#popecarter

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.

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.

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.

5 viewers.

7 viewers.

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.

~~

Part 8

part 1 part 2 part 3, part 4, part 5

“—I’d touch you, if I could,” John’s saying, and there’s no keyboard icon, no typing. “Um. Andrew?”

Andrew’s chat window has been silent for a few minutes and John’s starting to get a little bit nervous, a little self-conscious, because he’s still got come all over him—now drying, gross—and he just said a whole bunch of really filthy stuff on camera to a stranger, and his dick's slowly wilting against his thigh, and now just... silence. A blank screen.

“Are you still there?” he asks, wincing at the neediness, the uncertainty in his voice. There’s still the little 1 viewer icon at the bottom of his screen.

“Was that... too much?” He asks, and looks around for his boxers, spots them where he’d tossed them earlier. He has the urge to cover himself, all of a sudden.

it was perfect. you’re perfect.

Another tip pings through the chat, and—oh, shit.

“That’s—oh my god, that’s too much,” John babbles, because Andrew’s just dropped another hundred bucks in his tips, and that basically doubles what he’s already tipped John, and that’s a third of his rent for the month, or groceries for weeks, or—

buy yourself something you want, Andrew types. spend the rest on what you need, but buy yourself something from me.

When John doesn’t say anything—because he’s a little bit overwhelmed, honestly, and there might be tears in his eyes because it’s been so long since he could think about what he wants instead of just what he needs—another five dollar tip comes through.

say yes.

John laughs a little, sniffles, pulls a pillow over his lap, because he’s way too naked for this.

Another five bucks, and jesus christ he’s got to stop this—”Okay! Okay. Yes.”

you’ll give yourself a treat?

John nods.

Another tip hits.

good.

John looks at the timer in the corner of his screen, the one that’s counting down how long his stream is scheduled for, and he’s shocked to see it’s almost over. He leans forward. “You’ll, um. If I do this again—”

i’ll be there, Andrew promises, and the screen goes dim.

#

John gets the email from the site with his stream summary in the morning—he slept like a rock, woke hard as a rock, jerked himself off in the shower thinking about Andrew telling him he’s beautiful—and laughs when he sees it.

Viewers: 1 Viewer payout: $1.87 Viewer tip total: $320.00 Total platform fees: $23.43 Total payout: $298.44

Three hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars! That’s half his rent, that’s—

(you’ll give yourself a treat?)

He will. He will get himself something. Just a little something, something he can show off next time. Something to remind him of Andrew.

First, though, he’s gotta get through a whole shift.

#

Andrew can’t stop thinking about John.

He can’t stop thinking about the way he looked when he was touching himself. He can’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked right at the camera when he’d come, his eyes wide and shocked. And he can’t stop thinking about the way he’d blushed when he’d finally agreed to spend Andrew’s money on something he wanted.

He’s distracted enough that he loses the thread of the conversation in the family meeting, distracted enough that when he finally hears Baz saying his name, he startles a little.

“Hey, buddy, if you’ve got something better to be doing,” Baz starts, in that sarcastic way of his, the one where Andrew’s pretty sure Baz thinks he doesn’t pick up on it. He does pick up on it, has for years. He just ignores it.

“Maybe,” Andrew says, and crosses his arms, leaning back against the couch.

Baz rolls his eyes and starts explaining the camera layout of the target again, which is something Andrew could draw from memory in his sleep already.

He lets his mind drift back to John, to the way he’d smiled, all toothy and surprised, the first time Andrew had called him pretty.

He is pretty.

Fuck is he pretty.

“Hey! Earth to Pope,” Craig says. “What, you had a hot date or something last night? Look, he’s smiling.”

Andrew turns his smile into what Baz calls his little shit smile, instead of whatever the fuck had been on his face, and tucks the memory of John’s sweet, floppy hair deep inside.

#

John mails off the checks for his electric bill, his rent, and, most importantly, his internet, on the walk into work. Peter gives him a suspicious look when they pass in the hall, and Mark asks him if he won the lottery or something, and then he pulls off a really spectacular save and solves a mystery that’s been plaguing a patient for months, and it’s not even cancer! So all in all, a pretty stellar day. Nothing in his body hurts, not after two spectacular orgasms, and he feels a little bit like he’s floating on air. Not even an entire soccer team of food-poisoned third graders puking all over curtain four can bring him down.

On the way home, he swings by a fancy little store he used to love, back when he had money to burn, and wanders through the displays, touching fabrics, imagining what Andrew would say to each.

He thinks about the silk boxers, the way they’d cling to his cock, how nice they would look in the camera view, but that feels—too much, somehow. Like he’s Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman (although. he basically is, actually, and he realizes that he’s not too bothered by the comparison).

