CW: Contains Smut

--

Neuvillette did not answer the direct message.

Navia laughs at him the next day when he tells her this. It's too early in the morning for her to wear such a smug look, to hide a grin behind the palm of her hand. She has the decency at least to clear her throat and pour him a glass of water. Still. Neuvillette knows that look, just as he knows she'll eventually say something.

"So—"

"Navia, I do not want to hear it."

"Hear what?" She clicks her tongue before shoving a pastry into her mouth. "For the record," she says around it, words slightly muffled, "I wasn't going to make fun of you."

"You'll have to forgive me for not believing you," replies Neuvillette dryly. "As of late, I find myself often at the end of your quips."

Navia rolls her eyes. "I was going to say to just go and get the guy."

Neuvillette would like to agree with her, but there is one very specific, glaring issue with such a suggestion. "Miss Navia," he says, finally taking hold of the water she's poured for him, "it will not happen. I will fumble it. I will do everything incorrectly, thereby making a mess of it."

She blinks very slowly. Sighs softly, shoves a second pastry into her mouth, and takes far too long to chew it. "Neuvillette," she finally says—and oh, that's a terrible tone. Yes, it's before work, but Navia calling him by name instead of title is never a good sign. "Only you could have a man dangling himself in front of you, and you'd think you'd fuck it up."

"Language."

"No, listen to me. This man—" Navia's hand darts across the table to slap at Neuvillette's phone. "—isn't just putting himself out there, he's literally begging to dick you down."

"Miss Navia—"

"And you're sitting here, bemoaning your existence, and your age, or any other excuse you manage to talk yourself into instead of just opening your eyes and looking at the damn messages. Neuvillette, he's mentioned you on stream, he wore nearly nothing on camera because he was that desperate to see a sliver of collarbone from you, and you're going to sit there and tell me that it—this—won't happen?"

Navia lets out an aggrieved sigh, dragging a hand down her face. "Do we need to reenact that scene from A Clockwork Blue where the dude gets his eyelids peeled back, forced to watch—"

"I think that I get the point, Miss Navia," cuts in Neuvillette with a cringe. No, that doesn't need to happen, nor does he want the mental image of it.

"Let me see." Navia holds out her hand in a silent bid for his phone, and Neuvillette drops it against her palm, knowing that she won't take no for an answer. She knows his phone code and unlocks it easily. Not even thirty seconds into scrolling through his Kameragram app, she's already loosing a whistling breath. "Gods, you're so—Neuvillette, this man is so gone for you."

"I... well, that is to say..."

"This is his personal account. He called you sweetheart."

So he did. Neuvillette pulls at his collar nervously and looks everywhere but Navia's face.

Her expression softens. "Ah, I see." When Navia smiles this time, it isn't a mocking thing, but rather soft and genuine. "That's what you're afraid of. That it'll work out."

Yes. No. Maybe. Neuvillette pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes fluttering shut as he tries to think of an appropriate answer. "Navia, I have not dated properly in decades. Literally. I... am not just out of my depth, I am entirely beyond it. Not that I want to date this man. But the attention is... nice. And I find myself wanting to entertain it for a while. But, yes, I worry that it may turn into more than that, and if it does—"

"Why are you so worried about that?" Her question is probing but kind. She still eats her breakfast, still drinks her coffee, but she is patient as she waits for whatever answer he chooses to give her.

So Neuvillette gives her the truth—or as close to the truth as he can muster. Self-deprecating thoughts are not the easiest to put into perspective for others.

"I am old, Navia. Older than most. Busy, with a job that is the most demanding. I am not good with people. I never have free time. Navia, I am not a desirable catch, my looks aside. If we were to properly court, it would be only a matter of time before he no doubt decides it is lonesome, being with me."

Navia's mouth parts into a small 'o'. And then she says, "I see you every day."

"You are my assistant."

"Yes, but I also see you on my days off. And I see you before work, and after work, and that isn't because I work for you, Neuvillette, it's because I'm your friend. If you can carve out time for me, you can carve out time for a partner. Just replace the mornings and lunch breaks we share for him."

She makes it sound so easy but Neuvillette knows it won't be. That would be just the beginning, the very first hurdle, but Neuvillette is not a runner, and he is not good at staying the course. Such things will require his effort and it is not that there is none, it is that he will, always, put work first.

But, perhaps The Duke would be okay with that. Perhaps The Duke wouldn't mind. There are those out there who enjoy their space. Maybe Celestia will smile down upon him.

Unlikely. Neuvillette has never been religious, and certainly not for the Archons. He snorts softly at the thought.

"Okay, so hear me out."

"I won't like whatever you say next," muses Neuvillette.

"Which is why I buttered you up with the nice water. Here's my idea—message him back."

Neuvillette purses his lips and sets his glass down. "That was... rather anticlimactic."

"I said I had an idea, not a life-changing gamble. Just... message him back and see where it goes. If it works out, then we tackle that next. Otherwise, just do what you said you wanted to—enjoy it while it lasts." Navia's mouth curves into a wicked smile. "Just for the record, though, I think this is in your favor. I want to state that for the record so I get to say I told you so later."

Neuvillette cracks a small, rare grin as well.

"So, first things first—let me help you craft a response, at least. Celestia knows that you'll do it wrong."

"You just said that it'd work in my favor—"

"Once you settle in and this guy sees you're just an awkward man. Until then, you definitely need my guidance. Don't worry, I won't be too heavy-handed. Subtly is key."

Navia is not, and will never be subtle, and Neuvillette is proven correct almost instantly when she reads aloud her drafted message.

"'What a wonderful message to wake up to. And the show last night— a fitting end for the day. I will not let this wonderful gift go to waste.' Good?"

Neuvillette sighs, glancing to the heavens, but eventually nods.

Her finger slides across the screen. "Alright, that's all sent which brings me to the second thing we need to discuss."

"Miss Navia, work can wait until a little bit later—"

"I've adjusted your schedule for the next few days."

