i'll be here all week!

parts 1-11 linked here

Andrew relaxes, bit by bit, as John draws him out—carefully, gently, watching his shoulders unclench and his mouth quirk into a smile, finally starting to last for more than a microsecond at a time.

He can’t believe how fucking hot his—what is Andrew? His sexy customer? His paying good buddy? His sugar daddy (he walks back from that term very quickly, because it hits him low and hot in his gut at the same time it grosses him out)? How hot his Andrew is, he finally thinks. Because he doesn’t fit quite in any of those categories, not really, and John has claimed him as his own, somehow.

“So this is your time,” he says carefully, when he’s watched Andrew relax into their conversation, when Andrew’s eyes crinkle in the corners, laugh lines appearing like they’re surprised to be there. “What would you like?”

Andrew blinks, stares like John’s the only thing in the world, and John thinks maybe he likes being looked at like that.

But the silence stretches, and Andrew’s shoulders are creeping up again, his jaw working, and John leans forward. “You can type, if you want—or I can just. You know. Do... whatever. And you can tell me if you like it.”

Andrew nods. “I want—” John sees his throat move, a tight swallow in his thick, long neck. He wants to nip at the tendon running down the side, wants to leave a mark, maybe. “I want you to do what you like. I want to watch you.”

John reaches down, picks the sweater back up from where he’d set it down. He folds it a little more neatly, and Andrew’s eyes crinkle again, his mouth curling in a tiny smile.

“I don’t want this to get wrinkled or dirty or anything,” John says, and strokes his hand over the folded sweater. Onscreen, Andrew’s breath catches. “I’d wear it every day if I could, but my coworkers would probably be weird about it.”

Andrew huffs a laugh. “I’ll buy you as many as you want,” he says, and his eyes sweep across the screen, narrowing his eyes. “How do I tip you in this?”

“I think you have to wait for the end,” John says. “To make sure I have incentive to, um, satisfy you.”

“You do,” Andrew says immediately, and John might be having some sort of cardiac event. “I’m satisfied.”

John grins, knows his cheeks are going all pink and chipmunk-y, knows he’s showing all his wonky teeth, but he doesn’t care. He slides the suspenders off his shoulders and gets out of his deskchair, pushing it out of the way, and settles on the bed. “Let’s see how much more satisfied you can be,” he says, and Andrew’s eyes go dark all at once.

#

John’s wearing a button-down shirt and suspenders under the sweater, and his hair’s even more fluffy-looking how that it’s dried from whatever weather he’d come in from. It had gotten ruffled when he pulled the sweater off, and Andrew’s hands itch with a longing to bury his fingers in it. It looks even softer than the cashmere.

“I didn’t know I’d be able to see you, too,” John says, looking up through his eyelashes, and he’s undoing his belt—he’s wearing nice slacks, the kind Andrew has for when he’s playing a bodyguard or a businessman, and they look like they started the day neatly ironed, but now have softened after a day on John’s body.

He wonders, suddenly, what John does during the day. DrWatchMe, his username says. He can imagine John as a doctor, suddenly can’t imagine him as anything else. Andrew pictures John running competent hands across his chest, imagines him holding a stethoscope to his back, fingers warm, murmuring deep breaths in Andrew’s ear, sucks in a breath at the thought.

He doesn’t reach down and press a hand to his cock, because—well. He doesn’t know if that’s... if that’s what John wants. Doesn’t want to misread the situation, make John uncomfortable, and besides, he’d really rather focus all his attention on the way John’s unbuttoning his white shirt.

“I didn’t get a chance to shower after work,” John says, a little sheepish. “So uh. Sorry. I would have made myself look nice for you. Would have at least taken my work clothes off.”

“You look nice,” says Andrew immediately, because it’s true. “You always look nice.”

John’s hands pause on the last button. His fingers are long, and slender, sparsely dark-haired and square-nailed and quick, and Andrew wants to examine them, wants to look at every square inch of them, learn every line of his palms and every crease of his knuckles. He has a watch tan on his wrist, but no watch. Andrew thinks, as John loosens the knot at his neck, about the way his tie looks silk and handmade, the way his shirt is obviously tailored custom to his body, catches the monogrammed JTCIII at his cuffs—and his eyes flick to the peeling paint in the background of his shot. This is a man who is used to nice things, he thinks, but who’s had to settle for less.

