hiii idk if this is an odd fic request or not but I feel like it would be so hot to make a little at home sex tape with joe that you both can watch when heâs away I just know he would be so into the cinematography of it all 𫣠if you donât feel comfortable writing something like that though i totally get it!!
first of all⌠thank you SO much for sending this request in because OH. MY. GOD. đ i had so much fun writing this one
i fear this is PURE filth from start to finish and i take absolutely no responsibility for the consequences đ
i really hope i managed to do your idea justice because i ended up getting completely carried away with it... enjoy <3
for your eyes only
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: It starts with Joe setting up his phone at the end of the bed. Somehow, it becomes one of the most intimate nights you've ever shared.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, smut, sex tape, fingering, oral (m receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, filthyâ˘, voyeuristic elements, theyre both major switches tbh, theyre also so in love its sickening, consent is sexy (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 7k
A/N: lmk if you enjoyed this and if you'd want a part two!! i already have a little idea floating around where joe's away on tour and they both end up watching the video separately - him in a hotel room, her back home - and neither of them can quite keep their hands to themselves⌠which may or may not end with a very distracting phone call. maybe. just maybeâŚ
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The phone looks small in Joe's hand. He holds it face-up, screen dark, the way he might hold a guitar pick before a show - testing its weight, turning it over once. You watch from the foot of the bed, arms crossed, the strap of your tank top slipping off one shoulder. The bedroom is dim, just the bedside lamp on the lowest setting, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets.
"Perfect spot," he says, more to himself than to you. He sets the phone on the dresser, edges it forward a quarter inch, then back. His thumb drags along the side until the camera lens aligns exactly with the bed. He checks the angle by bending to look through the viewfinder, his curls falling forward, and you watch the way his brow furrows in concentration.
You've seen that look a hundred times - in the studio, bent over a mixing board, or on stage mid-solo, lost in the music. But this is different. This is your shared bedroom, and he's framing a shot of your shared bed.
"You're overthinking it," you say.
"I want to get the whole bed." He straightens, tilts the phone up a fraction. "And the headboard. The headboard's important."
"The headboard?"
"It's a character. Trust me." He grins at you, that boyish flash, and your stomach tightens the way it always does when he looks at you like that - like you're the only person in the world worth teasing.
He presses the red button. A soft click. Then a tiny red light appears, steady and unblinking.
The room changes. The air thickens. You feel the weight of that light like a third person in the room, watching, waiting. Your arms tighten across your chest.
There's a beat of silence. Joe stands with his back to you, hands resting on the edge of the dresser, looking at the phone. Then he takes a long breath, and you watch his shoulders drop - that exhale, the one he does before a set, before a difficult take, before he asks for what he wants.
He turns around.
The playful energy is still there, but underneath it something else has clicked into place. His hazel eyes are darker in the low light, fixed on you with an intensity that makes you forget, for a second, that the camera is even there.
"Hey," he says, soft.
"Hey."
He crosses to you. Three steps, and he's close enough that you can smell the faint cedar of his cologne, the trace of coffee still on his breath. He stops a foot away, not touching you yet, but close enough that you feel the heat coming off his body.
His hand lifts to your face. His fingers cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your lower lip - once, twice, a gesture so tender it makes your chest ache. You feel the callus on his thumbpad, the one from years of pressing down on guitar strings. It catches on the curve of your lip, and you shiver.
"Forget it's there," he murmurs, his voice low, almost a whisper. The words pool in the space between you. You want to do as he says. You try. But the red light is a pinprick in your peripheral vision, and you can feel yourself holding back, just a little - the part of you that's performing, that's aware of being watched.
Joe sees it. He always sees it.
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he tugs gently - just enough to tilt your head back, to make you look up at him. His eyes search yours, and you feel that familiar rush of being seen, truly seen, the way only he can see you.
"You're beautiful," he says. Not as a line. As a fact. "I want to remember this. Every second. But I don't need the camera for that."