Neuvillette tilts his head, uncomprehending. "Pardon? Whatever for?"

"That bet we placed, the one that involves you using some of your paid time off."

Oh. Right, that.

"Miss Navia, you didn't know until a few moments ago whether or not I'd even win."

She snorts. And then she chuckles. And then it's full-blown laughter bubbling from the back of her throat, the sort that is belly-busting, that makes her wheeze and choke on her breath. "I—sorry, I just—Neuvillette, I rearranged this stuff the day we made the bet because I knew you'd win. And worry not, everyone agreed. As it turns out, even our clients have noticed that you're strung a little tight. Did you know that there are judges afraid of presiding over you?"

He did not, but it, perhaps shouldn't be a surprise. Still. "Navia, I—"

"You're off through Tuesday. Ah, don't give me that look! A three-day weekend isn't enough, and a four-day one is barely. You'll be taking it if I have to strap you down to the bed." A pause as she considers that. "Actually, that isn't the worst idea. You could work that to your advantage and take a few pictures for our favorite DukeDownUnder—"

"That is quite alright, Miss Navia. You've helped me plenty for the day."

"I have not. I have to keep helping you flirt."

"I am not flirting."

Navia's resulting grin is the same a Cheshire cat would wear, and Neuvillette has the distinct thought that his weekend is only just beginning.

#

"You're staring at your screen."

"Fucking hell, Clorinde." Wriothesley nearly drops his phone at the sound of her voice.

She shoots him a look, eyebrow raised, mouth pulled into a terse frown. "You're standing there, in the middle of the locker room, staring at your screen. Are you broken?"

"I—"

No. Maybe. Wriothesely's gaze falls back to his phone and he reads the message again. And again. And again. Then he swallows thickly, his throat bobbing. It's too hot in there. He's a sweaty, pinked mess, with his bangs clinging to his forehead, and his tank top damp from his last few sets.

But the message—

"Wriothesley?"

"I—he—he messaged back."

Clorinde's expression shifts, her mouth parting, and eyes widening in confusion. "Isn't... that the point? Like, you wanted him to reply, that was the entire point of forcing me to watch you prance around in that sweater with your balls—"

"My balls were carefully tucked away, thank you very much." Enough so, at least, that Clorinde wouldn't have seen them. The rest of his body, however... yeah, that's the look of death on her face.

"Can't say the same for your butt crack. Blinding me aside, what did you expect?"

"Him to ignore me? Like, that's what guys do, right? Ghost?"

"What makes you think I know what guys do?" Clorinde stalks past him and yanks open one of the free lockers. Her gym bag is tossed in with little ceremony. "Also, like you can talk. I know you're the type to fuck a guy and then forget about him."

Wriothesley cringes. "Look, you don't need to make it seem so—"

She gives him a pointed stare as she pulls her hair into a tight ponytail. "Do you message them back?"

"No—"

"Any second dates?"

"No, but—"

Clorinde hums, dropping to the bench to swap out her sandals for tennis shoes. "No, but," she repeats, fingers curling around laces to pull them tight. "Seems like you're part of the problem, Wriothesley." Once her other shoe is secure, she stands again, testing their fit. "You know what your problem is?"

"Apparently that I'm a pump-and-dump kind of guy, according to you." Her face twists in disgust and Wriothesley reminds himself to file that quip away for later use.

"None of this is about the message, is it?" Clorinde asks this genuinely, a pair of boxing gloves slung over her shoulder. He nearly asks her who she's going to fight because that isn't her usual routine, but Clorinde puts the fear of the Archons in him sometimes and Wriothesley figures it's better to play it safe. "You have a MO," she continues, "and it's pretty simple. Find a cute guy, fuck the cute guy, and forget the cute guy. And look, I get it; dating is hard for queer folk but we have the added hurdle of getting older. No strings attached is easier than something solid."

"I want no strings attached," he hisses. "This is—this is that." He thinks, at least. LeviathanJudicator has given no indication that he's considered more than that.

"Then what's the issue? If the guy messaged you back, I fail to see the big stink." She pauses, nose wrinkling. "Aside from the fact that you still need to shower."

"Clorinde—"

"It's too soft for you, the flirting and shit. This guy seems... sweet almost, if awkward. And because it's genuine, not like your usual haunt found on Romaritime, you're freaking out."

She isn't wrong. Wriothesley lets out a long sigh and rubs his face. "I wonder if he's a unicorn. Like, he's too smooth? The sort of fantasy bullshit that Romaritime peddles on their commercials." The app was meant to be romantic, hence the name. It's used for casual hook-ups instead, and the platform is absurdly easy to ghost others on. Ask Wriothesley how he knows.

"Sliding into someone's DMs is easy enough, especially when they're looking for the same thing you are. But flirting? Clorinde, this man is flirting."

"Is he now? Let me see." She plucks Wriothesley's phone from his hands without asking and unlocks the screen. "Oh," she murmurs, her mouth curling into a mischievous grin. "'What a wonderful message to wake up to—'"

"Fucking spare me, please," grouses Wriothesley. He'd rather be tortured than have to listen to Clorinde read this aloud.

"It's cute, but I see what you mean. I'm not sure this man has ever been with another person. Maybe a weird forty-year-old virgin?"

That isn't a deal breaker. Wriothesley has slept with worse. He clears his throat and steals his phone back. "And if he is?"

"Then you'd have your work cut out for you." Clorinde crosses her arms over her chest and leans against a locker within reach of him. "I'd warn you about how that might make him clingy, but considering that you played into his hand immediately, that might fall on deaf ears."

"I'm not clingy, Clorinde."

"Didn't you jerk off to a completely clothed picture of him?"

It was a dozen different photos, but Clorinde doesn't need the details. "What do I do?"

Clorinde blinks. "Why are you asking me? Wriothesley, I don't even stay the night on the rare times I go home with someone."

Right. He's forgotten about that. There's only one person worse at relationships than him, and it's Clorinde.

She sighs, pitying him. "What do you normally do?"

