⋆˚. 𝐰𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐞 | kurt kunkle
gif creds go to: chariotgifs
pairing: kurt kunkle x reader summary: Kurt never meant to become that guy online. He just wanted someone—anyone—to look at him like he mattered. So he hit record, posted a few late-night videos, and somehow it worked. You weren’t even looking for him. One accidental scroll turns into watching every video, then following, then a DM you definitely shouldn’t answer. wc: 5.7k tags/warnings: 18+ ! MDNI ! smut, fem!reader, camboy!kurt, virgin!kurt, sub!kurt, light dom/sub, fluff & smut, strangers to lovers?, casual sex, sexting, AFAB reader, dirty talk, praise kink, mutual masturbation, photo exchange, loss of virginity, oral sex, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, creampie, reader is on BC, body worship, slightly breeding kink, edging?, aftercare. author's note: hey! this is my first smut fanfic ever + my first post on tumblr 😭, so please be kind :( I tried to write Kurt as canon as possible! I had so much fun writing it :) enjoy, and thank you for reading! feel free to share your thoughts :) I’m always glad to receive some feedback! (pics used are from pinterest, everything is fiction). ao3
Until recently, Kurt had only ever filmed himself.
He'd tried the "normal" path first— painfully earnest tutorials, vape unboxings that nobody asked for, daily vlogs where he'd ramble about nothing like it was profound wisdom. Shoot. Edit. Upload. Repeat. The views stayed stuck at double digits. Comments were mostly bots or people straight-up telling him to delete his account and disappear.
So he pivoted.
If the internet didn't want him informative or relatable, maybe it wanted him raw. Exposed. Desperate.
He didn't think it'd actually work. Why would it? He'd never been the guy anyone noticed. In school he was background static—or worse, the easy punchline. No girl had ever looked at him like she was starving. No one had ever wanted him like that.
Still, he hit record.
Three videos. That's literally all it fucking took.
Three shaky, harshly lit, way-too-long clips dumped at 3 a.m. like dirty confessions.
And somehow… it clicked.
Followers started climbing. DMs flooded in. Notifications pinged with tips, subs, custom requests. People started typing his name like it tasted good in their mouths.
It wasn't love. It wasn't real connection.
But it was attention.
And for Kurt, attention was enough.
You found him by accident.
You barely touch Twitter anymore. You were just killing time, thumb flicking mindlessly, when a thirty-second clip auto-played. You almost swiped past.
Almost.
Something made you pause. Then tap.
@KurtsWorld69 8,418 followers. Cam link pinned. OnlyFans in bio.
Instant cringe crawled up your spine.
That username alone should have ended it.
The bio was somehow worse.
Yet you kept scrolling.
It was pathetic.
The emojis. The fake-laugh confidence. The way he tried to play it off like he wasn’t literally jerking off for strangers’ validation.
And still—you didn’t close the app.
It was cringey. Stupid. Borderline embarrassing.
But you watched every single video that night.
Curiosity? Sure. Morbid fascination? Definitely. Same Kurt every time: flushed cheeks, messy hair flopping into his eyes, staring straight into the lens like it could touch him back. Like he needed the camera to tell him he was good. Needed someone—anyone—to want him.
By the third video your thighs were already clenched tight. Heat coiled low and heavy in your belly. Your breathing turned shallow, uneven.
You didn’t even register your hand slipping under the waistband of your panties until your fingers met drenched, swollen heat.
“Fuck,” you breathed, barely audible.
You didn’t stop.
On screen, Kurt’s shirt was bunched between his teeth, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped. His tummy flexed with every rough pump of his fist around his cock—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. He was loud. Shamelessly loud. Broken moans and whimpers spilling out like he couldn’t cage them anymore. No fake porn-star groans—just raw, needy, unfiltered sounds that hit you like a punch.
It shouldn’t have worked.
It did.
You propped the phone against your pillow, volume low, his ragged breathing filling the dark room like he was panting right against your ear.
You hit follow before common sense could catch up.
Then killed the light.
