Emmy

This is just for fun :] 19 🍉

[k3bchu]

[meltedcoco]

Lethe

Come, drink from me o’ poor, docile lamb. You, forsaken by your shepherd, condemned And willing—stolen and brought To this ruined bed. Thou must graze upon the poppies, Damp with the dew of oblivion, To be lulled into a soft slumber Until there is naught left to covet. When you wake, you will delight, For this is no longer your prison; Thy desire has withered, and No love shall anchor you here.

⟣ pairing. qifrey x gn!reader (olruggio's relationship is integral to both)

⟣ 14.5k words. manga spoilers; coming of age; reader’s master is a terrible person; implied/referenced child abuse (retribution is achieved, do not worry), and ableism as per canon; hurt/no comfort; first love; bullying; reader has a panic attack; descriptions of viscera and violence; dialogue light; pre-canon; open ending.

⟣ note. A fic examining the perspective of someone who grows up alongside Qifrey and Olruggio while exploring the manga’s more serious themes within their childhood. Please take care in reading.

There is something strange about the new apprentice.

He moves through the winding corridors of the Great Hall like a shadow adorned in white, a hallmark of that maverick whose every arrival is announced by the supposedly unpleasant clop of his sealchair’s strides. You don’t mind it at all in comparison to your master who delights in the rumours regarding the boy missing an eye. Fitting, she says, for someone as broken as Beldaruit.

Yet, that is not what bewilders you so. Master Beldaruit is a kind man, eccentric, yes—as everyone says where you agree with your master only in this—but kind nonetheless. You had wondered, too, why he taught no child despite the gaggle that trailed after him, revelling in stories and smoke. Until Qifrey, that is, but the boy does not smile. Although it must be difficult with the rumours that surround Qifrey, Master Beldaruit has pulled even laughter from within your chest so it is peculiar that he has not, to your awareness, succeeded with his new apprentice.

Now, one mustn't always be graced with a smile but your master tells you that is unseemly. That a child such as yourself must—you must show others how wonderful she is to you; of how marvellous her tutelage is that no grimace ever crosses your face. For what reason would beget a terrible thing when every hand laid upon you is purely guidance in becoming a proper witch? She is not wrong, you surmise, as this unrelenting countenance has made you many a friend. How lonely it must be, then, to never approach another and remain in a state of reticence, especially in the presence of Master Beldaruit’s joy.

Qifrey does not smile when his master entertains the lot of you with ancient poems and tales of old, bringing them to life with illusions that dance around you, much to the scorn of other adults. He does not smile when the mess hall serves custard pudding or glowrose tarts—treats you gobble up in secrecy, away from her eyes on evenings where you deserve little reward while Qifrey is always encouraged to have just one more. And when your friends try to speak to him, his scowl does not soften and his frown remains just as deep.

You do not understand him; cannot begin to when the thought of remaining trapped at your master’s side as often as he does or treading the cobblestone paths of this waterlogged stronghold—impossible to escape from and eternally feasible in being found—leave an aching weight that presses heavy against your heart. It must be your pity for him as, even now, Qifrey does not smile, which is, naturally, a distraction that upsets your master.

“Come,” she tells you, fingers latched onto your wrist, tight enough to dimple skin as she drags you towards the entrance of your—her—atelier. “You spend too much time in a daze rather than in practice.”

“Yes, Master,” you swiftly agree. “Forgive me, Master.”

Then, unable to help yourself, you turn your head to endure one brief and final look, seeing witches jolt alongside Master Beldaruit’s satisfied expression. His mouth moves yet his charge’s does not. Had it been for your sake, you would have expressed your thanks but, for you, there is only this perfect room, her faultless comportment, and your clumsy, poorly drawn spells.

Noiselessly, the door shuts behind you.

It matters not how you arrive here, merely that you do; drawn into the orbit of the Star of Ghodrey first, well-loved by that northern town and brought to be buried underneath the waves of the Great Hall instead of the cushion of snow.

She makes this day troublesome for you no matter how you prepare to meet him under the guise of her audience with his own master. The cloak you throw on every morning is suddenly too wrinkled and too dull from washing, replaced by one also too long and in need of tailoring, saved in preparation for your growth spurt when you should not be seen in ill-fitted garments that may indicate thoughtlessness. Any attempt to press the crinkles flat fail with your shaky spell, displeasing your master further, the fabric scorched in the shape of a contraption that matches the one marring the inside of your wrist.

“What’s that?” Olruggio asks, gaze cast towards reddened skin. It’s the most interest he’s shown in you, choosing to stay quiet after exchanging pleasantries as your master’s intent is no doubt clear. “Were you burned?” He must be familiar with the sight, too, having come from a place where any blunder in casting everyday fire magic may cost a life.

“I was.” You nod. “I acted foolishly.” To hide the wound from view, you tug the sleeve of your robes over your palm but he instinctively reaches out before you can shy away.

You flinch.

He speaks, instead. “How?” Olruggio’s voice is incredulous, and you allow—in unease, this time—his small hand to hold yours and turn your forearm to peel back the fabric sticking to you like a second skin, pain lancinating so viciously that you suppress a whimper. However, this close, Olruggio is privy to the small, muffled sound. His brow furrows, attention flitting from your face to your wrist, and then back again with his composure worse than yours as more of the rough expanse is revealed, adorned with an angry mountain of a welt wherein the edges of the surrounding depression drool as your body does its best to heal itself. “It looks really bad,” he says, expression veering into a sickening smile with a stare so unfocused and shaky as if he’s glad to have exposed your secret. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Her eyes are upon you.

"I held on to a contraption too tightly and burned a hole through a new cloak,” you answer, “this is what happens when you make a mistake.” Then, you lower your head and prevent his reply with a simple addition of: “which is why my master believes you may be able to help me.”

“You’re right,” Olruggio says, suddenly determined beyond his slight delirium, “so we should visit the medical spire!” And he twirls you to usher you towards that very place as you spare a glance at your master.

“You may go,” she permits you. “You should have gone when you were first injured but you insisted on not being late.” No falsehood disgraces her tongue; to be tardy is to be disrespectful, and to be disrespectful is to mirror her in shame, of which is against how she has raised you.

And so, with Olruggio, you leave.

He is talkative, now, as he leads you away, without that air of annoyance he carried as you shuffled from one foot to the other, the two of you standing close to your masters’ sides as they spoke about banal topics to see if friendship would blossom. He answers your questions about Ghodrey and life above the sea, every surface touched by sunlight you’ve never seen unless refracted by water, rays reaching the depths in ripples that fizzle out the deeper it travels. He tells you about the scalewolves that run through the downlands, frightening but incredibly gentle with their young; alongside the glow of a blushing bride as it floats through the air when you’ve only seen its scales milled for conjuring ink. And he shares what it was like to travel from place to place, encountering all sorts of people without a master to guide him on field work until now.

You miss it, somehow, simply by the way he recounts it all, particularly in respect to how his life is already so large for a child, distinctly different from what you know you will experience yourself. When you are ready to accompany your master, you are confident she will not accept a task as plain as warming an Unknowing nearly frozen to death, remarkable only in meeting someone you would have never met otherwise; worthwhile only because, as Olruggio has expressed, you have saved a life. Are you strong enough to mimic him, you wonder? Perhaps overseeing your care by the hand of these doctors is another ordinary manner of aid—companionship never granted to you.

By the time you return, you believe you would not make a mistake in calling Olruggio your friend. He smiled, wide and fatuous as you tried to speak through tears, expressing everything and anything so long as it is does not concern the relief bestowed from him to you. And it ceases upon their approach, much to Olruggio’s surprise, at the ease in which you are able to calm. He does not comment, thankfully, as he releases your hand to clutch onto his master’s cloak.

Astonishingly, your master’s palm rests upon your shoulder and, with her, you watch as your new friend chronicles your short adventure with him. Within his excitement, she must approve, satisfied over your success in what she wanted of you and seemingly proved by the steady brush of her thumb. The touch of Olruggio’s own master gentles atop his head, mussing his hair into an untidy mop you cannot imagine yourself journeying through the Great Hall with. And when you tilt your chin upwards, expectant and childish, she tightens her hold in a facsimile of her usual objection, turning from you without a word.

Unable to observe Olruggio for any longer lest something ugly grows, you wave goodbye with uncertainty filling your heart. There is something you wish to articulate and share with them. If Olruggio is as kind as he appears, his master—his caregiver—must be a character even greater than that: gracious to be capable of catching the Star of Ghodrey, clever in teaching someone so bright, and influential enough to protect that light.

But she is calling for you, giving voice to your name in a tone always so austere, so you make the easy choice—to never say a word, letting your chest cave in as your arm continues to ache, a searing pain that haunts you despite it all.

