Wriothesley wakes up to a full range of direct messages from the ThirstTrap app.

>> When will you finally show off that dick? (Never).

>> Baby, let me buy you some lingerie. (There's a CELESTIA wishlist for that).

>> If you'd just give me your address— (Blooooooock).

One message, though, catches his eye. The words are innocent enough. The username is familiar—a frequent subscriber but quiet in the chat. Wriothesley sees their name in every stream but aside from offering up more than decent tips, all they do is lurk. It's nice. Wriothesley likes that. This DM has the same sort of feel to it, the words swathed in politeness.

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

Wriothesley is still embarrassed that he let that slip. He'd kicked himself later in bed, dragging a hand down his face with a soft curse. There was a line that had to be drawn, carefully drafted rules that he and Clorinde agreed upon. He'll flaunt himself and read smut aloud, but The Duke is a facade. He is not and never will be the real Wriothesley. The admittance of his preferences...

Well, Clorinde will kill him.

Later, though. His thumb hovers over the link that his follower has sent him. "He's probably a creep," says Wriothesley. A reasonable assumption. That's how these sorts of things usually go. "It's probably an unsolicited nude."

It's a proper Kameragram link, though, and that's what makes him take the chance and click into it.

Oh. Oh, this is...

Wriothesley covers his mouth, thumbing at his scruff. "Well, I'll be," he mutters, swiping through LeviathanJudicator's Kameragram feed. It's exactly what he likes, what he fantasizes about. A tall, lean man in the nicest suits that Wriothesley has ever seen. Perfectly cut and tailored. Barely an inch of wrist or neck on display. There's even color coordination, and silk ties that likely cost an entire month's salary for Wriothesley.

This patron has always tipped well but this is—Wriothesley whistles, impressed.

"I think you may like my account," he muses. Those words are a gentle tease. Wriothesley is more than interested, he spends nearly an hour lounging in bed, simping over each picture. He commits them to memory, eyes tracing those perfect, sharp angles. The jut of the man's wrist. The occasional fringe of hair gracing the length of his jaw, just barely seen. Long, deft fingers, perfectly hidden by leather gloves. And then another, this one with his fingers bare, nails clean-cut and perfectly square.

"Fuck," curses Wriothesley, trying and failing to will his boner away. It's too early in the morning for this. Wriothesley isn't a teenager, he's nearly forty, and shouldn't be sporting spontaneous hard-ons. "Sigewinne," he thinks. "Clorinde. Clorinde's gun. That one summer that Clorinde shot me in the thigh. It was intentional, no matter what she still says. She doesn't fucking miss. Her aim is perfect."

Wriothesley heaves a ragged sigh as nothing seems to work. Smitten. He's smitten, and it's going to make the rest of his day an absolute slog. He's going to be punching at a bag and thinking of slim hips and the slope of those perfect shoulders if he doesn't tug one out and even the playing field.

This isn't new. He's... indulged upon the rare decent dick pic he's sent (always seen and never replied to; too messy, too much, but he can look, right? Yeah, that's okay).

He grinds his palm against his tented sleep trousers, groaning softly. Then he pulls at the waistband, tugging them down just enough to free his cock. A quickie. That's all he needs and then he'll be right as rain for the rest of the day. He thinks. The logistics don't matter right now, his aching dick does.

Wriothesley's fingers are almost too calloused, catching against his skin just enough to make him hiss. "Shit, where's the—" On the bedside table where it always is. The half-used bottle of lube is a best friend nowadays, and Wriothesley reaches over blindly. One quick squeeze of it onto his cock has him grunting. Should've warmed it up, should've thought about that, but he didn't, and all it takes is one slick stroke of his length to leave him boneless in the bed.

He only needs one hand. His phone rests against his free palm. Wriothesley scrolls through those pictures again. Those broad shoulders. That line of the man's throat. The tapered, handsomely tailored waist of a crisp, navy-blue suit. Wriothesley doesn't even like the color navy, but he adores it on this man.

He'd be weak in the knees if he were standing. His back arches as he fucks into the tight grip of his hand. The wet squelch of the lube fills the room as he pulls over his cock hard and fast. Heat curls, spreading like wildfire in his veins. Wriothesley stares at the pictures, at the mostly-clothed man that will no doubt haunt his dreams.

