Work Text:
eight. webcam
Ping dumps his backpack at the door and shucks off his shoes, glancing at his phone.
7.57
At 8 on a Tuesday and Friday, lucifer8 starts streaming on Only Fans. And for the last eight months, Ping has been obsessed with the stream, gifting thousands of baht each session, unable to stop himself, to the point where he's now the top subscriber, a dubious honour.
Lucifer only shows his body, never his face, hidden behind a cap and mask, but what a fucking body he has. Impossibly tall, incredibly cut, and covered in tattoos-- a knife on his side, some Roman numerals, a huge posy on his back, and a crescent moon on the front of his right shoulder.
Ping would know that moon anywhere, after watching Lucifer jerk his thick, juicy cock twice a week, before progressing to various toys, fleshlights and dildos, those moans haunting his every waking thought.
If I ever meet this guy, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself from not kissing him, Ping sighs as he settles into bed, legs crossed, his laptop open and logging in to Only Fans.
At 8 on the dot, he gets a notification email, and a popup in the app.
lucifer8 is live
“Let’s go,” Ping breathes, settling back against his pillows and opening stream.
Sure enough, Lucifer is there, shirtless already, only in boxers, lounging in his chair, tapping away at his phone. Ping feels his blood begin to race already, and he swallows, shifting.
Don’t get too excited, he tells himself, and decides to say hi in chat instead.
TAILAI9
Hi Lucifer… hope you had a good day 🙂
It’s the nicest thing he can think to say, and always tries to make an effort to humanise what’s about to happen. Sometimes the way Lucifer stares at the camera, his dark eyes peeking between the brim of his cap and the top of his mask, makes Ping feel a little sad-- knowing he’s carrying some kind of weight, a heaviness, and Ping so far from him.
Lucifer glances up as a few other messages pour in, and he leans forward, the smoothness of his skin almost glowing in the lights in his set up. He looks at the camera, eyes crinkling a little.
“TaiLai, nice to see you,” he says, voice low and muffled from the mask. It sends a thrill through Ping regardless, and he bites his lip, pressing the palm of his hand against his rapidly hardening cock.
He noticed me…
It’s all fake, he knows it is, but the attention makes Ping want to roll over and beg.
Not long after the show begins, and Lucifer pushes his hand down his boxers, bringing his cock out and stroking it lazily, his beautiful arm muscles flexing, the moon jiggling as he begins to jerk himself off.
His choked off moans, little whines and the way his hips stutter as he gets closer, all of it feels so incredibly intimate, as if it’s just for Ping-- and it’s the show, it’s what he pays his sub fee for and why he logs on three times a week.
He wants to know what had Lucifer ending up here, why stream, what his smile looks like, if he’s really as tall as he seems.
Ping’s coming all over his fingers as Lucifer does, squirting up his abs and coating them, running rivulets back down them as his chest heaves from the exertion.
He reaches off screen for a tissue and wipes himself up, leaving his cock out, as the gifts pour in, Ping’s becoming part of the tidal wave.
“This will be my last stream for the week. I have to move house tomorrow. And it’ll take me a few days to get settled into my new place. So we will say goodbye for now,” Lucifer says, waving at the camera.
Ping frowns. Moving house? No stream for a while? Pouting, he fumbles for his laptop.
TAILAI9
:(
I will miss you! Hope your move goes smoothly.
Lucifer addresses a few other subs, before leaning in to the camera, as he’s getting ready to sign off. “I’ll miss you more, TaiLai,” he says, and then the stream finishes, closing into darkness.
“Ugh, Lucifer, why are you so hot?” Ping sighs, biting his pillow, not looking forward to the frustration over the coming days.
*
He gets home from university late three days later, yawning widely, and smacking his lips, dinner hanging between limp fingers. He studies so hard, being a chef is hard, placement is hard, but at least when he’s done he’ll be able to work in beautiful restaurants and eat until he’s the size of ten houses.
He rubs his eyes and shuffles towards the elevator, barely noticing the doors opening and someone coming out holding a box in front of them.
BANG!
“Ah!” Ping shrieks, going flying as the person walks into him, sending him and his dinner flying. His ass hits the floor hard, the momentum sending him skidding backwards, and his food explodes out of its container and all over the inside of the bag and the floor.
“Ah, shit, I’m so sorry!” a deep voice exclaims, and Ping looks upward through watery eyes to see a hottie in a baseball cap and an Underarmor shirt, molding to his very nice chest and abs. “Are you okay?”