When trying to woo a man, Wriothesley spends an absurd amount of time capturing the perfect, half-naked selfie. He thinks about lighting, about angles, about the line of his cock, and showing it off. Again, Clorinde doesn't need to know all of the details, so he settles with just telling her that he offers up a nice 'picture'.

"A picture," she drawls out slowly. "Right. Okay, so that's my cue to leave."

"Completely innocent, I promise!"

Clorinde does not believe him. She raises a brow, and as fast as lightning, her arm darts across the space, fingers latching around his nipple through his damp tank top. She pinches and twists. Wriothesley yelps, batting away her hand, but the damage is done.

She pulls away with a smug smirk on her face. "Just taking my payment before you forget—"

"Forget what? Shit, Clorinde, that hurt." Wriothesley rubs his palm against his battered nipple which still throbs.

"Forget that you don't pay me enough to see your ass as much as I have lately."

Wriothesley grunts. "I don't pay you at all. You moderate my chat because you love me."

"Now that's pushing it."

It isn't and they both know it. Clorinde's expression softens. "I know that you know this, but I'm in your corner, even if I complain."

Because if Clorinde wasn't, she would've shot Wriothesley in the thigh when this started. "It's just fun, Clorinde."

She hums softly. "Right. Well. Send him a picture. Something nice. Not a dick pic."

Wriothesley chokes on laughter and gives her a mock salute before she turns away. "Aye-aye, captain." He waits until Clorinde is gone to make his move. "Not a dick pic," he muses, considering his options.

Contrary to popular belief, he doesn't send a lot of those; he's been sent too many sub-par examples that he's entirely exhausted by the notion. On the rare occasion he does, it's never to a subscriber on ThirstTrap—only one-time fucks on Romaritime, and even then no faces involved. Just his dick against his hand, perfectly angled—

No, no. He'd promised Clorinde he'd behave, and something tells him that a picture of his cock might scare LeviathanJudicator off, which would be a damned shame.

"Abs," he blurts to himself. "That's a good idea, right?"

His followers seem to think so, and considering that this man is a long-time subber... Yeah, that'll do. Wriothesley opens up the camera on his phone with newfound purpose. He tugs up his tank top, fingers pulling at the hemline. The camera is tilted until he captures the perfect line of muscle, and glistening, sweat-slick skin underneath the dull yellow fluorescent lights. Just like that, just—

Not good enough. Wriothesley's followers might take whatever crumbs he feeds them, but this isn't just some... man, it's—

Wriothesley doesn't want to unpack that at the moment. The selfie, though—that he can figure out. A little bit more, he thinks. Some effort.

More...skin?

Wriothesley hooks a thumb into the waistband of his workout shorts, tugging them down to show off the sharp cut of his hip bone, and the beginnings of a trail of neatly trimmed hair underneath his navel.

Perfect. A picture is snapped with the click of his phone camera and Wriothesley takes a moment to look over it.

A glamour shot from the neck down. Damp, glistening skin. A tight, tank top pulled up to show off his muscular abdomen with a low-cut collar showing off the edges of his collarbones. The jut of his hip above low-slung shorts, and the barest hint of his half-hard cock.

He sends it through Kameragram before he can chicken out.

Thank god Clorinde is gone. She'd make fun of him for popping a boner at the thought of LeviathanJudicator seeing him half-naked, but he's a simple man. That's a normal response.

Still. "Go away," he hisses, batting at his dick. No amount of jerking off is worth Sigewinne threatening to remove it entirely.

#

Navia lets out a low whistle, prompting Neuvillette to look up from across his office. In her hand is his phone. Her eyebrows are raised, and her mouth is curved into a grin of appreciation.

"So I get it now."

"Get it?"

"Your little friend sent you a picture back and it's—" She whistles again, this time waggling her eyebrows at him. "You could wash one of your shirts on this man's abs." Navia tilts the phone at a different angle. "I prefer a softer partner, personally—someone with a good squeeze to them—but like, damn, I can still appreciate the view."

Neuvillette shoots himself across the room in an almost comical fashion. "Miss Navia!" he hisses, yanking his phone from her hand. "I regret giving you my lock screen code," he mutters.

Navia gives him a smug grin when he looks. And sees. And oh, the picture. Neuvillette's throat goes immediately dry at the sight of what he knows to be washboard abs. The line of The Duke's hip is sharp enough to cut through diamond, and the patch of hair underneath his navel—

He swallows.

"Looks like he's packing something decent too," says Navia.

She is not helping. Neuvillette's eyes dip towards the bottom of the picture and linger in the abysmally small workout shorts, and the obvious line of The Duke's cock. "Celestia above," he curses.

"Oh, that must've hurt to say. Are you having a religious experience?"

Maybe. Neuvillette feels something stirring somewhere—somewhere that Navia certainly doesn't need to be privy to.

"Later," he says, moving to shut off his phone.

"Later?" Navia clicks her tongue and reaches out to tug his phone from his hand. "No, now. You can't leave this guy on read! Come one, let's send something back."

"I—Navia, I'm working."

"So work. I'll keep your face out of it."

"I am not dressed for this—"

"Didn't stop the guy before," she murmurs. "Tilt to the side just a little bit, will you?"

Neuvillette does not; he just stands there and stares at her, mild aggravation filling his being.

Navia sighs. "Stop being such an old fish about this. You're allowed to like... enjoy yourself." She shakes his phone. "And if I had a guy sending me tailored selfies like this, believe me, I'd enjoy."

"You don't even like men—"

"Not the point! If I had a woman sending me half-naked, tailor-made peeks of smoking hot, rock hard abs with even a hint of anything below the belt, you'd bet I'd slide into those DMs right back. Don't fumble this."

Neuvillette doesn't need to hear this from her. He needs to work, he has a mountain of paperwork on his desk waiting for his attention. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezes his eyes shut, and does his best to will the thought of The Duke's scandalizing message.

It doesn't work.