His thumb traces your jawline, slow, deliberate. You let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding, and some of the tension unwinds from your shoulders.
"I know," you whisper. "It's just-"
"I know." He leans closer, his forehead resting against yours. "We can stop. We can erase it. We can just - be here. No camera. No nothing."
You feel the weight of the offer. The way he gives you an out, even now, even after setting it all up. That's Joe - always giving you the choice, always making sure you want this as much as he does.
And you want this. More than you've admitted, maybe more than you've let yourself feel. You want him to watch you later, alone in some hotel room, missing you. You want to watch him, later, your hand between your thighs, remembering. You want the video to exist - proof that you were here, like this, together, even when the miles stretch between you.
"I want it," you say, and your voice is steadier than you expected. "I want the camera. I want - this."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and something in his expression softens. He nods once. Then his thumb finds your lip again, pressing gently, and you part your mouth on instinct.
"Good girl," he breathes, and the words hit you somewhere low in your belly, a hot pulse. His hand slides down to your shoulder, fingertips grazing the exposed skin where the strap slipped. He traces the line of your collarbone, featherlight, and you feel the goosebumps rise in his wake.
Your hands find his waist. The worn cotton of his T-shirt, the lean muscle underneath. You pull him closer, and your fingers curl into the fabric, anchoring yourself.
Joe tips your chin up with one knuckle. The gesture is so small, so casual, but it sends a message: look at me. Only me.
You do.
The bedroom has gone quiet. The only sounds are your breathing - the soft in-and-out, the rustle of fabric as he shifts closer. Somewhere outside, the distant hum of city traffic. A train horn, muffled. The tick of the bedside clock, measuring seconds that feel like hours.
His eyes drop to your mouth. Your lips part again, anticipating, and you feel the pull of him - the gravitational drag of his body, the heat of his skin inches from yours. You can see the flecks of gold in his irises, the slight unevenness of his stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar near his eyebrow from a childhood accident he's told you about a dozen times.
You know this face. You know the way his smile starts on one side of his mouth, the way his eyes crinkle when he's genuinely happy. But right now he's not smiling. He's focused, intent, and there's a hunger in his gaze that makes your stomach flip.
"Ready?" he asks, and his voice is rougher now, threaded with want.
You nod. Don't trust your voice.
He leans in, slow. Not the rushed kiss of a man who wants to get to the end - the deliberate kiss of a man who wants to savour the start. Your eyes flutter shut. You feel the warmth of his breath, the faint scent of him, and then his mouth meets yours in a deep, silencing kiss.
His mouth moves against yours with a patience that undoes you. Not hurried, not hungry in the way that demands - hungry in the way that savours, that draws out every second like he's memorising the shape of your lips, the soft sound you make when his tongue brushes against yours. His hand stays at the nape of your neck, fingers threading deeper into your hair, holding you exactly where he wants you.
You melt into him. There's no other word for it. Your spine softens, your hips tilt forward, your hands curl into the fabric of his shirt and pull him closer until there's no space left between you. You can feel the heat of his chest through the cotton, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your palms. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying across the curve, and he pulls you flush against him.
The camera's red light blinks in the corner of your vision. You're aware of it, distantly, the way you're aware of an open window when you're trying to sleep - there, but not worth opening your eyes for. Joe's thumb traces the line of your jaw, tilting your head just so, and the kiss deepens. His tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, and you make a sound low in your throat that you didn't plan.
Joe smiles against your mouth. You feel it, the curve of his lips, and you pull back just enough to glare at him.
"You're smiling."
"I'm happy." He says it against your lips, his voice a low murmur, and kisses you again before you can respond. This one is softer, teasing, a brush of lips that says I'm not done with you yet.
Your fingers find his curls. The texture is exactly what you knew it would be - soft, with a slight wave, the strands slipping through your fingers like water. You've touched his hair a thousand times, in a thousand different ways, but this time feels different. This time you're aware of every individual strand, the way they catch on your calluses, the way he leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth.
