Lavish Didi Stories - The Streamer - Chapter 4

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 4 

The fridge light was the only clear thing in the apartment, everything else’s blurry between me and my gamer roommate.

Petrov stood in it like he’d spawned there. Black Adidas shorts slung low. Dirty white socks collapsed around his ankles. The Russian national team shirt stuck to him in dark patches — pits, spine, the line under his chest. Buzzed head shiny. He smelled like eight hours of gaming non stop and a chair that had given up. Two Monster cans already in his left hand. He was reaching for a third when he saw me.

“What,” he said. Not a question. A loading screen.

“You’re dripping on the linoleum.”

“It’s my linoleum.” He cracked a can one-handed, the metal screaming. Drank. Throat working. A drop ran from the corner of his mouth into the stubble he never quite shaved. 

“You been standing there like a creep or you want one?”

“I want you to fuck me. I’m tired of just sucking your cock.” I was never afraid of asking what I want.

The can froze halfway down.

Petrov looked at me the way he looked at a teammate who had just typed ez in all chat after going 4 and 19. Blond brows down. Mouth open. The himbo operating system doing a hard reboot.

“That’s—” He laughed once. It died. “That’s gay, Kai. That’s different. That’s not a mouth under a desk. That’s not you taking the edge off so I can hit a clip. That’s me putting it in. That’s a whole different playlist.”

“A hole, like my mouth. Both are holes.” I said like explaining basic math. “You like those. You’ve been using mine for two weeks and calling it lag.”

“Blyad.” The Russian slipped out under his breath, automatic, the way it did when a sniper took his helmet off. He set the cans on the counter too hard. One rocked. “I have a stream in one hour. I have Statics at ten. I have a midterm they already think I’m going to bomb. I have—” He gestured at his own chest like the sweat was an alibi. “I didn’t even shower. I sat in that chair since lunch. I’m not— I’m not walking over there and doing that like it’s a daily challenge.”

“I know you didn’t shower. I can smell it from here.”

“That’s not a selling point.”

“It is for me.”

He stared at the dark window over the sink. A quiet night. A car. Somebody’s TV a little bit too loud. His reflection looked pissed and lost in equal measure. The shorts were already doing a poor job of hiding what the sentence had done to him. He noticed me notice and turned toward the fridge again, like cold air was going to fix it. The light cut him in half. Wet jersey. Wet pits. The crest of the national team wrinkled over a chest that had no business belonging to a guy who claimed he didn’t care.

“I’m not gay,” he said to the mustard.

“I’m not asking you to be gay. I’m asking you to fuck my ass, hard.”

“That’s the same sentence.”

“It’s not and you know it. It’s only gay if you think it’s gay.”

He dragged a hand down his face. The pits of the jersey flashed. The smell hit me from five feet — sour, sharp, eight hours of a body that thought deodorant and shower was a side quest.

“If I do this,” he said, slow, like he was reading patch notes out loud so he wouldn’t miss a line, “it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not a duo queue. It’s not a skin I equipped. It’s not me sliding into your DMs after. You don’t get to look at me at breakfast like we unlocked a story mission. You get that. You get that or I’m walking back to the chair and we pretend you asked for a soda.”

“I get it.”

“Say it.”

“It’s not a thing.”

He nodded once. Then he didn’t move. I watched the fight run across his face in real time. The Petrov who wanted the RGB and the headset and the version of himself that only came in a girl’s mouth on a phone screen. And the Petrov who was standing in dirty socks at 11 p.m. with a hard-on his shorts could not negotiate, because his roommate had said fuck and his body had voted without him.

“I’ve never— fucked an ass.” He stopped. Started again. “I’ve thought about it. I’m not going to lie and say the last two weeks didn’t put the idea in the queue. But thinking and doing are different servers. Once I do it I can’t alt-F4. It’s on the hard drive.”

“You can still walk to your room and game. Life goes on.”

He looked at the hallway. He looked at me. He looked at the Monster sweating a ring onto the laminate.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can.”

He didn’t walk.

