Cavalierious-Whim

[cavalierious-whim]

Digital Shop Update!

Hello everyone! I've recently updated my shop to help recoup some of the cost of my recent medical bills, which includes a $600 MRI. I'm still waiting on my leave to pay out, so it's led to it being a little tight when it comes to bills.

Please consider sharing and donating to my Ko-Fi if, or purchasing a PDF or drabble if you have the chance.

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You can find the full details of my commissions here, on my Ko-Fi Account.

$5 Drabbles

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Standard Commissions, 1.5k+ Words

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Newly Formatted and Edited

Features Unpublished Works

Likes and shares are appreciated! Thank you so much for your love and support.

[offline-crowbot]

My hottest fanfiction take is I think people should stop posting multi-fandom oneshots as a single fic with like 50+ chapters and instead post them as individual fics

[creativepromptsforwriting]

* kiss kiss *

#105: Use the words fireworks, kiss and midnight in your next story.

#351: "I could kiss you right now!" "You're very welcome to do it."

#399: "Kiss me or kill me, but make up your mind right now."

#412: "One kiss before we die?" "You can get the kiss when we survive, so move!"

#447: Kissing in the rain sounds romantic until one of them ends up with pneumonia.

#488: "You kissed me." "You kissed me back." "And I'm not here to apologize."

#490: "I would appreciate it, if you would kiss me right now."

#555: "If you don't kiss me, right now…" "Then what?" "Then I will have to do it myself."

#577: "Are you going to hit me if I kiss you?" "I might if you don't."

#670: The kiss cam definitely had it in for her.

#832: "Why do I feel like that dog gets more kisses than me?"

#875: "When did you find out?" "When you kissed me, probably."

#978: She was not the type of person to back down from a dare. And everything he did was daring her to kiss him.

#1002: "I can't stop thinking about kissing you." "Then do it. Get it out of your head."

#1005: "Would you kiss me for 100€?" "Sorry, but I don't have any cash on me right now." "No, I mean I would give you 100€ to kiss me." "Why would you give me money to do something I would pay money to do?"

#1008: "It was just a kiss." "I know. But does it have to be just that?"

#1010: "Let's not worry about the future. Let's just take this one kiss at a time." "I like how that sounds."

#1016: All their kisses so far had been full of anger. Too rough, too desperate. This one was their first kiss that was soft, without urgency.

#1061: "I have wanted to kiss you every time I've seen you smile." "Then why haven't you yet?"

#1080: "I can't stop thinking about kissing you." "And what are you going to do about that?"

#1087: She wanted it all. The lazy mornings in bed, the fight over which movie to watch, the bumping into each other in their small kitchen. The disagreements and the tears and the kisses and their love. For once she wanted to be selfish, and she wanted to have it all.

#1122: "Well, I did kiss you back, didn't I?"

#1128: "You really love me? This is not a prank, right? Because then I would have to punch you and I actually really want to kiss you."

#1266: "Why is your stupid face just so kissable?"

#1303: "You almost kissed me." "And you sound disappointed that I didn't."

More: Kisses Masterpost

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[cavalierious-whim]

Digital Shop Update: Stovetop Tales, a Xiangling & Guoba Collection

Stovetop Tales is a digital collection of works featuring Xiangling and Guoba! These are non-ship, general-content works that are sure to brighten your day. Split between canon-verse and alternate universe sections, there's surely something for everyone to enjoy.

Featuring short stories, poetry, epistolary, and even an article-styled interview, this publication includes 5 previous unpublished works. Cover and spot art by Ergo Gida.

Purchase includes both Pages and Spreads.

23 Works

40k+ Words

160+ Pages

General Content

--

I recently lost my job, and I'm in the middle of a delayed unemployment case due to paperwork issues, so this is, at the moment, is my primary source of income.

Please consider sharing and donating to my Ko-Fi if, checking out my other PDFs or commissioning me if you have the chance.

Patreon

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[strawbunyy]

don't ask a link click fan what happened on june 19. or during august. or ever.

[haikokuu]

TARTALI IN THE BIG 2026 , my fathers SJFJOWEK 😭😭💗💗💗💔 I miss drawing them,,,,, ANYWAY THIS WILL BE PRINTED‼️⭐⭐⭐

[cavalierious-whim]

The Madness of Man (SFW)

The mad scholar Anaxa finds a way to debate a Titan.

Gothic-Inspired-ish AU

2.6k

Written for Aeipathy, an Anaxagoras Zine.

Check out the full tags here on AO3. You can also download the fanzine for free here.

Writing is a huge source of my income, so if you love my work, please consider supporting me. I have a free tier on Patreon, as well as early access tiers. If even one third of my followers subbed to the $1 tier, it'd be life-changing income and I could write full-time. You can also commission me, or sponsor a prompt on my Ko-Fi account, as well as purchase digital PDFs.

Patreon

Ko-Fi

Sponsor-a-Prompt Sheet

Digital PDFs

Physical Book Shop

Bluesky

Twitter

--

His journals are the ramblings of a madman.

Anaxa doesn’t rightly care what others think about his research. Hunched over coffee-stained parchment, his pen flies, penning his thoughts. “Titans,” he murmurs, the ink smudging slightly as his hand follows. “Titans and prophesies. Foul things. What makes a god a god? A man a man? That’s the question, no? Age old, undefined—”

His pen runs out of ink mid-thought. Anaxa sighs, irritated. It takes no time to dip it into the inkwell, but it’s still time spent away from his hypothesizing and planning. His thoughts have already derailed. He’ll have to refocus to find that train of thought again, which, while doable, is just a waste of a quarter-hour. Part of Anaxa knows that he’s being unreasonable, but the rest of him—oh, that rest of him—aren’t the Titans more unreasonable?

“Or men,” he mutters, tapping his pen against that inkwell, ensuring that the excess drips off. “Men and their need to explain away the unknown. Why must we ascribe power to higher beings? Are we so dull and stupid that we find ourselves incapable of such compounding achievements?”

There are many variables to this idea. Anaxa has written volumes on this subject, has spun together tome after tome of theories. Hypothetical nonsense, others call it. Drivel that goes forwards and back, making no sense—but in Anaxa’s head, it does. 

And that’s all that matters to him. Anaxa doesn’t need others to understand for the moment. Eventually they will. Yes, yes, eventually they will. But Anaxa is no fool, and he knows that it takes time to spin together a paper worth its salt. Theories, yes, he has plenty of those, but he’s yet to the point of acting upon them, of putting them to the test. 

So, for now, it’s just putting pen to paper, jotting down his errant thoughts. Later, they can be pieced together. Later, Anaxa can tug at the strings and make it make sense. As long as he’s left alone, that is. Anaxa doesn’t pause in his work when the door to his office opens with a slow creak. 

“Professor Anaxa?”

“Professor Anaxagoras,” he corrects. Hyacine might receive less of his ire than most, but even he draws the line at the shortening of his name. It’s too childish, too—

“You’re late to your own class.”

Anaxa stills, his pen hovering over his journal. A class? Since when? He looks at the calendar and sees that it’s the second day of the week. Right. Nousporism, level one. He’d forgotten entirely because this year’s batch of students has shown little to no promise, let alone interest in his class. In his opinion, of course. 

The clock shows that it’s late into the midafternoon. Enough so that he even forgot about lunch.

His pen still hovers there. Drip, drip, goes the ink, splashing onto bright and crisp parchment, blotting away his last thought. 

“Well?” prompts Hyacine when Anaxa says nothing else. 