You lasted maybe thirty seconds in the pitch black before your hand was back between your legs—slower now, deliberate. Fingers dragging through your own slick before plunging inside. You gasped when your fingertips grazed your clit—already so sensitive it almost hurt. Your hips rolled up instinctively, back arching off the mattress.
You pictured him.
That same pleading stare aimed at you instead of a lens. That same desperate edge. All that pent-up hunger with nowhere to go except his own fist… until you imagined it going somewhere else.
What if those shaking hands gripped your thighs instead? What if that wrecked voice begged against your throat while he fucked into you—deep, frantic, like he couldn’t get close enough?
Your fingers curled, thumb circling tight. You matched the rhythm from memory—the wet slap of his hand, the hitched “fuck—yeah—please—” leaking from the speaker.
You told yourself it was just curiosity.
Curiosity doesn’t make your thighs quake like that.
Curiosity doesn’t make you bite your knuckles raw to keep quiet.
When you finally came it wasn’t gentle. It ripped through you—sharp, sudden, almost violent. Your cunt clenched hard around your fingers, slick dripping down your wrist, a choked whimper of his name muffled into your palm.
Your body stayed hot. Oversensitive. Breath still ragged.
You lay there staring at the ceiling, aftershocks pulsing faintly, the room heavier, quieter.
Then—
Buzz.
You flinched.
Another buzz.
Heart slamming back into your throat, you rolled over. Screen glowed in the dark.
@KurtsWorld69 followed you back.
You stared. Blinked. Stared again.
No fucking way.
You hadn’t liked. Hadn’t commented. Just… followed.
Pulse roaring, you tapped anyway.
His profile loaded. Same dumb bio. Same try-hard energy.
Except now: Follows you.
Your mouth went dry.
Had he scrolled your page? Seen the unfiltered you—the beach pic with the crooked bikini top, the blurry concert selfie where you’re laughing too hard, the candid where you look soft and real?
Another notification.
A DM.
From him.
You waited three full heartbeats before opening it.
“Hey :)”
Too casual. Probably automated. A funnel script. “Hey cutie, special discount just for you 😉”
You should’ve ignored it.
You didn’t.
You typed. Deleted. Typed again.
You: Hi
Sent.
Typing bubble instantly.
He’d been waiting.
Kurt: oh shit hi Kurt: didn’t think you’d actually reply lol Kurt: you’re real right?? not a bot 😭
You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose. Not what you expected.
Kurt: sorry that sounded dumb af Kurt: i just get so many fake accounts Kurt: but your pics are… normal. like actually normal
Normal.
He’d seen them.
Your skin prickled, suddenly hyper-aware he’d looked.
Kurt: anyway Kurt: hi :)
That stupid smiley again.
For a second you considered blocking him. Thumb hovered over the dots.
This was stupid. Humiliating. Dangerous in the pettiest, most pathetic way.
You’d literally come five minutes ago fantasizing about him.
And now he was here. In your DMs. Acting like some awkward guy saying hi.
Shame hit late and hard—crawling up your neck, burning your cheeks in the dark. He didn’t know. Of course he didn’t. But you did.
You could end it. Block. Pretend it never happened.
He’d think you were a bot.
Your thumb dropped.
You typed instead.
You: yeah I’m real You: promise I’m not here to sell you crypto
You cringed at yourself.
Typing bubble popped up immediately.
Kurt: LMAO okay good Kurt: that would be actually tragic 😅 Kurt: imagine getting scammed by my own followers 🥺🥺 #notcool
A pause.
Then:
Kurt: sooooo… Kurt: what made you follow me? 👀
Your stomach twisted—different heat now. Sharper. More exposed.
What the fuck do you even say?
I binged your whole page and came so hard thinking about your cock I forgot how to breathe?
You shifted under the sheets, bare skin sliding against fabric, still slick between your thighs.
Kurt: wait !! don’t ghost pls Kurt: i was just curious 🥺 Kurt: i mean… i’m just asking 😏 nothing weird unless you want it to be weird… then i’m 100% in 😳
Heat flooded your face. He was terrible at this—awkward, over-explaining, spiraling—but god, it was working. Your cunt gave a traitorous throb.