Navia sees the slightest twitch of his mouth. "I know that look," she says, before he can hide it. "You're thinking about it, about him."

Yes, yes, and far too much so lately.

When Neuvillette looks at her again, Navia offers him a soft, gentle smile. "What's one picture sent back?"

Probably one too many. But Neuvillette wants, needs in a way that he didn't think possible. Heat curls in the gut at the thought of reciprocating. What would The Duke like? Something of similar taste? Or would he prefer something from Neuvillette's regular repertoire?

"It... would be the polite thing to do." A reasonable, medium ground. "To return the favor, I mean. He went through the trouble of it, so I should reciprocate in kind, yes?"

"Remember when you were left on read?"

Neuvillette cringes. Yes. It was a terrible feeling, despite the fact that he is owed nothing.

Navia hums. "Exactly. Just send something back. See what happens. If it gets weird, just block his ass."

He can't help but laugh at that. "One blessing of technology, I suppose. Gone are the days of relentless pursuit once a phone number has been given out."

Navia arches an eyebrow. She is younger, but not by much; she remembers those days too. Still, because she's prone to teasing him at every hour of day, she replies, "Ah, yes, please tell me more about the stone ages." Navia pauses, fiddling with his phone again. "And while you do that, a picture please—hey."

Neuvillette plucks the phone from her hand with little ceremony. "I... will handle this, I think."

"At least let me approve of it."

"No, Miss Navia, I think I can manage a... selfie. Now, if you would leave me be for a bit. Perhaps a quick run to the café? Use the firm's account to grab us a snack, as you usually do."

She blinks once, twice, and then her mouth quirks into a wicked grin. "Oh," she says. "Oh, you sly fish. You want some alone time to—"

"Don't be ridiculous," he cuts in. As if he'd ever. No, no, his picture response will be polite and... structured. Well-crafted with the same sort of effort that he puts into his regular fare. "I have a standard to uphold."

"But like, you're going to at least show some skin, right? Because you can see half of his di—"

"That will it for now, Miss Navia. Go take your lunch, please."

Navia hears the finality in his voice. She still wears that wicked, amused grin, and Neuvillette knows that she is, no doubt, seconds away from cracking entirely. He is in no mood for her humor. She can go choke on her laughter whilst downing an overpriced latte.

"Alright then." Navia holds up her hands in a placating gesture before standing. "This is my last offer to help you craft the perfect response."

"Your enthusiasm is noted," he says to her, dryly, earning him a short, stifled chuckle.

"I'll be checking it later—"

"You will not."

"I will," she says firmly. "You're a hopeless romantic—and not in the romantic sense, I mean in a literal, hopeless sense."

That is true, and it's why Neuvillette was whining to her, hungover and starving a couple weeks ago. And a few days ago. And even this morning. Truly, Neuvillette does not pay her enough for this.

Navia grabs her lightweight coat from the rack by his office door. It's a chillier day at the Opera Epiclese. "A collarbone, or something," she tells him, shoving her hand through an arm hole. "Or unbutton the shirt, or something—"

"Contrary to popular belief, Miss Navia, I have sent personalized lewds to another before."

Her look morphs into one of abject horror. "I—no you haven't."

Navia doesn't need to know that he was in his twenties, and that it was a portable print from an InstamaxKamera, but the point still stands. If anything, modern technology leaves more room for error. Neuvillette can try and try again without wasting precious film if the result is less than desirable.

He shoots her a secretive grin, just the tiniest tilt of his mouth upwards on one side. Navia's composure cracks entirely.

"I didn't need to—Okay, that's. Well. Just when I think you can't surprise me more than you have recently."

"Your coffee, Miss Navia."

"Right, right, my coffee. Archons, I'm never letting you forget this."

He is well aware. Neuvillette fully expects Navia to needle him about this tidbit of info for a century to come. But, frankly, it's worth it if only to get her out of his face for an hour.

Navia shoots him a double thumbs up before slipping out the door. Suddenly, the pressure in his office eases. Neuvillette drops into his desk chair with a groan, melting against the soft and worn leather.

The picture. That damnable, horrific, perfect, perfect picture.

Neuvillette opens his phone for another look. A long look, one that causes a stirring in his chest, his gut, and his trousers. Gods, it's been so long.

His fingers ghost the edge of his collar. A button, he thinks, popping it open. Another, and maybe a third. Neuvillette parts the soft silk of his shirt, tugging it open and to the side, showing off the line of his clavicle.

Neuvillette props his phone up on his desk and settles back into his chair, taking in the sight of himself in the front-facing camera. Pale skin shadowed slightly in the dimly room.

His suit jack hangs up on the rack but he still wears his waistcoat. Neuvillette parts his open collar with more care, ensuring that more of his chest is visible. Not to the nipple, but nearly so. Enough to make a mouth water and want more.

The rest of himself is still dressed up and crisp; just his neck, the hollow of his throat, and the smooth expanse of skin underneath are on display.

Yes, that is a start.

Neuvillette has enough know-how to trigger his phone camera remotely. He waves his hand in front of the screen, and the picture snaps several seconds later. He adjusts his position, leaning back casually in his seat. Two more photos. Another, this time tilted to the other side.

After, he scrolls through them and picks the best of the bunch; one where he's tilted to the right and forward, his shirt parted and falling open ever-so-slightly, the edge of a pink nipple peeking out from the button placket.

"Navia will say that I've blinded her," he muses, doing the minor edits he always does to enhance the image. "Perhaps, it'll keep her from peeking into his phone unprompted."

Better to cull that habit now because if it escalates—

Neuvillette is unlikely to send something with actual nudity, but he isn't quite sure about The Duke. The last time Navia saw a dick unprompted she'd been rather unkind with her words. Neuvillette doesn't enjoy the idea of her comparing any object of his desire to a shriveled sea slug.

Her words, not his. Neuvillette had taken the higher ground and opted not to tell her what he thought about vaginas.

"Serviceable," he says to himself as he queues up the message. "I am not unhandsome."