“I—” He pauses, chewing on his next words. “I got caught up in my work and lost track of time. I didn’t realize that it was so late in the day.”

Hyacine waits a beat before clicking her tongue in disapproval. “Regardless of your side work, you’re still a professor with responsibilities. Could you imagine if I forgot about my nursing classes?”

Comparing the two of them is a laughable matter. Anaxa is… Well. Hyacine isn’t entirely wrong; Anaxa should, at least, attend his own classes. Otherwise, his budget might be lost. And then what? He can hypothesize anywhere he can exercise his mind, but the Grove of Epiphany has too many uses to risk removal. 

He should play nice. With a sigh, Anaxa sets his pen aside and shuts his journal. Later, he thinks. Later he’ll resume this pattern of thinking. Later he’ll revisit these questions that plague him. It’s for the sake of man. Their betterment. The less that they rely on Titans, the more they can thrive. 

“Apologies, Hyacine,” he finally says as he stands. “It wasn’t my intention to forget.” When he meets her face, Hyacine is watching him back with a shrewd look. 

“Yes, well, tell your students that, not me.”

“The flock this year is useless,” he mutters—but not so quietly that Hyacine doesn’t catch it.

Hyacine snorts in amusement. “You say that every year.” She gives him a wave and then disappears from the doorway, leaving him to his devices. 

Anaxa casts one last look at his desk and, with a sigh, turns to leave. 

#

A great sacred tree stretches towards the sky in the Grove of Epiphany. 

“The Bough of Rift,” murmurs Anaxa to himself as he stands at its roots. These ramblings are as well-known as his books. Other scholars and students keep a wide berth as Anaxa sorts his thoughts, staring upwards with a hand against his chin. “Born of the void, they turned nothingness into prosperity.” His words melt into soft whispers. “Nothingness…prosperity… No, no. Men speak their own truths, no? Titans aren’t needed for this. And the prophecy, that Flame-Chase Journey—it’s useless. Men make their own paths, which aren’t predetermined.”

That is, at its core, the entire part of his research. What is the point of having a soul if the Titans bear one’s future? What good is living if a man is to walk a predetermined line? None of it makes sense, and so the only correct hypothesis is that the Titans are not the divine beings they are touted to be.

“They can die,” he mutters. Then, Anaxa’s gaze dragging across that grand, sacred tree, he continues with, “You died.”

Or, so the stories say. Anaxa isn’t one for mythology, but it’s had its uses when studying the plight of man. Heretic, he’s called. How distasteful to imply that he’s corrupting today’s youth. Anaxa has no bearing on what others believe, despite how he wishes he did. But if he could prove it, if he could just talk to a Titan—

He stills. Why has he never thought of such a thing? If Flame-Chasing Chrysos Heirs can steal away Coreflames and become demigods, then surely, surely Anaxa can resurrect a Titan. A conversation would prove his theory: that Titans are nothing more fantastical than mere mortals. That it’s mankind who pedestals them unnecessarily. 

What a wild, mad plan. 

But it’s a plan. 

And, frankly, Anaxa has done worse experiments. 

#

An experiment, of course, requires preparation. Anaxa spends weeks and months pouring over books from the libraries. Titan and religious philosophy, personal accounts from Chrysos Heirs of old, even his own theorizing from years prior—but even then, he isn’t much closer to a solid plan. 

How does one summon a Titan? Anaxa has the golden blood of Flame-Chasers, but it’s not as though the Titans roam Amphoreus for any and all to speak with. Cerces themself is a damn tree.

“This book,” he mutters whilst poring over a handwritten volume one day. It’s familiar. Something about the neat and tidy letters catches his attention. “This is…” Anaxa is fairly certain he’s seen this before, which would track. He’d found this volume tucked away on his corner shelf. 

‘Even up till today, I still disagree with that bizarre Flame-Chase Journey,’ the book reads. Anaxa skims until he reaches: ‘After I had proposed the theory that the nature of souls of Titans and humans are no different, and that souls are constructed from seeds of wisdom, I have been waiting for a chance to prove it once and for all…’

Anaxa leans back, his chair creaking under his weight. So, he isn’t the first to think of such a thing. This journal is unsigned, leaving the author unknown. And it’s possible that he’s flipped through it before because hiding it away, his research didn’t used to pertain to his current theory, so it isn’t so much a stretch that it wasn’t useful to him before. 

It’s blasphemy to consider that Titans and humans share the same type of soul. Nousporism touts a similar ideal: that all beings originate from the same source, but that does not mean they are the same. But, to exist in this realm, mustn't their souls have the same composition? That’s the age-old quandary that no one agrees upon.

Madness. Madness—that’s what his fellow scholars already say. Anaxa is a madman with mad ideals, and worse yet, now he wants to prove them. Just a talk with a Titan, a simple conversation, that's all he needs. But how does one even begin to approach what’s considered a divine being?

His gaze falls back to the book. Who was the author?

“Nobody,” he says to himself—but, again, there’s a tug at the base of Anaxa’s neck as he smooths his hand over the worn leather cover. Familiarity pricks at his being. “Alas, the author remains elusive. A pity. They and I seem to share similar theories and concerns.”

How can one create a proper hypothesis if they can’t truly examine every variable? One could argue that it’s merely a thought exercise, but, if given the opportunity, Anaxa would enjoy picking Cerces’s brain—from an academic standpoint, of course.

But, ultimately, a tree is just a tree, and a Titan is nothing more than a man. This, thinks Anaxa in that profound madness of his, renders the prophecy and Flame Chase Journey entirely bogus. Anaxa just needs a moment—one moment—to prove this theory true. 

Back to the book. ‘I once smiled like this, when I first created a mechanical bird that could fly in the sky’, he reads.

And then Anaxa has an absurd idea. Thumbing at his chin, he says, “I suppose there isn’t harm in turning every stone, as ridiculous as it sounds.”

#

Anaxa goes to the great sacred tree and asks for its attention. 

In one hand, he carries that old leather journal, the one that shares his similarly blasphemous thoughts. It’s become a comfort to him, its strange kinship grounding him in his lunacy. Others do not understand, but this nameless author, oh, he knows him, doesn’t he?

Desperation drives him to the roots of Cerces. It’s a tree, a damned tree. And Anaxa feels particularly stupid speaking to a tree. His request is simple and polite. “Bough of Rift,” he says. “Creator divine, I wish to have a discussion of philosophies with you.”

The moment stretches. Leaves rustle gently in the soft breeze, but nothing happens. Anaxa waits and waits before he determines this leg of the experiment a dead end. But, just as he turns around, someone speaks, a quiet, ageless voice wafting through the space. 

“So quickly you demand my presence but are even quicker to lose patience.” 

Anaxa stills. He did not expect this outcome. He’d thought he’d need an experiment. He thought he’d have to resurrect old dry bones with lightning rods and a prayer. “It is not a loss of patience,” he says tartly. “I just do not enjoy being ignored.”

“You were not ignored. It takes great effort to hold a presence here.”

He turns to find a shapeless, non-corporeal being before him. A shadow gilded in gold, neither here nor there, but more so in between. It flutters as it speaks, wavering in and out, but remains solid enough for the moment.

“Child of humanity,” prompts Cerces, “you wish to speak of philosophy?”

“I wish to pick the brain of a so-called god.”

Silence. And then: “So-called.” Cerces, at least, seems more amused than insulted. 