Everything is to the imagination. The pale skin, the silky, soft hair that brushes against his shoulders. Those fingers, long and reedy. Thin, finely boned knuckles, with a wrist bone sharp enough to cut a diamond. Wriothesley moans, his head tipping back as he imagines those fingers around his cock instead, stroking him to completion.

Wriothesley comes embarrassingly quick, soiling his stomach, and the hemline of his sleeping shirt with come. He jerks, shuddering through his release, and still, he stares at those pictures, licking his lips, thinking, imagining, groaning at the thought of seeing just a smidge more.

What lies underneath that suit? Gods, this is what he loves about these sorts of pictures.

His orgasm is abrupt but satisfying. He lets loose a sigh, pleasure wracking through him, sloughing away the tension brought on by a mostly clothed man showing off his fine fits. And then a little bit of dread, a little bit of remorse as he groans against his palm. Who does that?

Wriothesley apparently, and that's even more embarrassing his snafu on stream last night when he got a little too close and personal.

He looks at the clock and winces; half-past ten. "Shit," he hisses, shooting out of bed. There's enough time for a three-minute shower and to toss on some clean clothes. He doesn't have a set schedule but he still should've been at the gym earlier than this.

Wriothesley wastes another ten minutes in the shower when his mind drifts off, thinking about pocket squares and coordinating colors. It's hard to ignore the way his cock twitches, half-hard against his thigh. He's too old for this sort of distraction.

Clorinde is definitely going to kill him.

#

Neuvillette is not a man who makes mistakes.

Last night he made more than several. He winces at the sunlight that filters in through the slit of the window curtains. It falls just perfectly across his face, taunting him, reminding him that there's work to do. A day off is never a day off; it's just a day away from active trials. Neuvillette will still find himself in the office, pouring over paperwork, and eating cold takeout that Navia has to force down his throat.

His head pounds. He feels sick, rolling over in the bed, and pulling the sheets around his head. No, that's worse. Moving is worse, and his stomach tilts in the opposite direction as the rest of him, making him feel adrift in the sheets.

The wine. The stream. The string of bad decisions that led to—

Oh. Oh, no. No, no, no.

Neuvillette scrabbles around and finds his phone stashed underneath a spare pillow. He unlocks it and pulls open the Thirstrap App and sees his crime. A DM. He sent his link to The Duke. Gods, that's embarrassing. May the waters of Fontaine swell and swallow him right up.

And worst of all there is no response. Not even a polite thank you, just a read receipt that shows The Duke saw the message.

Neuvillette pinches the bridge of his nose. The pounding ache in his head is not worth this. To be left on read... Neuvillette may not understand all the intricacies of friendships but even he understands that is considered to be a negative thing. Ah. But he isn't a friend, and this is a parasocial acquaintance at best. Neuvillette is now sober and knows better than whatever his alcohol-addled brain was fantasizing about.

That too—his face burns beet red as he remembers just how he touched himself to the thought of the Duke during his stream. Usually, he has the decency to at least do it with the stream off. Just his hands and thoughts, not... Well. Not that.

No more wine. Never again. Only cool, crisp water, and a nice consommé. And maybe his hand. Wait, no.

"Work," mutters Neuvillette, peeling back the covers. At least he had the decency to shower off before slipping into bed. Everything beyond his embarrassment is hazy. The sheets are a mess, but those can be changed later. He's decent enough that he'll be able to get away with just washing his face and teeth.

It takes longer than he's used to, still dealing with the sealegs of a terrible hangover. His head pounds enough to actually take medicine, something that he rarely resorts to. It isn't so much that he toughs it out, just that he rarely is in such a way. Neuvillette is hardy and healthy, and any pains he sports come from sitting at his desk for too long, or those occasional sleepless nights when pouring over particularly difficult cases.

Today, he chooses to dress down. Just a pair of trousers and a nice cotton shirt. He's too tired to do himself up properly. He doesn't even brush his hair, just combs his fingers through the mess of it. The idea of a stiff, chafing collar makes him queasy, so for the day, he'll suffer through the thought of being without his proper aesthetic. Besides, he'll be working from home, not the Opera Epiclese, so there isn't a reason to force himself to suffer.

He hears the front door slam shut just as he leaves the bedroom and stills.

Wait. There is one reason to worry, and it just walked into his home. He'd forgotten that Navia was planning on helping him prep his cases for the coming week. Neuvillette curses softly under his breath, about to retreat into his room to at least put a sweater on.

