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Olrugio’s fingers trace the edge of the collar, and the material feels like a carapace. It reminds him of the scaled wolf, one that never lowers its guard. He kisses Qifrey on the lips, then strokes his head. When his fingers brush the short, fine hairs at the nape of his neck, a tremor runs through Qifrey’s body.
Olrugio unbuckles the straps of the collar one by one, revealing pale skin to the room.
He combs his fingers through Qifrey’s hair and gently pushes his head to the side. Qifrey holds his breath and stares into nothing. Olrugio starts with a small, timid kiss just under his ear, then trails a chain of kisses down his collar. His beard scrapes and scorches Qifrey’s skin, but Qifrey relishes this sensation even more than the kisses themselves. When a tongue makes wet contact with his skin, Qifrey’s chest constricts further, and he fights the urge to stop. For all the years he’s spent with his body wrapped tightly in thick cloth, he feels painfully exposed.
“I’ve always wanted to do this,” Olrugio murmurs against his throat.
Qifrey is uncomfortably aware of every point of their skin’s contact. Not just the heat of Olrugio’s mouth, but the press of a palm at his hip, the brush of fingers against his wrist. This feels nice. It’s warm. It feels way too safe. An ancient fear rises in him, coiling and twisting its branches under the surface of skin and for a moment he almost hears it breaking free. He suffocates.
But Olrugio’s breath is warm and uneven. His hands shake slightly. Qifrey is in the room. He is flesh. The curse is long gone and the only enemy left is his own vigilant mind. Qifrey closes his eye and lets the old terror sit beside him like a familiar, unwanted guest. He doesn't ask it to leave. He only asks it to watch.
When Olrugio kisses the hollow of his throat, Qifrey exhales for what feels like the first time in years.