Kaylia

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.

So here I am thinking about those filthy pervs.

parts 1-8 linked here

It looks like it takes John a while to get there this time, which is a shift from before. The chat is impatient, and Andrew’s trying really hard not to get himself banned from the site by engaging with the other viewers (and by engaging, he means telling them to fuck off with how rude they’re being to John, and also, maybe, thinking about if there’s a way to find out where they live).

Andrew is pretty sure that John is not enjoying this. Last time, he’d been bright-eyed, leaning into the camera, laughing—this time, he’s almost wary. Andrew knows the look of someone performing. John is performing.

(And yeah, he’d probably been performing for Andrew, too. Andrew knows plenty of sex workers, has used their services on occasion, but. There’s a difference between working and enjoying your job, and gritting your teeth to get through it with a smile on your face. Andrew’s never been good at that last part, the smile part, but he’s not unaware of it.)

The sound of John’s hand is slick and wet around his cock, and he’s stretched out on his side, one knee canted up. His mouth hangs open, and his eyes are squeezed shut, so he can’t see the chat, but Andrew can tell he’s close, can tell he’s hovering right there on the edge.

He wishes he could say something, could lean in close, could lick that bead of sweat that’s trailing down the side of John’s neck. He can see the green sweater by John’s elbow where he’s propped up, still neatly folded, fabric tipping into John’s weight. It’s brushing his skin. Andrew hopes it feels nice against his arm.

Andrew presses a hand to his crotch, pants not even unzipped, but he’s mostly hard in his jeans.

He wishes he could do something, anything, to make John feel good, to push him over that edge—wishes he could do anything besides type messages in this awful cesspool of a chat. Wishes he could say something John could hear, anything that could get through to him as he fucks his hips into his fist.

John drops his face down, cheek pressed against the sweater, Andrew’s sweater, and Andrew gasps aloud at the way it makes his whole body go tight and hot.

look at you, he types one-handed, tipping with each message.

you deserve so many nice things

such a good boy

He’s rubbing over his cock now, through his jeans, groaning with the feel of the too-rough friction, but he’s moving his hand in time to John’s pace and it almost feels like John can see him, too.

There are other messages rolling in but he ignores them, focused on John.

can you come for me? he types, and hits the tip button a dozen times, quick, because he can’t be bothered to use the keyboard to change the amount. please, show me how good it feels

John’s eyes open, focus on the camera, and go wide—and his mouth moves, a little blurry on the screen, but it looks almost like he’s saying Andrew’s name as he comes all over himself.

#

John pants, falls back against the blanket on his back, stares at the ceiling for a long moment. He can hear the dings of tips coming through, but he’s already decided—yeah, this probably covered his rent for the month (maybe the next couple months), but he doesn’t think it’s for him, because all he wants is to cover himself up and maybe take a shower, get all those eyes off him.

He almost hadn’t been able to come, which would have been really embarrassing and maybe against the terms and conditions of the website? But then he’d looked at the screen and his porn stream guardian angel had been there, sweet against the backdrop of utter filth—although to call somebody telling him a good boy and asking him to come sweet is. Maybe a sign his standards are a little off—and he’d tipped John over the edge with his messages and his, well, tips.

He wishes there were a way to talk to him, to thank him, but he can’t, not in front of all these other people, and there’s no private messaging on the site (which is probably good, generally speaking, because even this level of interaction was pretty overwhelming and he can’t imagine an inbox of these guys without eyes on them).

John sits up, smiles at the camera. “Wow, thanks everybody,” he says. “Subscribe and I’ll maybe see you next time?”

always, Andrew says, and John can feel his blush.

He moves his mouse, cursor caressing Andrew’s icon because John’s sentimental and feeling a little bit of a post-orgasmic rush, and—

There’s a popup with a menu when he clicks.

INVITE SUBSCRIBER TO PRIVATE STREAM.

@pscentral​ event 51: shapes 2026 COLOR CHALLENGE: july + green + something that reminds you of summer

Robby is already two glasses of whiskey in, hoping the alcohol will knock him out, while Jack keeps shifting in his seat, unable to get comfortable. Just as the cabin finally settles into that quiet, drowsy rhythm of a night flight, the first bout of turbulence hits.

At first, it's nothing unusual. They're rational adults, and turbulence happens. The flight attendants move through the cabin with practiced smiles, assuring everyone there's nothing to worry about. The seatbelt sign stays on, a few overhead bins rattle, and the plane shudders every now and then. It should be fine.

Except it doesn't stop. The turbulence keeps coming, each wave rougher than the last, until every drop feels like the floor has vanished beneath them. Robby isn't panicking (not exactly) but he's clearly having a miserable time. His jaw is tight, his fingers grip the armrest hard enough to whiten his knuckles, and every violent jolt makes him suck in a sharp breath.

Jack tries humor first. He tosses out a couple of dry comments and jokes, but none of them earn so much as a smile. Logic isn't doing Robby much good.

Seeing the tension etched across his face, Jack quietly reaches over and slips his hand into Robby's.

It's strange. They're fully grown men holding hands because of turbulence. Under any other circumstances, one of them would make a joke about it.

Neither of them does.

Robby's fingers close around Jack's with surprising strength, almost painfully tight, and Jack lets him hold on without comment. It's awkward, a little embarrassing, and somehow exactly what Robby needs.

A few minutes later, the captain comes over the intercom to explain that a large storm has formed across their planned route. They'll have to divert around it, adding some time to the flight, but there's no cause for alarm.

As if on cue, the turbulence begins to ease.

The cabin settles into gentler vibrations, and Robby's breathing gradually evens out. His grip loosens enough that Jack can finally feel his fingers again, but neither of them lets go. Their hands remain loosely intertwined on the armrest, casual enough that they could almost pretend it happened by accident.

The flight stretches on like that. Nobody acknowledges it. Even when Jack eventually has to use the bathroom, Robby reluctantly releases him without a word. The moment Jack sits back down, though, Robby reaches over again, takes his hand just as quietly as before, and stubbornly avoids looking him in the eye.

Jack says nothing. He simply laces their fingers together again.

Eventually exhaustion catches up with Robby. The whiskey, the adrenaline crash, and the endless hours in the air finally win. His head tips sideways until it comes to rest on Jack's shoulder, and before long he's asleep, practically folded against him.

Jack smiles to himself. He adjusts just enough to make Robby more comfortable without waking him, slips on his headphones, puts one of his favorite playlists on, and closes his eyes as well. The seats are cramped, his neck will almost certainly regret this tomorrow, and his hand is still trapped beneath Robby's bruising grip, but he can't quite bring himself to mind.

They're pressed shoulder to shoulder, fingers intertwined, quietly dozing somewhere above the clouds.

Then the storm catches up with them anyway.

The turbulence returns with enough force to wake half the cabin, and after another tense stretch of flying. The weather gets worse and the plane will divert to another airport until it clears. By the time they land, it's well past midnight.

The airline scrambles to find hotel rooms for a plane full of exhausted passengers, but with several other diverted flights arriving at the same time, accommodations are scarce. At check-in, the clerk barely glances up before sliding a pair of keycards across the counter.

Sharing a room is the least of their concerns. They just want a shower, a mattress, and eight uninterrupted hours of sleep.

They make it upstairs, unlock the door, and walk inside.