Chapter Text
Porn has always seemed tacky to Viktor. The all-caps, the explosion and water droplet emojis, the exploitative undercurrent in the reflection of the camera in the performers’ eyes. It all makes him close the tab before his brain can even think of catching up with his body. So he tries everything before he makes an account on OnlyFans. He begs the imaginary critic in his head to believe he does.
The problem is that he can’t use his imagination. The burning-hot desire fizzles when he thinks of the dishes he has to do, or the responsibilities he’s not attending to. Sometimes he scrolls through pages of X-rated art, reads free erotica of TV shows he likes, but it doesn’t do the job. He treats himself to a posted-of-their-own-free-will nude of medium-hot guys on Reddit every once in a while, but even that pushes the envelope on the good-to-gross scale. He hates PornHub and all of its equivalents. He hates that icky feeling that he’s doing something bad. He hates benefiting off of people’s free labor in such a vulnerable way. He tries to think about what he used to do before he started thinking so hard about everything, and then remembers that, unfortunately, he’s always been like this. Think-y.
The thing is, he can’t come unless he actually sees someone, you know, doing it. That’s just one of the many reasons that, when he gets worked up, it almost always ends in him sniffling into the pillow. Sometimes he thinks he can’t come, period, without feeling terrible afterward. He rolls his hips down into the mattress, not even touching himself (another pertinent issue,) and all of his methods fail him, leaving his orgasm to shrivel up and die in the bottom of his stomach. He blames himself, mostly, but in those quiet, desperate moments, he almost feels like he’s being punished.
And that is why, he spits his toothpaste into the sink, sunlight trickling into the bathroom. It’s actually okay that I made an account on OnlyFans.
He always does this. The self-justification thing. The talking-to-himself thing. He pads across the hardwood floor of his apartment in fuzzy socks, tempting fate by forgoing his cane in the few paces it takes to reach his bedroom. He does that sometimes, too. Confined almost exclusively to his apartment, Viktor treats his disability like he treated the headmaster of the boarding school he attended a lifetime ago–he thinks if he’s quick enough, he can slip by without being noticed.
Of course, that isn’t how it works. He crashes back onto his bed with a groan. His cane and crutches stare at him judgmentally from their place propped up against the wall.
He turns to his laptop, which casts a soft light on his grey bedspread, and opens up Twitter on his phone. His account he never uses, set to private, had become algorithmically infested with NSFW accounts without pictures. Short messages, people tagging their lovers and friends in the comments, conversing in other languages. It used to kind of turn Viktor on, and then it didn’t.
@kinkylovexx: “when he slaps your thigh instead of asking you to turn over”
Nope.
@loveparadises: “need him to call me his little slut”
Definitely not.
@sextalks: “i HATE good boys with big brown eyes”
Viktor opens the comments on that one. Sue him. It’s engagement bait, dozens of brown-eyed men posting selfies that range from mediocre to gorgeous, from tame to full-frontal. Viktor thinks, cynically, that very few of them actually occupy the “good boy” niche, and that he will be disappointed to open their OF and see videos of them roughing up women and/or twinks. Not that it’s bad to be into that. Just. Whatever.
He side-eyes the OnlyFans website on his laptop, then looks back at his phone. Should he just pick one at random, just to see? You already have the account. Stop pretending you’re using judgment here. His stomach churns.
@itsJCT: “POV alternate universe where pet adoption shelters are evil”
The comment has way less likes than any of the others, but Viktor snorts out loud. What a stupid thing to say. He clicks on the guy’s profile, and… oh. There’s an OF link in his bio– his Tweets are mostly silly, random things about being in university and the occasional topless selfie. Viktor feels a pang of something. Jealousy mixed with lust. JC is gorgeous. Healthy. He seems like a happy person. This is the one.
“This is a terrible idea,” he says out loud for posterity as he types the username into the search bar. His account is like 5 bucks a month. There’s a free video as a channel introduction, and the thumbnail shows JC on his knees, back arched, the frame cutting off right at his ass. Viktor kind of feels like there’s no more air left in his body.
He falls backwards on the bed, balling up his fists and feeling stupid. “Fuck!”
☎️
This is a terrible idea. Viktor has managed to bathe and feed himself in between naps and doctor-mandated at-home physical therapy, his laptop still sitting open on his bed. He knows that if he so much as touches the trackpad, it’ll wake up and display JC’s profile, the video Viktor hasn’t been able to stop thinking about even while doing his stretches. Especially while in the shower. What could it contain? He thinks of it as a mystery cure to his orgasm-related ailments, like this JC guy will put a sudden stop to years of dysfunction. He almost believes it. Viktor gets his credit card from his bag and places it on his bedside table, convincing himself it’s for purely practical reasons. What if he wants to online shop tonight? Renew his grocery delivery subscription? Buy a charm for his cane? That would be cute, actually. The sun has set now, early because it’s wintertime, and Viktor sits up in bed with his back against the headboard, bundled up from head to toe even though his apartment isn’t that cold, and pulls his laptop onto his legs. It flickers to life.