“I have a working theory that I wish for your opinion on. Others call it madness. They think that I’m insane, but I’m not—I’m not. These are not the ramblings of lunacy, it is higherbrow thinking. It is the future as we let go of these lesser myths that hold us back. We, mankind, and Titans—we are one in the same. Same beginnings, same souls, same flesh. Neither is better than the other. Neither is—”

Cerces laughs. That amorphous being cackles, shuddering, beside themself. “You said the very same thing the last time we spoke.”

The last time? Anaxa tilts his head, regarding the Titan with a narrowed, wary gaze. “We have never… I’ve never… You said it was difficult for you to come here, to hold space in this grove. How could we have—”

If Anaxa speaks madness, then this Titan is the true embodiment of insanity. “It doesn't matter,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. “I am here to carry on a debate.”

“And did our last debate mean nothing? Did you not write your findings down in that very journal you hold?”

Anaxa looks at that leather-bound book, the one he’s been attached to from the moment he cracked it open. Its words, the theories it contains—

‘Today, I can finally make up for the regret, akin to a calamity, from numerous years ago.’

“Oh,” says Cerces, then. “Oh, I see, now. Perhaps I had made a mistake then. I should never have placed my Coreflame in one so dead.”

Dead. Dead. It’s only then that Anaxa remembers: a wave of the Black Tide descending upon the Grove and razing it to the ground. Anaxa, alongside the others, had defended it to the bitter end until his golden blood soiled the round. Cerces felt it, that blood. Cerces—

The handwriting is his. This journal is his. He’s a dead demigod housing a flame that barely keeps him alive—but that second chance has come at the cost of his sanity. 

But doesn’t that mean a Creator remade him? Doesn’t that mean that the Titans are more than mankind? No, no. The warmth of that Coreflame further proves his point—he’s an alchemist who’s come full circle. He’s been transformed and ascended; he’s become a god in his own right. 

He wrote about this in the journal. ‘My body shall become the vessel to forge the Coreflames of gods, and my soul shall become the chains that force the gods to bow!’

Cerces answered his call. They are there, witnessing his madness turn to might firsthand. 

‘Use me as the firewood to ignite the flames that will bring light to the truth!’

Anaxa laughs at the irony of it all. “I’m my own evidence,” he claims, growing more manic by the moment. “I’ve proven my theory. Man can ascend to their fullest potential. We can be on par with gods. It’s here, isn’t it? It’s all in this journal, it’s all…”

He forgets the Titan is there. Cerces watches in regret as Anaxa falls into his maniacal rant. He’d forgotten this entirely, that he’d been dead. But he’s revived, still flesh and bone, still contemplating the state of man and their place in the Cosmos.

“‘Do not fear blasphemy,’” he reads, flipping to the end of the journal. “‘It is already a sin to transcend the gods, so what if you become a god!’” 

There are notations. Red marks of madness and other iterations that Anaxa pores over. He’d forgotten. Death has driven him to derangement, but that is where he’s found the truth. It’s been here the entire time, right under his fingertips, penned in his own hand. 

When he looks, Cerces is gone. Or, maybe they were never there to begin with. The Grove is empty and overgrown, no longer sweet-smelling and serene with leaves rustling in the breeze. There is no Hyacine or a litany of other scholars giving him space. Death shrouds this place, which is as decayed as his mind, a mere shell of the school it once was.

Anaxa finds that he no longer cares. He’s lost once again in his supreme delusion, and oh, isn’t that a divine revelation?

[daily-prompts]

You inherit a house where every room exists in a different year.

[creativepromptsforwriting]

How to create an atmosphere

How to create an atmosphere: Coffee Shop

How to create an atmosphere: Library

How to create an atmosphere: Supermarket

How to create an atmosphere: Train Station

How to create an atmosphere: Club

How to create an atmosphere: Forest

How to create an atmosphere: Beach

How to create an atmosphere: Haunted House

How to create an atmosphere: Christmas Market

How to create an atmosphere: Airport

How to create an atmosphere: Lecture Hall

[creativepromptsforwriting]

What kind of place would you like to see next?

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Prompt List: Romantic Prompts (4)

Masterpost by creativepromptsforwriting

Idiots in Love Part I

Prompt #148

We used to watch romantic comedies together and mock the people who clumsily told each other what we never could.

Prompt #427

"How about we get to know each other better before one of us does something stupid."

Prompt #630

"You really are dumb. I love you, but you're an idiot."

Prompt #688

"You're always acting like I'm so in love with you." "Aren't you?" "That doesn't matter."

Prompt #707

"I was always flirting with you." "What? When did that ever happen?" "I mean, I looked at you… And sometimes you looked back."

Prompt #758

"Oh, don't mind me, I just love to watch two idiots finally realizing what everyone already knew."

Prompt #800

"Thank god, your standards are so low or I would have never had a chance with you."

Prompt #858

"Please, accept this gift as a token of my love." "That's a knife. And it has blood on it."

Prompt #912

"Why do I always fall for idiots?" "I don't know. Gravity?"

Prompt #1004

"Maybe I'm allergic to them." "Why would you think that?" "Because when they get close to me I can't breathe and I get really sweaty and hot."

More: Romance Prompt Lists

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Prompt List: Romantic Prompts (4)

Masterpost by creativepromptsforwriting

Idiots in Love Part I

Prompt #148

We used to watch romantic comedies together and mock the people who clumsily told each other what we never could.

Prompt #427

"How about we get to know each other better before one of us does something stupid."

Prompt #630

"You really are dumb. I love you, but you're an idiot."

Prompt #688

"You're always acting like I'm so in love with you." "Aren't you?" "That doesn't matter."

Prompt #707

"I was always flirting with you." "What? When did that ever happen?" "I mean, I looked at you… And sometimes you looked back."

Prompt #758

"Oh, don't mind me, I just love to watch two idiots finally realizing what everyone already knew."

Prompt #800

"Thank god, your standards are so low or I would have never had a chance with you."

Prompt #858

"Please, accept this gift as a token of my love." "That's a knife. And it has blood on it."

Prompt #912

"Why do I always fall for idiots?" "I don't know. Gravity?"

Prompt #1004

"Maybe I'm allergic to them." "Why would you think that?" "Because when they get close to me I can't breathe and I get really sweaty and hot."

More: Romance Prompt Lists

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Dialogue Responses

"Do you hate me?"

"You hurt me too much.”

"I just can't forget what happened."

"I'm just disappointed. And confused."

"Of course not. I could never hate you."

"I just need time to process everything."

"Hating you is unfortunately not even an option."

"Why would you even think that? No, I don't hate you."

"I don't hate you, but I am very hurt by what happened."

"I don’t hate you. I just wish things had turned out differently."

"Hate is a strong word. I just don't know how to feel about you right now."

All the Dialogue Responses can be found here.

If you like my blog and want to support me, you can buy me a coffee or become a member! 🥰

[pneech]

[viria]

[cavalierious-whim]

Cinch Position (Zhongchi, NSFW)

A heated match turns in to Childe sucking Zhongli off in the billiard's hall.

'Bank Shot'

Billiards AU

2k

Check out the full tags here on AO3. You can also find the full Socially Awkward Series here.

Writing is a huge source of my income, so if you love my work, please consider supporting me. I have a free tier on Patreon, as well as early access tiers. If even one third of my followers subbed to the $1 tier, it'd be life-changing income and I could write full-time. You can also commission me, or sponsor a prompt on my Ko-Fi account, as well as purchase digital PDFs.

Patreon

Ko-Fi

Sponsor-a-Prompt Sheet

Digital PDFs

Physical Book Shop

Bluesky

Twitter

--

Hustling Zhongli is like playing with fire. 