But now what to say? Oh, this is where Navia would come in.

The Duke's sweaty selfie had come with something simple:

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> I dunno if you hit the gym but it's where I call home

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> worked up a nice sweat thinking about your message, sweetheart

Neuvillette hates pet names but for some reason, his eyes get hung up on this one. His breath catches when he reads over it, and he runs his tongue across the edges of his teeth as he chews on a response.

[LeviathanJudicator] >> You will find that I sweat over paperwork in my office. However, in the spirit of things, I feel as though it is slow enough to loosen the tie, so to speak.

He sends the picture as an attached file. And then Neuvillette waits. Twiddles his thumbs like a nervous teenager, like it's his first day in court, and his senior Focalors is beside him, watching with a critical eye.

Neuvillette is not a man of nervous habits but he taps his foot, the sole of his expensive shoes clicking against the tiled floor. He pulls at a loose thread on his trousers. He—

He gets a response.

Neuvillette's phone chirps not even a moment later. Record time. The Duke's answer comes so quickly that Neuvillette's brain short-circuits.

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> that's...

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> okay so dont judge me but like fucking damn

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> is there a dress code at work or do you just like working me up?

Oh. Oh, what a sly thing.

As is the picture that comes in next, another casual selfie that shows The Duke laying out on a couch. His shirt is tugged up again, but as if it happened naturally. The Duke's hand rests against the space underneath his navel, palm flat against the low-slung waistband of his sweatpants.

Nothing untoward but provocative nonetheless. The implication is clear, from how his hand sits, to the way his legs are just slightly parted for comfort.

Neuvillette hides a sheepish grin behind his hand.

A suit. That's all that it took for this man to crack so easily. Even if Neuvillette's chest is partially on display, it's far more safe for work than most ads he sees on billboards, and in the mall.

[LeviathanJudicator] >> Dress code or not, this is, admittedly, my standard wardrobe.

Another moment, and another picture, this time with less of his chest on proper display. Instead his sleeves are rolled up, showing long, slender forearms. Well-sculpted. A vein runs down the length of one, curling around the jut of his wrist bone before disappearing into a leather.

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> gloves?

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> who knew you were so fancy?

[TheDukeDownUnder] >> what's a guy gotta do to see some fingers?

Neuvillette knows teasing when he sees it. The flirting is gentle and cute. This, he can do. This, he can—

"Oh Archons, that look on your face." A pause. "And your clothing—Sir."

Navia. He was so lost in the moment that he didn't hear her slip back into the office.

"I see that the lunch hour is up." He politely clears his throat before scrambling to re-clasp at least one of the buttons—enough so that his entire chest isn't hanging out anymore. The top two, though... Those can stay open. For motivation.

When he finally meets Navia's face, she wears a crooked, devilish grin. "So, I stand corrected. It seems as though Monsieur Neuvillette might actually have some skin in the game."

"I am merely rusty, is all. Which I told you."

"I won't apologize for thinking it was a lie. I take it he, uh, enjoyed the view?"

Neuvillette nods. "We've been engaged in witty banter for the last hour."

"Witty banter?" she repeats, her face scrunching. "Ugh, no, that's—okay, maybe I spoke too soon. You'll scare him off that way."

He gives her a cool look. "I'll have you now that he is the force behind the lighthearted teasing. My responses are merely that, tailored to the same energy that he is sending me—Miss Navia."

Neuvillette isn't quick enough to reach his phone before she darts across the room and slams her hand against his desk.

But then she pauses. "If I unlock this, I won't see your dick, will I?"

He scowls. "Of course, not. I have standards, and this is my place of work."

"Yeah, okay, we'll see how long those standards last when he sends you one." Another pause. "He didn't send you one, did he?"

Not outright, but he certainly wasn't hiding the goods, as it were. Neuvillette nearly died at the sight of his clothed erection in one shot, and it took him nearly five minutes to muster up enough thoughts to coin a poignant response.

"So that silence is telling," she says.

"He's fully clothed!"

"Noted."

Oh, this is embarrassing. It's beyond embarrassing. It doesn't matter how many years Neuvillette has known Navia, or the fact that they are more than just friends and colleagues—she's family at this point—there is nothing that can stop the way that his cheeks burn hot.

Navia unlocks his phone and scrutinizes his offerings to The Duke with silence and a critical eye. He watches as her thumb pulls across the screen. She hums thoughtfully and taps her chin.

"I assume your lack of critique means that I have fared rather decently in my flirting back?" Neuvillette can't help but feel the tiniest smug. Yes, he'd been concerned, but he's always caught on quickly, and this isn't a matter of a lack of knowledge.

It's just a matter of getting back into the seat of the action. There's a saying that old dogs can't learn new tricks, but Neuvillette can confidently say that they never forget them once learned.

"You get a pass this time," she says. "But only because The Duke seems to share your awkward and ancient tendencies." Navia flashes him an amused grin. "Truly, what are the chances that you'd meet a man so aligned with you?"

Not high. Neuvillette tries not to think about it now, just like he's tried to ignore it from the moment he sent that first message. The Duke enjoying the sight of a man in a suit... Others would likely thank Celestia, but Neuvillette chalks it up entirely to luck.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, I suppose. If you need any advice—"

"You'll be the last that I ask."

A joke. Navia shoots him a haughty smile back because she knows that she'll be the first person that he comes to.

#

So, things escalated.

Enough so that Neuvillette had to beg Navia not to look at his account for any additional assistance.

Her expression is a Cheshire thing. "Oh," she purrs, "did he finally send you something truly naughty?"

No. Yes. Depends on who's asking. "It isn't a nude, if that's what you're thinking. It is... an invitation? Or rather, an opportunity. The Duke has presented me with the option of a private stream. The cost is considerable, but I would assume that it is of a more... personal nature."

Navia's mouth drops open. Then she says, bluntly, "This is where you say yes."

Neuvillette should have said no.

