Chapter Text
The office empties in stages.
Assistants first. Junior executives after. The corridor outside his office door thins to murmurs and then to nothing at all. And then, just as the clock strikes nine, the final eager straggler pauses in the threshold.
“Good night, Mr. Qin.”
Sylus doesn’t look up from the document in front of him, but he does glance at his watch.
“Yeah.”
The footsteps fade. He pushes himself back from the desk, stands, crosses the room, and closes the door. Reaches for the decanter on the coffee table nearby — a clean, measured pour.
He circles the desk and drops back into his chair, propping his feet up on the polished surface. Thirty floors of city lights stretch behind him, distant and irrelevant.
His attention turns to the laptop, the glass settled beside it. It takes only a few clicks before he’s on the page.
Everyone has their habits. Everyone hides things. It isn’t as though there’s anything morally wrong with it. He doesn’t even remember how he’d first stumbled across it.
Sylus watches without touching his drink at first. Notes the lighting. The framing. The way the young man on the other end moves.
Host: Jasmine 🌸
The chat begins to fill. Demands rolling in faster than he bothers to read them. He skims past the worst of it, past the begging and the filth, to focus on what people are actually asking for.
Sylus never begs for anything, that isn't the point.
But he likes watching.
The man on the screen is good at this. Doesn’t try too hard. Doesn’t oversell the act. A precision to it that sets him apart from others Sylus has seen do the same.
Sylus sits back, snorts quietly at some of the donations and the requests attached to them.
VelourStatic donated $5: put the plug in
GreyScale47 donated $10: put your fingers in your ass
LateNightBeef: FEET
Creative ways to spend five or ten dollars.
Sylus wonders, briefly, if it bothers the man. It doesn't appear so. Money is money, right?
Some people donate more. A good number of them earn a soft, practiced thank you in return.
Finally, Sylus lowers his feet from the desk and leans forward. Clicks the donation button. His fingers hover over the keys for a moment longer than necessary before he types.
Onychinus109 donated $250: Take your time.
He smirks faintly, lifting the glass to his lips, and takes a slow sip.
The young man's face can't be seen aside from his eyes. Hazel or honey brown and warm. Green in the right light, maybe. Very pretty eyes. He is also careful not to overindulge the camera; wearing a mask and angling it just so. No angles to frame his face. Only gets the necessary job done.
It is as professional as it is arousing.
Sylus watches, sees the reaction from the donation amount, and watches him tug at his cock while two fingers work inside him. It is an expensive tip, and worth the show it gives.
"How should I take my time?" he asks, voice deep but still breathy. There is no ego behind the question.
Another sip from the glass, a raised eyebrow. At the prompt from the man behind the camera, Sylus gives it a thought. He rolls it over in his mind; runs the pad of his thumb against his bottom lip, and then down to trace the line of his chin.
Eventually, he settles the glass back on the desk and nudges it aside. He reaches for the computer and shifts it to angle closer to his chair. He laces his hands together and taps them thoughtfully against his lips, elbows braced against his desk.
After a beat, he moves. Fingers spread, tapping at the keyboard one by one.
Onychinus109 donated $300: Take your time.
He leans back then, considering his work. Satisfied.
On the other side of the screen, Jasmine leans back. "Mmhnn..." It's almost a soft sigh. He's leaked enough precum that he can spread it across his lower abdomen.
Sylus watches the flex of muscles in the smooth lines of his thighs, the liquidity of each flex and release. The steady stroke. He can see the outline of his ribs through his pale, heated skin.
He wonders how that tight hole would quiver around his cock, pulling him in deeper with every roll of his hips, if he could pin those strong hands to the sheets and drag it all out slowly.
Every thrust. Every drop of sweat that dampens his hair. Every gasp, the hiss of a breath through clenched teeth.
That smirk returns. How much would be enough, Sylus wonders.
He shifts in the seat, uncomfortable from the tenting of his trousers. His hands spread out on his thighs, moving up and down along the seams. He reaches down and undoes the belt, the button, the zipper, with his eyes on the screen. One hand dips in to pull out his cock - gives a lazy stroke.
How much to show this nameless, faceless pretty little thing how much Sylus would love to fuck him. He thinks it over and lets out a low, thoughtful hum. He imagines how slick and loose that hole would be for him now. His cock twitches at the image in his mind.
For him.
A slow smile curves his lips.
He wishes he could hear him better - the groan, the moan, the half-swallowed gasps. Maybe in his ears. Right up close and loud enough for only the two of them. Maybe he'd make him straddle his lap like this, rock against his erection, take him slow and deep and let the friction build between them. Right here in this office.
This chair.
Just the thought of his hands gripping the cheeks of that ass while he cranes up to scrape his teeth over a pale shoulder sets the tip of his cock beading. Sylus gathers it up in his fist and drags the wet, warm mess over the shaft, palm sliding against the tip. He huffs a sound, low in his throat.
Still watching.
Even if he can only get glimpses, fragments. It is enough for now. He brings himself off with rough strokes, his gaze focused on that square on his screen. The air holds onto him—leathered cologne, warmed through by exertion. Sylus exhales; a shuddered moan in the back of his throat escapes.
"Fuck." He tightens his grip on his throbbing member, holds it in place, and gives another few good strokes until the last sparks of pleasure heat him from the inside out. A guttural groan vibrates his chest; stroking himself until the pulsing in his thighs slows.
Spent, sated, he wipes clean. Sits back and tucks himself away. He doesn't feel an ounce of guilt.
With a flick of his wrist, Sylus Qin is out of his chair. The laptop snaps shut; his fingers catch his tie and flip it back into place. He lifts the glass to his lips, light skimming the gold band at his finger.
There’s no guilt anymore. She’s been dead for over a year.
The ring helps. Discourages questions. Keeps trouble at a comfortable arm’s length. It lets their children believe everything is fine — that Dad is still handling things, that Rowan doesn’t need to look too closely at the structure she helps maintain, that Icarus can remain the spoiled brat his mother made him into. The dropout who works downstairs because Daddy pays well — even if big real estate is “not as fun as crypto.”
She’d hate this if she’d stuck around long enough to see it. Maeve never trusted money the way he could. Never understood what it meant to keep it close. She believed in hope, trust, optimism. All those stupid little human weaknesses he'd tried so hard not to think of. Even in that room down the hall — hospice workers in and out – her hand wrapped around his and the words that faded in and out like some sort of joke.
"It's okay, darling," he'd whispered. Soft, gentle, reassuring. Because this wasn't her fault.
"I'm okay. I'm going to be okay, Sylus."
It wasn't like she could help dying. She had enough fight left for the end, her hand clung around his so tightly, her words trailing to a single sentence as it was the last he ever got to hear.
"Just do something that makes you happy, please, please just—"
Sylus never gave a fuck what they whispered in hushed voices at galas and black-tie functions. The rumors near the end — cheating, divorce, that he preferred men.
He swallows down the remnants in the glass and slides it back onto the side table.
Who would’ve thought the heir to a leading pharmaceutical company would die of a heart condition?
It’s the perfect way to go. Natural. Painless. Horrible. Heartbreaking.
He shrugs his suit jacket on. Grabs his laptop, his phone, his keys - out the door in less than 30 seconds.
There was no guilt, this was just a habit.
But no one needs to know about it. That suits him just fine.