Socially Awkward

Chapter Two

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.