His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you closer, and you feel the hard line of his body against yours. The kiss turns slower, heavier, his breath warm and even against your cheek. You feel his thumb trace the curve of your hip, a lazy, possessive gesture that makes your stomach tighten.
Your hands move from his hair to his shoulders, tracing the broad line of them, the way his frame fills out the t-shirt. He's lean but solid, the kind of build that comes from years of carrying gear and playing shows, not from a gym. You can feel the muscle shift under your palms as he adjusts his stance, bringing you closer to the edge of the bed.
The mattress hits the back of your knees. You gasp softly, the surprise pulling you out of the kiss for half a second, and he uses the moment to kiss the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear. His stubble scrapes against your skin, and you shiver.
"I've got you," he whispers, his lips brushing your earlobe. His hand presses against your lower back, guiding you, and you let yourself fall backwards onto the mattress. The sheets are cool against your bare arms, a contrast to the heat of his body as he follows you down, one knee landing on the bed, then the other, until he's hovering over you.
He looks down at you. The bedside lamp catches the gold in his eyes, the soft fall of his curls framing his face. He's propped on one forearm, the other hand resting on your stomach, fingers spread wide. You can feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your tank top.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The only sounds are your breathing - his steady, yours shallow - and the distant hum of traffic from the street below. The camera's red light is a small, steady presence in your peripheral vision, but you're not thinking about it anymore. You're thinking about the weight of him above you, the way the lamp light shadows the hollow of his throat, the faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"Hi," he says, soft.
"Hi."
Joe's thumb traces a slow circle on your stomach, just above your navel. The touch is light, almost absent, but you feel it everywhere - a line of heat spreading from his thumb through your whole body, settling low in your belly. Your hips shift beneath him, an unconscious roll, and his eyes darken.
"You're so beautiful," he says, and it's not a line. It's a confession, a quiet admission that he's saying it for himself, not for you. His thumb keeps moving, tracing lazy patterns on your skin, and you watch his face - the way his brow softens, the way his eyes trace the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts beneath the tank top.
"I love watching you," he continues, his voice low, almost to himself. "The way you breathe. The way your lips part. The way your hips move when you want something." His thumb presses a little harder, a little lower, and you feel the warmth pool between your legs. "I want to remember all of it."
Your hands find his waist, fingers hooking into the hem of his shirt. You tug, and he gets the message, shifting back just enough to let you pull the shirt up and over his head. It lands somewhere on the floor, and then he's above you again, bare-chested, and you let yourself look.
His chest is lean, defined in the way that comes from natural movement rather than gym repetition. A scattering of hair carpets his chest, and a sparse trail of hair leads down his stomach, disappearing below the waistband of his jeans. His shoulders are broad, his arms corded with the kind of muscle that comes from years of playing guitar - forearms that know exactly how much pressure to apply, fingers that can find the right fret blindfolded.
You reach up, your fingers tracing the line of his collarbone, the dip of his sternum, the warm skin of his chest. He shivers under your touch, a small hitch in his breath, and you feel a surge of power - the knowledge that you can undo him as easily as he undoes you.
"Your turn," he says, his voice rough. His fingers find the strap of your tank top, sliding it down your shoulder with deliberate slowness. The fabric shifts, exposing the curve of your breast, the edge of your nipple. His eyes follow the movement, and you see his throat move as he swallows.
He doesn't rush. He pulls the other strap down, then drags the fabric lower, inch by inch, until your chest is bare. The air hits your skin, cool and electric, and you arch into the sensation, your back lifting off the mattress.
His gaze is hungry. He looks at you like you're something he's been waiting to see his whole life, and the intensity of it makes your breath catch. His hand moves from your stomach to your ribs, tracing the curve, then higher, until his palm cups your breast. His thumb brushes across your nipple, once, twice, and you gasp, your hips bucking beneath him.
"That good?" he asks, and there's a tease in his voice, but it's soft, reverent. He does it again, slower, watching your face, and you bite your lip to keep from moaning.
