CW: Contains Smut. Neuvillette gets a little inebriated here but I didn't think it warranted a full tag, and it's mostly for the giggles I promise. Also, Wriothesley reads a smut book aloud that features monsterfucking, eggs, and ovipositors. That too, is for the giggles.

--

"You do know that your phone has died, right?"

Wriothesley's face tilts towards Clorinde, who leans over the offending piece of tech. It's propped against a stack of weights, and no, he didn't know that—he was too busy counting out his current set and staring off into the distance. He curses, dropping the dumbbell in his hand to the mat.

"Ah." Clorinde's mouth curls into a smile as she watches him scramble. "So you didn't—"

"I don't need to hear it from you, miss, 'I have a flip phone'—"

"It isn't a flip phone," she replies tersely. "Or, it is, but it's still a fancy smartphone and certainly newer than yours."

"You traded up because of nostalgia." Wriothesley shoots her a knowing look before leaning over to pluck his phone from the floor. "But, you lack the technical know-how of how phones work."

Clorinde raises an eyebrow. "Says the man who didn't realize his phone was dying?"

"I wasn't looking!"

She snorts softly. "I know how to text and answer a call. That's all that's needed."

Clorinde would say that. Clorinde is allergic to anything that doesn't involve CrossFit, sharpshooting, and butting into Wriothesley's business. Like being nosey and peeking at his phone.

"Well, just in time, I guess. I've been needing a break. Hungry?"

"I wasn't, but now that you've said something..."

Wriothesley shoots her a grin. "Want to call it an early day and go to Café Lutece? An order of Crepes Suzette would really hit the spot—"

"Right in your gut," cuts in Clorinde, following him to the locker room. It's an unspoken rule that Clorinde is allowed on the men's side, no questions asked. Besides, it's not as though she's looking with intent—her eyes wander in an entirely different direction, and the gym is small enough that the others don't care. "What happened to the diet?"

"I'm still bulking up!" A flimsy excuse that has Clorinde giving him the look. "Look, there's nothing wrong with a treat here and there, and you know how good the Conch Madeleines are—"

"Alright, alright, you don't have to sell it to me." Clorinde waves a hand. "You had me at Café Lutece. Besides, you need a break, I need a drink, and we need to talk about plans for the week."

"It's—" Wriothesley looks at his watch. "—barely noon, Clorinde. Surely it's too early for booze."

"Have you never heard of brunch and mimosas? But no, I was thinking about a nice latte. I know their tea is mid—"

"It isn't that bad." Wriothesley tugs off his sweaty shirt and drops it into his bag. He pats himself down with a damp towel, paying particular attention to his neck and face, and then it too is tossed into the bag. "It's drinkable. Besides, like I said—the madeleines."

While Clorinde's comment about his diet was mostly a tease, he could be better about his occasional treats. But the madeleines are just too good, and they enhance even the most subpar teas.

He tugs on a fresh shirt and looks at her. "Decent?"

Clorinde leans over and sniffs, her face wrinkling comically. "Decent enough to sit outside. As long as no one is within five feet, we should be safe."

Rude. Wriothesley reaches into his bag, grabs his soiled shirt, and chucks it at her in response.

She stands there as it smacks her, and then she drawls, slowly and deadpan, "Delightful." She peels away the article and tosses it right back into his bag. "And you wonder why you're single."

Wriothesley shrugs. Reaching for a comb, he attempts to groom his wild rat's nest of hair, grunting slightly when the tines get stuck on the coarse strands. "You act as if I'm trying to be anything else."

Because he isn't. Wriothesley isn't wired for relationships. They require too much trust, too much vulnerability, and he isn't about to dip his toes into that. Clorinde should get it because she's the same, and that's why they are two peas in a pod.

She's too quiet though—quiet enough that he looks at her again. Her expression is soft and contemplative.

"What's with that look?"

"Hm? Oh, it's nothing, just... Well. We aren't getting any younger, right?"

"Surely you aren't thinking about dating again." Wriothesley hisses softly as the comb finally slides through a tangle. "Clorinde, you're my wing-woman—"

"Wouldn't that imply that you are dating?"

Wriothesley snorts. "An occasional fuck and run isn't dating. Don't leave me stranded." A few more tugs of his comb make his hair presentable. "Besides, didn't you swear off men years ago?"

Men, yes. Women, though?

