#char.🌧 olruggio

[petrichorium]

qifrey doesn't mean to lurk. really, he doesn’t—he came to speak with oru, not creepily linger at a cracked door watching a clearly private moment—but he can hardly be blamed, he thinks, when you have a blade so close to the throat of his oldest and closest friend.

you sit perched on a stool at the base of the large stone archway. oru sits before you, settled between your legs; he’s leaned forward while you stare down with your fingers on his jaw.

your other thumb rests on the sharp edge of a metal razor. qifrey can’t look away as you guide oru’s face upward and to the side with a gentle hand, watching his friend’s eyes flutter closed and his shoulders slump in something like bliss.

you shift closer. the skirt you wear—a pretty blue and short enough to only just cover your knees with how you sit—falls gently open at a slit up your thigh, leaving the expanse of your leg open to the air. your stocking ends at mid-thigh, the slit so high it reveals even a three finger wide band of bare skin up above it.

qifrey’s mouth goes dry. oru eases further into you, all but laid in your lap. you tilt his head the other way, lifting your arm to get a better angle at the comparatively more awkward side. each time you move him is accompanied with a breathy word of praise which eases the tension on his face. now it’s your shirt which draws qifrey’s eye—white linen, tucked beneath the band of your skirt, gathered at the collar with a ribbon which you’ve loosened entirely to drape brazenly around your shoulders. it’s one of oru’s, qifrey realizes with a start as you move your elbow and he catches sight of the embroidery on the sleeves. something settles deep in his stomach.

you pull away briefly to examine your work. the little hum that you give out is only just loud enough to hear from where qifrey stands; he watches oru’s chest rise and fall with a returning sigh. he’s all but melted into your hold, like an attention-starved pup nosing for more pets. your finger finds his chin, lifting upward until you can run the blade you hold in your deft fingers across his throat.

his adam’s apple bobs in a swallow. you chide him gently, voice laced with warm humor, lifting the blade from his skin long enough for your free hand to find the back of his hair and tug in playful chastisement before returning to the task at hand.

finally you pull back for good. somehow it’s the little smile on your face—a languidly half-lidded look, lips soft, utterly enamored as oru blinks open his eyes—that has qifrey most abundantly aware that he’s trespassing. and yet he can’t pull away when you reach out with your free hand and stroke your thumb against oru’s cheek, giving a final little word of praise and then quietly ordering him to go rinse off.

he remains peeking through the door as oru obediently disappears into the washroom; hears you sigh lightly, watches you straighten upon your stool perch and raise an elegant hand to massage at your shoulder. the motion has you lifting your head towards the ceiling, exposing the slope of your neck; the loosened collar of oru’s stolen shirt shifts, falling lower until your cleavage nearly spills out, but you don’t bother to adjust it. why would you? you think you’re alone.

qifrey lunges back. now the shame settles in, hot and heavy deep in his chest. he’s careful not to close the door too quickly, but in his haste slams his knee directly into a pile of smooth river stones (surely part of whatever magic the pair of you have been working on) and sends them clattering to the ground. the curse that falls from his lips is involuntary; he’s glad his students aren’t nearby to overhear.

for a moment all is still. he feels his heart in his chest, rapid, as if it will flee and leave him behind. then your voice calls out, “qifrey?”

he supposes the word he’d just said must have solidly ruled out any of the girls.

he clears his throat. slowly, he opens the door—further than before, wider than his shoulders, revealing the full picture of the room to him.

you’ve fixed the shirt. its opened collar has been tied shut in a pretty bow, up over your shoulders. your leg, too, has fallen to tuck up against the stool with its twin; the drape of your skirt has settled over the bare skin of your thigh.

you tilt your head. “how long have you been waiting? did we miss your knock?”

“no, i hadn’t knocked yet.”

nodding, you finally stand from your position, reaching up and stretching easily. your back arches, arms thrust to the sky, a little noise passing your lips that has qifrey’s breath hitching. the glint of the razor still in your hand catches his eye—he can’t look away, enraptured by the sight of your fingers on the handle. it’s even more distracting up close.

“oru will be out in a moment. you can wait here for now. unless…” the tease in your tone has qifrey’s gaze jumping up to meet yours. you’re grinning, lifting up that blade in an offer. “you’re looking for a shave, too. you were awfully curious, hmm?”

[pluviophile-imagines]

Oh to be a brushbug—