(the one where Dr. John Carter is a camboy instead of an RA, part 7)
part 1 part 2 part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6
Andrew’s subscribed to John’s channel. He’s the only subscriber to John’s channel. He’d considered not rating John when the post-stream survey popped up, just to keep him at the bottom of the list, selfishly wanting him to not get any other viewers, but he couldn’t make himself do it—Pope Cody has done so many terrible things in his lifetime, but somehow this one is the sticking point.
He hadn’t asked John when he’d be online next. He should have. He thinks about it all week, thinks about John’s face when he’d asked if Andrew would watch him again. He thinks about the way John bit his lower lip, the way he’d put a pillow over his lap in a weird parody of decency after fucking his fist on camera. He’s still thinking about it as he drives an ATV across a suburban lawn, Deran hanging on his back, Baz and Craig twenty feet ahead with duffle bags of cash and jewelry.
Andrew thinks about the crack in John’s voice as he came when he’s in the shower—doesn’t touch himself about it, just lets the warmth rumble through him as he soaps himself up thoroughly—and he thinks about the little patch of hair across his sternum and the way his eyes had caught the light when he smiles.
He’s distracted, yes. But he’s still good at his job, and when they count up the cash and do some estimates on the haul’s totals after they fence shit, his cut’s well into the low five figures.
He mentally bookmarks a section of that for John.
He almost misses the next stream, because he’s not the kind of guy who checks his email every day, and the subscriber emails apparently go out just a few hours before the videos, but he happens to open his laptop to look something up and sees it. It’s in less than an hour, and the house is full of people, some kind of party Smurf’s throwing, but it’s an easy decision: he packs up his laptop, shoves it in his bag, and walks out.
Deran’s standing outside, talking to the guy he’s fucking again, or still—Adrian, Andrew remembers, Deran’s been weird about him since he was in high school, thinks everybody else doesn’t know they’re fucking—and he steps back when he sees Andrew, fists clenched, eyes wary. Adrian just looks tired.
“Where are you going?” Deran asks as Andrew pulls his keys out and opens the door to his truck.
“Out.” Andrew glances back, eyes flicking from Deran to Adrian and back, but decides he’s not going to get involved in whatever they’ve got going on. It’s a policy that has served him well with his brother’s lives, when he follows it.
Deran doesn’t ask anymore questions, just rolls his eyes and turns back to Adrian. Andrew drives away, his chest unclenching with every yard further away he gets.
John’s nervous in a whole different way than he was the first time. He sets up the stream, gets himself situated, lube in easy reach, and watches the timer tick down—three minutes, two, one—
4 viewers, reads the screen, as the timer counts out the final seconds, and—what?
And then he’s staring at his own stunned face on the screen, and he’s wearing nothing but the beautiful, soft cashmere sweater he bought himself with Andrew’s money, and there are strangers looking at him.
John swallows, feeling the way his heart is pounding, throat tight. But—he needs this. He needs the money, and it was fun last time, with Andrew—is Andrew here? There’s not a list of people that he can see, and the chat’s already filling up with emojis of eggplants and demands, and John has a lifetime of experience being places he doesn’t want to be, being looked at by people he has to pretend to like, so—
“Hi, everyone,” he says. “Wow, you’re all here just to see me?”
Andrew’s two minutes late to John’s stream, because there had been construction on the hill, and then there’d been a line to check into the motel, and then he hadn’t been able to log onto the wifi, and by the time he’s clicking on John’s link from his email he’s late. Andrew does not like to be late to anything. And what if John’s been sitting there alone, waiting for him?
But when the stream pops to life on his screen, John’s sitting on his bed, and he’s smiling, and he’s beautiful—and he’s talking to people who aren’t Andrew.
Andrew’s shocked by the sudden wave of heat that rushes through him—anger, maybe? No. Jealousy. He’s jealous. He’s looking at this man, who he has spent a total of one hour (and three hundred bucks) with, and he’s jealous—of someone doing their job. This is John’s job! To please the people watching!
He almost closes the window, almost shuts the laptop, but then he remembers. He promised John he’d be there. And even if he’s just a customer, well. He promised.
He puts his headphones on just in time to hear John say “—I, um, don’t have any toys here. It’s only my second time doing this, I don’t—”
The chat’s moving fast, twenty-six viewers, and they seem to all be telling John what he should be doing, or saying obscene things about his long legs. He’s wearing a sweater this time—a deep green that sets off his eyes and the warm undertone of his skin, the pink in his cheeks. It looks soft, and comfortable, and warm, and judging by how dark it is out the window, he’s somewhere it’s winter.
Andrew takes a deep breath and types in the chat, hello again. you look lovely.
He sees John’s eyes dart across the screen, widen, and then the smile on his face goes from careful and shy to wide and real, a little lopsided, his crooked front teeth showing, and Andrew’s heart squeezes in his chest. “Hi,” John says.
There are dozens of people watching him, and John can’t keep up with the scrolling chat—he tries to respond as people type things, but he loses track pretty quickly. The consensus seems to be, though, that he’s wearing too much.
And then, suddenly, there’s Andrew’s familiar screenname, and he’s telling John he looks lovely, and it’s like everybody else falls away for a moment.
i like your sweater, Andrew types, message nestled in between one from someone named toelicker who wants John to show his feet, and another named rimshot who wants John to show hole.
“It was a special treat,” he says, and straightens the sweater against his skin. It’s soft and it’s warm and he’s basically not taken it off in three days. “A gift from a friend.” He strokes his hand down the front of it, ducking his head for a moment, because he knows he’s blushing.
IF I TIP YOU WILL YOU TAKE IT OFF, says georgewalker1958, and John really hopes that’s not his real name and birth year, because. Jeez. That’s—that’s just basic internet safety.
There’s an ascii art dick from mikehawk69, and dollar signs from a dirkmcnutty, and Andrew’s not talking, but he’s there, watching, John knows it. He’s there, he’s watching, and he likes the sweater he bought for John.
“Yeah,” he says, “I’ll take it off,” and he feels a little gross about it, but then the tips start rolling in—ten dollars, twenty, fifty, the counter clicking up—and he pulls the sweater off carefully, folding it to put aside, and spreads his legs to show the camera the bulge in his boxers.
(if you are enjoying this you may also enjoy my big popecarter series over on ao3)