The days continue to blend together, indistinguishable for the most part where you comprehend its passing by the flicker of floatglow lamps if not for the darkening waves around you, no sunlight flowing through. You wake around this time, anyway—early when your master is still snoring softly—ensuring you are presentable once she rouses from slumber and already studying diligently, scribbling wonky circles you later burn while she is too busy to realize your faults. And when it is noon, you seek out Olruggio’s company for it is your only reprieve before your return to her atelier to stain your fingertips black. But when it’s suppertime, you’ve discovered, in more recent weeks, that Olruggio has taken to Qifrey.

From your observance, you believe they bicker on most occasions; about vegetables and silly little competitions and how often they encounter the other. It is only when Olruggio is presented with a map, requested during a short meeting wherein he assisted you in drawing seals your master could no longer tolerate repeating her guidance for, that their relationship seems to mend. Even more, your friend is absent one afternoon, leaving you alone in the mess hall with the companionship you’ve built, as instructed of you, through a lie.

Again and again, Olruggio disappears from your life, only making his appearance when organized by your masters, and especially during the aggravation of yours. The melancholy grown from that distance leaves you, however, as you see Qifrey smile for the first time. For a reason you cannot grasp at the time, you are envious that Olruggio must be the first recipient of that sight. Yet you remain in proximity to him when he gravitates around Olruggio as you do, any conversation shared consisting of clipped words and polite greetings where you’ve only heard the fullness of his voice when speaking to your mutual friend.

It is not enough.

“I heard from Olruggio that you wish to leave the Great Hall,” you say upon approaching Qifrey alone, your robes clutched tightly in your fist with your decision to breach the wall that he has built between you—comfortable to converse over, but not quite short enough to connect with you properly. “He told me about how you stole his map and escaped.”

Qifrey clicks his tongue, ready to depart with no intention to entertain you for a second more. “That was so long ago—what does it matter now?”

“I want to leave, too.” The remark is sufficient in garnering his interest, finally focused on you. “I want to see the sky you saw that day.”

“Ask Olruggio.”

“I can’t,” you answer. “My master is enthralled with the Star of Ghodrey; if she found out—”

“So I’m your second choice?” His voice raises, facing you with scorn that you cannot prevent yourself from cowering against. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me, is that it?!”

Passersby begin to stare, an oppressive pressure that forces your subsequent words to leave as a whimper, instantly softening the boy’s expression in remorse. “I want to be your friend.”

“You’re lying,” Qifrey firmly objects. “I know what your master says about people like Master Beldaruit—about people like me.”

“I’m not like her.” You stomp your foot, nails carving crescents into your palms as you hiss, “just because she’s my master doesn’t mean I carry the same opinions as her!”

“But you don’t say anything to stop her, do you?” He bristles, and you almost believe your relationship ruined with the disclosure, perhaps justifying his general temperament towards you, sporadically atrocious yet dampened by a particular vacillation, skeptical of your character.

“I can’t,” you mutter, “there is nothing I can do against my master…”

Qifrey quiets at that, deciding if your honesty is falsified to win his favour. It’s not. You are able to speak as you do simply because you tried some years ago when you were her freshly appointed apprentice, gifted to her due to your adept memory and family name where everyone believed in your potential under her guidance specifically. She took you to the finest magic stationer’s shop within the Great Hall to obtain your first woodcruor wand, and upon perusing dyes, she praised your ability to differentiate the subtle differences in colour only to say that those with Silverwash Syndrome could never be witches and, even more, that she could not comprehend why Master Beldaruit was so adored when ‘he no doubt wants for magic to fix his frailty, breaking the rules of the Pact.’

Hearing it pained you. Master Beldaruit was one of the foremost witches you met at the Great Hall shortly after being introduced to your master. She left you, for a time, and you wandered too far astray that the pathways were unrecognizable, unable to tell from whence you came. But Qifrey’s master, when he was still without an apprentice, found you. He was just an illusion back then—quicker for him to search for the source of the wails that echoed off stone—but the smoke was not frightening while the sound of his sealchair meant you weren’t alone, an announcement that prevented you from being startled. And when he had led you to his bedchambers, Lady Vinanna was by his side, leaving to her duties as he was adequate company in waiting for your master to fetch you.

He struggled, too, to comfort you, maneuvering closer by pushing himself upright using the handles of his transfer board. You wished it had been easier—that the world was kinder to him who was so kind to you, his hand warm in your own and the other gentle as it wiped your damp cheeks before petting the top of your head. His simple and modest reassurance is one you can still feel when you try your best to recall it and return to that moment whenever you are too afraid; the fear refusing to leave when that rapacious ache remained.

So, when she expressed the dreadful sentiment and alluded to forbidden magic, you spoke against her, becoming the first and last time you had and ever will. There is naught—not even Qifrey’s chagrin—that could convince you that any possible action you could have taken would be anything but futile against your master.

“Fine,” Qifrey finally decides. “I’ll believe you since you’re Olruggio’s friend.” Then, he leans into your space, and you almost want to jump away from the sudden proximity and how the blue of his eye seems to sparkle. “I’ll decide whether or not I’ll help you after I hear your plan.”

“I know how to draw the sylph shoes seal,” you say, and your knowledge of it appears to be enough.

Qifrey has apparently memorized the path to the exit, amusing you when, just the other day, you assisted in returning him to Argentgard to see Master Beldaruit. He is more receptive to you now, too, likely doing away with any assumption after your brief conversation concerning him and his master. Although this occurs primarily through cupped hands and whispers, afraid of making too much noise and guiding a curious passerby to the both of you and foiling your plans. For the same reason, you’ve suggested to draw the seal after your escape, forgoing the momentary regret that befalls you as you climb the lofty staircase connecting the drowned castle to the surface.

It’s bright, much more than you had expected.

The stretch of cerulean above you seems endless, painted with drifting puffs of white. There is no constant sound of flowing water, either, simply waves that collide with the tall island you stand upon. Even as your eyes follow the flight paths of quadryphons you’ve only seen in books, the sight offered to you comes with much to discover, so unlike the monotonous expanse of sea, interesting through grandiose creatures seen through formerly innocent eyes until you’re as you are now—still a child but a little older and a little more versed in the life arranged for you that they no longer spark amazement, yet wishing you could join them the same.

Leastwise, Qifrey is smiling, tiny and barely there, but a smile nevertheless.

He observes your surroundings as you had, likely ensuring no one is around or unwittingly missing a past—somewhere out there—he can no longer remember. “Is it better than you’ve imagined?” he asks, the tenor of his voice delicate and unrecognizable to you.

Your own lightens, glee staining your words.“It is! I’d never tire of this sight.”

“That’s why we should hurry, then,” Qifrey suggests, “before anyone uses the windowway or leaves from where we came.”

He’s right. The plan had been an impulsive one, which is why you left mid-day while everyone was busy with their studies and tasks, too distracted to pay attention to Qifrey who is given reprieve on days like this, master busy like your own and leaving you to yourself when Olruggio would normally have an audience with you if not for his sudden commitments. Still, one never knows who may visit the Great Hall and when.

Pulling off a boot, you balance yourself on one foot with Qifrey holding your ink pot to assist you.

“Will this work despite not being a contraption?” Qifrey’s face scrunches up, the purpose of his doubt lying in the worry that overtakes him.

“We just have to avoid getting our shoes wet so the ink doesn’t wash away,” you answer, drawing an alternating pattern of convergence and levitation signs after ornamenting the centre with the wind underfoot sigil.

“My master says this is a difficult seal because it is easy to draw it unevenly,” Qifrey says, “but you aren’t struggling.”

“I like knowing an assortment of spells, but…” You hesitate to share, yet choose to do so, regardless, solely through your desire to get closer to the frost-headed boy, your interest in him growing after becoming more acquainted and hoping your offered trust will prompt him to trust you too. “…My master taught me early,” you continue, “that way it appears as if I can do anything quickly. It’s easy for me to remember, but difficult for me to draw—my hand shakes, sometimes, and it upsets her.”

This is something you have shared with not even Olruggio, but when you look at Qifrey, his countenance is completely replaced with distaste, lips set in a firm line and cheeks puffed up like a sparrel with a mouth full of lentils. You’ve said too much.

“And please keep this a secret,” you jest despite the sincerity in your tone, “or I won’t eat your vegetables when Olruggio isn’t looking anymore!”

“Fine… fine,” Qifrey agrees only to tut up his chin. “I don’t like your master anyway, so I don’t want to speak of her anymore.” Then, he adds quickly, if only to tease you with a narrowed eye. “Your lines look steady to me—you worked hard—but that one is too long!”

You shake your head, wishing you could bump your shoulder with his without losing your balance. “It’s so they can’t catch us; we’ll fly faster than any normal pair of sylph shoes,” you say, switching to your other boot and quickly drawing the other half of the bisected seal so you can guide Qifrey in inscribing his own.

Despite being Master Beldaruit’s apprentice for a time too short for his age, Qifrey has little difficulty in mimicking the spell, as if his body already knows the motion of each stroke. Once finished himself, the two of you simply face each other awkwardly, knowing not which direction to venture aside from forward in whatever path of your choosing.

“What if we hold hands?”

“What?” Qifrey’s head snaps to you, whirling around from the far-off horizon he was electing to explore.

