❝ don’t think. just feel. ❞ // olly could be talking about anything, i'm just saying qifrey~
sweet filthy things (usfw dialogue prompts) // always accepting <333
——— && the inspiration.
LIKE ORBIT, THERE IS ALWAYS A RISK OF DESTRUCTION, in getting close to what you want. such a risk is something qifrey keeps in mind constantly, at every touch of hands, brush of shoulders, that rolls between him and his dearest star. these things are simple principals, he knows; the thorn-bush & its blackberries is one of the first lessons a child learns; but they are no less difficult, even in their simplicity. some who understand the sting of the bee — understand the risk of the fire — are no less tempted by its honey; its heat; its bright, hungry glow.
god, he is hungry. the word loses meaning, but the body does not forget so easily. the body remembers in tones of hunger pang, in appetite lost so gradually & gained so ferociously one could eat the world raw, in heatflash and chills and gnashing teeth, in eating oneself alive. the worst part of being hungry isn't exactly the hunger, it's the feast. everywhere, he sees it, smells it, wraps his hands around what could be broken under his teeth and consumed instantly, greedily, and yet, it is never his to have. it cannot be. the guilt is sugar water and ice, enough to survive off of, never enough to feel contented by.
this is the point, of course. this is what must be. this is his earliest memories. qifrey lives, surrounded in the thorn-bushes and their gleaming, bright fruit. qifrey lives, cold & tempted always, to stick his hands in the fire.
had he not known better, he would think olruggio drunk, already. he does, however, know his olruggio more than well enough to discern that the ghost of wine on his watchful eye's tongue is not enough to promote what it is that comes off of it, clicking from his teeth like flint to steel — that the red in his cheeks is not from one shared bottle alone, that his hands would not follow where they do; feather-light & fanned open & kind, always kind, in this way olruggio seems to find it impossible not to be, even to his greatest benefit; were it from just the alcohol alone. the warmth of olruggio's skin bleeds through the thin silk of his dark undershirt, pressed against the small of qifreys back, and here is a boiling pot waiting to overflow, it seems. here is the orbit of two tenative, tugging bodies against the soft rug of olruggio's tower. here is the fire and the fruit and the hunger, unimaginable hunger. temptation, with every reaching hand to bleed from.
"Olruggio." his face is hot, already. eyes dark with matched fervor, body lighting up like kindling, voice pretending at sternness. the witch had started this, he knows, a passing comment intended to slip between cracks in conversation ( "Its awfully lucky you're my watchful eye, Olruggio. I don't see how anyone could keep their hands off you." ) that had been the wind to the flame that wanted to catch, needed to catch, to spiral out into what it was now. his heart thumps in his ears, distantly, like a stampede stuck in a cage of bramble, and it is, and it isn't, and this is bad. this is very, very bad. he can feel it, already, in the wire-work of his spine and the underside of every rib, the little sprouts shifting. unthinking, his hands brace against olruggios shoulders, but do not push. he should be pushing. he should be stopping this. he should.
he's hungry. he's so, very hungry. his stomach twists in dread and guilt and wanting, nails digging into his star, chest twisting. he wants this. he wants this so badly he could kill for it, would kill for it, if a death was all it took — hell, a death would be easy. a death would be nothing. the guilt would fade, he's sure, if it meant none of this had ever had to haunt him. if he did not have to grasp, vice-like, to the quiet terror in his chest. if he could— oh, god, if he could touch him, and be touched back, and finally, finally, sink his teeth in.
"Ah, I don't think-" and the flint sparks. it's next to nothing. just an inch, shifting closer, sharing breath. olruggios voice is so, very quiet when he answers; just for qifrey. — when he pleads, in this way qifrey understands what pleading is, to a man prideful. his body betrays him, as it always does; a shiver up his spine as all those feeling buds seek, just as hungry as he is. something white-hot melts in his chest, and he holds his breath, burning alive, stomach twisting. he feels sick. he feels cold and hot all at once. he feels how he must imagine someone in a noose to feel, moments before the hanging. olruggio is kind. olruggio is so terribly kind. qifrey cannot ever understand what gives a man the kind of patience that olruggio has, for him, watching him hold his breath; watching him burn; waiting for him. god, always waiting for him, aren't you, olly?
qifrey recognizes wanting when he sees it. qifrey recognizes the act of trying to cut the brambles through. qifrey recognizes asking, with a heart he will never deserve being the recipient of, to please, please,
he's hungry. let him eat.
his nails dig in hard enough to be painful. something goes weak in his bright, blue eye. something like prayer occurs to him, in the back of his mind, bedmates with guilt. ( just five more minutes; i want this so bad. )
"... Please, Olly." he remembers how breathe. He forces the tremble from his hands as he touches the stubble at olruggio's jaw. he holds tight to the steel of the burden given to him, and recalls, quietly, that it would only be fair to give him back something in turn. qifreys voice, little more than a ghost. "Please. I want to feel you."
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