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The ring light hummed faintly on III’s desk, casting a soft glow over his chest as he leaned lazily back in his chair. He had one knee pulled up, sweatpants rolled low on his hips, a half-empty can of Monster sweating condensation next to his keyboard.
“Alright,” he drawled into the mic, smirking at the flood of usernames flying past in chat. “Who’s next? Don’t make me start rating profile pictures instead, you know I’ll do it.”
One ping. Another. His inbox stacked quick with photos—cock after cock, some hard, some soft, all begging for judgment.
III opened one and squinted like he was studying an artifact. “Mhm. Decent curve, decent veins. Background? Tragic. Bro, if you’ve got dirty laundry on the floor behind your dick pic, I will notice. Have some fuckin’ class” He tapped the mic, lips twitching. “Six outta ten. Fix your backdrop, come back to me.”
The chat exploded with laughter emojis and tip alerts. III grinned, sharp and satisfied, then scrolled to the next submission.
This rhythm carried him for nearly an hour—teasing, roasting, occasionally giving out an honest nine when something caught his eye. He popped open the little pink suction toy he’d found in a Target clearance bin that morning, showing it off like a prize. “Oh, forgot I picked this up earlier. Who knew suburban soccer moms were hoarding the good shit?” He held it against his tongue for dramatic effect, lips quirking when it buzzed. He laughed, “We’ll try it out in a bit, if you guys behave. Ten bucks says this makes me cum faster than half you bastards could.” Tips spiked again.
And then—there it was in chat: Rate The Vessel?
III blinked at the screen, one brow arched. “...Really?” He let the silence stretch, playing it up. “You want me to rate him? Bold move.”
He cracked his knuckles, set the toy down, and pulled up Vessel’s profile. He clicked carefully through the free previews—short clips of him stroking himself with breathy moans, mirror selfies with slick streaks on his stomach and hair artfully mussed, thumbnails blurred just enough to bait curiosity, a few audio-only ASMR snippets.
“Alright, I’ll bite,” III said, dragging the window over so the audience could see what he was seeing.
He tilted his head. Whistled low. “Gotta hand it to him—he’s packing. Like, textbook porn cock. Thick, heavy, good curve. Honestly? Kinda unfair. Save some dick for the rest of us who have to work for it.”
The chat went wild, half thirsting, half begging for him to collab.
“But,” III continued, laughing, “the whole fantasy-cum thing? Man’s out here looking like a busted bottle of Elmer’s Glue exploded. Not even remotely realistic. I’m not saying it’s bad—hell, points for commitment—but if we’re talking believability? C’mon.”
He leaned closer to the camera, eyes glinting. “Ten for size. Seven for aesthetics. The whole mask thing he sometimes does is hot but have to deduct points for looking like a Nickelodeon slime show every time he nuts. Sorry, rules are rules.”
The chat lost its collective mind. Tips, superchats, demands for collabs. III leaned back, pleased with himself, the faintest flush creeping up his neck from the toy still humming lazily in his lap.
“Anyway,” he said, smirk sharp as ever, “let’s move on, hm?”
The Vegas convention center buzzed with neon and the smell of coconut oil mixed with perfume and cologne; a constant blur of panels, booths, and performers being dragged from one photo op to another.
III thrived in the chaos, both professional and otherwise. He was in his element: eyeliner sharp, X-shaped pasties on display under a mesh top, mic clipped to his collar as he perched onstage for a Q&A. He cracked jokes, fielded questions, and signed merch with a practiced grin, occasionally leaning into a fan’s phone for a cheeky selfie.
When the panel ended, he slipped backstage, swigged water, checked his socials. Notifications flooded in—retweets of photos, clips from his live panel, snippets of fans screaming when he teased that he might drop another collab soon.
Scrolling, he caught sight of one post that made him snort: a candid of Vessel, snapped on the opposite end of the convention floor, sharp in all-black and flanked by his handler and fans alike. His caption read simply: Thank you for having me.
III liked it. Just once. Kept scrolling.
The expo was three days of that—running parallel without crossing.
Vessel onstage right after III took his leave, stone-faced but magnetic all the same, answering questions with soft-spoken sincerity and grateful smiles.
Vessel at his booth, lines curling halfway down the aisle and mingling with his, fans clutching notebooks and pens and Polaroid prints.
The both of them in the same afterparty circuit, only known when Vessel got caught in other people’s posts, a steady drink in hand and a polite smile that somehow made him stand out among the half-naked chaos.
III noticed. He wasn’t immune. Every so often, their paths would almost cross—hallway traffic, backstage shuffle, camera flashes when they ended up in the background of the same shot from another creator. Once, in the hotel lobby, their eyes met for half a second. Vessel smiled, brief and polite. III tipped his chin down in acknowledgment. Nothing more.
Socials told the rest of the story. III’s feed: outfit selfies, party clips, snarky captions and fan interactions. Vessel’s: professional snapshots, dorky tourist videos, a few mirror pics from his suite, a quick thank-you to fans.
Still, no direct interaction, but somehow their followers ate it up—threads speculating, demanding collabs, pairing screenshots like conspiracy boards.
