Chapter Text
Seokjin’s POV
The glow of the ring light flickered to life with a quiet click, and Kim Seokjin adjusted his half-mask, smoothing it just below the curve of his nose. The black fabric clung to his skin, concealing the lips his fans begged to see, exposing only the sharp slant of his cheekbones and the ever-watchful stare of his dark eyes.
He blinked into the camera—blank, expressionless—for a long beat. Then, as if someone flipped a switch, he exhaled. Low. Steady. Deliberate.
“Speak only when spoken to.”
The chat exploded instantly.
🖤🖤🖤
Sl*ttyCat: god, say it again please—
LickMe1234: i wasn’t ready—
IamYoursVoxed: he’s wearing the turtleneck oh my god the turtle neckkkkk
LilMeow: voXed, I’d bark if you told me to. I swear.
🖤🖤🖤
Seokjin watched the avalanche of thirst and chaos cascade across his dual monitor, face serene, voice like velvet-coated iron. A twitch at the corner of his eye was the only evidence he’d seen the message offering five hundred dollars if he just said the name “CatboySlut33.”
He didn't. Yet.
“Back straight,” he said instead, voice slow and articulate. “Hands where I can’t see them.”
The accompanying mic picked up the faintest scrape of leather as he adjusted the lapel of his black turtleneck. Minimal. Elegant. Intimidating, in the way that only true control ever was. His setup was immaculate—black acoustic panels on the wall, dim warm lighting just enough to outline his shoulders and jaw, and a heavy silver mic positioned with surgical precision.
His camera lens zoomed in slightly on his fingers as he flexed them once, then ran one along the bottom of the mask.
“Your posture is pathetic,” he murmured. “Do I need to show you how to kneel?”
Chat went feral.
But Seokjin remained still, eyes fixed on the screen, on them. The mask didn’t move, didn’t smile. His voice did the smiling for him.
“If you want me to say your name,” he said softly, “earn it.”
🖤🖤🖤
LilMeow: YES SIR
FreakishKink: I’ll earn it—how many tips?? How many???
Passion8: why is my chair wet I—
🖤🖤🖤
Seokjin tilted his head slightly. That was enough. The chat howled.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers threading together beneath his chin. Still. Regal. Only the soft whir of tips rolling in interrupted the hypnotic rhythm of his stream. Bits. Sub gifts. Donations. His screen lit up with a rain of hearts, coins, and usernames—one name in particular always caught his attention.
LilMeow has gifted 10 subs.
Again.
That barista Jimin said was a friend of his friend. Seokjin didn't know him, personally. But the username was oddly memorable. The tone of his messages always hovered on reverence. Sincere. Desperate. A little too pure in phrasing, which made it… funnier.
The messages weren’t always sexy.
Sometimes they were: “You make me question my beliefs.”
Or
“Your voice should be illegal.”
And once:
"You're the only one I kneel for."
That message hadn’t been in chat. It had arrived with a gift.
An espresso-scented candle, a satin blindfold, and a handwritten note in slanted script. Seokjin had laughed so hard he nearly choked on his water.
“You want me to read your name, Meow?” he asked the camera now, eyes sharp. “You’ll have to do more than that.”
The man behind voXed wasn’t a sadist. Not really. But god, did he enjoy dangling rewards just out of reach. His streams were part theater, part confession booth, and entirely deliberate.
He’d built his brand on that.
While others on the platform were busy showing off flesh and explicit acts—he wore gloves. Always. Covered his face. Never swore on stream. The seduction was in denial. In mystery. In voice.
And voice, he had in abundance.
Low, perfectly enunciated, a measured cadence that danced between threat and lullaby. Fans called him The Velvet Guillotine. Seokjin found it dramatic, but he never corrected them.
“Three more minutes,” he said now, checking the stream time. “That’s all I’m giving you tonight.”
cue mass panic.
🖤🖤🖤
Passion8: NOOOOO—
FreakishKingk: I JUST GOT HERE—
StepOnMe12: Please sir, punish me with another hour!
🖤🖤🖤
Seokjin chuckled. Just a breath. A tease. Enough to make hearts break.
He leaned in.
“Good pets earn bedtime stories,” he purred. “Disobedient ones get silence.”
