afk (m).
pairing: streamer!haechan x reader
word count: 3k
summary: he swears the camera’s off, but the way Haechan bends you over his gaming chair says otherwise.
warnings: filming/ live streaming, fingering, unprotected sex, a lot of dirty talk, breeding, hair pulling
a.n: this is one of my favorites omg i should've made it longer
The red light on the camera is dark. The chat box is minimized to a skinny gray pillar on the second monitor. On the first, OBS sits open on the “BRB” splash, no audio meters bouncing, no mic monitoring, no green bar rising and falling to catch your breath.
Haechan says it’s off.
He says it like it’s an afterthought, like he doesn’t notice his own hand flattening at the base of your spine as he eases you forward, bending you over the edge of his gaming chair until the seat bites your thighs. The leather is warm from him. The room hums with fans and the soft whirr of RGB underglow. Keys sit scattered in a crescent where he dropped them mid-laugh when you walked in—because you said, on stream, “you owe me dinner,” and the chat spammed emotes of rings and knives and clown faces while Haechan just smirked into his mic.
“Relax,” he says now, low in your ear. “We’re offline.”
“You sure?” Your voice comes out thinner than you intend, backed against leather and the unavoidable truth that every single thing in this room points to that dead camera like a witness: boom arm, ring light, the tripod angled center at the chair where you’re bent.
Haechan smiles. You don’t have to see it to know; you feel it in the way his cheek brushes your temple, the way his thumb drags just above the waistband of your skirt. “You don’t trust me?”
You do. That’s the problem. You trust him enough to come over after midnight. Trust him enough to watch his last two ranked matches from the corner of the room, half-amused, half turned-on at the filthy confidence of his voice when he talks to chat. Trust him enough to stand here in front of a rig designed to make thousands of people see him.
“I trust you,” you say.
“Good.” He taps your hip. “Then stay right there.”
You can feel him looking—at you, at the lens, at both. His palm slides lower, fingers fanning. You shift and the chair creaks. The noise is obscene in the quiet. He laughs into your neck like he planned for this exact sound.
“Haechan.”
“What?”
"Stop teasing."
No words. Just his hand in your hair, tugging you back with a lazy kind of force that says he’s done playing nice.
“Fuck,” you say, and then you gasp because his other hand has stolen under your skirt and found the heat you’ve been trying to ignore since he ended the stream. The panties you wore were for you, not for him—black, thin, a ribbon at the hip that you tied thinking you’d get fed and kissed and teased, not bent over the chair he spends eight hours a day in while strangers beg him to look at the camera.
He finds the ribbon. He pulls. The bow gives with a soft whisper. “Cute,” he says, lazy with approval, and the elastic parts enough for his knuckles to drift down and stroke you there, barely, the kind of touch that’s worse than any pressure. You bite your lip.
You didn’t hear the soft click from the keyboard.
You didn’t notice the way his eyes flicked toward the monitor before he kissed your spine again.
“So…what would you do if it was on?”
Your answer is not a sentence. It’s a full-body shiver that starts at your knees and climbs your spine where his palm still steadies you. He feels it. He always does. He makes a pleased sound and does it again, deeper, slicker now, the glide of it making your eyes pinch shut.
“Say you’d like it,” he says, just to be cruel.
“Haechan,” you warn.
“Say it,” he repeats, pressuring the word against your throat with a kiss.
“I'd like it,” you whisper. You hate him for making you say it and you want him for it exactly as much.
“That’s my good girl.”
You grip the front edge of the chair seat until your knuckles blanch. He gives you two fingers at once, curls them, and your hips tip. The leather sighs. Your mouth opens on nothing. If there were meters on the screen, they’d be spiking now; if the red light were on, it would be catching the way your lashes fumble against your cheeks, the wet shine between your legs, the desperate sight of you spreading for his hand.