"Women are fair game," replies Clorinde, the expected response, one repeated so often that Wriothesley mouths the words alongside her the moment they slip from Clorinde's mouth. She reaches over and nudges him sharply in the ribs. "Enough of that, though. I'm hungry."

Only because Wriothesley suggested they grab a bite to eat. Still, he shoots her a smile, and shoulders his gym bag.

"Yeah, let's get out of here before we're cornered by Sigewinne."

#

"So, the schedule for the weekend."

Wriothesley is halfway through his bite of crepe when Clorinde broaches the topic. He groans, shoving the fork into his mouth and swallowing. "Do we have to talk shop here? Can't it wait?"

"It could," she says, "but it's better to just get it out of the way, no? Besides, you'll bounce the moment we're done and then we'll have to have this chat over the phone—"

"Which you're allergic to. Got it."

Clorinde levels him with an unamused look. "I do remember saying that phone calls were fine. It is you who decidedly dislikes them."

Wriothesley cringes at the accusation. It isn't his fault that he dislikes it. Direct messages and emails are easier. Clorinde only gets a pass because he's known her forever. She carries the distinct titles of "bestie" and "ex-roommate", and is the only person that he remotely trusts. Others are email-zoned, as it were.

"Okay, then, the schedule," he begins, shoving his food around his plate.

"I knew you'd come around," she replies, earning herself another groan and a roll of Wriothesley's eyes. "You have a boxing match, right? I think I saw it on the gym calendar."

Wriothesley nods and hums softly. "Yeah, that guy from Mondstadt. Mr. Dark-something or other." He chuckles. "Last time we crossed mitts he told me he preferred a fight name which I get, but like..." Wriothesley waves his hand. "He could've picked something less comic book-y."

"I remember that being a good match, though. Excited to have another go at him?"

She knows that he is, and Wriothesley shoots her a grin and winks before shoving another bite into his mouth.

"So, Saturday's booked up. Good to know. Does that mean you're streaming on Friday like usual?"

"Nine P.M. on the dot." Clorinde nods and sips at her latte, silence stretching between them. And it's fine—Wriothesely can sit there and just enjoy space beside her, but he'd be a fool to not use the shared lunch to needle her in the same way that she did him. "So, about earlier... got eyes on any girls?"

"Wriothesley—" Oh, that's a terrible tone. "—we are not talking about that."

He behaves, his mouth snapping shut. Clorinde has shot him in the ass for less things, so he pulls back his teasing and doesn't push.

After a moment, though, she sighs, and says, "But, to humor you, the answer is no. Every recent date has been..." She trails off, her mouth contorting into a sour frown.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

"It's a nightmare out there," says Wriothesley in solidarity. "Especially for folks our age. That's why it's easy to go for something with no strings attached. Besides, you like being alone. Remember when you kicked me out?"

Clorinde's mouth twitches slightly at one corner. "I'd seen one too many bare asses belonging to your conquest of the day."

"Yeah, yeah, you had to preserve your sanity, I'm sure."

"I'd prefer to think of it as self-care," replies Clorinde smoothly.

It isn't a fight with weight. They'd slummed it together as roommates for nearly a decade and even Wriothesley decided that he'd needed the space, so it worked out in the end. He loves Clorinde, truly, but it's been nice to just... stretch out and make a place his.

Plus, she doesn't get to yell at him for leaving out dishes any more. Like yeah, it gets lonely but he thinks they're better for it. Clorinde is there nearly every other day, especially to help with—

"Oh, that reminds me," he says suddenly. "Are we still on for tonight?"

Clorinde drags a hand down her face and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Gods, I'd hoped you forgot. Can't you figure out how to use the timing option on your camera?"

"I know how to use it," Wriothesley tells her, a smug expression pulling across his face. "But you always get the best angles to show off my assets—"

"Please never say that again."

Wriothesley will. It's a standard phrase in his vernacular used specifically to annoy her. He leans over and steals a madeleine from her coffee cup saucer and takes a bite. "Your help is apprecass iated. As thanks, I'll pay for your coffee."

"I deserve more than a damn coffee having to see your ass hanging out of—"

"And that's a little too much info to be tossing out there in the open, Clorinde." Wriothesley shoots her a glare and then looks frantically at a table just feet away sporting a couple and their young child. "Really?"

Clorinde snickers and steals the madeleine back. "Get your own damn cookies."

"I'm paying for it!"

"Don't remind me." Her reply is as dry as the Sumeru desert. "But yes, tonight. Just try not to blind me."

