Contains Smut

--

Neuvillette wakes up the next morning to a dick pic.

He immediately shuts off his phone, pulling at his face. It happens from time to time, and it's usually a quick matter of speedy deletion. Not everyone on Kameragram has polite intentions, and he is never in the mood to see someone's genitals, unrequested. But this is...

Neuvillette unlocks his phone and takes a peek, his face bright red. That is The Duke—Wriothesley's—cock, unmistakable as it rests against his palm. Hard and long. Precome beads at the tip. Wriothesley must be in bed, judging by the sheets he lounges in.

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> morning, sweetheart. woke up thinking about you. can't remember the last time i've been this hot and bothered

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> you get special treatment from now on

Neuvillette takes a moment to... look. Appreciate. Grinds his hand against his own half-hard cock that stirs at the sight. Last night they—they—

He is embarrassed again, shutting off the phone with a groan.

But then he pauses.

It would be the polite thing to reply, right? He and Navia have had not one, but several extensive conversations about this by now. Neuvillette worried about being left on read, about leaving another in a similar state, and besides, last night...

Well, they've certainly crossed a line, haven't they? Neuvillette's cock twitches, which, as Wriothesley had just said, is a rare occurrence. He doesn't typically wake up aching in such a way, or to aesthetically pleasing captures of a man's perfect cock.

Because it is. Perfect. Neuvillette wonders what it'd feel like—

He does not think about that, tossing the thought out before it has a chance to take root. He has work today, he has to get to the office. Then Neuvillette remembers that he's been forced onto an impromptu vacation by his sweet, dastardly Miss Navia.

Right. That. Neuvillette drags a hand down his face. Rest is more than palatable; he can't remember the last time he truly took some time for himself, but the cold embarrassment of losing a bet floods his being.

He didn't just lose it, either. Navia had booked his time off the moment they made the bargain. She's a clever thing and sees more than most, and she must've seen Wriothesley's intentions and understood Neuvillette's need to be... pampered.

Last night, Wriothesley said he wanted to do that—pamper him. Neuvillette cannot believe that he fucked his hand to the sight of him, for Wriothesley, but he also can't believe that Wriothesley wanted to clean him off, to tuck him into the sheets afterward, and be the—surprisingly—little spoon. And the big spoon.

"All the spoons, sweetheart," he'd said. "I just want to hold you."

Neuvillette cues up Kameragram again, resolve filling his chest. "It's my day off," he tells himself. "I'm allowed to enjoy this, to indulge. Wriothesley has given me a gift."

The gift of a dick pic, yes, but it's strangely charming all things considered. Neuvillette downloads the picture for... personal reasons. A reminder, he tells himself, of a momentous occasion. It'll be okay to look at later. Just a peek, a—

Wriothesley would probably like it if he jerked off to it.

[LeviathanJudicator] >> What is the cost for this?

A tease. Wriothesley will know it is, but anxiety tugs at Neuvillette's being nonetheless as he sits in bed, waiting for an answer. He pulls at the comforter. Has... he made a mistake? Misread the moment? Perhaps Wriothesley won't appreciate the joke. It's been a long time since he last flirted with another person, but in his youth, he'd been told that he came off awkward, stiff, and even a little condescending. Unintentional, absolutely, but there is a stoicism that surrounds Neuvillette that cannot be reined in—

His phone chirps.

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> no cost, baby.

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> i already told you that you get special treatment

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> but tips appreciated if you're feeling inclined.

Oh. Oh, he's...

Soft laughter is choked back. Neuvillette has the distinct thought that Navia would make fun of them both. It's natural, this banter, but it's particularly antiquated, even he can tell. Cute, though. Warmth spreads through Neuvillette's chest.

His phone chirps again with a new message.

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> also by tip, i mean a picture of your cock, please.

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> in case that wasn't clear

Neuvillette's smile is wide and genuine, and it's hard to pull himself from the bed to start his day.

#

"So, let me get this straight," says Navia at lunch. "You didn't chicken out—"

Neuvillette frowns at that. Had she thought he would? Probably. It'd be on brand, but Neuvillette would have, at least, told Wriothesley he wouldn't make the call.