He deserves silk, Andrew thinks, as John’s belt slips from its buckle and reveals the cotton of his boxers.

John pauses, hands on his fly. “Do you want to… participate? Or just watch? Whatever you want, Andrew.” And that makes his dick twitch under his fingers, makes his mouth water.

And the way John says his name makes him shiver: it feels like a term of endearment, feels like a forbidden thing, the way it hits him. He isn’t Andrew to anyone, anymore, not to his brothers, not to his mother, to no one. There’s nobody left who calls him by his name. But John doesn’t know him by anything else, and hearing Andrew in his sweet voice feels like a taste of freedom from Pope and the life that hard, dangerous (isolated, weird, lonely) man lives.

But he doesn’t know how to answer John’s question, because he’s already overwhelmed, just with looking at John—part of him (his dick, mostly) wants, but it’s a vague, nebulous want that he can’t quite get his mind around. The rest of him just wants to look. To see.

“That’s okay,” John says, and Andrew realizes he hasn’t answered, that his eyes have just been fixed on the way John’s palm is rubbing gently at the bulge in his boxers where they peek through his open fly. “And Andrew? I like seeing you—I like seeing you watch me—but if you’re more comfortable, you can turn the camera off. If that’s better for you?”

Andrew thinks about it for a moment, really thinks about it, because he’s used to watching from a distance, used to seeing, not to being seen—but the fact that John’s given him a choice, that he’s letting Andrew decide where his limits are, decide whether he wants it or not? It makes him brave.

summary: ever wonder how rabbot get their almost two year long relationship discovered? in a stupider way than you think

(I changed the website I was using for the texts because I hated the old iphone format lmao)

pt.1 pt.2

We barely know anything about Madagascar pre-500CE. We don’t even know whether the island had a permanent population before then, despite finding a bunch of much older signs of temporary human presence.

Malagasy mythology makes mention of the vazimba, a “precursor” ethnic group that might or might not be distinct from Madagascar’s current population.

The point is, we do not know.

So you were in Madagascar when the pyramids were being built in Egypt, i.e. during one of the most obscure, most undocumented parts of Madagascar’s human history?

This post inspired me to start working on a story with an immortal who also always keeps managing to miss shit (someone finds out how old he is, says “Jesus Christ,” and gets a distracted “hm? No, I was still in Wales”), but he knows what the Roman dodecahedrons were for and he’s refusing to tell anyone because back in the 1820s someone was extremely rude to him at the British Museum and he doesn’t feel he’s been sufficiently apologized to. His house is full of shit that’s of absolutely no interest to anyone except academics and history nerds, who’d consider it a treasure trove to rival the library at Alexandria. (Come to that, he may own some texts from said library. Homeslice got around.)

But he is extremely petty. So no, you may not see his certificate declaring him a member of the Tailors’ Guild, and yes he does know how to build a wooden automaton from the time he spent working as a clockmaker and he will not be showing you.

The best addition you named above is new to me, however. And now I want to see if I can’t finagle something with him having been in Middle of Nowhere, Continent of Africa*, having gone there to get away from the Islamic Conquest while muttering stuff like “go to Egypt, they said, it’s warmer, they said…they’ve still got maintained roads…what bloody good do the maintained roads do me when people want my head on a pike…”

parts 1-10 linked here

Andrew’s screen is dark, and John’s not sure what’s going on, because there had been a flurry of blurry movement, then the screen had gone mostly dark as something thudded hard through his speakers. But before that—

So John had thought a lot about what Andrew might look like, because he had no idea. He could be anywhere from eighteen to eighty, any look, any vibe, and John would still feel the pull toward him, probably, based on the way they’d gelled in that first stream.

But now he knows what Andrew looks like: soft-looking curly dark hair, hints of copper and silver in the sunlight. Bright, intense eyes, hazel-green, in a freckled face. A sweet-looking mouth, open in surprise. Massive shoulders, smooth and just as freckled.

