Chapter Text
George will have mod perms on this streaming channel if it’s the last thing he does.
…Which, admittedly, says more about George than the channel.
He’s spent a bit too much time watching this guy.
But can you blame him? He’d found the channel by chance - what kind of username is PVPdemon anyway - and has been hooked pretty much from the first stream he watched. There’s only two mods in the chat and sometimes neither of them are even there, George could do the job just fine!
It’s not like the chat can be unmoderated. PVPdemon is, after all, a camboy.
Again, it says more about George than Demon that he wants mod perms so bad.
Demon is good at what he does - really good. Sculpted like a hero of old and with a smooth deep voice to match, that man knows how to put on a good show. He’s a demon, like the name would suggest, and there’s been hearty debates in chat about the possibility of him being an incubus. His skin is pale except for a dark discoloration along the top half of his face, his shoulders, his hands. It’s a typical trait of those with divine-touched heritage - the “light shining from above” as it’s often called, though it’s not always light. Demon’s is black, or so the chat says. For all George knows it could be red.
George can barely take his eyes off him most of the time.
And yet in the tiniest glances he throws chat, he keeps catching bullshit that a mod should hammer down. And George knows for a damn fact that he could do the job just fine.
He needs to have mod perms. It’s not only a matter of honor, but of helping out his favorite camboy.
It says a lot, a lot lot, about George, that this is what he’s chosen to concern himself with this afternoon.
He’s supposed to be working on a paper. If he figures out this potion recipe he can get a good enough mark in this class that he’ll have some leeway for the finals.
Ugh.
He should’ve stopped when he got his degree. The hell does he need a Master’s for?
With a sigh, George rubs his face and leaves his desk. He’s not getting any work done like this. A cold shower oughta help him.
Midway through the shower he has a eureka moment and sprints, naked and soap-slippery, to his desk to jot it down before he forgets. He finishes his shower in peace and returns to the desk to check his notes.
It’s gibberish.
George is going to fail this class, drop out of college, barge into faerieland and have himself turned into a mushroom.
He drops his head to the desk.
Two more hours until Demon goes live.
There’s something to be said about how he can only calm his mounting frustration by thinking of a camboy.
In a fit of desperation George rummages through his cupboards for a vial of the potion he did his Bachelor’s thesis on. He takes it like a shot and has just enough time to make it to the nearest chair before he passes out.
He wakes up exactly two hours later, rested from his nap and not disoriented, because he made this sleep potion himself and he’s fucking good at them so of course they work as they should.
He boots up his laptop and settles in to wait for Demon.
He doesn’t have to wait long. Twelve minutes and the black screen fills with color.
Demon is standing in his bathroom. He’s brought the camera in here a few times in the time George has been watching him, but never started a stream here.
“Hey sinners,” Demon grins, bending over to get closer. He must have set up on his bathroom counter - the camera is almost level with his hip.
George likes this about Demon: he always has fun with the angles of his streams.
“It’s gonna be a quick one today,” Demon says, shaking hair out of his eyes. Probably. It’s hard to tell - his hair is just as black as his horns and his light-from-above. It all blends in. “I have to leave in like an hour, so we’re gonna hop in the shower together, how’s that sound?”
The chat breaks into cheering. George joins in. One of the mods is on today, so George’s mood doesn’t sour from weird messages or whatever.
Demon grins. “You’re always so nice to me, sinners. Mwah.”
George’s heart picks up. Fuck, the guy’s not even naked yet, try to calm down.
Demon stalls for another few minutes before he strips. His shirt goes first and George reaches a hand between his own legs.
Fuck but Demon looks good. Strong and solid. He flexes once his top is off, and George is treated to the mouth-watering image of Demon’s soft body sharpening to hardness, then softening again to skin that George would love to bite.
He knows it’s not realistic to think that. He has no chance or want of ever meeting this guy. But it’s not like he’s watching a camboy to not picture himself biting said camboy.
Demon drops his sweatpants and George scrambles to pull himself out of his own trousers - by the time he manages, Demon is bent over, sliding his underwear down his legs.