Neuvillette did not say no; he instead transferred a hefty sum through ThristTrap's secure payment services, and now he sits there, awkwardly, waiting in an empty cam room for the star of the show to appear.

Should he be on the bed? Would his desk be better? The chair is comfortable enough, and his home office isn't so small that he wouldn't be able to stretch out. But the bed would be better, right?

No faces, at least—that was one of the terms immediately agreed upon, one which Neuvillette is thankful for. As much as he's curious, as much as he wants to know exactly what sits underneath that mask, he isn't about to show his own skin. He's too well known, too familiar to the public. The Duke doesn't need that baggage of a lead prosecutor weighing him down.

Still, he can dream. Think and imagine. A private show.

Neuvillette knows what it will entail and he's nervous—a giddy sort of nervousness that flutters in his gut. He can just... watch. Whatever The Duke wants to share and show. That would be enough.

But, but—

"The office," he murmurs, changing his mind. He shuts his laptop and gets up, moving to a more neutral space. Once in his leather chair, his PC whirs to life, and he finds himself opening up the web browser, and joining that damnable video room once more.

More casual but impersonal when compared to the bedroom. Detached. Yes, this is better. Neuvillette is dressed down, still in his work trousers, but sans his waist coat and finery. His shirt is untucked and loose. Those topmost buttons are still undone, and he knows the line of his neck is handsomely on display.

He swallows, that nervousness creeping up his spine. It settles in his gut. Hallows out his chest.

No, no, this is okay. The Duke is kind. He'll be warm and gentle.

Just as Neuvillette is about to nope out officially, a call comes in, Cerberus69 flashing across the monitor screen. Neuvillette answers it on autopilot. The feed flares to life, showing that The Duke is not in his usual filming space.

A couch—the same one featured in his pictures from earlier that day, all creased and cracked black leather. He wears the same sweatpants, and a tank top that is so tight it might as well be painted onto his form. "Hello sweetheart," he croons.

This was a mistake. Neuvillette cannot and will not ever recover from this; not from the pet name, or the way that The Duke's mouth curls around it. The sound of it is sinful, smooth and velvety. The Duke lounges on the couch, the camera positioned so that everything below the neck part of the show.

"The mask is too constricting and I'm too tired to wear it, so I hope you understand. Judging by earlier today though... I don't think you'll mind."

Neuvillette snorts softly. "Ah, no, it's agreeable, as I earlier said."

There is a pause as The Duke is caught off guard by something. "I—wow, okay, I didn't expect you to sound so..." He trails off before clearing his throat. "No camera?"

"Is it not..." The microphone seems to be working, but Neuvillette hadn't realized that the camera was off. He checks the angle and feed, and it's set up to his preferred specifications, but nothing else. "I apologize. I must have toggled it off. Or—blast it. Forgive me... I am not the most, er, knowledgeable when it comes to technology."

"Oh no complaints here. I barely know how to run this thing. My old roommate—my moderator? She's the one that handles all that shit. She's a blessing and a curse, but beyond the basics I'm equally useless."

The pressure in Neuvillette's chest eases. So, perhaps this'll be easier than he initially worried over. The Duke talks to him like a friend, not a client, this version stripped down and bare when compared to what Neuvillette is used to seeing on his stream. Personable. Private.

"Just for you," he'd said earlier.

In more ways than one it seems.

"Let me fiddle with this," murmurs Neuvillette, rolling his mouse over the video options.

"There should be a button with a camera. If you hit that it'll probably—Oh!"

"I assume that did it then?"

"Yes, you're... well. Collarbones."

Neuvillette snorts at that, settling back into his chair. He's positioned his camera just so he can lean back and relax, but nothing above his throat can be seen. Maybe a sliver of his jaw line when bent a certain way. Perhaps the ends of his hair where they dust the back of his neck.

"You do seem to have an affinity for those."

"Not in general, no."

Neuvillette stills, head tilted. What?

"I'm a whole picture kind of guy, is all that I mean. Rarely do I enjoy the finer details, but—"

"But?"

"I mean, there's little else of you I've seen, so it's easy to get hung up on those finer parts."

Finer parts, he'd said. Those details. The Duke describes him as if he's a classical painting.

"Mr—" A pause. "... Duke? I—didn't think about this. What to call you."

Laughter filters in from the other side of the call. "I didn't either, truth be told. I never... Well. I don't usually do this. Uh, private... shows. Calls? I never do that. Or send others my private account on Kameragram, by the way. You have me acting like a fool."

"A fool?" repeats Neuvillette, considering this.

The Duke's hand rests against his belly, playing with the fabric of his sweatpants idly. Pulling and plucking at the folds. Hiding his half-hard erection.

Neuvillette's mouth goes dry. It really does take this man nothing. Initially he'd thought it amusing, but with The Duke's confession, Neuvillette is presented with the knowledge that this must be unusual. He is the one that does this to him.

"Client talk," Navia would tell him, which would be the standard case, but this—No, this feels different.

"Wriothesley," says the Duke, catching him off guard.

"Pardon?"

"That's my name. My preferred name. I'm trusting you with it."

Neuvillette's cock twitches in response. "I will cherish it, then," he murmurs, grinding the heel of his palm against the front of his trousers idly, "and keep it safe."

"Fuck, you're—"

"Neuvillette," he says unwisely. Navia would scold him, but he'd scold her back. It's his last name, at least. He isn't the only Monsieur Neuvillette to grace the shores of Fontaine; it's a common enough name that it alone shouldn't raise any red flags.

"Neuvillette," says Wriothesley, testing it, seeing the way that it coats his tongue. "Are you going to undress for me, sweetheart?"

"Shouldn't that be something I ask of you?" The response is fluid and quick. Neuvillette has no idea where it comes from, but judging by the soft groan that Wriothesley lets loose, and the way he palms at his trousers, it lands just as it's intended.

"Yeah, I can..." He falls quiet. Neuvillette sees the way his throat bobs as he swallows. "So I'm absolutely up for jacking off for you, but I need you to know that I've never like... this isn't something—"

"You did mention that this isn't something you usually do."

