haiii can you do femboy camboy yandere x yn ? :3
💋🅈🄾🅄 🄰🄻🅆🄰🅈🅂 🅆🄰🅃🄲🄷 🄼🄴, 🄳🄾🄽’🅃 🅈🄾🅄?💋
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[⚠️Content Warning ⚠️]: 18+ content, femboy camboy yandere x gn!reader, filthy, explicit, obsessive, teasing, worship, voyeurism, begging, domination/submission blend, praise/degradation, possession, edging, exhibitionism, camboy energy, choking/light breath play, mutual masturbation overstimulation, soft-yandere devotion laced with dangerous obsession.
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You didn’t mean to click on his stream. Honestly, you were just scrolling — tired, bored, looking for noise to fill the silence.
And then his thumbnail caught your eye. Pink lights. Soft skin. Glossy lips. A collar with a tiny silver heart resting on his throat.
A femboy with a look that could ruin someone’s entire sleep schedule. You clicked before you even realized you had. The stream opened with soft moaning music and LED lights casting blue and rose shadows across his slim body.
He was sitting cross-legged on his bed in a cropped sweater that barely reached his ribs, thigh-highs hugging delicate legs, a tiny skirt bunched around his hips. He was talking to chat, voice light and breathy as he rubbed lotion onto his thighs.
"Ahh— it’s cold~” he giggled, shivering dramatically.
The comments were exploding. But you barely saw them. He was too pretty. Too hypnotizing. Too unreal. You almost backed out.
You weren’t a regular. You didn’t even know him. But then—Your single, simple message appeared in chat.
Just a greeting. A throwaway emoji. And the moment it popped up—
He froze. Completely. Still. Silent. His eyes widened like he’d seen something impossible.
Then they slowly lifted to the camera…focused directly on your username…and he whispered, too soft for anyone but you to feel:
Your heart skipped. He leaned closer, face filling the screen, lips slightly parted like tasting the syllables of your name.
"Uhm— you’re new,” he murmured, almost shy.
The chat exploded. Jealous, feral. But he wasn’t looking at them anymore. He was staring at the screen like only you existed. His cheeks tinted pink. He tugged on his sleeve nervously. His thighs pressed together, like he couldn’t control the reaction of his own body.
You typed something small — a single sentence. And he looked like he’d been touched.
He bit his lip, eyes fluttering.
“You talk so nicely… I like that.”
His voice dropped. Soft. Gentle. A little breathless. Like he was already imagining how you’d sound saying his name. He twirled a strand of pastel hair around his finger, pretending to be cute — but his eyes…
His eyes were ravenous. Hungry. Fixed. Starving for attention he hadn’t even earned yet. And with every message you typed, his smile changed. Sweeter. Deeper. Almost relieved. As if he’d been waiting for you. As if he knew you. As if your username wasn’t just another line of text, but something sacred.
He read your messages out loud, voice dipping lower.
“I love when you talk to me…”
His lashes fluttered. His thighs shifted. Every time you said something, he visibly reacted — a tiny gasp, a bitten lip, a shy smile he tried to hide. The stream wasn’t sexual. Not yet.
But something about the way he looked at the screen—Like he wanted to climb through it and sit in your lap. Like he wanted your hands on his thighs instead of his own. Like he was fighting the urge to say your name with a moan—It was already too much.
You tried to leave after a while. Just to test. You closed the tab for a minute. When you returned, the first thing you heard was his shaky voice:
“Did I… say something wrong? You left. I noticed.”
Chat teased him for caring so much. But he didn’t even pretend he wasn’t affected.
“You scared me,” he whispered, almost pouting. “I liked you here.”
He smiled again when you typed back.
A real smile. Bright. Relieved. And that was the moment he fell. Hard. Instantly. Completely.
The moment he decided he needed you.
That he didn’t just want you as a viewer—He wanted you as something else. Something closer. Something deeper. Something he could touch.
Because in that first glimpse…You weren’t just another name in his chat. You were the one he couldn’t stop looking at. The one he couldn’t stop thinking about. The one he would obsess over long after the stream ended. And he did.
You didn’t expect to see him in person.
Not in a dim little corner shop. Not wearing an oversized hoodie that swallowed his frame, mask hiding everything but those unmistakable eyes. You were reaching for a drink in the cooler when someone stopped beside you. You noticed him first. He noticed you second. But when he did—He froze.
