Work Text:
Stars above, he really could use a bath.
This commission has been taking a toll on him. Nothing is coming out quite right. There is always something to fix, something to improve. There are crumpled up blueprints all over his floor and if he keeps at this any longer he may very well go insane. Or, more insane than he already was.
So. A bath. To relax. To get his thoughts in order. Maybe a nap after. Then he can get back to work, because this thing is due in three days and that's after having to push the deadline back. He’s been locked up in his workshop for days on end, Qifrey’s had to bring him his meals himself to make sure he eats, which makes him feel like shit because Qifrey’s not his damn servant. He’s already got enough on his plate, with teaching the girls and cooking meals and running errands and maintaining the household.
Ugh, maybe after he’s finished he’ll get his friend some sort of thank-you gift. A set of fancy imported tea, or something. New soaps to make bathtime more enjoyable. Calming incense for his room. Something.
So lost in his thoughts is he that he doesn’t bother knocking on the door to the washroom, the one he and Qifrey typically share, pressing his scarred palm to the heavy wood and pushing it open. He doesn’t get a single foot inside because he looks up and freezes. Oh, it’s occupied. Qifrey is in there, the vapor bubble hanging from the ceiling is spilling over into the bath while the warming seals on the stones activate.
Olruggio has seen Qifrey naked many times, starting from when they were young. Likewise, Qifrey has seen him naked just as many times, if not more, as Qifrey’s quite skittish about being completely bare nowadays. It was never awkward, it was just casual, familiar intimacy between close friends. Before their first apprentice ever arrived Qifrey would often wander through the halls stark naked after baths to find his friend to help him dry off. Olruggio sometimes would go days without wearing trousers if he had nowhere to be and didn’t feel like dealing with laundry. It was normal, neither of them thought twice about it.
So he doesn’t really understand the twist in his guts when he sees Qifrey drop his robes to the floor, unfastening the straps around his thighs, pulling open his collar, and then peeling his shirt over his head. Olruggio doesn’t know why he’s staring at the lean muscle shifting beneath the smooth skin of Qifrey’s back, and he definitely doesn’t know why his heart skips when he sees Qifrey’s tits bounce a little as they fall into place, free from the compression of the shirt. The cool air around them makes his nipples stiffen up the moment they’re bared.
He feels a twitch in his groin. Oh, that’s bad. Dangerous. Time to go.
It doesn’t seem like Qifrey’s noticed him. Mouth dry, Olruggio pulls the door shut as quickly yet quietly as he can, spins on his heel, and storms through the atelier with his hands curled into tight fists and teeth clenched. He doesn’t slow down until he reaches his workshop, where he slams the door shut and bolts it. Olruggio practically wheezes as he slumps back against the door, sliding helplessly to the floor. Knees drawn, he balances his elbows on them while he runs his hands through his hair.
Breathe in. It’s no big deal. He’s seen his friend’s bare breasts before. That’s all they are. Bare breasts. Just a normal body part. They were small, unblemished, perky, with little pink nipples, and looked just the right size to fill up Olruggio’s palms, but not much more, and—
Why am I thinking about that?!
Olruggio gives a low groan. The heat coiling tight within him isn’t going away. He tries to think of… something else. Scalewolves tearing into a deer carcass. His gran naked in the hot springs back in Ghodrey. The arch of Qifrey’s delicate spine, the way his soft belly expanded with each little breath, the parting of his lips that always looked so… so…
He drops his head into his knees and glares daggers at the tent forming in his skirt, as if he could scare it away. It doesn’t work. Piqued, he kicks his legs out, tosses his head back, and slaps his hands over his face, dragging his fingers down and digging his nails into his cheeks.
Fine. Maybe a jerk-off session will be what clears his head. He’s certainly not going to be able to focus with this arousal sitting like a stone in his gut and every slight movement brushing fabric against his dick. Olruggio pushes himself up to his feet and stomps over to his barely-used bed, where he kneels down to pull out a wooden box from underneath. He twists the knob on the side to complete the seal, and the hidden compartment opens up to let him grab the bottle of oil from within.
He trudges up the stairs so he can clamber into his hammock, moving the pillows around so he can settle in comfortably. If he’s lucky he’ll just fall asleep instead, but after a minute of lying there with his eyes closed and no sleep in sight, he gives up with an exasperated sigh. Okay. Then he’s really doing this. No choice but to resign to his fate of being attracted to his best friend, apparently. Not his first time realizing this. It was just better that he ignored it as much as possible.
Eyes opening slowly, readjusting to the glow around him, he glares up at the stone walls. The bottle of oil is dropped on his chest so he can finally work on unfastening his belt and wiggling his skirt and trousers down his hips, exposing his cock to the warm air around him. It rests heavily against his thigh, burning hot, flushed red and already leaking.
Olruggio pops open the bottle with his teeth and trickles the oil onto his palm. It’s chilly at first, but will warm up with time. With one more sigh, he shuts his eyes and takes hold of his cock. A few short, small tugs to get things going, which makes the muscle in his jaw jump and his teeth clench. Inhale, exhale. Relax.
He strokes along himself slowly, each tug upward pulling the foreskin partway over the head. His heart beats wildly in his chest, his lips part to release short puffs of air, sweat starts to form on his forehead. It feels almost too warm. Olruggio pauses to wrestle his shirt off of himself, flinging it aside without any care for where it lands. Better. He rests his forearm against the soft give of his belly, coarse body hair rubbing against the soft inner flesh of his arm as he moves his wrist. A soft groan leaves him, his toes curling into the mess of blankets left in the hammock.
