Hi there and welcome to my blog. My name's Keira and after finding out that rebelling against ai benefits my writers block (that's been going on since I was probay 12, aka the birth of my fanfic career) I've set up the goal of benefitting Tumblr's folk.
Mainly through cheesy stories because who needs scientific articles when you can read slowburn about fictional characters am I right?
Feel free to send me a message, a request or just comment something under my posts, I love talking to you all. Reposts are always appreciated since you're helping me a ton through doing so 💞💞
Masterlist
Fandoms I write for:
The Lord of the Rings
The Hobbit
Watch hat atelier
Toilet bound hanako kun
The office (UK)
The guy she was interested in wasn't a guy at all
Phantom of the Opera
Snow white with the red hair
James Bond
Ghibli (all of the movies)
How to train your dragon
Harry Potter
Marauders
Stardew Valley
Vanitas no Carte
Willow
Pirates of the Caribbean
Descendants
I don't write smut/spice/gore/vore/nsfw/incest/polyamory/
and anything discriminatory, list will be added if more topics arise
was it casual when we walked by the river at night, you brushed my hair back, gazed into my eyes and told me that you're scared of losing me because I'm the one you've been searching for your entire life, checked my pulse only to end up getting distracted and saying you don't know what's more beautiful, my heart or my soul, traced the lines in the palm of my hand and told me my life line was long and you'd like to be a part of it until the very end by my side — kissing my wrist while staring into my eyes on your balcony under the stars
cw: angst, miscommunication, hurt/no comfort, avoiding tendencies, don't treat your s/o life this irl
AN: anon you'll never have to bargain with me when it comes to angst 😌😌 I listened to music with the volume on 80% while writing this (chase atlantic ily)
It happened so gradually that you couldn't point to a specific day and say, this is where it started.
There was no fight, no betrayal, no terrible revelation. There was only Qifrey, sitting beside you night after night, becoming harder and harder to reach. The strange thing was that he never stopped loving you. If anything, it seemed to get worse. You would catch him looking at you across a room with an expression so soft it made your chest ache. He still remembered everything you told him. He still brought you things that reminded him of you. He still reached for you in his sleep. But whenever you tried to reach beyond that, whenever you tried to ask what was happening inside his head, something in him closed. "What's wrong?" you would ask. He would open his mouth. Pause. Look frustrated. "Nothing." And it was obvious that wasn't true. The problem wasn't that he was lying very well. The problem was that after a while you realized he wasn't lying at all. He genuinely could not tell you. Whatever lived inside him existed in a place even he couldn't seem to navigate. Every attempt ended the same way. A furrow between his brows. His fingers twisting together. Silence stretching longer and longer until it became embarrassing for both of you. Then, eventually, a quiet, defeated, "I don't know how to explain it."
The first time you cried because of it, he looked horrified. Not defensive. Not angry. Horrified. As though your tears were proof of some failure he had been trying desperately to prevent. You remembered sitting at the table while he stood frozen across from you. Neither of you speaking. The room felt unbearably small. "I'm trying," he said eventually. His voice sounded strained. "I know." "No." He shook his head. "I don't think you do." You watched him struggle for words, watched him visibly search for them. "I know something's wrong. I know you're asking because you care. I know I should be able to tell you. But every time I try, it feels like..." He stopped. His jaw tightened. You waited. Seconds passed. Then he looked away. "Forget it." Something inside you broke. Not because he refused to continue. Because he couldn't. Because you had watched him try and fail right in front of you.
After that, every conversation felt haunted by all the conversations you never managed to have. There were so many unfinished thoughts between you that sometimes it felt difficult to breathe around him. You would ask a question and see panic flash across his face before he buried it. Not fear of you. Fear of disappointing you. Fear of failing again. Fear of reaching for words and finding nothing. The worst part was that he knew he was hurting you. You could see it every time your smile slipped or your voice grew tired. He noticed everything. That was what made it unbearable. He saw your loneliness. He saw your frustration. He saw the growing distance. And because he saw it, he suffered too. The guilt settled into him like a sickness. Sometimes you would wake during the night and find him staring at the ceiling. Sometimes you would find him sitting alone outside long after everyone else had gone to bed. He always claimed he couldn't sleep. You stopped asking why.
One night you finally asked the question that had been living inside your chest for months. "Do you trust me?" The words came out quieter than you intended. Qifrey immediately looked up. For a moment he seemed confused. Then hurt. Deeply hurt. "Of course I do." "Then why do I feel so alone?" The silence that followed was devastating. You saw the answer arrive on his face before he spoke it. Not because he disagreed. Because he didn't. Because he knew exactly what you meant. His eyes lowered. His shoulders slumped. He looked exhausted. More exhausted than you had ever seen him. "I don't know." You laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's always your answer." The instant the words left your mouth, regret followed. Qifrey flinched. It was small. Most people wouldn't have noticed. You did. You always did. He stared down at his hands and whispered, "I know."
You wanted to take it back. You wanted to tell him you understood. But suddenly you were angry. Angry at the silence. Angry at the helplessness. Angry at how much you loved someone who seemed incapable of letting you stand beside him when things became difficult. "Then say something," you said. "Anything." His breathing grew uneven. You watched him try. You genuinely watched him try. His lips parted. Closed. Opened again. Tears gathered in his eyes so quickly it startled you. "I can't." His voice cracked. "I know there are things I should tell you. I know there are things you're waiting to hear. Every day I wake up and think I'll say them. Every day I try. And every day it feels impossible." A tear slid down his face. Then another. "And the longer I wait, the worse it gets. The more it hurts you. The more ashamed I feel. Then suddenly I have to explain all of that too, and I can't." He laughed once, a miserable sound. "I can't even explain why I can't explain it."
You had never seen him look so defeated. It wasn't stubbornness. It wasn't secrecy. It wasn't a lack of love. It was as though he had built walls around himself so long ago that he no longer knew where the doors were. And now both of you were trapped on opposite sides of them. You moved closer. You took his hand. He immediately started crying harder. Not because he wanted you to let go. Because he didn't understand why you were still there. You could see it in his face. The confusion. The guilt. The grief. As though every day he expected you to finally decide that loving him wasn't worth this kind of pain. He squeezed your hand so tightly it almost hurt. "I'm sorry," he whispered. You closed your eyes. Those words were somehow worse than silence. Because apologies didn't fix anything. They didn't make you feel closer. They didn't make him easier to understand. They only proved he knew how much damage had already been done.
And the cruelest part was that neither of you stopped loving the other. The loneliness grew. The hurt grew. The resentment appeared and disappeared and appeared again. But the love remained. It sat stubbornly in the middle of everything, refusing to die. Some days that felt comforting. Most days it felt tragic. Because if love had been the problem, there would have been a solution. Instead, you loved each other completely and still found yourselves sitting across from one another, separated by things neither of you knew how to say.
