Chapter Text
Pretty boys, Sylvain realizes, like pretty girls and pretty people in general, usually have pretty hands. Not this one.
He’s watching the dozens of blurry, tiny white scars curling like lace around whiter, deft fingers as the man on camera methodically cuts open the parcel on his coffee table and unwraps the silk paper around his newest acquisition with practiced precision. For a single moment, Sylvain feels as though they’re together in his room, face-to-face after a long day of work, the slow evening light fading away over their profiles and lighting their skin with a pale amber hue, breathing effortlessly in tune with each other’s.
For a single moment, Sylvain feels as though they’re alone, and not as though there’s a hundred more men like him staring at the exact same scene and imagining the exact same thing on the chatroom of a seedy porn site.
It’s easy to envision; it’s still fairly early, and there doesn’t seem to be as much traffic since the live cam is still titled as a simple unboxing my new toys , lowercase and all, no tags or token goals whatsoever - still, Sylvain is still here, has been here since the desktop notification came in, of Hugo going live at the same time as any other Tuesday night. Sylvain knows it’s not his real name - every regular knows that, every non-regular with reasonable common sense guesses that, and the few, foolhardy assholes who try and speculate over his real-life name get banned immediately. His schedule is neat, businesslike: three times a week, from 9:30 to 1 a.m., Hugo belongs to them, and Sylvain hates that the man himself phrases it that way, as though he’s a trophy, a work of art hung on a pristine, digital wall, his sole reason for existing the scrutiny and appreciation of people probably too undeserving of real-life sex and relationships.
(That’s what Sylvain tells himself, because that’s probably what he is, too, both the work of art and the undeserving. He doesn’t dwell on it often.)
For a man with such a tight timetable and business sense, Hugo surprisingly makes himself sparse on social media; he never uses his premium Snapchat, and his Twitter account updates sporadically, with an Amazon wishlist for new accessories pinned at the top. He does publish some pictures, though - one is still etched into Sylvain’s mind, half a face in black and white and grey, the edge of teeth and a tiny smile against the side of someone’s cock, weighing heavy against thin lips. He’s not my boyfriend, Hugo had said during his livecam, with a roll of eyes Sylvain would like to now call familiar, but that did nothing to quell the surprising slow burn of jealousy in Sylvain’s lungs, and he had distracted himself with thoughts of himself against these lips and tongue and teeth and had come the hardest he’d had in months.
He resumes his analysis of Hugo’s hands and wonders what could have brought about the scarring - did he have an accident when he was younger, and now has the permanent reminder etched like embroidery into his skin? Does he get into too many fights? Does he have difficulty handling knives as he cooks his own meals, or are somebody’s prettier hands in charge of that?
Do someone’s goodnight kisses cover them each night?
He certainly isn’t the only one thinking of these scarred hands. He’s thought it before, about how he would do his best to learn the way the scars would feel around his neck, his wrists, his ankles, about the way they would twist deliciously around his dick, about the way he would trail his lips and tongue and spit all over them in absolute reverence and complete surrender. He sometimes wonders, though, if he’s the only one who imagines the fingers grazing his cheeks and caressing his hair and fitting in the spaces between his own.
It had been lust at first sight, now that he recalls, scrolling around aimlessly on a random livecam website in the hopes of quelling the thirst he still stubbornly insisted was a phase, at the time, another unregistered user watching with rapturous attention as a man with bundled-up dark hair fraying at the seams of his face let a vibrator pulse inside him to the encouraging sounds of digital money raining down the chatroom. He still remembers how Hugo, still nameless to him then, had managed to make himself come untouched, broken moans spilling from thin, bitten lips as come shot across his chest, his scarred fingers tracing featherlight touches on his softening cock as Sylvain milked himself for everything he was worth. He had come back, after that, time and time again, had watched Hugo fuck himself open over his own fingers, or suck on a plug he planned to try later, or stroke his dick tip to base to tip again - those pretty, dark amber eyes of his fluttering shut while Sylvain’s remained trained on the expanse of his flushed-up throat.
A few months in, Sylvain had registered an account, for no other purpose than to set up an alert each time Hugo came online. For all the time he had spent on gay porn once he had finally moved in the secrecy of his own flat, Sylvain had never watched anyone else on the website - only him, all dark hair and dark lashes and dark eyes, pretty in unicolor. For each subsequent show, he had become one of the first registered users to log into the chatroom, and one of the last ones to leave, watching Hugo’s unravelling from beginning to end. Sometimes, Hugo held simple, two-hour sessions, just like the one he watches today - the man opening parcels of new toys or care packages or lingerie that his richest viewers bought him from his wishlist, trying them on and out if they were lucky enough.