The Expo ended in a blur—closing panels, heartfelt goodbyes and well-wishes, red-eye flights shuttling entertainers and fans alike back out of the city. III crashed at his hotel after the final afterparty, feet sore from being in his boots for too many hours, throat scratchy from shouting over music, brain buzzing with half-formed plans for new content.
His socials were still lit up, fans dissecting every clip, every stray glance. He scrolled lazily in bed, laughing at one compilation someone had made: a side-by-side of him clowning Vessel’s cumshots on stream spliced against actual clips of Vessel at the Expo, brooding and quiet, like they were building a rivalry arc for a reality show.
He was halfway through thinking of something to quote caption it with when his notifications blinked with something new.
A message request.
From Vessel_Official.
III’s stomach gave a stupid little flip. He opened it.
Vessel: Dinner?
One word. No context.
III stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Of course Vessel had seen the clip. It had probably been shoved in his face at least a dozen times over the weekend. Maybe this was ego. Maybe it was bait.
But the thought of Vessel watching him ramble on stream, the thought of that little smile—
III typed back.
III: You buying?
A beat.
Vessel: Of course. Then: Tomorrow, 7? I’ll text you the spot.
III: Better not disappoint ;)
Vessel: ✨
III huffed a laugh into the quiet of his hotel room, dropped the phone on the nightstand, and flopped back onto the pillows. He told himself it was curiosity. Professional courtesy. Maybe a networking opportunity.
But the grin tugging at his mouth said otherwise.
For two performers who lived online—who fed their fan bases constant crumbs of selfies, teasers, jokes, and clips—the silence was deafening.
III’s accounts, usually a steady stream of morning thirst traps and ads and late-night shitposts and banter with followers, dried up overnight. His subscribers noticed immediately: no snarky captions, no cheeky polls, not even a stray mirror shot of lace or leather.
Vessel, too, went quiet. His account—normally pulsing with teasers and slow-burn clips—offered nothing but a recycled promo tweet from his manager. No live streams. No new content. No casual check-ins.
At first, fans chalked it up to post-Expo burnout or con flu. Everyone needed a reset after Vegas. But as days bled into a week, then two, the speculation sharpened. Reddit threads popped. Twitter debates spiraled. Some wondered if III had overdone it at the parties. Others swore Vessel had finally sold out to a mainstream studio. A few fearmongers threw out that maybe they were laying low from stalkers or that their planes had crashed.
The overlap of silence, though, was hard to ignore regardless.
It started as a joke: “what if they’re together 👀” one comment read under III’s last thirst trap. But when Vessel failed to post the next day, the theory calcified.
No proof. No leaks. No selfies from airport lounges or Ubers. Just absence.
Then—three weeks in—III’s account lit up again.
A single post. No thumbnail, no caption, just a plain title attached to a pay-per-view upload.
“its real.”
Runtime: 1 hour, 47 minutes.
The silence broke like glass.
The video loaded with no thumbnail, just a black screen before it cut to a slightly shaky, front-facing shot of III.
He was walking backward down a Vegas sidewalk, one hand holding the phone out toward himself, the other curled around the strap of his backpack. Lights shimmered across his face, half-washed by the yellow glow of streetlamps. He was dressed sharp—tailored slacks, a flocked velvet button-down undone at the throat, collarbone catching the light.
“Okay, okay, so dinner was insane,” he said into the camera, eyes bright, voice breathless from laughing. “Like—Ves, tell them. I’m not exaggerating, right? That was, like, the best fuckin’ grub on the planet. Americans can cook.”
The angle shifted as III turned, and the lens caught Vessel beside him.
Vessel smiled faintly at first, then ducked his head with that bashful, almost private look he wore in every candid shot. “It was good,” he admitted. “He’s not lying.”
“Not lying,” III echoed, grinning, nudging his shoulder against Vessel’s. “I’m never gonna shut up about those scallops. And don’t even get me started on that blueberry tiramisu.”
They walked, bantered, III rambling about the expo highlights—his favorite panels, the idols he got to meet, the weird merch from small artists and corpo vendors alike. Vessel listened, nodding occasionally, adding his own soft-spoken quips and commentary that made III bark out laughter loud enough to turn heads.
As they were crossing a bridge, a small group of fans recognized them. “Oh my god, it’s III! Can we get a picture?”
III froze for only a heartbeat before slipping into his practiced charm. “Of course, babes,” he said, handing the phone to Vessel without hesitation.
The shot wobbled as Vessel took it, flipping it and angling carefully to frame III with the excited fans. He lingered afterward, camera still rolling, catching III crouch down for a selfie with someone’s phone, blowing a kiss to another, giving that little finger wave and wink he always did at the end of streams. Vessel’s chuckle bled into the mic.
He didn’t stop recording when they resumed walking, following III dutifully as the other man picked up talking again like nothing had happened except for a change in cameraman. Only when they reached the hotel and III started patting himself down for his keycard did he stop, and only to flip the camera around again, his face filling the screen for the first time. The street outside the hotel painted him in blue and gold, shadows cutting across his jaw.
For a beat, he just looked into the lens—steady, unreadable—before his mouth quirked into a grin. He winked.