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should've mentioned I had an internship didn't I? Nevertheless y'all made me grin when I came back to all the cute comments (& threats on my angst posts but that's given, love you all anyway ❤️ only motivates me to write more angst)
AN: I love brimhat reader. Anyway rip Qifrey, you would've hated modern situationships. this is a continuation of this fic of mine
The nights had become a ritual long before either of you admitted what they meant.
You came only after the workshop had gone dark, after Coco's room had gone quiet and Tetia's laughter had disappeared and Agott had finally stopped pretending she wasn't tired. You always slipped through the woods hidden beneath brimhat cloaks and shadow circles, arriving at Qifrey's door with all the secrecy of a criminal and all the familiarity of someone coming home. It should have felt absurd. Maybe it did, once. But somewhere between whispered conversations at midnight and stolen hours sitting beside him while candles burned low, the danger itself had become part of it. The hidden glances. The silence. The impossible thing neither of you could publicly be. You knew he looked forward to your visits. You knew because Qifrey somehow always "accidentally" stayed awake. Somehow always had tea already prepared. Somehow always smiled when he opened the door like he'd been waiting.
And maybe that was why you kept doing it. Maybe because during these hours, hidden away from everyone else, Qifrey stopped being everyone's teacher. Stopped being everyone's caretaker. Stopped smiling quite so perfectly. Around you, pieces slipped. Tiny things. The way he slumped in his chair when exhausted. The way his voice softened. The way his eyes looked older when he thought you weren't watching. You thought, foolishly, maybe, that he let you see parts of him no one else did. And perhaps that was true. But tonight something felt wrong immediately. Qifrey opened the door and smiled, yes, but it looked delayed somehow. Like he remembered to do it rather than felt it. He stepped aside to let you enter. Said hello. Asked how your journey was. Ordinary things. But he didn't look at you very long.
You noticed it for nearly an hour. The way he avoided your eyes. The way he kept fiddling with papers he wasn't reading. The way silence stretched where it usually never did. Usually Qifrey filled rooms effortlessly; words poured from him like water. Tonight they seemed dragged out one by one. And because this was you, because your relationship had become this strange thing where concern often wore the face of irritation, eventually you looked up from where you sat and said, "You're being weird." Qifrey blinked. "Am I?" "Yes." You narrowed your eyes. "You do that thing where you act normal except you become incredibly unsettling." His smile appeared instantly. Too fast. "That doesn't sound like me at all."
Normally, you would have laughed. Normally he'd lean into the joke and everything would smooth over. But tonight the smile felt thin enough to break. So you stood and crossed your arms. "Qifrey." Silence. His eyes flicked toward you. Away again. "Did something happen?" Still nothing. Just enough time for unease to begin creeping under your skin. "Qifrey." Softer this time. The room suddenly felt very small. Very quiet. Candlelight shifted over his face. And for one terrible second you thought you saw something there—something exhausted and angry and hurting—before the expression vanished. Then he said, very calmly: "How long do you think we can keep doing this?"
You stared. "Doing what?" He laughed once. Not because anything was funny. "This." His hand gestured vaguely between you. At the room. At the night. At all of it. "Sneaking through forests. Waiting until everyone's asleep. Pretending this..." He looked away. "Pretending this exists only in the dark." Silence. Your heartbeat felt suddenly too loud. Because you knew this conversation. Knew where it was heading. You had both danced around it for months. The impossible reality sitting beneath everything else: you were a brimhat. He was not. Every meeting carried risk. Every stolen night carried consequences neither of you wanted to say aloud.
You swallowed. "We've managed so far." Wrong thing. Immediately the air changed. Qifrey went very still. "Managed." He repeated it quietly. "Right." His smile appeared again—but there was something sharp underneath it now. "We're very good at managing things, aren't we?" You frowned. "Qifrey—" "No, really." He stood. Slowly. "We're excellent at pretending." His voice remained soft, but you suddenly wanted to step backward. Not because he looked frightening exactly. Worse. Because he looked upset and was trying desperately not to. "Pretending this arrangement doesn't slowly drive me insane." Silence. Your mind stalled completely. Because Qifrey didn't say things like that. He smiled through pain. Hid it. Buried it. And suddenly here it was, dropped directly between you.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Nothing came out. No clever response. No reassurance. Just shock. And maybe Qifrey noticed because something in his expression changed all at once. Hurt flashed there—quick and ugly. "See?" he said quietly. "That's exactly it." You blinked. "What?" He took a step forward. Then another. Not threatening. Not intentionally. But suddenly you were moving back without realizing it. Your pulse stumbled. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore." Another step. "Do I wait?" His voice tightened. "Do I ask you to stay?" Another step. "Do I pretend I'm perfectly fine watching you disappear before sunrise every single time?" Your back hit the wall behind you before you realized you'd run out of space.
The silence afterward felt unbearable. Qifrey stood close—not touching, never touching—but close enough that you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. Close enough to see the uneven rise of his breathing. Close enough to notice guilt already beginning to creep into his face. And that somehow made it worse. Because Qifrey looked angry, yes—but beneath that anger was panic. Regret. Like he was hearing his own words and hating them while saying them anyway. His eyes met yours finally and for one dizzying moment neither of you spoke. The distance between you suddenly felt impossibly small. Dangerous. You could feel every heartbeat. Every breath. There was too much emotion in the room and nowhere for it to go.
Then Qifrey looked at you—and completely fell apart. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Worse. His shoulders dropped. His eyes closed briefly. And when he spoke again his voice sounded exhausted. "I don't know how to do this." Barely above a whisper. "I don't know how to want something I can't keep." Silence crashed down between you. Because suddenly the anger wasn't there anymore. Just grief. Just months of swallowed feelings finally spilling out in the ugliest way possible. His hand lifted slightly—as if he meant to reach toward you—then stopped midway. Froze. Dropped. And you stared because you didn't know what to do. Didn't know how to fix this. Didn't know how to fix him. Qifrey, who always knew exactly what to say.
For a long moment neither of you moved. Then Qifrey stepped back. Once. Twice. Like he was waking up. Like he suddenly remembered where he was standing and what he'd done. Horror crossed his face so quickly it hurt to look at. "..." He looked away first. "Sorry." Quiet. Empty. You opened your mouth immediately. Nothing came out. Because what could you say? Stay? Leave? I understand? None of it fit. None of it reached him. And somehow that was the worst part. Because for the first time since you'd known Qifrey, there was a distance between you that wasn't physical at all. And when dawn finally came, neither of you mentioned it. You simply left before sunrise like always. Like nothing had happened. Like your heart hadn't remained back in that room with him.
