[This chapter explores intimate moments between characters. While not gratuitous, these scenes reflect emotional vulnerabilities and evolving relationships.]
Rava adjusted the camera, eyes narrowing as he checked the frame. Tonight's setup was different - no flashing neons, no over-the-top color filters. Just a soft, violet hue that washed over his skin like twilight. His tank top clung to one shoulder, the other strap slipping off with that perfect touch of intentional carelessness. A picture of vulnerability. His followers ate that shit up.
"Tonight's going to be… something special," he whispered into the mic, his voice breathy, teasing.
The chat lit up like fire:
[***]"What's the concept??"
[***]"You look kinda sad, u okay?"
[***]"Oh nha, he's in that mood again…"
Rava ignored most of it. He'd heard it all before. He knew what he looked like right now. Too well.
He took a deep breath, slow and deliberate.
"This time, the rules are simple," he said, eyes low. "At the climax… I'll say the name of tonight's biggest donator."
Boom.
The stream exploded: names, numbers, color-coded donations flooding in. His screen glowed with affection and obsession, but Rava's mind was miles away.
Blaine.
That fucking gaze, burning holes into him without a single word. Always holding back. Always watching.
Why did I run?
Why didn't I just say it?
Didn't matter now.
Blaine. Blaine. Blaine. His name was a drumbeat inside Rava's skull.
One hand slid down. Gripped himself. Hard. Rough. Not for show, not for the chat, but for himself. For the pressure building up behind his ribs. He changed hands, switching to the left for that sharper, raw edge. Something a little less familiar. A little more desperate.
His breath hitched. He bit his lip until it stung.
"What would you say if you saw me now?" he murmured, eyes half-closed.
His mind filled in the blanks:
"You're dirty, Rava."
"Streaming again, stroking your cock like a desperate slut?"
"Don't touch yourself. Hands behind your back. I'll take care of it."
That last one made his thighs clench.
He flipped over onto his stomach, grinding down into the sheets, face pressed into a pillow. In his head, Blaine was behind him: strong, unrelenting. Holding him down. Denying him the pleasure of touch. Whispering commands with that low, dangerous voice.
"Fucking use me…" Rava whimpered, his own voice shaking.
He reached back, fingers already slick, parting himself without hesitation. One knuckle, then another. His muscles clenched, but he didn't stop. He needed this. Needed to feel something more than just the ache inside.
"Say it, Rava."
"I want you," he breathed, "to fuck me. Now. Don't ask. Just.. ngh.. fuck me."
His knees spread wider on instinct, body bowed like a fucking offering. Chat had long blurred into background noise. This was no longer about them.
"I'm gonna…" he groaned, thighs tightening, toes curling. "Fuck, I'm close!!!"
PING.
The alert popped up:
Hadie – 8000$
No message. No emoji. Just a name.
Hadie.
The word slipped from his lips before he could stop it. Reflex. Like they'd agreed.
"Hadie," he gasped.
The chat blew up:
[***]"WHO?!"
[***]"OMG is Hadie BACK??"
[***]"WOOh"
But Rava was already reaching for the "end stream" button.
Enough.
He sat on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees. Wet. Shaky. Hollowed out. His phone buzzed relentlessly: mods, fans, tips, stickers.
Maybe… him?
He didn't look. He just clenched a pillow in his fists and hurled it against the wall with a sharp grunt.
"Fuck," he spat, hiding his face in trembling hands.
Rava wanted to run. Not just leave the room, he wanted to disappear. To melt into the soft violet light, shed his skin like it was someone else's, and erase every trace of memory. He craved escape from the present with the same aching desperation he'd felt when he walked away from Blaine the night before.
The conversation had gone nowhere.
They had sat on a park bench, separated by a polite distance, just enough to make them look like strangers. The dim glow of a solitary streetlamp above them cast its light on a lazy swarm of moths, circling like thoughts that refused to settle. Even in front of them, Rava felt exposed. There were no words, no gestures, only suffocating silence and the unbearable weight of Blaine's presence next to him.
Maybe it was that one line that ruined it. Or rather, that unfinished line - half a thought, half a confession.
"B... Blaine, I... I think I..."
How fortunate he hadn't said it.
How devastating that he hadn't.
Now those words sat lodged somewhere between his collarbones, pressing downward, burning from the inside. Just like what happened on stream. What had started as just another performance turned into something closer to a confession. At one point, the camera had shown only his thighs, tense, trembling with arousal. His voice didn't sound like a performer's anymore. It was raw, breaking. There had been a real plea in it. A real "take me."
And it scared the hell out of him.
He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled dry air that felt thick in his lungs. The moment he did, he saw them—those hands. Strong. Sure. Slightly rough against the skin. He imagined them gripping his waist, holding him firmly in place, like a quiet, undeniable claim.
A tight pull gathered low in his abdomen. Heat pooled there, a slow, pressing ache that spread through him like wildfire.
His hand slid downward.
His cock was already hard. Heavy with need, like it had been waiting for permission all this time. He wrapped his fingers around the base, slow and tight, and exhaled through his teeth, eyes fluttering shut.
"If we really made love... who would be on top?"
He was taller than Blaine by a few centimeters, but every time they were near each other, Blaine's energy felt overwhelming, intense without being aggressive. Not brute force, but authority. Presence. Control. Rava knew, deep in his bones, that he wouldn't be the one in charge.
He couldn't picture Blaine writhing underneath him, moaning, hips grinding for more. But he could picture himself. Perfectly. Easily.
He imagined his own fingers clawing at the sheets, his back arching, his voice cracking as he whimpered Blaine's name like it was the only thing holding him together.
A groan slipped from his lips.
His hand didn't stop. It moved slowly over his length, up and down, building pressure. The head was already slick and too sensitive. He was close. Too close.
But he didn't want to just come. He wanted to feel it - everything.
In his mind, Blaine's voice was crystal clear.
"You want me to let you come, don't you?"
"You want me inside you, while you're whining like that?"
"Say it, Rava. Say what you want."
"I want you," Rava whispered aloud, breath catching in his throat.
The fantasy filled itself in. Blaine leaning over him. That sharp, unreadable gaze. His breath calm, his body still. He'd push in slowly, deliberately, dragging it out like a lesson in restraint. Every inch a promise. Every second a test.
And Rava.. Rava would clench around him on purpose. Just enough to make it tighter. To make Blaine feel like it was his first time. To say without words, This is yours. I'm yours. Only yours.
"Just like that… fuck, you're so tight," Blaine would murmur.
"You've been waiting for me, haven't you?"
"No one else has touched you like this. Not really. Not like me."
Rava gripped himself harder, his body jerking from the heat spiraling inside him.
He pulled his legs in tight, held his breath, and then spread them wide in one desperate, helpless motion, like opening himself to someone who wasn't even there.
And that's when it hit.
A surge of warmth. A wave of unbearable pleasure that drowned him completely. His body convulsed, back arched off the sheets, teeth buried into the pillow, and his release spilled over him like a storm he couldn't stop. It was messy. Raw. Real.
And when it was over, only silence remained and the lingering echo of Blaine's name, still stuck behind his teeth.