“Have you flown before?” you ask, and Qifrey’s silence is answer itself so you continue. “If we hold hands, we won’t be separated.” You offer a hand thereafter, palm open and outstretched, as your sleeve falls down your wrist at the motion, exposing skin still slightly raw, fractal patterns drawn tight like chords of incarnadine lightning.

He takes it, the inaugural contact causing him to jolt before wrenching away. It almost offends you—is it because of the ebony smeared on your hand, an aftermath in drawing that you’ve transferred onto his skin? It’s a habit you have, as do the other apprentices, but you suppose Qifrey is quite clean in all things, especially with the light colours of his cloak.

“We don’t have to,” you quickly say, “you don’t have to do this just because I want to hold hands.” It’s true that you desired it, whereby some part of you wants for his attention, but the guilt in cultivating, within him, an obligation to satisfy your odd whims, is stronger than any longing for something much gentler than you’ve known. “I’m just afraid of what would happen if one of us gets lost or, worse, falls into the sea. I don’t know what I would do, either, if something happened to you because I asked you to assist me.” The words leave you without pause, unable to prevent yourself from babbling in the hopes of mitigating any uncomfortable impressions; but, then, your voice turns almost inaudible, touch grazing over the wrist of your dominant hand. “I don’t like getting hurt… I’m afraid to die.”

Qifrey’s breath catches within his chest, and the subsequent exhale is a tight one, yet his stare does not withdraw from you, even as you grow more meek with the trepidation you assume you’ve propagated within him. Perhaps there is something that haunts him, just like you. And so, Qifrey reaches out, taking your hand in a trembling hold you steady through a squeeze of reassurance, mimicking what Master Beldaruit had done for you years ago.

You stand on the edge of the tower formed through a rocky outcrop, a lonely island you leave, hand in hand, with Qifrey as you bring your feet together and propel upwards into the air. The view is so unimaginable that your fear falls away as the possibility of tomorrow is all that remains. You have never been this far from the Great Hall; from your family when you were still their charge and thenceforth from your master. Even Qifrey, who cannot remember the life he lived outside the sodden stones of the castle, grins, brilliant and unbridled as you float through the ceaseless expanse of sky; and his delight, paired with your own, is more beautiful than the petals that retract at beginnings of your tears, your delirium sprouting hallucinations.

“I never thought—” you try to say, sniffling and hiccupping as Qifrey’s hold shifts. His fingers slide into the crevices of your own like roots finding the entry point of soft soil, a tether sown from recognition, linking you to him, in this moment, to be as you are so long as you are with him. “I never thought I could be this happy!”

He laughs, loud and blameless and innocent, as if what either of you have endured was a scattered dream, his much more nebulous whereas any recollection of your own memories is something you avoid, leaving a cavity you never wish to fill. For once, you are child, and you wonder what your former days would have resembled if you and Qifrey had met under kinder circumstances.

It would be preferable to meet in a village on an isolated corner of the Zozah Peninsula, untouched by the strictness in larger towns and cities and especially the Great Hall. You and Qifrey would run through hills of greenery only to fall down in tumbling ribbons as the sun sets on the horizon, eventually encountering Olruggio for a reason that matters little in comparison to the very fact that you must converge at one point, regardless, orbits aligning. Magic will come, as it always does, but it appears through smoke and illusions, a gentle touch and a forgiving hand, and the water of Qifrey’s flowers coruscating Olruggio’s light.

Together—that is where you will find yourself, despite leaving without Olruggio. He will find you, you know it; and if he does not, you will return for him because no path you follow—straight and narrow or winding and obstructive—will end in a place absent of him. From the beginning of it all, there was an inevitability, you realize, now, in being changed by both him and Qifrey.

“Your cloak is dancing in the breeze!” Qifrey exclaims, hair whipping around and revealing his scarred eye to you, sullied with a verdant splotch, of which you cannot wipe away when it likely collided with his face as the two of you struggle to control your flight path. He does not seem to mind, regardless, as he laughs, again, and yells through the rushing wind, “you look like a dragon!”

“I told you they’d never be able to catch us, Qifrey!”

And how naïve you are to express such a sentiment, believing that innocence could no longer be taken from you. The world seems to still before the wind begins to flow in the opposite direction as though a gale had arisen, suddenly and naturally, until a woman with a cloak soaked in the colour of blood catches you within her embrace. You are reminded of how small you are and how nothing may bend to the will of two youths who cannot live without the aid of another.

Lady Vinanna does not let your feet touch the ground despite landing next to the pointed and pillared structure of the Great Hall’s entrance. She repositions her hold through a deluge of reprimands, grabbing you both by the hood of your cloaks. Qifrey makes some remark under his breath about being capable of walking as he was last time this happened, no doubt concerning Olruggio. But Lady Vinanna does not relent, afraid you will run and ignorant of what is more important to fear as she descends the coiled staircase, a replica of a bridewell and your noose.

“I won’t disobey you again,” you cry. “Please, Lady Vinanna, do not stretch my clothes. I beg of you!”

Your disposition shocks her enough to set you down, shoes meeting the cold stone of the Great Hall, smooth unlike the dirt of true land. You did not thrash nor did you reach up to tug at her hands, merely hung like a limp doll possessed by a wraith that can only express its anguish for its undoing in wails and watery eyes. Tantrums are unbecoming of a witch and no one should ever bear witness to an ugly sight, but you care little for both Lady Vinanna and Qifrey’s reactions. The latter surprises you, no less, expecting a distasteful wince but receiving concern, instead. That too is something you dread.

Clacks echo through the corridor, the stacked leather of her heel declaring her imminent arrival. Qifrey watches you tremble once the member of the Knights Moralis meets your master in the middle, prepared for her audience and leaving you and him behind her, convinced you will both stay put.

“Lady Vinanna,” your master calls first, refusing to look at you yet you obstruct your face nonetheless, without a handkerchief to wipe snot and tears. “Imagine my surprise in being summoned because my well-behaved apprentice is running amok after being involved in the mischief of a common whelp.”

“They were flying,” Lady Vinanna answers, choosing to ignore your master’s revulsion for your friend—it is not the first time she has dealt with the uncouth mannerisms of arrogant witches and it will not be the last. “Do you have any idea why they were able to draw the sylph shoe spell?”

Her stare is heavy upon you.

“I stole a pair of my master’s shoes and memorized the spell,” you explain, practically yelling at Lady Vinanna as you crane your head upwards. “Please don’t be upset with my master—it’s all my fault for defying her, and I forced Qifrey join me!” Qifrey tries to interrupt but you overtake him, stepping closer into her space as Master Beldaruit arrives, the sound of hooves silenced by your climbing panic. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, next, to Master Beldaruit whose worry has dissolved after taking note of his apprentice’s reaction to you, replaced by a reticent amusement now that he discovers that you are both unscathed.

Though, it does not last long. “My!” Master Beldaruit chuckles, hand bent at the wrist and raised towards his mouth, a flamboyant motion that irks your master but soothes Qifrey through its unshaken nature. “If everyone is unharmed,” he begins, shifting his attention to be directed towards you, “then who am I to be anything but glad that Qifrey is finally getting along with you? Hmm?”

Unsurprisingly, the comment shatters your master’s composure and you nearly believe her capable of raising her hand against both Master Beldaruit and Qifrey, but Lady Vinanna interrupts before it can escalate.

“They should be properly punished so they don’t do it again,” she says, “now would be a good time to start.”

“I will be sure to do so.”

When you spare Qifrey a lasting glance, your leave prompts a small lecture from Master Beldaruit that quickly falls away from focus—Qifrey’s eye waters as he meets your gaze, shoulders tight and shaking as he attempts to hold them at bay. You want to stop; to return to his side and comfort him but, distracted, you bump into your master’s back.

She stares down at you, again, face clouded in something you are incapable of naming as a child but perceptive enough to realize you never wish to see it again. So, you wave Qifrey goodbye, and allow her to catch your wrist and lead you back to her atelier, consoled solely by the boy’s acceptance of you, at last, no matter how prominent the ache becomes that evening.

In the following year, your master grows stricter, hovering over your shoulder to oversee whatever you partake in if she can manage it. And if not, it is as if there is someone else in the Great Hall who follows you, reporting your day-to-day activities without her supervision.

Before, she had allowed you to study the occasional subject and spell as you liked, but now believes part of your punishment should be an awareness in only what she assumes you will need under circumstances she would permit you to find yourself in, as if she could control such a thing. Gone are your picture books detailing old stories and encyclopedias depicting the creatures of the Zozah Peninsula, exchanged with bound pages of curriculum catered to you and without any room for simple magic that brings nothing but joy.

It feels as if you are running out of time, unable to catch up to her expectations as other apprentices, like Olruggio and Qifrey, excel in almost everything they do. She inspects your palm quire more closely, too, giving you no opportunity to burn failed spells and inspiring more reprimand for struggling to inscribe what you already know by heart. It does not help, either, that your tremors worsen following your attempt in escaping the Great Hall. From your master, you expected another corrective measure, but she lets it be upon realizing that drawing while concealed steadies your hand, not realizing how you grasp your dominant wrist to stabilize each mark. Good, she had said, because a successful witch is one who can draw anything in secret.