He isn't quick enough. Navia reaches the hallway of his townhome before he can move, and she stills at the sight of him. Her gaze starts at his face and drops to his feet before lifting again. It's slow and the glance is long enough for Neuvillette to hear her thoughts grinding together, processing.

"My," she says, brows raised high to her hairline. "You look... out of sorts, don't you? Are you sick?"

"No, I'm fine." Neuvillette is not fine, nor does he sound fine. But he doesn't sound sick, he just sounds spent and tired.

Navia knows him better than he knows himself though, and she gives him a shrewd look. "You were up late," she says then.

"I had a bit of wine."

"You—what? Monsieur Neuvillette, you don't drink."

"I did last night," he says ruefully. "And I'm certainly paying for it now."

Navia clicks her tongue as she sweeps forward. "I think the last time that I saw you this dressed down was when you had the flu a decade ago—and that was because the nurse made you take off the suit."

"Please do not remind me."

Her mouth quirks into an affectionate smile. "Alright, old man. Let's at least get some breakfast into you." Neuvillette must look positively ill at the thought of it because her brow wrinkles. "Are you hungover?"

Neuvillette doesn't want to lie so he just doesn't answer. Navia's expression shifts into something of a shock. "I see," she continues. "I—well. Okay. First time for everything. Still, you should drink some water. And I know you're probably nauseous, but food will help."

He doubts it but lets Navia lead him down the corridor. "I've been hungover before," he tells her.

"When was that?"

Decades ago, but she doesn't need to know the particulars. Besides, the sensation is the same be it now, or when he was in his early twenties. The roiling in his stomach is nothing unexpected. He sits in the chair like a good boy, though, and lets Navia fuss over him.

"Really, Monsieur Neuvillette." It's light-hearted and humorous as she digs around in the kitchen cabinets. "What could have possibly driven you to drink so much?" She pauses and looks at him over her shoulder. "An entire bottle of wine?" she guesses.

"Nearly. I do think there's a little left on the nightstand."

Navia hums softly. "Hot cereal then. Ah, don't give me that look. It'll be good for you and it'll settle your stomach. You can grouse about it later."

Neuvillette reminds himself to do just that because his preference would be soup, but Navia knows best. Or so she claims. He's too tired to up much of a fight with her. Thankfully, she doesn't needle him further, she just flits about his kitchen, the stove flaring to life with the click of the Electro starter. The scratch of kitchen utensils and the clinking of porcelain bowls set his teeth on edge, but Neuvillette does his best to tune it out.

"Here," she says softly, placing a bowl before him. "It's plain, I promise. No milk, no sugar, no nothing."

"Small blessings," comes Neuvillette's dry response, but he's polite enough to tilt his head in thanks.

"So—" Navia falls into the chair opposite him, helping herself to her own bowl of hot cereal. "—what happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Neuvillette," she says, dropping the title. Just like that she isn't his paralegal, she's his friend, and she's understandably worried. Neuvillette not only doesn't drink, he wouldn't imbibe to the point of drunkenness. He's dressed too casually. He slept in—and even if she didn't comment on it, he knows that she knows. Red flags all around.

"I..." It would be better to tell her, not just because Navia will eventually find out anyhow, but because she can also help him. Maybe. Perhaps. Wait, why is he entertaining the thought of more? No, this is bad. And yet. "That streamer that I like," he then says.

Navia's expression turns coy. "Oh? Mr. Dark, thick, and broody?"

"I—never say that again, please. As you know he frequently streams on Friday nights. Last night he—"

"Did you pay for a private show?"

"No!" Gods, this is a thousand times worse than he expected it to be. And it isn't as if he's never explained similar things in excruciating detail. Neuvillette is known to ramble on about mildly inappropriate things but it is because Navia is his oldest, dearest friend, and she doesn't mind. She manages his personal accounts; when she'd first seen the subscription fee, she just asked if the streamer was cute.

He clears his throat. "He doesn't... do that. Er, that sort of private show, at least. It was his usual fair. Reading aloud a rather explicit book."

"And what, this one did it for you?" Neuvillette says nothing, only drags his spoon through his cereal, and refuses to look her in the face. "Oh," murmurs Navia, utterly delighted. "Oh, this is rich. Did you enjoy yourself, Monsieur Neuvillette?"

He thinks about throwing himself into the sea to save embarrassment. Instead, he says, "That isn't what matters, Miss Navia. What does is what I did afterward—"

"Afterward?"