He’s grinning at the camera, that confident, cocky smirk that’s entirely self-aware of what it does to the viewer.
George bites his lip.
“Aw, I’m sorry,” Demon says to someone in chat. “Yeah, I know, I wish I could be with you guys longer too. But I really have to go. Tell you what, babes, next time I’ll have a surprise for you.” He winks at the camera.
The chat is excited, to say the least. The mod that's online is BabyDoll, and they type in several winks to match Demon.
They have something planned, then. Nice. George likes BabyDoll almost as much as he likes PVPdemon.
“Alright,” Demon nods to himself. “Let’s hop in, shall we?”
He slides open the glass door of the shower and leaves it open as he steps in and turns on the water.
A long and impressive string of curses accompanies the sound of the water hitting his skin, and he jumps out of the spray. The chat clowns on him, and rightfully so.
Demon steps out dripping wet. “Babes I have made an error,” he laughs.
George sends some L’s in chat.
“Yeah yeah, laugh it up,” Demon says, rolling his eyes. He reaches in through the running water to turn a knob. “Wanna see you laughing when I have you face-first into the tile and split on my cock.”
George’s mirth twists into sharp arousal.
Demon is good at what he does, because he looks good, and his voice is hot, and he has fun camera angles, and he has a nice vibe to his streams, but the thing George loves the most about Demon’s work is the dirty talk.
Fuck, George could get off to a podcast of this dude.
He says as much in chat.
“Hot voice? Say it again? More?” Demon reads the chat out loud. “Make a dirty talk podcast? Y’all are more thirsty than I thought. I barely said anything.”
SAY MORE runs again and again through chat. George might be a contributing factor to the spam.
Demon shakes his head. “That’s what you get for laughing at me. Sluts.” He checks the water with one hand, then steps under the shower. He groans, throwing his head back. “Ah, there we go.”
George squeezes a hand around himself.
“Fuck, that’s good.”
George reaches for his lube.
Demon bows his head to get his hair wet, showing off the delicious expanse of his back. The curves of his shoulders are black, connecting in the middle to go up the back of his neck and blend into the black of his hair. A line runs down the length of his spine and straight to a long thin tail that only barely doesn't touch the floor.
He looks good. The water runs down his form as if aware of the context it's being used in.
This is not a mere shower. This is a show.
Demon straightens up with a shake of his head that sends water flying left and right. With a grin over his shoulder at the camera, he grabs his shampoo bottle.
It’s not the first time Demon’s had a shower on stream. Usually, though, the washing comes after the main event. It’s odd to watch him clean himself with anticipation going through George.
Demon washes the suds off of himself by standing under the shower and letting gravity do most of the work. He leans his weight on his forearm on the glass of the shower. It hasn’t fogged up, thanks to its open door.
George’s eyes drag across the flattened skin pressed up against the glass. That’s not a shape you see often. It really showcases the muscle underneath.
Just over Demon’s hand, his smirk is as sharp as the teeth it hides.
His other hand, slowly, reaches down for himself.
He’s half-mast, and huge. He gives his cock a squeeze and George does the same to himself. He compares their grips.
Demon must be taller than George, his hands must be bigger. Even that huge hand has about the same grip on his cock as George’s hand does on himself.
He tries to picture that girth next to his own.
“Fuck,” slips out of George’s mouth without his say-so.
Demon jerks himself slowly, bright eyes right on the camera. “Follow my lead, babes.”
George matches pace with him.
Demon chuckles, just a little. “Sorry, I can’t see the chat.” He slides his free hand over the glass it was resting on, clearing some of the water on it. It doesn’t last. “You’re being good though, aren’t you?”
George glances to the chat. They’re being good.
Demon rolls his hips, fucking his fist more than jerking himself.
He lets his head roll back with a moan, exposing his neck.
George bites his lip for lack of anything better to sink his teeth into.
“I could keep you here all day,” Demon says. “Could fuck you nice and slow till you’re begging me to just take you to a bed and show you what you’re missing.”
He slicks his hair back between his horns and looks right at the camera.