Kurt: be honest… Kurt: you followed cuz you think i’m hot right? Kurt: …don’t you? 😏
Your heart hammered. Shame and want twisted together until they were the same thing.
You: maybe
Instant.
Kurt: oh 😳 Kurt: okay… wow Kurt: that’s… uh… really flattering lol Kurt: and also kinda hot that you just said it 😏
You rolled your eyes, fighting a stupid grin even as your cheeks burned.
You: don’t get used to it
Kurt: lol i won’t…Kurt: unless you want me to 😏
You leaned back against the headboard, thumb hovering, smiling despite yourself.
You: we’ll see.
He didn’t reply right away.
Maybe he was already stroking himself again—thinking about you this time. About the “maybe.” About what your voice would sound like moaning his name instead of just typing it.
You set the phone down, heart still racing, thighs still slick.
Because whatever this was, it definitely wasn’t over.
The silence after “we’ll see” settles like fog—thick, quiet, impossible to ignore.
Thursday is empty. No ping at dawn with some frantic “you still there???” No panicked voice note rambling apologies. No blurry selfie begging “pls don’t hate me”with big puppy eyes and messy hair. You wake up half-expecting it, half-dreading it, and when nothing comes you feel oddly off-balance.
During your mid-morning coffee break you check his profile anyway, telling yourself it’s just curiosity. Follower count now 9,312. A pinned post from yesterday teases:
hey kurties ! late night live in 20 👀 come say hi 😎✌️
You close the app fast, cheeks burning with how ridiculous you feel. He’s a cam guy. Thousands watch him every week. You’re just some random who stumbled into his orbit.
You spend the rest of the day telling yourself to block him. Delete the chat. Go back to normal life—spreadsheets, endless traffic, burnt office coffee. But you don’t unfollow him on Twitter. You just leave it. Like a door you’re not ready to slam shut.
Friday afternoon, 3:58 p.m., he finally breaks through.
Kurt: hey … 🥺 Kurt: didn’t wanna doubletext like a desperate loser but i’ve been staring at our chat since that night Kurt: “we’ll see” is officially haunting me LOL Kurt: sorry if that’s pathetic :/
You’re home now, kicking off your heels in the entryway, still in the wrinkled pencil skirt and blouse that smell faintly of toner and stale meetings. The message lands low and warm, like fingertips brushing the back of your neck. You change into soft shorts and a tank top, buy yourself time by staring into the fridge like it holds the answers, then reply anyway.
You: Hey You: Not pathetic
Kurt: FR ??! 😳 Kurt: okay okay that just Kurt: made my whole day hehe Kurt: did a live last night actually 😎 Kurt: peaked at like 1,180 viewers Kurt: some girl tipped big for a custom but i kept restarting bc my head was elsewhere 😭
You huff a quiet laugh into the empty kitchen. You saw the teaser post. He knows you’re still following even though you didn’t reply all day, didn’t engage, didn’t tip, didn’t do anything. Still here. Still watching from the sidelines.
The chat drifts for a long while—easy, almost normal.
You complain about the 405 traffic that made you twenty minutes late and the coworker who “forgets” to mute every single call. He sends a blurry photo of one of his dogs on the floor by his gaming chair, tongue lolling out like he’s judging the whole situation:
professional distraction,, he thinks the whole apartment is his throne !! 😡😡
You reply laughing and a picture of your half-dead succulent on the windowsill:
Tired as fuck zzzz
He asks what kind of music you’ve been replaying lately; you mention that one indie playlist that’s been on loop. He sends back three voice notes—his voice softer than in his videos, hesitant and stumbling over his words, a little raspy as he laughs at himself and admits he tried to film earlier but couldn’t focus on anything except your messages. You send a short one back, teasing him gently. He floods the chat with heart-eyes and:
your voice is literally perfect WTF i’m smiling like an idiot now LOL 🥲
It’s comfortable. Too comfortable.
Saturday night, 9:42 p.m., you’re already in bed scrolling when he shifts the tone.