Oh, this is like pulling teeth. But it's better to just yank it right out, isn't it? The pain would cut through him, sharp and sudden, but it would dull quickly at the sound of Navia's laughter. Because she will laugh. She will laugh loud and long, and then she will pity him.

"I sent him a direct message." Navia's eyes go round like saucers and her mouth falls open. "So rarely is The Duke personal, but last night he shared his appreciation of finely suited men, and so I, in all my inebriated grace, sent the link of my Kameragram to him. I didn't expect for him to answer, of course, but to be left on read is... strangely hurtful."

Neuvilette feels less guilty about unloading personal problems on her when he remembers that he pays Navia a salary and not by the hour.

Navia snorts softly, hiding a grin behind her palm. "Give me your phone. I know you have it on you, so I want to see just what you sent him."

He should not. He knows better. But Navia has her ways so Neuvillette opens his phone and app, swiping over to the message, and hands it over without much fight. It's a better option than finding her rifling through his desk drawers later.

She hums softly, contemplative. "So, not the worst message," she says. "Certainly better than I expected, but—"

"But." Neuvillette groans, hiding his face against his palms. "So it is terrible then."

"I just said it wasn't but you didn't let me finish." Navia laughs softly, amusement curling her words. "It's just... very formal."

Neuvillette peels his face away from his hands. "Did you expect me to not be so?"

"Well, no, but that isn't the point. When flirting—"

"I am not flirting."

Navia levels him with a look that could sour milk. "You sent him your Kameragram account as a thirst trap."

"An ill-devised decision brought upon by overindulgence in alcohol—"

"Because you wanted him to notice. Flirting." Navia's expression softens. "I know that you are not particularly good at this sort of thing but this isn't too hard to fix."

"Fix?" Oh, that doesn't bode well. "Navia, I have no intention of fixing anything."

"Why not?"

The question sounds so simple when she asks it. Why ever not? Neuvillette is not unhandsome, he knows, and he is confident enough to think that his sense of fashion might fit The Duke's type. But there is one glaring issue—

"I don't date, as you know. And he is... I am, effectively, a client. Isn't that considered taboo?"

Navia places his phone back on the table and rests her chin against her knuckles. "I mean, maybe? Are there rules? You haven't overstepped a boundary—he could have turned his DMs off. And until he says that he isn't interested..." She waves vaguely.

This is a mess. Neuvillette feels no better now than he did when he woke up, and he decides to drown his morose thoughts in the hot cereal that Navia has kindly prepared for him. It's cooled enough to not burn his tongue but she still eats it too fast.

She watches, head tilted, eyes narrowly slit, and that mouth of hers pulled up at one side. He hates that look.

Eventually, she says, "I'm proud of you, you know. You put yourself out there. You never do that and even if this..." Her eyes flicker back to the phone. "Even if I would have been a little more casual about it, you still did it. Good job."

Neuvillette's face burns pink at her praise. "Miss Navia—"

"Oh, so it's Miss, again."

It takes a lot of effort to resist rolling his eyes at her. "Navia, I've been left on read, as you younger folk like to say."

Navia looks at the clock on the wall. "It's six-thirty in the morning. Most people are still dreaming this early. I think that this may be a sign to throw yourself back out into the dating pool."

"I wish that I carried that same optimism," says Neuvillette dryly.

"Well, he hasn't said no, yet. Or blocked you—"

"Blocked me?"

She snickers, going back to her bowl of food. "The point is that he hasn't turned you down which means there's still a chance. And if he's into handsome guys in suits, like you said he is, well... I don't think there's any better option out there."

"Navia, I..." Neuvillette clears his throat. "It would be unkind of me to not express my thanks to you, I suppose."

"Oh shut up, you old fish. You know you're handsome. The expensive suits only enhance what's already there."

This, thinks Neuvillette, is why they get along so well. Navia has worked for him for over a decade. She sees reason where he doesn't and isn't one to hold back her punches, be it good or bad. This time, she's in his wheelhouse, which is nice.

"So," she continues, her expression turning sly. "I guess the burning question is—what next?"

Neuvillette takes it back. Navia will certainly make this worse. And yet, when she reaches for his phone a second time, Neuvillette does nothing to stop her.

#

"It's rare for you to want to be here in person."

Clorinde barely looks up from her laptop. "It's because you're a moron. Someone has to keep you in check."