Hottie bends down next to him, concern writ large on his face. “I didn’t see you, I’m moving in, the boxes were hiding, I couldn’t see-- I’m so sorry, are you okay?”
Ping groans, wiping at his eyes, and looks at his dinner. The food he’d worked so hard to make, and had gotten him a 92% grade from his professor, now in a congealed mess on the floor.
The pain throbbing in his butt, along with the embarrassment of having done this in front of a hottie, and the even more devastating fact of his dinner being destroyed, means the tears spill over his cheeks.
Hottie looks absolutely distraught. “Oh, fuck, please don’t cry, are you really hurt? Do you need the hospital?” he asks, big hands covering, one touching Ping’s knee. It’s warm, and calloused, because obviously the guy works out. Ping sniffles, and wipes at his face.
“N-no, I’m… it’s fine, I’m sorry, I just had a really exhausting day, I’m okay. I’m sorry for making a scene,” Ping says, wincing as he pushes himself upward, Hottie’s hands tucking under his arm and helping him up.
“I don’t-- are you sure? Let me get you dinner as an apology, and get you to your apartment,” Hottie continues.
Ping’s pretty tall himself, towering over most of his classmates at 6’1, but Hottie is even taller than him, and he finds himself peering upward, swiping at his eyes again, sniffling.
“It’s fine, I’ve got noodles at home, I’ll just make them,” he says.
Hottie shakes his head, moving to clean up the spilled dinner. “No, I really need to apologise, please let me. What apartment are you in? I’ll order a Grab for you and bring it over once it’s here. Please?”
Ping sighs, tired and hungry, and gives in. Hottie seems rather persistent, and he just cleaned up the mess, and he is hot, so why not?
“Alright… I’m in 89,” he says. Hottie blinks.
“Oh. I’m in 88, I’m your new neighbour. My name’s Meen,” he says, giving Ping a wai. Ping blinks-- what are the chances?
“O-oh, hi. I’m Ping,” he trails off, as Meen bends over to pick up his box.
“I’ll put this in my car and order dinner, and come by soon. What’s your favourite food?” he asks.
Ping bites his lip. He’s a huge glutton and eats a lot, mostly to fuel his lanky and impossibly tall frame, but he feels embarrassed being that honest to Meen. “U-uh, just some rice and chicken will be fine, with some kind of sauce. Vegetables. I’m easy,” he says.
Meen pulls a face. “Vegetables, ew.”
Ping laughs despite himself. “Vegetables are great. Not a fan?”
Meen shakes his head, and Ping winces as he moves towards the elevators, and Meen’s face crumples.
“God, I’m really sorry, I feel so bad. I’ll go do this now and order your food and come by with my first aid kit. I’ve got some ice packs and cream as well,” he says.
Ping nods, and pokes the elevator button, heading inside and waving goodbye to Meen as the doors shut. He groans and leans back against the wall, his ass throbbing. He hit the ground so fucking hard.
Back in his room, Ping sighs as he shucks off his shoes and decides to have a shower while he’s waiting for Meen-- at least he’ll be clean. His room is a bit untidy but he picks up the few pieces of dirty clothes and shoves them in his laundry bin, and stacks the dishes in the sink, spraying some of the cologne Mae got him for his birthday to make the room smell a little better.
By the time he’s done with his shower, and changed into shorts and an oversized striped tee, wiping at his hair, there’s a knock on the door. Padding over, wincing again as the pain zings down his hamstring, he opens it to see Meen standing there, a baggie of food in one hand, a green bag in the other.
“Hi, Ping,” Meen’s smooth voice says, and Ping smiles and nods, stepping aside.
“Nice place. You like football?” Meen asks, pointing at the poster of Ronaldo on his wall. He nods.
“I’m a Manchester United fan, and I watch all their games. I play football and futsal for university as well,” he says, thanking Meen and taking the food.
“Let’s treat your injuries,” he says, and Ping flushes.
“Oh, I can-- um, they’re all on my back and butt…” Ping trails off. Meen shrugs.
“I play basketball all the time and I’ve got a degree in sports physiotherapy,” he says. “If it makes you uncomfortable I can just leave this here and you can--” Meen begins.
Ping butts in with a, “No! I mean, uh, no, it’s okay, I just… if you’re alright with it, I’m okay.”
Meen chuckles and shakes his head, reaching for the muscle cream.
“Lie on your stomach,” he says, and Ping does as he’s told.