"Don't," he says, reaching up with his free hand to brush his thumb across your lower lip, parting them. "I want to hear you."
You let the sound escape - a low, breathy moan - and Joe's eyes flare with satisfaction. He leans down, his mouth replacing his hand, and the first touch of his lips on your nipple makes your back arch off the mattress. His tongue is warm, wet, tracing a slow circle around the peak before drawing it into his mouth. You feel the suction, the gentle scrape of his teeth, and your fingers find his hair, gripping, holding him there.
He works his way across your chest, kissing, licking, tasting, until both breasts are flushed and sensitive, your nipples tight and aching. You're gasping now, your hands roaming his back, his shoulders, the warm skin of his neck. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, then your collarbone, then the space behind your ear, and each kiss feels like a brand, claiming you, marking you as his.
You're aware of the camera, somewhere in the room, but it's faded into the background now, as distant as the traffic outside. All that exists is the weight of him above you, the heat of his mouth on your skin, the slow, deliberate way he's taking you apart, piece by piece.
His hand slides down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, and you hold your breath. His fingers find the damp fabric of your underwear, and he lets out a low sound - approval, hunger, something raw that you feel in your own chest.
"You're wet," he murmurs against your throat, and the words are a caress, a promise. His fingers press against you through the fabric, applying gentle pressure, and you moan, your hips rolling into his hand.
"Joe."
"I know." He kisses your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "I've got you."
His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down your hips, your thighs, past your knees. You lift your hips to help him, and the fabric slides away, leaving you in just your underwear. He sits back on his heels, looking at you, and the expression on his face is almost reverent - like he's seeing you for the first time, like he can't believe you're real.
The lamp light paints your skin in gold and shadow. You lie beneath him, bare-chested, your dark hair spread across the pillow, your lips parted, your chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. His eyes travel the length of you, from your face to your breasts to the curve of your hip, and he lets out a long, slow exhale.
"I could stay here forever," he says, and his voice is thick with want. "Just looking at you."
You shake your head slowly, your eyes finding his in the dim light. Your hand lifts, fingers brushing the curve of his jaw, and you feel the slight rasp of stubble against your palm. "Stop looking," you say, and your voice comes out lower than you expected, almost a command. "Touch me."
Something flickers in his hazel eyes - surprise, then heat, then a slow kind of reverence. He doesn't answer with words. His hand slides from your ribs down to your hip, fingers curling into the waistband of your underwear, and he tugs. The fabric drags over your skin, past your thighs, past your knees, and you lift your hips to let him take them all the way off. The air hits you, cool and sharp, and you feel the dampness between your legs, the anticipation pooling.
He doesn't look down. Not yet. He stays hovered above you, his eyes locked on yours, and the weight of his gaze is almost unbearable. "Like this?" he asks, his thumb tracing the jut of her hipbone, featherlight. "Or do you want more?"
You reach up again, this time fisting your hand in his curls, pulling his mouth down to yours. It's not a gentle kiss - it's a demand, your tongue sliding against his, your teeth catching his lower lip. He groans against your mouth, and you feel the sound vibrate through his chest, into your own. "More," you breathe against his lips. "I want more."
Joe's mouth leaves yours, trailing down your chin, your throat, the hollow between your collarbones. You arch into him, your hands roaming his back, feeling the muscle shift under his warm skin. His lips find your breast again, and this time there's no teasing - he takes your nipple into his mouth, sucks hard, and you cry out, your hips bucking off the mattress. His hand moves to your other breast, thumb rubbing circles around the peak, and the dual sensation sends a bolt of heat straight to your core.
You're aware of your own sounds now - the gasps, the moans, the way his name keeps falling from your lips like a prayer. You don't care. The camera's red light is a distant star, irrelevant, invisible. All that exists is the wet heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble on your sensitive skin, the way his hand slides lower, palm flat against your stomach, fingers dipping into space between her legs.