Wriothesley promises no such thing.

#

Clorinde gives him a once-over with a critical eye. She looks unimpressed, a furrow between her brows, and her bottom lip caught between her teeth. That doesn't bode well. She taps her chin, walking around him, taking in the sight from every angle.

Wriothesley presses a hand to his bare chest, not so much self-conscious, but concerned about his chosen attire for this particular photoshoot. Before he can ask, Clorinde reaches out and tugs on the loosely knotted tie hanging limp against his sternum.

"Do men actually find this attractive?"

"I'll have you know that my audience is equal opportunity when it comes to gender," Wriothesley retorts.

Clorinde meets his face. "You're wearing a tie and a glorified jock strap."

"It's proper underwear!" Even if the ass is cut out. The point is that everything important is covered, fully, and the waistband even reaches his hips.

"I don't find this remotely sexy."

"You're a lesbian."

Clorinde hums. "Again, another reason that I'm the wrong choice to help you."

She's the best choice, actually, and she knows it. Not only does Wriothesley trust her but she has a solid camera eye. Even untrained, Clorinde manages to get his good side, leaving Wriothesley looking less like a man pushing forty and more like a silver fox to be admired. Truly, he owes his entire channel to her, which is why she gets critiquing rights.

"Look, I took a poll and this is what won. Shirtless—that's a no-brainer. Everyone wants to see these guns—"

"I will shoot you," deadpans Clorinde from where she sets up the camera from across the room.

Wriothesley flexes his muscles just to spite her. "As for the bottoms—"

"Can you actually call them that?"

"—these are the highest quality, made of moisture-wicking bamboo viscose. They leave no lines underneath your clothing and—"

"Your ass is hanging out."

Wriothesley frowns. There's no need to point it out for a second time. "That's the entire point," he reminds her. He turns and looks at himself in the floor-length mirror to the side. "I work hard on these gains so naturally I should show them off."

Clorinde gives him a cursory glance and fails to hide her grin. "I'll grudgingly admit that of the male asses out there, yours is above standard."

A rare compliment. Wriothesley shoots her a grin and tucks it away for a rainy day. "So, where do you want me, O Mighty Photographer?"

Her teasing over with, she looks at him again, thinking. "Well, as you said, we should offer up the gains. Bend over and show me those glutes."

Wriothesley chokes on his laughter, wheezing as he coughs through it. Oh, the things she says. But this is also why they have a rapport he shares with no one else. Clorinde knows him like the back of her palm, almost better than he knows himself. She's aware of everything; his gritty and grimy past, the things that haunt him in the present, and his trust issues.

They're old—old enough to be wiser but there are times that Wriothesley feels like he knows nothing at all. Clorinde makes it easier. Bearable. It's nice to have a friend to share those woes, and who's willing to snap photos of his mildly hairy ass for the sake of Wriothesley's dubious side hustle.

So, he could complain but he doesn't. He just kneels onto the mattress, jutting his backside out for a good angle. Wriothesley shoots her a glance over his shoulder, schooling his gaze into something sultry, and says, "Good enough?"

Clorinde says nothing but the click of the camera is loud in the room.

#

The photo set is a hit, which comes as no surprise.

Clorinde's teasing aside, Wriothesley knows that he is, objectively, handsome. Enough people toss him money to gaze upon his half-naked form that any anxieties that may have once wracked him have gone right out the door.

It'd been a mid-life crisis thing—starting up a ThirstTrap account. He's aging, going gray, and it's harder and harder to snag cute guys when out on the town. So Wriothesley thought: What is the harm? He posts up a few lewds, gets a few bites, and maybe makes a couple hundred on the side. Being a personal trainer pays his bills, but a slush fund is nice, and Wriothesley deemed it worth the ill-advised idea™.

Clorinde had laughed at him. Literally. Wriothesley spilled the beans the next day over coffee and tea cakes at Café Lutece, and she'd laughed so hard he thought he might've broken her. He's known Clorinde for decades and that is the only time he's seen her double over and lose it.

She'd stopped laughing after the first payout because Wriothesley was an instant sensation, a rough and tumble, silver fox showing off the goods. As it turns out, there's a market for decent-looking middle-aged men with gnarly scars, and a bomb-ass physique.

