𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚 || Liu Yangyang
pairing: best friend!yangyang x camgirl!reader
Warnings: camgirl work, sexual tension, language, secret-keeping, voyeurism, eventual smut 18+, dom!Yangyang, fingering (f receiving), orgasm denial/edging, public teasing (semi-public setting), jealousy/possessive behavior, dirty talk, rough kissing, praise & mild degradation, sexual tension in public space, strong language.
A/N: this is freaky asl, this is INSPIRED by @hyuckiefluff
Liu Yangyang was your best friend. Not the casual kind who lent you notes once a semester and waved in lecture halls, but the kind who knew you liked strawberry milk in your coffee even though you claimed you hated sweet drinks.
The kind who showed up to your apartment at 2 a.m. with greasy fries and a Powerade because he “had a feeling.” The kind you secretly, shamefully, maybe just a little bit—wanted to fuck.
But Yangyang? He saw you as just a friend. Just a girl who wore baggy hoodies and stole his socks, who cursed too much and watched horror movies like they were lullabies. He didn’t know the version of you that other people paid to see.
At least, that’s what you thought.
You were a camgirl.
Not because you wanted to be forever—but because tuition was murder, your scholarship only covered so much, and frankly? You were good at it.
A few hours a week. Lingerie. Sometimes toys. Always a mask. Always a fake name. Never in person. You were careful.
And Yangyang? He was never supposed to know.
“Dude,” he groaned, flopping back on your dorm bed, legs dangling off the edge. “If Professor Jin assigns one more group project, I swear I’m gonna commit a crime.”
You didn’t look up from your laptop, fingers dancing over your keyboard. “You mean like not showing up to half your lectures already?”
“Low blow.” He kicked your thigh lightly with his socked foot. “You love me.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Yeah, yeah. You bringing your ass to film club later?”
He shrugged. “Only if you promise to actually pay attention this time. Last week you were glued to your phone.”
You stilled for a second.
Last week’s stream. You had just finished a pretty intense session—your most generous subscriber, P1nDown, had sent a massive tip. You’d thanked him with a custom video. The rush afterward was addictive. You couldn’t stop checking for his next message.
You cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. Just had stuff.”
Yangyang tilted his head at you like he was trying to read behind your words. He was always good at that—getting too close, asking too little, and seeing too much.
The problem with secrets was that they lived everywhere: in the way you avoided his gaze when a notification popped up on your phone, in the way you kept a second folder on your laptop labeled “Taxes” that definitely wasn’t about taxes.
You had a system. You were careful.
Until you weren’t.
It happened on a Tuesday. The air was heavy with pre-storm heat, your dorm Wi-Fi was shot, and you had an econ assignment due by midnight.
You didn’t think twice when you texted Yangyang.
you home? need to borrow ur laptop, mine’s dead. i’ll bring iced coffee?
Yangyang💕: only if it’s that trash vanilla almond shit you get Yangyang💕: door’s open
You snorted and headed to his place. His dorm was across campus in the international student housing building—cleaner, nicer, quieter. Typical.
He wasn’t home when you got there. You let yourself in, dropped the coffee on his desk, and booted up his laptop.
That was your first mistake.
The tab was already open when the browser loaded.
It wasn’t porn—not exactly. It was a paused video. Full screen.
Your video.
You blinked, brain buffering.
It was you—wearing the navy lace teddy you’d bought for your two-month streaming anniversary. Knees parted. Lips parted. Fingers wet. Eyes half-lidded under your crystal-studded mask. The words “Thanks for the love, P1nDown 💋” were scrawled in text across the bottom.
And in the top-right corner?
The account name was logged in.
L.Yang99
Your stomach dropped.
No. No way. No fucking way.
You slammed the laptop shut like it had burned you. Your chest felt tight, ears ringing.
Yangyang… was your top subscriber?
He came back ten minutes later, earbuds in, hoodie damp with sweat.
“Hey, did it load okay? Wi-Fi was—"
“You’re P1nDown.”
He froze mid-step. Slowly, he took his earbuds out.
“…What?”
You stood, heart racing, pointing at the laptop like it was a crime scene. “Don’t lie. Your tab was open. My video. Your account. Logged in. I saw everything.”
Yangyang went still. Then exhaled a long, shaky breath.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Yeah.”
Silence.
“You knew it was me,” you whispered.
“I figured it out a while ago.” He looked at you then, eyes dark, unreadable. “Didn’t mean to find it. I was just scrolling and… I saw the mole on your inner thigh.”
Your breath hitched.
He’d noticed that?
“You shouldn’t have—”
“I know.” His voice cracked. “I shouldn’t have watched. But I couldn’t stop.”
You swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He gave a humorless laugh. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, by the way, I jerk off to your streams every other night and tip you more than my rent’? That’s not exactly best friend behavior.”
Your face flushed. The words should’ve made you angry. Ashamed. But part of you—the part that had fantasized about Yangyang’s hand between your thighs, about him seeing that side of you—lit up like a fucking firecracker.
“You’re my best friend,” you said, throat dry. “This could ruin everything.”
He stepped closer. “Yeah. Or maybe it changes everything.”
You didn’t speak for a long time.
Just stared at Yangyang like he was a stranger wearing your best friend’s face. Your throat was dry, stomach twisted, but your thighs were clenched tight and warm in a way that made you furious at yourself.
This was wrong. He was Yangyang—the boy who used to spoon-feed you ramen when you were too hungover to move. The boy who held your hand through every mental breakdown. The boy who, for the last six months, had been your highest paying subscriber—without you knowing.
And now, he was just standing there. Looking at you like he’d seen you naked a hundred times.
Because he had.
“You saw everything,” you murmured.
“You’ve been seeing everything.”
Yangyang looked wrecked—flushed, eyes glassy, tongue darting out nervously across his bottom lip.
“Yeah.”
“And you still came over like nothing happened? Let me crash at your place? Let me sit on your bed when you—when you’ve watched me—?”
“I didn’t do it to be creepy,” he cut in, voice strained.
“It wasn’t some plan. I didn’t even know it was you at first. But once I did, I just— I couldn’t stop.”
You backed away a step, pulse erratic.
“So you just kept watching. Tipping. Getting off to me. While pretending to be my best friend.”
“Don’t say it like that.” He stepped toward you, hands open.
“It wasn’t pretending. I’m still your best friend. I just…” He exhaled shakily.
“You were so confident. On camera. It didn’t feel like you were just performing. It felt real. Like you wanted it.”
You did. You do.
But admitting that felt like throwing a match into a pool of gasoline.
“I don’t show my face,” you muttered. “You weren’t supposed to know. That wasn’t you I was performing for.”
“I didn’t care. I still don’t.” His voice dropped.
“I just wanted to see you. All of you. Even the parts you think you have to hide.”
Your skin burned. Your heart pounded. But something deep and hot and twisted inside of you ached at those words.
This was Yangyang. He was the only person you’d ever trusted with your ugly. With your midnight breakdowns and your shame and your softness. You never imagined he’d want the other part of you too.
But maybe he had all along.
“You’ve tipped me over two grand,” you said softly, breaking the silence.
Yangyang laughed weakly. “Yeah. I might’ve had to ask Xiaojun for rent last month.”
You blinked. “You’re serious?”
He nodded.
You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”
Yangyang stepped closer again, and this time you didn’t move.
“I liked making you feel good,” he said.
“Even if you didn’t know it was me. I liked knowing I could do that for you. That I was your favorite.”
Your breath hitched. “You were my favorite.”
“I still want to be.”
The air between you snapped like a live wire.
He reached out slowly, hand brushing your jaw. You didn’t pull away. Your eyes searched his—unsure, trembling, but needy.
“I’ve wanted you for months,” he whispered. “Every time you moaned someone’s name on camera, I pretended it was mine. Every time you said ‘good boy,’ I imagined it was me you were teasing. Touching.”
Your knees buckled.
“Yangyang…”
“Tell me to stop, and I will.” His thumb grazed your cheek. “But if you don’t—tell me what you do when you know I’m watching.”
You didn’t sleep that night.
You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t take your clothes off. You didn’t let things go further than they should.
But you let him stay.
On the floor beside your bed, blanket over his shoulders, eyes locked on you like he could read every filthy thing you’d ever streamed—and still wanted more.
The next few days were weird.
Not bad weird. Just hot and slow and buzzing with tension that you didn’t know how to handle.
Yangyang came over to your place more. He brought snacks. Teased you.
Caught your eye when you leaned too far forward in a low-cut shirt.
You caught his eyes lingering too long when you stretched in your shorts. He never pushed, but the air between you was never innocent again.
He never brought up your streams. Never asked when your next one was. But one night, you checked your page, and your private inbox lit up.
P1nDown: if you’re going live tonight can i request something special?
You: what kind of special?
P1nDown: just want to hear you say my name once just once
You stared at the screen for a long time.
Then typed:
You: only if you ask nicely.
You didn’t say it on the stream.
You thought about it. Played with the idea. Even put on the red lace bodysuit—the one that always made you feel like a weapon.
But when the tip came in—$500, and the caption “Please, baby. Say it for me.”—you only smiled at the camera and whispered, “Not yet.”
You were going to make him earn it.
You didn’t mean to tease him.
Okay. Maybe you did.