Childe’s been here and done this enough times to know better. Zhongli plays a mean game of pool. Doesn’t matter how many decades of experience Childe has under his belt; how many titles he’s won, or Mora he’s swindled out of the wallets of lesser-than-holy players—Zhongli is the one player that he knows he can’t beat. Zhongli lets him win when he’s in the mood, but usually, usually, he’s in too playful a mood to give up so easily. 

Today, he distracts Childe. “Nine ball,” murmurs Zhongli against his ear, “corner pocket, right? That would be your smartest move. Sink that and you can win the game.”

If he doesn’t, Zhongli will sink the eight instead because he’s already cleared the table of solids.

Warm hands rest on Childe’s waist. Zhongli is plastered against him, his front to Childe’s back, a half-hard erection trapped against his ass. It’s late, and they’ve bribed Rouran to let them linger alone, so with everyone gone, Zhongli is particularly handsy. Childe squirms slightly, which leads Zhongli to squeeze at his hips, stilling him. 

“Your turn,” he murmurs, then kisses Childe’s temple before pulling away. Not entirely out of reach; no, Childe can still feel the heat radiating off of him, but Zhongli’s cock is no longer a hindrance resting against his ass. 

Still, it’s hard to train up his shot. Childe’s hands shake, he lacks focus, and he’s pretty sure that the table is the thing shifting underneath his grasp, now that he’s lost all sense of himself, dizzy with arousal, with need.

Childe miscues, which seals his fate.

Zhongli doesn’t even need to take his last turn, they both know where this ends up. 

“Ajax,” he purrs, breath hot against the shell of Childe’s ear, “I do think this match goes to me.”

Childe swallows around the lump in his throat. Zhongli’s pressed against his back again, strong arms framing him, hands braced against the table. Never with too much weight—Zhongli would never risk the balance of a pool table, but this is safe enough, just a gentle lean-to that boxes Childe against smooth and polished wood.

His cock is fully hard now, pressed against the swell of Childe’s backside. “You won’t fuck me here,” says Childe, his tone snarky, teasing. And Zhongli won’t—it’s too public, even if they’ve basically reserved the space for themselves. Zhongli will do a myriad of other things aside from shoving his cock in deep, the way Childe wants. 

Still, it’s fun to tease him. Playing the game is only part of the appeal, the rest is working up Zhongli even when he’s won. 

Zhongli laughs. “No,” he agrees, “but you know better than anyone, Ajax, just what I am willing to indulge in.”

“Taking your sweet time to tell me, aren’t you?”

“It’s indulgence,” says Zhongli, emphasizing the word as he repeats it. “Where is the pleasure in making this quick?”

That’s the thing, though—be it rivals who fuck, barely friends with benefits, whatever this is—it is quick and dirty. It’s making out in the corners after edging themselves with tease after tease. It’s retiring to a hotel room for an hour before parting until the next time. Childe likes it; it’s messy, but it’s easy—easy because they can disengage the moment they get it out of their system.

But Zhongli, with his older, gentleman-like sentimentalities, takes it for a romantic spin even if they both know that this is a means to an end.

“You’re the quick shot,” replies Childe, looking back over his shoulder and fluttering his eyelashes in a mock-bashful way. “You never last long enough for me.”

Zhongli tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Are you issuing another challenge?” He can’t resist the allure of another game, it seems. 

“No, but I know that I can get you off in record time—and you like that about me. One and done, quick to move on.”

A boundary, carefully laid out. Zhongli huffs but pulls away, giving into Childe’s goading. The reminder never hurts and always works, Zhongli falling into Childe’s trap time and time again.

“Quickly, then,” agrees Zhongli, turning them until his ass is resting against the pool table. “We wouldn’t want to get caught breaking Rouran’s no fucking rule, do we?”

It’s a flimsy rule at best with vaguely laid terms—and Rouran knows that more people than not get each other off in the corners of the billiard hall; the Pearl Galley isn’t known for just class and elegance; it’s, as Zhongli earlier said, pure indulgence and hedonism at its finest. But Zhongli’s a man of propriety and to hear him curse so openly shows just how much he’s already fallen, which is why it’s always a thrill that Childe has such sway over him. 

Childe drops to his knees. Squeezes at Zhongli’s defined thighs, pulling the fine fabric of his trousers across them. “This is what you want, right? My mouth?” He nuzzles the bulge of Zhongli’s cock where it’s trapped, hidden from him. 

“I—”

“A simple man, when it comes down to it, aren’t you?” Childe already paws at the closure, fingers deft as they yank at buttons, prying the fly open. He leans forward to kiss the strip of skin there, smooth and pale, dusted with coarse hair that trails down. 

Like a god, he thinks, fingers pulling at Zhongli’s trousers, loosening them. Zhongli does so little to be fit, but he’s divine. Perfect. Childe can’t wait to get his mouth around his length. 

Zhongli’s trousers and underthings are tugged down just enough to free his cock. Long and thick, it curves just slightly, twitching the moment Childe’s gaze falls onto it. Leaks from the tip already. Childe takes hold, swiping this thumb through the precome dribbling from the slit before letting go entirely.

“Quick, like I said,” he teases, bringing his thumb to his mouth for a taste, making a show of swirling his tongue around it.

Zhongli stares; watches him with this flushed, unreadable expression, his mouth slightly parted, his eyes wide. He swallows thickly, his throat bobbing, and oh, this is why Childe loves this game. Zhongli thinks he has control but he doesn’t. He’s like any other man, thinking with mostly his dick, a bluff easily called upon. 

Childe wastes no time leaning forward. Fingers curl around Zhongli’s cock again, stroking it gently from base to tip. He guides it to his mouth, lips wrapping around the head for a quick suck—and that, alone, makes Zhongli buckle. 

A hand flies to the back of Childe’s head. Zhongli’s fingers thread through his hair, pulling at it slightly until his scalp stings just a little—but oh, it’s the good kind of burn; the kind that leaks heat into his belly, that makes his cock hard and wet. 

Zhongli squirms as Childe swirls his tongue around the head of his cock. His thighs tense, and he leans back against the table, bracing himself on his free hand, head tipping back to show off the line of his throat. Childe swallows, looking up through long, auburn eyelashes, and fuck, the expression on Zhongli’s face is nearly enough to have him coming in his trousers. 

They’ve barely begun. A quick shot, teased Childe, but the fact of the matter is that it’s true: Zhongli is a man who feels, who lives in these moments so fully that it doesn’t take much to tip him over the edge. Childe slides down his cock, pulling it into his throat until. He hums, moaning around it, stroking the rest with his hand—and that has Zhongli scrabbling against the table in a way that will definitely, definitely unbalance it. 

“Ajax,” he hisses, unable to stop the small swivel of his hips, driving his cock deeper. Zhongli holds Childe’s head there firmly and ruts against him again, again, with slow, sharp movements. 

Childe chokes slightly, his throat constricting. Zhongli’s cock throbs against his tongue, twitching as Childe widens his mouth to better ease along his length. But he’s close, Zhongli; Childe can tell by his stuttering movements, by the way that he tugs at his hair, and tries not to shove himself as deep as he can go. And Childe could take him, he has before, nose pressed to the coarse hair of his belly, but—

Zhongli won’t last that long, not with Childe bobbing his head, and meeting those gentle, rolling thrusts of Zhongli’s hips against his mouth. 

“I’m—I’m—” Zhongli never sounds embarrassed. Despite Childe’s earlier teasing, this isn’t something he worries over. He might tip over the edge quick, but that’s only the beginning; if Childe doesn’t come too, Zhongli will just drag him to a hotel room and fuck him there. 