Though praise is a rarity, it was disgusting coming from her who delights in lies.

No matter, you suppose, as to be a witch is to lie. To cast magic is to live in a falsehood, just as you pretend that nothing is wrong, completing one task after another within your studies while you tell your friends that pain is a consequence of growth. You dress in the robes of her atelier, a sign of your belonging to her as she instructs you what to do, who to entertain, and how to act, wherein you are guest to your own body. She tells you that this new contraption will help you in your studies. She commands you to go fetch it when it finally arrives in the Great Hall after letters concerning its delivery remained unanswered until recently. She is also worn thin by waiting that you, again, feel pressed for time.

Your steps quicken, rushing through the colonnades before hesitating when you nearly pass the pavilion, distracted by a cacophony of noise. You sway from one side to another, standing on the tips of your toes to endeavor a peek over the shoulders of those taller and older than you. From here, you catch sight of a tuft of white, belonging solely to a single apprentice within the Great Hall.

“Only one eye and missing his memory? How will he go on a field mission with Master Beldaruit?”

An apprentice guarded by your master’s comrade sneers. “Master Beldaruit will be the eyes and Qifrey will be his legs—together, they’ll finally be normal!”

The commotion rises, wicked laughter ringing out through the space, absent of anything but children and the subject of their ridicule.

“What? Like a weird chimera? Do you really—”

“What did you say?” you interrupt with a screech, plowing through the crowd surrounding Qifrey, your friend stuffed into the corner against a pillar with nowhere to go.

The second apprentice scoffs, shoving your shoulder as you had her. “Are deaf as he is blind?” Her face is contorted into an ugly thing, looking at you with distaste for defending someone like him, your master and hers would say, someone belonging to a cripple like Beldaruit.

“Are you so stupid you can’t say it again?” you retort, and feel fabric pull as Qifrey clutches your robes. “Or are you too much of a coward now that someone isn’t brainless enough to laugh?”

Your face stings.

She hit you. As the awareness of it settles, your body stiffens, limbs locking in place and only capable of listening to Qifrey who begins to yell from behind you. But even as the other apprentices advance, you do not move from where you stand, blocking him from their ire. Turning your head to face him, Qifrey’s eye widens, flickering to where her nail had caught on your skin, leaving an angry line drawn from your cheek to your nose.

“What? Are you going to cry now?” she challenges you. Then, she mentions your master, and it is as if your ears are ringing, knowing your master will not be pleased with your further involvement with Qifrey, and especially resulting from a brawl, no less. “Are you brave enough to tell her or are you a coward, too?”

For once, you aren’t, and perhaps that is because you know there are few who will protect him.

“Am I supposed to cry because you hit me?” you ask, voice colder than you realize. “Run to her and complain about some idiot?” She tries to interrupt you, but you clench your fists and will yourself to behave. “You act like Qifrey and his master can’t do anything on their own, but have you stared a liongoat in the eye? Seen their sharp fangs, three pairs of pointed horns that could pierce right through you, and return without being trampled?” Foolishly, you motion to Qifrey, bringing all attention upon him. “Qifrey has,” you say, “why do you think the Great Hall was in an commotion a few months ago?”

“So what?”

“Can you do that?” you ask, and the weight in your stare must be grave enough that they struggle to form a reply at the mimicry you endeavour, imitating your master. “Huh? Can you?”

“Well, I—”

“You can’t!” you interrupt despite prompting from them a response, angry at the mere belief that they are as brave as Qifrey when they would do something so lowly. “You would die, I know it,” you say and watch their faces fall at the grim prospect you’ve presented to them. “Actually, you wouldn’t even be brave enough to face a liongoat, let alone die by one—all you can do is outnumber people who do nothing to you just because you think it’s funny.” Stepping forward, you shove them backwards and Qifrey grabs your arm to stop you from escalating a fight against the amount of apprentices that surround you. A fight you cannot win.

“Are you done?” she asks, feigning nonchalance mixed with mild annoyance, hoping you appear mad with your uproar.

“No, I’m not,” you hiss, anyway. “You think it’s so easy because you don’t struggle to live, but you’ll never be live up to Master Beldaruit—you’ll never be a witch greater than him, and the only person who will be is Qifrey!”

“What?” Another apprentice laughs, nudging their friend’s side with an elbow, the amusement brought about by their subsequent suggestion clear. “Are you infatuated with Qifrey? Is that why you’re so upset about this? It was just a joke.”

“And what if I am?” Your bristle. “Why would I like anyone else when my options are someone as terrible as you!”

Silence follows your bellow and you think you’ve deterred them, but when you calm yourself enough to see what they’re staring at, they’ve already begun to scatter.

“I won’t tell your master,” Lady Vinanna says, slipping a handkerchief from her pocket as she approaches you to dab at the sweat of your brow before gently taking your chin between her thumb and forefinger. “But there are better ways to protect your friend than picking a fight,” she adds, examining the cut on your face.

“They wouldn’t listen,” you mutter, looking down at your feet in shame once she lets go. “They’re always saying horrible things about Qifrey and Master Beldaruit.”

At that, your friend huffs, and Lady Vinanna sighs with his subsequent words. “You don’t have to do that,” Qifrey says, “let them talk—they always do. If they don’t say it to my face, they’ll make sure I can hear their gossip.”

“That doesn't mean it’s right,” you argue.

Seeing that you’re both fine, Lady Vinanna ruffles his hair and yours, standing from the position she took to speak to you, crouched to face the both of you properly. Her touch is so light you cannot help the smile that breaks across your face, looking up at her with sparkling eyes. She snorts. “Try not to get into more trouble, yeah? I can’t save you from everything,” she says, and leaves without another comment, searching for the apprentices who fled.

The moment she disappears around the corner and leaves you alone together, Qifrey grabs you. “You’re shaking,” he says, face scrunching up in remorse. You hadn’t realized it, but you do know that expression all too well on him, and it inspires, within you, your own. “You shouldn’t do that again—what if they hurt you?”

“You’ve been hurt enough,” you retort, “we can at least face it together.”

Qifrey’s head tilts, curiosity genuine. “But I thought you don’t like getting hurt?”

He’s right. It had somehow passed your mind amongst the adrenaline in atoning for all you could not do for him or his master, regardless of how they will never be aware of your failures to defend them lest you—or anyone else who was witness to it—share it with them. Only pain lies at the end of the path you have chosen to tread.

“Do you—” You try to speak, but your breath leaves in stuttered gasps, panic consuming you. “Do you think they’ll tell their masters? And then they’ll tell mine and—”

“They won’t,” Qifrey answers, “they’d be too ashamed to, and if they do, they’d be punished for hurting you.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah.” He nods, looks off to the side, and then focuses on you again to say, “you’re still shaking.”

“I’m sorry.”

Qifrey takes your hand at the apology, believing it will soothe you the same way it had that day you soared through the sky together. It does but, because you are irrevocably greedy in affection like this and especially from him, you step forward and collapse into his chest in exhaustion, thereby searching for reprieve as you timidly wrap your arms around him. Qifrey sinks into the warmth of you, chin propped up on your shoulder as he listens to your breathing calm. Then, he tenses, and you would have asked if something was wrong if not for his sudden detachment—gently, but quickly, pushing you away with his hands anchored upon your shoulders, a bridge of distance from him to you.

“I have to leave if you’re fine now,” he says, remembering some duty you are ignorant to.

“You were the one being ridiculed,” you point out. “I should stay by your side.”

“No,” he says, watching your face fall as guilt takes root. “No,” he repeats, firmly this time, “you should hurry back. You were completing an errand for your master, were you not? She doesn’t like it when you’re tardy.”

You exhale slowly, trying to will yourself to stop trembling where he can see you as you murmur, “that’s impossible to avoid now.” He hums, and you know he only hopes for the best for you. “Goodbye, Qifrey.”

“Take care,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”

Yet, it comes quicker than either of you expect. The ache is severe, this night, much worse than you had anticipated, so much so it was near unbearable—you are unaware if you are capable to enduring it any further. So, the decision you make is a rash one.

Qifrey’s bedchambers are located at the end of one corner of the Great Hall, tucked and housed alone, just as you are when your masters have only one apprentice in comparison to Olruggio an d the others. To get there, you would have to travel past the mess hall and up and across the chemin de ronde, wherein you would be exposed completely if one were to look outside their window as you walk along the raised wall connecting one building to another.

As long as you are quick, you tell yourself, you will not be caught, unless you have the courage to draw that spell on the inside of your cloak. There is a chance it would fade while washing it from the fabric would be easier than burning the paper of your palm quire. The borrowshade cloak is is a simple spell, consisting of one concealment sign, an asteriskos pointed with an eye in each cardinal direction; and four envelop signs at each corner, diagonal from the little star at its centre. How ironic it is, to be hidden in shadow with a seal drawn using eyes that will very well be obstructed from sight of you if you are to be glanced at.