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My favourite animal is me silently liking all your posts like a ghost since a few weeks 👀 Now I finally say something lmao
Joke aside, could I request you to write a Qifrey x reader who's deeply scared of physical contact? Like the moment both of them would start the relationship and immediately face the problem
(I love your work, please never stop, I'm eating it everyday🥹)
touching gestures
Qifrey x reader
cw: none
AN: hey that's my favourite animal too!! Jokes aside, I noticed your account before you requested anything dw, glad to know you've decided to finally talk to me. Anyways, guys I've been going to the gym more lately and tried one of those Protein Shakes... bloody hell the first 3 sips are nice and everything after that is straight up torture
The first problem with falling in love with Qifrey was that he noticed things.
Not in the ordinary way people noticed things—he didn't just realize when someone was sad or tired or hungry. Qifrey observed people the same way a scholar studied ancient magic circles, piecing together tiny details into complete pictures. So it became painfully obvious, painfully early, that he noticed you. He noticed the way you drifted half a step away whenever someone brushed your shoulder in crowded markets. He noticed your hands curling tightly into your sleeves whenever Agott linked arms with Coco and tried to drag everyone around. He noticed how your eyes darted, just for a fraction of a second, whenever someone reached toward you unexpectedly. And because Qifrey was Qifrey, he never pointed it out. He simply adjusted himself around you as naturally as water flowing around stone.
The two of you had not intended to become anything. At least, you certainly hadn't. Qifrey had a habit of collecting people; students, strays, broken things, lonely things—and somehow you had found yourself orbiting his workshop more and more often. You'd help sort books or organize spell diagrams while he worked. Sometimes he’d speak with ridiculous theatrical flair, draping himself dramatically over chairs and complaining about paperwork as if it were a mortal curse. Other times he would go quiet, sunlight catching in his pale hair while he focused on drawing circles with such intense concentration that he looked like a different person entirely. You grew addicted to those shifts. To the softness beneath his charm. To the strange warmth of being understood without needing to explain yourself. Which was dangerous, because Qifrey looked at people like he could see every hidden fracture in them—and somehow made you feel less afraid of being cracked.
You realized you were in trouble one evening when the children had gone to sleep and rain tapped gently against the workshop windows. You sat on the floor surrounded by books while Qifrey sat beside you, reading something absurdly ancient and complicated. There had been no conversation for almost twenty minutes. No pressure to speak. No expectation. Just quiet. Then you glanced up and found him already looking at you over the edge of his book. Not smiling. Not teasing. Just staring with a softness so startling it felt like your heart tripped over itself. “You know,” he said lightly, “I think you're becoming difficult.” You blinked. “Difficult?” “Mm.” He tilted his head. “I find myself wondering where you are when you're gone.” Silence. Then: “It's very inconvenient.”
When your relationship actually started, it wasn't romantic in the way stories described. There was no sweeping confession beneath stars. No dramatic kiss. Qifrey simply sat beside you outside one morning while you watched clouds drift overhead and asked, “Would you hate it if I stayed beside you like this for a very long time?” You stared at him because what kind of question was that? And when you looked over, expecting his usual playful expression, he looked almost nervous. Qifrey. Nervous. You remembered thinking the world had briefly tilted sideways. “...No,” you answered quietly. “I don't think I'd hate that.” And his smile afterward was so bright and genuine it felt unfair.
The issue appeared almost immediately after that. Not because Qifrey crossed boundaries, he didn't, but because relationships seemed to come with invisible expectations attached. Hands finding hands. Casual touches. Leaning against shoulders. You tried not to think about it at first. Tried to ignore the twisting feeling in your chest whenever you imagined disappointing him. But Qifrey noticed. Of course he noticed. One afternoon he reached absentmindedly toward your arm while laughing at something Coco said, and you flinched so hard it looked as though you'd narrowly avoided being struck. The movement froze both of you. The room suddenly felt terribly quiet. Qifrey slowly lowered his hand. Not hurt. Not angry. Just watching you carefully.
Later, after everyone had gone inside, he found you sitting outside near the garden fence. You expected questions. Maybe concern. Instead, Qifrey sat down several feet away—not beside you, not close enough to crowd you. Just near enough. “Can I ask something?” he said softly. You nodded. He looked toward the sky rather than at you. “When people touch you...” A pause. “Does it frighten you?” The question sat there between you. Not why are you like this? Not what happened? Just that. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Sometimes.” You hated how small your voice sounded. “Sometimes I know it's irrational and I still can't stop it.” Silence followed. Long enough that panic started creeping in. Then Qifrey said, very simply, “Okay.” Just okay. Like he was accepting the weather. Like he wasn't asking you to justify it.
For a while afterward, things became strangely careful. Not awkward exactly—Qifrey was too skilled with people for awkwardness; but careful. He would announce himself before stepping close behind you. Ask, “Can I sit here?” even when there was plenty of room. Sometimes he held out his hand jokingly and said, “Permission request pending,” with ridiculous solemnity. It made you laugh despite yourself. He never acted frustrated. Never acted deprived. But occasionally you'd catch tiny moments: Qifrey reaching toward you absentmindedly before stopping himself. Seeing something flicker across his face before he hid it behind a smile. And guilt began creeping under your skin because you knew Qifrey was affectionate by nature. He touched shoulders, ruffled hair, draped himself over friends without thought. Around you, he folded himself smaller.
Eventually the conflict exploded in the dumbest way possible—which somehow made it hurt worse. It happened after a long, exhausting day while helping the children practice magic. Everyone had been frustrated and tired. Coco had nearly set something on fire. Agott was arguing. Tetia was laughing. Chaos. Pure chaos. By evening your nerves already felt stretched thin. Qifrey approached from behind while speaking, probably intending only to lean over your shoulder and point at something—and instinct struck before thought did. You jerked away sharply and snapped, “Can you not?” The words came out harder than intended. Sharper. Qifrey froze. Completely froze. And for the first time since you'd known him, his smile disappeared all at once.
“Right,” he said quietly. Too quietly. “Sorry.” That was it. No teasing. No recovery. He walked away before you could answer. The silence afterward felt unbearable. You found him later near the edge of the grounds beneath the trees, staring out into darkness. “I didn't mean—” you started. “I know.” His voice was gentle, but somehow that hurt more. “I know you didn't.” He finally looked at you and smiled, except it looked tired around the edges. “But I think...” He hesitated. “I think I've become so focused on not frightening you that I've started feeling afraid too.” Your chest tightened painfully. “Afraid?” “Of guessing wrong.” A laugh escaped him, small and humorless. “Of making you uncomfortable. Of becoming something you have to endure.”
You stared at him because suddenly you understood. This wasn't only your fear anymore. Somewhere along the way, Qifrey had started walking on invisible glass around you too. Slowly, carefully, terrified of breaking something. And the realization made your eyes sting. “I don't endure you,” you said immediately. “Qifrey, I don't.” He looked startled. So you kept talking before courage disappeared. “I'm scared all the time, okay? Sometimes for no reason. Sometimes even when I don't want to be. And I hate it because...” Your voice cracked slightly. “Because I want things with you. I want to be close to you. I just don't know how.” Silence followed. Wind moved softly through the trees. Then Qifrey's expression softened in a way that nearly undid you.
