(the one where Dr. John Carter is a camboy instead of an RA, part 13)
It’s strange how different this feels than the last time he’d been on video for Andrew—and even from the time before that, the first time they’d met. This time, he can see Andrew seeing him. This time, he gets to hear the way Andrew’s breath hitches every time John stretches, every time he looks into the camera.
This time, he’s not just putting on a show: this time, they’re in this together.
And yes, he’s getting paid—yes, Andrew’s still paying him, but somehow, it doesn’t feel transactional. It feels like they’re both getting something out of this, something equal, something more than just an exchange of services.
Because look. John’s spent a long time with nobody seeing him—spent years being the son who was left over, the one who didn’t quite measure up to an impossible ideal, the one who was forgotten and left behind, the one whose background kept him separate from everyone else. And now he’s the one whose fall from that background has left him constantly behind, constantly trying to catch up, staring at the backs of his peers, acting out, acting up.
Andrew—with his intense stare and his straightforward words and his absolute lack of pretense about how much he wants John—is different. With him, everything feels different. He feels like—enough.
John leans back on his bed and runs a hand down his chest, Andrew’s eyes on him a tangible thing. He’s not nervous, not shy, not at all: his body’s thrumming with anticipation. On the screen, Andrew’s still as a statue. His eyes are unblinking, his lower lip caught between his teeth.
John can feel it: how much Andrew wants him. He can also feel the way he’s holding himself back, locked up tight, and he wants to help him crack that shell, just a little bit. Not so much that he falls apart, because god knows John understands what it is to be held up by the walls you’ve built, but enough that Andrew can let himself feel.
“Andrew,” John says, because he likes watching the name hit him (he knows there’s something more there that he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t need to know), “I’m going to touch myself, and I want you to do what I do, okay?”
Andrew nods. He looks stunned.
“You don’t have to get undressed, or show me anything you don’t want to, but. I want to know you’re doing what I’m doing. I want to imagine my hands are yours, okay? And I want you to imagine it, too, if you want. Because I want to be touching you.” He lets his fingertips caress a nipple, watches Andrew’s eyes track the movement. Slowly, Andrew’s hand comes up in a mirror to his, and when his hand reaches his shirt, presses in, he draws in a sharp breath.
“Good?” John asks, and Andrew nods.
He looks like he’s hiding, almost. Nervous. John takes a moment to study him, to really take him in. He’s probably a little older than John, but not much, those sweet lines around his eyes and the greys at his temples showing he’s probably not a novice at sex—although who knows, maybe he’s a forty year old virgin, maybe he is new at this, at all of this. John doesn’t think so, though, not with the way he’d talked to John in that first stream’s chat.
He thinks that maybe Andrew’s just a little bit shy, which is frankly fucking adorable.
(And also somehow hot? John’s not going to examine that too closely.)
John slides his hand down his chest, watches Andrew’s hand mirror his. It’s strange, this doubled vision, this mirror-view of the two of them, because when leans back against the pillows and concentrates on watching Andrew, it’s almost as if he can feel Andrew, as if it’s Andrew’s hand, moving against his skin rather than his own.
Andrew’s hands look strong, like they’re used to hard work rather than the delicate procedures John’s fingers tend to practice. He bets they’d be a little rougher than his own are as they rub through his chest hair. But Andrew would be gentle with him, careful. Rough hands or not, his touch would be soft.
He strokes over his belly, curls his fingers, lets his nails track over his skin. He doesn’t have abs, not really—no matter how much exercise he gets, his belly stays a little soft, and he’s working on getting over the dream of a rock-hard, muscled stomach—but he bets Andrew does, bets his belly is firm and hot, skin smooth, bellybutton taut.
“Can I see you?” he blurts out. “Can you take your shirt off for me?”
Andrew is rock hard in his pants, uncomfortably so, erection throbbing against the zipper, and when John asks him to remove his shirt, Andrew doesn’t hesitate—the fabric feels like it’s trapping him, and he wants to feel skin against skin, even if it’s his own. John’s watching him, stroking hands over his own skin as he stares, and fuck, Andrew wishes there were a tip button, or some other way to tell him how good he looks, how good he’s making Andrew feel already—
And then he feels like an idiot, because. He could just say it. With his words.
“Feels good,” he says as he shucks his shirt. “Looking at you. You looking at me.”
“You like looking at me?” John asks, and it’s flirty, a little laugh under the words.
Andrew raises his eyebrows, gives him a look. “John.”
“Yeah, okay.” John grins and his cheeks go all round, already pink, and his eyes crease in the corners, and Andrew wants to crawl inside him and never leave.
He buttons his shirt and folds it, forgoing the hanger for now in favor of leaning over to set it on his dresser—he’ll hang it back up later, since he only wore it for a few minutes. When he looks back at the screen, John’s still, staring, mouth hanging a little bit open.
“Holy shit, Andrew,” he says, and Andrew glances down at himself, wondering what’s wrong. “You’re—oh my god, you look like a movie star or something.”
John waves at the camera. He looks stunned, looks like he can’t take his eyes off Andrew, which is—Andrew doesn’t know what it is. “You’re perfect.” He reaches down, presses the heel of his hand to his cock where it’s distending the fabric of his boxers obscenely, and Andrew swallows hard. He wants to touch—wants to press his face there, wants to bury his nose between John’s legs, wants to open his mouth and breathe in the scent of him, close and heavy. He mirrors John’s movement without conscious thought, his own hand hot against his dick even through the thick fabric of his jeans.
“Yeah,” John says, and his eyelids flutter as his hand starts to move. “Jesus, Andrew, look at you.”
There’s a little patch of darker fabric on his boxers, wet and heavy, and Andrew wants to put his mouth there, taste him. It’s a filthy thought, but it makes him let out a whimper, one he can’t hold back.