Kurt: can i like be honest for a sec Kurt: you don’t have to answer if it’s weird 🥺
You: Go ahead
Kurt: i keep wondering what you look like when you’re .. Kurt: alone ?? Kurt: like thinking about me Kurt: maybe like Kurt: touching yourself Kurt: that’s creepy right Kurt: i’m SORRY 😭😭
You set the phone face-down on the nightstand. Walk to the bathroom, splash cold water on your face, stare at your reflection in the mirror. This is insane. He comes on camera for strangers every week. Thousands watch, tip, beg for more. You barely know him. What if he’s recording this? What if tomorrow he posts a screenshot somewhere? What if you regret every single second? Your pulse is already racing, heat pooling low despite every warning light in your head. You come back to bed, hesitate a full minute, thumbs hovering.
You: It’s not creepy You: I do think about you
Kurt: fuck Kurt: okay thats Kurt: wow Kurt: i’m getting hard just from you saying that Kurt: is that too much ??
You hesitate again—thumb frozen over the keyboard. Part of you wants to type “yes, too much, goodnight.” The other part is already soaked, thighs pressing together under the covers, imagining him right now in that dim room.
You: No You: Show me
The photo loads almost instantly. Dim bedroom light, hoodie shoved up to his chest. Slim, soft torso—no cut abs, just pale skin with a faint happy trail of dark hair trailing down from his navel. Scattered moles dot his chest and stomach like tiny perfect beauty marks, the kind that look almost deliberate, warm and human under the lamp glow. Boxers pushed low, hand wrapped tight around a thick, flushed cock curving upward—tip glistening and dripping pre-cum. He’s clearly been stroking for a while; the head is dark, slick, flushed deep.
Kurt: fuck Kurt: thats what you did to me Kurt: just from you saying you think about me … Kurt: i’m shaking rn Kurt: your turn?? Kurt: pls? Kurt: only if you want Kurt: no pressure I SWEAR 🥺
You stare at the photo longer than you should. Heat floods your belly, insistent and undeniable. Your clit throbs even before you touch. You stand, tug your shorts and panties down just enough—dark wet spot already soaking through the fabric, clinging to your swollen folds, a visible damp patch spreading. No face. Just the evidence. Send.
Kurt: OH MY GOD Kurt: you’re fucking soaked Kurt: that wet spot Kurt: shit Kurt: i can see how puffy your lips are through the fabric Kurt: i’m literally shaking harder now
You sit on the edge of the bed, heart hammering. Your hand slips between your legs over the fabric, slow hesitant circles over your clit through the cotton. You’re dripping already, slick seeping through. The hesitation is still there—loud, screaming—but your body doesn’t care.
You: Tell me what you would do if you were here with me right now
His typing bubble appears, disappears, appears again. Then the messages start flooding in, frantic and explicit.
Kurt: fuuuckk Kurt: ookay Kurt: my hand is shaking so bad i can barely type Kurt: i’d walk in and kiss your neck first Kurt: then drop to my knees Kurt: spread your thighs wide Kurt: drag my tongue over your panties first Kurt: just to taste how soaked you are for me Kurt: pull them aside Kurt: bury my face Kurt: lick slow circles around your clit suck it into my mouth Kurt: push two fingers inside you, curl them while i keep eating you out Kurt: make you come on my tongue Kurt: i’ve never done this irl so i’d probably be messy AF Kurt: but i’d try so fucking hard to make you feel good
You: You wouldn’t be messy You: Keep going
You push your panties aside completely now—two fingers sliding deep into your dripping cunt, curling, pumping slow while your thumb grinds tight circles on your swollen clit. Breath coming faster.
Kurt: o ok Kurt: okay Kurt: then i’d stand up Kurt: rub my cock against your clit Kurt: teasing Kurt: push in slow inch by inch watching your lips stretch around me Kurt: yk i’m a virgin LOL Kurt: i know that’s kinda pathetic, no one ever wanted me irl Kurt: but you do, right?
You: Yes
Kurt: fuck Kurt: okay Kurt: i’d go slow at first Kurt: then once i’m all the way inside i’d lose it Kurt: fuck you deep and messy and hard Kurt: probably come embarrassingly fast the first time Kurt: but i’d stay hard for you, keep going Kurt: i want to be good for you Kurt: fill you up Kurt: watch it drip down your thighs Kurt: breed you so deep you feel me for hours Kurt: idk why that part gets me so fucking hard
The confession hits like gasoline on fire. You add a third finger, stretching yourself, pumping faster, thumb frantic on your clit. The room feels too hot, too small.