Very slowly, very carefully, he lowered himself to sit beside you—not touching, just close. “Then,” he said quietly, “we'll learn.” You looked at him. “Learn?” He smiled, small and warm and utterly himself again. “You're not a puzzle to solve.” A pause. “And I'm not going anywhere.” Then he held out his hand between you, palm upward, leaving a ridiculous amount of space for retreat. “No pressure.” You stared at it for several seconds. Then several more. And finally—heart pounding—you moved your hand forward and placed your fingertips lightly against his. Barely touching. Hardly anything at all. Qifrey looked down at your hands and went completely still. Not because it was dramatic. Not because it was some grand romantic moment. But because somehow, instinctively, he understood exactly what it meant: not here, fixed, cured. Just here. Trying. And for Qifrey, that had always been enough.
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AN: writing this as chill as possible as if I wasn't begging my mutual to write this scenario 🤞 @omniprescent
The stories about Brimhats were always the same: dangerous, deceptive, consumed by forbidden magic and darker paths.
You had long stopped caring. Let people whisper. Let them stare. Still, out of everyone, one person's judgment irritated you more than it should have. Qifrey. Calm, intelligent, endlessly composed Qifrey with his gentle smile and eyes that seemed to see right through people. He looked at you with caution every time your paths crossed, and you found that expression increasingly irresistible to ruin.
Your meetings became strangely frequent after the first one. Forest paths, market corners, quiet villages at dusk—it was almost ridiculous. Every time, Qifrey would stop, his shoulders tightening ever so slightly at the sight of your broad brim hat and dark cloak. Every time, you'd catch that little pause before he remembered to look annoyed. And every time, you smiled. "You know," you told him once, leaning lazily against a tree while evening light filtered through the branches, "you stare at me an awful lot."
"I absolutely do not."
"Oh? Then perhaps I've imagined it every single time."
"You have."
You grinned. "Liar."
Qifrey narrowed his eyes immediately. "You enjoy provoking people."
"No," you corrected smoothly, stepping closer. "Just you."
Silence. Wonderful, wonderful silence. Because for a split second he looked completely caught off guard before his expression hardened again. Yet despite all his irritation, despite every sharp response and sigh and glare, he never walked away first. Never. And you noticed things. The way his posture shifted when you stood too close. The way his eyes flickered away before returning. The way his patience around you seemed stretched thinner and thinner each time.
That evening beside the old river bridge, violet twilight spread across the sky while cool wind danced through the trees. Qifrey stood with his back partially turned when he heard your footsteps, and the look he gave you over his shoulder nearly made you laugh. Immediate irritation. Immediate defeat. "You again."
"You sound disappointed." "I am." "Liar."
His eyes narrowed. "Stop saying that."
You hopped down from the bridge railing and walked toward him slowly. "Why? Because I'm right?" You stopped directly in front of him, close enough now to see the faint tension in his shoulders. "You keep acting like you can't stand me, but somehow you're always here."
"You assume too much."
"And you avoid too much."
For a moment neither of you moved. Wind brushed softly between you, carrying the scent of rain and distant flowers, and Qifrey's gaze held yours steadily. There was frustration there. And something else. Something that had been growing for weeks, maybe longer. You looked down briefly then, eyes catching on the belt around his waist, and before he could question the look on your face, you hooked your fingers there lightly and tugged.
Just enough. Qifrey stumbled half a step forward. Suddenly there was almost no space left between you. You felt him freeze instantly.
His eyes widened. Just slightly. Enough.
Enough for your smile to slowly spread.
"Oh?" you whispered softly. "Interesting."
Qifrey stared at you.
You could practically feel the tension snapping tighter and tighter between you, his composure hanging by threads. Yet you only tilted your head and smiled wider. "What's wrong?" you murmured. "You look flustered."
"I'm not."
"No?" You leaned in just slightly closer. "Then why haven't you moved away?"
Silence. Absolute silence. Then suddenly his hand caught your wrist. Not rough. Not angry. Just certain.
His eyes searched yours for a long moment, and for the first time all evening, there was no irritation there. No careful distance. Just something startlingly honest breaking through all those walls he kept around himself.
"You never stop," he said quietly.
Your smile softened. "No."
Another beat of silence passed.
Then Qifrey sighed—small and defeated, like someone finally losing an argument he'd been having with himself for far too long.
And before you could tease him again, before another smug remark could leave your mouth, he leaned forward and kissed you.
Not because he planned to.
Not because he meant to.
Because after all that tension and frustration and denial, there simply wasn't room left for anything else.
For a split second you forgot how to think entirely. Then your eyes slowly closed.
And somewhere beneath violet skies and river light, Qifrey finally realized—with complete horror and absolutely no hope of denying it anymore—that he had made a terrible mistake.
Because now you were smiling against the kiss.
And that meant you were never letting him live this down.
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Hellooo!! I was the anon who requested a fic with the whipped brimmedhat reader! I just want to say i absolutely loved the way you wrote out the idea, i really enjoyed it!!!
I may not have another request regarding brimmedhat reader, but i wanted to request something simple such as teacher gn!reader being carried off to bed by either Olruggio or Qifrey. (You can choose) they're very stubborn when it comes to getting things done, no matter the time or circumstances. Just something fluffy :))
Thank you!!
Someone I shouldn't love
Qifrey x reader
cw: forbidden enemies to lovers stuff? at this point I don't even know what they are. Are they lovers? worse.
AN: One more mixed signal and I'm going back on hinge. haha anyway! Finally I know who wrote this magnificent piece of a request, I am so following you after this I swear it was chefs kiss. I live for the Qifrey x brimhat reader trope. If anyone has good fics with it or wrote/is writing one PLEASE tag me, I eat that up like it's dinner (please tag me, I am so not normal about this trope)
The atelier was asleep by the time Qifrey found you.
Moonlight spilled through the tall circular windows, silver against old floorboards and scattered parchment, while rain tapped softly against the glass in uneven rhythms. The workshop smelled like ink and damp wood and lingering traces of magic smoke, warm despite the storm outside. At the center table beneath a floating lamp, you sat surrounded by papers with your hood pushed back carelessly and your brimmed hat resting openly beside your work like a challenge waiting to be acknowledged.
Qifrey stopped in the doorway the moment he saw it. Most witches would have reacted with fear. A Brimhat’s symbols spread openly across parchment. Forbidden spellwork drawn in sharp elegant lines. Inked markings no proper teacher should even recognize, let alone understand. But Qifrey only felt that familiar ache in his chest.
“You’re getting careless,” he said quietly. You didn’t even look up from your writing. “And you’re lurking again.” “You left your hat visible.” “Maybe I wanted someone to see it.” Your voice carried lazy amusement beneath the exhaustion, and Qifrey immediately knew you’d been awake far too long. There were dark shadows beneath your eyes. Your shoulders were stiff. One hand still held your pen, but your focus had clearly started slipping minutes ago. He crossed the room slowly, silver eyes flicking from the forbidden diagrams to your face.
