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The wetness of the reservoir stuck to his skin - not unpleasantly so. It was cool as autumn dragged in, and doused the soil in damp. It smelled of roots and vines, and the tangled moss that killed the trees and coated the area in a humid fog. Today had brought profits, and even if he didn’t necessarily need the money, being able to put a little ‘plus’ mark in his books at the end of it gave him peace of mind. A familiar pitter-patter of wet feet, creeping around the corner drew him out of his musings. Much earlier than expected, but that wasn’t a problem. He didn’t look up from his book - it was always more fun that way. Playing oblivious just long enough to lure the odd little fellow closer.
When he could feel his presence - the soft smell of moss, and mildew, he made his move.
“Friend,” a glance up from the page, “Quite late for a house call, don’t you think?” Sparkling white teeth, all charm but never sleazy. The Duke was polished silver and thick cottons - kindness in the best way. It didn’t suffocate or miss its mark - consistently, Moreau found him to be agreeable.
The same Lord shuffled closer, a great weight on his back gave a lean that made him stumble. He’d needed a distraction - something to take him out of his thoughts, and the salesman could always provide that. A memory - the mention of a new stock of ‘goodies', films and trinkets had brought him here. “.. And yet.. You are not asleep either..” The other gave a chuckle, and patted the side of his carriage. The leaned back a touch to enjoy the cool breeze that had weaved in through the forest to join them, straightening his spine to loom over Moreau.
“I suppose not - come closer, friend. I can hardly take you in.” Chess was like the closest comparison, but that felt too calculating. This was a familiar dance taken to it’s reasonable next step. He made a move, another came back in return. Naturally, Salvatore shuffled more fully into the lamplight, produced by the wrought iron lamp hung on the door. The warmth of the glow almost gave the man a flush of pink - it was reminiscent of a previous form, long forgotten. ‘ Take him in’ , didn’t The Duke always have a way with words. Their gazes didn’t quite meet in Salvatore’s worry. He felt exposed - The shopkeep had this way of staring through you, taking something that you didn’t realize was obvious. It was a half-lidded flick of the eyes that made his insides wobble.
His back twisted lower, the same anxious stoop he took when addressing his fellow Lords. The Duke might as well have been one, at this point - he offered each of them so much, even his dearest mother herself. It felt more than justly deserved that he bow.
Moreau was surprised that ‘the offer’ hadn’t been made - usually, The Duke was punctual about wrangling money from customers pockets. His jowls squirmed from the exertion it took to keep his voice quiet, “might.. I see your wares..?”
“Are you going to fuss, or can we be direct about this?” The Duke couldn’t help but smile - oh, his odd little friend had such a look on his face. Halfway between mortified, and attempting to seem collected. He’d begun to fidget, scratching at the webbed skin between his fingers. It was darling , cutting to the chase and pulling the rug right out from under him.
“ What ?” Somewhere in the back of his mind, Moreau expected this, “I- came to.. I wanted to grab-”
Delicate , he had to remind himself. Not everyone was Heisenberg - sometimes a gentler approach was needed to reach a satisfying deal. “You’re troubled, no?” That innocent little shrug of his lip told Salvatore everything he needed to know, “Perhaps a bit tense?” Damn him, he couldn’t stifle his little giggle. The third lord looked like a kicked puppy, mouth snapping opened and closed to find his words.
For a moment he worried he’d gone too quickly, when his friend turned away slightly, “How- Who -” The way Moreau's words whined and puttered told him that he's was on the right track.
“A little birdie told me.” To-sharp canines chewed the corner of rosied lips. A lie, of course, but a sweet one. He smoothed his coat, and realized Moreau was following the movement all the way down. The urge to tease was just too much, “It wouldn’t have needed to, though - you aren’t very quiet. Or subtle.”
Knees clacked together - he’d been subtle, hadn’t he? He’d been careful! He’d gone somewhere secluded, away from everyone, hidden in underbrush and rot. It was The Duke's own damn fault if he had gone snooping , and happened upon Moreau’s .. activities . A paranoia came thick in his throat - where had he been watching from? Did he even need to move to watch him?
The book shut with a ‘snap’, and The Duke turned to place it down, “Don’t obstinate - you had trouble earlier, didn't you? Come here.”
It was a command, but when he caught sight of the stepstool , Salvatore didn’t move - no, he was going to be stubborn about this. That had been placed purposefully , and even worse he knew it was a powermove. He’d planned this, and he wanted the Lord to know it. He had to be stubborn, because a bundle of wriggling worms had nested in his stomach telling him this was some horrible trick. That he was going to be mocked and chided like a child for not even being able to satisfy his own needs.