“I need—” He pulled his phone out of the shorts pocket like a shield. Unlocked. Thumbed. The sound came on before the picture did: a woman moaning on cheap speakers, the rhythm already halfway to a climax she was paid to have. He propped the iPhone against the third Monster can on the counter, angled so he could see it over my shoulder. Girl. Tits. A guy offscreen. Petrov’s jaw loosened a fraction, like the video had given him permission to stay in the room.

“That’s cheating,” I said.

“That’s how I work. You want the DLC, you deal with the launcher. I look at that, I stay hard, I don’t have to think about what type of hole I’m putting it in.”

He hooked his thumbs in the Adidas and shoved them down with the briefs. His cock came up slapping against the damp cotton of the jersey. Thick. Cut. Already slick at the tip. He wrapped a fist around it and stroked once, eyes on the phone, not on me.

“Clothes off,” he said. “And don’t make a speech. If you make a speech I remember I’m in a kitchen about to fuck a dude and I go soft and then I’m going to be pissed at you for a week.”

I stripped. He watched the screen. I could have been a loading icon. When I was naked he grabbed my hip and turned me toward the counter, the edge of the cheap laminate hitting me just below the ribs. Behind me the porn kept going. In front of me, two Monster cans and a sponge that had seen things.

“Stay,” he said, and spit in his hand.

The first finger was blunt. Unromantic. He worked it in like he was clearing a jammed magazine, breath loud through his nose, the jersey brushing my back every time he moved. Sweat from his chest dotted my spine. He added a second because he was impatient and because the girl on the phone made a noise he liked.

“Tight,” he muttered. “Of course you’re tight. You been saving the raid boss for me or what. Two weeks of mouth and now you drop the final form.”

“You’re not that good at the game.”

“I’m 2.1 K/D this season. I dropped a 28-bomb last Thursday. Shut up.”

He lined up. The head pressed. He didn’t ask again. He pushed.

It burned in a straight line. I dropped my forehead to the laminate and breathed through it. Petrov swore in two languages, a stack of fuck and suka that had no audience but the dirty socks on the linoleum. He bottomed out in increments, hips stuttering, the national team crest scraping my shoulder blade.

“Jesus. Jesus Christ. That’s— that’s not a mouth. That’s a whole different hitbox.”

“No shit.”

“Don’t talk.” He pulled back and shoved in again, less careful. The counter jumped. A can tipped and I caught it on reflex. He laughed, breathless, mean. “Good save. Chat would have roasted you. Kai can’t even hold a can. They’d clip it.”

He found a rhythm that was all gym and no love. Skin slapping. The wet sound of a kitchen that had not been designed for this. His balls tapped the back of my thighs, heavy, hot. Sweat ran off his buzzed scalp onto my neck. He kept glancing at the phone. I could feel it in the way his hips lost the beat every time the girl on screen did something he recognized.

“Yeah. Yeah, look at that. That’s the loadout. That’s what I’m thinking about. You’re just the map. You’re the warehouse on Shoot House. I’m using the space.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“I will. That’s the whole build.” Another hard thrust that walked me up onto my toes. “God, you take it like you queued for this. No backing out. No rage quit. I’m going to ruin this hole for whoever you let in after. Not that you will. You live with me. That’s a camp spot.”

I reached back and slapped the iPhone face-down on the counter. The moaning cut. Black glass. The Monster can rolled and clinked against the backsplash.

Petrov stopped halfway in.

“The fuck, Kai.”

“If you can’t own what you’re doing,” I said, voice raw against the laminate, “I’m not sucking you anymore. I’m not getting on my knees under your desk. I’m not helping you clutch. You want to fuck a hole, look at the hole. You want girls, go swipe. Pick.”

Silence. The fridge hummed. His cock twitched inside me, traitor. His hand was a clamp on my hip.

“That’s an ultimatum.”

“That’s a patch.”

“I’m not—” He swallowed. I felt him swallow, the whole sweaty line of him against my back. The fight ran another lap, longer than the first one. I waited. I would have walked. He knew I would have walked. That was the only reason it worked.

