2. Chris #3
There were emails in his inbox from Carl’s office, a whole pile of them, but he didn’t want to read them.
He didn’t want to think about any of it.
Not about Carl or Elliot or his own stupid mistakes.
He didn’t want to think about anything. With more determination than the situation warranted, Chris grabbed his tablet.
He set it on the bed, laying out lube and tissues in an orderly row next to him, and dimmed the light on his nightstand.
He was going to make himself forget it all tonight.
A show wasn’t scheduled for another hour, but he opened the site anyway, the familiar blue glow washing over the darkened room. Hey, there were worse things he could be doing, right? Worse highs he could be chasing. He deserved this, needed it.
The live page was empty, a countdown ticking away in the corner, so he clicked elsewhere, going back through the archives, old streams, photos, and videos.
He’d seen most of them before, many times.
He scrolled with the slow, reverent focus of someone handling something fragile.
Time blurred as he browsed. There was one photo he kept coming back to, of Quick lying on top of a blue duvet.
He had a book open, a deep burgundy cover with embossed gold lettering that had faded with time and use.
The tome obscured his face completely, and he was shirtless with his hand in his joggers.
It was possibly the least explicit photo on the site, but also the one that gave Chris the clearest view of his sharp collarbones, the tattoo on his ribs, and the freckles that dotted his shoulders like a scattering of glitter.
He sent another tip—a small amount, barely worth noticing.
He scrolled again, then came back to the photo with the book.
He sent more. Enough that his tablet buzzed with a warning he dismissed without reading.
He didn’t want to know the number. Money felt abstract lately, just another thing that had slipped loose from reality, like his career, his life, and his sense of direction.
At some point, he realised his leg was bouncing, his jaw tight, his whole body keyed into the screen as if the man might notice him through it. The live show hadn’t even started yet, but Chris was already aching for release.
He burned with want to know him, to touch him.
It wasn’t just the way he looked. Chris had known prettier men, and women.
People who were sharper, louder, more obviously sexual.
This was different. There was something about him, a vulnerability visible through all the sass and snark that made Chris feel like he was being let in on something private.
The live started, finally, and it felt like something loosened in Chris’s chest when that masked face filled the screen, strands of artfully mussed blue hair making him look like some sort of elven fantasy twink.
He was beautiful. He spoke enthusiastically, something about a book he’d read recently, on philosophy or ethics, both.
It was captivating, unhurried, precise. It was obvious he was smart, but he wasn’t being showy about it, he was just telling his subscribers about his day, his interests, letting them in in a way that didn’t reveal anything too personal.
He wasn’t dumbing things down for them. It was as though he assumed they would all meet him where he was.
The whole thing was entrancing. Chris wanted to respond, to have a conversation with him, to listen to that velvety voice talk for hours.
The thought was both unwelcome and irresistible. He wanted Quick to himself.
Chris scrubbed a hand over his face.
It was stupid. Parasocial. He’d seen enough comments on his own photos, both when people loved him…and now, when they hated him, blaming him for personally letting them down. This was a performance, carefully curated, monetised down to the second. He needed to stop thinking of it as a connection.
And yet.
He tipped again. More than he meant to. Enough that his username flashed bright and undeniable across the chat. For a fraction of a second, probably imagined, Quick’s gaze seemed to linger on the camera, his smile tilting into something softer, almost fond.
Chris’s breath hitched. His thoughts scattered. The thud of his own pulse was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Quick smirked at the screen. “I know, I know, you’ve all come for a reason and it isn’t to listen to me wax lyrical about Sartre.”
A laugh escaped Chris’s mouth as Quick winked at the screen. He palmed his aching cock, not granting himself release yet. He’d edge himself to hell rather than come before Quick did.
“Well, you all should thank Flash23 for getting you over the tip threshold that gets you some action tonight,” he said with a lascivious wink.
Then, without further discussion, he pulled off his shirt, revealing a black lace bralette underneath the delicate fabric.
It contrasted starkly with his pale skin.
Chris bit back a groan. He fucking loved Quick in lingerie, and between that and hearing his own screen name fall from those pouty pink lips, this was going to be glorious.
Desperate to see more, Chris sent another tip.
“Thank you, Flash,” Quick replied coquettishly as he dragged his joggers down, revealing a frilly black thong that barely contained his straining erection.
Chris may have blacked out for a moment, his body moving of its own accord, because when he next registered what was happening he had his hand around his cock, stroking himself furiously as he watched Quick fuck himself on a gold dildo.
His panties were pulled to the side so Chris, and the hundred or so other people watching, had the perfectly framed visual of his hole stretching around the thick toy.
Chris couldn’t hold out much longer. He groaned as Quick finally reached for his own perfect, pretty cock, stretching the panties to the limit as he tugged at himself roughly, never letting up with the toy.
A litany of curses and pleas fell from his mouth in that highbrow accent.
He turned to face the camera just in time for it to catch his orgasm full on.
Chris’s own pleasure finally crested. For a moment, it felt like connection, like they perfectly in sync.
Cum spilled over his hand onto his stomach and sheets.
It took him a moment to recover. Quick was talking again, ending his stream, showing his viewers the aftermath and teasing his next live.
Chris didn’t even need to think about it, he knew without a doubt that he’d be there.
Afterwards, he lay back against the pillows, chest rising and falling, the room smelling faintly of citrus lube and overheated electronics. His tablet rested on his stomach, screen dimmed now, the site asking politely if he was still there.
He checked his bank app at last. Winced. Closed it. He wasn’t going to make it through four years on his savings at this rate, but part of Chris still wasn’t convinced he was going to make it four years at all.
He shook the thought from his brain. “So fucking morbid these days, Green,” he muttered to himself.
He laughed once, quietly, the sound brittle in the dark.
He opened the man’s profile one more time, scanning it for anything new.
He should have felt shame. Panic at the dependency he was creating.
Something. Instead, there was only a dull, aching pull in his chest, a hunger that had very little to do with sex anymore.
A message appeared in his inbox. He opened it instantly—a photo, from Quick. He had his fingers in his mouth, head tipped back, licking his release from them, the bralette from the livestream twisted around his chest. “Thanks, babe. See you next time,” the message read.
It made him smile. Not quite a real smile, but closer than he’d been in months.
Chris locked the tablet and set it face down on the nightstand as if that might keep the thoughts contained.
He stared up at the ceiling, heart still racing.
He knew it had probably been sent to everyone who had tipped big, an enticement to return, but part of him hoped, fantasised, that it was a private moment just for the two of them.