Sylvain is probably richer than most of Hugo’s viewers combined, yet he has never bought the man anything. He has never paid for a private show, either, although Hugo rarely does these - only, Sylvain has learned along the months, when he’s particularly tight on money for one reason or another; and then again, Hugo is never the one to initiate them, merely waiting instead for a viewer to offer, and either begrudgingly accept the gig or outright ban the offender.
Sylvain pays as little attention as Hugo, it seems, to the racy words and vulgar compliments appearing across the chat bar, instead focusing on the small box the man in the camera has just finally unpacked from his parcel. The rest of Hugo’s skin is blessedly unmarred and pristine, Sylvain observes as his gaze slides up his hands to his naked arms and chest. The man still has a pair of skinny jeans on, the band of midnight blue underwear peeking out in a subtle match of his hair. The ridges of his body Sylvain knows almost by heart, now, along with the exact way his collarbones dip below his neck when he tilts his head back, his toned muscles stretch and flex under the skin of his torso when he moves, his abs tighten and relax when he climaxes.
Sylvain, too, is half-naked, and for a tiny moment he relishes in finding yet another insignificant commonality between the two of them.
“Okay”, comes Hugo’s voice, rough and baritone, covering the sound of rain outside Sylvain’s window. “What the fuck guys.”
Hugo is turning the toy between his fingers, disgust and something like grudging interest overshadowing the indifferent expression he has worn until then. It’slarge , with bulges and ridges along the black shaft dazzled in gold sprinkles, curving up nicely from what looks to be a suction cup base - that somehow has small spikes on it, Sylvain realizes. Hugo owns many toys, most of which Sylvain remembers like the lines on the palm of his hand, but he’s never owned something quite like this. Firstly, it’s almost pretty, as far as dildos go, sparkles shining in the light, the lack of realism in the shape making it more appealing than most other non-vibrating toys. Secondly, it has a clear tube coming out of the base, still tightly bound around itself with a twist tie, and the implication already has Sylvain’s cock harden in interest in the confines of his pants.
“Whoever thought it was funny to buy me a Bad Dragon dildo,” Hugo says, even though a few of his regulars are still missing in chat because the show hasn’t exactly begun yet, “I’m going to fucking kill you.” There’s annoyance and a cold, tranquil anger in his voice, more than what Sylvain is already used to - it’s one of the things that made him come back: the brutality of his honesty and the spirit in his words and the sharpness of his tongue, as though there’s an actual, real human being behind the screen, with feelings and expressions and a story. It makes the whole thing more human, lightens the shame in Sylvain’s stomach and heightens the heat in Sylvain’s gut. He’s never been one for sweet-speaking mindless dolls.
“What,” Hugo asks, grabbing a small bottle of liquid hidden away in the parcel and tossing it a few times in the air, “you thought I’d try that for you, no questions asked? You filthy fucks.” His voice sharpens to a dangerous, teasing edge, and Sylvain wonders how it would sound as it sang like a blade against his carotid. He seems completely disinterested as he lets the toy stand on the desk and starts unpacking other parcels as people type-scream in the chatroom - do it, wanna see you ride that, how much tokens - and, like he has done three nights a week for the best part of the year, Sylvain, too, types something in the bar, although it’s not as crude, and doesn’t press send, doesn’t dare press send, and erases the whole thing like the spineless coward he is.
He never paid Hugo anything, never even left a single token for his work - for good reason, too; he still doesn’t know how his father would have reacted to combing through his golden, miracle son’s accounts and noticing money spent on buying fake currency on a gay livecam pornsite. Still, nothing had ever prevented him from speaking to the man, even through something as impersonal as Arial 11-sized words in a chat box. This is a place where he’s not confined by any expectations of behavior or gender or age, where he can be mostly himself, where he can be nearly free. Yet he never spoke, and if Hugo had ever noticed him typing then erasing all the honeyed words and piquant compliments he intended to let out into the tiny world of the chatroom, he never mentioned it. He still logs in at the very beginning and logs out at the very end, at least, because that’s as much support for what Hugo is doing to him that Sylvain can muster to show.
Hugo has pulled out some pretty lingerie from another package, a red, lace-and-cotton teddy that looked thin and comfortable, the crimson of the cotton straps a welcome contrast to the pallor of his skin in the grey stormy light. It comes to him, for the first time, that they must live relatively close to one another, diverting his eyes from the screen for a moment to stare at the raindrops rolling down the glass windows of his soon-not-to-be flat. Then, Hugo pulls out another item of clothing, and the wild smirk that crosses his face sends shivers down Sylvain’s spine. This is not a bodysuit as much as it is a triangle of dark gossamer, linked to a silky collar by a long expanse of black ribbon tessellated with fake gems. Hugo will look so good in it, Sylvain thinks; he also thinks he would like to be the only person to ever see him wear such a thing, but the fancy is distant and better stashed away for later use.