You hold your breath. His fingers find you, one slow, deliberate stroke through your slick folds, and you shudder, your hands gripping his shoulders. "God, you're wet," he murmurs against your skin, and the words are thick with want, almost reverent. He does it again, slower, watching your face, and you let your head fall back, your lips parted, your eyes half-closed.
"Don't stop," you whisper. "Please."
He doesn't. His finger circles your clit, light and teasing, and you gasp, your hips chasing his hand. He chuckles low in his throat, a sound that's part amusement, part hunger. "You're so responsive," he says, his voice rough. "I love how you move for me."
You want to say something clever, something that matches his teasing, but his finger presses harder, more insistent, and the thought dissolves into a moan. He works you slowly, deliberately, watching every reaction - the way your stomach tenses, the way your fingers dig into his shoulders, the way your breath catches when he finds the exact right rhythm.
The pressure builds, warm and electric, coiling low in your belly. You feel the edge approaching, a wave about to break, and you grip his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours. You kiss him hard, desperate, your tongue sliding against his, and you feel his finger slide inside you, one slow inch, then two, curling just so. You break the kiss with a gasp, your forehead pressed against his.
"I'm close," you breathe. "Joe, I'm-"
"I know." His voice is a low rasp against your lips. His thumb finds your clit again, pressing in tight circles while his fingers move inside you, and you're floating, falling, the wave cresting and crashing, your body shaking against his hand. You cry out, his name breaking from your lips, and he holds you through it, his forehead still pressed to yours, his breath warm and uneven.
You come back to yourself slowly, the room swimming back into focus - the lamp light, the rumpled sheets, the weight of him above you. His hand is still between your legs, gentle now, stroking you through the aftershocks. You feel the slickness on his fingers, the evidence of how much you wanted this, and the flush rises to your cheeks.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice soft. There's no teasing in it now - just care, just him checking, the way he always does.
You nod, not trusting your voice yet. Your hand finds his, lacing your fingers through his, and you squeeze. He squeezes back.
Then Joe pulls his hand away, slow, and you watch him bring his fingers to his mouth. He licks them clean, one by one, his eyes never leaving yours. The gesture is possessive, primal, and you feel a fresh wave of heat pool between your legs.
"Your turn," you say, and your voice is steadier now, threaded with something darker. You push at his chest, a firm shove, and he rolls onto his back, letting you take control. You straddle his hips, looking down at him, his curls spread across the pillow, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths.
You trace a line down his sternum with your fingertip, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch. His hands find your thighs, gripping, thumbs stroking circles on the inside of your knees. "What do you want?" he asks, his voice strained.
You don't answer with words. You lean down, your hair falling forward, brushing his chest, his stomach, as you move lower. You kiss his collarbone, his sternum, the trail of hair leading down his belly. He sucks in a breath when your lips reach the waistband of his jeans, and you feel his cock hard against your cheek through the denim.
Your hands find his button, his zipper, working them open with practised ease. He lifts his hips, and you pull his jeans and underwear down his thighs, past his knees, until they're lost in the sheets. You take a moment to look - his cock, hard and flushed, curving against his stomach, a bead of moisture at the tip.
You wrap your hand around him, slow, and he hisses through his teeth. His hips buck involuntarily, and you feel a surge of power, of control. You stroke him once, twice, watching his face - the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes flutter shut.
"Look at me," you say, your voice soft but commanding. His eyes open, dark and heavy-lidded, and you hold his gaze as you lean down and take him into your mouth.
His groan is low, guttural, and his hand finds your hair, not pulling, just resting there, grounding himself. You move slowly, deliberately, taking him deep, feeling the pulse of him against your tongue. You hollow your cheeks, and his hips thrust up, a small, helpless movement. You hum around him, and he curses under his breath.
You work him with your mouth and hand, alternating rhythm, watching the way his expressions shift - the furrow of his brow, the way his lips part, the flutter of his eyelids. You love this, love the power of it, love the way you can undo him with nothing but your mouth.