Maybe this would go faster if he tried to imagine something. His thoughts keep going back to his friend, to the shape of his body, the flawlessness of his skin. The way Qifrey would sometimes bite his lip when he was anxious, or thinking deeply about something. How his long eyelashes fluttered. The way he smelled like ink and paper and pine, something Olruggio can imagine so clearly because he’s smelled it up close so many times. Qifrey would lean over his shoulder to see what he was doing, his hot breath would be dangerously close to Olruggio’s ear, his gentle voice a low, encouraging murmur.
He can imagine Qifrey under him, his white hair a mess, curls splayed out on the pillow. His spectacles off, and his single eye wide, sparkling. Lips parted and wet, cheeks dusted pink. It's almost too easy to imagine. Olruggio realizes just how much his gaze must have lingered on his best friend's body without him realizing it for him to be able to recall it so crystal clear, in such vivid detail. The swell of his breast, the curve of his waist, the slope of his hips and the muscle of his legs. Every little mole that stood out against the stark white of his skin.
Just sprawled out there on his bed. So, so easy to imagine.
Olruggio grits his teeth, bucking into his hand as he swipes his thumb over the sensitive flesh beneath the head. Pre-come oozes into his palm, slicking up his fingers further.
Would Qifrey let him if he asked, he wonders?
Let him take him here, undress him like he was opening a finely-wrapped package and he didn't want to ruin all the ribbon and the shiny, expensive parchment. Let him lay him down, rake his eyes across him, run his hands down his body.
He imagines how those breasts would feel in his workman's hands. They barely look big enough to fill his palms completely, he thinks again. Could he even rut between them if Qifrey tried to squeeze them close together? And what sounds would Qifrey make if Olruggio pinched his nipples, kneaded his tits, sucked and lapped at them and left bruises that would linger for days?
Qifrey doesn't strike him as a loud man. Somehow that just makes Olruggio feel crazier.
Thinking about Qifrey softly moaning with that gentle, musical voice of his. What would it take to make him cry out? To exclaim his pleasure? Oh, then maybe he would beg sweetly for Olruggio to make love to him, because Olruggio would—without hesitation. All Qifrey needs to do is ask. He'd press him into the sheets and cover him with his warm body so he could stay close as he sank into him. Would Qifrey take his cock well? Olruggio likes to think so.
“Fuck,” Olruggio hisses out. His hand works faster, his breathing gets heavier. He drops his head back, mouth hanging open and eyes clamped shut.
It's possible Qifrey would ask him to pull out, to not come inside. He was rather frightened by the thought of getting pregnant, after all. So Olruggio would happily obey, would straddle Qifrey's waist and jerk off over his chest. And Qifrey would take those beautiful, elegant hands of his and squeeze his breasts together and he would moan as Olruggio came across them, his seed standing out against the flush across his sweaty skin.
Olruggio comes suddenly, shooting into his hand and over his belly, hips jerking. He bites down on his tongue to muffle his shout, his face practically contorting as he works himself through it, until the last bits of his release dribble out over his thumb and his cock begins to slowly soften.
Now he really needs a bath.
As he catches his breath, he lets his messy hand hang over the side of the hammock. His knees feel a little weak. Those fantasies that brought him to climax are starting to fade away, replaced by embarrassment and deep, burning shame. Because he just masturbated to the thought of his best friend, the man he trusted more than anyone in the world, the man who, despite this, still kept him at an arm’s length for reasons Olruggio did not know.
It’s not the first time. He always thought Qifrey was pretty. The first time, he must have been a teenager, going through the horrific torment of puberty. Because that’s when he really started going from seeing Qifrey as pretty to seeing him as beautiful, to noticing how he smelled, how his cold hands felt, and how soft his hair was.
Oh, give me a break.
“Am I sixteen again or something?! For fuck’s sake!”
His voice echoes off the walls back at him. Hopefully no one heard that. The others are quite used to his frustrated outbursts after all, so—
“Olly?” Dammit. “Is everything all right?”
Qifrey’s out of the bath. His baths were always quick, he never lingered in there longer than necessary. It sounds like his voice is right outside the workshop door. Even though it’s been firmly bolted shut, Olruggio still grabs a quilt to cover himself.
“Yeah,” he coughs out, face burning. “Just…”
Come up with something. Anything. His eyes dart over to his work bench, littered with unfinished and abandoned schematics and blueprints.
“Having trouble with this commission, is all.”
There are a few moments of silence. Olruggio swallows, uncertain if he even sounded sincere enough to his own ears, let alone Qifrey’s. Qifrey could sniff out dishonesty like a bloodhound. And yet when he hears his voice again, Qifrey simply says, “Oh, I see. Let me know if you’d like any help.”
“No. It’s fine.” Okay, maybe he answered a little too quickly there. “I’ve got it.”
This stretch of silence lasts a bit longer than the last. When Olruggio looks down, he can see Qifrey’s shadow beneath the door, stock-still.
“My offer remains, should you ever decide to take me up on it,” Qifrey states. “Good night, Olly.”
Olruggio blinks. “G’night.”
He waits. Qifrey’s shadow disappears from beneath the door. He waits even longer, just to be safe. Then he drops his head back and lets out an agitated growl through his teeth. Ugh. Something’s wrong with him. Whatever. He’ll just clean up and forget this ever happened. Hopefully. Really, he might not even complain if someone took a memory seal to his head and wiped his mind of this entire thing.
After he sneaks out for his bath, hypervigilant to any sounds or figures in the dark, he finds himself hunched over his workbench once more, unable to focus even worse than before. With his chin in his palm, he taps the end of his pen repeatedly against the table, staring at the blank paper in front of him.
Before dropping his head, forehead whacking against the surface of the table. Not enough to concuss him. Nor knock any sense into him, apparently.
“Next time,” he grits out, “I’m knockin’ on that damn door.”