Instead, Sylvain recalls another picture, one of Hugo kneeling up on his mattress, his reflection in a full-length mirror wearing nothing but a thin lace teddy and low-cut dark denim shorts fraying at the end, a single tattoo of a dagger held up by a jeweled ornamental garter curving around a muscular thigh.went out like this today, he had captioned, and the mere realization that he might have been able to cross Hugo’s path and not notice settles hot-and-cold inside his chest like a sip of mint tea.
Sylvain wonders if he would have recognized him, for his frame and height and eyes, if not for what he likes to think of as Hugo’s trademark hairstyle. For how he likes to play around gender norms, Hugo has never, ever let down his hair, preferring to keep his long locks entwined in a bun at the top of his head or fastened into a high ponytail. It’s one of the numerous things Sylvain fantasizes about - how his fingers would feel brushing and creasing the silk out of it, what sort of noises would tumble out of Hugo’s lips as he pulled and ensnared it around his fist, which kind of scents Sylvain would breathe into his lungs and out his mouth as he buried his face in the spot behind his ear to fuck deeper into him.
The chatroom starts to fill up all the more, like the smoking room of a speakeasy after one too many drinks, the people in his virtual space urging Hugo to try the clothes on, to remove his jeans, to play with himself. Hugo raises a single, thin eyebrow at some of the more crudely-phrased comments and propositions, but doesn’t reply, a long finger lazily pulling loose the elastic band of his boxers - that is, until both he and Sylvain seem to spot a comment at the exact same time, because Sylvain is certain his own expression is mirrored on Hugo’s face at the moment:
well if it isnt my favorite emo boy. gonna try that new toy for us?
“You guys really are hung up on that thing, huh.” Hugo’s voice is not surprised, but the mere fact that he has not outright banned the viewer for calling him that is testament to his actual interest in the toy, Sylvain has learned to decipher. There’s nothing Hugo hates more than being called pet names, and his regulars are well-aware that contravening the implicit rule has harsh consequences. He’s scrolling on his computer, Sylvain can guess, and some seconds after the video comes alive with the sound of music - and yeah, these are the exact songs Sylvain used to listen to in high school, pop-punk and emo rock and all. His gaze slides like silk on skin to the dildo still standing on his desk, and there’s the ghost of a smirk on his face that melts Sylvain’s insides like candle wax.
“Why don’t you guys pay for it?”
Hugo’s voice snakes its way into Sylvain’s headphones and down his cock.
Already, the background music is drowned in pings and bells of tokens being spent on a non-existing goal, and Sylvain’s eyes, still transfixed on Hugo’s face, spot the skirt of a smileless snort kept hushed up and buried under the scarred hand he brings to his face. “You truly areinsatiable,” Hugo says, looking directly ahead, at him , and the stretch of the s slithers along Sylvain’s shoulders, as though Hugo whispers it right in the crook of his neck. Sylvain wants nothing more than to hear the word addressed to him and only him for the rest of his life.
“Fine,” he finally concedes, a few dozen messages later, “but that’s going to be a chore. Have you seen the size of this thing? Plus,” he takes the small vial in hand, “I’m not even mentioning that . Do you guys wanna see me covered in disgusting, fake cum so bad?” The noise that leaves his mouth is tinted with revulsion, but Sylvain knows better, as does probably every single person following the stream, and he listens to the touch of excitement sang in a concealed canon. “If you think I won’t squeeze you out of everything you have for this humiliation, you truly haven’t been paying attention.”
Yesses and Howmuches and mispelled Youresohots shoot up and down the chat box, and Sylvain wonders if Hugo revels in having that much dominion in real life - if he makes his partners beg for his favors and pay for their insolence. Sylvain wonders if he likes losing control. Sylvain wonders if he’ll let him be the one to make him lose it. Hugo’s fingers have slid ever-so-slightly lower under the waistband of his jeans now, pulling their way down, and Sylvain makes out the tiniest bit of ink from the twin tattoos he knows lie around his pelvis.
“Let’s set a goal,” Hugo continues, pretending really hard to seem uninterested now, “but I’m sure none of you are going to be able to reach it anyway.” To his credit, he does seem to ponder for a moment, probably considering which objective would seem both incredibly close and unattainable at the same time.
“Okay, I’ve got it,” he says, definite, like a death sentence. “10.000 tokens for the dildo only. 20.000 for the full experience, fake cum and all. Single bids only .”
Hugo’s fingers seem to slide over the keyboard as he changes the title of his livecam, blocking and banning the people who complain that it’s unfair and way too expensive and actual theft on the way, expression cool and bored. That’s a lot, Sylvain knows. He knows, because he had wanted to buy tokens once, in the heat of the moment, before his mind had caught up on all the ramifications like invisible fissures on an ancient Grecian urn and he’d tidily put back his credit card inside his wallet. 20.000 tokens are 1.000$, probably Hugo’s rent or close, and even 500$ is too much for most if not all people on his livestream. The highest bidder, his username shining at the top of the chat box, has only ever tipped Hugo 582 tokens, and probably not in one single tip.