You: I’m so close already
Kurt: fuck yes Kurt: me too Kurt: stroking faster now Kurt: picturing your pussy clenching around my fingers Kurt: or my tongue Kurt: or my cock Kurt: i’m Kurt: shit
You shatter hard—back arching off the mattress, thighs trembling violently, a choked “Kurt—” breaking into the dark room before you clamp your hand over your mouth. Slick gushes over your fingers, soaking your hand and the sheets beneath you.
His messages flood in seconds later, messy and frantic.
Kurt: coming Kurt: fuck Kurt: so much
A photo loads; thick ropes of cum streaked across his soft stomach, caught in the happy trail and those scattered perfect moles like little stars, pooling in the dip of his navel. His cock still twitching in his loose grip, last bead dripping from the slit. Chest flushed.
Kurt: … holy shit Kurt: i’m actually shaking 😭 Kurt: came so hard i think i blacked out for a second LOL Kurt: that was insane .. Kurt: but idk i don’t wanna keep doing this over text Kurt: we’re both in LA right?? Kurt: i could drive over tomorrow night after you get off work Kurt: protection or not i don’t care ATP 😅 Kurt: i just need to feel you for real Kurt: no recording stuff ofc !! Kurt: i’ll be SO good i swear Kurt: PLEASE say yes 🥺
You lie there panting, thighs sticky and trembling, heart hammering against your ribs. Every rational thought screams no—this is a stranger, a cam guy with thousands of fans, what if he’s not who he seems, what if it’s awkward or worse, what if you regret opening this door you can’t close? But your body is still pulsing, clenching around nothing, and the image of him showing up at your door—nervous, inexperienced, desperate and real—makes you clench again.
You stare at the ceiling for a long minute, phone heavy in your hand. Then your thumbs move before the doubt can win.
You: Yes You: Tomorrow night. My place. Around 11. You: I’ll send you the address You: Don’t overthink it. Just show up.
Kurt: fuck Kurt: yes Kurt: i’ll be there Kurt: thank you thank you thank you !!!!!!! 😭 Kurt: i can’t believe this is actually happening
You set the phone down in the dark, city lights flickering through the blinds outside. Tomorrow. No more screens. Just him—awkward, needy, painfully real despite everything.
And no matter how many times you tell yourself this is crazy, you’re already counting the hours.
The apartment feels too quiet in the hour before 11:00 p.m.
You’ve spent the day channeling anxiety into motion: scrubbing counters that were already spotless, remaking the bed with fresh sheets that still carry the sharp, clean bite of detergent. In front of the mirror you stood far too long, holding up jeans, then a tighter top, then leggings—each option feeling wrong in its own particular way: too deliberate, too casual, too obvious, not obvious enough. In the end you pulled the black cotton sundress from the back of the closet. Sleeveless. Thin straps. Hem skimming just above mid-thigh. Loose enough to pretend this was casual, light enough that the fabric would slide up easily if things went that way. Nothing desperate. Nothing calculated. You were lying to yourself the whole time.
You almost texted him to cancel. Draft after draft: actually maybe not tonight, headache, long day. Every time your thumb hovered over send, you remembered last night—his cracked “thank you” like you’d handed him something fragile and rare; the photos he sent; the way you’d come whispering his name into an empty room like a secret you weren’t supposed to keep.
You didn’t cancel.
At 11:01 p.m. three soft knocks—careful, almost scared, like he’s afraid of waking someone who isn’t even asleep.
Through the peephole: Kurt, green hoodie zipped to his chin, hair falling messily into his eyes, shifting from foot to foot. A small paper bag dangles from his white-knuckled grip.
You open the door.
And there he is.
The guy you found by pure accident on Twitter—@KurtsWorld69, the one with the ridiculous username. Real. Not a clip. Not a thumbnail you tapped out of curiosity. Him.