You draw it. Your fingers clutch onto the wrist of your dominant hand, an anchor you use while following a rounded motion of the ring. Then, you fluff up your pillow until the air causes it to puff, and cover it with your linens to mimic your sleeping form before pushing open the door to your bedchambers. It creaks within the the quiet of her atelier, and you pause before continuing forward, listening for movement from where you hope she is still lost in a deep sleep.

Once you step through the threshold and into the hall, you release a tight breath, a smile breaking onto your face. You do not look back as you run through the path you’ve memorized to reach him, your cloak fluttering behind you. You look like a dragon! Qifrey had told you that day, and you feel it, too, when you fiercely defended him, and now, again, as you do as you wish—the fabric a dark tail that swishes as your feet strike cold stone, the patter of your footsteps the only indication of your presence.

The room of the mess hall is darkened at this time, no one hungry enough to venture from their room and steal a snack or a meal, but there are wandering witches that traverse the paths, and you have to press yourself close to the wall as you squeeze through, careful to avoid bumping into another as you tip-toe towards an alcove. They take their time in leaving, discussing nonsense you have no interest in when you have places to be, and the wait is so agonizing that you choose to sneak past, inhaling deeply as you find yourself atop the chemin de ronde. The animals swim overhead, blocking out the reflections of the moon as you become a mosaic of shadow, the spell imitating the vestiges of light despite being disturbed by your frantic movements.

By the time you reach the door to his bedchambers, your voice is more breath than sound with how quickly your chest rises and falls. “Qifrey,” you quietly call. “Qifrey, it’s me.”

He’s awake, surprisingly; the potential in him sleeping at this time being something you hadn’t considered until you were met with silence for a minute or two. And his brow furrows as you strip yourself from the cloak, distracted in tidying your garments for the outdoors whereby you do not notice his gaze skimming over the length of your form—the bruise blooming on your ankle, confirming his worry in your gait; the flush to your nape, concealed by your collar and revealed only as you turn your back to him; the scratch marks decorating the skin of your wrist, a habit of yours he detests; and the redness in your eyes.

Without question, Qifrey lets you stay.

The two of you stifle giggles as you build a makeshift tent while Qifrey fetches books from his shelf—gifts from Master Beldaruit. He reads the narration, and you, the characters, playing pretend as you act out voices. This occurrence repeats every so often. One night, you are the King of Dadah, strong and mighty with no fear licking at your spine, even as you transform into the witch who takes his life after he raises the mountains high in the sky with forbidden magic, creating the ruin you—before you met your master—and Qifrey—after he met his—ventured upon to pass The Consent of the Crown.

Another evening, Olruggio joins you after you emerge from Serpentback Cave, together, guiding myrphons to their breeding and wintering grounds. Qifrey, this time, participates in your recount of the Song of the Princess, becoming a dragon he loves so much, while you elect Olruggio as its rider—the princess who guides its path alongside her tribe, the identity you adopt. You do not remember much of this epic, however, as when you look back on this time together, you believe the The Sincerity of the Shield was when you began to recognize Qifrey more. Through his magic, in particular, where the tenderness he was capable of—and still is—beyond adversity while interacting with the flock had tugged at your heart so.

But when you pass The Query of Qui Vive, the plays fall away, replaced by nights venturing outside the Great Hall where you draw the borrowshade cloak for your friends while Olruggio lights the floatglow lamps you carry on large branches once you’re free to follow Qifrey’s whims. It is only on days where you cannot bear to be alone within her atelier that you find yourself in Qifrey’s bed, tucked under the covers as he reads to you, slowly, over the course of a few months, a nine-part epic about a witch and a decaying king—the story of how witches and nobility were once a united front in the days of old—a relationship now unlawful.

There is much that is disallowed in the world of witches, hidden all through lies. It is common knowledge amongst them that magic was taken from all through a memory-erasure spell, and from thenceforth, any individual touched by that secret must never utter a word of its truth. In a book you read without your master’s awareness—another action prohibited—it is said that a lie is equal to theft; to steal the truth from someone else. And it is so strange to you that, upon granting honesty to the Unknowing or within the punishments of the Knights Moralis concerning forbidden magic, the result is a robbery of the highest calibre. To steal one’s memory completely, of all relation to magic, even the witches one meets, only to be sent to Adanlee, the Isle of Oblivion, prior to being integrated into a new life—stolen from your original identity.

Perhaps that is why Qifrey is chasing after his past and cannot wait to reach it lest it escapes him before he can possess it. You cannot fault him for it; you do not know how you would move on if you were left without memory of him and Olruggio—of their arrival to the Great Hall; your meeting of both; the silly sentiments that unravelled; and how Olruggio’s magic held a numinous quality resembling the star that he is, an honesty in his happiness you would do anything to acquire. For a time, you believed you had when you carved your names into the wood of a willow tree at some neglected town you’ll never see again as it did not hold the answers Qifrey was seeking; the joy dwarfing the ache in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings that followed.

But you forget yourself. You always do. None of this is part of the path she has arranged for you, one inscribed across every surface of skin you posses when the dawn arrives. And to reach it, you leave Qifrey every night, with reluctance, to his restless sleep, returning to your own foolish falsehood with a smile gracing your face.

There is something strange about Olruggio.

Not many moons have passed since he and Qifrey completed the Librarian’s Trial, having done so together when your master was even more in a rush in comparison to your frost-haired friend. She had hoped, and was pleased, at your prompt success, magic coming to you much easier now that you have found affection within it through studies alongside your friends. They are aware of what you master is like and how grand her hopes for you are, but now you have your misgivings in completing it without them.

Olruggio cannot answer your questions about what transpired at the Tower of Tomes and whether they found what their heart was searching for. Neither can he tell you why his ribbon was exchanged for Qifrey’s tassel. Admittedly, you are jealous, but that is a lesser issue than what you are told. All Olruggio shares is that he completed it first, had fallen asleep while waiting for Qifrey, and eventually woke to him watching the quiet movement of the lake, lacking any knowledge of his past and completely satisfied in the search, choosing to never attempt it again.

Qifrey is lying to you.

There is no person on this earth who may relinquish their desires so easily without any fanfare. Perhaps whatever he found at the Tower did end the incessant excursions, allowing you to recuperate all those nights you went without sleep, but to say a single day was enough to act as if it was all an absurd dream is an insult to your intellect and, most of all, how well you know him. When you pressed, Qifrey said that there was nothing in the Tower to aid him, and from henceforth, he would only look forward to tomorrow. The words are inspiring, truly, but you doubted them nonetheless, even more when Olruggio shrugged and notified you that Qifrey shared the same sentiment right after the Librarian’s Trial.

It should have ended there, but there is no past you can run from nor is there any action taken that would not bring about a consequence. The years you have spent with her have taught you as much, familiar with the concept of reward, punishment, and retribution. You continue to push—to ask after a few days, a few weeks, and then months that dissolve into years. The field work continues and so do the studies and the tiny moments in-between. Of meteor showers, festivals, seaweed and vegetables, arguing and reconciliation, acting against your master in secrecy, and gritting your teeth as you endure it all. Still, there are exceptions to this, and it always occurs when you are missing from Olruggio’s side.

There are gaps in his memory, so small that others deem it inconsequential—as simple as forgetting what you ate the other day for supper, the name of the person you briefly met, and where you misplaced a trinket or two. But you know it is not normal, and no matter who you endeavour for aid, no doctor will see a young man who does not wish to be healed from an ailment that seemingly does not exist. Olruggio even entertains you one year, committing himself to a full check-up that returns results concerning nutrition, anemia, and sleep deprivation—potential contributions to a brain fog. From then on, there is nothing you can do to prove it untrue, especially when Qifrey appears to be anguished by your worry.

However, there are times where you feel strange too.

“Do you, now?” Qifrey asks, amused as you slide under the covers, next to him. “Have you tried sleeping in your own bed for once? Perhaps you will rest properly if you choose not to slip into my bedchambers at such a late hour.”

Said adventures in the night do not end from when you were little—they only grow more commonplace as it becomes easier to draw the borrowshade cloak spell. There are many seals you can draw now, despite the tremor in your hand, but this spell to see Qifrey is one you can inscribe no matter the circumstance. It is as easy, now, as slipping out of her atelier to creep through the Great Hall—pass the tables empty of food and into the cloister, the spell adjusting to the light streaming through the open gallery you run through as every second away is a second wasted. Then, you traverse the chemin de ronde without delay, your footfalls as fluid as the fish that wander over the bubble of sea-mist. And upon reaching the door to his bedchambers, you always find it open, night after night, already prepared for your arrival.

Fitted into his side, you listen to his heartbeat under you ear, his arm curling around your shoulder with the other holding a book in his hand, no doubt interrupted with your demand for attention. When you had entered, he was splayed over linen sheets, turning the pages of the story as he feigned indifference. No offense found you—is this not merely an indication of your place in his life? That you are meant to be here, by his side, with his willingness in your encroachment an equal wish you evidently share.

