Content Warning ⚠️ 🔞
(Made-up...?)
Ji-ho had always thought his voice was too soft for this world.
At twenty-four, fresh out of a dead-end dubbing gig for kids’ cartoons, he posted fan-dubs of BL anime scenes on a private Discord server just to feel something. One clip went viral in niche circles: a quiet, trembling “hyung… please” that made strangers spam heart-eyes and keyboard-smashes in the comments. Two weeks later, an encrypted email arrived.
*We heard you. Premium line. 8 million won per session. Non-disclosure mandatory. Come alone.*
He told himself it was just high-end voice acting for animated BL series. Better mics, bigger budgets. He needed the money—his mom’s hospital bills weren’t going to pay themselves.
The address led to a nondescript building in Nonhyeon-dong, the kind of place that looked like an accounting firm by day. A black van picked him up at the curb. No windows. The driver never spoke. When the side door slid open again, Ji-ho stepped into a basement that smelled faintly of sandalwood and ozone.
A woman in a crisp black suit waited. She handed him a tablet.
“Read. Sign. Biometric lock. No phones, no names outside these walls.”
The contract was twenty-seven pages. Key clauses glowed in red:
- All sessions require full physical authenticity for the “Resonance Protocol.”
- Audio captured will be used exclusively for Tier-S BL anime titles.
- Participants may not discuss, record, or seek out one another post-session.
- Medical clearance required. Aftercare provided.
Ji-ho’s thumb hovered. He thought of the way fans dissected every moan in those premium anime drops, swearing the voices sounded *too* real.
He wasn’t here for real smut. He hadn’t even been with a guy since high school. But money talks, and who can argue with that?
His first session was simple: recording lines for a high-quality BL anime—normal scenes mixed with heart-clinging emotional beats. The director seemed to want to ease him in, melting any resistance with familiar territory.
After being praised for pouring his soul into the work, they let him go. The same van dropped him home.
It was easy to forget the harsh reality lurking behind future anime recordings when he felt so proud to finally contribute to real art. He hadn’t seen any other voice actors during the session. He wondered if his sunbaes would praise him too.
The next day, Ji-ho was buzzing with excitement for work. At 8 p.m. sharp, the van arrived.
The director said they’d record the final episode of Season One—which meant “the real stuff.” Ji-ho winced slightly. “Sir, by ‘real stuff’ you mean…”
Before he could finish, they led him down a corridor lined with soundproof doors. One stood open.
Inside: not a booth, but a suite. A king bed draped in dark silk. Four suspended microphones—two overhead, two at pillow height—binaural arrays designed to capture every breath from every angle. The temperature was skin-warm. A small console in the corner hummed softly. No windows. No clocks.
A man was already there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
The director introduced him by his role name in the anime: Tae-woo.
Ji-ho recognized the voice before the face. That low, velvet rasp that had haunted half the underground BL anime scene for years. The man who could make a single “good boy” sound like both prayer and threat.
Tae-woo’s gaze flicked over him once, clinical.
“First time?” Deep. Calm. Like he was asking about the weather.
Ji-ho nodded, throat dry.
“They told you what ‘authenticity’ means here?”
Another nod.
Tae-woo pushed off the wall and walked closer—close enough that Ji-ho could smell his cologne, something dark and expensive.
“Most places fake it. Wet sounds from a bottle. Moans layered in post. But the premium viewers… they know. They can hear the difference between performed pleasure and real. The little hitches. The way breath catches right before it breaks. Saliva. Skin. The way a voice cracks when it’s not acting anymore.” He tilted his head. “That’s what we sell. That’s what you’re here to give them—for the animation to feel alive.”
Ji-ho’s pulse hammered in his ears.
Tae-woo’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Relax, rookie. I’ll walk you through it. First session’s always the worst.”
The director’s voice came through hidden speakers, soft and professional.
“Scene one. Standard seme/uke dynamic. Script on the tablet. We need the full arc—teasing, resistance, surrender, climax. No cuts. Raw capture. Begin when ready.”
Tae-woo picked up the script, skimmed it, then set it aside.
“We improvise around the beats,” he said quietly. “The words don’t matter as much as the sounds they produce.”
He stepped in until their chests almost brushed.
“Ready?”
Ji-ho swallowed hard. There was no turning back now. This was happening. He kept telling himself it couldn’t be *that* severe… too real. It was just vocals for an anime.
“Yeah,” he finally whispered.