"—and he..." Navia trails off and makes a very crude gesture, mimicking the obvious.

He sucks in a breath. Winces slightly. "That isn't... out of bounds to discuss, is it?"

"For anyone else it'd be a bona fide sexual harassment case, but Neuvillette I am, first and foremost, your friend, not your assistant. And right now, you're on vacation, and I'm here as your wing-woman, not on the clock." She pauses. "Unless you want to pay me—"

"I do believe that you are using your paid time off as well," he says dryly.

"Back to the point—you said he sent you something..." An eyebrow wiggle. "Salacious?"

Neuvillette clears his throat. "I may have woken up to a picture that most would find rather inappropriate. Considering the circumstances of last night, however, it should have been expected."

"So he sent you a dick pic," says Navia. She waits a too-long moment, pushing around her salad before letting her curiosity get the best of her. "Does he have a nice dick?"

"Miss Navia."

"Sue a girl for being nosy." Another pause. "Actually, don't sue me. You'd win."

Neuvillette cracks a grin at that. "To answer your question as succinctly as I can, yes."

"And does he like yours?"

He chokes at that question, inhaling a sip of his water. "I—"

"Oh gods," murmurs Navia, her eyes widening. "Oh gods. So you did..." She makes that licentious gesture again, mimicking masturbation, and Neuvillette doesn't think his face has ever been so beet-red in his entire life.

Navia whistles. "Well, Monsieur Neuvillette. Who knew that you had it in you? What'd you send back this morning?"

Ah, therein lies the problem. Neuvillette rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly and Navia's gaze narrows at him in response.

"You... sent something back, right?"

"I did not leave him hanging, no. I—Miss Navia, what are you doing."

"Let me see the damage."

No. Absolutely not. And yet, he finds himself handing over his phone despite all the warning bells that he should not. Navia will help him. Navia will—

"Don't give me that look. I'm not even interested."

"I know that you aren't—"

"I have to make sure you aren't fucking this up, though." Her eyebrows raise high to her hairline. "Oh," she breathes. "Well, hot damn. I don't even like dicks, but—"

"I would appreciate it if you would quit your teasing."

Navia's mouth curves into a grin and then softens. "Alright, alright. Besides, I don't want to accidentally see your—"

"You will not."

"So you didn't send one back."

"I flirted," defends Neuvillette. But then his shoulders sag. "But no, I did not... reciprocate in such a licentious way."

Navia hums softly and looks at him. "You know that you don't have to, right? If it makes you uncomfortable, just tell him. I think that The Duke—"

"Wriothesley," mutters Neuvillette in a soft correction. Wriothesley trusted him with his name, but Neuvillette knows Navia won't tell another soul. Besides, it's too impersonal to keep using such a moniker when they've... Neuvillette rubs at his face again.

Navia's mouth falls open and rounds out into a small 'o'. "Wriothesley," she repeats. "Right. Okay. Anyway, I think that Wriothesley would not only understand, but he'd likely respect that boundary. He seems..." Navia sighs. "I don't know, exactly, but there's something about him that feels genuine."

Neuvillette knows exactly what she means. He clears his throat. "It is not that I am against... returning the favor."

"Ah, I forgot, Mister I've Sent Personalized Lewds. You haven't though, you've just..." Navia's face scrunches up as she scrolls through their messages. "Is this how old people flirt?"

"So now I'm old."

"Those seven years between us are making a difference right now. Neuvillette you are comically...Well, not bad. But this is only working out because he's equally terrible."

"We're similar in age, as it turns out." Navia raises an eyebrow. "That isn't the point. The point is—"

"That you didn't send him a dick pic back. Do you want to?"

"I—Miss Navia, it's—" Neuvillette grunts, sucking in a deep breath. "I paid a handsome amount for the stream last night, which I was happy to do, and then this morning I woke up to a picture, and a message saying that I now get special treatment."

"And?"

"Does this make me a sugar daddy?"