“Haechan—”
He doesn’t speed up. He lingers. He works you like he has all night, like the last thing he said to chat wasn’t “I’m starving, we’re ordering food,” with a wink that made the sub notification train go feral. He drags the pad of his thumb up to your clit and breathes a laugh when your hips try to chase him.
“Please,” you say, and the word falls out of you a little ragged. You’re not above pleading when it’s just him and the humming fans and a door with a lock. “Please, baby.”
Oh if it only were just him.
“Yeah?” He strokes you a little firmer, a little faster, reward for asking nicely. “You want to come on my hand or on my dick?”
Heat hits your cheeks. “Yes.”
He chuckles. “Greedy.” His fingers withdraw and you hear the zip of denim; the little metallic clink of his belt unhooking makes your stomach drop in the best way. “Hands on the armrests. Arch for me.”
You do, breath hitching when his palm slides to your lower back to guide your curve just so. “Fuck,” he says softly, reverent in a way that makes your chest clench. “You’re unreal.”
You want to look back at him. You don’t. The not-looking is its own kink tonight. You stare forward at the dead dark of the room and let your imagination run wild. How he'd look, fluffy brown hair in disarray, his t-shirt pushed up and snagged between his teeth, cock out and flushed pretty pink.
He presses himself along your slit in a lazy, taunting glide, hot and thick and exactly the size that makes your thoughts stutter.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Haechan,” you say, wrecked and impatient and more honest than you meant to be. “Please.”
He sinks into you in one long, steady push that empties the air from your lungs. You choke on a sound he swallows against the back of your neck. His fingers flatten beside yours on the armrest, caging you there as your body takes him, deep, deeper, until your heels are lifting uselessly out of your slippers and your eyes are glassing at the fullness.
“God,” he groans, hips flush to your ass. “You always—fuck—you always feel like you’re gonna break me.”
“Move,” you whisper. “Move.”
He does. He draws back slow and drives in like he’s remembering exactly where every nerve in you lives. The chair rocks. The ring light—off—throws a thin halo of plastic in the corner of your vision. The whole room smells like him, like warm skin, like cologne and desk wood and the clean spice of his shampoo from the shower he took between games two and three while you laid on his bed and scrolled the thirst in his comments.
You’re so far gone you don’t even hear the soft click of a key.
But you do hear him chuckle.
“You should see the chat,” he says casually, voice a little too calm for the way he’s driving into you. “They’re losing their minds over how good your ass looks like this.”
Your stomach drops—and clenches at the same time.
“What?” you gasp, trying to look back.
He presses a firm hand to the back of your neck, not rough, just enough to keep your gaze forward. “Stream’s live, baby,” he murmurs, breath hot at your ear. “Mic’s off, but they can see everything. Every bounce, every curve. You should see what they’re typing.”
Your pulse slams into overdrive. You don’t know whether to pull away or melt deeper into the armrest. Your face burns—shame or lust or both, you can’t tell. Your body, traitorous and lit up, clamps around him.
“Fuck—” he hisses, digging his fingers into your hips. “See? You like it.”
You do. God help you, you do.
He pulls out just far enough to make you whimper, then snaps his hips back in. The chair creaks. You brace yourself on the armrests, flushed and panting.
“Want to hear what they’re saying?” he asks, and you shake your head before you can stop yourself. You don’t want to know—but you need to.
He doesn’t wait for permission.
“‘Her body’s insane.’” Another thrust. “‘Bounce that shit again, bro, PLEASE.’” He laughs, low and breathless. “Oh, here’s a good one—‘Whoever she is, she’s built to be fucked like this.’”
You make a sound that’s not a word. Your thighs tremble.
“And this one…” He leans in, voice dropping, almost sweet. “‘God, imagine being buried in that ass while she just takes it.’”
You clench around him so hard he groans, the rhythm faltering for a second.
“You like them watching,” he says, not a question. “You like them talking about your body like it’s theirs.”