“Come here .” Those eyes went sharp fast, didn’t they? The Duke hissed it out, suggesting that his patience was waning. It wasn’t really - he just knew the Moreau caved to his wants much nicer when pressure was applied. Like an abcess , he thought, press down on the right spot, and it becomes pus.
A step, two - the stool was small but he managed to get up. He felt like he was being dragged by his bootstraps. It brought him close to his friend, but the merchant still towered above. What worried Moreau was that he hadn’t softened - he stared at him like a king would a peasant who had approached him on the street for alms. They were less than a foot apart now, and Moreau could feel the heat coming off the man’s skin.
It took effort, to keep so passive. The shopkeep would have very much liked to be grinning his way through this fun, but he couldn’t scare the man off before the service had been performed. He wasn’t perfect, mind you. A sly, melodic giggle that rose up into a sigh, “ Good man .” Salvatore knew why he was giggling, too. Almost on cue, his whole body slumped on that bit of flattery - it felt good being good, and he revealed it. He squeezed his eyes shut in his shyness, but a hand grabbed . His chin - a section of it, anyways - was now gripped in the man’s palm. “None of that. Eyes open.” and when he did, the only thing that existed was that dear merchant. Hazel eyes, and curious red cheeks. Blond curls of hair that fell a bit clumsier, now that the day had worn him down.
The Duke didn’t expect him to speak - that was fine, they could work up to that. He took Moreau’s stunned moment to think - plenty of possibilities with a man like Moreau. He'd thought through a few while waiting for his arrival - oh, it was never hard to guess where Moreau was going to go when he had a difficult day. He wondered if he should hold back, to keep him on his toes for the next time the poor man actually did need to see his wares ( a mental note, that he had a book for him - he could deal with that later, though ). Still, he looked so pathetic - goodness, he already whimpering, and they hadn't even begun! No, holding off any longer felt needlessly cruel.
Instead, he took Moreau's webbed hand, guiding it to sit on bare thigh - it flinched back instinctively, but he held it there until it took hold of the plush skin. A soft smile, only enough to confirm Moreau was doing a good job, before he let his own hand move away. The smile filled out when the lord squeezed , testing the give of the skin - it was deliciously gooey and cared for, pampered with the best oils, lotions and soaps. His slick fingers knit the skin - the smoothness against his webbing was unfamiliar.
It all made something surge in his stomach, hot and bubbling. A stone tossed into a swamp, creating ripples in the thick water.
The words didn’t come out right - they weren’t decipherable as language. It was a strained noise, gasping up and dragging against warped vocal chords, almost relieved that he was being given the chance to touch. The baying of a dying lamb. The Duke could recognize a plea, mangled as it was - it was his cue to move things along. His free hand came down, slowly going out of view of the wonder-stuck Lord.
It was merciless - he grabbed Moreau's thickness in his loose trousers like a tax collector would a bag of coins. The Lord cried out a touch too loud, and his knees nearly gave way. A shock, all the way up his spine as The Duke explored the topography with an intrigued humming. He could feel his innards heating up - this wasn't just new for him, it was entirely uncharted. Every aspect of the situation didn't feel real - like a fantasy he'd let himself get lost in.
A calculated pause, then a long stroke. He could feel it wriggle and strain, filling out against his hand.
Forward, forward, forward - and there . Salvatore's head buried in the expensive cotton at The Duke's chest, and he released a great sob - relief, joy and something else that neither could place. His own hand came up, cradling the back of his head and keeping it there. The Duke could feel Moreau, tentatively rubbing up and down the joint where hip met thigh, and back even further to explore his stern. Oh, it would have been immaculate to see his face this first time, but he could make due - this couldn’t be the last time the Lord would require these services. With the noises he was making, you’d think he was dying . No, he hoped that if all went well, he’d get regular visits.
“Don’t be shy, dear.” He mumbled against the side of a slick scalp. Those noises were unusual, but passionate - and how The Duke loved passion! He found it all the more useful than skill. It couldn't be faked, or learned. It was something that Salvatore had quite a lot of.
His hand continued, easily coaxing the mismatched pants down enough to let his length meet hand, He leaned back enough to sneak a glance - it was a small mass of flesh, wriggling and pulsing. The center opened and closed, revealing ribbed skin inside. There was a distinct texture on the outside - he could feel a few hard growths. It was easily enveloped by his palm, and he took care to cover every inch. It leaked visibly, a thick dribble that made the strokes smooth. The Duke loved the needy ones - always so unpredictable. A small murmur of "Oh, how lovely.” soothed Moreau's concerns.
