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"Perhaps we've indulged far too much this evening," Olruggio says softly. He makes no move to stop Qifrey as he fills their glasses again, though. He's always been soft when it comes to fine liquor; it's hard to decline when this bottle of Silvernectar is already a rare blend, gifted by a wealthy commissioner. "But I can't get up. We'd make fools of ourselves if we tried to get to bed now."
Oh, what a silly thought that is.
They both can't help laughing, hushed, hoping to not wake the rest of the atelier. They truly were fools in their youth, as all witches were expected to be when wet behind the ears.
"The first time our Masters let us have drink on Silver Eve, we made such a terrible pair, didn't we?" Qifrey asks. The memory of them clinging to each other as they stumbled their way down the maze-like hallways to Qifrey's room is as joyful as it it clear.
"And look at us now," Olruggio gestures, hand waving between them. "We haven't learned a thing, have we?"
Qifrey sighs, light, before reasoning, "There are only so many ways to stay warm in winter." He stumbles over his own words, his tongue clumsy in his mouth. His fingertips hum with energy, a telltale thing of drunkenness. Olruggio is no better; a soft flush sits high on his cheeks and his eyes are a little distant, a little glazed.
And they remain solely fixed on Qifrey. It has Qifrey's heart thrumming; a bird trapped in a cage of ribs and flesh, with nowhere to flee. He quiets, and takes another drink from his glass. The sugar sweetness sticks to the back of his throat, almost cloying, and he clears his throat.
"Excuses, excuses," Olruggio clicks his tongue, but there's no true disfavor in his tone. His lips turn up, smile charming. "We haven't done this in a while, have we? Truly rested?"
In Olruggio's rooms, the fireplace burns bright, freshly fed kindling, and they both lay back on the couch, nursing newly filled glasses of Silvernectar. Qifrey gazes at his cup, holding it up to admire its golden-amber hue. The wine is fluid as silk, but that may simply be the fuzzed edges of Qifrey's vision to blame for the manner in which everything seems to glow, touched by the lamp set upon the window's ledge.
"it is quite pleasant." A certain slowness creeps into Qifrey's body, and each shift on the couch is difficult, his limbs far too heavy, as if moving through whipped honey. He sighs, letting his head rest upon the cool stone wall behind them. The muted clatter of a fork fills the quiet, and he watches as Olruggio spears a slice of pear, and lifts it to his mouth.
Desire flares in Qifrey's gut as Olruggio's tongue drags over his lower lip, ridding it of juice. When Olruggio drinks wine, his throat works, and Qifrey has to look away.
What will it taste like—to eat fruit from between those teeth?
What will it feel like—to drink wine from that waiting tongue?
"Stars." Qifrey sets his cup down, leaning forward. Sitting up has his head spinning and his thoughts scattering, and he realizes just how drunk he is. He takes in a shaking breath, hanging his head low. "We should sleep before dawn catches us, I think."
How old is the night now that they've drank the hours away, all while the girls are already fast asleep, having had their fill of warm cocoa and dinner?
"Or you could stay." Olruggio says it so softly that Qifrey almost misses it. It's a mumbled phrase; a string of words that simply wish to be let out, to linger between them.
It's an offer.
And the look Olruggio gives Qifrey is both wary and terrified.
No, Olruggio isn't offering. He wants.
What will it take—to feel the weight of Olruggio's heart in Qifrey's hands, just this once?
"Olruggio, you know we can't…" Guilt is a crown of thorns, pushed down from Qifrey's brow to rest across his throat—a violent, yet beautiful shackle—and he stares at Olruggio, eye burning with tears.
"Why?" Olruggio asks, voice soft. If it were any louder, Qifrey is sure it would have broken.
And it's a simple question, really. One that any man, any friend, should be able to answer.
Your love hurts, Qifrey wants to say. Instead, "I am afraid," is manifested.
He cannot bear to give Olruggio the truth tonight. Not when their bodies are warm with wine and their tongues are loose, on the cusp of spilling love upon waiting tongues.
"We don't have to name this."
"We don't?" Qifrey's gut drops as the seed stirs, nauseating and unmooring. Something akin to affection warms in his belly, and he knows it's only partly from the wine.
What a terrible union love and agony make.
Olruggio brings his hand to rest beside Qifrey's on the couch, and their fingertips brush. Qifrey daren't breathe, daren't move, simply feeling how Olruggio's touch trembles.
Slowly, tenderly, as if Qifrey may startle and run, Olruggio turns his palm over, and lets Qifrey's fingers fall between his own. He runs his thumb over the back of Qifrey's hand. Callouses are rough, and Olruggio's hands are hardy—capable, working hands—and ink riddles fair skin in light stains, not completed washed away in the bath.