“I want to see the rest of you,” John says, and there’s a strain to his voice. “Can you—god, I wish I could touch you—”
Andrew pushes the chair back, just a little, rolling backwards, and the little version of him, John’s view of him, shrinks on the screen until his upper body is visible, navel to hair.
John groans. “Fuck, Andrew, you’re touching yourself, aren’t you? Let me see, it’s not enough, let me—” Andrew watches, mouth watering, as John slides his hand into his boxers, fist thick under the fabric. His head falls back, lolling on his neck. His eyes stay fixed on Andrew, though, as he strokes himself slow.
Andrew rolls back another few inches until his knees appear in the frame, because John wants to see him, and what Andrew wants is for John to get what he wants.
John nods and wriggles his body on the bed, muscles flexing, his other hand pushing at his waistband to push the boxers off and away. And then he’s naked on his bed, propped against a pillow, centered in the camera view, that gorgeous flush running pink all the way from his cheekbones to the red tip of his perfect, leaking cock.
It’s shiny and damp, circumsized, and Andrew wants to touch it, wants to taste it, desperately wants it inside him like he’s never wanted anything—he’s only touched his own asshole a few times, after rigorous cleaning, but god, he wants John to stuff him full, wants to feel that with him.
Andrew wants John to fill him up, shove him down, cover him with his body and touch him everywhere, inside and out. With shaking fingers, he unzips his jeans, stands, slides them down, then pushes his boxers to the floor with them.
“Oh my god,” John whispers, and his voice is heavy and thick in John’s ears. “Holy fuck, Andrew, yeah, show me, god, you’re so thick, look at your thighs, I want to climb you like a tree—”
“Would you fuck me?” Andrew asks suddenly, mouth moving without checking in with his brain first. His hand is already around his cock, squeezing. “If you were here, John—”
“Yeah,” John says, cutting him off, panting. He reaches over to his nightstand, fumbles in the drawer, pulls out the lube and drips it into his palm. “Oh, god, yeah, please, I want that, I need you,” he groans, setting a quick rhythm, loose and frantic. “Want your eyes on me when I’m inside you, want to watch you feel it, want you to see me, want you to look—”
“My sweater,” Andrew says, because it’s the closest thing to him, because if John’s touching that, it’s almost like he’s touching Andrew, “please—”
John groans, clean hand fumbling for the sweater folded beside him, dragging it up to his face. He rubs his face against the cashmere and Andrew strokes himself, dry and tight, watching John’s eyes flutter closed as he nuzzles against the fabric. He doesn’t know where to look: John’s face, mouth open and gasping; the sweater, soft and pressed tight to his cheek; his hand, dragging over his cock, dropping down to palm at his balls; or the little picture of himself that draws his eye all of a sudden, his abs clenching, his face red and open, and fuck, he’s never seen himself like this.
“God, fuck, Andrew, you look so good,” John says, and Andrew’s eyes land back on him, and he speeds his hand up to match John’s steady strokes. “Can you get yourself slick, sweetheart, please?”
Andrew groans. “Don’t have anything,” he says, tightening his fist. He’s dripping enough that’s it’s just barely on the good side of too rough. “No lube, nothing. And don’t ask me to spit. This is fine, this is enough.”
John laughs breathlessly. “I wasn’t gonna,” he promises. “I wouldn’t. Is that okay? Is that good?”
“Yeah, fuck, John,” Andrew shivers, pleasure rising up in him like a tide—this part’s always just on the edge of too much, like the moment before dropping into a ramp, swooping belly and possibilities all rising up at once, the fall into the unknown. “Keep talking, please, your voice, keep on—”
“Andrew, fuck, please, I want to touch you, want you to touch me, please, I want to see your face when you come, need you, please, show me everything—” John’s moaning, slick sounds filling Andrew’s ears, and he turns his face to bury it in forest green cashmere as his cock spurts in his hand, lines of come landing across his belly, across his thighs. His body folds in, curling up like it’s painful, and he groans Andrew’s name on a wheezing breath, and the sound of it pushes Andrew over the precipice.
It bursts through him all at once and he hears himself whisper John’s name, cracked open, sweet heat rolling along his nerves. He works himself through it, dragging it out of himself, not stopping when it feels like too much but making himself relax into it—because John’s watching, and John deserves it all.
Andrew’s fucking gorgeous when he comes. He’s beautiful all the time—when he’s bashful and shocked, when he’s smiling, when he’s touching himself, all of it—but fuck, when he comes into his hand moaning John’s name... Yeah. John’s gonna have that image burned on his retinas for a long time. Centuries, maybe. He’ll be dead someday, haunting the hallways of County General, and he’ll still be thinking about the way Andrew’s lips had curled around his name as he squeezed the head of his cock.
John’s panting, body singing, and he’s staring at the screen, because he’s never had an orgasm like that in his life—and because Andrew’s looking back at him, his face a stunned, pleasure-drunk mirror of John’s own. The green of his eyes, gold-flecked, are a bright flare against the screen, the saliva-shine of his lips taunting John across however many miles they are apart.
“Thank you,” Andrew says, and his voice is rough, worn out. His face looks relaxed in a way it hadn’t before, his smile coming easy, eyes soft, and John slides on shaking legs from the bed to the chair, heedless of the come all over himself, to look more closely.
“Hey,” he says, and Andrew looks up at him, eyes sweet and vulnerable, open. John thinks again suddenly about that fucking horse, about how after he’d coaxed him near, he hadn’t strayed more than a few steps from John until John had had to leave. “I’m glad it was you who found my channel,” he says, and Andrew’s smile is as bright as the sun.