And then the footage cut to black.
The next shot opened on a hotel suite.
Vessel crouched in front of the dresser, fiddling with the camera. The faint red glow of the recording light blinked steady, catching the curve of his shoulder and the furrow in his brow. His tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth as he adjusted the angle, squinting at the preview screen, tilting his head this way and that until the bed was perfectly framed.
On the bed, III sat cross-legged, lace bralette stretched snug across his chest, matching strappy panties hugging the sharp line of his hips. He drummed restless fingers against his thigh, watching with a mix of fondness and anticipation.
“You’re worse than my mum taking Christmas photos,” he teased.
Vessel’s mouth quirked, but he didn’t look back. “I would hope you’re not wearing that to Christmas dinner.” He shifted the tripod a few more inches, checked the focus, then finally straightened. Satisfied, he backed away. Sweatpants hung loose at his hips, the waistband dipping low, the outline of his cock hilariously obvious through the fabric directly in front of the lens.
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
Not like strangers—they weren’t that. But not like lovers either. More like two people who had both imagined this and were now realizing it was real.
“Cute set,” Vessel murmured at last, voice low but steady, chin tilting toward III’s lingerie.
III rolled his eyes, smirking despite the heat rising in his cheeks. “Got it at the artist alley,” he quipped, striking a little pose. “Classy, right?”
“Bet it looks even better on you than it did on the hanger,” Vessel replied, and the honesty in it made III bite back a laugh.
It broke the tension just enough.
Vessel closed the distance in a few steps, sinking to his knees at the edge of the bed. His palms slid up III’s thighs, thumbs stroking over sheer fabric until they pressed against the warm skin beneath. III’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move away.
Instead of rushing, he kissed slow. Not lips first—stomach. A press just above the waistband of the panties, then trailing higher to his navel, then higher still with warm breath ghosting across ribs. Each kiss lingered, deliberate, like he was mapping out territory.
III’s breath hitched, a sharp tug yanking at Vessel’s hair before he could reach higher. “None of that,” he muttered, dragging him up in one quick motion. Their mouths crashed together — messy, eager, more teeth than either intended. Vessel caught III’s bottom lip, sucked it, then kissed him properly, deep enough that their tongues tangled and the tension bled out in heat.
When he finally pulled back, Vessel’s eyes dropped to the lace covering III’s chest. His hand rose, hovering just above the nipple piercing that gleamed faintly under the hotel lights. He paused, waiting.
III gave a sharp tug on his hair, arching his chest forward. “Don’t tease.”
That was permission enough. Vessel bent, lips closing around the bud through the fabric, teeth scraping lightly, tongue flicking. The wet heat soaked through lace instantly, and III gasped, head tipping back, hips shifting closer.
It wasn’t enough.
Vessel pushed him flat against the pillows, bracing a hand beside his head to kiss him again as the other dragged down, skimming ribs, stomach, the edge of panties. He hooked a finger under the band, tugged, impatient.
There was a pop of elastic, a tear threatening.
“Don't even fucking think about it,” III growled against his mouth, eyes sparking. “Even you can’t afford to replace these.”
Vessel’s answering grin was sharp, wicked. “Noted.” But he eased the panties down instead of ripping them, dragging them slow, chasing the hem with nips and kisses, baring III inch by inch before dropping them unceremoniously off the edge of the bed.
The sharp inhale Vessel made looking up III’s body was audible. Piercings, flat chest, the thick swell of bottom growth already flushed and slick—everything raw and real and perfect.
Heat pulsed between them, sharp and undeniable.
Vessel barely had time to open his mouth and start making a comment before III was wrapping his legs around his shoulders and flipping them with a sharp twist of his hips. Vessel let himself be pushed back, spine meeting the mattress, surprised into a low laugh that cut off as III straddled his chest.
“Fuck, you’re bossy,” Vessel muttered, though his hands were already sliding up to grip the backs of III’s thighs.
III didn’t answer with words. He leaned down close enough that Vessel could feel his breath, that one strap of his bralette slipped from his shoulder down his arm and revealed a taste more bare skin to the camera, then bit out: “Eat me.”
Vessel obeyed instantly.
He pulled him forward, nose pressing against slick heat, tongue darting out for a taste. III gasped, thighs tensing against his ears, hips jerking as Vessel licked again—slower this time, broader, dragging from hole to clit in one long stroke.
“Good—” III’s voice cracked, halfway between a moan and a laugh, his hand fisting in Vessel’s hair. “Hope you plan on making good on all those promises from dinner. I can certainly last, but I don’t know about you.”
Vessel simple made a noncommittal hum and latched onto his clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking quick and ruthless. III’s whole body shivered above him, hips grinding down harder, rocking against his mouth with frantic, greedy rolls.
The wet sound of it filled the room—slick tongue, muffled moans, the rustle of lace when III’s chest heaved. Vessel groaned into him, the vibration sparking another sharp noise from III’s throat.
“Yeah—fuck—just like that.” His words tumbled out raw, choked, his back arching as he pressed harder against Vessel’s face. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Vessel’s grip tightened on his thighs, holding him steady through every desperate grind. III rode his mouth like he was chasing something sharp and inevitable, movements turning erratic, breath breaking against bitten lips.