It’s hot and messy. Drool pools in the corners of his mouth, dripping, making an utter mess of his chin. There’s a wet schlick as Zhongli’s cock slides against Childe’s tongue. And gods, the feel of it. Childe is lightheaded from arousal and lust. Forces himself to breathe through his nose as he bobs his head, back and forth, back and forth—

“Ajax, you’re so good,” murmurs Zhongli, brushing back Childe’s sweaty bangs, taking in the sight of his lips stretched wide around his cock. “You always take me so well.”

Childe moans, eyelashes fluttering closed. The praise hits, dripping down his spine, making his cock ache. A rough touch of his palm grinding against it takes the edge off, but he’s empty, too empty, and his ass clenches at the promise of a rough fuck. 

“Ajax. Ajax.” Zhongli’s voice is ragged with need, cracking on the second utterance of his name. He’s pressure-cooked, near his end. Won’t last much longer. “I’m going to—in your mouth, darling. Please, please.”

Darling is a tease that’s just too good, sordid in its nature, clinging to Childe like the rest of the praise that Zhongli doles out. Childe drowns in it, moaning again, desperate to get off—but to do that, he needs more from Zhongli. To taste him, feel him, watch as he loses himself—something.

Zhongli doesn’t come in his mouth, to Childe’s supreme dissatisfaction. In an effort for a little more friction, Zhongli pulls out too much. Spills against Childe’s lips instead, soiling his face. Choking on Zhongli’s come isn’t fun, but neither is getting it up his nose—but thankfully Zhongli’s aim isn’t the worst it’s been. He still pets Childe's hair, nails raking across his scalp as he takes a good look. 

“Made a mess of me, didn’t you?” asks Childe.

“I—I didn’t mean to. It’s—” Snapped from his reverie, Zhongli pulls out a silk handkerchief that definitely shouldn’t be used like this. “Here, let me help.”

He cleans off Childe’s face with a gentle, soothing touch. His thumb traces after, catching any leftovers, any extra streaks of his come.

Childe’s tongue darts out to catch the pad of that thumb, licking around the joint. Then he tilts, drawing it into his mouth for a suckle, which—yeah, that does exactly what he meant for it to.

Zhongli curses, softly, gaze trained on Childe who still kneels at his feet, despite the smarting of his knees. The bulge of Childe’s own cock isn’t missed. Zhongli sighs, pulling a hand over his face as his eyes drop to linger on that too. 

Bingo. Zhongli’s caught in his snare, and though Childe lost their billards match, he’s won this next little game. 

“Yours or mine?” Childe’s mouth curves against Zhongli’s thumb, which is still pressed against his lips. He gives it a tart little kiss before pulling away. 

The answer is his, as it usually is. Zhongli always books the nicer options that are further away, but Childe is a simple man; it’s quicker to his bed, so that’s where they find themselves next. And it’s quick and dirty, with Childe’s face shoved into the sheets. Zhongli draped against his back as he fucks him properly until he’s a keening, whining mess who’s lost his words.

The game of it, though—that’s part of the pleasure and fun. Childe isn’t a hedonist, but Zhongli comes as his one exception. 

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Touch Starved Prompts

It was strange to touch each other without one of them dying, but maybe touch was also something for the living.

Like magnets they moved together, pressing into each other's warmth.

There always needed to be a reason, an excuse for their bodies to touch.

Being touch-starved and needy was really starting to mess with their reputation as a tough guy.

It was like their skin was calling out for the other's gentle touch.

They didn't like to be touched by just anyone. But that didn't mean they didn't also crave it sometimes.

A coldness took over their body that only the warmth of another person could erase.

They wanted to be touched, to be missed, to be loved. Was that too much to ask for?

Leaning onto each other, just being close, was enough.

Their bodies fitting together like they always were intended to become one.

[cavalierious-whim]

Wish You Were Here (Wriolette, NSFW)

Neuvillette and Wriothesley engage in a spicy call whilst the latter is out of town.

'Socially Awkward

Modern AU

4.7k

Check out the full tags here on AO3. You can also find the full Socially Awkward Series here.

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--

“Sweetheart, I miss you.”

The moment that Wriothesley's voice floats through his cell phone, relief washes through Neuvillette. It is, perhaps, a little silly. Normally, Neuvillette would feel embarrassed about something like this. He’s functioned for decades alone, but being with Wriothesley has utterly spoiled him.

And it isn’t just missing his partner. No, his home feels empty. The bed is cold. The sheets are too sterile when Wriothesley's side of the mattress remains untouched. There are no home-cooked meals and tea tastings at the behest of Wriothesley's skilled hands.

Or, other things, in regards to his skilled hands, but Neuvillette is not in the mood to entertain Miss Navia’s pointed eyebrow wagging every time he sends Wriothesley a text. 

Neuvillette never realized just how lonesome he was before, but now the throbbing ache in his chest is a persistent thing whenever Wriothesley is pulled out of town for work. 

It’s earlier in the night for Neuvillette than it is for Wriothesley, who’s in Mondstadt, several time zones away. A quick glance at the clock shows that he should be reheating dinner, but, but—

“I miss you too,” sighs Neuvillette. He lounges on the couch instead, too lazy to get up. Work was a long slog of paperwork and Navia breathing down his throat. There wasn’t even time to break for a proper lunch, which is why he really should eat dinner, but the allure of speaking with his husband keeps him pinned to the sofa instead. 

“Making dinner?”

Ah, he’s caught. Neuvillette rubs his face, his mouth curling into a smile. “Eventually. I’ve only just kicked off my shoes to rest my feet.”

A pause. “Neuvillette, you’ve been home for at least an hour.”

An hour and a half, but who’s counting? Certainly not Neuvillette, who collapsed onto the leather, turned on the television, and fell into a doze until his phone rang. Wriothesley always has the worst (best) timing when it comes to answering his texts, reading Neuvillette’s mind from even afar. 

“Work exhausted you that much?”

“Navia runs a tight ship, as they say, but I am thankful for her intensive scheduling. Tomorrow I’ll be able to take a half day on account of the amount of paperwork I finished today.” The long hours are sometimes worth it, but when he is in the zone—Navia’s words, not his—he tends to forget about the hours that tick away. Navia has to schedule him to prevent overstaying. With Wriothesley gone for the week, it’s easier than usual to get lost in his work because there is no reason to leave at a decent time. 

“No doubt she kicked you out.” Wriothesley's voice is full of mirth. “How long did it take her?”

“That isn’t a relevant inquiry,” replies Neuvillette, already feeling defensive. “Besides, I am thankful for the distraction. It is too quiet without you here.”

Wriothesley sighs, and Neuvillette can see the way his face crinkles up clearly in his mind’s eye. Gods above, Neuvillette has an alarming ability to be pathetic, doesn’t he? Wriothesley has only been gone two days, and he’ll be back by the weekend. Neuvillette yearns, though. His chest aches in Wriothesley’s absence. 

“Soon, sweetheart. I’ll be back before you know it.” He falls quiet again, this time long enough for Neuvillette to, perhaps, expect that Wriothesley has cooked up a half-baked idea. “So,” he eventually continues in a long drawl, “a half day tomorrow? Are you going to sleep in?”

Neuvillette is more likely to leave work early instead, which Wriothesley knows. “Perhaps an early lunch—”

“What are you doing right now?”

Neuvillette stills. Wriothesley's tone is low. It bleeds liquid warmth, the kind that fuels heat in Neuvillette’s gut. “Beloved,” he warns. 

“Dinner can wait, right?”