Navia's face goes through a multitude of expressions. It crumples, and then it cringes, and then she turns pink-faced as she holds in laughter. It erupts, eventually, spilling from Navia's mouth as she begins to cackle. "I—" She chokes on her laughter next. Wipes the tears that well at the corners of her eyes, unable to breathe through them.

It is, decidedly, not funny, thinks Neuvillette. This is a matter of his personal life, and though he's never had a problem with paying Wriothesley for his company, even if from afar previously, now that it's taken a more personal tone, he worries about these things.

"Honest question," starts Navia. Neuvillette has an inkling it won't be entirely honest, but allows her to continue. "Would that bother you?"

Ah, that's the question, isn't it? The answer is no. Neuvillette is paid well and rarely indulges, so there is a considerable surplus to his accounts. If Wriothesley wanted to be a kept man and needed help, Neuvillette would happily accommodate that.

"It feels... a little transactional," he admits.

"And you don't want it to be."

No, he doesn't. Not that Neuvillette has grand illusions of anything more, but he would like to indulge in... whatever this is, without fear of it being a matter of negotiation. Wriothesley, thankfully, doesn't seem to view it that way. He's already done things he never does for others, but anxiety slips down Neuvillette's spine nonetheless.

Navia is quiet for a moment. "If you want my honest opinion, as an outsider looking in, I think that initially it was a little transactional—for the both of you, I might add. But looking at these messages now, and judging by what you said about last night... Neuvillette, he stayed on the phone with you until you fell asleep. You just talked, and even if this, today, is through an explicit lens, these messages are still tailored for you. They aren't like some weird stock responses I'd think he sends to everyone."

"So you think that this is genuine, then." Because he does too.

"I think that both of you are old and out of the game. You're dipping your toes back in and figuring it out." Navia slides his phone back across the table. "Sending him one back would be a good start. If you want to."

Neuvillette wants to. He definitely wants to, he's wanted to since he woke up that morning.

"I know that look," says Navia.

"If you would find it amenable, Miss Navia—allow me to excuse myself for a bit—"

"Oh, I'm gone. Out of here. Actually, let's never eat lunch at your place again."

Neuvillette reaches out, catching her wrist. "Navia, before you leave, I wish to express my gratitude. These recent days... I know that this is outside of your pay grade."

Navia's hand falls over his, resting there gently. "I care for you," she says simply. "And you deserve a personal life, even if it means I have to help you..." Navia makes that obscene, licentious gesture for a third time.

"Out," he says, mostly with humor.

Navia doesn't need to be told twice.

#

So, Neuvillette is horny.

Navia told him he's not allowed to work, so he doesn't. Technically. He sits at his desk. On his screen is... not work. Court transcripts, yes, but old ones because Neuvillette's guilty pleasure is reading through court documents to calm his mind.

His cock aches. He isn't looking at his computer, he got distracted by that damned picture that Wriothesley sent him. Again. Neuvillette stares at it, tracing every pixel with his eyes. Wriothesley's length is handsome against his palm, slick at the tip. Neuvillette wonders what it'd feel like on his tongue, how it'd taste.

Would Wriothesley spend himself down his throat? Or would he rather hold off, and come inside? Neuvillette wants either, both, anything he's given.

"I should..."

Touch himself, surely. And so he does, undoing his trousers to free his own cock. Neuvillette is already half-hard. Red at the tip. Handsome, he thinks.

He should send that picture.

It takes finagling. It's awkward to hold his cock and a phone in his other hand, let alone take a picture all at the same time. Neuvillette moans softly as he squeezes it, snapping a picture. Then a stroke from base to tip, thumb sweeping over the head and pulling away, a string of precome stretched between, clinging to the pad. Another picture is snapped.

Neuvillette sends the second one.

[LeviathanJudicator] >> I am supposed to be resting on my vacation, but I find myself preoccupied.

[LeviathanJudicator] >> I do think it would be better if I didn't have to handle this myself, but alas.

#

"He sent me a picture of his dick." Wriothesley says this, sprawled across the tiny table that occupies the break room at the gym. The fake wood is cool against his forehead. He groans, covertly pawing at his half-hard cock out of sight.