Roots press at Qifrey's shoulder, but he pushes it aside, and instead, leans in, to rest his forehead against Olruggio's shoulder. This close, he catches the scent of herbal soap, and Olruggio. He smells of skin and Silvernectar and smoke from the fireplace. He is perfect, and Qifrey can't help turning his mouth to the soft hollow of Olruggio's throat.\
"Qifrey." Olruggio moans, low, and Qifrey feels the sound of it, resonant, against the softness of his mouth. He breathes in, and settles hands on Olruggio's chest for some sort of tether to what is beneath him. Olruggio is warm. He always has been, with that magic of his.
Qifrey has half a mind to leave. To forget that tonight happened, but instead, he lets his lips wander to the curve of Olruggio's jaw. Stubble tickles his own chin, but he doesn't mind it, as he finally kisses Olruggio.
Heat consumes them; fire engulfing the coldest of waters and letting it lift to the air as mist in the after.
They are clumsy, and starved for affection and touch. Blessed touch. As soon as mouths meet, Olruggio's hands find Qifrey's waist, and fingers bite into the softness of hips, bringing him close. Qifrey gasps, air shared between them, as he finds balance. He sits back a little, palms splayed over Olruggio's chest, as he comes to straddle his waist.
Wine and the sugar of fruit lingers on the backs of their teeth and upon the roof of mouths, and Qifrey has to taste. Has to take as much as he is given, letting his tongue pull over Olruggio's, and press to canines, until the blunt force hurts.
He wants everything. He wants Olruggio pressed of him. He wants Olruggio's fingers tamping down his tongue. He wants Olruggio to take fruit and feed it to him, only to take a bite for himself. He wants Olruggio to fit between his legs, and he wants to feel Olruggio's devotion, a prayer, upon his tongue, as he takes Qifrey to the back of his throat.
What will it feel like, for them to share an end?
How will Olruggio fill him?
How will Olruggio wear pleasure? Will his brows furrow and lips part, as he comes? Or will he find refuge in Qifrey's shoulder, and find orgasm softly, tenderly, all while still moving inside him, wanting his end to linger long until overstimulation becomes a razor sharp edge that is too piercing to ignore—
"Olruggio." Qifrey doesn't say his name in summons or with the intent to grasp attention. He says his name with the weight of reverence and need. Meeting the cant of Olruggio's own hips, the air is pushed from his lungs, as need, hot and fierce, races through him.
Qifrey finds anchoring in the meeting of their mouths. They gasp, air pushed from lungs to lungs, and he is dizzy with it. Dizzy with need as it courses, bright, through him, and settles, heavy, between his legs. And that same need is evident in Olruggio; he's achingly hard between them. Their sleeping robes are thin, and there's not much to be done when dignity is considered.
Perhaps they are past dignity and caution.
Perhaps Qifrey will let the Silverwood take him whole, if this is what love and lust are meant to be.
Olruggio will find out, eventually, when clothes are shed, and fingers rake up backs, leaving trails of red in their wake.
"Stars above, Qifrey." Olruggio's hips falter in their movement, and a hand comes to press to Qifrey's belly. A palm presses to Qifrey's length, hot and hard, beneath his robes. "Look at you."
Orgasm creeps up on Qifrey sooner than he expects it. A band coils tight in his belly, and his breaths come fast and panted, as Olruggio's teeth skate over his neck, over the rush of his pulse, and lips come closed, to suckle at the soft skin just beneath where ear and jaw meet.
No, not yet. He can't—
Panic seizes Qifrey. Those roots sprawl sudden and violent, curling around the knobs of his spine, and sinking into his muscles, greedy to feed upon endorphins as they flush his skin dusked pink.
He hasn't found release in years, too afraid of what self gratification may do to him. Of what it may do to the seed.
"Please." Qifrey begs. He pushes back, and kisses Olruggio, sinking teeth into his lower lip. He hopes for Olruggio to do the same, and he does. He responds in violent kind, and their kisses turn iron, spotted with lightest of blood, before Qifrey draws fully away. "Let me."
Let me pour love onto the bed of my tongue, and taste it as it blends with your essence.
He gets to his knees before Olruggio can bring their mouths together again. Qifrey, for all his constitution and dedication to not letting the Silverwood devour him whole, is a weak man.
How weak he is in the face of love and all Her cruelties.
Qifrey parts Olruggio's legs, and smooths palms over inner thighs, Muscles flex beneath his touch, divinely. As fingers explore, pulling up strong thighs, Qifrey undoes the loose drawstring of leisure pants, and brings his mouth to the head of Olruggio's length, tasting salt and prerelease for himself.
Those ink-stained fingers tangle in Qifrey's hair, but they don't pull. Qifrey moans softly, too, as the full weight of Olruggio presses to his tongue. His jaw aches, and his throat flexes, as he takes him deeper. Good. Let it bring discomfort. Let this quell his want.
Breathing shallowly through his nose, Qifrey lets his jaw go slack. He focuses on the way the stone floor has a resonant sort of ache settling in his knees. He longs to curl fingers around himself, just to follow Olruggio over into release.
"Beautiful." Olruggio is a broken man, watching Qifrey as he begins to move. Qifrey finally flicks his gaze up to Olruggio, and finds him flushed, brows drawn, the deep contours of his face so fetching that Qifrey fears he won't be able to stand again—too taken. Olruggio runs a thumb over the seam of Qifrey's lips, a certain worship to his touch.