Wriothesley winces at her harsh words. He pointedly ignores her, messing around with his set, making a point to push around the pillows and blankets. She's quiet long enough for him to look. Clorinde watches him back, her mouth pursed.

"Okay, so look—"

"The rules, Wriothesley," she cuts in. "Repeat them for me."

Clorinde is calculated and careful in comparison to him. And no, Wriothesley doesn't trust others—as mid-life crisis his decision to stream was, he isn't stupid. But Clorinde has always been to anchor his whiplash tendencies. The rules are meant for safety even if Wriothesley has no intent of stepping past them.

"Rule one," he recites with a mock salute, "no real names."

Hence The Duke. Clorinde had teased him about it for weeks but Wriothesley finds it preferable to Daddy. He shudders at the thought.

"And two?"

He grimaces. "No personal details." Clorinde raises one mocking eyebrow and waits for an explanation. "Look, I was tired, and it was harmless."

"Someone sent you their Kameragram account. A follower."

"So people can send me dick pics and that's okay, but—"

"Dick pics get you tips, don't they? It's not as if you haven't jacked off to those either, by the way."

Right. Wriothesley drags a hand down his face, unwilling to be reminded of that. It's pathetic, but some of his followers have nice dicks, and he has eyes and a lonely cock, and well—

"Not the point," he hisses, peeking at her through his fingers.

"You know, rule number two is for you, not them," drawls Clorinde.

Right, right. Wriothesley can't afford to get attached. He knows it, she knows it, and he never crosses any lines aside from whacking one out to a decent dick pic on occasion. An opening—that's what she called it earlier. He's given his weirder, crasser followers an opening to his real tastes.

Wriothesley clears his throat. "He was polite, at least. In a way that others are never. Fully clothed too."

"And that does it for you?"

"I didn't—"

"You did," she says tartly. "I can tell, you know. You've had this glow about you all week—"

"Clorinde."

She's teasing him, of course, but the sting of it still burns like the embarrassment that pricks the back of his neck.

"That begs the question though, what is different about this man?"

Clorinde's question catches him off guard. "What?"

She's busy setting up her end of the stream for moderation and still doesn't look away, her fingers flying over the keys of her laptop. "For all my joking about your appreciation for the good dick pics, you never actually like... respond. But this guy has you thinking about him."

He does not, and that's what he tells her, but the moment that the words leave his mouth, Wriothesley is already thinking about the crisp edges of those handsome suit lapels, and how his shirt sleeves have a proper fit, just barely peeking out from underneath the jacket cuff.

"That's the look that I'm talking about, by the way," says Clorinde, gesturing at his face unhelpfully.

"I won't message him back," he promises. Clorinde shoots him a critical look that shows she doesn't believe him. Which she shouldn't. Wriothesley has waffled back and forth on just how polite he should be when he gives his sincere thanks. Casual? Clipped? Friendly? No, no, he shouldn't encourage the man.

Wriothesley fiddles with a couch pillow for the umpteenth time. "So, another idea," he says. "I thank him, at least, but I do it on stream."

"That might be worse. Do you want to encourage others?"

No, but it'd be no different than the multitude of messages that Wriothesley deletes every time. He shrugs. "He puts effort into what he does. And, besides, he was so... polite. He's a regular but he's never spoken in the chat, and I think that he may have been nervous?"

Clorinde's returning expression is flat. "I think that you might be projecting your own insecurities onto—"

"Okay, enough of that. It's nearly time to go live and I still need to get dressed."

She's always been good at reading the room. Her mouth snaps shut but she's amused, her mouth pulled into a smile as she watches him flounder about. "Is it another jockstrap tonight? I just need to know whether or not to blind myself with the bleach first or—"

"I'm not holding you here at gunpoint."

"Right, because I'm the one with the guns."

"Oh, speaking off, hasn't the date for the Teyvat Games been set? When are the preliminaries?"

Clorinde shoots him a rude gesture because she hates it when he changes the subject abruptly. "Didn't you need to get changed? At least close the damn bedroom door."

Wriothesley does not, knowing there isn't a reason to, nor does she care. Clorinde has about as much interest in his looks as she does anything aside from marksmanship, which is none.

"To answer your question, by the way, I thought I'd return the favor. Something a little different for the stream tonight. Remember when I bought that suit for Sigewinne's med school graduation?"