Tae-woo’s hand came up, cupped his jaw with surprising gentleness, then tilted his face up.
The first kiss was slow. Testing. Just lips brushing, learning the shape of each other. Ji-ho’s breath stuttered—exactly what the mics were waiting for.
Then Tae-woo deepened it.
And everything Ji-ho thought he knew about sound shattered.
The wet slide of tongues. The soft, involuntary hum Tae-woo let out when Ji-ho’s hands clutched his shirt. The way Ji-ho’s own whimper caught in his throat and broke into something embarrassingly needy.
Clothes came off in pieces. Tae-woo’s fingers were patient, almost clinical at first—mapping, testing reactions—then not. When he finally pressed Ji-ho down onto the silk sheets, the overhead mics caught the rustle, the creak of the bed, the sharp inhale as skin met skin.
Ji-ho had expected it to feel mechanical. Clinical. A job.
It didn’t.
Tae-woo’s voice stayed low, right against his ear, feeding lines that were half-script, half-filth:
“You’re shaking already… so sensitive. Bet you haven’t been fucked properly before.”
Every thrust dragged a new sound out of Ji-ho—high, broken, nothing like the polished moans he’d practiced alone in his bedroom. Tae-woo’s own breathing roughened, control fraying at the edges. The slap of skin. The slick, obscene sounds no Foley artist could ever replicate perfectly. The moment Ji-ho came with a choked sob of “Tae-woo—hyung—” and Tae-woo followed seconds later, growling his name like he’d been holding it back for years.
The mics caught everything.
When it was over, the room was quiet except for their ragged breathing and the faint hum of cooling fans.
Tae-woo didn’t pull away immediately. He stayed inside him, forehead pressed to Ji-ho’s shoulder, one hand stroking slow circles on his hip—aftercare protocol, maybe. Or something else.
“You did good,” he murmured, voice hoarse now. “Better than good.”
Ji-ho didn’t answer, still trembling, still breathing through the burn.
Tae-woo’s lips brushed his temple. “You should be proud of yourself. You’re brave enough to stay. I’ve seen plenty cancel the contract after the first blow.”
The words were meant to soothe, but Ji-ho barely registered them.
They cleaned up in silence. Shower in the attached bathroom. Fresh clothes provided. A discreet staff member brought water, electrolyte packets, even a small tube of arnica cream “for tomorrow.”
As Ji-ho was about to leave, Tae-woo caught his wrist.
“Next session’s in three days. Same partner assignment. They liked the chemistry.”
Ji-ho swallowed. “They… already listened?”
Tae-woo’s smile was small, dangerous. “They always listen live. The raw feed goes straight to the producer and animation team. You’ll see the final episode drop in two weeks. Under a different title, of course.”
He leaned in, voice dropping to that lethal whisper.
“And rookie? Try not to think about me when you’re alone. It’ll make the next one… messier.”
Ji-ho left the building with his hoodie pulled low, cheeks burning, and an ache between his legs that had nothing to do with pain.
Three days later he came back.
And the time after that.
And the time after that.
Each session carved the shape of Tae-woo deeper into his body, his voice, his dreams. The way Tae-woo’s hands knew exactly where to press to make him sob. The way his name sounded different every time—soft, commanding, desperate.
Online, the fandom lost its collective mind.
A new premium BL anime episode dropped: *Crimson Resonance*.
The comments were feral.
“the way the uke’s voice cracks on ‘hyung’—I’m deceased”
“no one tell me this is faked. I refuse. the animation syncs too perfectly with those sounds”
“that growl at 14:37… I know that voice from somewhere I swear”
“they’re in love. they have to be. no one sounds like that unless it’s real.”
Ji-ho read them at 3 a.m., earbuds in, hand between his legs, remembering exactly how that growl had felt against his throat.
He never told Tae-woo.
But sometimes, in the suite, when the scene called for possession, Tae-woo would pin his wrists above his head and murmur—off-script, just for the mics, just for him—
“Mine. This pretty, innocent body of yours… your sweet moans… are all mine.”
And Ji-ho would moan like he was breaking apart, because in that moment, he was.
The protocol was working exactly as designed.
The viewers got their perfect, filthy fantasy—animated, voiced, synced to the bone.
And somewhere in the dark between takes, two bodies devoured each other with pure want.
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Please like my poststory and support me if you want a full novel (or a chat story maybe...?) set in this crazy world I’ve created.
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