A collarbone John wants to trace with his tongue. Curls he wants to bury his fingers in. A jawline he wants to nip at, to fit his hand around.

Yeah. He knows what Andrew looks like now, and it’s going to haunt him.

“Andrew?” he asks, tentative, because the stream’s still open, still live.

There’s a rustle in his audio, and then a creak, and then slowly, slowly, the picture shifts and tilts, scanning up a shirt-clad torso, and John realizes what must have happened—Andrew must have closed the laptop.

“Hey,” John says, because Andrew’s staring at him, jaw tense. He’s wearing a collared shirt now, navy, buttoned up, neat and pressed. His cheeks are a little pink, and his hair’s a little less wild. He’s fixed himself up, maybe for John. Gorgeous.

Andrew’s eyes go wide, and his cheeks go even pinker, and he stiffens in the chair, and. Oh, shit. John definitely said that last thought out loud.

“Sorry, sorry, oh my god, I just—I didn’t know you looked—” He waves at all of Andrew, at his wide eyes—green-brown, wide, shocked. His thicket of curls drift in a halo around his head, silvering at the temples a little. John adores the hints of copper where the sunlight hits, cutting through the window. His eyes catch on the way Andrew’s ears stick out a little bit, and he wonders suddenly what he looked like younger, thinks about how adorable those ears must have been.

He looks like he’s more nervous than John is, like he was obviously not expecting to be on camera for this, and John’s belly heats at the thought of his bare shoulders, a little shiny with sweat, in that first glimpse.

“It’s okay,” John says, and he keeps his voice low, steady. “Sorry, I didn’t know we’d both be on camera either. If you want to turn yours off, you can, but, um. I like seeing you. You’re really handsome, Andrew.” It’s an understatement, but he gets the feeling anything more will send him flying again.

Andrew hasn’t blinked, hasn’t moved, and if it weren’t for the slight shifts with each breath, John would think the stream had frozen or something.

There’s a long moment of silence, and John waits him out. He’d once met a horse who’d been rescued from a circus, who was recuperating from his injuries at Marigold’s trainer’s stable, and he had had that same look in his eye that Andrew does: that panic barely contained, that fear, that desire for connection, barely held back. John thinks maybe if he approaches Andrew the same way, slowly, calmly, letting him set the pace, he might be able to get even closer.

(Although it’s a little different, because he didn’t want to get quite as close to the horse.)

(Though he wouldn’t mind riding Andrew, actually.)

(Anyway!)

Andrew watches him, and he watches back, and John can feel the smile spreading over his face. Finally, Andrew says, quiet and low, his voice as gorgeous as his face, “You’re wearing my sweater.”

#

He’s wearing the sweater. He’s wearing the sweater he bought with Andrew’s money, and he’s still dressed for whatever it is he does when he’s not getting naked on camera, and Andrew can still see his own face in the corner but he ignores it, because John is wearing his sweater.

“It makes me think of you,” John says. “Thank you again.” He pauses, and ducks his head a little, and fuck, that smile might kill Andrew with how sweet it is, how uninhibited, how beautiful. “Not just for the money, but, you know, for that, too, obviously. But. I would have spent it all on bills, and—yeah. Sometimes it’s nice to just. Get something for myself.”

“You deserve it,” Andrew says, and he’s leaning forward a little in his chair, eyes still intent on John, and John—he likes it. “It looks nice. Soft.”

John is charmed. He’s charmed! “It is,” he says. “ I’ve been wearing it all day. People kept telling me it looked good, and I kept thinking about you.” Andrew’s mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but he won’t let himself, and John wants to push, wants to make him grin, but—slow, he reminds himself, the image of that skittish horse in his mind again, the way it had, after an hour’s careful approach, nuzzled its big head up against his chest and lipped a carrot from his palm. “I wanted to thank you before, on the stream, but. It felt weird.”

“Are you alright?” Andrew asks, and his brows draw together. He straightens in his seat. “You looked. Uncomfortable.” He pauses. “Beautiful. But. Like you didn’t want to be there.”

“It was a lot,” John admits, and scrubs a hand through his hair. There are still snowflakes melting in it, damp and cold. “Um. I don’t know if I’ll do that again.”