There is a moment of contemplative thought before Clorinde asks, "Does that even still fit?"

No. Not entirely. But that's the point. Wriothesley wears a tight V-neck T-shirt and throws that old, dusty suit jacket atop. The charcoal gray is a nice color on him, and whilst most might try to hide them, Wriothesley thinks that it makes the silvers in his dark hair pop, glittering as they catch the ring lights on his set.

Clorinde's head pops in around the frame of his bedroom door. She gives him a once-over and frowns.

Wriothesley frowns too, looking at himself, dragging a hand down his front. "Is it that bad?"

"What? No. I hate it, which means they'll love it."

Oh, Clorinde. Wriothesley shoots her a grin. "So, the plan for tonight—I bought the sequel to the book you gave me last time." She snorts, leaning against the door frame. Clorinde had admitted that she'd meant it as a joke and that she'd laughed so hard at his dramatic reading of dragon egg-preg smut that she nearly vomited. From anyone else that would be an insult, but Clorinde is typically so serious that he would've paid money to be a fly on that wall.

So, now that she's here....

"That's unfair," she tells him. "I won't be able to keep quiet in the background."

"Then you better practice." Wriothesley pulls his signature red tie around his neck, knotting it so that it lays loosely against his collarbone. "Because if I have to suffer through this again, you're coming with me."

Clorinde grunts.

"Anyway, I'm not planning on stripping down much tonight. Just a nice, relaxed stream. Maybe the jacket comes off, maybe the shirt—but I'll keep the trousers on for your sake."

"How considerate of you," deadpans Clorinde. Then, she looks at her watch and clicks her tongue. "You've got about five minutes. Your chat's already popping."

"Right, right."

Clorinde then gives him a half-lidded smirk. "What're you going to do if he's in your chat tonight?"

He will be. LeviathanJudicator is a long-time, loyal follower of his. Even if he's quiet, he's a familiar screen name, and he tips well and frequently. Wriothesley looks in the mirror and ruffles his hair, tousling just so. "I already told you—I'll thank him."

Clorinde doesn't need to know that Wriothesley has another plan. She can kill him later.

#

The reading is a resounding success. Wriothesley doesn't pretend to know anything about Farewell My Beloved Archon, but what he's gleaned from just these two books is that there is a very large audience for monster fucking, weird biology, and... eggs.

Wriothesley doesn't care as long as it brings in the tips, and oh, are the tips rolling in. Clorinde is red-faced where she sits at the kitchen table, wheezing from having to hold back her laughter. Wriothesley had to apologize several times, explaining that his chat mod was there in person tonight, something that he's going to hold over her head for the foreseeable future.

Still. It's led to questions. Usually, he's annoyed by this, but it's the perfect opening for Wriothesley's last hurrah for the night.

He squints at the screen. "Ah. RexIncognito wants to know if my moderator is a girlfriend," he reads aloud.

Clorinde squawks in the background, a terribly unflattering noise that makes Wriothesley break his sultry character and laugh. "No, no, she's merely an old friend. And a lesbian. Besides, I told you all what I like in a partner last week, didn't I? Tall, handsome men in suits."

He shoots Clorinde a look and sees that she's watching him from over her laptop with a shrewd expression.

"Which reminds me, I feel the need to give thanks to a follower. I'm not going to call them out, but someone sent me a very nice Kameragram account—you know who you are. I know that I don't typically get personal here but I have to admit... It was certainly appreciated. Several times."

Oh, the look that Clorinde is giving him is foul. But that's an issue for later. Wriothesley clears his throat and continues.

"Anyway, remember how we ran a poll a while back about lingerie? It's an old meme, but the virgin killer sweater—" His chat goes wild at the mere mention of it and Wriothesley chuckles. "Yes, yes, I didn't forget. It was the second-place option, so I never prioritized it but in light of recent... indulgences I find myself reconsidering. So, here's the deal—if say... a certain person were to show off what he's hiding underneath those crisp suits and perfect cufflinks, I'll return the favor. I'm not asking for a lot. Seriously, just a slip of skin, a tease of a collarbone."

Wriothesley shifts, his suit jacket parting to show off his toned chest. The shirt had come off during the stream, but the jacket was slipped back on by popular demand. "I'll take anything, actually. If my wish were granted, then I'll wear the damn sweater, live."