Clorinde levels him with a look. "So I know I've said this before, but I'm going to say it again—Isn't that the point?"

No. Yes. Fuck, Wriothesley wants it to be more than just that, though. He's in deep, deeper than he originally thought. He hadn't expected the video chat to work. He thought that—Neuvillette—would absolutely turn that down, but he didn't, and then they jerked off together, and now Wriothesley is here, bemoaning his entire existence.

"Surely he didn't send one unprompted," drawls Clorinde. She knows him too well, and she's seen Neuvillette's messages and general demeanor in the chat. Too polite. And his voice.

Wriothesley dreamed about it, woke up painfully hard, and jerked off to the thought almost immediately.

Clorinde hums when he doesn't immediately answer. "Yeah, I thought so."

"I just—Clorinde."

Her brow furrows as she leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. "You were dodgy about yesterday. And this morning. You've been avoiding me."

Only a little bit. A smidge. Wriothesley knows better than to think he can hide from Clorinde for long. "Look—"

"What happened?" Wriothesley gives her a flat stare and Clorinde returns it with a curl of her lip. "Something happened."

"I did a private show for him. We jerked off. He has a nice dick."

Clorinde is stunned speechless. Then she reaches out and flicks him on the forehead with her fingers.

"Ow!" he hisses, batting her hand away. "Fuck off!"

She pulls away, leaning back in her chair. "Archons, Wriothesley, you're acting like this might be the end of the world."

Wriothesley groans, hiding his face in the crook of his arm. "It might as well be if I fuck it up."

Clorinde sighs loudly, longly, and when Wriothesley peeks at her, she's rubbing her face. "Wriothesley," she says, "you're the problem here."

"I know that." Why else would he be face down on the table? Wriothesley is a confident man. When stepping into a Pankration Ring, he loves the sharp adrenaline that runs through his veins. This, though—this is something entirely different, and it's killing him.

"What are you going to do?" Clorinde asks this nicely, at least. "You aren't the type to..." She waves at him vaguely, as if it means something. "This guy—"

"Neuvillette," he tells her.

Clorinde blinks. "You've exchanged names?"

"Clorinde, don't kill me."

Her mouth purses but she stays her hand, at least. "Names," she repeats. "That dick must be something."

It is. Gods, it is. Neuvillette's cock is long and perfectly shaped. Wriothesley is desperate to get his mouth around it. Looks like it has the perfect weight to rest in his hand.

Neuvillette's deep voice hasn't been forgotten. "Inside," he'd begged. "I'd want them inside, spreading me apart, opening me up—"

Wriothesley is fucking done for.

"What's the plan now that you've seen what's underneath those fancy suits?"

Question of the century. Wriothesley's phone is burning a hole in his pocket but he's not about to pull it out and sneak a peek at that pretty cock. He has thoughts, though. Ideas and plans. Neuvillette sent him a picture back, which Wriothesley takes as permission to... well, not escalate but stay the course.

"Buy some lingerie? I mean, I could..." He clears his throat. "He was very appreciative of my—"

"Fuck, I don't need details, Wriothesley." Clorinde winces as if in pain.

"You asked," he reminds her, finally sitting up. Wriothesley's cock aches, twitching in his trousers. "I should respond right? Send another back?"

Clorinde stands abruptly from the table. "I'm not having this conversation—no, don't give me that look. I'll help you flirt, and I'll endure your ramblings about how you're old and decrepit, but I draw the line at talking about your dick."

Wriothesley lets loose a puff of breath that ruffles his bangs. "You used to see my dick all the time."

"And that's exactly why I moved out." She scoots the chair back from the table. "You seem to be not fucking it up entirely, so stop worrying. Giving him your name was stupid, though. Don't do more shit like that. The rules, Wriothesley."

Right, right, the rules. How can he forget with her constantly breathing a reminder down his neck.

"One last question, Clorinde—red or black?"

Wriothesley should've expected the sweaty, stinky workout towel she lobs at his face.

#

Wriothesley goes home and orders a scandalous set of lingerie, which will likely stay in its box at the back of his closet because he is bad at relationships, and there is no way this will work out.