Luckily, Sylvain is not most people.
He surprises himself with how calmly his hand reaches inside the bag resting at the foot of his chair. He finds his wallet without too much difficulty, slides out his credit card with even less, clicks the small blue link under Hugo’s camera. The rain strikes a peaceful rhythm against the window as he shifts the pop-up window out of Hugo’s oh-so-appealing face, eyes never leaving the shape of the seemingly very smug, very satisfied man in the camera.
What better way to commemorate his barely-dead shithead of a father and his newfound freedom, he wonders, than spending 0.01% of his inheritance money on his very own pretty sex worker?
Sylvain closes the pop-up window and clicks on the small token icon below Hugo’s camera, and the look on Hugo’s face is worth every cent spent on his body.
A sound like a waterfall of coins resounds, and there’s something like vulnerability flickering on his expression like the flame of a candle, as though he cannot quite believe he’s actually worth the money, worth the attention, worth the worship. His eyes, two almost-extinguished embers, seem to look through the screen and right into his own, in question and thankfulness and defiance. When Sylvain’s username replaces the one at the top of the board, Hugo almost looks offended.
“So it’s the first time you even interact in my livestream and it’s for this? I know you’re a long-time lurker, but it’s still fucking weird,” Hugo looks at his username, and his face twists in distaste, “ugh, Maneater420.”
Sylvain cannot even feel irritated at the insult, because he’s too busy processing that Hugo somehow knows him.
He recognizes him, as far as recognition can go regarding someone who has always registered and watched but never spoken nor bought.
The thought makes his fingers act on their own on his computer keyboard.
sorry, i couldnt talk much before. its my way to thank u for ur work!
Hugo’s eyes fly wide open, and it’s the cutest, most human expression Sylvain has ever seen on him. “Why are you even apologizing?” It’s more of a whispered exclamation of disbelief, but Sylvain’s trained eyes detect the hint of a flush climbing up his chest before it rises in a deep intake of breath, Hugo’s hand reaching up his temples and forehead as he exhales some seconds later. “You weren’t the one to buy it for me, were you?”
There’s an underlying helplessness to the threat, and Sylvain is quick to answer: no, dont worry! and dont push urself if its too much for u! Hugo doesn’t answer right away, and his silences are not odd, but this one is somehow out-of-place, unusual, as though he doesn’t know what to say. So Sylvain talks again, like the idiot he is, a compensation for all these months waving soundlessly from behind the virtual window. ive been following you for a year today, so if you dont wanna do it, just take it as a late payment + interests ;)
And Hugo laughs.
It’s not a laugh as much as it is a cackle, quick and graceless and mirthful, and it’s gone as soon as Sylvain hears it. For a moment, it feels almost daydreamt, fancied by his frenzied, lust-addled, infatuated mind.
“God, now I truly have to do it, don’t I.” Hugo looks only mildly conflicted and very much calculating as his gaze falls half-lidded in direction of the toy, and God if it doesn’t send goosebumps crawling down Sylvain’s arms as he lazily slides down the zipper of his pants. “Well, I guess you do deserve a reward. For a year well spent.” He makes a show of grazing his index finger against his lower lip in mock-reflection. “What do you think, everyone?”
Sylvain is absolutely living for the jealousy and respect he can see permeating the incoming messages across the chatroom, and he feels like spending these 1.000$ has been the best decision he has ever taken in his life. Not that it’s hard, for Sylvain has neither been nor pretended to be an expert in healthy decision-making, but he is the type of person to be grateful for small victories and graces.
“Good. Give me a name,” Hugo orders, and through the onslaught of random names popping up on-screen Sylvain knows it’s directed at no one else but him, and it sets his lungs and gut and heart on fire.
Sylvain, he types.
Hugo snorts. “Oh my god, you gave me your real name, didn’t you?” His slim fingers thumb and tease at the zipper of his jeans like they would piano keys. “You’re so stupid.”
It’s because you drive me crazy, he thinks and fills out in the chat bar, and erases immediately. He’s still a coward, after all this. He wills the shame off him as he does his own pants.
“I’ll have to get ready, though. This,” he grabs the toy in his hands, and it squishes under the pressure, “is big . And I need to wash it, since it’s fresh out of the package. So you guys be dears and stay fucking put while I take care of this.”
He comes back a few minutes later, toy in hand, plastic tube unbound, jeans off. The two tattooed revolvers peek out deliciously from under his boxers, and Sylvain wants to lick the shape of the engravings until his mouth remembers each of the lines. He sits on the edge of his bed, a little more in the back, and the smooth grey blanket crinkles as he makes himself comfortable, small fairy lights blinking in the faded evening chiaroscuro, a small piece of paper in hand.