Your stomach flips, a quick, dizzy rush of disbelief. A soft, almost amused laugh slips out—more exhale than anything. “Can't believe this is happening.” You mouthed.
He freezes. Eyes widen behind the fringe. Mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“Hey…” The word cracks. He clears his throat, tries again softer, grin too big. “Hi. Fuck. You look… insanely good. Yeah. Hi. Sorry, I’m already short-circuiting.”
You step aside. “Come in before the neighbors think I’m harboring a fugitive.”
He huffs a small, relieved laugh—real this time—and slips inside. Door clicks shut. Outdoor light dies. Just the warm amber glow from the living-room lamp now, soft and forgiving, turning the edges of everything golden.
He stops two steps inside, clutching the bag like armor. Eyes flick everywhere: couch, windows, the faint mix of your perfume and yesterday’s takeout. He looks ready to bolt, then squares his shoulders, summoning the same bright energy he uses on camera.
“Brought… stuff,” he says, lifting the bag a fraction. “Condoms—obviously. Waters. And gummy bears. I panicked at the store trying to guess what you’d actually want after… y’know. Or during. Fuck, saying it out loud sounds so dumb. Sorry. I ramble when I’m nervous. Like right now. Hi again.”
You lean back against the door, arms loosely crossed. “You okay?”
He nods too quickly. “Yeah. Totally.” He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks pink. “Okay, maybe freaking out a little. In a good way. Thousands watch me jerk off on stream every week, but this? This is you. In your apartment. With gummy bears. I’m… stupid happy I’m here.” He swallows, voice dropping lower. “Also… been hard since I left my place. Like, painfully. Had to sit in the car reciting license plates just to calm down enough to walk up here.”
You study him. Taller than the camera angles ever made him look, but still slim—lean shoulders, soft middle you already know by heart. His hands—surprisingly large—flex nervously at his sides. The nervous buzz rolling off him is electric, but underneath it that familiar extroverted spark flickers.
You push off the door and close the distance slowly. He doesn’t step back. Just watches, dark eyes tracking every step.
When you’re close enough to catch the faint woodsy bite of his cheap cologne, you reach up and ease his zipper down a few inches. His breath hitches.
You can feel it already—the unmistakable hard line of him pressed against your thigh through the denim, straining, insistent. You’ve known since the moment he stepped inside; the way he’s been shifting, the faint flush creeping up his neck, the way his eyes keep darting down to your mouth and then away like he’s trying not to stare. He’s not subtle. He’s never been subtle.
“So... you've been hard since you left your place, am I right?” you say, voice low, teasing. Inside, doubt spins quietly: stranger, bad idea, what if he ghosts, what if tomorrow feels empty? Your body ignores all of it, already warm and tightening, pulse heavy between your legs.
His eyes snap to yours, wide and glassy. A choked sound escapes him—half laugh, half whimper. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice wrecked already. “Fuck yeah. Since I locked my door. Since I got in the car. Kept having to adjust myself like some desperate teenager. I’m… sorry? I mean—not sorry. Just—yeah. You do that to me.”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple jumping, cheeks burning brighter under the lamp glow.
You let your hand linger a moment longer, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, the faint twitch when your fingers curl just slightly. Then you slide both palms under his hoodie instead, pressing flat against the warm, trembling skin of his stomach.
“Good,” you say quietly, thumb brushing the soft line of hair trailing down from his navel. “I like knowing.”
His whole body shudders at the words. Eyes flutter half-closed.
You kiss him first—slow, careful, testing.
He melts into it with a helpless little noise, kissing back messy and hungry at first—too eager, a little sloppy—then softer, like he’s terrified of ruining it. His big hands find your waist, fingers curling, pulling you flush until there’s no space left between you, until you can feel every inch of how badly he’s been aching for this.
Foreheads resting together. Breathing ragged.
“Bedroom?” you ask.
He nods fast. “Yeah. Lead the way.”
You turn. He follows—stumbles once on the edge of the rug in the hall, catches himself with a quiet “shit—” and you both huff soft laughs under your breath like teenagers sneaking around.