But he can dream, and so it'll serve as an item for an anniversary, maybe, and Neuvillette will—

Neuvillette will do nothing because jerking off together does not make a date.

Wriothesley pulls at his face. "Fuck, I'm pathetic." Pathetically something. Gone? Useless? Utterly enamored. That's what Sigewinne said earlier when he sent a right hook at a training dummy and missed it entirely because he was busy thinking about the subtle curve of Neuvillette's dick instead.

He'd sent another, finally broke down while stripping to his underthings in the locker room. First, another selfie, his shirt pulled up to show off his abs. Then a hand cradling the bulge of his length. And then, after a careful check that no one else was around, a picture of his fingers wrapped around his cock mid-stroke.

Now he's home and prepping for his weekly stream. His phone sits on the table. Wriothesley stares at it while setting up his ring light. "Behave," he says. "Whatever he sends will be there later on."

Wriothesley does behave. Until he's about a half-hour into his stream and spots Neuvillette's handle in his chat. Shit. The night before comes back to him in a rush and his cock stiffens.

That's—that's not great. Lewds on camera? Yes. Shaking his ass a little, and things that are suggestive? Absolutely, but he's never...he doesn't want people to... The virgin killer sweater pushed his carefully placed boundaries.

But that was for Neuvillette, so why can't this be? Wriothesley gets the best, worst idea he's ever had. A little teasing goes a long way.

"You know," he says, pausing in the book he's currently reading aloud, "this reminds me of something—an older, handsome man who enjoys suits. I'm thinking of Kameragram Guy again."

Wriothesley shifts slightly, knowing that his erection is on display. He drags his hand down the length of his thigh but otherwise ignores it. He'll be good, he won't scar Clorinde too much, who moderates the stream from her apartment.

Besides, this is a show for one person and one person only, and Neuvillette doesn't need something to be so overt to enjoy it.

"There isn't much to it," says Wriothesley. "Just hot and bothered. So rarely am I captivated by another but, as it turns out, I'm lonelier than I thought. He appreciated the sweater, by the way."

His forearm brushes his cock—and most wouldn't notice. But Wriothesley feels it and chokes back a grunt. Later; he'll message Neuvillette later, and tease him about the mess he's made of Wriothesley.

"I never thought I'd be done in by a fully clothed man. Do you think the silk of his suits is as soft and smooth as it looks? Would his skin be the same? Ah, sorry—the book. I got distracted." Wriothesley winks at the camera, finishing with, "That's been the gist of my week."

It is hard to focus on the book after that. Wriothesley manages, but heat curls in his gut. His cock aches, and the wet patch in his boxer briefs is cold and tacky. He'll handle it later. He'll finally look at his phone and fuck his hand to the sight of Neuvillette's cock.

The stream ends far too late. Wriothesley groans the moment the feed cuts, and the camera goes dead. He grinds the heel of his hand over his dick and sweet relief floods through him. "Fuck," he hisses. Even something so small feels good. It'd been torture, pure torture, sporting an erection almost the entire time. When it flagged, all it took was one thought of his late-night video call with Neuvillette, and his handsome cock for it to harden again, renewed.

Wriothesley has just relocated to his bed when his phone chirps. He unlocks the screen to find a notification from the Kameragram app, the preview of the words starting with, "How cruel of you—" before cutting off.

The picture is of Neuvillette's erection, tenting the front of his very nice, very slick, definitely expensive trousers. Long. No doubt delicious. Wriothesley's mouth waters at the sight, and kicks off his trousers quickly.

[LeviathanJudicator] >> How cruel of you to tease me.

[LeviathanJudicator] >> Wriothesley, I find myself wanting you most ardently.

Ardently. Wriothesley doesn't think he's ever seen such a word outside of a romance novel, but heat curls in his gut all the same. His cock is so hard it nearly hurts. He groans, his underwear feeling too tight, too hot, too—

He should send a picture. Wriothesley shimmies out of his underwear next, tossing them to the floor. He hisses at the cold air against his cock. His hand does little to quell the ache, even when he gives it a stroke.

The picture he manages to snap is good enough to send without a second glance.