And then it hit.
His thighs clamped around Vessel’s head, body seizing as he came with a ragged cry muffled against his own hand. His hips stuttered, grinding through the waves, pulse hammering hard enough that every shiver rolled down to the hands tangled in Vessel’s hair.
Vessel licked him through it, slow now, soothing, catching every tremor and every spill of slick with his mouth until III finally sagged forward, shivering but spent, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
III had barely slumped forward, thighs trembling, chest rising in ragged pulls of breath, when Vessel’s hands slid up from his thighs to his hips.
Not to offer him reprieve. To drag him lower.
III yelped as his weight shifted suddenly, palms flying to Vessel’s chest to catch himself. Vessel didn’t give him a chance to argue as he guided him down hard against the thick bulge in his sweatpants, grinding him into it until slick smeared hot across cotton.
“Fuck—Ves—” III’s voice broke, somewhere between protest and plea. His thighs twitched, still shaking from the orgasm that hadn’t even finished tapering off. “I just—”
“I know,” Vessel muttered, voice low, wrecked. His hips bucked up against him, cock straining beneath the damp fabric, rutting like he couldn’t help himself. “But if you wanted it so bad, why stop now? Ride it out.”
He held III’s hips firm, grinding him over the hard ridge of his cock, rocking them together with steady, brutal rhythm. Every upward thrust pressed thick and solid against III’s clit, and every drag backward into it made him moan.
III’s head tipped back, mouth falling open. His nerves screamed from overstimulation, but the ache bloomed into heat almost instantly, pleasure doubling back on itself until it burned. He clutched at Vessel’s chest, nails raking crescent moon trails into his pecs, body rolling helplessly with the pace Vessel forced on him.
“God—you’re—fuck—you’re insane,” III gasped, voice high, shaking as his thighs clenched and released with each grind. “Not even letting me—breathe—”
Vessel’s laugh was short, sharp, swallowed by a groan as he thrust up harder. “Don’t need to. Just feel me.”
And III did. His body shook under it, wrung out and pulled tighter, tighter, nerves fraying to breaking point. He broke with a cry, sharp and guttural, collapsing forward as another orgasm ripped through him right off the tail end of the first. His hips jerked down hard against Vessel’s, desperate to keep the friction even as his body shuddered violently, clenching around nothing while slick gushed hot between them.
Vessel didn’t slow. He ground him through it, lips brushing against III’s shoulder as he groaned against his skin, chasing the mess of it until III’s voice cracked and his body went slack, twitching, boneless in his arms.
III lay slumped forward against him, chest heaving, sweat sticking to his skin. Vessel stroked slow circles into the dip of his lower back, finally letting the pace break, finally letting silence settle except for the rasp of their breathing.
“Too much?” Vessel asked, voice rough, mouth close to III’s ear.
III huffed a laugh, breathless and wrecked. “Fuck you. Don’t act like you’re worried now.”
The corner of Vessel’s mouth twitched. He eased him back, hands gentle as he guided III onto the pillows. For the first time since the camera started rolling, the frantic hunger edged into something steadier. He pressed a kiss to III’s temple, brief, grounding, before pulling away. “Hold on.”
Vessel left him in the pillows just long enough to duck out of frame. III lay back, one arm flung across his forehead, chest rising fast under the lace bralette. Sweat clung to him, skin shining under the hotel lights, thighs spread loose in open invitation.
When Vessel returned, there was a glint in his hand. A travel-sized bottle, translucent hot pink, shaped so obscenely like a cock it was almost laughable.
III blinked at it, then barked out a sharp, giddy laugh. “You get that from an exhibitor?”
Vessel smirked, clicking the cap at the base open with his thumb. “You didn’t? They practically threw it at me.”
“Christ.” III shook his head, still grinning. “And here I thought you were all classy.” His eyes tracked the bottle in his right hand, the gleam over Vessel’s fingers as he coated them slowly, deliberately. The humor blended with hunger as he spread his legs. “Alright, product placement segment, I guess. Show me what I missed out on.”
Vessel climbed onto the bed again, settling between his thighs as he tossed the bottle off to the side next to them. He didn’t rush. One hand pressed firm against III’s stomach, steadying him, while the other slid lower. Fingers slick with lube brushed over reddened folds, tracing lazy circles that had III twitching before he even pushed in.
The first finger slipped inside easy, a low stretch that made III’s breath hitch. His muscles fluttered tight around it and his thighs twitches to close, then spread wider again with the glide.
“Fuck,” III muttered, breathless, as his head fell back against the pillows, lips parted.
Vessel hummed low, dragging his finger out to the tip, then pressing back in slow, steady strokes. He angled his wrist just so, crooking until the pad of his finger rubbed right against that sweet spot.
III gasped, hips jerking. His hand shot down to grip Vessel’s wrist, not to stop him, just to feel it move inside him. “Oh, you bitch. You know exactly what you’re doing.”
Vessel smiled faintly, and slid in a second finger. “Didn’t know you thought my skills were also unrealistic.”