The chat shoots off and tips roll in. Followers beg for him to just treat them to the sweater, and Wriothesley will—all of this is mostly a tease. Clorinde curses softly as she loses control of the text scroll and shoots him a dirty look.

"That's just some food for thought," chirps Wriothesley then, giving everyone one last pose for the night. "Until the next—au revoir!"

The stream cuts and Wriothesley heaves a sigh, sagging against the couch. "Gods, it's hot in here," he mutters. He stands, already shrugging the jacket off, wiping at the sweat beading on his brow with a forearm. "I thought you'd be angrier."

"You're a moron," she calls him for a second time that night. "But I snooped on his account too, and I don't blame you."

"Ah, so you see my vision then."

"And the sweater?"

"I ordered it weeks ago. I'd be treating them to it anyhow, but what's the harm in a little fun?"

Clorinde's face does something strange then; it softens, and she looks at him—really looks at him. "You're serious, aren't you? You... like like this guy."

"You saw him. He's easy on the eyes. His body at least." He shrugs.

"What if he's horrifically ugly?"

"Then he'd find a great match in me, wouldn't he?" The joke lands perfectly and Clorinde snickers. "Look, it's just... fun. I can't remember the last time someone flirted with me, so... lemme flirt back a little."

"Only a little," agrees Clorinde, snapping her laptop shut. "The rules—"

"Are for my own good. I know."

She sighs, stretching her arms above her head until her joints pop. "Well, if that's all, I'm going to take my leave. I've got to cleanse my ears after listening to... that."

"You picked the damn book."

"Yes, well, that was a mistake, wasn't it?" Clorinde stands and gives him a soft, genuine smile. "Get some rest. Stop jerking off to weirdos on the internet."

"He isn't a weirdo!"

At least Wriothesley doesn't think the man would be, but then the rational side of his brain kicks in and reminds him that the clean-cut guys are always the weird, fucked up, and kinky ones.

Still.

He could fantasize about worse.

#

It has been the work week from hell for Neuvillette, and not just because his boss dumped three extra caseloads on his desk.

"How's sleep treating you?"

Sleep isn't treating him, but Navia knows that. She always knows whatever it is, even when Neuvillette is hiding the things that are bothering him. She's whip-smart. Sharp like a tack. A go-getter and great at reading people, and the only reason that his finances make a modicum of sense because he is gullible and prone to scams and sales.

Neuvillette both loves and hates this because Navia is the one person who sees right through his aloof facade.

"I napped at least," he says.

"Ah yes, I did notice the blanket on the couch." Navia holds out a decanter of crisp, clear water and Neuvillette takes it with a quiet thank you. "But that isn't what I'm asking."

"Miss Navia, we are at work—"

"And it's bothering you. Still no reply?"

The Duke did not message him back. He did something worse, something that made Neuvillette gape at the screen as he watched the stream the night prior. He rubs his face, grimacing against his palm, which catches Navia's attention.

She pauses, head tilted to the side. "Monsieur Neuvillette, that is not the look of a man who is wallowing about in his self-pity."

"Last night, on his stream, he—"

Oh, he doesn't like that sharpness of her eyes as her mouth curls into a smirk. "Do go on," she says, dropping to the chair opposite him.

'I feel the need to give thanks to a follower.'

Neuvillette can still hear it now, the way The Duke had thanked him personally for sending him his Kameragram account.

"He may have mentioned that he pursued my account. He appreciated it."

'Several times.'

He leaves that part out. It's bad enough that Navia knows too much about this entire ordeal, to begin with, but the knowledge that The Duke... Well, he didn't so much as confirm it but Neuvillette wasn't born yesterday. The implication is clear and they apparently share a mutual interest that has resulted in their hands around their dicks. To the thought of each other.

Gods, how embarrassing.

Neuvillette clears his throat. "He expressed his wish to see more."

Navia's mouth falls open. "I—so he did message you?"

"No, regrettably. But as I said, on the stream—"

"He mentioned it on the stream?" She hisses this, her voice a sharp whisper.

"Miss Navia," he gently chastises her. "Though we're in my office, there are others around, and that door is not as thick as you would presume it to be."

She winces. "Sorry, I just. Neuvillette."

"I do think it was for show, to be honest. A tease—he does that, you know. His stream is nothing but teasing the lot of us. But I do think that his appreciation for my account was sincere at least."

"And so?" she prompts, waiting for more.

"And so what?"

"What'd he ask for, you idiot?"