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> sweetheart, my stream was miserable. you did this to me.

He waits to see what will happen, his hand loose around his cock. Another chirp marks a response, accompanied by another picture.

[LeviathanJudicater] >> You are the one who sent me a picture that has kept me riled all day. Perhaps this is your own fault.

A tease. Wriothesley jerks his cock in one long, slick stroke, preparing for another response. But then he thinks about Neuvillette's voice, that deep timbre against his ear. His breath would be hot against the shell of it. Would Neuvillette bite? Kiss it? Tease him more?

Wriothesley could know. It's a thought that has eaten him alive from the moment he first saw his account. Most of Neuvillette's pictures are taken outside. Wriothesley recognizes a lot of the scenery and buildings in the background. Fuck, he recognized the chairs at a café they both apparently frequent.

Neuvillette is in Fontaine, a stone's throw away.

"You're a creep," he tells himself. "Don't be a fucking creep, Wriothesley." But then he whines, his thumb hesitating over the message bar.

Wriothesley does, quite possibly the stupidest thing he's ever fucking done, and that's punching in a string of numbers and hitting send. His heart pounds. He thinks that he might be ill, his gut churning, flipping upside down. Yeah, he's going to puke. His cock has flagged with anxiety, and he's pretty sure this might be the beginnings of a panic attack.

But then his ringer goes off. Wriothesley stares at his phone like it might burn his hand. Shit, he thinks. He didn't think this far. He didn't— "Shit," he hisses, darting for the phone to answer it before the ringer runs out.

"Hello?" he answers.

"Wriothesley." Neuvillette purrs his name. He purrs it, and Wriothesley's dick flares back to life in response.

"I was dumb. I didn't think. I—Neuvillette, you're in Fontaine."

Oh, that's infinitely worse. Wriothesley has really fucked this up. Neuvillette's going to get scared off. He's silent on the other end—too silent.

But then: "Yes. I supposed you recognized some of the locations from my photos." At least Neuvillette sounds amused, not horrified that Wriothesley might be a stalker.

"I—"

"It's alright, Wriothesley. I'm well aware that people will and can recognize the Opera Epiclese in the background of my pictures."

Right. Gods, he's dumb. Wriothesley pulls at his face. "I... hope that I didn't overstep any boundaries. I just—well. I like you. I've been having fun, and I just thought that... we could keep having fun?"

"And surely your state of need isn't a factor?"

Wriothesley's mouth falls open. "That's... a bold thing to say."

"As bold as the things you said on stream? Wriothesley, I showed you just how it affected me."

"Yeah. Yeah you did. Have you done anything about it?" Neuvillette sighs. Wriothesley's head fills in the blanks, imagining what he might be doing. "Are you touching yourself?"

"Would you like me to?"

Wriothesley would like him to do a dozen things, things that he'd return in favor. But he settles for a simple, "Yes." He tugs at his cock lazily, just enough to keep it hard and leaking. The edge is still there, though. Heat doesn't just pool in his gut, it simmers, a slow-rolling boil that threatens to bubble over. "Sweetheart—" Neuvillette makes a half-choked, annoyed whine. "—tell me what you're doing."

"Touching myself, as you requested."

Obviously. Wriothesley chuckles softly. "You've got to give me the details, baby. I want to touch myself to your voice, not just the thought of it."

A soft groan. Neuvillette's phone captures the rustle of his clothing and sheets. The way that he spits into his hand, and even the wet sound of his fingers as they curl around his cock to give it a stroke.

"Neuvillette, do you have me on speakerphone?"

"I—"

"You do, don't you? I can hear—" Schlick, schlick. That's definitely the sound of Neuvillette's hand jerking himself off.

"I need both hands." Neuvillette shouldn't be managing replies, he should be able to speak, too busy lost in his pleasure.

Wriothesley digs his thumb into the slit of his own dick. "Why do you need both hands?"

"Wriothesley."

"Tell me, please. I'm touching myself to the thought of you, Neuvillette. I want to hear it."