"No, I mean I've never done this. With a client. Gah, that sounds too impersonal, you aren't like—I don't really have partners either, but this is the sort of thing reserved solely for hook-ups, so I'm a little bit nervous."

Nervous. This man is nervous? This man who streams half naked, who reads explicit content aloud, who has been sending lewd after lewd photo the entire day before propositioning him is nervous?

"I am too," says Neuvillette, "which makes it all the sweeter, no?"

"Smooth talker. I should've known. You and those damned suits. Are you a new man a week kind of guy?"

"More like a new man every decade sort of man. I rarely, rarely date, Wriothesley. I'm too busy to commit to even casual fraternization, which is how I wandered across your stream. I schedule my needs, which suits me. But you—I stayed for you."

"You've followed for a long time. I've noticed."

"Did that capture your attention?"

"You're quiet and polite, that's what captured my attention."

Neuvillette hums, spreading his thighs slightly, dropping his hand to rest against his now aching cock. "And the collarbones," he teases.

"I thought you said you'd be awkward at this. You said you'd be terrible." Wriothesley takes a bolder approach, squeezing at his hardened length through his clothing. "I think you lied."

"I merely warned you that I was... out of practice. I am old, Wriothesley, old enough that it's been a long time since I've indulged in such carnal needs."

"I'm not a spring chicken, you know. I'm nearly forty."

Closer to his age than Neuvillette had expected. "That is the other thing that drew me to you, you know. An older, distinguished streamer."

"Yeah? What else? Tell me, sweetheart. I want to hear it."

Neuvillette tells him; he tells him that he likes the silver in his hair, and the laugh lines around his mouth when he grins. That his favorite streams are the ones where he just talks, and that he enjoys winding down for the night with the deep purr of his voice in his ears.

"It's calming, listening to you. That is all. You make me feel... warm. Content."

"Hah, you're... polite." Wriothesley chuckles softly. "Others don't—well, others are very clear in what they want. I'm a piece of meat to them. They just want to look."

Neuvillette raises a brow even though he knows Wriothesley cannot see it. "Make no mistake, Wriothesley, I look as well. I want to, and I enjoy doing so quite thoroughly."

"Do you touch yourself, sweetheart?"

Yes, yes, but it's always after a stream. The only time— "Recently," he says. "That night I sent you the link to my account, I was wound up. Desperate. It was hard to stop myself."

"And now?"

"I find myself in a similar predicament."

A soft curse. "Hang on," mutters Wriothesley, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants to tug at them. "Let me get these off."

Once done they leave little to the imagination. Neuvillette has seen him in boxer briefs before, but never has Wriothesley been fully hard on stream. His interest is apparent. His length is hard and thick, and there's a wet patch on the front where his underwear is tented.

"Your pictures," he says, "the moment I saw them the next morning. Couldn't help myself. Hand on my dick, and all that jazz."

He... Neuvillette's brain is a flurry of thoughts. Wriothesley touched himself to the thought of him, the sight of him. The Duke, the object of his sordid desire, touched himself.

Neuvillette had thought he'd admired him, surely. Enjoyed the pictures and maybe wanted to see more. But those pictures— "I was fully clothed," he teases. "Wriothesley, those are just pictures of me in a suit."

"Doesn't matter. Hot as fuck, every inch of you. Can I see more, baby?"

He frowns but doesn't correct the pet name. Wriothesley can have whatever fantasy he needs as part of this game. Neuvillette tugs at his shirt, spreading the open collar. Slides his hand down his front, rucking up the hemline, showing off a sliver of his stomach.

"Shit, yeah, okay. More please."

Please. Wriothesley said please. And who is Neuvillette to deny such a sweet request? He paws at the openings of his trousers. "My work clothes," he mutters, fingers sliding over the fastenings.

"Show off every curve, I assure you."

"You're one to speak. That sweater the last night—"

"Did you like that? I wore it specifically for you."

Neuvillette knows that. He's thought about it the same as he has everything else. And those times—over and over again, hand on his cock, spilling into his hand, the shower, a litany of embarrassing places in his home. Now it's the tight weave of that knit that will haunt him, the way it dipped low in the back and rose high on Wriothesley's ass.

"Yes," he says, soft and breathy, shucking off his trousers until they pool around his ankles.

"Black."

His underthings; Neuvillette wears custom-tailored boxer briefs of only the finest moisture-wicking bamboo. He's hard too, and palming at his length doesn't feel as awkward as it could.

But then again, everything about this has felt natural, and normal, despite its strangeness. Neuvillette has never, would have never done something like this before. But the Duke. But Wriothesley. Neuvillette spreads his legs to offer a better view, trailing his fingers from the base of his bulge to the tip.

"That's all you have for me, sweetheart? Do I need to sweeten the pot?"

It's easy to fall into Wriothesley's debauchery. More pretty words, more praise flies from those lips. Wriothesley is so polite with his delicately worded requests. "Sweetheart," he calls him, and Neuvillette can pretend, for a moment, that he genuinely means it.

Wriothesley's cock is handsome. Neuvillette cannot look away once it's fully bared and resting against the flat of Wriothesley's palm. Thick and long. Delicious. Neuvillette wants his mouth around it, wants it pressed deep, wants it filling him—

Neuvillette doesn't even know what Wriothesley likes. So he asks. Shucks off his own underthings, strokes his cock once, and asks Wriothesley what he likes.

"Oh, you're a pretty thing. I want to taste you."

Yes, Neuvillette craves that too. He lets loose a breath as he pulls across his cock, thumbing over the head to spread the precome that beads there.

"Neuvillette, do you have lube?"

Wriothesley's question is barely finished before Neuvillette is rooting around in a desk drawer. A soft chuckle. "So you do? That looks like an office—do you touch yourself there too?"

Occasionally. Once in a blue moon when Neuvillette is heavily wound up. Sometimes the late nights are too much, and a quick orgasm is a surefire way to get his brain on track. He never thought he'd do something so licentious though, that he'd sit there on camera, touching himself for another.