“Sorry, I have to actually read the instructions,” he answers Sylvain’s unuttered question with a roll of eyes, as though reading his mind, “since it’s the first time I’m actually going to try using - oh my god, they do call it a fucking cumtube. Disgusting.” Hugo uncaps the small bottle in his hands, and dips a knuckle in. The cum-like lube stretches out as he pulls his hand back, sticky and stringy, and it looks nasty and lewd and incredibly arousing as it webs milky white around his fingers. He slowly, slowly, puts a digit to his mouth, and sucks.
Sylvain hardens instantly.
Hugo’s eyes, almost blazing in the low light, flick to the camera, looking straight at them, at him, as he tastes the substance, his tongue drifting and dipping down to lick it all off, to take the finger in to the second knuckle, before pulling out with a quick, wet sound.
“Doesn’t taste like anything,” Hugo says, and Sylvain wonders if he’s disappointed. He walks back to the desk, drops the open bottle, before reaching for a syringe hidden inside the toy box. He looks uncertain, somehow, as he looks back at the camera, that analytical spark in his gaze flickering in and out like the half-dead fairy lights above his mattress. “I should probably move the camera if I want to fuck this properly. Sorry, it’ll shake around a little.”
Hugo replaces the camera closer to the ground in a smooth, high-angle shot, testing different angles and different tripod heights as he goes along, his face zooming farther and closer and farther again, I knew it was a good idea to go wireless, and Sylvain almost feels like he’s in the company of a close friend, of an almost lover. His hands work the tripod and the lens zoom, swift and experienced, and Sylvain wonders whether his day job also involves camerawork. It feels nice, he ponders, seeing Hugo less methodical, less assured, less guarded. His misplaced pride wants to insist it’s because of him, although he’s pretty certain he’s wrong. Another fantasy to keep locked in, the key thrown out and flushed down a gutter in the night rain.
Hugo tilts the camera one last time in direction of the bed, and sits back on the mattress, slow and almost coy. “Let’s start slow, as usual, yeah? You know the prices.” He toys with the band of his boxers as the requests and token tips trickle in the chat box, his fingers barely dipping under, skimming over the jut of his hipbones. He grazes invisible fingerprints lower, over the tattooed dagger at his thigh and the ornamental lace, his amber eyes the only color in sight. The hand trails up and up and up, barely skimming over the front of his underwear, but his eyes still flutter shut in the prettiest swipe of lashes. Sylvain mimics the movements on himself, as though trying to commit to memory what exactly makes Hugo bite his lip and shiver and tilt his head back, as though he would one day have to do all of this himself. Hugo hums, a low, purring sound. “You guys make… interesting points.” His finger traces the invisible length of his cock under the cotton, and he lets out the barest of hisses. “Why don’t we ask our benefactor of the night for his input?”
There it is again, this smirk ghosting across his sharp features, and Sylvain wants to say a dozen and more things - touch yourself, put these fingers in you, come right here and sit on my cock until you won’t want to even walk anymore.
He settles for a very simple undress, please.
“So polite.” Hugo’s smirk turns positively feral as he obliges and slides his boxers down the long, long line of his legs. He’s half-hard from just his simple teasing, and Sylvain still wonders, a year later, if he’s ticklish, if he could one day know all the secrets Hugo’s body hides so well just with hours and hours of careful observation. Sylvain grabs himself through his half-opened pants and his underwear, runs a tentative thumb along the bulge there, not yet daring to fully take himself in hand. His other hand is shaky as he types in a joke, his brain is short-circuiting as he presses enter.
what can i say, i kiss my mother with that mouth ;)
Hugo puffs out a short laugh, eyebrows rising in disbelief. “I wonder,” he says, fingers teasing along his dick, base to tip, “what else it is you kiss, Sylvain.”
Sylvain only has so much self-control, and so he pulls himself out and strokes once, hard and earnest. His knuckles slide exquisitely against the barbells pierced along the underside, up and down that ladder to ecstasy, that tiny act of concealed, confidential rebellion he enacted when he turned twenty. There’s precum beading at the tip of his cock already - and it must be the absolute delirium in which he’s been stuck for ten minutes now, but he’s truly certain that no one ever has or ever will do what Hugo is doing to him. The breath he exhales is hot and wet in the air. For you? Anything.
Hugo’s eyes shoot close again as he wraps these long, scarred fingers of his around the ridge of his tip and pulls down once, slow and deliberate. His strokes are carefully paced, working himself harder as comments flash onscreen and money is dropped in his virtual wallet. He answers some of them, gives thanks for the more important donations, and trails his hand up and up and up again until they reach the edge of his mouth. His short nails tease the pulp of his lower lip, before they sink into the warmth along his tongue, and Sylvain can see it work circles into the scars as he sucks on his own fingers. Sylvain can almost picture his own hand in place, the tip of Hugo’s tongue tracing the shape of his fingerprints, burning eyes clouded with lust looking straight at him as though to devour everything Sylvain’s ever been sure turned him on before they met. Slick spit dribbles along Hugo’s fingers and collapses down his collarbone, and he traces it down along his chest and stomach and right between the two tattoos on his pelvis. The other hand relaxes and releases, his cock now to its full hardness, flushed pink and curving towards him.