Dinner can wait, yes. Neuvillette isn’t even undressed yet, though, still wearing—

“Tell me what you wore to work today.”

Neuvillette chokes off a soft groan because of course, of course, Wriothesley will want to engage in something salacious.

“A suit,” he replies, tossing other thoughts away. “The navy plaid one that is bespoke from Chioriya Boutique.”

The sound Wriothesley makes is sinful, a deep sigh that flutters through the phone and right into Neuvillette’s ear. To hear a man become so undone just by a descriptor of his clothing… 

Well. Wriothesley fell in love with a picture of him from the collarbones down, clad in a three-piece suit, so maybe Neuvillette shouldn’t be surprised that his imagination can so easily run wild. “Are we doing this right now?” he asks, his own words curled with amusement.

“As opposed to later? Sweetheart, I already have you on the phone. Apparently you’re on the couch. There isn’t a better time.”

It’s later in Mondstadt by several hours. It might be cruel for Neuvillette to make Wriothesley wait until he’s eaten and freshened up. Plus, Wriothesley's voice—oh, the sound of it. Deep and rich, the edges curled with arousal. It’s so easy to sense his need by just listening. 

“You’re thinking about it.” Wriothesley's voice is a deep purr against his ear. “You haven’t said no. I think you need this too.”

“I—” Neuvillette huffs. Wriothesley knows him like the back of his hand. There is no point in trying to deny it. “Yes,” he sighs, settling into the couch. Might as well get comfy. Might as well—

His fingers dig into his thigh, pulling at the fabric of his trousers lightly. Neuvillette’s cock twitches, already half-hard. And maybe that should be embarrassing, on account that he was just teasing Wriothesley, but he is a man in love, and he misses his husband. 

Wriothesley's voice shouldn’t affect him so, but then Neuvillette thinks back to his streaming days. That deep timbre and sarcastic curl drew him in. He fell in love with that voice. Then there was that private call where Neuvillette couldn’t see anything above the neck, but he could hear Wriothesley. Wriothesley had told him he did not dole out explicit content but still guided Neuvillette through getting off. Still touched himself at the sight of it, all the while calling him sweetheart in that curling tone. That’d been the end of them both.

From that moment on, Neuvillette had been a gone, gone man.

“Neuvillette?”

Neuvillette blinks, realizing that he’d been lost in his thoughts. “Apologies, beloved. I was—”

“What were you thinking about?”

What a question. Neuvillette could drive Wriothesley to madness by playing coy. Or, he could drive him mad in another way entirely.

“Our first night together,” he says. “Not in person. No, I mean the video call, the one where I—”

“You saw me,” says Wriothesley with humor. “And I saw you. Most of you, at least.”

“But I also heard you. Beloved, are you aware of what your voice does to me? How it makes me feel?” Neuvillette lets loose a shaky breath as his hand skirts across the front of his now tented trousers. Just a little squeeze, some friction to take the edge off. “You told me how to touch myself.”

“Is that what you want right now?”

Is it? “Anything,” murmurs Neuvillette. “I just want to hear your voice.”

“Knowing you, you’re still in your work clothes.”

“I…yes.”

Wriothesley laughs, the sound of it crackling over the connection. “Open up your trousers for me, sweetheart.”

“Wriothesley—”

“You won’t?”

“That isn’t what I said. I just—”

“Let’s paint a picture, hm? Are you in the bedroom? The bath?”

Neuvillette huffs. “The couch, regrettably, as I already told you.” The black leather one that used to be a prop in Wriothesley's streaming. There’s something funny about it, something a little silly about how it’s come full circle. “The television is on. I’ve just been resting.”

“That’s good, baby. You deserve that rest.” 

Those words wash over him. Neuvillette’s eyes flutter closed, and he melts against the smooth, soft leather. This way, it’s easy to imagine Wriothesley here. He forgets about the phone lodged between his ear and shoulder. Imagines that the hand against his straining erection is Wriothesley's instead. 

“Sweetheart,” says Wriothesley, quieter, softer. “Neuvillette, open your trousers for me?”

Fingers ghost the fly, popping open the topmost button. “Okay. Okay.”

“Do you want to pretend it’s me there? That I’m the one touching you?”

That’d be impossible to imagine. Neuvillette is too rational, too even-minded to pretend, but— “Just guide me, beloved. Tell me what to do.”

“Fuck, that’s—” Wriothesley sucks in a breath. Moans softly, taking a little too long to answer. Neuvillette knows that he must’ve just started touching himself, that he’s likely coaxing his own cock to fill out in his hand. A quick stroke. A thumb across the tip, spreading precome around. 

Maybe it’s easier to imagine these things than Neuvillette initially thought. 

“Sweetheart, have you pulled yourself out yet? Are you touching yourself?”

“Not yet.”

“Slowly, then. Got it.”

That isn’t what Neuvillette meant, but he says nothing else. He told Wriothesley to guide him, so he’ll listen. He’ll do as he says as long as he keeps talking, as long as his voice keeps bullying his ear. 

“Speakerphone, Neuvillette.”

Oh, that’ll be embarrassing. “Wriothesley.”

“There’s no one else there, just you. Don’t you want to use both of your hands?” A pause. “I want you to use both of your hands.”

Neuvillette fumbles slightly with shaking hands as he toggles on the speakerphone. He lays it on the arm of the sofa next to him, watching it sink into the soft leather. The sound quality isn’t as good. He’d rather have Wriothesley whispering in his ear directly, but this will do. It’ll be enough. 

“Okay,” he says. “My hands are free, beloved. I’m yours. Tell me what to do.”

“Just touch yourself for me, sweetheart. Slow and steady. Drag your fingers down your stomach. Feel the muscle there.”

That’s…that’s… Neuvillette does as he asks, fingers trailing the trail of hair there, down to the base of his cock. The muscles there strain and flex underneath the featherlight touch. He shudders slightly, pleasure zinging down his spine as Wriothesley's voice purrs through the speaker on his phone. 

“Feel good? Words, baby, I want to hear you.”

“Yes, but—”

It isn’t enough. This light-handed touch only leaves heat in its wake, but Neuvillette supposes that’s the entire idea. A gentle tease. A nudge in the right direction, an appetizer to the main course. 

He isn’t entirely sure that he won’t come immediately the moment he gets his hand on himself. Neuvillette is rarely so quick to tip over the edge, but he’s more keyed up than he realized, and then there’s Wriothesley—oh, his husband. 

“You want more, don’t you?” Wriothesley chuckles, deep and warm, and gods above, if that doesn’t make Neuvillette’s cock twitch in response. 

“Can I—” Neuvillette swallows the request down. 

There’s a delicious aspect to asking, isn’t there? In having Wriothesley guide him? That’s what Neuvillette asked for, what he craves, and so—

“Can I touch myself?” he tries again, the question tumbling from his mouth. “Wriothesley. Beloved, please tell me that I can touch myself.”

“Fuck, that’s—” Wriothesley sucks in a breath. A soft groan—that’s the sound that he makes when he’s squeezing his cock tightly to prevent an early end. Neuvillette’s heard it enough to recognize it. What a wonder. Neuvillette wishes that he could see, that Wriothesley was here with him, his hand around his cock instead. 

But a phone call is the next best thing.

“Go on, sweetheart.”

There are so many options, so many ways in which Neuvillette can indulge. Does he keep it light and teasing, trying to drag it out? Or does he stroke himself to completion hard and fast to the sound of Wriothesley's praise?

Neuvillette shoves a hand into the opening of his trousers, the heel of his palm grinding against his pubic bone. Then lower, lower, until his hand is heavy against his length, and there’s finally skin against skin. It’s a simple touch, but it’s enough to spark fire in his veins, to make that growing ball of pleasure spread.

