a dreamer

The Codys nab the heir to the Carter fortune. Carter’s parents don’t answer their phones for a such a long time that even the Cody boys gotta concede Carter’s family is pretty fucked. (At least Smurf would be angry; does John’s mom even care?)

Pope has also been turning over the idea of Carter and “pretty fucked” in his head for a solid week now. Carter’s pretty. Should be fucked.

And I’m fairly sure Stockholm syndrome isn’t real(?), but we’re in fanfic land, so… extremely dubcon fucking ahoy. I need a touch- and affection-starved Carter starting to imprint on Pope Cody like a baby duckling.

standing on that ledge was the closest robby felt to his mother in decades

THE PITT : DR ROBBY

there are so many shots where robby is actively trying not to be perceived and jack is staring at him like he can't get enough of him, like every single microexpression robby makes is his & his alone, and i'm OBSESSED

even when robby literally isn't paying attention and jack is in a different room jack is looking at him, constantly assessing where he's at and what he's feeling, and it is such an intense and obvious sign of his love for robby (platonic or not) that i cannot stomach it

jack sees robby even when robby feels emotionally at his ugliest and he never even remotely flinches away from his desire to figure out what robby is feeling and it makes their dynamic so fascinating to me because you have two deeply empathetic, perceptive men who are hyperaware of each other (to the point where there are multiple times where they interact with each other or move to meet one another without even looking) and are not afraid of this obvious depth of love

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.