Some nights Hugo spends entirely edging himself to a big finish, all fleeting touches and subtle strokes and tightening fists. As Hugo simply reaches inside a nightstand drawer Sylvain knows lies to the side, he ascertains it is not one of these nights.
“I just can’t get over how big it actually is,” Hugo says as he uncaps the new bottle of clear lube. “I’ll need to prepare myself a lot. I hope you’re happy.”
The comment is rough with annoyance, and Sylvain is almost tempted to apologize all over again, but he has also not been this close to actual happiness for years, and so he chooses to answer in earnest: very much so. thanks again for doing this
“God, you’re probably the most sentimental viewer I’ve ever had.” Hugo warms up a bit of lube between his fingers, before taking himself in hand again, and his mouth unintentionally falls half-opened. “Is is fun, watching me torture myself? Anything that’ll make you happier?”
There’s an earnestness behind the bite in his question, Sylvain deciphers, and he decides to echo the rest of the comments flooding the chatroom to the side of the camera.
you could put these fingers to good use.
“I-is that so,” Hugo sighs, as he takes more lube and trails the coldness along his inner thighs. He’s sitting almost at the very edge of the bed now, propped up on one elbow, his hard cock left neglected as it contracts along his stomach. It’s somewhat long, but surprisingly thick, thicker than what Sylvain would have expected from someone with his build, and the contrast makes it even hotter. A digit circles right below his balls before sliding up and down his hole, teasing the muscle there, and Sylvain strokes himself harder as Hugo sinks a knuckle inside.
The loose strands of hair framing his face flow back as his head tilts up, white throat exposed as his finger pulls in and out, loose and wet. It’s not enough, Sylvain knows, and his assumption proves to be correct when Hugo slides a second finger along the other and scissors inside.
“I kind of prepared myself earlier,” he admits, the messy bun at the top of his head falling back a little under its own weight. “As if I’d wait for you guys to tell me how to fuck myself.” It’s exactly what he’s been doing from the beginning of his show with Sylvain himself, but Sylvain would never tell him that in a million years, not when he’s fingering himself tantalizing and lazy, barely grazing against the spot inside him that Sylvain has seen make his eyes close and his back arch and his voice sing. He pulls out almost completely, before pushing in again in one smooth move of his wrist, and along his tongue glides a hushed moan. Sylvain’s grip is slack as he rubs his cock, the warm palm of his hand collecting the precum at the top and waxing down his length, his thumb drawing circles on the tip as it comes back up.
He watches, bewitched, entranced, as Hugo opens himself up around his hand, precum pooling in the crook of his hips and down the revolver tattoos, fingers sinking almost to their base inside his ass, curling into the flesh, dragging out slowly with filthy wet sounds matching the rain outside. Hugo’s breathing is labored, and when he opens his eyes, the amber has become a sole halo of gold around blown-out pupils. Sweat that Sylvain wants to taste against his tongue trickles along his lips as he says “Do you guys think I can put in a third?”
Among the silent chorus of black-on-white yes filling up the chat box, Sylvain answers dont push yourself.
“Is that a challenge?” Hugo scoffs, paying attention to him and him only, and the spark of fervor in his stare makes Sylvain moan out loud in the quiet of his bedroom.
His fingers withdraw only to gather some more lube and slide back in tandem, easy, before Hugo curls a third finger next to them and spears right through himself, again and again and again. His back arches in a curve worthy of a Renaissance painting, and the breathy moan that tumbles out of his mouth echoes right against Sylvain’s bones. Sylvain completely lets go of his cock, too afraid to come right there and then - there’s no way he’s not watching Hugo getting off and building up and falling apart to his words to the very end.
you dont know how beautiful you look right now, he types and sends instead, and he recognizes the exact moment when Hugo reads his words, because his fingers go fast and deep and he mewls.
Hugo seems almost surprised at himself, his eyes opening wide again and his pace slowing while every other person in the chatroom praises him in turn, empty words they barely mean, Sylvain’s feverish mind insists, not as he means them. He slowly pulls the fingers out of himself, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, and returns to lazily stroking his cock back to its full hardness - and if Sylvain hadn’t seen him do the same thing so much these past months, he probably wouldn’t have noticed how rattled he looks.