“Neuvillette,” says Wriothesley, a gentle reminder to offer a narrative. 

Right. Right. Neuvillette licks his lips, but his throat is parched, and though this is good, he wants more. “I’m not—My hand is just…resting in my trousers. A nice weight against my—” Oh, it’s an embarrassing word, but— “—cock. I haven’t yet divested any of my clothes.”

“Why not?”

“I fear I may come the moment I get my hand on myself. Already, I’m close. My cock aches, and I need more, but I don’t want to…”

“But I want you to, sweetheart. Neuvillette, touch yourself properly. Let me hear you.”

Neuvillette lifts his hips, shoving his trousers down around his knees. This has never been his favorite place for this sort of thing, even with Wriothesley there. The leather of the couch is cold against his ass, slightly sticky as it clings to his skin. But it’s soft, supple. It warms quickly against his skin once he’s settled again. 

His cock twitches against his thigh, begging to be touched. Neuvillette takes his time, though, nails catching against his skin as he drags his fingers down his stomach to the base of his cock. When he finally takes hold of himself, it’s overbearing. He whines, hips bucking against his palm. Gives himself a stroke, groaning at the sweet friction as the tip grinds against his palm. 

Neuvillette moans. Can’t help it, can’t hold the sound back. He lets out a shaky breath as he pumps his cock once, twice.

“Just like that, baby,” says Wriothesley, a quiet purr over the phone call. 

This, Neuvillette thinks, just might be what he needed. Never one to touch himself much, even out of habit, he finds relief in both his hand and Wriothesley's voice. 

“What are you doing?”

“I—the point is for you to tell me. I want—”

“I know, but you have to give me a starting point.”

Right, that. It’s not as though Wriothesley can see him. He’s working off his imagination, what Neuvillette tells him, and the sounds that he can’t hold back. “I’ve finally…taken ahold of myself.” 

Gods, this is embarrassing, but anything for Wriothesley, anything to feel less lonely, to take the edge off.

“Good boy. Pretend it’s my hand. Touch yourself the way that I like to.”

How Wriothesley touches him depends on his mood. Sometimes, he wants to drag it out. Those days, he’ll take his sweet time, dragging Neuvillette to the edge over and over before finally letting him slip over the edge. Teasing, lilting touches that alternate between a tight squeeze and a loose hold—those days pull Neuvillette through the wringer. 

But other times they’re a little more desperate. Maybe it’s because they haven’t seen each other. Maybe it’s because they don’t have a lot of time to tug one out, or they’re beaten from the day and too tired to do anything more than a quick but satisfying hand job. 

Tonight… Tonight Neuvillette is bone-weary, but not so much that he wants this over with quickly. There’s an appeal to drawing it out, in being slow and steady, edging himself until he can’t bear it anymore. 

Another soft grunt floats through the phone speaker. Neuvillette hears a soft, wet sound—Wriothesley’s hand on his cock, now slick with lube. He knows that breathy, needy sound. Wriothesley likely won’t last long, not if he’s already struggling to choke off his orgasm. 

“Sweetheart?” 

Right. Right, Neuvillette is supposed to be narrating. “Apologies, beloved, I was thinking.”

“About me, right?”

“About how you’d touch me.” It’s easier now to slip into this role. Once Neuvillette hears Wriothesley's hand working himself over, it’s less embarrassing to be on the other end of it. It emboldens him, makes him want to lean into the play, if only to hear what Wriothesley sounds like the moment that he comes. 

Neuvillette thumbs at the tip of his own cock, dragging it across the slit where precome wells. “Would you handle me slowly?” he continues, amusement lilting his voice. “You love to do that, to pull me to the edge over and over until I feel as though I might die.”

“I—”

“Ever so appealing. I wouldn’t entertain the thought if I didn’t equally love it. But other times…other times you’re quicker, faster. We don’t have enough time to truly indulge in those moments, so it’s hot and sordid, just your hand on my cock, desperate to wring it dry.”

Wriothesley sucks in a breath. A moan flutters from his mouth, and Neuvillette can imagine it, him—Wriothesley, lying in the bed, head tipped back, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Pulling at his cock, trying to distract himself, writhing about to prevent from tipping over too soon. 

"You're killing me here. You—you’re—”

“You asked for this,” Neuvillette reminds him. “You wanted to know what I was thinking—”

“No, I wanted to know how you’re touching yourself so I could guide you. Instead, you gave me the opening statement to a court proceeding.”

“You’re close, aren’t you?” It’s rather bold of Neuvillette to ask. These are the sorts of things that Wriothesley whispers into his ear, and rarely the other way around. But the separation between them, the fact that this is over the phone… Neuvillette knows that words matter here, and Wriothesley cannot and will not be able to withstand his dirty talk. 

And that is what sets Neuvillette’s gut alight. He gives himself a stroke, squeezing around the head. His hands aren’t calloused like Wriothesley's; they don’t offer the same type of friction, but oh, it’s still good. Divine, really. If Neuvillette were to close his eyes, it’s easy to imagine that it’s Wriothesley touching him instead. 

“If it would help,” murmurs Neuvillette, sinking deeper into that worn leather couch, “please know that I am, certainly, touching myself. My hands are softer than yours, and while it isn’t the same, it’s—”

Close enough to dream. Neuvillette strokes himself once, twice, with that heavy-handed squeeze that Wriothesley favors when they have to get off quickly. “I’ve memorized that way you touch me. It’s close enough to imagine that you’re here.”

“Tell me, sweetheart. Please, tell me.”

So Neuvillette does. He licks his hand, wetting it to make the glide easier. “The head,” he whispers, lost in that burning heat, in the pleasure that throbs in his gut, “I’m so wet at the tip. My cock aches. It twitches in my palm, beloved. I—”

“Fuck,” hisses Wriothesley. His hand moves faster—Neuvillette can hear it—and judging by the way that Wriothesley trips up on the curse and how his breath hitches, he must be close. 

“Beloved, what of you? Tell me, what are you thinking? How are you touching yourself? I can only paint half of a picture.”

“Hah, that’s—” Another strangled moan that sounds suspiciously like Neuvillette’s given name. A pause as Wriothesley gathers himself. “All I can think about is how good you always feel. How good you are to me, how good you sound. I wish I could watch. I wish I could see you touch yourself. I wish I was there. I wish—” He cuts himself off and chuckles. “I don’t think my hand’s moved so quickly in a long time, sweetheart. Every stroke, and all I’m thinking about is how I wish it was you, instead.”

Yes, yes, this Neuvillette understands. His own cock twitches against this palm, nothing but a dribbling mess. “I’d prefer having you inside. I’m empty, husband. I’m so empty, and it’s—”

Never enough. Never, never enough. Neuvillette moans as he squeezes at his length, trying his best to nurture that heat, to cultivate that pleasure into something sharper, hotter, meaningful. 

Wriothesley will be home before either of them know it. They’ll get their hands on each other and—

“Sweetheart, I’m—”

His voice, that deep timbre whispering filth as if his mouth was right there, near Neuvillette’s ear. As if there weren't a thousand miles between them, as if they weren't time zones apart. Neuvillette thinks of that first night on camera together. That night, he was done for. Only Wriothesley can elicit a response like this.

“A little more, beloved. I need just a little more, and then we can—together.”

Wriothesley moans, low and deep. “Okay, let it be known, I’m dying here. I’m close. What else do you need? What can I do?”