“You’ve been here all night.” “I’m working.” “You’re deteriorating.” That finally earned him a glance. Your mouth curved slightly at the edges when you saw the look on his face. “Ah,” you murmured, “there it is again.” “What?” “That expression. Like you’re trying very hard to remember you’re supposed to disapprove of me.” Qifrey’s jaw tightened. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? You were exactly the kind of person he should fear. A Brimhat. Someone dangerous. Someone tied to the kind of magic the entire world considered twisted beyond redemption. Every instinct he should have possessed as a witch ought to have pushed him away from you.
Instead he knew the sound of your laugh by heart. Instead he noticed when you skipped meals while working. Instead he crossed the atelier in the middle of the night because some stupid anxious part of him knew you’d still be awake. You leaned back in your chair, studying him through half-lidded eyes. “You’re staring.” “I’m thinking.” “That’s usually dangerous around me.” “For me specifically.” You laughed softly at that, tired but genuine, and Qifrey immediately hated how warm the sound made him feel. He moved closer to the desk, gaze dropping toward the ink stains scattered across your fingers. One parchment had nearly slid into a puddle of wet ink beside your elbow. Without thinking, he reached down and moved it safely aside.
Your expression softened. It was such a small thing. Such an ordinary thing. But moments like this terrified him more than any magic ever could. The tenderness was the dangerous part. “You know,” you said quietly, “most witches would already have me in chains for this.” “Most witches don’t know you.” “That’s exactly the issue.” Qifrey exhaled slowly through his nose. He should have left the moment he saw your hat sitting there in the open. Instead he crouched beside your chair, close enough now to see the exhaustion you were trying to hide beneath sarcasm and sharp smiles.
“You need sleep.” “I need to finish this.” “You’re barely conscious.” “I’m perfectly functional.” “You nearly fell asleep into your own ink.” “That was strategic resting.” Qifrey huffed out a laugh before he could stop himself. Your eyes immediately lit with quiet satisfaction. “There,” you said softly. “That’s my favorite expression.” “What is?” “The one where you forget I’m supposed to be your enemy.” The words settled heavily between you. Rain whispered against the windows.
Qifrey looked at you for a long moment without answering. He wished you would stop saying things like that so casually. Enemy. Dangerous. Corrupted. As if either of you still believed those words mattered between you anymore. You watched him carefully. “Qifrey.” “You should sleep.” “That’s not what I said.” “I know.” Your smile faded little by little as you studied his face. “You really do love me, don’t you?” The question should not have sounded so soft.
Qifrey felt his chest tighten painfully. Because yes. Hopelessly. Completely. In ways he had tried very hard not to. And that was the tragedy of it. A witch and a Brimhat should never stand this close together. There should have been disgust between you. Distrust. Fear. Instead Qifrey wanted to brush the exhaustion from beneath your eyes with his fingertips and pull you somewhere warm and safe where no one could touch you. “You shouldn’t ask me things like that,” he said quietly. “Why?” “Because if I answer honestly, I may stop pretending this is temporary.”
Your gaze flickered over his face, suddenly unbearably gentle. “I don’t think either of us ever believed it was temporary.” Merlin. Qifrey closed his eyes briefly before looking back at you. You still looked exhausted. Your hand had gone slack around the pen without you noticing. Stubborn as always, but clearly moments away from collapsing against the desk if left alone much longer. He sighed softly. “Come here.” You blinked. “Excuse me?” “You heard me.” “I can walk.” “I sincerely doubt that.” Before you could protest further, Qifrey slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. Papers fluttered across the desk as you let out an indignant noise while he lifted you effortlessly from the chair.
“Qifrey—” “No.” “You don’t even know what I was going to say.” “You were about to argue.” “I was absolutely about to argue.” “I know.” You grabbed instinctively at the front of his cloak as he carried you toward the doorway, your warmth immediately settling against him in a way that made his heartbeat stumble traitorously in his chest. Outside, thunder rumbled softly through the storm. “This is kidnapping,” you informed him. “This is self-preservation.” “You’re very dramatic for someone pretending to be reasonable.” “And you’re very warm for someone pretending not to enjoy this.” That shut you up immediately.
Qifrey smiled faintly to himself without looking down at you. He could feel your heartbeat through the layers between you, uneven and embarrassingly quick now. The realization made something dangerously fond curl beneath his ribs. “You know,” you murmured after a moment, voice quieter near his shoulder, “if people saw this, they’d think you’d finally been corrupted.” Qifrey tightened his hold on you slightly. “They’d be right,” he admitted softly.
“I think you ruined me quite thoroughly.”
You stared at him in silence for a second before your expression softened into something painfully affectionate. “Good,” you whispered. And despite every reason he should have let you go long ago, Qifrey only held you closer as he carried you to bed.
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Hi I'm a new fan of witch hat atelier who haven't read the manga(yet), I'm wondering is it possible to have warriors in the anime? If yes, I have a request:D
Maybe reader x quifrey(and the kids ofc) the reader is this buff lady who's insanely strong. Every time she came back, they always asked the same question "How on earth is she still standing?!" Due to how much injuries she get(would love if the injuries leave scras that she really proud of)
No pressure of course! This request is kinda dumb anyway
Scars that tell Stories
Qifrey x reader
cw: scars, battles etc.
AN: ohhhh a new fan, that's exciting (just wait for the olruggio and qifrey scene omfg I can't wait for that to be animated), anyway please don't your request dumb, it breaks my heart reading that
The first scar Coco ever noticed was the one running across your shoulder.
You had arrived at the atelier late in the evening after being away for nearly three weeks on a dangerous assignment near the coast, and the moment you stepped through the door, every apprentice immediately crowded around you at once. Coco nearly launched herself into your arms from excitement while Tetia asked seventeen questions in the span of ten seconds and Richeh tried unsuccessfully to maintain dignity despite clearly wanting to hear every detail. Agott, meanwhile, crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes the second she noticed the fresh bandages wrapped around your ribs.
“How on earth is she still standing?” she demanded immediately.
You looked down at yourself in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You’re bleeding.”
You glanced casually toward the stain spreading faintly through your sleeve. “Oh. Right.”
Qifrey sighed from somewhere behind the children with the exhausted patience of someone who had lived through this exact conversation many times before. “Sit down,” he said gently.
You smiled sheepishly. “I was going to.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago in the letter you sent ahead.”
“That was before Coco tackled me at the door.”
“That sounds like blaming the victim,” Coco argued.
