaned my name. Please let me fuck you. I’ll be good; I swear I’ll be so good for you.”

When he finally pushed inside, the sound he made was pure sin—a long, trembling whine that vibrated against your collarbone. “Oh my god. So tight, so warm. Fuck, I’m gonna cum already, I can’t!”

He didn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop. Every thrust came with broken, needy commentary: “Feels better than anything—your pussy is perfect—gonna fill you up, been dying to—please, harder? Tell me what you want, I’ll do anything—”

You wrapped your legs around him, nails digging into his back, and Ben completely unraveled. His hips snapped faster, voice pitching higher into desperate moans and whimpers. “Yes, yes, just like that, gonna cum inside you, please cum with me, I need to feel it—”

You shattered first, clenching around him. Ben followed with a loud, shattered cry, burying himself deep as he spilled, body shaking, still murmuring praise and thanks against your skin.

He collapsed half on top of you afterward, face pressed into your chest, arms wrapped tight like he was afraid you’d vanish. Soft, needy little sounds still escaped him as he caught his breath.