“But, I have to make this one quick.”
He slams his hand on the glass and picks up the pace, jerking himself harder, a hiss rising from between his clenched teeth.
George tries to follow the change of pace and gasps, having to slow to something he’s comfortable with. His mind reels - is that really a pace Demon can keep up? If George had to take that pace, could he do it?
Yes, he decides, watching Demon hang his head and curse when his horns hit the glass and force his face back up. Yes, he could take that pace if he was made to take it.
Alone, though, he doesn’t bother, and lets the heat build up in the pit of his stomach slowly.
Demon’s hand on the glass clenches into a fist, and he shoves his whole forearm forward to support his weight.
“Take it,” he growls just loud enough to be heard over the running water. “Take it for me.”
George would. George would take it.
Demon comes right there against the glass. It hits the smooth surface with vengeance and drags down slowly, Demon’s body protecting his release from the water.
He releases his grip and looks at his hand. He puts both forearms to the glass, resting his forehead on his loose fists.
What an image he paints, panting and glowing with satisfaction, water dripping on him and from him, his pleasure splattered right in front of him.
George is so close.
Demon pushes himself upright, steps back under the spray fully to finish cleaning up.
He turns off the water and steps into the opening of the shower door.
He’s left his cum there.
Demon grins. “Little gift for you, sinners. You better clean this up by the time I get home, okay?”
George’s free hand covers his own mouth.
“If you do, I’ll fold you over right here,” he approaches the camera, plants his hands on either side of it on the counter, and leans so close half his face is out of frame. “Be good and be patient, and I’ll make you see stars.”
George comes with his eyes unmoving from the bulk taking up the entirety of the screen. His hand muffles the worst of the noises that slip out of him.
Folded over the bathroom counter, like some kind of club hookup. He takes a moment to picture it; face shoved into the mirror and Demon bouncing him on that fat cock.
George exhales, all his muscles relaxing at once.
“Good,” Demon growls, grinning with all his teeth. “Demon’s gotta go now. Clean up for me, sluts. I’ll see you next time.”
He opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out. He brings a thumb up to drag down his tongue, and when he ends the broadcast, the image freezes at that.
George drags his eyes to the chat. They’re all piling praise on Demon, and thanking the mod for their work. The mod gives a little goodbye themself, and then chat is left to their own devices. It’ll be automatically closed half an hour after a stream has ended, but in the meantime George cleans off his hand and plays mini-mod.
He does this often.
Demon loves to throw a little aftercare to his viewers - all those other times he’s been in a shower on stream, it’s been to encourage viewers to wash up themselves. And, in George’s case at least, it’s worked most of the time.
He did it this time too. His parting words were literally a command to clean up.
George jumps into chat and reminds everyone to do as Demon said. He adds drinking some water as an afterthought, and gets teased for being thirsty for his trouble.
He doesn’t mind. He is thirsty. And there’s a number of chat messages that repeat the water thing and thank him for reminding them.
He logs off and shuts off his laptop.
Post-nut clarity hits just as he’s sipping his own water.
His paper. He knows what he has to research next for his paper.
He actually feels a little dumb for getting so frustrated about it earlier. He’d been so focused on working with the ingredients he has so far, he hadn’t considered looking for other ingredients. Just sitting here, three substitutes for that one bitch of an oil come to mind.
He’s not going to order any of them just yet, but he can research them tonight and bring it up with some fellow students tomorrow, see what everyone thinks about that.
Granted, the Master’s class in the Potion Production course is a small one, maybe fifteen students. Half of them aren’t even on recipe development. None of them are near George’s field of consciousness-altering potions.
But they’re all smart and peer review is academia’s best friend, so George cracks open his botanology book and starts looking for roots.
It’s well into the night before he considers the topic studied enough to let himself rest. He crawls into bed and falls asleep the moment he stops moving.
Waking up without a potion to help him through it is a treacherous task. One of these days he’s gonna invent the potion equivalent of coffee that doesn’t taste like shit and make him crash four hours later, and then he’ll rule the world.
In the meantime he gathers up his homework and heads to class.