"I had thought—" Neuvillette cuts himself off, and Wriothesley imagines that maybe he's biting his bottom lip. Plump? Full and rose-bitten? Wriothesley would die to know, to kiss him, to get a taste of Neuvillette's mouth.

"What'd you think?"

"Your fingers," says Neuvillette. "I'm empty, Wriothesley. I don't usually indulge in such a way, but—"

Wriothesley moans, the thought of opening Neuvillette up hot in his mind. He's dreamed about that since he heard it, the fact that their tastes are so aligned, that Neuvillette wants to be filled.

He's seen his trim, slim waist, and the soft rounds of a very nice ass. Wriothesley wants to squeeze at it, to spread those cheeks and dip his fingers in, and watch his hole struggle around them. Is Neuvillette a size queen? Wriothesley's gaze drops to his cock which is more than respectable, hoping that's the case. But he'd do anything—anything that Neuvillette wants, even if it's as something as simple as fucking his thighs.

His fingers tighten around his cock. "Sweetheart, are you wearing those boxer briefs?" he asks. Those tight black ones that clung to Neuvillette's plush thighs. He'll fuck those too, his thighs. And mark them up. Trail fingers down their lengths as he nuzzles at Neuvillette's cock with his face before swallowing it down. Wriothesley has never disliked sucking someone off, but he needs to get his mouth around Neuvillette, if only to hear the sounds he'd make.

"No. I'm not wearing..." Neuvillette clears his throat. "I was only in trousers. I had thought it would offer... a nice picture. Leave nothing to the imagination. But now I'm—"

Wriothesley is a simple man. That thought alone has his cock swelling, close to release. No, no, that's too quick.

"Wearing nothing," he breathes. "I can hear you stroking yourself. Does it feel good?"

"Yes." A soft whimper chases that word, and Wriothesley thinks that he just might combust.

"Are you think about me?"

"Yes, Wriothesley—"

"Tell me more, baby. What do you want me to do for you?"

"For you to open me up. It's been too long since I've last—I—" Neuvillette's phone catches a soft grunt and the wet slide of his hand over his cock.

"Do you want to do that for me? Grab some lube, lay on your stomach, and fuck yourself on your fingers?"

"No." Neuvillette pants, moaning softly. His phone must be close to his face, but his hand must be so fucking slick. Wriothesley wishes he could see, wishes that he could be there and watch. "No," Neuvillette repeats. "No, no, I'd rather—Wriothesley tell me what you're doing, what you want."

"You can't turn this back on me—"

"Please. I'm close. I need more, just a little more."

What a delicious sound. "So soon, baby?" As if Wriothesley isn't one second from spilling all over himself, as if he wasn't the moment he answered his phone, and heard Neuvillette's voice.

Wriothesley is embarrassingly enamored. He's pretty sure he could come to nothing but Neuvillette's voice, and his own debauched thoughts. And it isn't even pathetic; Wriothesley would want to try that, he's so desperate for a crumb of attention from this man.

"Easy when it's you—you alone, mind you. You are the only one to make it so easy."

Wriothesley doesn't need to hear that. It's going to make it worse when they have to inevitably part. But then he thinks maybe they won't have to. Maybe, in some wild, weird turn of events, this could be a real thing.

"Neuvillette," he moans, his hand moving quicker, pulling over his cock to quell the heat raging through his gut. He's nearly there. Just like Neuvillette said, a little bit more. "Are you sure you don't want to fuck yourself on your fingers?"

Because that would be a divine sight, Neuvillette splayed out in the bed, fingers deep in his ass. Wriothesley doesn't need to know what his face looks like, just the swell of his asscheeks, and the way that Neuvillette stretches himself open.

Would he crook his fingers? Fuck himself fast, or slower, sweeter? Is he the sort to sweep across his prostate once and then wait? Or is he insistent with that touch, throwing himself into a quick orgasm? Would he fuck himself through that until he's crying in overstimulation and—

"I'd rather wait for you to do it."

Wriothesley's brain short-circuits. He comes abruptly, spilling over his hand, his stomach, in long streaks of milky white. Neuvillette didn't mean that. He didn't just imply they should properly hook up, that they should meet. It's dirty talk, surely.