And with that, he muted his mic and slowly waved goodbye.
The screen faded to black.
The moment he stepped away from the camera, Seokjin yanked off the mask and flopped dramatically onto the sofa just outside his stream corner. His bones cracked like a microwaveable snack bag, and he groaned into a cushion.
“I swear to god, if someone offers me one more used collar as a gift, I’m deleting my entire existence.”
“You say that,” Jimin said from the kitchen, “but you kept the one with the rhinestones.”
Seokjin didn’t even deny it. “That one was cute and you know it.”
“Cute is not the word I’d use for something with a tag that says ‘Property of Sir Daddy Voxed.’”
Seokjin lifted his head. “First of all, the comma placement was correct. Second, at least they used glitter gel ink.”
Jimin cackled as he emerged with a bowl of popcorn, tossing it into Seokjin’s lap. “Your chat is unhinged. Someone offered me their inheritance last week just for you to say their Discord name.”
“Was it CatboySlut33 again?” Seokjin sighed. “I’m starting to feel like their parasocial sugar daddy.”
“It was, actually,” Jimin grinned. “They also subbed to my Patreon after I posted that clip of you saying ‘Good pet.’ I think they’re multi-shipping us.”
“Ugh. Get in line,” said Hoseok, strolling in while still shirtless from his last body control stream. “Did you know someone asked me to recreate voXed’s tone while dancing? I nearly pulled a hamstring whispering, ‘Beg louder.’”
Seokjin wheezed. “That was you? Someone clipped that and titled it ‘Velvet voice but make it horny cardio.’ I thought it was AI-generated.”
Hoseok grinned and flexed. “I am AI. Absolute Insanity.”
The three collapsed into the kind of hysterical laughter that only came after three hours of pretending to be dominant gods on the internet while actually being adult children who lived off kombucha and fan donations.
“By the way,” Jimin said as he settled onto the armrest beside Seokjin, “you get any weird gifts lately? Something cursed?”
Seokjin paused. “Candle. Coffee-scented. Came with a blindfold. And the note.”
Jimin squinted. “Wait, is that the one from that barista guy? Tae’s friend who uses that cute name—what was it again?”
“LilMeow,” Seokjin recited, as if the name had been tattooed behind his eyelids.
“He works in that little café downtown, the one with the giant ‘No Cursing Allowed’ sign.” Jimin informed them.
Hoseok gasped. “Wait. I know that place. I went there with Halsey once and almost got banned for saying ‘damn.’”
Jimin snorted. “That’s the one, he is the barista that wears a turtleneck even in summer and organizes sugar packets by color.”
“No. Way,” Seokjin whispered. “That’s LilMeow?”
“You didn’t know?” Hoseok blinked. “I thought you two were dating based on how many candles he sends you.”
“We are not—!” Seokjin sputtered. Then stopped. “Wait. How do you know he’s the one sending them?”
Hoseok shrugged. “The tag on the last one said ‘From your favorite clean-living servant.’ Who else calls themselves that unironically?”
Seokjin went silent.
Then: “I’m going to his café tomorrow.”
Jimin spat out popcorn. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re going to walk into this man’s temple of innocence—masked? Or?”
“I’ll wear a cap,” Seokjin said thoughtfully. “Maybe sunglasses.”
“You’re going to traumatize a man who probably gives his coworkers sermons about not drinking soda.”
“I just want to see what kind of person sends a satin blindfold with their signature.”
“Or you want to see if he really kneels in person,” Hoseok muttered, not even pretending to be subtle.
Seokjin threw a pillow at him.
Later that night, back in his room, Seokjin turned the candle over in his hand. Coffee. Rich. Faint trace of cinnamon. The kind of scent that clung.
The note still sat on his desk, next to unopened fan letters and props.
"You're the only one I kneel for."
He didn’t know why it stuck with him.
Maybe because most fans screamed. Demanded. Sobbed. But this one? Always watched. Always sent the weirdest gifts with the softest, most polite captions.
Seokjin didn’t know what LilMeow looked like. Didn’t need to. The mystery was kind of sexy. He lit the candle, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.
Just a moment.
Just a breath.
Tomorrow, he was going to meet the barista who knelt.
And if he recognizes his voice? Well. That café might need a mop.