Neuvillette purses his lips and reminds himself to not reprimand her for talking to him as such. This isn't about work. This isn't his paralegal talking, this is his friend. Navia is one part concerned, one part dying for more information, and all parts way too involved.

"Not that he wouldn't already be giving this to his viewership, I assure you. But..." He gives her an amused look, his mouth just barely quirked into a smile. "If you must know, he offered up stripping off more than he usually does in exchange for seeing my collarbones."

The skin between Navia's brow creases slightly. "Specifically... that?" It doesn't take a genius to see that, perhaps, it's a strange request. Neuvillette is slow on the uptake but he thinks it's rather innocent. The Duke could have asked for more, implied something particularly indecent.

"It was the example that he gave, yes. His exact words were, and I quote: 'I'm not asking for a lot. Seriously, just a slip of skin, a tease of a collarbone.'"

"He sets the bar low, doesn't he?"

Neuvillette snorts, offended. "I'll have you know that my production value is of the highest standard. I spend a lot of time planning my ensembles and just how to shoot..." He frowns. "You're teasing me."

"The both of you, really. Is this man just as socially awkward as you? Is it because he's older too? Are you all like this?" It's not as if Navia is young herself; but Neuvillette supposes that thirty is enough of a difference for there to be a considerable gap in their experiences.

"Manners, Miss Navia. Please."

"Manners my ass. This guy is smitten—"

"At the sight of my suits."

"Are you going to give him a little bit of collarbone?" Navia's question is genuine and rather innocent, but it burns a hole in Neuvillette's gut all the same.

"I... shouldn't," is his soft and stilted response.

Navia, though, doesn't take the bait. She just gives him a wide, wicked grin, and says, "That isn't a no."

It is not. And when they take a break later, and Neuvillette enlists her help in taking a picture that captures the perfect angle and jut of his collarbone, the topmost buttons of his shirt collar undone, she has the decency to not tease him too much.

"The lighting is good," she says. "I wouldn't have thought... Well, you clearly have a good eye."

"Of course, I do," sniffs Neuvillette. He feels naked like this, even though so little is shown. He enjoys the press of his collar stays against the underside of his jaw. The air is cool against his clavicle, even with the afternoon sunlight filtering in from the window.

Navia snaps a few pictures from several angles and they pour over them to select the best one.

"So," she says, watching Neuvillette crop out his face, leaving just the bottom edge of his jawline in the frame. "Does this mean you're officially flirting?"

"It means that I, in a moment of weakness, am being coy."

"Because you're looking forward to seeing him in whatever he bribed you with."

No. Yes. Maybe. Navia doesn't need the full details of it—even Neuvillette didn't know what a virgin killer sweater was until a quick Vision search. He was enlightened. And now the idea of The Duke swatched in a small patch of knitted material, the swell of his ass barely covered, jutted out—

"I think that I lost you for a second there," says Navia, cutting into his thoughts.

"It is because I enjoy the attention." Which is true enough for Navia to question it no further.

"I'm proud of you, again," she says. "Even if this is a rather unconventional method of flirting."

"We are not flirting."

Are they? Neuvillette certainly isn't an expert. The last time someone bought him a drink at a bar he'd promptly paid them back, thinking it was a mistake.

Still, he doesn't like the look on Navia's face. "Yet," she says, tapping her chin.

Neuvillette doesn't warrant that with a response, he just tilts his phone toward her to show off the final edit of the last-minute photo. Not his best work. It lacks his usual professionalism because it was taken with his phone and he's in his work clothes, not something curated specifically for his Kameragram, but it is serviceable.

Navia nods. "Handsome. I'm glad you're taking the bait. You deserve some action."

"I will not get any action."

But there's a hope, a spark in his gut. He likes the heat that lingers there, and the way his cock twitches at the thought of her being right.

"Not a regular post," he says to her, pulling open his Kameragram. "A twenty-four-hour story, the type that self-deletes." It'll only be seen if The Duke is actively stalking his page. Neuvillette ignores the flutter in his stomach and the hope that bleeds into his veins.

Before he loses his nerve, he queues up the post and hits send. The picture posts, waiting, lurking on his account. His collarbone is on display, pale against his shirt collar. A strip of his sternum peeks out from where the top three buttons are undone, framed by the crisp, pressed lapels of his suit jacket.

The scandalous display comes with two taunting words as its caption: Your turn.