The streaming came naturally. His fans love his photo sets, sure, but a chance to see him in action? No, not a camboy—Wriothesley would never. He's too embarrassed to pull out his dick and stroke it in front of a crowd, but lewds? Implied content? Shaking his butt a little to ooing and awing audience members?

Worth the money, at least.

"So, what did we think of the last outfit, hm? You all voted on it and I think that it was a hit."

The chat of his stream goes wild with comments, and Wriothesely gives a silent shout-out to Clorinde who moderates from the privacy of her own home. Bless her. Seriously. Wriothesley has a thick skin but some of his followers are... well, they're something.

Parasocial relationships know no bounds.

"I know that I'm done up more than usual today, but you know the rules—the more donations that come in, the more that comes off."

Wriothesely lounges on his couch in well-cut trousers and a nice button-down that defines his biceps. He fiddles with the tie around his neck—loosely knotted, just like the photo set from a few days prior. "I was thinking," he says, "that tonight we'll indulge in a follower favorite. What do you think about me reading aloud to you?"

The chat pops off and Wriothesley grins, pulling that tie open entirely and letting it hang across his shoulders.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Let's settle in for—" Wriothesley looks at the book procured by Clorinde and instantly regrets it.

Still, the show must go on. He shoots his most charming smile at the camera, and finishes with, "Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun: The Accidental Eggening of My Beloved Archon."

#

Monsieur Neuvillette, the Lead Prosecutor of the Court of Fontaine and number-one choice for the next Chief Justice, does not take time off.

He lives the latest of nights and survives on coffee (which he hates) and takeout (force-fed to him by his beloved paralegal Navia Caspar). Neuvillette has learned how to function on several hours of sleep a day. He's perfected the interested look of disinterest—even if his mind is barely there you would never know because it would seem that you have his full attention.

Neuvillette is socially awkward, his best friends are books, and he has only three vices to his name—one being a cool, crisp bottled water from Chenyu Vale (something that Navia would grouse about being a capitalistic nightmare spurred on by rich-inclined folk such as he who choose to splurge on what she calls, "Frivolous". It is not frivolous; there truly is nothing that tastes quite like it, and Neuvillette's taste buds thank him at the end of a long and grueling day of case reports and courtroom arguments only to be outvoted by a hulking, mechanical device with a too-long name and a startling amount of personality for a computer).

This night is like most others. Neuvillette lets himself into his dark townhouse, kicking off his shoes before placing them neatly and side by side next to the door. First, off comes his coat. Then his tie, loosened and pulled open gently. His keys are tossed into the bowl on the entry table.

He peels his layers slowly as he walks to the bedroom. His suit jacket is hung up for another wear, provided there is no staining, and perhaps the trousers follow suit if they aren't too soiled. His shirt is dumped into the laundry, mildly rumpled.

Neuvillette's bathroom routine is short; he washes his face with a cleanser and water. He dresses down for the night in soft, silk pajamas, and a loose robe.

A midnight snack is often next. As the leftover consommé heats up in the microwave, Neuvillette pulls open his second vice: Kameragram. He scrolls through a slew of new notifications from his last post—a daring profile shot of him in a navy three-piece suit. From the neck down, as always. His hair swept back so the ends barely show, and others are unlikely to recognize him.

He still has a backlog of pictures to post so he picks one and uploads it; the same suit, only this time his jacket stripped off and hung over his shoulder for a more casual look.

Neuvillette did not set out to enjoy social media—he barely knows how it works—but Navia had talked him into checking out this particular application.

"I think you'd like the aesthetic of some of these creators," she'd told him, and she was right. Neuvillette was instantly hooked by accounts that showed crisp and sleek fashion sense, and the ambiance of what he has come to know as Dark Academia.

The microwave dings just as his picture finishes uploading.

And then there's another notification that pops up on his phone, his third vice. Neuvillette stares, reading it over, considering just how to spend the rest of his night. He could indulge, or he could indulge. There are differing levels and rarely does Neuvillette give into his baser instincts and truly let loose.

But it was a long day of Focalors running him ragged.

"I have the day off tomorrow," he muses, thumbing his chin. His eyes fall on a bottle of unopened wine on the counter of his wet bar. A gag gift from Furina. Neuvillette rarely drinks, disliking the way it dulls his sharp-wittedness. But here in the comfort of his home... there is no harm, correct?

"Why the hell not?" he says, the rare curse stinging his tongue.

The pop of the cork is almost foreign to his ears but the blood-red splash of the wine into his glass feels like a welcome friend. The first sip is acrid and acidic—but perfect. That, paired with the consommé will spell out a divine end to the day.