He checks the time; it’s only eleven, his first class isn’t for another hour. He has time to grab breakfast.
There’s a brunch place between his apartment and the college campus that makes a semi-decent full english breakfast. Normally he can’t eat that much in the mornings, but hell, this is probably going to be his lunch as well. He eats what he can and asks to take the rest to-go.
And he’s good! Classes go well, he does finish his leftovers during lunch, and by the time evening rolls around and he has TA stuff to do, he’s in such a good mood that he takes the homework without complaint.
His professor gives him an odd smile, because usually George huffs and puffs like a bitch about grading homework, but doesn’t comment.
George takes his task to the library and starts grading.
Thankfully it’s just recipes; it’s one of the obligatory classes the freshmen have to take no matter their course. George could grade these in his sleep, he’ll be done within the hour and then he can work some more on his paper.
Of course, god is not here and never will be and never has been, so George can’t be happy for a whole day.
“George! There you are.”
The words are whisper-hissed because this is a library, so George doesn’t recognise the voice at first. He has to turn his head and by the time he realises who it is, the fucker’s already sitting next to him.
Dream’s round, impassive face smiles back at him.
“Hello,” George says as civilly as he can. His day was going so well. Damn it.
“I know we said we’d meet tomorrow, but if you’re here I have some questions,” Dream says, already reaching into his bag. “Am I interrupting?”
George looks at the homework he’s grading. “Yes.”
Dream pauses, a book with loose leafs of paper in it in his hand. “Oh. Should I leave?”
George takes him in. Dream doesn’t exactly have a face to be expressive with, but he’s not that difficult to read. Every line in his spindly, ball-jointed body is tense with anxiety. The paper he’s stuffed into his textbook is covered in a horror vacui of notes, even in what little of it George can see.
“...No, I have time. What did you need help with?”
Dream relaxes all over; his smile, unmoving, gives nothing away. He opens the book. “Chemistry. There’s this one bit that I don’t get, and I think it has something to do with my alchemy class but I can’t figure out what.”
George reads the page Dream opened on, then glances at the loose notes. Just as he’d guessed, there’s not an inch on those papers that doesn’t have writing on it.
“Inorganic chemistry?”
“Yeah. I think the organic one’s fine, but this one fucks with me.”
This isn’t George’s specialty. He’s more of a consumable magic kind of guy - that’s organic - but you don’t get into potions without acing every single chemistry class that comes your way.
Dream is a senior, but this is a sophomore class. After the third time he failed it, he was desperate to find a tutor, and George needed the hours. Like hell is he doing any more TA work than he needs to. Homework and the occasional tutoring session, he can live with. Office hours is asking a lot of George. Forget about anything more.
“Alright,” George says, putting the homework to the side. “Explain it.”
They sit there, shoulder-to-shoulder, going over the chemistry and the alchemy until Dream understands it all. It’s work, and Dream is annoying as hell, but it’s not the worst thing in the world.
Once Dream thinks he has a good enough grasp of the concept that he can study on his own, George goes back to grading homework.
They sit in silence, broken only by the occasional question by Dream.
George finishes up the grading. He sighs, relaxing as he leans back in his chair.
“You sure are in a good mood,” Dream says, a tease to his voice. “Finally got laid?”
George’s mind jumps to Demon. He shakes his head. “God, I wish.”
“What, really? I could’ve sworn…”
George sits up and slumps over, elbows on the table. The stream last night was fun, but not so fun for some random acquaintance to comment on, unprompted.
George brings to mind the last time he actually got laid. It hasn’t been that long, but that time wasn’t that good, either.
“Yeah I know, shocker. You’re not some casanova either, Dream.”
Dream shrugs. “You know, if you were looking, I’m sure you’d find plenty of people willing to help you with that…”
George rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure. Focus, if you fail this class again I refuse to tutor you.”
Dream sputters and stutters and tries to defend himself, but ultimately does as he’s told.
Still, he’s right. George’s mood is lifted like he’s gotten laid. Isn’t that pathetic?
He really needs those mod perms.