The pleasure of it is a wicked, wicked thing. It zings down his spine and curls in his gut, and all that Neuvillette can think of is how this'll still leave him hollow and wanting more when all is said and done.

"Spell it out for me, sweetheart. What do you like? What would you want me to do?"

Too many things. Not enough things. Neuvillette squeezes around the base of his cock, staving off a wave of heat that threatens to tip him over. He blinks slowly. Looks at the camera. Watches Wriothesley tug his cock with thick, calloused fingers.

Neuvillette's eyes trace their length. He thinks of them pressing deep, bullying his insides, ghosting over his prostate until he's weak-kneed in the sheets and begging for more. Edging—he's never really enjoyed it, long-hauled pleasure bitten back until it's too much.

But with Wriothesley he'd try. With Wriothesley Neuvillette thinks he'd give into pleasure properly, and learn to enjoy the game of it. Being pushed and pulled at, those tendrils of pleasure plucked until he's coming, spilling into his hand or the sheets.

Down Wriothesley's throat? That smooth tongue of his tracing each vein—

"Neuvillette?"

He moans at the sound of his name. His cock is so wet it drips like a fountain from the tip. "Anything," he says, dragging his thumb through the slit. "Your hand on my cock. Your mouth around it. Your fingers—" Neuvillette's breath hitches as the pad of his thumb traces the sensitive underside of his dick.

"My fingers what, baby? Where would you want them?"

"Inside. I'd want them inside, spreading me apart, opening me up—"

Wriothesley looses a low, decadent curse. His hand slides over his length faster. "Fuck, sweetheart, I didn't think you'd want me like that."

Neuvillette shudders, a choked sound caught in his throat. As if he couldn't, as if he wouldn't. "Why is that so shocking? Wriothesley, you are a menace. The thought of you lurks in my brain. I cannot not think about—" A soft groan as his hips jerk, tilting to fuck into the tight grip of his hand.

"What have you done with those thoughts?" Neuvillette whines at the question, head slamming back against his chair. "Tell me, please. I want to hear it."

Everything. Neuvillette has done just about everything, from stroking his cock, to shoving his fingers deep into his ass, all to the thought of him, The Duke, Wriothesley.

Thoughts are hard. Words are harder. "I get keyed up," he says. "Your streams—never during them, but after..." His fingers twist around the head of his cock. He hurtles towards the end. Heat burns brighter in his gut, and when Neuvillette looks, he sees that Wriothesley's hand has stilled, that his attention is on him, only him, and how Neuvillette touches himself. Raptured. What he'd give to see his face.

"I imagine that it's you, your fingers. I know they'd feel good. I know that you'd take care of me, that you'd be so good. And so that's how I touch myself—to the thought of you, and your fingers, your body, your everything."

Wriothesley comes first. Just one squeeze of those calloused fingers around his cock to Neuvillette's debauched wishes, and he's spilling all over his fist. That's—that's—

Neuvillette cannot think of the last time someone was so captivated by him. Even with his rare partners, even with his occasional fucks, never has another come at just the sight of him, or the things that fall from his lips in a streamlined ramble.

His own cock twitches and aches against his palm. Neuvillette drags his palm across its length. Cradles his balls with his other hand, squeezing at them lightly, rolling them against his fingers. "Wriothesley," he says, lost as he watches him through the camera, dragging his fingers through his come. "Wriothesley—"

"Are you going to come for me?"

Yes, yes—and he does. That heat builds until it can't anymore. It snaps, white-hot and burning. Neuvilllette moans, arching in his chair as he shoots his load against his belly.

The aftermath, Neuvillette thinks, should be more awkward than this. There's never been a hazy aftermath for him, that slow come down of satisfaction burning through him. It's always been tense. Stiff. Ruffled sheets, and the shuffling of clothing as his partner redresses and leaves.

But this is—

"You've got to clean yourself up, sweetheart."

"What?" he murmurs.

"Neuvillette, you've made a mess. If I was there, I'd take care of it, but I'm not."

He'd take care of him. Wriothesley would be so good, just like he figured.

"That's right," he continues, and Neuvillette realizes he must've said that aloud. "Don't let it sit, baby. You need to clean up."

Neuvillette groans softly as he shifts, the weight of his aching joints slamming into him. On camera, Wriothesley hasn't moved; he sits forward and though Neuvillette can't see his face, he can tell he's making sure he does as he's asked.

"Yes, right, I'll—" He hisses softly as he drags a handkerchief over his flagging cock. Clean-up is slow and messy, but he manages, tossing the soiled fabric off to the side.

Wriothesley waits until he's done to do the same. Neuvillette watches him mill about, wiping himself down. He talks, chattering softly, and though Neuvillette doesn't process the words, he's comforted all the same. It's nice, sitting there. His chest is warm, the heat in his core has simmered into gentle warmth. The tension of his being has been sloughed away. Neuvillette sighs, content, tired—but the good sort of tired that leaves everything pleasantly sore.

"Are you falling asleep on me? It's late, no?"

"I like listening to you. I'm just... doing that. I don't want to hang up yet."

A soft hum from the speaker on his desk. "Why don't you disconnect for a second and reconnect on your phone? Go lay down and we'll keep chatting as long as you want."

That sounds divine. Neuvillette agrees, cutting the video short, and sending a rare prayer to Celestia that Wriothesley is still on the other end when he's settled in his sheets.

Wriothesley answers immediately; barely one ring in the call connects, this time with no video. Audio only.

"I'm tired too," he says. "But I didn't want to hang up either."

That sounds like a confession. Neuvillette's cheeks heat and he's all awkward again, like a teenager dipping his toes in the dating pool. But it's easy. Talking to Wriothesley. And that's what they do for the rest of the night; they swap stories, and laugh at and with each other, and Neuvillette dozes off to that deep voice pressed against his ear.

He doesn't think he's ever slept so well.