#

Neuvillette's third vice comes as an embarrassment in the form of ThristTrap account Cerberus69.

He is a picky man—to the point that he doesn't date. He can't remember the last time he was properly fucked, unwilling to let his eyes linger on anyone who doesn't fit his standards. The Duke is not his type. He isn't. And yet Neuvillette is hungry for this man in a way that he cannot comprehend.

And so, the indulgence.

Perhaps it is because The Duke isn't a cam model in what most would consider its purest form. Neuvillette has sat in on other streams and was left unimpressed. Those models, those men, naked, leaving nothing to the imagination. There is no tease to it, no opportunity to be edged, just hands on their dicks and empty words cooed at their audience.

The Duke, though, is different. Classy. The mask settled over his face is handsome despite hiding everything above his nose. Never entirely undressed, just stripped down, that mouth of his pulled into a smirk as he turns to and fro. Just enough skin is revealed to entice. Curate clothing this side of tight to show off his assets, which apparently, are more than just his muscles because Neuvillette finds his gaze locked on the bulge in his trousers tonight.

Yes, this is what he likes, what he finds pleasure in—the art of the striptease. He's left dreaming for more, coming back time and time again just to hear his voice, to wonder just what his cock might look like, imagine how it might feel—

Neuvillette has had too much to drink tonight.

The Duke reads aloud a smut book. Neuvillette is stretched out on his bed, watching the stream on the television hanging on the wall opposite him. He can feel the flush of his face and the tightness in his sleep trousers. Wicked thing. The Duke. And Neuvillette's cock. It isn't behaving tonight.

So Neuvillette takes another sip of his wine, thinking that he can trick it into settling down because he's too tired to fuck his hand.

But it's tempting. It's been long enough that he sighs at the thought, hand drifting lower to rest against his clothed cock. Just to sit there. The weight is nice. Focus on The Duke. Yeah, he can do that.

Another sip of wine.

The book The Duke reads is terrible, the sort of fodder geared towards middle-aged women who spend their brunches grousing over their children. But with The Duke's mouth curled around the words, it's tolerable.

"It isn't that I doubt my mate. His ovipositor is long and thick, and it will fill me just right. I pull him close for a kiss, relishing his heavy weight against me. My pussy tightens, wet enough to drench the insides of my thighs—"

So, maybe it isn't tolerable. Neuvillette drags a hand down his face, willing those words to just melt away, focusing on the raspy timber of The Duke's voice instead.

"A rare treat," drawls The Duke. He's relaxed on his couch, shirtless, toned abs and built pecs reflecting the ring light that's tilted towards him. Neuvillette's eyes drag across his form taking in every delicious inch, every scar that mars it, every dip and curve. "Whilst my beloved mate often shares these less-than-human traits, this one is left for special occasions. 'Are you sure you aren't in rut?' I ask huskily, nipping at his ear. 'And what of the risk for hatchlings?' I barely hear his response—a quick, clipped, 'I'm too old to worry about unprepared eggs'. A pity. My pussy clenches at the thought of having a few fucked deep into me."

This isn't the standard fair of what The Duke typically reads loud. His content varies, of course, but eggs—Neuvillette shudders as The Duke says something particularly dirty. "His cock—" The Duke's voice is like sin. "—is good, but his other length, the one meant for eggs, is an entirely different beast. Long and thick, tapered at the edge to ease penetration. It's hot against my palm as I give it a stroke."

Neuvillette cannot stand it anymore. Usually, he just watches and there is enough satisfaction in that, eyes tracing over the Duke's edges before dozing off to the dulcet tones of his voice. Tonight the wine has made Neuvillette bold. Arousal burns through his veins, white-hot and heady. Pleasure coils in his gut, his cock twitches, and fuck, the sight of The Duke just makes it blaze hotter.

That hand he has resting against his cock grinds harder. He's fully hard and aching, leaking a mess into his trousers. Ridiculous. Neuvillette is better than this but just for one night, he can give into his baser needs. The heel of his palm catches against the tip, raking the soft fabric of his sleep clothes over it. He hisses. His hand would be better. He could fuck it properly, stroke himself until he's wet and needy and spilling all over his stomach.

The wine. He's never drinking again, he thinks as he takes another sip.