He thinks about walking down the block to the sex toy shop in the alley, and recoils instantly from the thought—if he had a way to make it actually from Andrew, something he’d picked out, then maybe, but.

And then he spots the perfect thing, right near the back, and wants.

~~

part 7

part 1 part 2 part 3, part 4

John’s maybe never been so turned on in his life, which is weird, because he’s alone in his room, staring at a screen, but every time he sees Andrew’s keyboard icon flash it makes his dick twitch in his hand. He squeezes it, hard, tells it to behave, because if he shoots off in seconds after all this preparation...

“Can you see okay?” he asks, and he can hear the way his voice has gone a little low, a little hoarse.

yes

you look incredible

John moans—he doesn’t mean to, but he does. It just bursts out of him, and he shifts forward on the bed, spreading his legs even wider, and starts moving his hand slowly, deliberately, grip loose. He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen.

Another tip dings through the chat, and John laughs, just a little, high and breathy. “Thanks, man, you don’t have to,” he says, but it breaks halfway through as he brushes his thumb over the head of his dick. “Oh, jeez, sorry, I don’t think I’m going to last long, Andrew—”

i like when you say my name, Andrew types, and John groans and reaches his other hand down, tugs at his balls, tightens his fist.

“Andrew—I wish you were here, I wish you were touching me—”

me too

“Are you touching yourself?” John has to know, has to know if it’s just him.

can i

“Oh my god, yes, please, that’s—fuck—that’s the point of this, man!” John tightens his grip, slides a fingertip down, presses against his perineum.

then yes. now i am.

“Tell me, tell me what you’re doing, what you look like,” John gasps, and he can feel it building in his gut, his toes curling, his knees trembling where they’re spread wide to show himself off. “Want you—”

i’m jerking off, Andrew says after a pause, and then tips him again, three times in quick succession. John feels each like a physical touch, like a squeeze against his cock. typing slow. one hand. sorry

“Don’t apologize, Andrew,” John says, and god, he’s really gonna come any second, this is so fucking hot. “Can I—please, I need to come, want to show you—”

yes. please. i want to see

“Are you close? Andrew, are you—”

not yet but seeing you will help

Another tip, then another, then another, like Andrew’s slamming the button repeatedly, and John can’t take it anymore, can’t hold back. He tugs on his balls, hard, imagines Andrew’s hands against him instead of his own—imagines them strong, a little rough, square-nailed and freckled, maybe—

thats it

(tip)

yes

(tip)

please

(tip)

show me

(tip)

look at you you’re beautiful

(tip)

so beautiful

(tip)

And John comes with a cry, shooting all over his chest, hips jerking into his own grip, pleasure washing through him in waves.

#

Andrew’s got his pants unzipped and around his hips, barely pushed down at all, the waistband cutting into his thighs but he doesn’t care—he’s squeezing his dick, panting, eyes glued to John’s face on the screen.

His mouth is open, pink and wet, and he’s flushed all down his chest. His perfect, pretty cock, long and slender as the rest of him, appears and disappears in his fist. His neck is long and pale and Andrew wants to press his nose into the space beneath his ear, wants to smell the sweat he can see glistening there.

“Are you close? Andrew, are you—”

He can see John’s holding himself back, balancing on that knife’s edge, and he’d love to be right there with him but it takes Andrew a little longer, even when he’s more turned on than he’s ever been in his life—the medications and stress and his natural inclination toward being a tense motherfucker (according to his brothers) all conspiring to make orgasm not the easy thing it seems to be for John, for most guys. But he’s gonna get there today, he knows it, can feel it building already, pushing through the cotton wool that usually separates pleasure from him.

He isn’t sure what he’s saying in the chat, typing left-handed, tipping over and over because every time he does, John’s hand twitches tight and his breath catches, and that makes Andrew’s gut go hot in response, gets him a little closer.

please, he types when John asks if he can come, because he wants to see it so badly, wants to watch, here in this space where no one can tell him he’s looking too much, too hard.

When John comes, it’s spectacular, and Andrew groans through it, fist tight around his own cock, squeezing in time to John’s hand as he works himself through it. He’s making noise, gasping and moaning, and Andrew watches that perfect mouth, imagines it against his neck, imagines those sounds directly in his ear without the flattening of his tinny headphones.

John flops back against the bed, panting. He’s got come smeared all up his belly, and he’s still holding himself, grip loose. One of his knees is drawn up, and Andrew stares at the shadows under his still-moving hand, imagines putting his face there, right up close.

“Oh, man,” John says, and his voice is loose, a little blurry. “Fuck, that was—wow.” He pushes up on an elbow. “Was it—did you like that?”

yes, Andrew types, and he’s not sure how many times he hits the tip button, but it’s enough that John starts to laugh and the blush that had been fading returns full-force.