Your face is hot. You want to deny it—but your body’s giving you away with every arch, every moan, every desperate push back onto him.
One more thrust, deep enough to knock the breath from your lungs.
"Say it," he growls into your neck. "Say you like it."
You bite your lip, hard enough to sting. You don’t want to say it. Don’t want to give him that satisfaction.
But you’re too far gone. Your body’s already betrayed you—slick, shaking, wrecked around him.
“I… I like it,” you gasp. It comes out small, strangled.
He doesn’t let that slide.
“Louder.”
You shake your head, eyes squeezed shut, and he rewards you with another punishing thrust, angled cruelly perfect.
“Say it.”
“I like it,” you cry out, louder this time, shameless and breathless.
His breath catches at your ear. “You like being watched,” he murmurs. “You like knowing they’re out there jerking off to you. You like being my fuckshow.”
You sob—half denial, half raw pleasure—as he drives into you again, unforgiving.
“That’s it,” he pants. “Show them what you were made for.”
He sets a rhythm that’s crueler than fast. It’s measured, punishing only in how generous it feels. He pulls you open, seats you down, grinds there just long enough to make you gasp, then does it again. The sound of it is filthy—wet, honest, a slap where your bodies meet. He breathes through his teeth and presses a kiss to your shoulder like penance.
“Look up,” he says.
You do—barely, dizzy from the rhythm—but it’s not a mirror he’s pointing to. It’s the screen. The stream. Comments flying, hearts pulsing in the corner, proof that they’re still watching. All of them. Still there. Still starving.
You see your own reflection too, flushed and wrecked, mouth parted, eyes glazed.
“Turn the mic on,” you whisper.
He stills.
“What?” His voice is hoarse, disbelieving.
You swallow hard. “I want them to hear.”
Something in him snaps.
He reaches out without breaking rhythm, flicks the switch. The mic comes alive with a soft click—then the sound of your breath, ragged and exposed, fills the room.
“There,” he says, low and sharp. “Now they can hear every little noise you make when I fuck you like this.”
He slams in deep, once, just to make you cry out—and the mic catches all of it. Your moan, raw and helpless. The wet drag of him moving inside you. The slap, over and over. It’s obscene. Intimate. Broadcasting everything.
“Let ‘em hear how wet you are,” he growls. “How much you need it. You think they’re jerking off now? Baby, they’re obsessed. You’re giving them everything.”
You can’t respond—your body’s too busy pulsing around him, chasing friction, falling apart.
“You hear that?” he says, voice dropping to a dark purr. “That’s the sound of a good girl getting fucked exactly how she needs. Let them memorize it.”
He thrusts harder now, the rhythm vicious but controlled. Every moan he rips from you goes straight to the mic. Every gasp, every curse, every half-sob.
“They’ll never touch you. Never have you. But they’ll remember this. Every sound. Every second.”
You whimper, trembling, close again—too close.
He grins against your skin. "Tell me what you're thinking."
“I’m thinking,” you say, and then you break off with a strangled noise because his hips punch forward and flatten you right over the chair arm, your breath knocked clean out of your lungs.
He doesn’t ease up.
“You’re thinking what?” he presses, voice tight. “That you love being used like this? That you love being their fucking fantasy?”
You try to speak, but it’s useless—he’s fucking the words out of you. All that comes is a moan, high and broken.
“No hiding,” he growls. “Say it.”
“I—fuck—I’m thinking I want them to hear me come.”
That stops him for half a second. Then his fingers dig in like he's grounding himself, like your words did something to him he wasn’t ready for.
And then he starts moving again—harder, sharper, relentless.
“They will,” he promises, breath ragged. “Loud and clear, baby. You're gonna come with my cock buried in you and your voice in their ears like a goddamn prayer.”
You sob—needy, aching—and ride the edge, everything in you pulled tight and trembling.
“They’ll dream about this,” he says, right into the mic now, filthy and unrepentant. “Every night. Wishing it was them. Wishing they could make you sound like this.”