"Fuck," he breathes, his voice ragged. "You're going to make me-"
You pull off, just before the edge, and he lets out a frustrated groan. You crawl up his body, your mouth finding his, and you taste yourself on his lips. "Not yet," you whisper. "I want you inside me."
His hands grip your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh. "Where?" he asks, his voice rough, almost a growl. "Where do you want me first?"
His hand slides down your body, palm flat against your stomach, fingers splayed wide, warm and heavy. The question hangs in the air, the only sound your ragged breathing, the distant hum of the city, the small red light of the camera, still blinking, still watching.
The word where doesn't fall away. It settles into the air between you, a third presence in the room now, alongside the camera. You feel it in your lungs, in the space where your next breath is waiting.
The red light blinks once. Steady. Patient. You've forgotten its exact location, know it only as a warmth at the edge of your vision, a witness that's no longer watching - just holding.
Joe's palm stays on your stomach. The heat of it seeps into your skin, spreads through you like honey through warm milk. You feel your own pulse beating against his fingers, a small, frantic bird trapped beneath your ribs.
You could say something. You could guide his hand lower, show him the answer instead of speaking it. But the question has weight, and you want to feel it a moment longer - want to let it sit in the space between you, gathering meaning.
His thumb moves. A single stroke across your skin, just below your navel. He's not rushing you. He never rushes you. Even now, with his cock hard against your thigh, with the evidence of your wanting still slick on his fingers, he waits.
The clock on the nightstand ticks. A train horn sounds in the distance, muffled by walls and windows and the heavy summer air. The sheets are tangled around your ankles, one corner hanging off the edge of the bed.
You shift beneath his hand. Your thighs press together, a reflexive clench, and you feel the wetness between them, the ache that hasn't stopped building since he first looked at you through the camera lens.
"Anywhere," you say, and your voice is a rasp, a confession. "Everywhere. I don't care. Just-" You break off, your hand finding his wrist, pressing his palm harder into your stomach. "Just fill me."
His breath catches. You feel it, the hitch of his ribs beneath your other hand. His eyes search yours, and you see the hunger there, barely leashed, waiting for your permission.
"You sure?" he asks, and it's not doubt - it's the final check, the last door before you fall through together.
You answer by pulling his mouth to yours. The kiss is deep, slow, a promise sealed with tongue and teeth and the soft sound you make when his hips press forward, his cock sliding along your wetness, finding home.
He breaks the kiss, just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, the gold flecks swallowed by pupil. "Tell me," he breathes. "Tell me where."
Your hand slips between you. You wrap your fingers around him, guiding the head to your entrance, holding him there. The pressure is maddening - the barest tip of him pressing against you, not entering, just promising.
"Right here," you whisper. You feel the word vibrate through your chest, through the air, through the point where you almost touch. "I want you right here."
You hold his gaze as you rock your hips forward, taking the head of him inside you. Just the head. Just enough to feel the stretch, the burn, the impossible fullness that's already building. You pause there, letting the sensation wash over you, letting him feel you clench around him.
Joe's exhale is a shudder, a prayer. His eyes flutter shut, then open, finding yours again. "Fuck," he breathes. "You feel-" He doesn't finish. Can't.
You know. You feel it too. The way he fits inside you, the way your body opens for him, the way the world narrows to the point where you're joined and the small, steady red light that's keeping watch.
You pull him deeper with your next breath. A slow, deliberate roll of your hips, and he slides in, inch by inch, until he's buried inside you. The fullness is a shock, a relief, a homecoming.
You stay like that for a moment. Connected. Still. The only sound is your breathing, ragged and synchronised, and the distant hum of a city that has no idea you both exist here.
"There," you say, your voice soft, almost lost against his lips. "Right there. That's where."
He moves inside you, slow and deep, and the world narrows to the point where you're joined - the slick heat of you, the way your body opens around him, the small, breathless sounds you make with each thrust. His hands find your hips, guiding, grounding, and you let yourself be moved, let yourself sink into the rhythm you're building together. The bed frame creaks beneath you, a soft, steady counterpoint to your breathing. The lamp light flickers - a bulb deciding whether to hold or falter - and settles back into its low glow.