The stroke made him buckle - the other hand scrambled up, grabbing The Duke’s leftmost thigh to help keep himself stable. His friend's fist was supple, but definitely not gentle. It tugged and twisted, yanking him with skill that made Moreau wonder how many times he’d performed this particular service. Another fantastic chuckle came from above, “oho - handsy, are we? I never would have guessed that..” It purred against his scalp, reverberating through him.
The language was even less decipherable now that The Duke had set a rhythm. With each heavy gasp, the noise forced itself out on the exhale - ‘please’, he guessed. Always so polite - well, perhaps too polite. Moreau hardly moved, and hadn’t demanded a thing so far. That simply wouldn’t do - he needed to give Moreau something special.
“ Please ?” He repeated back to the wretch, being sure to not stray too far into the territory of mocking. He thought out his next words carefully, being sure to keep his strokes steady, “Come on, you can do better than that. You’re a strong sort - a Lord? Take it.”
Take - oh, that was enticing. Moreau managed a small ‘mm-mm’ against the cotton, despite not meaning it. He was spinning at that word. ‘take’ - what had he meant? ‘Take what you want ’? He couldn’t possibly , and his friend had to know that! Moreau didn't take : he grovelled. He begged, and pleaded, and requested very politely with small mumbles and titters. He certainly did not take.
And so, The Duke did not receive any other response. It was endearing, how nervous he was. Halfway through a stroke, he wondered if a bit of guidance was in order - the hand that rested at Moreau’s nape slipped downward, along the side of his hunch and further until it reached his hip. He rubbed along it, prompting. He waited until he was sure Moreau had noticed it's presence, before gently tugging.
When he began to guide him, the careful back-and-forth of thrusts into a clenched fist, he was ecstatic to find his friend put up no resistance. In fact, he had begun whimpering tenfold. Slimy, cold hands squeezed his thighs before grabbing hold. It was like a switch had been flipped, or a rope severed - he’d begun to rut . No coordination, or grace, but it was eager. An excuse had been given, and it seemed like Moreau was going to take it as far as it would go. The Duke couldn't help but feel a little proud, as Salvatore clumsily tried to fuck his tight-clenched fist.
When he was sure Moreau wasn’t going to stop himself, he let his hand raise off his hip to continue cradling his neck. Moreau’s head lolled deeper into his chest, panting heavy mewls against his heart. He took the opportunity to access a folded ear that stuck out along the side of his head. The words came breathy and light, oozing with adoration and warmth, “ There - that’s it Salvatore, keep that up.” It dripped into the shorter man's skull, an anchoring point to remind him that he was not dreaming. Salvatore, his mind repeated.
It wasn’t a bright flash of light, or a firecracker, or the harsh sensation he usually received when he finished himself off. This built up, rising in time with his wailing until he choked off. Those tender words clinked around in his head, each one making the next seem all the more thrilling. Every vein and nerves tensed up, convulsing and seizing. His friend's hand was devilishly plush, and the moment he recognized that Moreau was on the cusp, he began squeezing - milking him until his brain was full of cotton. He felt safe . he began to sob again, surrendering entirely to his friend's ministrations. When the feeling faded, it was like surfacing water. He took heavy gasps into his friend’s coat, already trying to manage thanks - praise, worship - good god, Moreau would worship this man without question if he’d do that again.
The splatter of warm liquid, another, and one final messied The Duke's thighs and hand. His foot hooked under his customer's tumorous hunch, and he leaned back to give Salvatore the safety to catch his breath. He placed a quick kiss to his neck - a final treat, to close things off, “And how was that? I do hope I haven’t lost my flair..” He grinned as his dear friend tried to find the words to thank him.
The Duke simply tapped the back of his neck, “Hush - let yourself rest a moment. You worked very hard for that one.” He was sure that if the man against him could blush, he would be. Instead he earned an embarrassed little whine. Still, Moreau did not move away. He slumped more fully, not putting up protest when The Duke moved them both backwards - he leaned on the back of his seat, helping Moreau lean all his weight against him.
He was sure Salvatore had fallen asleep, but that was fine. He would have him cozied up in bed before he woke - that was the least the man deserved for being such a good sport. Besides, he would could think of more than a few ways his dear friend could pay him back, once he'd recovered from that evenings fun.