Just a little.
The night you wore the red lace on stream, Yangyang didn’t speak to you for a full day.
You didn’t blame him. You were his best friend—his favorite streamer—and you’d stared directly into the lens, lips parted and plush with gloss, and whispered, “Not yet.”
He knew it was for him. And you knew what that did to him.
The silence only lasted until the next night, when he showed up at your door with a bottle of soju and a six-pack of mango sparkling water like nothing had happened.
“Movie night?” he asked, eyes dark.
You nodded. “Movie night.”
But neither of you made it to the end of the movie.
You were sitting on your bed, laptop on your lap, one foot tucked under you. Yangyang was next to you, scrolling on his phone, his body angled slightly toward yours. Close enough that your knees brushed when you laughed. Close enough that your whole body was on alert.
It was suffocating. This weird electric buzz in the air that never left anymore.
When the movie ended, the silence lingered. Heavy. Heated.
You cleared your throat. “I have a stream tomorrow.”
Yangyang’s head snapped up. “Yeah?”
You nodded slowly. “Haven’t done one since… you know.”
His lips quirked. “Since you found out I’ve been jerking off to you?”
Your face flamed. “Yangyang.”
“What?” he leaned in slightly, gaze
locked to yours. “You asked.”
You licked your lips. “You could’ve just pretended you hadn’t seen it.”
“I didn’t want to pretend.”
A pause.
“Do you still…watch?” you asked.
His eyes darkened. “Every time.”
Your breath caught.
“Do you…” You couldn’t believe you were saying this. “Do you touch yourself to me?”
The corner of his mouth curled up, slow and devastating.
“Do you want the truth?”
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
He leaned forward, and this time, there was no space left between you. Just heat. Just tension. Just the past year of him pretending and you hiding and all of it boiling over.
“I’ve come to your voice more times than I can count,” Yangyang whispered. “To the sound of you begging, moaning, teasing. You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”
You whimpered. Literally whimpered.
“And you know what the worst part is?” he said, voice ragged. “It still wasn’t enough.”
Your body moved on instinct. You dropped the laptop to the floor, barely heard it hit the carpet, and grabbed his hoodie, fisting it in your hands.
He didn’t wait.
Yangyang crashed into you like a storm—mouth hot, hands possessive, tongue sliding into your mouth with months of pent-up hunger. You moaned into the kiss, your back hitting the mattress as he pushed you down and slotted himself between your thighs.
“Fuck,” he gasped against your lips. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
“You should’ve said something.”
“You should’ve said my name on stream.”
Your laugh broke on a moan as he kissed down your neck, hands already slipping under your shirt. He tugged it off, eyes darkening at the sight of your bralette.
“This the one you wore in the birthday stream?” he asked.
You flushed. “Yeah.”
“I came so hard to that video.” He licked a stripe between your breasts. “Still do.”
“Yangyang—”
“Say it again,” he growled. “Say my name like that.”
You did.
And he lost it.
His mouth moved lower. Hands under your waistband, dragging your shorts down in one smooth motion. You gasped when his tongue traced your hipbone.
“I always wondered what you tasted like,” he murmured. “Thought about it every time you opened your legs on cam. Wondered if you got wet just for the camera—or if you were already dripping before you hit record.”
“I’m always wet,” you whispered.
“Thinking about who’s watching.”
“You mean me.”
You bit your lip, nodding. “I didn’t know. But maybe part of me hoped it was.”
He growled low in his throat. “Fuck. You’re evil.”
Then he kissed your inner thigh. Your stomach. The crease of your hip.
“Yangyang—”
“I want to taste you,” he said. “But I want to hear you first.”
You blinked. “What?”
He sat back, legs sprawled, hoodie riding up just enough to tease the waistband of his boxers.
“I want you to touch yourself,” he said. “Like you would on stream. Like you do when you think about me.”
You should’ve hesitated. But you didn’t.
You spread your legs, fingers dipping between your folds, and started slow. Deliberate. The way you always did for your top-paying subscriber—who, as it turned out, had always been this close.
Yangyang watched with wide, dark eyes. One hand down his pants, gripping himself hard.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re even prettier like this in real life.”
You whined as your fingers circled your clit, thighs trembling already.
“Did you ever think about me?” he asked, voice low. “When you streamed? Did you ever think about what it’d be like if Iwas the one tipping you? Watching you?”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Always.”
That was all it took.
Yangyang was on you in seconds, lips on your throat, hand replacing yours between your legs. He slid two fingers into you, fucking you slow and deep while your mouth fell open.
“You’re so wet for me,” he groaned. “You want me to fuck you, baby?”
“Yes—please, please—”
He yanked off his hoodie and pants in record time, eyes locked to yours the whole time.