His forehead presses against yours. His breath is warm and uneven, ghosting across your lips. You can taste yourself on him, faint and salty, and the intimacy of it makes your chest tighten. His thrusts are measured, deliberate, each one a question you answer with the roll of your hips.
You're aware of the camera, but distantly - a point of heat at the edge of your vision, like a stove burner left on in another room. You've been ignoring it, letting it fade the way he told you to. But now, with him moving inside you, with the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the small space between breaths, you feel a pull toward it. A curiosity. A dare.
Your hand finds his chest, palm flat against his sternum, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat. You push gently, and he understands, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, the gold flecks nearly swallowed. His curls hang forward, brushing your forehead.
"What?" he asks, his voice rough, barely a whisper.
You don't answer. Not with words. You hold his gaze as you turn your head, slow, deliberate, until your eyes find the phone on the dresser.
The red light is steady. Unblinking. Watching.
You feel the shift in the room - the way the air thickens, the way your pulse quickens. The camera has been there the whole time, but this is different. You're looking at it now. You're choosing it.
Your lips part. You feel his cock inside you, still, waiting. You feel the heat rising from your chest, the flush spreading across your skin. You hold the camera's gaze - the tiny, unblinking red eye - and you speak.
"Joe."
His name. Just his name. But the way you say it is different - slower, heavier, weighted with something you've never quite put into words. You say it like you're showing the camera exactly who you're with, exactly what you want, exactly how far you're willing to fall.
You turn your head back to him, your eyes finding his. The room has gone still. The only movement is the rise and fall of your chests, the slight tremor in his arms where they bracket your body.
His face has changed. The hunger is still there, but underneath it something else has surfaced - a rawness, a vulnerability, the same thing you feel blooming in your own chest. He's seen you look at the camera. He's heard you say his name that way. And he knows what it means.
"Say it again," he breathes, and his voice is broken, a plea dressed as a request.
You turn your head back to the lens. The red light catches your eye, holds you, and you let yourself be held.
"Joe," you say, and this time your voice is steadier, surer. You say it like a confession, like a promise, like a secret you're finally ready to share. You say it like you want the camera to know his name, to remember it, to carry it through the miles that are coming.
His hips press forward, a sharp, involuntary thrust, and you gasp, your hand gripping his shoulder. He's watching you, his eyes dark and intense, and you watch him watch you as you turn your head back to the lens.
You don't break the gaze this time. You hold it, steady, as he moves inside you. His rhythm is faster now, harder, driven by something that's shifted between you. You feel the change in your own body - the way you open wider, the way your hips meet his, the way the camera's red light becomes a third heartbeat in the room.
"I want you to watch this later," you say, and your voice is low, rough, meant for the lens. "I want you to see what you do to me."
His groan is guttural, broken. His hand finds your jaw, turning your face back to him, and he kisses you hard, desperate, his tongue sliding against yours. You taste the salt of his skin, the edge of his want, and you sink into the kiss, letting it carry you.
When he breaks away, his forehead is pressed to yours, his breath ragged. "Look at it again," he says, and it's not a request. "Look at the camera and tell me what you want."
You do. You turn your head, find the red light, hold it like a staring contest. Your hand slides down between you both, your fingers finding where you're joined, feeling the slick heat of him moving inside you.
You feel yourself in the frame. Not just your body - you, the whole of you, the wanting and the being wanted, the choice you keep making with every breath. Your fingers trace the slick ring where you meet, spreading the wetness across your own skin, and you watch yourself do it through the camera's eye. The gesture is for you as much as for it - proof that this is real, that you're here, that you want this enough to mark yourself with the evidence.
His pace falters. You feel the hitch in his rhythm, the way his hips stutter as he watches you watch yourself. His hand covers yours, pressing your fingers harder against yourself, and you gasp at the pressure - your own touch amplified by his, your fingers caught between your body and his, feeling him move through your hand.