“You took longer than usual,” he says quietly, plopping the hardcover on the nightstand to empty his hand and fidget with the fingers of your own.

You answer the question that goes unsaid. “My master woke up.”

“You came anyway?” You nod. “What if she finds you missing?” he asks, trying to sit up in worry but you tighten your embrace and he sinks back into your arms.

“That is a problem for tomorrow.”

“Are you certain? What if—”

“Qifrey,” you interrupt, voice stern regardless of the affection lying behind his name. “I can leave if you wish.”

“I don’t—” he struggles to admit. “I do not want you to leave, but I dislike how crass she is with you.”

“I have already left my bed,” you point out, and he sighs.

Whether you leave now or later will not change the outcome. Every time you make the decision to leave, it is one made with the awareness of what may happen if caught—before, when you were still a child that feared everything; and now, where you are more afraid of his absence.

He huffs, fingertips tracing the shape of your knuckles. “We won’t agree on this, will we?”

“We won’t,” you confirm, watching him circle the splotch of ink staining your skin, a habit that has followed you into adolescence. “And you said yourself that you do not want for me to leave,” you add, gaze turning upwards to look upon his face.

There’s a small flush staining his cheeks; your heart patters against your ribs.

“I do not feel good about it.”

Turning, you grab Qifrey’s book to hand it back to him, request clear. He takes it with a small, exasperated shake of his head, dragging you across soft sheets to rest your back against his chest so you can see the words. You tell yourself that you cannot fit on his bed otherwise. That your hips must align, pelvis pressed together with his thighs tucked underneath yours and his chin hooked over your shoulder. You can feel every rumble of his voice as he narrates the story, whereas you take your usual role in every character, still employing childish voices that he jests is a doppelgänger, sounding exactly the same as a different person from another story.

You’ve read this one together before, too, so your attention is waning even as you finger guides Qifrey across the words while he holds the book open.

“…Have you thought about your future?”

Qifrey takes a moment to answer, but you know him awake—his breathing has not calmed in the way you are familiar with. “What brought this on?”

“We are to take The Goodwill of Her Grace in a few years,” you say, “and the words keep repeating in my head.” You clear your throat, adopting another voice, a different, more whimsical tenor that matches his master. “‘One stands unaided when hope is realized’—it sounds like one of Master Beldaruit’s riddles.”

“You do know that explained nothing to me, correct?”

“No need to be snarky.” You shift, twisting in his arms to pinch his nose. “We’ll be proper witches after we pass, and to think that we tried to escape the Great Hall when we were little, dreaming of tomorrow—of ‘hope.’”

“How inspirational you sound.” Qifrey squirms out of your hold, but leans into the subsequent touch you press to his cheek, closing his eye. “…I have considered leaving to see more of the world.”

You had feeling that was the case, but Qifrey utters that desire so quietly you believe him afraid to share it with you.

When you don’t answer, he reveals the depths of blue to you, as bright as the sky you saw that day and as clear as ice. “What do you aspire to do?” he asks.

This time, your response is swift. “A Watchful Eye,” you answer, and then say it again, more resolute. “I’m going to be a Watchful Eye.” He hums, as though he already knew, tenderness crossing his countenance. You remind him, “don’t forget to say goodbye.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me,” you demand, sitting up from his embrace to look down upon him. Something about his gaze that tells you that there is a finality in this, wherein you will not be able to turn back. You utter his name, “Qifrey,” and the weight behind it is undeniable.

“I promise,” he says and pulls you back down to rest upon his chest only for you to request for more of his voice, the sound blending with the beat of his heart.

Not wanting to leave, you beg Qifrey to read one more chapter; that you must know how the story will end even when there aren’t enough hours in the night—hours before you would return to her side—to turn the last page. When the story concludes, the dawn is creeping above the horizon, brightening the sea outside his window as Qifrey allows his fingers to arrange within the spaces of yours, squeezing softly as he watches you fall asleep. He does not release you from his arms, and he does not let go. And, upon waking, he tells you: come again tomorrow night.

You do. You always do.

Olruggio smiles less as you grow older, while Qifrey smiles more, incidentally. You stay the same, you believe. Yet with your coming of age, you begin to see them less, stolen by your master to complete increasingly difficult field work in hopes of turning you as renowned as the Star of Ghodrey.

There are many you serve, countless Unknowing unfortunate to cross path with one disaster and another while both Qifrey and Olruggio regale you with stories of repairing Pegasus carriages, drying those caught in unending downpours and at risk of falling ill, and saving pets stuck high up in trees—ordinary issues they encounter while completing those similar to your own vocations. And you explore the Land of the Pact as you wished and you never share your intent to be far from the grand aspirations she holds for you.

Still, your years are filled with aid that fulfills you, achieving what Olruggio described to you as the purpose of a witch. This purpose is one of the three defining aspects of magic aside from technique and ideas: what are you searching for, what do you wish to provide, and what is needed of you? It guides you in every glyph drawn and the intent expressed without words, and, through it, you complete The Goodwill of Her Grace alongside your companions.

You forget how peculiar Olruggio acts every so often, too, suppressing the jealousy from what lies between him and Qifrey.

You’re busy, instead, preparing a meal to sustain yourself before you become a proper Watchful Eye, your master’s hold slackening with her own attention shifting towards taking a new apprentice. It’s understandable; she excels at teaching, aware of exactly what you struggled in, how too push you to improve, and who to involve you with to inspire that drive, providing within you the technique required for success in all things. She shares this news with you over her visit, unprompted and unannounced in her arrival to the new atelier you will guard, currently empty of both master and apprentice, while you were expecting someone else entirely.

She stands, looming over you as she did when you were a child, sharing ideas of a new curriculum—spells recently approved—and twisting the delicate neck of a bottle, close to bursting from agitation from her attempts to assist you in cooking a mid-day meal and failing. All she is capable of is her way; she may know of what others want, as you must with magic, but she twists it to fit her own beliefs.

And therein lies the problem, as always, one you believed you had escaped from until now. How simple it is to be reminded of it all. How easy it is to return.

She continues to twist and twist and twist until you are a debasement of your former self, imitating what she desires of you alike each identical pod of the basjooroom you were meant to prepare. You pull it from its body, one after the other, digging your nails into flesh as the fruit’s sweet nectar pebbles at your fingertips. Then, you drag them down and peel the skin, layer by layer—clawing until it releases.

And the beast you had wished to butcher still writhes, somehow, thrashing and stumbling from the kitchen to the pantry, making a mess you are clueless in cleaning, aware only of how to hide rather than posture benevolence. Glass shatters, the sound so startling that you flinch at the reminder of a night where the same sharp clatter hit the wall, ink splattering like blood.

Forgiveness fills your heart. A beast of this calibre does not understand niceties lest it involves its survival, wherein any equal altruism is one lacking compassion. You believed to live this way was torture; to act out of instinct the same way you do now—out of necessity. Out of fear.

Merciful, is what you are, and that clemency guides your hand to free it from its misery.

It struggles, showing you hard enough to tumble over and collide with the edge of a cupboard, crimson dripping down your temple and bringing about even more memories from when you were much smaller and weaker, ignorant to anything but an atelier. It cannot escape. You won’t let it leave. Regardless of any disorientation, you grasp it by the ankle and hold tight, forcing it to the floorboards with you. The body lands face first with a deafening crack, and you orient it proper, filled with a fierce tenacity to carry out the fate presented to you—an inevitability in watching its face turn motionless and its limbs grow rigid.

Emptiness seems to consume you; the hollow hunger of it vast and unfathomably endless, appearing only with her and at her reminders, carved and ensconced, and almost impossible to forget when its made a home within you. But what does it matter when the meal is already spoilt, the dining knife clutched in your fist now useless when a corpse lays splayed open, a cavity drawn from its sternum to its midriff with ivory peeking through, right here, underneath you.

Relief follows the creak of a door opening, the soft afternoon light streaming in and gracing the length of your back. It’s warm, causing your already slick robes to stick to your skin, and it reminds you of when you were a child trying to escape the Great Hall—how freeing it had all been. It’s a pity, then, that you will be brought back. You are in no position to run, anyway, so exhausted you cannot even react to the call of your name, Qifrey’s planned visitation escaping your mind. Still, he does not hesitate to approach you nor does he look towards the blood spattering the various surfaces of the atelier. He only focuses on you, dropping to his knees despite the the pool of crimson swallowing the expanse of hardwood.

“What happened?” Qifrey asks, one hand grabbing you by the waist with the other wrapping around your shoulder to drag you into his embrace and off the rotting pile of flesh. “What did she do?”

Strangely, you cannot recall how it began; it just had, and that itself is disorienting. You remember technique, the potential wrought out of you and a future apprentice; ideas, the suggestion of what may happen to them as it did you; and purpose—may it never happen again to anyone else if you are capable of preventing it.