Bedroom door open. Lamp low. Gold light pooling across the sheets. You push him gently until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. He drops to sit, knees spread, looking up at you with those huge honey eyes—pupils blown, lips parted, cheeks blotchy red.
“Can I see you?” Voice cracks on the last word. “The dress… please? No pressure. I just… you’re so beautiful.”
Doubt flickers—quick and bright—but you step back and pull the black dress over your head in one smooth motion. No bra. Just the black cotton panties already clinging damp between your thighs. His gaze drops, pupils blowing wide.
“Fuck…” Almost reverent. “You’re… holy shit. Perfect. Actually perfect. Can I touch? Please?”
You nod.
His hands come up—shaking at first—cup your breasts gently, thumbs brushing over nipples that pebble instantly. He exhales like he’s been punched. “So soft… so warm… fuck, your skin…”
You climb into his lap, straddle him, roll down once against the bulge in his jeans. He groans deep, head tipping back, hands flying to your hips.
“Off,” you murmur, tugging his hoodie.
He yanks it over his head in one frantic motion—hair staticky, wild. Bare chest now: lean but soft in the middle, moles like stars, happy trail dark and inviting. You drag your nails lightly down his sternum; he shivers hard, goosebumps rising.
You tug at his belt loops. “Jeans.”
He fumbles—buttons, zipper, shoves denim and boxers down in a rush. Cock springs free—heavy, flushed dark, tip slick and leaking steadily. Thicker than the pics. Harder.
He’s trembling just from being exposed. “Shit… look how hard I am. All for you. Been like this since I left home.”
You shimmy out of your panties. He stares, chest rising and falling fast.
You wrap your hand around him—firm, slow stroke. He jerks up into your grip with a choked “oh fuck—your hand—so much better than mine—”
You chuckle softly. “First time anyone’s touched you like this, huh?”
He nods frantically. “Yeah. Never… fuck. Feels… unreal.”
You guide him to your entrance, sink down slow. The stretch is exquisite—thick, hot, filling you inch by inch until he’s seated fully inside. Your inner walls flutter around him instinctively, adjusting to the fullness, the heat radiating from him. He’s trembling beneath you, every muscle locked tight.
“Breathe,” you whisper.
He tries. A shaky laugh escapes. “If you move I’m gonna lose it so fast. Swear. You feel too good.”
You start small—tiny rolls of your hips, grinding in slow circles so your clit drags against the coarse hair at his base. Pleasure sparks low in your belly with every motion, building in lazy waves. He groans low, hands gripping your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks.
“Yeah… fuck, roll like that. Just like that. Don’t stop. Feels perfect.”
You lift and drop once—harder this time. The sudden depth makes you gasp, a sharp bloom of sensation spreading through your core. He bucks up on instinct, chasing the feeling, and the friction sends another jolt straight to your clit.
From there it’s rhythm: steady at first, then faster, grinding down so every stroke rubs you exactly right. His hands roam—waist, hips, breasts—holding on like you might vanish. He doesn’t talk much now—just short, desperate sounds: “fuck,” “so good,” swallowed moans when you clench around him deliberately, testing how it makes him twitch inside you.
“So good,” he pants. “Better than anything. Fuck—I’m—” He stills you suddenly, hands gentle on your hips. Panting against your throat. “Wait—want you to come first. Can I taste you? Please? Need to make you feel good. Really need it.”
You nod, pulse racing.
He flips you carefully—settles between your thighs, spreads you open slow, reverent. “So pretty… so wet… all for me? Fuck, that’s hot. Tell me if I mess up, okay?”
Broad lick up your folds. The first contact is electric—warm, wet tongue dragging slow and deliberate. Then focused—soft sucks, tongue circling your clit in tight, patient loops. You thread fingers through his hair; he moans into you, the vibration traveling straight through your core. Pleasure coils tighter, building in slow, insistent pulses.
“Like that? Tell me… fuck, you taste so sweet… driving me crazy…”
“Circles,” you gasp. “Slower.”
He obeys instantly. “Like this? God—tell me if it’s good… wanna be perfect for you.” Two fingers slide in—curl slow, searching, pressing against that sensitive spot inside until your hips lift off the mattress. “Tight… wet… fuck, am I okay? Please tell me.”