To think that an act so obscene can be seen as pretty, is beyond Qifrey—they are both wrecked, hair disheveled and eyes blown—but somehow, when Olruggio calls him beautiful, he believes him.
Qifrey draws back, and takes in ragged breaths, fanning over the head of Olruggio's cock. A string of saliva connects them, shimmering in the dim light, before snapping. Not wasting a moment, Qifrey takes Olruggio to the back of his throat again, and swallows, muscle flexing around him.
The sound Olruggio offers him at the gentle press of his tongue along the underside of his length is as obscene as it is lovely—Qifrey commits it to memory. Oh, and Qifrey is aching and hard between his own legs. He doesn't want to come like this, but it's impossible not to, when Olruggio is so perfect over him.
Olruggio finally pulls at Qifrey's hair, too lost in pleasure to care, and it burns at the very root.
"Easy," Olruggio breathes. He sounds lost, and his words are slurred. He cups Qifrey's jaw with his other hand, supporting him. Urging Qifrey's head to tip back further, to take more of him. "Just like that. There you are."
Qifrey presses the heel of his palm to his groin, sating the flashed pulse of need that hums through him. Tears form along his waterline as Olruggio chases his own end, hips working and breaths coming fast, tailing off into deep pants. Qifrey's jaw aches, more than earlier, but the warmth of Olruggio's palm over the hinge helps. He lolls his head to the side, resting fully into Olruggio's hold, and goes slack.
How lovely Olruggio looks when he comes. Release is hot and salted upon Qifrey's tongue, sweetened by wine that still stains his lips. Qifrey feels the soft pulse of Olruggio as orgasm shudders through him; the push and pull, contraction and release. He watches, rapt, as Olruggio's chest rises and falls, and as his stomach clenches and goes to rest, as he rides out the aftershocks of release.
With his eyes closed, Olruggio doesn't see Qifrey remove his hand from his groin just as he comes undone, sullying sleeping robes. This release is far from satisfying, and Qifrey curls in on himself, pressing his forehead to Olruggio's thigh, as orgasm hollows him out.
What he would do to have Olruggio's hand on him, and ease him over into release instead—all soft sweet words murmured to the shell of his ear, and fingers pressing into muscle, to hold him still.
But some things are too good to be given so readily.
Some fantasies are just that; hope with no life breathed into its waiting lungs.
Qifrey moans, hushed, around Olruggio, as he softens in his mouth. He presses kisses, addled, to the base, and drags his tongue up, to press into the slit, where the last of orgasm pearls.
How will he remove himself from tonight? How will he ever be able to forget the taste of Olruggio on his tongue, and marking his throat?
It hurts so very much to think of what tomorrow will bring—a seal pressed to that strong brow and a final kiss given before the sun well and truly rises. A final apology murmured on sleeping lips.
For now, Qifrey noses at Olruggio's thigh, and basks in the gentle raking of fingers over his scalp, untangling white hair. Those hands work into Qifrey's neck, and shoulders, soothing all the places he has tensed up. He breathes in the scent of sex and silvernectar, wanting to stay here forever.
But his knees ache enough for the seed to tremble and wither away from the base of his neck, and retreat. Blessedly, Olruggio helps him stand. He brings Qifrey in, and kisses him, tongue pressing to tongue, to taste himself. He, too, tastes the groan Qifrey gives him, and brings their bodies flush together, simply in need of closeness.
"Bed, please," Qifrey murmurs against Olruggio's lips. His voice is hoarse and wrecked, and he doesn't trust himself to say a thing more.
Olruggio holds Qifrey's face in his hands. Brushes thumbs over the soft skin beneath Qifrey's eye.s "We should bathe, first."
Not strength to deny him a thing, Qifrey obliges, and follows Olruggio to the bathing chambers.
The water is pleasant and scented with oils—as it always is—and as he sinks in, with his back to Olruggio's chest, he sighs, allowing the warmth to undo the aches of love made.
Is this love, truly? No, not in the traditional sense. Their mouths have known one another, but their tongues have not confessed love, and Qifrey hasn't felt Olruggio inside him, splaying him wide in body and heart.
That's a thought.
Qifrey hisses, sharp, through his teeth, as arousal stokes heat in his belly. Olruggio's hands play over his chest, and draw circles upon his hip bones already, and the very concept of Olruggio taking him—of long, worked fingers, easing into him—is dangerous.
"Olly, we should sleep."
It hurts to wash up so quickly. He wishes he could smell of Olruggio a while longer, but he rids his skin of every reminder of their doings, rubbing until red and raw.
"Let me at least wash your hair," Olruggio asks. He doesn't protest, perhaps expecting Qifrey to, eventually, withdraw, as he always does.
And that is what hurts the most; to know that, despite all the intimacy and care they so willingly gave each other, Olruggio still held doubts, and Qifrey still, cursedly, built up his walls before the Silverwood could devour them both whole.