A soft gasp slipped out behind the mask, barely audible, but enough. His fingers tightened around the bottle he hadn’t even picked up properly. His eyes widened like he’d been struck by lightning. He recognized you. Immediately. Even without a username floating above your head.
“You—” he breathed. Quiet. Shy. Stunned.
You turned toward him fully, and he looked away for half a second like your face was too bright, too real, too overwhelming.Then he forced himself to meet your eyes again.
“You’re… you.” His voice cracked.
“That sounded stupid— I meant— you’re really you.”
He shifted on his feet, nervous energy vibrating off him in warm waves. Pink dusted his cheeks, even with the mask partially hiding it. He tucked a piece of hair behind his ear, then promptly messed up the movement, then tried to fix it, giving up entirely when his fingers started trembling. Cute. Too cute.
He cleared his throat, voice soft and breathy in that way you recognized from his streams, but gentler now, stripped of showmanship — just him.
“I… watch you,” he blurted. He froze again.
“I mean— no, not like that, I just— you come to my streams and I— you type things and I—” He groaned softly, face in his hands for a second.
You told him it was okay. And it was like you’d turned a key in his chest. His shoulders relaxed. His fingers stopped trembling. He looked at you like you’d just saved him from drowning.
“You’re even prettier up close,” he said under his breath.
You weren’t even sure he meant to say it out loud. He stood there, feet shifting, body leaning slightly toward you like gravity itself was tugging on him. Like he couldn’t help but want to be closer. The store’s fridge hummed. People walked by. But he only looked at you. His gaze traced your features with shy hunger.
But possessive in a way that made your spine warm.
“You smell nice,” he whispered before he could stop himself. His eyes fluttered shut for a second.
"I’m… sorry. That was weird.”
But he didn’t move away. Didn’t try. Didn’t want to. His hoodie was slipping off one shoulder. A soft lock of pastel hair peeked out. His breathing was a little too quick. He swallowed, voice suddenly small:
“Can I—? Can I walk with you? Just for a bit? I won’t be weird, I swear, I just…”
He looked at the floor. Then up at you, eyes vulnerable and aching.
"I don’t want this moment to be over.”
You agreed. He exhaled shakily — relief flooding him like warmth. Walking beside you outside the shop, he stayed close. A little too close. His hand brushed yours once, and he flinched like it shot through him.
“I’ve dreamed about meeting you,” he whispered, not realizing he said it aloud until it was already hanging in the cold air.
He added quietly—“I didn’t think it would actually happen.”
He looked at you again. And this time, nothing shy about it. Just longing. Intensity. A fragile, obsessive devotion blooming behind his eyes.
"Please… can we talk more?” he asked. Voice soft. Hopeful. Desperate in the sweetest way.
“I don’t want to say goodbye yet.”
And you didn’t. You walked. You talked. You let him laugh, blush, peek at your hands like he wanted to hold them but feared he’d break if he tried. By the time you parted ways, he was trembling with a happiness he couldn’t hide. And when he whispered “goodnight,” it wasn’t a goodbye. It was a promise. One he fully intended to keep. Because meeting you in real life didn’t calm his obsession.
It only made it stronger. Realer. Hungrier. And now he wasn’t just watching you through a screen. Now he wanted to touch you.
When you got home, you kept telling yourself you wouldn’t check if he was streaming. You wouldn’t open your phone. You wouldn’t think about the way he looked at you earlier—wide-eyed, breathless, like he’d found the person he’d been fantasizing about for months. But the notification appeared anyway: “LIVE • — just for you.”
Your pulse jumped. You knew it was ridiculous. He shouldn’t know where you were, if you were watching, if you were even thinking of him—but the moment you clicked, the screen filled with him.
Not the shy boy you ran into hours earlier. But the boy who’d been starving for you long before you ever met him. The boy who stared straight into the lens like the camera was you. The boy who whispered your name under his breath like an oath, like a promise, like he’d been waiting all night for this moment.
And when he smiled—slow, trembling, dangerous—you realized something: Meeting you in person didn’t calm his obsession. It accelerated it.
This wasn’t just another stream. This was him unraveling because of you. And he wanted you to watch every second of it.