God, this man is so fucking fine, and he’s about to get his hands all over Ping? He’s died and gone to heaven. Maybe he won’t miss Lucifer at all if he’s got a new hottie living next door like this.
It’s very professional, Meen’s big hands and talented fingers massaging away all the pain, the pleasant heat of the cream sinking into his muscles, and Meen stays away from anywhere fun. It’s over and done with far too quickly, and he’s pulling back.
“All done,” Meen says, and Ping sighs, sitting up and tugging his shorts back up.
“Thank you. Let me get you some tissue to wipe your hands,” Ping starts.
“Nah, it’s fine, I’ll use my shirt,” Meen says, and before Ping can stop him, he’s pulling off his shirt, using it to wipe off the residue.
Ping’s jaw drops.
There, clear as day, is that fucking crescent moon tattoo. The knife. The Roman numerals.
“Oh my God,” Ping says, before he can help himself. Meen looks up, those eyes, those deep brown eyes Ping has been staring at for the last eight months three times a week, suddenly taking on so much more weight, so much more meaning.
“What?” he asks, smiling. He cocks his head. “Is something on my face?”
“You’re… you’re…” Ping stammers, eyes zoned in on his tattoo. Meen’s brows furrow a little, confusion on his face.
“I’m what? Ping, are you okay?”
Ping swallows, mouth feeling like the desert. His heart is racing in his chest, absolutely pounding, at having Lucifer in his room, sitting on his bed, shirtless, after having just massaged his butt for the past ten minutes.
“You’re… Lucifer,” he whispers, biting his lip.
Meen blinks, and then sighs, going to stand. “Ah, shit. You’re a subscriber, then. Well fuck. I’m gonna have to move again.”
Ping’s hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist. “No! No, I won’t be weird, I promise. Don’t move. I-I won’t ever tell anyone. I just, um, shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Meen raises an eyebrow. “And why is that? Are you going to blackmail me?”
Ping shakes his head frantically. “No, I would never! I just-- I’m-- I’m TaiLai9,” he says, looking down at his lap. Maybe if he tells Meen his username, especially after the last stream, he’ll be less angry about Ping knowing his secret.
He waits for something to happen, and something does happen-- Meen leans down and tilts his face up with a finger pressed under his chin.
“You are TaiLai9? My top subscriber? Fuck, you’ve been keeping me afloat for months. How the hell do you afford it?” Meen says.
Ping swallows. “M-my parents are well off. I have an academic scholarship and I tutor on the side. I have a lot of money I don’t know what to do with. Might as well spend it on you.”
Meen laughs. “I can’t believe you're my top sub. Little Ping from next door. You know, everyone I’ve come across today has told me I’m lucky to live next door to you? The aspiring chef, who feeds half the building, babysits kittens and tutors most of the kids. You’re an angel walking among us apparently. And here you are… with a dirty little secret like this,” Meen purrs, leaning in closer, as Ping leans further back, he puts a knee on the bed.
“How did you discover me?” Meen asks, crawling on the bed, as Ping shakes, torn between nerves and absolute overwhelming horniness.
“I-- I found you when I was searching the homepage… you had nice eyes… and a nice body… I wanted to know you more…” Ping stammers.
Meen straddles him, his abs flexing, making Ping’s mouth water. “I have an idea,” he says. Ping can’t help the whine that leaves his mouth as Meen noses along his jaw, completely above him.
“W-what?”
“You’re cute. I wanna fuck you. But… so I know you won’t do anything weird about me continuing to live here, we have to fuck on stream.”
Ping’s jaw drops. “What?”
Meen shrugs and leans back. “You heard me. Fuck on stream. Take it or leave it.”
Ping’s so nervous, and so turned on, and he finds himself agreeing before he knows what’s happening. “Okay! Okay-- I’ll do it.”
Meen’s smirk turns dark, and he leans in and kisses Ping, and oh, it’s better than any fantasy Ping’s ever had. Meen takes control, licks into his mouth, leans his body all over Ping’s, the weight pinning him down, their crotches coming into contact, making Ping’s legs drop open. He needs Meen. Needs him biblically.
“Let’s go, then. I got all my stuff set up already,” Meen says, rearing back after a few heated minutes, both of them hard and breathing heavy.
Ping stumbles out of his apartment after Meen, being tugged along, barely keeping up, the ten steps between their spaces.
Inside, Meen moves towards the bedroom, Ping following him, breathing hard.
The ring light hums in the corner, flooding the small bedroom with white heat as he flicks it on. The camera is angled low, just as it always is, catching only chest to thighs. No faces. Never faces.