"'Like this?'" purrs The Duke. "My thumb slides over the tip of his length, the draconic one, the one that has my pussy clamping from just thinking about being filled. His precome is thick, and viscous, sticking to the pad of my thumb in a long string as I pull it away. I desire to taste it."

Sinful. Utterly sinful, the way that The Duke reads something so absurd aloud. Neuvillette curses softly, shifting in his bed, lifting his hips just enough to slide his trousers down his thighs. His cock slaps against his belly, dribbling from the tip. He groans, finally getting his hand around it. A quick stroke has him sinking into the sheets, the pillows, the softness of his bed.

"'Darling,' I say to my mate, the taste of his come settling into my tongue. 'I need you to fuck me.'"

Yes, yes, yes. Neuvillette doesn't listen to the words themselves, just The Duke's voice as it settles across his bones. He lets it caress his being, his skin. He pumps his cock, eyes closed, imagining that—perhaps—it was the hand of another man. Would the Duke have callused fingers? A tight grip? Would he whisper praise into Neuvillette's ear as he stroked his cock?

Neuvillette would like to think so. The Duke seems like a pleaser. After all, isn't that what he does here? Pleases his audience? Neuvillette's gaze flickers back to the screen because The Duke has paused in his reading.

"Oh," says the man, leaning up from the couch. "A generous donation from—" He chuckles, and oh, that sound. What Neuvillette would give to hear it, hot and damp, next to his ear. "OneWildNightInSnezhnaya. Such a generous amount. I think we should thank them, chat."

It is an obscene donation. Neuvillette silently thanks the person for their generous wealth the moment that The Duke stands from the couch. He tilts from side to side and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his tight trousers to pull at it. "These next?" he muses, his mouth pulled into a crooked grin. "You know the rules of course—never much more than this. But..."

The Duke's hands move to his fly. The buttons are undone slowly, and his trousers drop, inch-by-inch as he turns to show off his ass to the camera. The art of the strip tease is what Neuvillette is appreciative of. The Duke still wears briefs underneath those trousers but he may as well be naked with the way that they cling to his thighs tightly. Little is left to the imagination. Neuvillette's gaze rakes across the thick length trapped behind that soft cotton and he suddenly needs; needs something more, something out of his reach.

Neuvillette blames it on the alcohol, not his loneliness, or his pickiness. Why date when he can occasionally fuck his hand to a handsome streamer? No muss, no fuss, and the clean-up is easy. He goes to work the next day with little worry, mind clear, and body ready for the long work day.

But The Duke—Neuvillette imagines his hands sweeping over him, catching on the angles of his hips. Those fingers opening him up, spreading his rim wide. The words he'd purr against his ear as he fucks him deeply. Neuvillette would keen at the stretch, gasping in the sheets as The Duke moves within him.

Gods, it's been a long time. Neuvillette's hand moves faster on his cock, tugging it from base to tip. Not wet enough. He grunts, pulling away to dig in the drawer of the bedside table to find a mostly full bottle of lube. Pathetic, but not as pathetic as pouring it across his cock and imagining that his hand belongs to another.

"My mate is a needy creature. 'Yes,' he cries out as I stroke his length, paying extra attention to the flared head of his cock. 'Yes, just like that. Sweet girl.'"

Neuvillette lets his fantasy run wild. The Duke, settled over him, pulling over his cock. "Yes," murmurs Neuvillette, back arching in the bed as he fucks his hand with a rolling thrust of his hips. His brain is fogged by the wine. The room is sluggish and his throat is dry. All he thinks about is the tight grip he has on his dick, and of how The Duke might take care of him.

"My mate's cock twitches against my palm. I dip closer and kiss the tip, and instantly his hand finds the back of my head to hold it there. 'Are you going to come?' I ask."

He will. He's so close, heat curling in his gut, coiling tight.

"His breath hitches as my tongue swirls around the tip of his cock. And then the slit, dipping into that larger opening meant to push out eggs. Gods, I want that, to be full, to be bred. He wants that too, judging by the way his hips buck, forcing his length into my mouth."

Neuvillette's hand moves faster, and squeezes tighter. His thighs are tense as he arches in the bed, head tipping back as his pleasure begins to mount. Hot, he's so hot. His head is fuzzed and he needs this, to come, The Duke's hand on his cock, the praise Neuvillette knows he'd dole out.