"Like that," he breathes, and his voice is wrecked. "Keep your hand there."
You don't look away from the lens. Your fingers press, circle, find the spot where you need him most, and you let the camera see exactly how you touch yourself, exactly how you want to be touched. The red light blinks - once, twice - and you imagine him watching this later, alone in a hotel room, his hand moving in the same rhythm as yours. The thought sends a pulse of heat through you, a fresh wave of wetness that you feel against your fingers.
His thrusts are deeper now, harder, driven by something that's shifted between you. The camera has become a third participant, a silent witness that amplifies every touch, every sound, every shared breath. You feel the performance of it - not fake, not forced, but heightened, sharpened by the knowledge that this moment will outlast the night.
"Tell me what you see," he says, his voice low and rough against your ear. His hand stays over yours, guiding your fingers where he knows you need them. "Tell me what the camera sees."
You hold the red light in your gaze. Your lips part. Your body opens around him, a slow, deliberate clench that makes him groan.
"I see me." Your voice is steady, threaded with something raw and honest. "I see me taking you. I see how wet I am for you, how wide I open, how much I need this." You pause, your fingers pressing harder against yourself as he thrusts deeper. "I see me falling apart."
His hand leaves yours, sliding up your stomach, your ribs, until his palm cups your breast. His thumb finds your nipple, rolling it between his fingers, and you arch into the touch, your breath catching. He keeps moving inside you, steady and deep, and you keep your eyes on the lens, letting the camera see every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face.
"Look at you," he murmurs, and his voice is thick with awe. "Look at what you're doing to me."
You feel him pulse inside you, feel the tremor that runs through his thighs, and you know he's close. But you're not ready for this to end. Not yet. Not when the camera is still watching, still holding every second of you together.
You pull your hand out from between you both, bring your fingers to your mouth. You taste yourself on your tongue - salt and want and the faint musk of him - and you hold the camera's eye as you lick your fingers clean, slow and deliberate, one by one.
Joe makes a sound you've never heard from him before. Something broken and reverent, a word that might be your name but comes out as a groan. His hips lose their rhythm, his composure cracking, and you feel the shift - the moment when he stops trying to last and starts letting go.
"Joe." You say his name to the camera, your voice a command and a plea. "Look at me. Look at the camera and let it see you come."
His eyes find the lens. You watch his face as he looks at it - the way his jaw tightens, the way his pupils blow wide, the way his breath catches and holds. You watch him give himself to the camera the way you did, offering up his pleasure as proof that this is real.
He comes with a shudder, his hips pressing deep, his forehead falling to your shoulder. You feel the pulse of him inside you, hot and filling, and come right after him. You hold him through it, your hand finding his hair, your eyes still on the red light. You want the camera to see this too - the way he collapses against you, the way his breath evens out, the way you hold him through the aftershocks.
The room settles. The only sounds are your breathing, the faint hum of the city, the small, steady presence of the camera still recording.
He lifts his head, his eyes finding yours. There's something new in his gaze - a tenderness that wasn't there before, or maybe it was, maybe it's just visible now, through the lens of what you've done.
"Hi," he says, soft, the way he said it at the start.
"Hi."
He kisses you, slow and gentle, a kiss that tastes like salt and want and the beginning of something you're not ready to name. When he pulls back, his thumb traces your cheek, brushing away a strand of hair that's stuck to your skin.
"I'm going to watch that a hundred times," he says, and his voice is rough with honesty. "A thousand. Every night I'm gone."
You smile, small and private, your hand still tangled in his curls. "Good."
You turn your head back to the camera. The red light is steady, patient, still holding you both in its gaze. You look at it for a long moment - at the future version of him who will watch this, at the miles that will stretch between you, at the proof of this night that will carry through all of it.
You speak to it, your voice low and sure. "I'll be waiting."
The red light blinks once. Steady. Patient. A promise held in light and glass and the space between two people who refuse to let distance win.
dividers: saradika-graphics
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