Your screen glowed in the dark as the stream went live… and there he was: your pretty little femboy obsession, thighs spread, soft pink garter hugging the curve of his legs, a silk ribbon choker tied around his throat like he belonged to someone. Belonged to you. He leaned close to the camera, licking a slow stripe across his glossed lips.
"Mm… you’re here.” His voice dripped sugar and something far hungrier.
“I knew you’d come watch me again, sweetheart.”
His nails—painted black—traced down his own chest, over the sheer mesh crop top that revealed just enough to torment. His pierced nipples pressed against the fabric. He shivered, smiling.
“I put this on for you. You like when I look pretty, right? When I look like a filthy little doll just for you?”
His hand slid between his thighs, cupping himself, grinding down on his palm like he couldn’t help it.
“God… I get so hard when you watch me.”
You swallowed, heat pooling low in your stomach. You couldn’t help it. Your hands fidgeted, restless, mirroring the way his trembled on the screen.
He tilted his head, smirk becoming sharper, too sharp for how sweet his tone was.
"Do you touch yourself when I go live? Tell me.” He pouted.
"You know I hate when you ignore me.”
You typed a short response, but he didn’t even look at the chat—he looked at you, straight through the camera, like he could see the heat building in your stomach.
“No,” he breathed. "Don’t type. Say it. Out loud.”
"Good,” he whispered, smiling as if he heard you.
“Now I’ll show you what you do to me.”
He shifted, lifting his hips, revealing the tiny pink panties barely containing the throbbing outline beneath. He let out a broken little moan at his own touch.
“You like this… don’t you? Watching me fall apart for you?”
His thighs trembled as he pulled the panties aside, freeing himself—already leaking, flushed, sensitive. He hissed through his teeth.
“I get like this just thinking about you.”
His free hand wrapped around his own throat lightly, squeezing, cheeks flushing.
The breathy moan he let out could have ruined saints. He stroked himself slowly at first, teasing, running his thumb over the leaking tip. His lashes fluttered.
"Do you know what I think about when I stream?”
He paused, fingers tightening around his length.
“Your hands. On me. Marking me. Using me.”
He whimpered, hips jerking.
“I imagine you making me ride your thigh until I’m crying… telling me I’m your good little pet.”
He leaned closer, breath fogging the camera.
"And I’d obey. Every word. Always.”
He sped up—wet, obscene sounds echoing through your speakers. He moaned your name like a prayer that was getting dangerous.
"You’re the only one I stream for. The only one I want watching me fall apart.”
You couldn’t resist anymore. Your hands slid beneath your clothes, mimicking, mirroring, following the rhythm you imagined he wanted. Every shift, every gasp, every tremble you made seemed to make him shiver, lean forward, desperate to see you.
You shivered at the thought, your own pulse screaming in your ears. Your hands mirrored his movements in an echo of the heat he projected. Even unseen, he felt it. He knew it.
His voice dropped, something darker flickering beneath the sweetness.
“I don’t even want anyone else seeing me like this. It should be just you. Only you.” A slow, possessive smile.
“And I’ll make you understand that.”
Your chest rose and fell faster, mirroring his rhythm even without the physical connection. Your breaths came ragged, wet, trembling. The sight of him, so fragile yet so desperate for your attention, stole your control in the most delicious way.
His pace increased—fast, desperate, messy. He spread his legs wider, arching, rolling his hips in perfect ruined rhythm. He was getting close—too close. His breath trembled. His thighs shook.
The room felt like it was vibrating. Two screens, two bodies, two desperate, shaking breaths. You weren’t touching him — he was just pixels, light, obsession — but the tension between you was so thick you could almost taste it.
But suddenly—He stopped. Completely. His hand froze at the base of his cock, squeezing hard to deny himself the orgasm that was seconds away. He whimpered violently, curling forward, panting.
“N-no—fuck—” He looked up at you, eyes glassy, pupils blown.
“You didn’t tell me I could cum.” His voice cracked in a needy plea.
“Please… let me. Please. I’ll be so good for you.”
He slipped his fingers under his garter and snapped it against his thigh, the jolt making him gasp.
“I’ll do anything. Begging. On my knees. I don’t care.”
He bit his lip until it almost bled. “Just say the word.”
His muscles trembled, the denial making him shake with anticipation.
“I’m yours,” he whispered. “You know that, right?”
A soft giggle, dizzy with lust.
“I’d ruin myself for you… over and over… until I can’t even say my own name.” His chest heaved.