“Good,” you breathe, voice shaky. The combination is overwhelming: his tongue flicking steady, fingers stroking in perfect rhythm, the soft, needy sounds he makes against your skin. Heat surges, coiling low and tight until it snaps—your thighs clamp around his head, back arching, his name spilling out in a broken cry as waves crash through you, sharp and consuming.
He pulls back slow, chin glistening, grinning wide and dazed. “You okay? Fuck… you came so hard. Felt it. So hot.”
“Yeah,” you pant, chest heaving. “Really good.”
He crawls up, kisses you deep—lets you taste yourself on his tongue, salty-sweet and intimate. “Inside again? Please? Need to feel you. Need it bad.”
You pull him close. He settles on top of you, weight comforting, grounding. He pushes in carefully, groaning the whole way down. “So tight. Warm. Perfect.”
He bottoms out and stays still, trembling, forehead pressed to yours. “Can I move? Please?”
You nod.
Slow thrusts first—deep, careful, savoring every slide. Words spill between breaths: “Feels so good… love how you squeeze… tight… perfect… don’t stop… gonna lose it… so fucking good…”
You whisper “Good boy” once.
He shudders hard. “Fuck—say it again? Please? Makes me… yeah.”
“You’re such a good boy, Kurt…” The words come between soft whines as he hits deeper, the praise making him thrust harder, more desperate.
Pace builds. Then he snaps—harder, deeper, hips snapping with raw need. “Gonna come,” he rasps. “Inside—can I—please? Wanna fill you… need to… please say yes.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “Pill.”
He buries himself deep—comes with a long broken moan, hot pulses flooding inside you. The sensation tips you again—clenching hard around him, gasping as another orgasm ripples through, softer this time but no less intense, your body milking every last tremor from him.
You collapse together—sweaty, shaking, hearts slamming against each other.
He stays inside a minute longer, kissing your shoulder, collarbone—soft, open-mouthed. “You okay? Was I… too much? Too fast? I talk too much, I know—”
You lace fingers with his. “You were perfect.”
He exhales, shaky relief. “Really?”
“Really.”
You feel him smile against your skin. He pulls out gentle, grabs a warm cloth from the bathroom, cleans you both—careful, tender, almost worshipful.
Climbs back under the covers, curls around you—face in your neck, arm across your waist, leg slung over yours.
You hum, tracing lazy patterns on his back. His breathing evens out slowly. You card fingers through his damp hair. “Stay tonight. Sleep here.”
He stills. Lifts head just enough—eyes searching, vulnerable. “You sure? Like… really sure?”
“Yeah. Want you to.”
Something soft and wrecked flickers across his face. “Thank you… Fuck… thank you. For this.”
Quiet stretches—warm, easy. His breathing slows, body heavy against yours.
Then, sleepy murmur: “Hey… random thing.” Thumb brushes your hip under the blanket. “What if… sometime… we recorded something? Just us. You’d be totally anonymous—no face, no voice, nothing. Could be hot. Fun. No pressure. Just… putting it out there.”
You stare at the ceiling a beat. His heart thumps steady against your side.
“We’ll see,” you say softly.
He laughs quiet against your throat—happy, sleepy. “There it is again. ‘We’ll see.’ Those are my favorite words now… for real!”
You turn your head, meet his eyes. “Maybe,” you murmur. “We’ll see.”
He chuckles—low, warm—pulls you closer. “That’s enough for me. For now. But, seriously, like… You would totally get so much clout! I mean, you’re so pretty and I’m sure my followers would love to… know you? I mean, like your sexy-anonymous-internet sona, or whatever.. so there’s this—”
He starts rambling again, words tumbling out in that familiar, nervous rush. You simply listen, letting the sound wash over you without paying close attention. Something in your chest feels warm, at ease, comfortable—quietly surprised by how right it all feels in this moment.
The lamp glows. City hums outside.
Night stretches—warm, quiet, open-ended.
author's note: I hope you enjoyed my fic ! If so, reblog, comment or share please 🫶🏻 it motivates me to write more !