“I’m ready,” is everything he says, before he stands again and settles to stick the toy to the wooden floor in front of the bed by its suction cup. His deft fingers tremble ever-so-slightly as they grab the bottle of fake cum and the syringe, and his expression is serious and diligent as he fills it up before inserting it at the end of the plastic tube. His mouth pulls down in a small frown, almost a pout, as though he’s busy considering the logistics of what he’s about to do, and Sylvain tells him again: you dont have to do it if you dont want to.
Hugo rolls his eyes, but his smile is tiny and so very soft, softer than Sylvain has ever seen. “If it’s for you, it might be okay,” he says, and Sylvain thinks that his wildest dreams have come true. “Well, that depends on what you look like, so for now I’m reserving my judgement.”
Sylvain actually laughs, true and breathy, as he watches Hugo squeeze lube onto his fingers and stroke the surprisingly flexible black-and-gold toy, slowly oiling up the ridges and bulges with heavy caresses of his hands. People are hurling crass descriptions at him, of their height and age and skin color and dicks. Sylvain simply says im just a tall redhead with brown eyes.
(It’s not true, not in the way he wants - he’s not just a tall redhead with brown eyes. He’s a former model and heir to a big company that he’ll resign from in the morning and closeted gay young man of 25. He’s hot enough for people to throw themselves at him but not hot enough for them to do it in the way it really matters. He likes to think of himself as kind and understanding and diplomatic, but he truly is selfish and cowardly and unworthy of everything Hugo gives him right now.)
Hugo raises an eyebrow as he positions himself above the dildo curving below him, slowly fingering himself again. “Funny,” he says, looking right through the camera lens and into Sylvain’s eyes, “that’s just my type.”
He gently pushes himself down on the toy, tip filling him as he rests his back against the mattress behind him, and Sylvain pushes his hand down on his shaft.
“Fuck,” Hugo whispers, a little broken, a little high-pitched, “that’s so big.” The muscles in his thighs and legs shift underneath his skin as he rises up, the dildo almost sliding out entirely of his hole, before sinking onto it again in one smooth, hungry motion. Sylvain bites his lip so hard he almost draws blood. Hugo is a third down the length, the ridges opening him apart as he moans and sighs, voice rough and smokey. He opens his eyes again, and he looks positively savage, sharp canines biting and pulling along his lip, as he removes his right hand from its secure spot on the floor and trails it up the silicone of the toy, his middle and ring fingers spreading the space between his ass cheeks in order to help him reach deeper inside.
He comes back up again, slow, before slamming himself down again harder, once, twice, thrice, and the fourth time his hand reaches for his cock, his thumb playing with the precum at the tip as he reaches halfway down the thick toy.
His head falls back, prettily, and Sylvain finds it so easy, to dream himself pulling Hugo apart instead of the dildo, to sink his own cock deep inside his hole, tight and wet and warm. He can almost feel it, his tongue tracing shivers over his long, pale neck, marking there with a bite of lips and a brush of teeth, unvoiced proof of the word mine. He watches the way Hugo touches himself, hard and slow, pleasure a liquidless chaser of the burn inside him, and when the toy pushes particularly deep Sylvain can witness the full-body shiver Hugo’s rewarded with as though he was skin to skin with him.
“Y-yes, there,” Hugo whines, tenor and melodious, and Sylvain strokes his own cock in time with Hugo’s thrusts, as though fucking him himself, “fuck, so good, Sylva-aaaaain.”
Sylvain almost comes right there and then.
He completely lets go of his erection, stuck in limbo between astonishment and incredulity and wonder.
Hugo, the man that has haunted his nights for months on end, has just moaned his name as he fucked himself.
Once again, Hugo seems to not quite believe what has come out of his own mouth, because his chest flushes red from exhaustion and a little embarrassment, but he starts again, reaching deeper and deeper onto the toy as he jerks himself off, precum dripping along the length and onto the silicone. Sylvain is hypnotized as he brings his hand back to his dick, the man’s voice, rough from exhaustion, like honey to his ears, and he imagines his hands encompassing Hugo’s thin hips to drive him farther and faster and harder onto his cock.
“H-how do you feel? Is it- am I- is it goo-oooood?”
Sylvain’s fingers are frantic on his keyboard as he types, a series ofgod yes, youre amazing, so beautiful, just perfect, and Hugo exhales a breathless laugh as he moans again. His hair tie comes loose and whole locks of hair fall like dark water along his face and across his shoulders, but Hugo seems to not even care, eyes shut close as he’s fucking himself in earnest and moaning words sounding very close to god and fuck and Sylvain. Hugo is very rarely this vocal, and the sound makes Sylvain squeeze the base of his cock to hold back from coming right away, tight like Hugo’s hole around the toy.
Hugo seems to force his voice to be steady, but it’s a struggle, because Sylvain can still hear it wavering a little bit when he addresses the viewers, when he addresses him, you want to come, don’t you?, and Sylvains thinks and types and moans yes, yes, yes.