Despite the scolding tone in his voice, Qifrey was already guiding you carefully toward a chair with one hand resting lightly against your back. The contrast between the two of you always fascinated the apprentices a little. You were tall, broad-shouldered, visibly strong even beneath layers of traveling clothes, with old scars scattered across your arms and hands like pieces of history written directly into your skin. Qifrey looked delicate beside you in comparison, all graceful movements and soft curls and elegant hands. And yet somehow he was always the one fussing over you while you obediently let him.
“You’re limping again,” he murmured while kneeling beside your chair to unwrap the bandages around your leg.
“I got hit with debris.”
“You got thrown through a wall.”
“That too.”
Agott stared at you in disbelief while Coco looked deeply impressed.
The thing was, your injuries were never small. Every time you returned from a mission, there was always something new. A fresh scar along your knuckles. A healing cut near your jaw. Bruises dark enough to make the apprentices wince whenever they caught sight of them beneath your sleeves. The stories only made it worse. Apparently you once fought an enormous magical beast with a broken arm because there had not been enough time to stop and heal properly first. Another time, you carried three injured witches out of collapsing ruins despite being badly hurt yourself.
“How,” Agott asked one evening after hearing that particular story, “are you alive?”
You considered this thoughtfully before answering, “Stubbornness, mostly.”
What confused the apprentices most was the fact that you seemed genuinely proud of your scars.
Not in an arrogant way. Never that.
You simply carried them openly, comfortably, like each one mattered.
One rainy afternoon, Coco noticed a pale scar crossing the center of your palm while you helped her adjust brush grips during practice. “Does this one hurt?” she asked carefully.
You looked down before smiling faintly. “Not anymore.” Then you traced the old mark with your thumb almost fondly. “I got this protecting a village workshop from collapsing during a magical storm. There was a little girl there who refused to leave because she wanted to save her father’s tools.” Your expression softened with quiet amusement. “She bit me afterward because she thought I was stealing them.”
Coco immediately burst into laughter.
Another scar came from shielding travelers during a glyph accident. Another from dragging a wounded witch through ice water for nearly a mile. Each mark had a story attached to it, and somehow none of those stories sounded sad when you told them. You spoke about them warmly, almost affectionately, because every scar meant someone had survived.
Qifrey loved listening to you talk about them.
The apprentices noticed that too.
Whenever you absentmindedly rolled up your sleeves while working around the atelier, Qifrey’s gaze would always linger for just a second. Not out of concern exactly, though there was always some of that hidden beneath the surface. It was something softer. Quieter. Like he understood those scars were pieces of you and treasured them accordingly.
One evening, the apprentices walked into the workshop to find you sitting on the table while Qifrey changed the bandages wrapped around your side after another mission gone wrong. Your shirt was pushed slightly aside near your ribs, exposing several old scars crossing your skin alongside a fresh injury that looked painful enough to make Coco cringe.
Meanwhile, you were happily eating pastries.
“How are you functioning?” Agott asked in horror.
You pointed vaguely at the pastry in your hand. “Sugar helps.”
“It does not.”
Qifrey laughed softly under his breath while securing fresh bandages carefully around your waist. His touch was always incredibly gentle with you despite your size, fingertips light against scarred skin like he was handling something precious. You relaxed visibly beneath his hands every single time.
“You missed one,” you told him suddenly, pointing toward a faded scar near your shoulder.
Qifrey glanced up with mild amusement. “I’m aware. I’ve seen this one many times.”
“It’s a good scar.”
“You say that about all of them.”
“Because they’re mine.”
Something in Qifrey’s expression softened instantly at that.
The apprentices eventually realized that was the real reason he never asked you to stop taking dangerous jobs despite worrying constantly whenever you left. He understood that your strength was part of who you were. So were the scars. So was the stubborn determination that drove you to protect people even when it hurt.
Besides, you always came home.
Usually injured. Occasionally bleeding. Sometimes carrying broken equipment over one shoulder while insisting you were “completely fine” despite obvious evidence to the contrary.
But you always came home.
And every single time, the same scene unfolded almost exactly the same way.
The apprentices would gather around you in alarm while demanding to know what happened. Agott would inevitably ask how you were still standing. Coco would stare at every new scar like it was proof you were some kind of legendary hero. Tetia would dramatically declare you the strongest person alive. Richeh would try to hide concern behind practicality.
And Qifrey would quietly move to your side without fail.
He would take your bags before you could protest. He would guide you toward a chair with a gentle hand against your back. He would smooth careful fingers over fresh bandages while listening patiently to your increasingly ridiculous explanations about why your injuries were “not that bad this time.”
Then eventually, when everyone else got distracted, he would lean close enough that only you could hear him and murmur softly, “Welcome home.”
Every single time, the words affected you more than any injury ever could.
Because for all your strength, for all the scars etched proudly across your skin, for all the dangerous places you traveled and impossible things you survived, nothing ever felt quite as safe as Qifrey’s hands carefully holding yours while he checked for injuries with quiet familiar tenderness shining in his eyes.
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would you write Qifrey x reader x Olruggoi everyone together?
About this and other requests, I'm so sorry to be saying this but I don't really have any experience on Poly-relationships. Most of the stuff I write are things that I've experienced already or have daydreamed about countless times already ☹️☹️ I really want to do your requests but I just have no idea how these kinds of relationships work and it's just be a mess.. if you've got any other ideas though let me know!!
Qifrey and very clumsy Reader, who at times can be a bit forgetful. At the same time Reader is a highly accomplished witch, could be a crafty inventor or maybe a skilled combatant. Anyhow just the contrast between Reader at home and relaxing, when compared to protecting others or working on projects.
I bet he would find it very endearing how they have to quickly run back in to grab another thing when taking the girls out for the day. I have this amazing image of Qifrey just gently catching Reader before the fall or trip
A silly idea I had was Coco being super excited to meet Reader but Agott making some about Reader not being how she expects. What would make it even sillier is if Agott actually really likes Reader, even in her clumsiness.
I am now 🦭 anon (don’t know if I have already claimed that or not)
Our very own Tinkerbell
Qifrey x reader
cw: none
AN: I love Agott, can you tell? Anyway 🦭 anon I hereby declare you as my most loyal requester because the amount of asks I have from you in my inbox is actually insane
Before meeting you, Agott had very specific expectations about the kind of person who could possibly manage to impress Qifrey.
Considering your reputation, nobody could really blame her. Stories about you traveled easily among witches. Some spoke about your inventions with near disbelief, describing intricate magical tools capable of shielding entire villages or dismantling dangerous spells in seconds. Others talked about watching you fight, about the terrifying precision of your magic and the way you could cut through hostile creatures so quickly it barely looked real. Coco had once overheard a group of older witches discussing you in hushed voices at the market, and afterward she spent nearly an hour excitedly telling everyone she was absolutely going to meet “the amazing witch Qifrey knows.”
So naturally, Agott expected someone impossibly intimidating.
Then you arrived at the atelier carrying three bags, tripped on the front step almost immediately, and would have fallen face-first onto the wooden porch if Qifrey had not caught you by the waist without even looking up from the book in his hands.