The feeling was sharper this time, a burn that had III’s stomach jolting. He breathed through it, panting, biting his lip until the pain bled into heat. Vessel worked him carefully, twisting his fingers, scissoring just enough to keep him right on the edge of waning discomfort and mounting pleasure.
“More,” III rasped, eyes half-lidded, chest heaving, reaching up over his head to grab onto the pillows behind him. “Don’t make me beg.”
“Not yet,” Vessel murmured, voice dark, steady as stone. But he obeyed anyway, adding a third finger soon after.
III’s whole body arched, a cry ripping out of him at the brutal stretch. His hand clutched the sheets, knuckles white, even as his hips rolled up into the pressure of Vessel’s fingers insistent inside of him, chasing them as far as he could. Tears welled unbidden at the corners of his eyes, but a wicked broke through the moan.
“You’re—fuck—you’re killing me,” he gasped.
Vessel pressed deeper until his fingertip grazed his cervix, teasing at it slow and relentless, fucking him open on three fingers until the resistance softened and every sound from III’s throat turned needier. His body quaked, every nerve sparking as the pressure tipped over into yet another climax, just as messy and overwhelming as the previous.
Vessel didn’t let up as he came, fingers thrusting steady through it, opening him up more with every pulse even as his nails dug into the skin of his wrist. Watching him unravel. Watching all his pomp and attitude break as he fell into a gasping, shuddering mess on hotel sheets until he pushed him away instead of pulling him closer.
“Good boy,” Vessel muttered, eyes locked on the way III’s body clenched and fluttered around him. “You’re so beautiful when you come.”
III groaned, half-laughing, half-destroyed. “Then quit showing off and give me more.”
Vessel slid his fingers free at last, slick glistening as he drew them back. III whined at the loss, back arching, hole fluttering as if beckoning for him.
“Don’t worry, I’m far from done with you,” Vessel said, low, steady. He tapped III’s thigh. “Turn over.”
III obeyed, rolling onto his stomach with a groan, then pushing himself up onto hands and knees. His bralette clung crooked, sweat-dark lace stretched taut across his chest, hair damp and sticking to his temple. He looked wrecked —but his ass, high in the air, was nothing short of defiant.
Vessel picked up the lube and slicked his fingers again and pressed one slow against the tight ring of muscle. The resistance was sharper, tighter than before. He worked it patiently, easing just the tip inside, circling, stretching, letting the burn fade before pushing deeper.
III hissed through his teeth, clenching hard around the intrusion. “Fuck. That’s—god—” He buried his face in his arm, panting, but the shudder in his thighs gave away how much he wanted it.
“Breathe,” Vessel reminded, curling his finger, stroking gentle circles against the rim to coax him open.
“Easy for you to say,” III shot back, voice muffled against the sheets. “You’re not the one getting split like—” The words cut off in a sharp gasp as Vessel pressed in a second finger, wiggling them just enough to widen the stretch.
“Like this,” Vessel finished evenly, watching the way III writhed under him, fighting to hold still even as slick smeared hot between them. “You’ll take it. I’ve seen you do it before.”
That should have been enough. But III, trembling, high-strung and needy after too many orgasms too close together, let out a frustrated groan. “Give me something. Anything. I’m—fuck—I’m too empty.”
Vessel’s hand stilled, and he leaned over him, lips brushing his ear. “I said not yet.”
That denial broke something. III’s hand darted sideways in an instant, grabbing blindly until his fingers closed around the abandoned lube bottle he knew was still around. Before Vessel could stop him, he shoved the blunt head of it between his folds, rocking it down into his own dripping pussy with a desperate cry.
Vessel froze, eyes going wide. “Jesus, III—”
III laughed around a groan, wrecked and breathless, forcing the bottle deeper until his body clenched around it. “What? You weren’t using it.” His smirk was wild, shaky, almost delirious. “And I said I needed something.”
“So greedy,” Vessel muttered, shaking his head even as his free hand shot out to steady the bottle. He gripped it firmly by the nozzle, pushing slow, careful strokes in and out while his other hand returned to its work between III’s cheeks. “Can’t even go a few minutes without stuffing yourself full.”
III moaned brokenly into the sheets, the sound raw, desperate. “Don’t hear you complain—” the word broke into another moan as Vessel pressed a third finger into III’s ass, scissoring wide, twisting as he fucked the lube bottle into his pussy with steady, deliberate thrusts.
III writhed under the double stretch, noises spilling out unrestrained. His free hand slid down to his clit, rubbing hard, chasing another orgasm even through the burn.
“God—fuck, Ves—” His words tumbled out half incoherent, muffled by the pillow he bit into. “Too much—too good—I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” Vessel urged, voice rough, steadying the rhythm as he drove both his hand and the bottle deeper. “Show me how much you love being used like this.”
The coil snapped.
III came with a strangled cry, clenching hard around both the bottle and Vessel’s fingers, his whole body convulsing as wet poured out in hot gushes. His thighs trembled violently, hands slipping on the sheets, his moans turning wet and broken.