“Did you come?” John asks. He sits up a little more, and lets go of his cock. “I wish I could see—”

not yet, Andrew manages to type, awkward because he’s on the edge, sitting stiff on the edge of his deskchair, pulling roughly at himself and it’s not quite enough. keep talking to me. please.

“Oh! Yeah! Of course.” John shifts until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and he’s closer to the camera now, close enough that Andrew can see clearly the way there’s come and sweat glistening in his sparse chest hair, the way there’s just a hint of stubble along his jaw, the way his brown eyes are wide and dark and his shoulders are broader than they’d looked when he’d been stretched out. “I bet you look amazing right now, I wish I could touch you, Andrew—I really like having something in my mouth, I could suck you off and I promise it would be so good—”

And that’s what sends Andrew over the edge—because John’s tongue darts out and runs over his lower lip.

There’s something terrifying about the way his body loses control when he’s on the edge, and Andrew gasps, keeps his eyes fixed on John’s face to anchor him as it rises up in him—and then crashes like a wave, swamping him. He probably makes a noise, but he doesn’t care—his other hand grips the edge of the desk tight, holding on, as John’s perfect mouth tips him over.

THANK YOU THEY HAVE BEWITCHED ME ALSO, I cannot stop writing about these doofuses!! There’s a PWP for the indonesia boys coming soon too :)

part 1 part 2 part 3

He’s already made ten bucks, and he hasn’t even gotten naked.

John bends close to the screen, belatedly increases the font size, because he knows he won’t be able to see it from the bed and he’d sort of thought he’d just. Jack off and then get the payment afterwards based on how many people watched, but...

But there’s someone in the chat, and they’re sending him money already, when he’s still in his boxers and isn’t even touching himself yet, and he wants to be good for them, or something.

And it’s not the money—although he obviously needs the money, that’s why he’s doing this—but they’ve taken a chance on him, a guy who’s never done this before, and they’re tipping him and they told him he was doing a good job, and John does know that he is a sucker for praise and encouragement, so.

They’re typing, his viewer: the little keyboard icon appearing and disappearing. John waits, tries not to shift too much on his feet. Maybe he should sit? Maybe he should strip?

tell me your name, they finally say.

“Uh. John,” he says, and a beat later, wonders if he should have made up a fake one.

youre gorgeous, they say. especially when you blush like that.

John definitely blushes more, his chest hot with it. “What’s your name?” he asks. “What should I call you?”

there’s a long pause, no typing icon, and John’s heart sinks, because maybe that’s against the protocol, maybe that’s a taboo question? But then—

andrew.

“Hi there, Andrew,” John says, and something in him goes all warm as he says it. “It’s nice to meet you.”

you too, john appears on his screen, and John’s definitely grinning now, knows his face is pink and his cheeks all chipmunked out.

“I, uh,” John glances down at himself, at the way he’s almost fully hard in his boxers just from the fact of being seen, of knowing Andrew is watching. “This is. Really working for me, actually. I’ve never done this before. Thought it might be a good way to make some money, and—”

The little dollar sign icon flashes, flashes again, and a third time, and John waves his hands.

“No, no, that’s not—I’m not asking for money, I’m just babbling, and—look. Okay. I’m just gonna—” He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and shucks his boxers, tossing them toward the laundry hamper (which he made sure was out of frame).

i have plenty of money. it’s my business how i spend it is hanging on the screen when he looks back up, and there’s something about the authoritative tone of the words that makes John’s cock twitch.

John takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the bed, spreading his thighs. “Okay,” he says, and runs a palm down his chest, slow, shivering at the feel of his own skin on skin, imagining Andrew’s eyes following his movement, the attention like a physical touch. “I’m gonna just—”

He digs out the lube where he’d left it under a pillow, squirts too much in his hand. He yelps, tries not to spill it all over his clean blanket, gets it all over his leg and balls instead, cold and shocking. The bottle splorts out of his hand, and he fumbles, catching it, and manages to slam it closed before it dumps any further.

He doesn’t look at the screen, because if Andrew’s left the stream after that really suave performance, John might die of embarrassment. Instead, he carefully sets the very slippery bottle on his nightstand and takes a deep breath. He’s doing this. Yep.

#

Andrew’s not sure if he’s hallucinating this man, because he’s smiling at the camera—at Andrew—like Andrew’s just fixed everything about his life. All he did was compliment him and then give him twenty bucks, and both the compliment and the appreciation are genuine, so.

He’s got long legs, long fingers, and he nearly drops the lube all over himself because he’s obviously nervous, and Andrew can’t stop staring at this man who looks like a baby deer who’s about to touch himself on camera for the first time.

He’d wondered if it was an act, the whole brand new stream, never done this before, blushing virgin thing, but after watching him fumble and nearly fall off the bed trying not to make a mess, he’s both convinced and absolutely endeared.

And horny. Like. Really horny.