Your hands cannot stop trembling.

“Look away,” Qifrey instructs you. “Please,” he pleads when you cannot tear your attention from the ghastly scene.

The woman is wide-eyed, expression frozen in terror and head turned away, the curve of her neck decorated with splotchy lines and the beginnings of a bruise mirroring the one Qifrey observes on your neck, his touch intimate as it traces the imprint of two hands. When your gaze descends, you see fabric soaked a dark red, scraps of it torn from her cloak and mixed with fragments of tissue. Of muscle torn apart so viscously. The violence in it is lost on you, a fog overtaking your mind even as her corpse beckons you forward.

How is it possible to slice so deeply and reach the valley of one’s ribs? Beneath it, you can see them—a deflated lung, not to yell but to breathe unending vitriol; and snuggled between it and its matching counterpart is her heart, offset slightly to the left of her breastbone, of which you’ve only rested your head against once before, a memory you hadn’t realized you carried fading from you. It houses nothing for you; never has, even as you begged for it.

But his gentle hand, already smelling of woodcruor and wet with something just as thin, obstructs your sight.

“Qifrey,” you begin, clutching onto him and staining his white cloak, only able to continue speaking when his arms wrap around you, burying your face into his chest where the heat of him so distinct that, within your delirium, it might as well be alike a burn, especially when his hold is so tight that you think him capable of fusing his body to your own, skin melting together just as it had on the inside of your wrist. “I don’t know what—”

“It’s alright,” he whispers, mouth grazing the edge of your ear with every word and dampening it with the same saliva covering his mouth, tongue wetting his lips as he decides what to say, let alone do. He calls your name. “I’m right here,” he reminds you, as if you have forgotten where you are, and repeats it, again and again, shushing you through the same stuttered words he interrupted you in expressing.

You’re wailing, aren’t you? You hadn’t realized that you are—in deafening shrieks as tears blur your vision and soak the front of his cloak, diluting your fingerprints stained upon the fabric, causing crimson to spread into blurry, yet pretty, impressions. You’re confused; why are you crying? Why does everything hurt? Your throat—the previous graze of Qifrey’s fingertips had tickled to some degree, and if you weren’t so used to the pain of that kind of bruise, you would have tried to squirm away. You hope he hadn’t disliked the feeling of your skin when it’s sticky from the burst bottle, shattered in shards that reflect the restrictive space of this atelier, once perfect to you but too alike a nightmare from long ago now. The blood of it a tribute. The inside of your wrist, the same. Your back—when it pinned you down to take it; to receive its gratitude despite your supposed lack-thereof because you always make an issue out of everything, don’t you? You can’t even prepare a meal together without making it into a problem. There’s always something wrong with you, it had said, and it punished you for it. For being born. For being here. You have to sacrifice something. The inside of your wrist. Your head—it told you to never look unsightly, regardless of how you coveted that gentle touch upon you, but is it still your fault when it grasped your hair between its fingers? Wrenched your head backwards to disengage you from it, though it taught you that reciprocation is the kindest manner by which to garner another’s favour. This is a requital, too. Your head hurts. Your head aches the same as that mangled patch of skin on your forearm whenever this happens. It aches, Qifrey. Qifrey, it aches and it aches and it aches. Qifrey, please make it stop.

“I will not let anything happen to you,” he answers. Had you said it aloud? “No longer will any harm befall you.”

“Qifrey,” you try to say, and his name is the last word that leaves your mouth before his lips meet yours, delicate like a petal as another sob wrests from your chest. My head hurts, you want to tell him, it hurts and I’m scared.

He knows. Qifrey knows—he hasn’t forgotten—and it is for that reason that one hand rises to cup your cheek as his arm shifts from where it’s curled around your waist, your legs sliding across the blood seeping into the hardwood to allow yourself to be pulled deeper into his lap. His tongue traces the Cupid's bow of your mouth, distracting you in your next sharp intake of breath before he steals it from you with the clumsy press of tongue against yours. Oh. Your mind appears to blank; you wanted this for some time now. Qifrey must know that, too, as he breaks apart only to kiss you again, muffling a soft apology accompanied by your name, tempting your eyelids to flutter shut from his affections.

And with it, a dream comes to you.

There are glimpses of light, coruscating amongst your darkening vision as though the empty space around you is alive, pulling you into deep waters. You float along—there is nothing you can do to fight against that current when you know, yourself, from the days within that drowned castle, that no thrashing nor wailing would save you. In this moment, your only grace is that it finds you through some sort of delicate serenity, but perhaps that is because Qifrey is here. He is here and that is enough for you to not want for anything more, not even the bitter rancor you finally leave behind.

It’s all very strange, isn’t it? To be pulled from your slumber by gentle hands, ones so elegant and lithe as they shake the sleep from your eyes. When they open, you see it again. The boundless expanse of sky, bleeding reds and oranges into fading cerulean as the sun lowers into the horizon. You’re laying on a blanket with the scent of fresh wildflowers surrounding you, whereby the the sound of ordinary laughter—common and familiar and lacking the sorrow even you cannot find anymore—rises through the air. The breeze carries it through the downlands that seemed so far out of reach when Olruggio first described them to you, but now the grass is soft beneath your feet as you stand and search for a gaggle of little witches.

Children are playing not far from your station, excited with his and Qifrey’s presence. Tonight will begin the season approaching the Silver Eve festival, and the most important people of your life are visiting to watch the wandering stars break free from their prison, climbing high to paint the heavens in bright streaks you want to run after, stretch upwards, and grasp within your embrace.

The fairytale matches quite adeptly to what fills you, understanding how easy it is to fall into that dizzying folly as the the star and the Silverwood had. There is a certain surrender in it. In feeling so deeply you may give just as you receive, and to take because you cannot fathom these little hearts that entrust themselves to you, to suffer within leaden waters or the surface of the earth. And when you look at him—when you see Qifrey and are reminded of that small, frost-headed child who arrived at the Great Hall with his right eye bandaged and his conduct skittish, whatever haunting him manifesting through every sound and movement before being buried deep inside recesses for no one to encounter—you feel it, too.

Qifrey hates water; has he ever told you? You cannot recall if he had, but you understand it simply by looking—through attention. He hated the sound of the waves against the walls of the Great Hall and the bubble of sea-mist that encased it, preferring even the sound of another’s ridicule. And when you escaped in the dead of night with him and Olruggio, hunting for Qifrey’s past, he hated the rain so adamantly you resigned yourselves to being stuck in any makeshift shelter you could discover or build. And, years after, you can still envision the exact expression on his face when he trusted with you the knowledge of how Master Beldaruit found him.

You wonder: had it been a mirror of your own whenever you crawled into his bed, close to tears and unable to endure it any longer? Had he known that his voice, his touch, his beating heart, and his fingers laced between yours were your tether to this world. To feel as you do is merely the return of something else, eclipsed by a willing ignorance and climbing the summit to do as you had wished—to reach for that star, hand in hand with Qifrey, only to tumble down and start from the beginning, all over again. The sincerity in that joy really is all very strange; you have always known that there will come a day where you will have to, inevitably, let go.

And so, you let go.

You wake to the smell of the medical spire.

From your head down to the tips of your toes, your entire body is sore as if you were wrung dry and trampled on. Looking around, Olruggio and Qifrey are slouched against each other, fast asleep; and from the blue hue casting over each surface from the empty window, this can only be the Great Hall.

The door opens not long after, and you whip your head to see who else would visit you when your friends are already here, pain lancinating with the abrupt movement. Captain Vinanna, now head of the Knights Moralis, is as surprised as you are to see her, and one of her subordinates leaves her side to yell down the hall, calling for a doctor now that you’re conscious. It wakes Qifery first, Olruggio following when he stands and the latter is without a headrest, suddenly jolting awake.

They do not have an opportunity to speak to you when Captain Vinanna says, “I know you’re still recovering, but we’re short on time: do you remember what happened?”

You do not. All you are aware of is the vicious pain enveloping the entirety of your body, unaware of why, exactly, your head is so heavy with bandages wrapped around your skin.

At your silence, she calls your name once. Twice. And a third time that is interrupted by reproach from a voice you cannot pinpoint, too preoccupied with the inability to recall anything from the moment you arrived in your empty, newly appointed atelier.

Captain Vinanna gives voice to another name and calls her your master.

And, finally, you say, “I don’t know who that is.”

You are told you were found by Qifrey, laying in a pool of blood with the assumption you hit your head upon falling during a struggle. There were marks carved into the doorframe, indicating forceful entry, whereas every piece of furniture was upturned, as though the culprits were searching for something.

Bandits, is who they suspect struck, the contraptions of newly-built ateliers easy to steal from when the witches and apprentices are still absent with no one to claim them after fetching a high price. However, upon further investigation, they surmise your amnesia goes far beyond the fatal crime.