“Be here,” muses Neuvillette a little bitterly. “I already told you what I need, though. I’m empty, Wriothesley. What I would give to have your fingers spreading me open. What I’d do to come on your cock instead.”

“Fuck, that’s—more of that. Please.”

Neuvillette never shucked off his pants entirely, so he shifts, kicking them off entirely for better access. Now, he can spread his thighs wider. Now, he has a better reach. One hand still holds his cock. The other slides down, down. Fingers ghost his balls, the smoothness of his taint; lower until he reaches the cleft of his ass.

“I want…”

“Are you going to open yourself up? Are you going to pretend it's me? That I’m there?”

Neuvillette makes an aching, needy sound as a finger pulls across his rim. “No,” he says. “No, I’d rather wait. Wouldn’t that be divine? I’m denying myself this pleasure until you come back to me, husband.”

“Sweetheart—”

“But the thought of it,” interrupts Neuvillette, his fingers still pressed against his entrance as a teasing weight. Just enough to drive that fantasy, to make him mad with want. His other hand moves, stroking his cock harder, faster. “Your fingers are perfect, beloved. Mine do not compare. Nothing does, and so I’d rather wait. Touching just my cock is enough for now.”

The palm of Neuvillette’s hand pulls across the head of his cock, smearing precome everywhere. “Gods,” he mutters, utterly lost in the feel of it. “Archons, Wriothesley, I—”

“Go on, sweetheart. I want to hear it. Come for me, yeah? That’s all I need. I’m close too, so give that to me. That’s all I’ll need to be right there with you.”

Oh. Oh, that’s—

Neuvillette tenses, all that pleasure coming to a head. It coils tighter and tighter, driven by Wriothesley's addicting tone. 

“Fuck, listen to you. Like that, just like that. Does it feel good?”

“Yes, yes, it’s—” 

“I wish I were there.”

“Soon,” replies Neuvillette. “A matter of days, beloved, and then I can touch you again. You can touch me. We can—” He chokes off a moan as he squeezes his cock. 

Heat crashes over Neuvillette. That tension snaps, pleasure flooding his veins as he comes all over his hand. What a mess, wet and sticky, pulsing in streams. Neuvillette moans, sweat beading along his brow, as that warmth slows, syrupy and sweet, pooling throughout his being. 

And Wriothesley—Oh, Wriothesley. He moans too, no doubt caught by the sound of Neuvillette’s orgasm crashing through him. The wet glide of Wriothesley’s hand seems louder, punctuated by a breathy hiss of Neuvillette’s name. He’s equally gone. Lost to the sauce, as Navia likes to say. Neuvillette can tell the moment that he falls over the edge with a drawn-out, low moan and the way that his hand stops moving. 

It’s in that moment that Neuvillette thinks of another thing: those early days, when they would send each other ill-advised, sordid photos. How many times had he woken up to a text showing off Wriothesley's generous cock, glistening at the tip?

Neuvillette looks at his own hand, which is smothered in his spend. What would Wriothesley do at such a sight? Neuvillette says, “A moment, beloved,” before taking hold of his phone to snap a picture, showing off his still half-hard cock and come-splattered fingers. It takes nothing to send it, just the press of a button. 

Another curse drips from Wriothesley's mouth, which makes a smile curl across Neuvillette’s face. 

“Delicious,” says Wriothesley. “I wish I could get a taste.” Because he would. Gods, he’d devour him and clean up the mess if he had the chance. Then, he’d probably rouse Neuvillette’s cock again and demand another round. 

“When you’re back, then. You can taste me however you want.”

Things fall quiet, then. Neuvillette basks in the afterglow of his orgasm and the knowledge that Wriothesley had been just as needy.

“Better?” asks Wriothesley when he finally finds himself again. 

“Mhmn, yes.” Neuvillette is relaxed now, loose-limbed and satisfied enough that he’ll be able to turn down for the night without much effort. Still, he’s a little lonely. Their home is so quiet without Wriothesley crashing around, dropping things, and making a mess with his mildly clumsy self. 

“Are you still on the couch?”

“It’s comfy enough.”

“Sure, but I need you to clean yourself up for me, sweetheart.”

That strikes a chord. The first time they did this, Wriothesley had coaxed him the same way, pulling Neuvillette from that sweet high and making sure that he didn’t fall asleep as a crusted mess. 

Neuvillette doesn’t immediately answer, which prompts Wriothesley to continue. “Knowing you, you didn’t even undress. Go strip and wash up, Neuvillette. You can keep me on the phone.”

“But the time difference—”

“Won’t matter for another twenty minutes. I’m not there to take care of you, so you have to do it yourself.”

Neuvillette grunts but sits up, knowing that Wriothesley is correct. If he falls asleep like this, he’ll wake up with an aching back. He forces himself to move, his muscles protesting. At his soft groan, Wriothesley laughs. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let’s get you into bed.”

True to his word, Wriothesley stays on the phone the entire time as Neuvillette strips the day from himself. He washes up quickly and pulls on a pair of Wriothesley's pajamas. They’re too big on his slender frame, but they’re soft and comfortable, and they're his husband’s. 

Gods, he misses him. Wriothesley cannot come home soon enough. 

“The bed is empty,” he mutters once settled into the sheets. “And cold.”

“Trust me, I’d rather be there. This hotel bed is hard and lumpy.” 

That brings laughter to Neuvillette’s mouth.

“Just a few more days. I’ll be home before you know it.”

“Hm, I know. I was just…”

Needy. So, so needy, and overwhelmed with desire the moment he heard Wriothesley's voice. Truly, it takes so little for Neuvillette to slip—but, now, he feels better, more relaxed, and at peace with Wriothesley's quiet murmur humming in his ear. The tinny quality of the call is no replacement for having Wriothesley in the flesh, but it’s a close second. Better than nothing. 

“No need to explain. I… I get it. I understand.” A pause. “It helped?”

“I fear that I want you more now. But yes, it is…manageable.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, that picture is going to do me in. How am I supposed to last a few more days with that image at my fingertips? I’m going to be thinking about it at work.”

Neuvillette buries his face in Wriothesley's pillow, breathing in the lingering smell of his preferred aftershave. “It was a spur-of-the-moment idea.”

“I’m not complaining, sweetheart. I can never have enough for the spank bank.”

“Wriothesley!” hisses Neuvillette, affronted. 

“What a mess you made,” Wriothesley continues to tease.

The conversation shifts after that, easing into something softer, more relaxed. They chatter about their day until Neuvillette lolls about in a light doze. He realizes, belatedly, that Wriothesley has fallen quiet to his monologuing. 

“Wriothesley?” 

Silence, and then—a soft snore. 

Neuvillette huffs, a broad smile finding his face. It’s usually him that falls asleep on their calls to the sound of Wriothesley's voice. Judging by his described day, though, Wriothesley was exhausted before Neuvillette ever called him. How lucky he is to have been indulged despite that. 

“Beloved, I love you,” he says quietly. “Rest well.” 

It hurts to hang up the call, but Neuvillette ends it. His thumb hovers over his phone screen, another idea burning through him. He’d taken another picture earlier, in the bathroom—one of him in Wriothesley's sleepwear, loose around his form. Only the top, which meets his mid-thigh, shoving off the curve of his ass when posed facing the side. 

He had the thought to send it to Wriothesley in the morning, a pointed attack meant to drive Wriothesley mad all day. 

Instead, he sends it now. 

And, in the morning when Neauvillette wakes, it’s to a sleepy voice message calling him a menace and a picture of Wriothesley's half-hard cock resting against his thigh—just like the old days.