He clicks on the video before he has time to talk himself out of it. The first shot is of JC in lingerie, sitting on his bed. From there, it’s a quick montage, and Viktor can almost hear his moans in the quiet audio mix before JC starts speaking.
“Hi, I’m JC, welcome to my account!” His voice is soft and kind. Viktor sees him press a vibrator to his balls, just a flash of a video, and has to cross his legs. Jesus Christ. “I made this account to help out with engineering school. I stream solo content and post edited stream highlights.” The information is quite cut-and-dry, but Viktor can’t help but ogle the quickly-cycling videos. JC fucking himself. JC hitting his own thighs, red marks blooming. The shot from the thumbnail– JC on his hands and knees. After so long without actual porn, Viktor feels like he’s on fire. “So thanks for watching, uh, and, consider subscribing!” JC says as if it’s the most wholesome thing in the world, and the videos fade to black. Before he knows it, there’s a white replay button on the video, and Viktor is shedding his hoodie. He stares at his credit card. I don’t have to withhold pleasure from myself, he reasons. He justifies. I don’t, I don’t. He snatches it off the bedside table and clicks “Subscribe.”
The moment his payment has been processed, fingers shaking when he types in the code like someone is going to bust down his door, the feed changes. He now has access to all of JC’s content, probably a year and a half’s worth of streams and clip compilations. It takes Viktor a second to orient himself. The header at the top says: “Thank you for subscribing, vik_herald! Enjoy ;)”
He scrolls down a bit, to a video circled in red. Oh. It’s live. JC is live right now. Oh, oh, oh. His palms are sweaty. Jesus Christ, pull it together.
He clicks on the video.
JC is taking a break, from the looks of it, sipping from a water bottle and reading the chat off-screen. He’s sweaty. He’s completely naked. His cock is heavy, upright against his stomach. Leaking. He’s sitting up on his knees.
“If you’re just tuning in–”
Viktor closes the stream. Fuck. JC totally read that he joined. He shifts in his sitting position, feeling that sweaty feeling that means he’s probably wet. He grabs a stuffed animal from the corner of his bed and puts it between his legs to add some pressure. Deep breath. He rejoins.
“So anyway, oh, hi! Haha, so,” he sets his water bottle down. Viktor is absolutely burning up. He’s going to run a fever at this rate. “TL;DR, right, I’m just doing a bit of edgeplay tonight.” Viktor glances at the stream’s runtime. 25 minutes. JC smiles. “Seeing how long I can go. Thank you all for–”
Someone donates, and the message pops up on the screen. “Touch yourself, pretty boy! Xoxo.”
Viktor bites the inside of his cheek. How crass. “Mm, alright,” JC says obediently, and puts a hand on himself. He’s messy with precome, touching himself slow and sweetly. Viktor feels the pressure build in the pit of his stomach. Pretty boy, indeed. The donations start to pour in. They shower him with praise, telling him how good he’s doing. Every time they reach a peak, JC stills his hand, breathing heavily. The comments go wild.
@redscar33: “aww!!!”
@user10006: “So hot, just came”
@j__h: “How long can he go?”
“I– I’ve gone a long time, guys,” he pants. “I can go a long time.”
Viktor is mesmerized. His tan muscles flex, somehow strong and graceful all at once. He’s so hot, and so handsome, and he seems so at the will of his audience. Like he’s actually submitting to them. Because he’s worried and curious, Viktor looks into the chat details. There’s a moderator, thank God. With each worry he sheds, he gets hornier. It becomes easier and easier to imagine himself coming from this. He tries not to think about it. Thinking about it ruins it. JC looks straight at the camera.
“When I want it really badly, I cry. From that point, I’ll do anything,” he punctuates his sentence with a groan. The words bounce around in Viktor’s brain like a pinball, all the information overloading. Fuck it, he needs this. JC takes a hand off himself, shuffling closer to the camera to show his dripping, angry cock. It’s been almost an hour, a sheen of sweat covering his body.
He shifts onto his back, laying sideways on his bed so the audience can still see him. The long lines of his stomach and chest are stunning. Viktor gets the insane urge to tell him how pretty he is like everyone else. He understands the commenters now, pointless but impassioned. He says, in the complete silence of his room, “sweet boy. Pretty, beautiful boy.” Viktor sets his laptop on his pillow and lays on his side, supported by his pile of stuffed animals, with one still between his legs. He rocks against it, grinding his hips down and into it. Feeling the pressure on his clit is like a breath of fresh air. His bedframe creaks as he humps his stuffie in time to JC’s strokes of his cock, both of their noises getting louder as JC cries out.
“Mmh! Please, please, mmm,” JC whines, dirty, tinny sounds filtering out of Viktor’s laptop speakers.
“Baby, baby, baby,” Viktor babbles, ignoring the messages trying to dom JC through the screen. He focuses only on JC’s hand on his cock, the arch of his back off the bed. “Yeah, come for me, sweet boy, you know you– ah, you know you want to, please,” he whispers. He can’t think. He’s so close. For the first time in a long time now, pleasure builds and builds. On the screen, JC sniffles. He’s crying.