And when he finally sank into you?
It was everything.
It was soft moans and whispered names and the sound of his hips hitting yours.
It was him biting down on your shoulder, whimpering, “You feel so fucking good.”
It was you wrapping your legs around him and crying out, “Don’t stop—Yangyang, please—”
And when you came?
You didn’t hold back.
You said his name.
Over and over and over.
Just like he’d always wanted.
“You’re still wet.”
Yangyang’s voice was low, right against your ear, as his fingers brushed the inside of your thigh under the table.
“Yang—someone might see—”
“I want them to.”
You squeezed your thighs together, pulse pounding.
You were in the library.
At the back corner table where you and Yangyang usually studied, hidden behind stacks of textbooks and his laptop. You were trying to write an essay while he claimed to be “editing photos” for his class—which clearly translated to “see how wrecked I can get you without anyone noticing.”
You wore a skirt. That was your first mistake.
No panties. Your second.
Letting him come with you today, even after he whispered “You’re not allowed to cum again until I say so” last night—your third.
His fingers grazed the slick heat between your legs again, slow and deliberate.
“You were moaning so pretty for me last night,” he murmured. “Now look at you. Dripping in a fucking library.”
You bit down on your pencil.
“If someone comes back here—”
“Then you better keep quiet.” His fingers
slid deeper, just shy of slipping inside.
“Be a good girl.”
Your hips bucked instinctively, and Yangyang grinned.
“You like being edged like this, huh?” he whispered. “Been thinking about it all day, haven’t you?”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
He moved his fingers faster, but still shallow. Not enough to satisfy, just enough to torment.
“Bet your subscribers would love to see this,” he said. “You all spread out at a library desk, stuffed full of my fingers, trying not to cry.”
“Yangyang—”
“You’d put on a good show, wouldn’t you?” His lips brushed your temple. “Let them tip while you beg to cum. But I’d be the only one who actually gets to touch you.”
Your walls clenched hard.
He leaned in close, voice like velvet and venom.
“Say it.”
You whined under your breath. “Say what?”
“Say you’re mine.”
You turned to look at him—flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide.
“I’m yours.”
And then—only then—did he let you cum.
Later that night, you were back at your place. Still sore. Still dizzy from the orgasm he wrung out of you with two fingers and a threat.
You didn’t plan to stream.
But something burned inside you.
A need to push the line. To play again.
To see if he’d crack.
So you went live.
Red lace. Lights low. Fingers already glistening.
It was supposed to be short. Just a teaser stream. Something to keep the top tippers active. But then someone new joined.
"S!nner773". You’d never seen the username before.
He tipped $300 within five minutes.
Then $200 more.
“Tell me how wet you are, baby. Want to hear you moan.”
You smirked and kept going—figuring Yangyang was probably watching silently like he always did, getting off knowing only he had actually been inside you.
But then your private inbox pinged.
From P1nDown—Yangyang’s account.
P1nDown: log off.
You blinked.
Another tip from S!nner773 rolled in:
“Spread it wider, babygirl.”
Then Yangyang messaged again:
P1nDown: now.
Your heart slammed in your chest.
You hesitated. Just one second too long.
And the next thing you saw was your door swinging open.
Yangyang walked in—chest heaving, jaw tight, eyes locked on your still-streaming body on your laptop screen.
“You ignored me.”
You scrambled to pause the stream, heart in your throat.
“Yangyang—what are you doing—?”
He slammed the laptop shut.
“You’re mine. You said you were mine.”
“I—I was just putting on a show, I didn’t even respond to the messages—”
“You let someone else talk to you like that. Tip you like that.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Wetness already pooling again between your thighs.
“I’m not mad you streamed,” he said. “I’m mad you didn’t tell them who you belong to.”
“Yangyang…”
“Get on the bed.”
You froze. “What?”
“You wanna act like a toy for strangers?” His voice dropped. “Fine. But I’m the only one who gets to play with you.”
Your legs moved before your brain caught up.
Yangyang stalked toward you, dragging his hoodie off. “Tonight, you don’t cum until I say so. Again.”
You whimpered.
And then—he made you show him everything.
Made you keep the red lace on. Made you read the anonymous tips aloud while he edged you again and again. Held your wrists above your head while he fucked you open with his mouth, his hands, his cock—and all the filthy words he never dared say before.
“You gonna moan his name, baby?” he hissed. “Or mine?”
“Yours,” you gasped.
“Say it louder.”
“Yours—Yangyang, please—”
“Then don’t ever let anyone else think they can touch you again.”
He didn’t let you cum for nearly an hour.
And when he finally did?
You moaned.
And he didn’t even care if the neighbors heard.
© imhaechanshoe 2025