Vessel didn’t let up, not until the tremors slowed, not until III collapsed forward, shaking, sweat-soaked and gasping. Only then did he ease the bottle free, tossing it in the direction of the bathroom with a muttered, “Ridiculous little thing,” before spreading him open with both hands to admire the wreck he’d made of him.
Vessel’s fingers slipped free at last, leaving III fluttering and empty. The older man groaned, forehead pressed to the sheets, arms trembling under his weight.
Vessel sat back on his knees, chest rising in a slow, deep breath. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his sweatpants and pushed them down.
The fabric dragged over his hips, pooling low before slipping off entirely. His cock sprang free, flushed dark, heavy and hard, the length of it curving thick against his stomach. Pre already gleamed at the tip, a bead spilling down the shaft.
III turned his head just enough to see, eyes hazy but sharp with hunger. His lips split into a crooked grin. “Fuck me,” he rasped, sounding desperate and amused all at once. “You really do have a porno cock. No wonder you show it off like a trophy.”
Vessel’s mouth twitched—half smirk, half focus—as he wrapped one hand around the base and stroked once, thumb swiping precum from the tip and slicking down the shaft. “Thought you said it looked fake.”
III let out a breathless laugh, shuffling up onto his knees again and arching his back, presenting himself shamelessly. “Yeah, well. Y’know.” His thighs spread wider, holes twitching open, shiny with lube and slick. “C’mon, then. Show me what all the fuss is about.”
Vessel exhaled hard through his nose, steadying himself. He leaned forward, one hand sliding down to pet slowly along III’s spine, soothing, grounding. The other guided his cock down, nudging against the stretched rim of his pussy.
The heat of it made III whimper, the blunt head pressing insistently but not yet pushing in. His fingers twisted into the sheets, breath coming sharp and fast.
Vessel rubbed circles between his shoulder blades. “You’re so wet.”
“Who’s fault is that,” III snapped, voice breaking on a moan. “Just—fuck me ready.”
Vessel gripped his hip, lined himself up properly, and thrust deep in one solid stroke.
III’s cry tore through the room, raw and guttural. His back arched, body seizing as Vessel buried himself to the hilt, the thick stretch splitting him open and pushing him down until his stomach pressed tight against the sheets.
“Jesus—fuck—” III’s voice cracked, high and desperate. His hands clawed at the bedding, knuckles white. “You’re—shit—you’re huge—”
Vessel groaned low, forehead dropping briefly to III’s back, chest heaving. He held still, cock pulsing inside the tight heat, letting III’s body adjust, letting him shake and gasp under the intrusion.
Then, with a steadying breath, he pulled back and drove in again, slower but just as deep, both hands gripping III’s waist now to hold him steady.
III moaned brokenly, caught between pain and ecstasy, every nerve alight. “Oh, god—fuck, Ves—yeah, yeah, just like that—”
And Vessel gave it to him, each thrust deliberate, powerful, claiming him inch by inch until the rhythm began to build.
For a long stretch, Vessel didn’t rush. His hips rocked into III’s with steady, deliberate strokes—deep, unhurried, heavy enough that the slap of skin echoed in the hotel room. Every thrust drew a broken moan from III, each sound higher than the last, his body clenching and fluttering around the thick cock driving into him. The pace was almost cruel in its patience. Not frantic. Not brutal. Just steady, relentless, giving no space for escape and no mercy from the stretch.
III’s arms trembled where they braced against the mattress, his head falling forward, damp strands of hair sticking to his temple. “Fuck—” he gasped, voice raw. “—feels so good—”
Vessel moaned in reply, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his spine. His hands tightened on III’s hips, guiding every push, every retreat. He leaned in, breath hot against III’s shoulder, and murmured, “You’re taking me so well. Best pussy I’ve ever had.”
That praise wrung a shiver from III, his hole clenching tight in response. He choked on a moan, half-laughing through it. “Don’t—don’t you dare get soft on me now—”
Vessel’s refute was to change. He slid one hand from III’s hip, catching his wrist and yanking it back. The sudden pull forced III to lurch upright onto his knees, back arching sharply as Vessel wrenched his other wrist behind him too. Both caught in one big hand, twisted tight against the small of his back.
III gasped, head snapping up, chest thrust forward, bralette skewed and damp with sweat. The new angle drove Vessel’s cock even deeper, the thick head slamming against a spot that made his vision spark white. “Fuuuck—” The cry ripped from his throat, unrestrained, wild.
Vessel’s grip tightened on his wrists, holding him immobile, pinned upright and helpless while his hips pistoned harder now. The steady pace broke into something harsher, heavier, cock splitting him open with each brutal thrust.
III’s moans went ragged, desperate, his whole body jerking with every impact. His toes curled against the sheets, thighs quaking, chest heaving as the tears welled hot at the corners of his eyes.
“You like it like this,” Vessel groaned into his ear, voice low, guttural. “I can feel you. Squeezing me.”
“Fuck—yes—god, don’t stop—” III’s head fell back against Vessel’s shoulder, mouth open on a choked cry as the relentless pounding tipped him closer and closer to breaking.
And Vessel didn’t stop. He drove into him mercilessly, grip unyielding, forcing him to take every inch until the rhythm itself dragged III to the edge.