“I need it, I need it,” he cries, then tenses up.
Viktor keeps whispering his litany of dirty encouragement, so quiet he can barely hear himself. JC comes with a shudder, shooting onto his stomach as his cock twitches. Viktor presses the plushie tight to his pussy and goes rigid, orgasm crashing into him as JC continues to leak on his screen. Not that he can see. He rides it out, moaning and screwing his eyes shut. By the time he’s finished and oversensitive, the stream has ended. Viktor slams the laptop closed and clutches the plushie to his chest, feeling the sobs start to rise in his chest like they always do. He curls into the fetal position and lets the familiar feeling wash over him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
☎️
From then on, he doesn’t get off. But he stays subscribed. It feels like martyring himself, like doing something heroic. He feels like he’s saving his mental health, maybe, even though he knows that can’t be true. Not like this. He watches almost all of JC’s streams. He watches him take dildos, face contorted in pleasure, and show off for the stream in all-black lingerie. He watches him play with his nipples and pinch himself. He watches him hit himself with a black flogger. Viktor sits or lays with stuffed animals between his thighs, grinding and rocking but never getting off. He tells himself he can’t. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to do it without feeling awful, so that’s it. So he rocks and grinds until the stream ends, and then he goes to bed.
He lets himself type in the chat, though. After two weeks, he’s the only person, he thinks, that watches every stream without fail. It would be pathetic if JC wasn’t so kind to his audience, always bright and smiling up until the point where moans are spilling out of him. So Viktor allows himself to interact. The first time, he simply types “gorgeous boy.” He swears JC looks at the chat offscreen and smiles. He blushes and covers his face with his hands–he’s being delusional. It’s addictive.
For his entire adult life since dropping out of school, he’s seen being confined to his home as a net negative–with JC’s help, it becomes less so. He’s able to tune in whenever he wants. Even if he doesn’t watch for long, he can type something small in the chat. “Love your noises.” “Such a pretty thing.” “Delightful.” He tips small amounts, too. Five dollars here and there when JC’s noises go straight to his pussy, warming him up even with his bad circulation. It’s a comforting, familiar routine. It doesn’t make him hate himself, at least not as much as the other stuff. So he stays subscribed.
On week four, JC says his name for the first time.
He’s riding a dildo in this stream, turned towards the audience so Viktor can see his dick slapping against his stomach. Viktor thinks, not for the first time, that he would like to have one of those. A dick. He probably wouldn’t be able to handle JC’s weight on top of him, but still. Viktor sits with his knees splayed out to the sides, hip flexors relatively strong despite his weak muscles. He can’t sit like this for too long, but he wants to try–he bounces experimentally on his bed, matching JC’s slow pace. He puts his weight on his hands for stability, bouncing so a corner of his pillow meets his clit. It feels okay. It feels good. He lowers himself down, humping his pillow from above by slamming his hips into it. His leg brace creaks in protest, so he turns the volume up. When he lies down, exhausted, hauling himself back over to his laptop with the pillow in between his thighs, he almost-unthinkingly types out a message in the chat. “Thank you, sweet boy.” He feels a little bad as soon as he does it.
“Th-thank you, Vik, hah,” JC says, lowering himself back down onto the cock. Viktor gasps. Laying down, his orgasm takes him by surprise.
☎️
Viktor misses his first stream after that. He’s cooking himself dinner, actually cooking, when he sees the notification. He even put on some nice jazz music and dimmed the lights, trying to make a nice ambience to live in. Trying to make things more bearable, maybe. He tells himself he can’t be an actual freak forever; he needs to eat and it’s good that he’s standing and cooking instead of sitting and watching porn. He leaves his spinach unattended looking at the notification, though– “itsJCT just posted a new video: edging myself with a vibrator and introducing my PO box <3”
He turns back towards his cooking. A PO box. So people can send him stuff. What an interesting concept. It doesn’t give him money, only toys. Viktor’s face gets unbearably hot and he turns away from the stovetop again. JC is shameless. He can’t stop thinking about his own behavior, about humping pillows and talking to nobody. He feels shame, intense amounts of it that coat his face like the steam on his cooking. And here’s this gorgeous man with a mail address for sex toys. He’s cooking. He’s being normal. He’ll look later.
Viktor scratches the back of his neck- he’s too curious. He clicks on the notification quickly, opening JC’s profile and not his stream. He just needs to see. He just wants to know. There’s a post. It has the address of the PO box. It’s… Viktor gasps, leaning against his cane. He swears the vinyl in his record player slows and distorts; it takes until the lights start looking brighter to realize he’s going to faint. He stumbles towards the couch and crashes into it, sliding across the hardwood as his warm lamp-lit apartment is distorted around him. The sound of his spinach burning becomes louder than the record. The last thing he thinks before his vision blacks out is that he hopes that the firefighters don’t make fun of him for killing himself with burnt greens and pornstars.