He reaches around, fingers sliding down to where you're slick and aching, rubbing circles that make your thighs shake.
“Let go,” he orders. “Show them what it's like when you come on me.”
You don’t stand a chance. “Haechan—don’t—”
“Don’t what?” He laughs softly into your hair. “Don’t stop? Don’t make you come yet?” The hand at your throat slides and tilts your chin a fraction, like he’s forcing you to look at the lens. “Tell them.”
“Fuck you,” you gasp.
“You’re doing great,” he says cheerfully, and then he swats your ass with his free hand in a sharp, quick slap that makes you jerk forward. Heat blooms under your skin where he touched. You whimper.
He pets the sting. “So jumpy,” he croons. “So loud for me. You going to be good and come when I tell you?”
You nod. “Yes,” you breathe, and you mean it, you’d sign anything with your pulse.
“Good girl.”
He changes the angle. It’s small—an inch of adjustment, a nudge at your knee, a tug at your hip—and then he’s right there, fucking into the soft spot that turns your spine to wire and your breath to smoke. You make a noise you don’t recognize and he laughs, delighted, chasing that sound again and again, relentless now in the way only he knows how to be. The chair protests. The desk shivers.
“You’re—” He breaks off, jaw tight against your shoulder. “You’re squeezing me. You close?”
“Mh—mmh—yes—”
“Hold it,” he says, and the command is bright as a match struck in the dark. You clamp your teeth and shake, hovering there at the precipice, every muscle singing with the want to tip. He doesn’t let you. He keeps you right where he wants you with his palm at your hip and the low sweet encouragement of his mouth at your ear. “You can take it. I know you can. You’re my best girl, yeah? You can hold it.”
You whine. He’s merciless. He loves this power—loves when you give it to him. You do. You always do. Your thighs tremble, your nails bite the chair, your vision goes buzzy at the edges.
“Please,” you hear yourself say. “Please, Haechan, please.”
He grunts, hips stuttering a fraction. “Fuck, baby. You make me crazy when you beg.” He drags his thumb up, finds your clit, and you yelp at the contact, full-body wrecked and grateful and so close you could cry. “Breathe for me. There you go.” Two strokes. Three. “Now.”
You come like your whole body has been waiting on permission. It’s sharp and hot and mean, tension snapping all at once into a pulse that rips a sound straight out of you. His name is one syllable, then two, then something that isn’t language at all while your muscles clench around him and you feel him thicken inside you with a choked curse. He keeps fucking you through it, rougher now, chasing his own edge, the rhythm losing its polish and becoming pure need.
“Where—” he pants, broken, “—where do you want me?”
“Inside,” you gasp. “Inside, inside—”
He swears, deep and filthy, and grabs you. The hand on your throat slides to your chest, pulls you back into him as he buries himself to the hilt and breaks with a stuttering groan that you feel more than hear. His mouth opens against your shoulder; his breath goes harsh; his hips lock and spasm, again, again, your name ragged on his tongue like he’s forgotten there were ever other words.
Then it’s quiet. Just breathing. Heat.
He pulls out slow, careful, and drops a line of kisses down your spine, soft now. Like you didn’t just let him wreck you on camera. Like he’s grateful.
Then you feel him move—and before you can stop him, he’s got a hand in your hair, tilting your head toward the camera.
“Give it up for Y/N, everybody,” he says, voice hoarse but smug. “Absolute fucking menace.”
The chat explodes.
parkourjisung: BRO I JUST SAW GOD markiplierlee: she needs a trophy and a chiropractor jen099: is she accepting applications for a fan club??? nanajaem: i came so hard i saw my ex and apologized
He grins, reading.
“Jesus. You broke the horny part of the internet.”
You’re still panting, still trying to blink back into your body, and all he does is laugh, lean into the mic, and say:
“Thanks for watching. Go hydrate, you filthy degenerates.”
End stream.