The pace turned savage. Vessel slammed into him again and again, cock gliding slick and deep, the slap of their bodies sharp against the hotel walls.
III’s cries rose with it, high and ragged, each thrust punching another sound out of him. His shoulders burned, wrists straining in Vessel’s grip, back bowed taut. His cunt spasmed wildly, soaking the sheets beneath them, every nerve in his body stretched to the breaking point.
“Gonna—fuck, Ves, I’m—” His warning cracked into a sob, his whole body locking as the orgasm tore through him. His cunt clenched hard when he came. Slick gushed out in hot spurts, wetting the tops of Vessel’s thighs, dripping down III’s own. He bit his lip to muffle a scream, voice breaking as his body shook violently, squirting around the cock buried inside him.
But just as the release hit its peak, Vessel pulled out. III’s scream fractured into a strangled whimper. His muscles clenched on nothing, spasming hard, his hole fluttering helplessly as the gush of fluid sprayed free, uncontrolled.
“Fuck—fuck, no—” he sobbed, writhing, hips humping against the cock that wasn’t there. “Let me—let me have it—”
Vessel ignored the pleas, though his groan was low and wrecked with restraint. He let go of III’s wrists and repositioned him down onto his forearms, and with the other he grabbed his cock, stroking once through the mess before lining up higher.
The blunt head pressed against III’s ass, already stretched open by his earlier prep. III’s head jerked up, eyes wide, tears still wet on his cheeks. “You—fuck, Ves—” His words broke on another sob, equal parts need and shock.
Vessel’s newly freed hand made it way into the mussed hair at the back of III’s head, threading through it steady, grounding in its weight. Then he thrust forward.
The stretch was obscene—overwhelming as he slid into his ass in one long, steady push. III wailed into the sheets, body arching, back bending to take the intrusion. “God—god, you’re—” His voice cracked, dissolving into moans as Vessel bottomed out again.
“Perfect,” Vessel groaned, draping himself over III, chest pressed to his back as he held him tight. “So perfect for me.” Then he pulled back and slammed in again, the glide merciless now, cock driving deep with every thrust. His arm wrapped around III’s waist, sliding lower until it found his clit. Fingers circled fast, stroking in time with the brutal rhythm, forcing the overstimulated nerves higher and higher.
III screamed again, broken and raw, the sound muffled by the pillow. His body shook violently, trapped between the relentless pounding into his ass and the merciless touch at his tortured clit.
Every thrust, every stroke, dragged him closer again—wrecked, sobbing, helpless.
Vessel drove into him with a rhythm that was equal parts controlled and hungry, every thrust punching another broken cry from III’s throat. The stretch of his ass was relentless, Vessel’s cock dragging through him with obscene slick sounds, each glide deeper than the last.
III’s face was pressed into the sheets by the hand in his hair, his teeth clenched around the pillow, eyes streaming with wetness he couldn’t fight. His body shook with the force of it, ass clenching desperately around the thick length splitting him open. Every time Vessel bottomed out, he felt the shock of it travel up his spine and burst in his skull like fireworks.
“Ves—fuck, Ves—” he sobbed, voice cracking. “Gonna—gonna die ‘ts so good—”
Vessel groaned low in his ear, hot breath spilling across damp skin. “You’re taking it so well, sweetheart. Almost there—” His words dissolved into another grunt as his hips snapped forward, harder now, need leaking into every stroke.
The hand at III’s clit moved faster, circling, pressing, rolling the swollen bud until he was writhing helplessly. His body jerked and spasmed, every nerve a live wire.
“You’re clenching like you don’t want me to pull out,” Vessel panted, his voice wrecked, shaky with restraint. “Gonna—fuck—you’re gonna make me lose it—”
III couldn’t even answer. His throat worked soundlessly around another moan, his whole body clenching tight as another orgasm ripped through him. His ass fluttered violently around Vessel’s cock, squeezing, gripping, dragging him deeper.
Vessel groaned like he was the one getting fucked, forehead pressed hard to III’s shoulder. His thrusts grew erratic, the steady pace fracturing into something messier, faster. His grip on III tightened almost painfully, holding him up as his hips pounded forward, desperate now, chasing his own end.
III sobbed through the overstimulation, body shaking uncontrollably. The slick stretch of his ass, the hand still at his clit, the brutal pounding—it was too much, and yet it wasn’t enough. He pushed back against every thrust, needy, wrecked, clenching down like he could wring every drop from Vessel’s cock.
“Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” Vessel’s voice was raw, half-groan, half-snarl. His hips snapped forward once, twice, then slammed deep and held.
III wailed as the cock kicked inside him, stimulating him even further as Vessel finally gave in.
Vessel’s roar tore from his throat as his body seized, cock jerking deep inside III’s ass. Hot, heavy ropes spilled in hard pulses, and for a second it seemed like he’d never stop. The sheer fullness made III sob, his body wracked with shudders.
But then, with a guttural curse, Vessel yanked free—cum spilling from III rim in thick dribbles in his wake—only to stroke himself hard and fast against the slick heat of III’s wrecked pussy as he kept cumming.