“You take the porn away and it’s just this,” he said, quiet, pissed at the accuracy. “It’s just me in the kitchen with my dick in my gay roommate. That’s the screenshot. I don’t like the screenshot.”

“Then pull out.”

He didn’t pull out.

“Fine,” he said. Small. Pissed. “Fine. Phone’s off. Happy? I’m fucking my roommate in the kitchen like a campaign mission I didn’t buy. There. Owned. I’m looking at you. I’m not looking at her. Now stop talking before I soft.”

“You’re not going to soft.”

He slammed back in to prove it I was right.

The pace after that was punishment for the phone. Hard. Deep. The counter edge branded my hips. Petrov’s mouth opened against the back of my head and he talked because he didn’t know how to be in his body without a commentary track.

“God, you’re tanking it. Full HP. No med kit. Armor broken and you’re still standing. I’m going to decorate that whore hole, you understand me? I’m going to paint the objective. No extract. You take the W and you walk funny tomorrow and you sit on the couch during stream like you didn’t get spawn-trapped on this counter.”

“You’re just a dumb gamer.”

“Always.” A wet smack of hips. “This is better than a triple kill. This is a team wipe. Chat can’t see this. Chat doesn’t deserve this. This is ranked and I’m smurfing on your ass and there’s no report button.”

I laughed and the laugh made him groan, which made me tighter, which made him curse at the ceiling.

“Don’t laugh. Don’t— fuck— when you laugh it does that thing. That’s not fair. That’s pay-to-win.”

He pulled out sudden enough that I hissed. Turned me. Boosted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing, my ass on the cold laminate, thighs spread around his waist. The jersey was translucent now. Nipples tight under the wet crest. He looked down at himself like he’d just noticed he had a body.

I grabbed the open Monster and tipped it.

Yellow-green ran down the white fabric, over the swell of his pec, into the groove of his abs, dripping off the waistband he’d never pulled all the way down. It fizzed in his navel. Ran sideways into the trail of hair under his belly. He stared at the mess like I’d thrown a flashbang.

“The fuck are you—”

I leaned in and licked.

The drink was sour and cheap. Under it was salt. Skin. Eight hours. I dragged my tongue up the sticky line, over the hard plate of his stomach, catching carbonation and sweat in the same pass, up onto his chest, and closed my mouth on his nipple through the wet jersey. The fabric went thin between my teeth. Then I shoved the shirt up and did it again on bare skin. Petrov made a noise I had never heard on stream. Not a yell. Not a callout. Something punched and high, like his mic had peaked.

“Kai— that’s— that’s not in the tutorial.”

I didn’t stop. I sucked the other one. Bit, light. Licked the Monster out of the groove where pec met pit. His cock jumped against my hole, not in yet, sliding, leaving a smear on my thigh. His hands were in my hair and he wasn’t pulling me off. He was holding me there and hating that he was holding me there.

“Do the—” He couldn’t finish it. His face was red to the buzzed line. “Don’t. If you do the other thing I thought about I am going to embarrass myself on this linoleum.”

I lifted his arm.

He could have stopped me. Two-twenty of engineering student and deadlift ego. He let the arm go up like he’d queued the emote by accident. The pit was soaked, dark blond, sharp enough to make my eyes water. Heat came off it in a wave. I put my mouth on it.

Petrov’s whole body went rigid. His cock kicked so hard it slapped my stomach. He folded forward over me with a sound like he’d been shot and the respawn was late.

“Blyad. Blyad, that’s— I’m so hard it hurts. It hurts. Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop. I’m going to come just from that and that’s a humiliating K/D. That’s a 0 and 8. That’s me rage-quitting my own dick.”

I licked a slow stripe through the wet hair and sucked the salt off the skin underneath. His hips stuttered. He grabbed himself at the base, squeezing, bargaining with a body that had stopped taking orders from the brain that paid rent.

“Other one,” he got out. “If you’re going to grief me, grief me even.”