Andrew nods, and shifts a little in his chair, rocking forward, then back. “You don’t have to,” he says. “If it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I mean. It did make me enough money to cover my rent the next two months,” John says, because it’s true. “So. It’s hard to say no, you know? But.” He takes a deep breath. “I might just. Do private streams. Once in a while, instead.” He reaches down, tugs the bottom of the sweater up, pulls it gently over his head. “If you want that?”

“You mean for me,” Andrew says, and John’s starting to get a read on his tones, on the way his voice stays flat but the emotion beneath it peeks through.

parts 1-9 linked here

John disappears as the stream ends, and Andrew stares at the screen. It’s jarring, getting sent back to the homepage, and he makes sure to click five stars on the popup asking how John had been (Andrew thinks five stars are not enough, actually).

He’s about to close the laptop and start heading home, erection wilting now that John’s pretty face is gone, when he notices it: a little red flag on his icon.

Did someone report him? Did he fuck up in the stream?

He clicks it.

YOU’VE BEEN INVITED TO REQUEST A PRIVATE STREAM, the message reads, and there’s John’s icon, John’s username, and a list of prices.

Andrew stares at the message for a long time—he doesn’t know how long. Then he scrolls down, finds the longest, most expensive option, and clicks request. What else is he using this fucking money for anyway?

#

After the stream finishes, John showers off the dried come and sweat, changes his sheets, and collapses into bed. He doesn’t check to see if Andrew’s responded, because he can’t come again so soon anyway, and he’s feeling pretty raw, so. He tries to sleep instead. He’s got a shift in the morning, and going through weird personal crap in his personal porn career is not a good excuse for dragging tomorrow—Dr. Benton certainly wouldn’t think so, anyway, and John is not getting himself in a situation where Benton asks, and John has to lie, because he’s pretty sure he’d just blurt out the truth if he’s tired enough. And then he sleeps so hard that he doesn’t remember snoozing his alarm for a full hour, and has to roll out of bed and directly into his clothes for the day, sprinting out the door still buttoning his shirt.

The shift is long, and he’s tired even though he slept a solid six hours. Benton’s grouchy, and Mark is being a dick, and the nurses are all on edge. When he finally escapes (dodging Benton before he can be handed more charts), he just wants to collapse onto his bed—but first, he checks the site.

And there, flagged on his creator homepage, is a request for a private stream.

John’s still in his tie and his suspenders, still has his shoes and sweater and overcoat on, for fucks’ sake, but he clicks the accept button with trembling fingers. There’s a whole scheduling process, apparently, and he marks himself as available for the next four hours—and the little dot next to Andrew’s username pops up green.

He’s here now.

He’s—he’s accepting the offered time, and he’s already paying, and—

John’s still dressed for work.

He yelps as the stream window pops up, the loading symbol spinning, and then there’s his face on the screen—but that’s not all there is.

Because next to his face is another window, showing another beroom—this one bathed in sunlight, meticulously neat. And in the center of the frame...

“Andrew?”

#

Andrew’s at the computer already when the notification pings that his request has been accepted, and he isn’t sure how what he clicks, but before he realizes what’s happening, it’s opening—and there’s John’s beautiful face on the screen.

“Andrew?” John says, and god, he’s beautiful: his hair is messy and a little damp, maybe, and he’s wearing a coat, and he’s wearing the sweater, and his cheeks are pink. “Is that you?”

Andrew looks for the chat window, but it’s not there—and instead.

Instead, he sees his own face, small and surprised in the corner of the screen.

He’s on camera, too.

His face—surprised, freckled, curls messy and shoulders bare because he’d been working out—is right there on the screen, and John... John can see him.

Andrew panics, slams the laptop shut, and shoves himself backwards so hard he falls off his rolling office chair.

The floor is cold, and hard, and he stays there, flopped on his back, breathing hard.

“Andrew?” John’s voice comes again, tentative, and what the fuck.

Andrew sits up slowly, pushes himself off the floor, and squints at the laptop. It’s closed, but he can see through the crack that the screen’s still lit up, which means. John’s still there.