"My hand strokes what my mouth doesn't reach. 'Good girl', says my mate, guiding my mouth to move. I'm drunk on the praise, on the taste of his precome on my tongue. 'Just like that. Yes, yes—'"

Neuvillette comes with a whimper, spilling over his fist and stomach. He jerks himself through it, dick twitching against his palm with overstimulation. He hisses, his pleasure turning sharp and hot, and then mildly uncomfortable. He drops his cock and it falls against his belly with a wet slap. Neuvillette lays there, a blob in his sheets, breathing heavily as the air suddenly turns cold around his heated skin.

Mortification sets in. He drags his clean hand down his face as he comes to the reality that he just masturbated to his favorite streamer. Never has he crossed that line, never has he debased himself to the point fucking his hand to the sound of The Duke's voice. Keyed himself up, yes. Fucked his hand after the stream is cut? Occasionally. Neuvillette rarely touches himself, to begin with, but never whilst actively listening, watching—and the fantasy of it...

He groans. "Sovereigns, I'm pathetic."

He's lonely. He's drunk. Navia is going to laugh at him the next morning when she sees the circles under his eyes. Then she'll pity him, pulling out her concealer and clicking her tongue as she sweeps her thumb across the offending skin.

"A bath," Neuvillette tells himself next. Crisp, clean water calls to him. He hasn't paid an absurd amount for the nicest hard water filter to not abuse it. He rises from the bed, cringing at the mess he's made. On the television, The Duke still reads aloud, his sonorous voice moaning softly as the explicit content in his bed picks up its pace.

Right. A bath. To clear his head. Neuvillette is unsteady on his feet, wobbling about in his tipsy haze. No more wine. Never again is easily said, only to be quickly forgotten the next time he feels like this. Worth it? Maybe. Neuvillette will disagree in the morning, but his sore muscles certainly don't disagree now when he finally settles into the steaming hot water of the bath he draws.

The tub is large enough to submerge himself. Neuvillette's worry eases at the warmth but the mortification is still firm, like a solid rock in his gut. He'll never be able to watch The Duke again.

"This is why I don't do people," he murmurs once resurfaced. "This is why I keep to myself. Interpersonal relationships are..." Too complicated. Especially for him. Neuvillette already fails to understand the intricacies of friendships, but with his position as a prosecutor, things become awkward fast.

He simmers in the bath until he's soft and pruny. He rises again, wrapping himself in a soft, fluffy bathrobe. "Self-care," said Navia when she'd gifted it a few years ago. Self-care indeed. Neuvillette already feels better.

Or maybe it's because he's sobered up a smidge.

Neuvillette walks back to the bedroom on sea legs. His brain is still muddled, but he's better instead of worse for wear. The Duke is still live, this time chatting to those lingering in his chat. "Yes," he says, lounging on his couch in nothing but those damnable, tight briefs. Neuvillette swallows as he stares. "I do have hobbies, like anyone else. Social Media scrolling is soothing, no? I have a penchant for handsome men on Kameragram."

What? Neuvillette stills, the covers pulled back, one knee already pressed to the mattress. His head tilts as he glances at the screen.

"I'm not particularly fashionable myself but there's nothing quite like a man in a well-cut suit. I am a fan."

Never before has The Duke mentioned his preferences in such detail. He's talked about enjoying both men and women, yes, and his content is tailored to both, but when asked about himself he always redirects to the chat, and what they enjoy. Tonight he seems chattier, laughing and smiling wide.

"Mmhm, yeah, you understand me, TheSpooniestBard. Muscles, a nice and tight fit, a collar pressed just underneath a sharp jawline."

The Duke is, inadvertently, describing the entire aesthetic of Neuvillette's personal Kameragram account. He slides back into bed, settling the comforter over his lap. He sits there dumbly, listening to The Duke ramble on about handsome men in suits, that deep voice of his soothing.

He always checks his phone for last-minute work alerts before turning in for the night. This time, though, Neuvillette opens up Kameragram and assesses himself. He is not unhandsome. His suits are high quality and of the finest fit. Even without his face in the frame, he paints an appealing picture.

"It's just so pleasing, the thought of peeling it off. What's hiding underneath? Are they built? Soft? It wouldn't matter, I'd love it all."

Neuvillette is still tipsy enough to make dumb choices.

ThirstTrap has an in-app messaging system that Neuvillette has never even thought about using but on this night he navigates to it and drops his Kameragram link accompanied by a very simple message:

>> I see that you like men in suits. Our tastes seem to align. I think that you may like my account in particular. Enjoy.