“So tell me…” He tightened his grip, trembling on the edge.
"Do you want to watch your pretty femboy cum for you tonight?”
His fingers were already trembling when you said the word.
Your chest heaved. Every breath caught in your throat. He tilted his head, smirk soft but sharp, eyes dark with obsession.
The effect was instant—a soft, broken gasplike he’d been holding his breath for hours. He looked straight into the camera, pupils blown, cheeks flushed, hand still wrapped tight around his dripping cock.
“F–fuck— you actually said it…”
His voice cracked into a needy moan.
He didn’t move yet. Didn’t stroke. He just let the permission melt through him, eyes fluttering shut, hips lifting instinctively like he was offering himself to you through the screen.
"I’ve been waiting… so long,” he whispered, breath shaking. “Don’t look away. I want you to see everything.”
He started slow—a tight, wet stroke from base to tip, his legs spreading wider as he exhaled a trembling moan.
“God— it’s too much— I’m so sensitive from earlier—”
He should’ve stopped. You could see his thighs shaking from the earlier denial. He was aching. But now that you’d said yes? He was ruined. He sped up, wet sounds echoing obscenely, his breath hitching every time his thumb passed over the leaking, swollen head.
"Y-you’re watching me, right? Right?”
His voice rose with panic and desire.
“I want you to see me fall apart. I want—”
A sudden, sharp gasp cut him off. His hips thrust upward violently, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. His whole body tensed—And his first orgasm hit him so hard it knocked a choked sob out of him.
Hot ropes spilled over his fingers, his stomach, his thighs. He trembled—shuddering through it, moaning your name so softly it almost sounded like a prayer. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down.
Still panting, still dazed, he kept jerking himself with the same intensity, the same desperation—Even though his body was twitching from overstimulation, his back arching, legs kicking against the sheets.
"N–no— no, I’m not done— please don’t let me be done—”
He whined, high-pitched, almost frantic.“You said I could cum— you didn’t say how many times—”
His voice broke into hysterical little moans as his overstimulated cock jerked in his hand, too red, too sensitive, leaking messily. He used his other hand to grip his thigh, nails digging into the garter strap as he cried out again from the overwhelming sensation.
“Please— please— it hurts— it feels so fucking good— I can’t— I can’t stop—”
He was rambling, lost in it, completely gone. His hips bucked. Another orgasm slammed into him, sudden and sharp, his entire body convulsing as he sobbed your name into the microphone.
"S-shit— too much— too much—! But I want to— I want to be good for you— I want to cum again—”
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, leaning forward so close the screen fogged with your breath.
He grabbed the base hard, trying to ride out the wave, but he was shaking violently. You could see streaks of release dripping from his stomach, his thighs, the sheets. But he was still grinding into his own fist desperately like he couldn’t bear the thought of stopping. Like he’d die before disappointing you.
You matched him, fast and slow, teasing yourself the way he teased you, until the air was full of gasps and trembling.
"I want your praise— I want you to tell me I’m pretty— I want—”
His words dissolved into raw, breathless whimpers. He slumped forward, forehead almost touching the camera, sweat and tears mixing down his cheeks, voice wrecked.
“Tell me…” He begged, panting hard.
“Tell me to keep going. Tell me to ruin myself for you again.”
His hand didn’t stop moving. Not even for a second. He was shaking so hard his bracelets jingled against each other.
“Please,” he whispered, voice weak and trembling.
"Use me.” He looked desperate. Destroyed. Beautiful. And completely, helplessly devoted.
You let out a shuddering moan. He mirrored it immediately, a soft, broken sound, like a confession. Like he was ruined by the idea of you, by the proof that you were as lost in him as he was in you.
And even though nothing was physically crossing the room, the connection, the obsession, the hunger between you, was undeniable.
You were both caught, mirrored, lost in each other’s heat, trembling, begging without words, offering everything you had, only for the other to see.
When the last shudder rolled through you—when his breath hitched across the room in perfect, devastating harmony—you both knew this was nothing close to an ending. It was a promise. A prelude. The first crack in the dam of something far more dangerous.
Because the next time, he won’t settle for distance or imagination.
He’ll want your taste melting on his tongue, your thighs trembling around his face, worshipping you with soft, desperate devotion, pressing against your thigh as you ride him, trembling beneath your hands.
Completely yours to use however you please.
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