There’s a rustling sound, and a thump, then another, and a creak, and fuck. John is right there, on his screen, and Andrew can see him, if he wants—he just has to be seen in return.

Terrifying.

parts 1-7 linked here

John’s stream is different with all these people in it. Andrew hangs back in the chat, doesn’t engage—but he does tip, obviously, tips plenty. There’s a tip counter up in the corner of the stream, and it’s already well over the total amount he’d tipped John with last time, which is—good, probably. John needs the money, or he wouldn’t be here doing this.

(Andrew shoves down the thought I could take care of him. He doesn’t need money from anybody else. because. boundaries. He’s trying to have them. This is John’s job.)

The chat is busy, and he can see the way John’s eyes dart around, trying to keep up. The messages are demanding, some of them shockingly obscene even for a porn site, and when John takes his boxers off, the chat goes wild.

But Andrew—even though he’s transfixed by the sight of John fully bare—can’t stop thinking about the sweater he’d taken off earlier. He can still see it, in the corner of the frame, and he can still hear John’s voice saying a gift from a friend, and he doesn’t want to assume, but. A special treat, John had said. from a friend.

That’s his sweater. That’s the sweater John bought himself with Andrew’s money. Not a sexy pair of underwear to show off, not a toy to use on camera, but a warm, soft sweater. Maybe he’s wearing it out in his actual life. Maybe people are seeing him in it, seeing his sweet, sleek chest wrapped up in Andrew’s cashmere, and looking at him.

He hadn’t been hard before, the stress of the busy chat and all the eyes on John tamping down any response, but that thought—the idea that John’s wearing something of his in public, that he’s thinking about Andrew outside of this strange space—that’s what gets him going, makes him twitch in his pants.

take your time, he says in the chat, i like looking at you.

John’s eyes widen, and his lips curl up, his smile ticking a little more real (or at least, that’s what Andrew tells himself he’s seeing). “Thanks, Andrew,” he says, and the chat explodes.

whos andrew

i’m joe say my name sexy

show your FEET

“Uh.” John scoots back a little on the bed, pulling his legs up. The bottoms of his feet are pale and soft, and Andrew’s not into feet, but he’s into John, so. “Here they are?”

Tips roll in, a steady flood of them, and Andrew stares at John’s beautiful face.

#

He’s already made five hundred bucks and it’s only been twenty minutes, but John doesn’t know if he can manage an hour of this.

The only thing keeping him from closing the stream is Andrew’s occasional messages in the chat, and he’s afraid he’s going to miss them because all the other people are posting a flood of requests and commentary on his body and—it’s a lot!

But they’re paying him, and he’s going to make it worth it, so. He takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his chest, sliding it down to palm over his thighs, spreading his legs wider. He’s taken the couch cushions and put them under his blankets this time, propping himself up at an angle, and when he leans back, one leg up, Andrew says look at you, all spread out, and John’s cock finally gets with the program.

“You like that?” he asks, and another hundred bucks floods in in fives and tens, and then Andrew’s icon pops up with fifty, and John takes out the lube. This time he doesn’t dump it all over himself (because he’s been jerking off every day since then), but he gets a reasonable amount in his hand, and reaches for his dick.

SHOW HOLE, says somebody, and someone else repeats it, and John’s heartrate ticks up, his breathing speeding, too. He tips back a little, fighting his instinct to close his legs.

finger yourself, says someone else, and he can’t tell who it is, but it’s not Andrew—and then another tip comes in, and another, and he slides a finger down his balls, slides it over his perineum.

He’s never been a huge fan of things in his ass, but it feels okay to just rub a lubed finger against the outside, gently.

put it in, the chat says, and it’s all kind of blurring together now. show us how much that pretty hole can take

John presses gently, shudders at the sensation. “I’m not—that’s not—”

show me what you like. And that familiar name, that familiar icon, makes his chest loosen a little. i want to see you feel good.

John takes his cock in hand, cups his other hand around his balls. He ignores the chorus of HOLE HOLE HOLE in the chat and strokes himself slow.

untitled 

this kind of policing is why ao3 was created

remember, kids, the three laws of fandom are:

- don’t like; don’t read

- your kink is not my kink