Meen reaches into a shoebox on his desk and pulls on his cap and mask, adjusting it higher across his nose. He checks the preview window one last time. Safe. Anonymity intact. He glances over his shoulder, where Ping is perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in the hem of his T-shirt. His face is still uncovered, wide-eyed and pink.
“Here,” Meen mutters, pulling a clean dish towel from his kitchen. “Chef should have an apron, but this’ll do.” He folds it, ties it snug across the younger man’s face like a makeshift blindfold, and only his mouth stays uncovered.
Ping shivers, lips parting. “This is crazy.”
“Yeah,” Meen murmurs, leaning close, letting his voice drop into that low rasp he always uses online. “But you wanted this. My top sub, right? Gotta take care of you properly.”
The chat is flying as soon as Meen logs in and starts recording, emojis and thirsty comments racing across the screen. “Hello, chat. I’m back. And this time I have a guest with me. Does everyone remember TaiLai9? He’s here, in the flesh, ready to get serviced by me.”
He doesn’t look at them again-- the only thing that matters is the body below him, as Meen pushes Ping back, stretching him out on the sheets.
The shirt goes first, peeled over his head and tossed aside. Smooth skin, lean muscle from kitchen work, flushed and trembling under the heat of the ring light. Meen palms his chest, thumbs brushing stiffening nipples, then trails down to the waistband of his shorts. He drags them slow, teasing, until his cock springs free-- already hard, the tip wet.
The chat explodes.
Meen whistles low through his mask. “Fuck, no wonder you tip so much. Been stroking this cock to me, huh?”
Ping whines, nodding, hips jerking. “Every stream.”
That’s all he needs, apparently. He drops to his knees between the boy’s spread thighs and swallows him whole. The first wet suck makes Ping gasp, hand flying to clutch at Meen’s cap. He grips the base, tongue circling, dragging obscene slurps that echo through the mic. The camera catches everything: spit, shine, the boy’s stomach clenching as his hips try to fuck upward.
“Don’t--” Ping gasps. “Don’t make me-- fuck, not yet--”
Meen pulls off with a wet pop, smirking behind the mask. “Don’t worry. I’m not letting you off that easily.”
He slicks his fingers with lube picked up from the bedside, pressing the first one in so slow. Ping moans, head thrown back, muffled by the towel. Another finger, then a third, scissoring deep until Ping is writhing, cock leaking across his belly. The sensation, the bedsheets, the smell of Meen’s cologne, the understanding that he now knows who Meen is, who Lucifer is, and it’s his secret alone-- it’s so overwhelming.
When Meen finally drags on a condom and lines himself up, Ping’s thighs are trembling, the anticipation too much, the desire too much. Meen pushes in with one steady thrust, the stretch tight and perfect, not breaking eye contact for one second. They both groan, the sound raw, shameless.
Ping clutches at him, nails dragging over his shoulders, palming the crescent tattoo. “Fuck, you feel--”
“Yeah? Fucking take it. Let them watch you take every inch.”
The camera catches the rhythm as he starts to fuck him-- deep, heavy thrusts that rock the bed. Slap of skin on skin, the wet drag of lube, Ping’s muffled cries.
Meen bends low, sucking at his collarbone through the fabric of the towel, his cap brim bumping against Ping’s temple.
Chat is a blur:
DEAD 💦🔥
WHO IS THIS LUCKY BOTTOM??
CUM IN HIMMMMM NOW.
Meen grips Ping’s cock, pumping in time with each thrust. Ping arches, body straining, moans breaking free. “Gonna-- fuck, I’m gonna--”
“Do it,” Meen growls, slamming harder. “Show them how good I fuck you.”
Ping comes with a cry, spilling across his own stomach, twitching around Meen’s cock. The squeeze drags Meen over the edge seconds later; he buries himself to the hilt, groaning into the mask as his orgasm rips through him.
They collapse in a sweaty heap, the camera still rolling, chat still screaming. Meen reaches out, and hits the END STREAM button. Fade to black.
“So,” Meen says, after a beat. Ping looks at him through bleary eyes. “How was it?”
“Better than I imagined. How was I?” Ping fires back.
Meen looks startled, and laughs, despite himself. “You were pretty fucking good, kid. I guess my secret is safe with you.”
“I’d like you to be more than a secret to me, though,” Ping says before he can help himself.
Meen sighs and moves in closer, cuddling up around Ping, kissing him.
“Why the fuck not? What’s the worst that could happen?” he asks.