“There you are,” he said calmly, like this happened every single day.
You blinked at him in surprise while clutching his sleeve. “I didn’t even see the step.”
“I know.”
Behind him, the apprentices stared in complete silence.
You straightened quickly, visibly embarrassed, before trying to regain some dignity and offering them all a warm smile. “Hello. I brought pastries.”
Then one of the bags split open because you had apparently forgotten to tie it properly.
Pastries rolled everywhere.
Coco loved you instantly.
Agott, meanwhile, looked deeply confused.
This only became worse over the next few hours. You forgot where you placed your gloves three separate times despite holding them once while actively searching for them. You walked directly into a doorway because you got distracted explaining a spell theory to Coco. At one point, you ran halfway out the front gate with everyone before suddenly freezing in horror. “I forgot the maps,” you announced. Then you rushed back inside. Less than a minute later, you returned looking triumphant before stopping again. “No, wait. I forgot my satchel too.” Agott watched this happen with increasing disbelief while Qifrey stood nearby looking entirely unsurprised.
“Does this happen often?” she finally asked quietly.
Qifrey smiled faintly over the rim of his tea. “Constantly.”
Sure enough, five minutes later you reappeared in the doorway holding your satchel, your maps, and somehow also one of Qifrey’s scarves because you apparently forgot which belongings were yours halfway through gathering everything.
“You took my scarf,” Qifrey pointed out gently.
You looked down. “...Ah.”
There was a pause.
Then Qifrey reached over and fixed the scarf around your shoulders properly anyway.
Agott did not know what to make of the fact that one of the most accomplished witches she had ever heard of kept nearly walking into furniture.
The strangest part was how quickly the contrast became obvious once you actually started working.
Because the moment magic entered the equation, you became someone entirely different.
It happened during a small outing with the girls a few days later. The trip had been peaceful until a spell device sold at the market malfunctioned nearby, sending unstable glyphs spiraling wildly through the street. Before anyone else could properly react, you moved.
Agott would remember that moment for a very long time afterward.
One second you had been laughing softly while trying to remember whether you packed enough ink. The next, your expression sharpened with frightening focus. Your movements became precise, immediate, practiced in a way that felt almost unreal compared to your usual absentminded softness. You stepped directly in front of the apprentices without hesitation while glyphs bloomed beneath your hands in smooth rapid patterns. The unstable magic collapsed instantly under your control. Every line you drew was perfect. Every movement deliberate. Within moments, the damaged device safely unraveled into harmless sparks.
The entire street had gone silent.
Then you blinked once, looked down at your hands, and sighed quietly. “Oh no,” you murmured. “I think I dropped the pastries.”
Sure enough, the pastry box sat upside down several feet away.
Coco burst out laughing first.
Even Agott had to look away to hide her expression.
Qifrey, however, looked unbearably fond.
It was almost embarrassing how obvious it became whenever he watched you. His gaze softened constantly around you, warm amusement lingering even during your most chaotic moments. Whenever you forgot something, he already had it ready before you realized it was missing. Whenever you stumbled, his hand appeared at your waist or against your arm with perfect timing, steadying you so naturally it seemed practiced.
Which, unfortunately, it absolutely was.
One rainy afternoon, the apprentices witnessed perhaps the worst example yet.
You were carrying supplies through the atelier while distractedly explaining a new invention to Qifrey, speaking quickly with animated gestures while he listened with patient interest beside you. “—and if the pressure release rune activates too early, the whole thing destabilizes, so I had to redesign the inner cir—”
Your foot caught against the edge of the carpet.
Agott physically saw disaster approaching.
Without interrupting your sentence, Qifrey caught you smoothly against his chest before you could fall. One hand steadied the supplies while the other rested securely at your waist. You blinked up at him mid-conversation like nothing unusual had happened.
“Thank you,” you said automatically before continuing, “—which means the copper wiring has to be layered differently—”
Qifrey nodded attentively. “Mm. That makes sense.”
The apprentices stared.
“You didn’t even pause,” Tetia whispered.
“We stopped pausing months ago,” Qifrey admitted.
You looked mildly offended. “I am not that clumsy.”
At that exact moment, you nearly stepped backward into a stool.
Qifrey caught you again immediately without even turning around this time.
Agott covered her face with her hand.
The truly unfair part was that despite all of this, she ended up liking you far more than expected. Maybe it was because you never acted embarrassed about your accomplishments despite how extraordinary they were. Maybe it was because you treated the apprentices seriously, listening carefully to every question Coco asked and praising Agott’s precision with complete sincerity. Or maybe it was simply impossible not to grow attached to someone who could dismantle dangerous magic in seconds yet still forget where they left their own shoes.
One evening, Agott found you asleep at the workshop table after spending hours helping Richeh repair damaged tools. Your notes were scattered everywhere in messy overlapping stacks. One of your sleeves had ink smeared across it. Qifrey stood nearby watching you with quiet affection while gently lifting your glasses from where they sat crookedly against your face.
“She fell asleep looking for her own notebook,” he said softly.
Agott stared at you for a long moment before muttering, “She’s weird.”
Qifrey smiled knowingly. “Very.”
There was a small pause before Agott crossed her arms and looked away.
“…I understand it, though,” she admitted quietly.
Qifrey’s expression softened immediately because he understood exactly what she meant.
Because somehow you were both things at once. You were terrifyingly skilled and hopelessly forgetful. Brilliant and absentminded. Capable of protecting everyone around you without hesitation while still needing Qifrey to remind you where you placed your coat five minutes earlier. And perhaps the strangest thing of all was how naturally those pieces fit together.
Especially to him.
Especially when he caught you against his chest after another near fall and you instinctively relaxed there for half a second longer than necessary, smiling up at him with sleepy trust while he steadied you carefully like it was the easiest thing in the world.
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Hello! I love how you wrote Qifrey, which makes me like how you capture his personality 😊. Can I make a request about him if you don't mind? Its been a while since I read the manga and since the anime is out I can't help to think of Reader being like Princess Rosalina, where Reader would read such stories in their storybooks to the girls everynight before going to bed where as Qifrey would just watch with such affection on how Reader delivers the stories to the girls ☺
Bedtime tales
Qifrey x reader
cw: none (this is straight up fluff)
AN: At some point I feel like my fics are repetitive — can anyone actually tell me if they are? Should I start writing angst? I tried a new layout too, let me know if you prefer it. Anyway aaahhhhh I loved this request so much because Rosalina is just amazing, I remember crushing on her when I first saw her in super Mario Galaxy haha (still do. I knew what I liked early on)
Bedtime at the atelier became something strangely magical after you arrived.