Because there’s so much in his life that’s fake, that’s tricking people and putting on masks and all that, and this beautiful, awkward guy is really just—putting it all out there. For Andrew.

(He glances down at the chat counter, suddenly worried, but yeah. He’s still the only person watching.)

(Good.)

(He tips John again, though, because if he’s the only one watching, then that’s his job, isn’t it? Especially if he wants John to do this again?)

“Sorry,” John says, and he sounds embarrassed. “Uh, are you tipping me ironically?”

what? Andrew types.

“I mean. Because I’m—nevermind. Okay. I’ll just.” He takes a deep breath, chest expanding onscreen. “Get started, then?”

please, Andrew types, and his hands are shaking a little, because he’s never talked this much with the people he watches, never wanted to. i want to see you.

“Wish I could see you, too,” John says, and curls his hand around his pretty cock.

(Andrew tips him again.)

part 1 part 2

Online, Andrew doesn’t have to be Pope.

He doesn’t go onto the internet a lot, but he’s got an old laptop he stole in a break-in that works well enough for what he needs. Because sometimes he gets home from doing things for the family, and all he wants is to disappear, to make up a different story of who he is, what he is, and he’s discovered, ever since he got out of prison, that there are a million places online where you can just... do that.

He likes the message boards where people talk about the things they’re interested in: he answers questions about car maintenance, household cleaning, and construction, as well as the occasional question about lockpicking or guns (although he tries not to answer too many of those, even when the other people answering are wrong, because even if you can pretend to be someone else on the internet, there’s always a trail back to you). Then he finds the ones about animals, and Baz and Smurf start exchanging loaded glances over dinner one night, and that’s when he knows he’s maybe too excited about everything he’s learned about sloths from expert sloth researcher and sloth forum mod threetoefrito.

He also discovers that internet porn—something that he’s never been into, really, never really got the point of—is very different than it was the last time he looked.

He likes the performers who show themselves off, he discovers, likes the live feeds where they can’t see him back. It’s the very few things he liked about strip clubs, without any of the parts he hated, the parts that made him feel awkward and like he was intruding. Because these performers are in their own spaces, and nobody can touch them, and he can tip them from his desk chair while they moan into his headphones and nobody can tell him he’s staring too hard, or at the wrong parts of them.

And then he finds—him.

He’s new to the site, and that’s how Andrew comes across him: scrolling down to the bottom of the site’s list, looking to see what streams are starting. Every performer has a star rating and a viewer count, but at the very bottom, there’s a stream about to start that’s blank in both categories.

DrWatchMe’s starting his first-ever stream in one minute, and there are zero viewers currently online, and Andrew’s suddenly gripped by a strange panic—because somebody trying something new deserves encouragement, at the very least, not silence.

So he clicks through, expanding the window, and—oh. The static picture as the stream loads is beautiful.

He’s used to dick pics, or torsos chopped off at the neck, or fisheye’d boobs, or maybe an open mouth seen from above, but this is different.

It’s still a sexy picture, obviously, but it’s a hand on a mostly-hairless chest, pale and pretty, a pink nipple just barely in view. He looks soft, but there’s a confidence in that spread hand that Andrew’s intrigued by, in the way his pinkie brushes his nipple and his thumb rests in the notch of his collarbone. There’s the slightest curve of pectoral muscle, a hint of dark hair at his armpit, and Andrew leans forward, watching as the screen switches to the live view.

It’s a bedroom, bed neatly made and framed in the view, and the man—the same one from the picture, Andrew can tell, he recognizes those hands as they pull back from the camera—is stepping back from the camera lens. He’s wearing boxer briefs and nothing else, and the camera is far enough back that his whole lanky frame fits in the screen, from the slightly messy tufts of dark hair on his head to the way his toes are curling awkwardly against the hardwood floor.

“Oh!” he says, and Andrew likes his voice already. “There’s somebody here already!”

Andrew clicks the tip button immediately. He’s not a big talker in the chat—he usually minimizes it, actually, doesn’t like seeing all the other people making weird comments—but this time, he opens it.

“What’s that—wait.” The guy’s eyes go wide, and even on the slightly pixelated screen, Andrew can see the pink that rises in his cheeks. “Did you just—” His lips part, then he grins, and it’s young-looking and sweet and shy, and Andrew’s maybe in trouble.

youre doing great, he types in the chat.

“You don’t need to tip me yet,” the guy says, and he’s blushing more now, and he rubs his palms over his thighs, pulling the boxers taut over what’s definitely at least half an erection. “I haven’t even done anything yet!”

Andrew tips him again. He’s got plenty of money and he’s not using it for anything, anyway, so why not make him blush even harder?

“Okay, okay,” says the guy, and Andrew can feel himself smiling back at him, even though he knows he’s hidden behind his screen. “I’ll, uh. What do you want?”