It splattered everywhere: through his folds, down his thighs and stomach, dripping onto the sheets in messy strings. Each pulse was thick, obscene, more than should have been possible, coating III until he was soaked in it.
The sensation tipped him right over the edge.
III convulsed, mouth open in a silent scream as his body locked tight, squirting weakly beneath the relentless mess. His vision went gray at the edges, stars bursting behind his eyes. The overstimulation ripped through him in jagged waves, until all he could do was shake, twitch, and finally—black out.
He collapsed forward, limp, face pressed to the pillow, body still trembling faintly.
Vessel’s hand froze mid-stroke. The last spurt smeared weakly across III’s swollen cunt before his cock fell against his thigh, still leaking.
“Shit—” Vessel rasped, panicked, catching III under the arms to pull him gently flip him onto his back. His chest heaved, sweat dripping from his temple onto III’s shoulder as he propped him up carefully against the pillows.
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the obscene slick of cum between their bodies, soaking into the ruined sheets. Vessel’s own pulse thundered in his ears, his cock still twitching against III’s hip, his hands shaking as he checked the slack curve of his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest.
Then, after mercifully only a handful of seconds, III stirred. A faint groan, a twitch of lashes, his face turning toward Vessel even as his body sagged like overcooked noodles.
Relief broke across Vessel’s face, raw and unguarded. He scrambled up for the desk where their supplies had been laid out—water bottle, Fanta, fruit snacks, damp towel—gathering them up like offerings. He crouched beside the bed, wide-eyed, lips parted, looking more like a scolded puppy than a man who’d just fucked someone unconscious.
The camera caught all of it: the wrecked ruin of their bodies, the obscene mess painted across III’s thighs, the half-dazed look as he blinked his eyes open again.
And then—the laugh.
Low, breathless, incredulous, III’s laugh cracked the silence as he looked down at himself, at the sheets, at Vessel’s still-hard cock dripping onto the floor, at the array of goodies being extended his way. His grin was sharp, tired, but wicked.
“Holy shit,” he rasped. “You really do cum like your videos.”
Vessel, red to the tips of his ears, only managed a helpless, sheepish smile.
The screen cut to black.
The pay-per-view marathon had been live less than forty-eight hours, and the comment sections were already flooded with disbelief, reverence, and outright chaos. But then the second wave hit.
Clips. Photos. Little teasers.
Not just raw phone selfies—while some were, a majority of them were polished, intimate, perfectly framed snapshots of two men who’d clearly decided one night wasn’t enough.
In one, III straddled Vessel’s lap, the angle from below catching the curve of his chest in another artsy lace number, sweat dripping down his sternum as he rode with reckless abandon. The camera shook faintly with every slap of skin, Vessel’s cock dragging in and out of him in slick, perfect detail. His breathless moans filled the mic, cut through only by Vessel’s low groans and the steady mantra: “That’s it. That’s it. Take it all.”
Another, where the camera was propped up crooked, catching just enough to show Vessel holding III against the hotel door, arms under his thighs, rutting up into him with frantic force. III’s head thumped back against the wood, his hands scrabbling at Vessel’s shoulders as his voice cracked on each thrust. Vessel’s own low, desperate groans carried louder than the slam of skin, but he didn’t slow—not once.
A photo set. Of III’s tits, sheer babydoll pushed low beneath them, painted with hot streaks of white, his fingers smearing through it with a wicked grin. Of III bent forward against a mirror, pulling himself open, smeared and leaking, cum shining between his fingers, Vessel blurred in the background but clearly smirking behind his mask as he took the photo. Of III’s throat and chest, marked with bite bruises, a red shadow of Vessel’s necklace imprinted into his skin. Of him crying, mid-scream with Vessel’s hand buried to the wrist in his cunt with a visible bulge in his lower belly. One pouty selfie of him sadly eating a doughnut from a mostly full box, Vessel sitting on the bed naked behind him with his arms crossed and a flagging erection, captioned simply: he said no :(
A close-up, looping gif. III on his knees, tongue out, lips stretched around Vessel’s cock. Drool and precum slicked his chin, eyes glassy but defiant as he looked up through messy blond strands. Vessel’s hand cupped the back of his head, gentle despite the filth. When he came, it was everywhere—across III’s lips, splattered over his cheek and tongue. III just smirked, letting the mess drip before swallowing with exaggerated relish.
The latest one had a different energy—quieter. The glass fogged, water running over their shoulders as Vessel stood behind III, arms around him. He kissed along the curve of his neck, slow, reverent. III’s smile was smaller here, soft, almost shy as he leaned back against him. The camera lingered not on thrusts, but on the intimacy of it: two men pressed close, their mess washing down the drain.
By the end of the week, the comments had shifted from shock to obsession. The fans didn’t just want porn—they wanted more of them. The chemistry, the way their bodies tangled without hesitation, the humor threaded through the filth.
The final drop sealed it: a simple candid photo, posted on both accounts at once.
III in bed with his hair a mess, Fruit by the Foot half in his mouth and half in one hand, Vessel’s wrist in the other, tugging him into the frame. Vessel half-smiling, half-sheepish, lips pressed to III’s temple.
Captioned the same on both pages:
“It’s real.”