At first, it happened accidentally. One rainy evening, the apprentices had been restless after a long day of lessons and poor weather, too distracted to settle properly and far too awake despite the late hour. Tetia kept talking when she was supposed to be asleep, Coco had somehow convinced Richeh to keep playing a game with her under the blankets, and even Agott looked irritated enough by the noise that she could not relax either. Qifrey had been halfway through attempting to restore order when you quietly appeared in the doorway holding one of your old storybooks against your chest.
“Would anyone like a story?” you asked softly.
The room went silent instantly.
After that, it became tradition.
Every single night, no matter how busy the day had been, the apprentices gathered together for your stories before bed. Sometimes it happened in the girls’ room with blankets piled everywhere and lantern light glowing warmly against the walls. Sometimes it happened downstairs near the fireplace when rain tapped softly against the windows. On colder nights, everyone squeezed together beneath oversized quilts while you sat nearby with one of your enormous weathered books resting open in your lap.
You always read like the stories were real.
That was the part the children loved most.
Your voice softened and shifted with every page, becoming warm and dreamy whenever you described distant stars or floating kingdoms or lonely travelers crossing endless skies. You gave every character their own voice. Every magical creature felt alive beneath your words. When you described constellations, the apprentices could practically see them shimmering overhead. When you spoke about ancient witches crossing oceans of clouds, it sounded so beautiful and wistful that even Agott stopped pretending not to care.
And Qifrey?
Qifrey fell in love with you a little more every single time he watched it happen.
He rarely interrupted. Usually, he sat somewhere nearby with a quiet cup of tea in his hands while listening to your voice drift softly through the atelier. Sometimes he leaned against the doorway watching unnoticed while warm lantern light caught against your face. Other times he sat directly beside you on the couch close enough that your shoulders brushed whenever you turned pages.
The apprentices noticed very quickly that he barely looked at the books themselves.
He only looked at you.
Especially during the softer parts of the stories.
There was something almost mesmerizing about the way you read aloud. Your expression grew gentle and distant, like you could see every world hidden inside the pages unfolding perfectly in front of you. Sometimes your voice became so tender during emotional scenes that Coco looked seconds away from crying. Tetia openly cried every single time. Even Richeh, despite trying to appear composed, always listened with complete focus.
Agott once quietly asked Qifrey why your stories sounded so different from everyone else’s.
He smiled faintly before answering, “Because she reads them like she loves them.”
And you did.
The stories mattered to you deeply. You treated them carefully, reverently almost, smoothing old pages with delicate fingers and remembering tiny details from books you had read dozens of times before. Many of the stories were old fairytales collected during your travels, full of wandering stars and sleeping forests and lonely magical beings searching for home. Some were bittersweet. Others were comforting and warm. But every story carried that same soft feeling whenever you told them, like being wrapped carefully in starlight.
One evening, Coco asked why all your stories felt sad and happy at the same time.
You smiled quietly at that while closing your book halfway. “Because I think the best stories usually are,” you explained softly. “They remind you that lonely things can still find happiness.”
Qifrey looked at you very carefully after you said that.
The apprentices, thankfully, were too distracted by the next chapter to notice.
Another thing they failed to notice at first was how often Qifrey became openly affectionate during storytime. It started subtly. A hand resting behind your shoulders on the couch. Fingers absentmindedly smoothing your hair back when it fell into your face while reading. Quietly placing tea beside you before you even realized your cup was empty. Small things.
Then one night, Tetia caught him staring at you with such obvious adoration that she nearly screamed.
You were sitting by the fireplace reading about a traveler carrying tiny stars inside glass lanterns while rain fell softly outside the atelier windows. Coco had fallen halfway asleep against your side already, and Richeh was struggling bravely to stay awake despite visibly losing the battle. Your voice had gone especially soft during the final pages, warm enough to make the entire room feel gentle and safe.
Qifrey was watching you like you hung the stars yourself.
Tetia looked between the two of you in absolute disbelief before whispering loudly, “Oh, he’s in love with her.”
Agott smacked a pillow directly into her face.
You blinked in confusion while Qifrey calmly sipped his tea without denying it even slightly.
After that, the apprentices became unbearably aware of it.
They noticed the way Qifrey always looked calmer whenever storytime began, tension leaving his shoulders the moment your voice filled the room. They noticed how he smiled whenever you became especially animated during exciting scenes. They noticed the impossibly soft expression he wore whenever you gently tucked blankets around the girls afterward while whispering goodnight to each of them.
But the worst moments were always after everyone else had fallen asleep.
Sometimes the apprentices only pretended to sleep long enough to witness it.
You would close your book quietly, carefully marking the page before glancing around at the pile of exhausted children surrounding you. Coco usually slept curled against your arm. Tetia sprawled dramatically across blankets. Agott pretended to sleep much more neatly than everyone else despite occasionally mumbling in her dreams.
And Qifrey would move closer the second your attention finally returned to him.
“You’re tired,” he would murmur softly.
“A little.”
“You read for nearly two hours.”
“They like the longer stories.”
His gaze would warm immediately at that because of course it would. You always sounded genuinely happy about it, no matter how exhausted you were afterward.
Then, inevitably, Qifrey would reach over and take the heavy storybook gently from your hands before setting it aside. Sometimes he brushed his fingers against yours deliberately slowly afterward, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. Sometimes he tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear while looking at you with that unbearably tender expression that always made your heartbeat feel uneven.
One particularly cold evening, after the girls had finally fallen asleep piled together beneath blankets near the fire, Qifrey quietly drew you against his chest while you sat together on the couch in comfortable silence. The atelier glowed softly in fading firelight while snow drifted gently outside the windows. You rested your head against his shoulder with a sleepy sigh, still holding your closed storybook loosely against your lap.
“They love you very much,” Qifrey murmured after a while.
You smiled faintly without opening your eyes. “I love them too.”
“I know.”
There was a small pause before he added quietly, “It’s beautiful watching you with them.”
Something in his voice made you finally look up at him.
Qifrey’s expression had gone soft in that honest unguarded way he only allowed around a handful of people. His hand rested warmly against yours while he watched you with such overwhelming affection that it nearly made your chest ache.
“You look at them like they’re precious,” he said quietly. “Like every story is something you want to protect for them.”
Your expression softened immediately.
“They deserve beautiful things,” you whispered.
Qifrey smiled then, small and impossibly fond, before leaning down to press a gentle kiss against your forehead while the fire crackled softly nearby and the children slept peacefully around you both.
And somehow, in that moment, the atelier felt less like a workshop and more like a home held together by warmth, stories, and the quiet way Qifrey loved listening to your voice fill every corner of it.
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Would you be open to writing qifrey x reader x olruggio dating headcanons? Were qifrey and reader was dating first then came olruggio its ok if you don't feel comfy doing poly ships ^^
Hi anon! I get a lot of poly requests with those two and mentioned that I have no idea how to write such stuff sadly enough. Sadly I'm not very knowledgeable in that area 💔💔 Thank you for the request though, I'm sure another fellow writer is happy to fulfill your request!! 🫶🫶🫶