“Do it then,” Hugo says as the hand not busy with his cock reaches behind him, “fuck-- please, come, come inside me, I want it, I want you, Sylvain--”
Sylvain comes harder than he’s ever came, streaks of semen coating his hand as he strokes hard and swears and groans, and when the stars fade from his eyes he sees Hugo arch back as he keens, real cum mixing with the fake one pulsing from the toy deep inside of him and onto the floor.
The rest of the livestream is hazy to him; he vaguely remembers Hugo cleaning himself and the floor, complaining all the damn time, getting out a series of reluctant thanks and answering a few random questions some other viewers have for him. Sylvain doesn’t type anything else, doesn’t dare saying anything else, from the confines of his own delusional mind - that Hugo had gotten off to him, to whatever image he had conjured of Sylvain inside his head, even though he doesn’t even address whatever just transpired. The other viewers log off, one after the other, the number of people dropping out to the teens, then to the single digits.
Sylvain still stays.
7, 5, 3 - 2.
Hugo looks into the camera again, right through him.
“And once again you’re still gonna stay until the very end, even after all that, huh.”
Sylvain has no time to answer before the stream goes offline.
===
The capital is tall and ancient, a city-sized museum, and Sylvain likes it very much.
He has lived not that far from there, all things considering, for his whole life, but there’s a different atmosphere to the exact place that he cannot quite identify. It feels very much like home, except more busy and polluted and liberating. He had spent the majority of his first day after the move wandering the paved streets and high arches of his neighborhood, climbing up the stone stairs leading straight to monuments he had only seen in history books, talking and introducing himself to the shop owners around his new flat. Some people recognize him, of course they do, but it’s a far lower number of them than where he usually lives or travels, and that makes it a blessing in and of itself.
He feels like this is a place where he doesn’t have to be a Gautier before being Sylvain.
Ingrid and Dorothea had helped him move whatever the moving van could not hold, Claude driving and playing lighthearted pop songs while the girls sang along. He hadn’t brought Hilda with him, for pretty obvious reasons, but the girl still called them on video as she was doing her nails to offer a simulacrum of support.
Now, only one thing remains for him to do before he lives the first day of the rest of his new life.
He steps into the tall, glass building in front of him, prettily clashing with the rest of the historical neighborhood around it, with its reflective windows and steel beams. It’s a big magazine, he knows, one that deals with economy and finance and all the stuff rich people like him are supposed to care about. He doesn’t care. It’s never been the world he belonged in, no matter how much his father tried to force it.
He cares even less about the receptionist at the desk, who obviously recognizes him long before he actually tells her his name, long eyelashes batting like Hugo’s flickering fairy lights. He looks around in disinterest, watching the journalists and attachés and interns buzzing around the hive they earn their living in, thinking that he can spot long, dark hair for a single glimpse, an ephemeral vision like a ghost sighting in a haunted house. He shakes himself awake, or at least, awaker than he already is. She directs him to the 12th floor, to a waiting room near an open-space newsroom, where every single gaze turns to him when he walks through to pour himself a coffee at the stand against a wall and sit down on a plush chair. It’s not unusual for him, to be so scrutinized, but even years later he cannot stand it. His mind drifts back to Hugo again - he doesn’t know how the man does it, reveling in the observance of a hundred or so strangers, every single stare focused on him while he cannot even stare back properly.
He sips on his coffee as he watches the clock strike three minutes past the designated meeting time, and the flurry of a high-pitched voice steps towards him, framed by a small figure and big round eyes and purple hair.
“Mr. Gautier! So sorry for being late, I’m Bernadetta von Varley--”
Sylvain chuckles the apology off, shaking the woman’s hand. “It’s nothing to worry about, and please, call me Sylvain.”
There’s a shift in the air behind her, like the stiffness of a winter breeze, and when Sylvain raises his gaze--
Five steps. The whole world, his whole world, reduces to just the five steps between him and the man holding a camera with long, scarred white fingers.
It’s him, Sylvain remembers thinking.
It’s him, with his long dark hair undone and falling across his shoulders, with his pale white skin coloring in the electric lights, with his amber eyes burning to melting as they bore into his.
As always, Sylvain does not say anything, does not dare say anything.
He does not even dare breathe.
But he knows that Hugo-- that the man in front of him knows, that he knows that Sylvain knows, because there’s an awareness to his gaze almost akin to recognition. Most of all, he knows that Hugo acknowledges him not as another rich kid, not as a Gautier, but as Sylvain.
The man steps forward, right hand outstretched, the one that did so many filthy things to himself as he cried Sylvain’s name the last time Sylvain watched him, and for a single moment that ghost of a smirk quirks up his features.
“Name’s Felix,” he says as he shakes Sylvain’s hand, so, so warm. “Felix Fraldarius.”