"Sweetheart, you can't—"

"Did you come? I heard you..." A soft gasp. Neuvillette is loud on his side of the phone, from those breathy sighs to the slick sound of his hand as he fucks it. "I'm close. I'm going to—"

"Come one, baby. You can come for me. Think of that, of my fingers pressing deep. I'd open you up so well, take my time and watch you, listen to you."

A sharp cry of Wriothesley's name drops from Neuvillette's mouth, and oh—oh—if Wriothesley hadn't come already, that would have been the end of him. "Sweetheart," he murmurs, tilting close to his phone. He pretends it's Neuvillette's ear, that he's giving this praise directly. "Be a good boy and come for me?"

"Yes. Yes, yes—oh, I'm—"

Wriothesley would pay money to see him come, to watch Neuvillette's cock twitch as it soils his hand. The sight of it from their video call is seared into the folds of Wriothesley's brain. The chemistry there has been permanently altered, and when he closes his eyes, there's a high chance that it's that moment replaying over and over.

Neuvillette's hand on his cock, wet with lube. His thighs tensing, his back arching gently as he comes with a cry—Wriothesley is so, so ruined. He's never coming back from this, isn't sure that he wants to.

And now he has Neuvillette's number.

Their call is quiet, save their heavy breathing, and a soft, satisfied sound Neuvillette lets loose as he falls against his sheets. He breaks the silence, saying, "Would you prefer I text you? Or message you through your Kameragram account?"

"I... hadn't thought that far, to be honest." It'd been an ill-advised, last minute decision.

Neuvillette laughs gently. "I would prefer regular texting. It is less..."

"Impersonal?" finished Wriothesley when he trails off.

"Is it weird that I dislike that?"

"No, sweetheart." Wriothesley's reply is so genuine that it makes his heart ache for more. "Of course, not. It's the same for me. We've... this is—"

"I had thought I might be foolish thinking it could be something more."

Wriothesley stares at the ceiling. Counting the spots on the shitty popcorn ceiling is easier than unpacking that fucking can of worms. But Neuvillette wants this, whatever this is.

He isn't the first partner to do so. This is the point when Wriothesley nips it in the bud because he isn't the type to date, but that feels wrong. This is different.

Wriothesley swallows thickly. "Yeah. Thats... I never give out my phone number, not even with my occasional fucks." A pause. "Sorry, that was a terrible way to word that—"

"I'm old, not stupid. Wriothesley, it is fine to have dalliances."

"You said you haven't for a long time." Wriothesley is honored to be the exception.

"Yes, but that is what suits me. As I told you before, I am a picky man."

"And so you picked me?" Wriothesley snorts. "I think that your taste might be questionable."

"Perhaps that makes us, as my assistant says, 'two peas in a pod'. I'm a man of questionable taste myself."

Incredibly doubtful. "What now?" he asks.

Neuvillette is quiet for a long moment. And then, he says, "My favorite part of our video call last night was talking afterward. If I might make a request... I am tired. Would you stay on the line for a little longer?"

"Done," replies Wriothesley immediately. "Have you cleaned up, sweetheart?"

"That name..."

Wriothesley stills. "Not to your taste?"

"No, that is not... I am just unused to it, but I have found that I do not mind."

Score. Wriothesley thinks it suits him well. "Got it. But, like I said, you've got to clean yourself up."

"I am, I am."

Wriothesley hears him rustling around. He wishes that he could be the one to wipe him down, to take care of him. "So, Café Lutece—what's your favorite drink there?"

"Water. They are the only place that imports bottles from Cider Lake—"

"They're famous for their coffee and you drink water?"

"It is good water, I assure you. Not my favorite, but one of my top five choices when it comes to quality. Besides, I am, admittedly, not a fan of coffee. It is too acidic, and the taste leaves something to be desired. No, I prefer the crisp clean..."

Wriothesley cannot believe that he's listening to a monologue about different types of bottled waters, and their features; but Neuvillette's voice is deep and soothing, and the sounds of him mucking about on the other end of the line is very... domestic.

He didn't know he wanted that.