I switched arms. He lifted that one himself. The second pit was worse — hotter, trapped against the jersey all night, the smell concentrated like he’d been saving it. I moaned into it without meaning to. Petrov’s forehead dropped onto the cabinet door with a thud.

“I’m going to lose it. I’m going to lose it on your stomach like a virgin boy who found a porno tab. In. Put it back in. I can’t do the nipple thing and the pit thing and stand here. I’ll waste the raid. I’ll waste the whole raid on your abs and then I’m going to be an asshole about it until Sunday.”

I pulled off his pit with a last drag of teeth. He looked wrecked. Eyes glassy. Jersey rucked under his armpits. Monster drying sticky on his abs, shiny in the fridge-light that still spilled across the floor. Dirty socks still on. The most honest he’d been since I moved in.

He shoved back inside in one long slide that punched the air out of me.

No phone. No girl. Just the kitchen and the slap of his hips and the wet filthy sound of bareback in a room that still smelled like pizza and spilled Monster. He hooked my knees over his elbows and folded me into the counter and fucked like he was trying to win a round that had already ended.

“Look at me,” I said.

He did. It cost him. The blue eyes were furious and hungry and scared of the combination.

“I’m in my gay roommate,” he said, like reading a death recap. “I’m balls deep in my gay roommate and I’m going to nut in him. That’s the sentence. That’s the clip I delete. I’m going to decorate that whore hole and you’re going to leak down the cabinet like a bad texture pack. No wipe. No second lobby.”

“Do it.”

“Don’t rush the boss fight.”

He didn’t last like a boss fight. The pit-and-nipple thing had already stolen half his bar. His rhythm went sloppy, gym-sloppy, the short mean strokes he used when he was about to pop on stream and had to cough to hide it. Sweat dropped off his nose onto my mouth. I licked it. He swore. He dropped my knees and collapsed over me, chest to chest, sticky Monster and sweat glueing us together, and buried himself to the root.

“Take it. Take the W. I’m— fuck— decorating— decorating that—”

He came hard enough that I felt the pulses. Hot. A lot. No condom. He kept thrusting through it like the objective wasn’t capped until the animation finished, hips jerking, a raw groan punched into my neck, Russian crumbling into English crumbling into nothing. He stayed in. Twitched. Stayed in longer than the joke needed.

When he pulled out it was slow, like he didn’t trust the physics. I felt him leave. I felt what he left behind. It leaked immediately, warm, down the crack of my ass onto the laminate, a line that reached the drawer handle.

Petrov looked at it.

For a second there was no himbo. There was a guy staring at evidence.

Then he huffed a laugh that had no audience.

“Leaking. Uninstalled the patch and the files are still there. Classic. That’s going to be there when I make eggs. That’s a problem for morning-me.”

He pulled the jersey down. It stuck. He didn’t take the socks off. He picked up the face-down iPhone, didn’t unlock it, shoved it in the shorts he dragged up over a cock that was still half-interested and shiny.

I sat on the counter with his cum sliding and my pulse in my throat.

He grabbed the unopened Monster, cracked it, drank half in one go. Looked at me over the can.

“This doesn’t go in the Discord,” he said. “This doesn’t go in chat. This is offline. Private server. You say it was a thing and I queue into a different apartment.”

“It’s not a thing.”

He nodded. Too fast.

At the doorway he stopped, back to me, the number on the Russian shirt wrinkled and translucent.

“You turn the phone off again,” he said, without turning around, “and I still finish. That’s the new setting, I don’t need the phone to fuck you. Don’t make me say it twice.”

Then he went back to the RGB dark and the chair and the game that would not ask him what he’d just done.

I cleaned the cabinet with a paper towel.

It didn’t come up all the way.

In an hour he would stream, he would yell at kids in New Jersey and Moscow and call people bots. Tomorrow I would sit on the couch like the kitchen hadn’t happened.

Tonight the linoleum had a footprint in a dirty sock, and my body his cum inside he’d named like a victory screen, and Petrov TheKillah had owned one sentence and run from the rest.

I could still taste Monster and pit-sweat.

I didn’t shower either. I love Petrov’s taste.