It must be why you cannot recall a single thing, the trauma suppressing the memory, especially with what is unearthed throughout her atelier: old contraptions made for the purpose of discipline, long since abandoned by decree of a former Wise of Teachings due to its archaic brutality; and old, almost black, burgundy stains soiling various fabrics, hidden away to be worn in secrecy so that anything adorned during company would remain as pristine as possible—a concern from a child you only remember through nausea, the only remnant of that tiny wraith who commanded you.

And, one day, during your long recovery when you reckon it had been put behind you, the comfort Qifrey and Olruggio extend is shattered amidst the concern for what the Knights Moralis carry to the medical spire, hoping to prod your memory. Of these is a cloak you’ve never worn, tucked into the back of your rickety armoire for the same—now mysterious—reason that you had kept the rest, whereby the sleeve that would encase your dominant hand had been charred a deep umber. Your friends had refused to leave with the Knights Moralis’ arrival but, at its sight, Olruggio pales, the rise and fall of his chest quickening as he stands and excuses himself from the room.

A member of the Knights Moralis follows him, and you become privy to a stifled sob; something about failure and aid, and being ignorant to what was right in front of him. You surmise whatever she put you through had been drawn-out through the years of your upbringing, early enough that Olruggio can recognize a garment so small that the head of a child wearing it would barely align with the bottom of his ribs.

The weeks continue in a similar fashion. Qifrey and Olruggio visit and entertain you, sometimes together and sometimes apart. Captain Vinanna appears with a curt inquiry if your memory has improved and Qifrey angers easily when you become distressed, turning into that hot-headed boy of your childhood, one you remember with an obstructed face that follows you through the years. Olruggio can no longer look you in the eyes as he once did; there is only pity left, you believe, accompanied by an ocean of regret you cannot even begin to hope to alleviate.

The funeral for the woman who is said to be your master is held. You attend, much to Qifrey’s upset. These days, he always appears to be, but you want to see her corpse laying in that casket, at least. Memorize the resulting consequence of what she had done to you. She had said that, hadn’t she? That every action would lead to a consequence—reward, punishment, and retribution. The lesson beaten into you persists, although you cannot remember how, exactly, she had done so. Your head tilts, eyes trailing across every stitch that attempts to mend that unsightly face.

During the entirety of the reception, Qifrey does not let go of your hand. You want to laugh—you are certain he wouldn’t even if you chose to desecrate her grave.

But he does let go, eventually.

Qifrey is set to leave at sunrise a few months after you are accepted into another atelier as a Watchful Eye, a year after he found you dying and without purpose. You spend the nights leading up to it in his room, wide awake and speaking of your days as children, passing memories the other had forgotten, of which involve the other. There are no books to read, either, having finished them all with no reason to purchase a new one when you’ll be without any opportunity to beg for just one more page accompanied by his laughter.

Some evenings, Olruggio visits and you hold a little celebration—though it stings to refer to it as that—with him drinking himself to asleep. Qifrey, on the other hand, holds his liquor well, while you’re afraid of what may happen if you become as inebriated as them. So he watches you, throughout the night, quietly through Olruggio’s hushed snores.

Every time, you tell him something. Every time, you forget.

The same will not happen, however, as you stand at the foundation of the windowway with Olruggio, Qifrey a few steps ahead of you. The sky is still a deep blue, as dark as the waters he detests so fiercely, but it will lighten, soon, as the expanse is split by rays of yellow and orange light, the sun waking up from a deep sleep. The world out there—the meadows of wildflowers that resemble Qifrey’s early floral spells from your childhood; the rolling hills of grass, as fresh as the meals you shared at daybreak, in the afternoon, and the setting sun; and the golden glow of that star, the same colour of the willow tree’s flesh carved into the shapes of your names, joined together—it’s the same. It’s the same sight as your first encounter with the space outside the Great Hall, and every night you escaped with Olruggio, guided by Qifrey’s hand. It’s exactly the same as your dreams.

Truly, you have never left this place, where the inevitability remains. In hoping and looking towards tomorrow where you do not notice how what surrounds you changes shape even as your heart does not move. And perhaps the despair brought about your inability to notice that difference, too, in choosing which road was the correct one, seeking substantiation that will tell you that you chose well. That is all you had wanted when you were a child, and from the moment you met the man that stands beside you and the other, in front of you, you had known—even unwittingly—that you would always find yourself standing right here, at this single moment.

This is simply how it is.

You watch as he disappears upon that horizon. Alone. And at the sight of his lonely back, head faced forward wherein he does not turn—not even once—one thought flows through your mind as you and Olruggio are left behind:

There is something strange about Qifrey.

Extended Author's Note.

[kymsys]

what if painting this water killed me..

[angrybbuing]

[potential spoilers] I, once again, haven't watched today's episode yet (curse you work). But, I bring you more doodles of the pookies!! 🤏🤏

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Knight Richeh~!!! 🙇‍♂️✨️ That one was inspired by a chapter cover. That's how I imagine Euini sees her lol.

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The letter exchange, and Alaira giving Euini pats on the head, no matter how tall he gets doodles are inspired by little extra bits Shirahama has released.

[calypsocolada]

SICKNESS | qifrey

synopsis: with hazy memories you wake up in a familiar witch's atelier... an: happy fourth of july! first post in almost a year. i haven't really been inspired to write until I watched this anime and cooked up this story. I had so much fun writing again and I hope you all enjoy! wc: 12k cw: brimmed cap reader x qifrey, enemies to lovers, mentions of blood and gore, convient plot devices, possible ooc qifrey (i'm anime only so my understandings of him and the brimmed caps is limited lol), dubious behavior, not proofread forgive me, fem reader

click here for my masterlist

You woke up when the rain stopped. Head aching just as much as your bones. You groaned and rolled over on the soft bed beneath you, it creaked softly with the sudden movement. You grimaced, a sharp pain in your side drawing your attention. The room you were in was dark, a circular window to your left let in soft moonlight filtering through rain droplets casting shadows across dark hardwood flooring. You blinked a few times, feeling the sharp pain in your side, expecting the wetness of blood or bruising but whatever the pain was it slowly ebbed away to nothing but a dull ache. You sat up, throwing your legs over the side of the bed, cold feet meeting even colder flooring. It woke you up a little as you adjusted to the darkness of the room. The room was warm in its decorations, oakwood shelves full of casting spell books and the art of spell books and art of cooking books. Your brow furrowed. There was a viney plant stretching impossibly across the ceiling and pots of ink and paper on the desk a few feet from your bed. You pushed to your feet, the soft blanket around your body falling back on the bed. The flooring creaked softly beneath your feet as you moved across the room. Propped beside the desk was your broken sword and tattered clothes. You suddenly looked down at the clothes you were wearing now, a simple tunic and baggy pants. Someone changed your clothes. You reached for your sword, the damn thing was broken, just a few inches of sword before it chipped off to nothing. 

What the hell happened? Where the hell were you?

You placed the sword back down and ran a hand through your hair, pulling it back out of your face. Your memory was… spotty to say the least. You remembered igniting your blade in the forest, you think maybe you were fighting someone but nothing comes to you. You sigh a little and turn towards the doorway and startle. There's four young girls crowded in the entrance, not walking past the threshold. They’re eyes wide and observing you as though you were some strange animal on display. You sucked in a breath.

“What… uh…” You stuttered and at the sound of your voice the pink haired girl gasped, grasping onto the blondish green haired girl. Her eyes widened in fear when your eyes met hers. Your memory jumpstarts messily in quick flashes. 

You were tracking her, sword in hand. 

“She looks… human.” The blue haired girl whispers tonelessly and the black haired girl’s eyes sharpen. 

“She is. Mostly.”

“Who are you?” You asked, stepping back, head throbbing. The girls all startled and stepped back away from the door.

“Don’t try for sympathy.” The black haired girl called to you. “We are not foolish enough to think you don’t remember us.” She tried to sound brave but you heard the tremor in her voice. You stepped closer and they all fumbled over each other to step away, terrified of you. 

“I’m not acting. My memory is… hazy.” You say, two of the girls soften. One of them stepped closer to the door as the black haired girl grabbed at her. 

“Coco, careful, don’t pass the threshold, Master said-”

“I know.” Coco responds softly and turns to look at you. She clears her throat and sucks in a slightly shaky breath. “Do you remember me?” You look at her for a long moment. You do but you can’t place why. Your head hurts and you make a face, unsteadily grabbing for the desk chair behind you, you sit. 

“I think so.”

“If you did, I think we’d be having a different conversation.” She says softly, you rub your hands over your face and look at her through your fingers. Another flash of memory, rain beating against you as you grabbed her arm in the dark, yanking her back, pressing your sword to her throat.

“I hurt you.” You say after a quiet moment. Coco shakes her head fast, denying.

“No… no… I mean… a little but I’m okay. Actually… you saved me. I think that's why the master brought you back here.” She says, much to the dark haired girl's detriment. 

“That’s enough.” She seethed, grabbing Coco’s wrist and pulling her away from the threshold. Coco ignored her. 

“Are you hungry, miss? You’ve been asleep for days.” Your stomach suddenly twisted at the mention but you were hung up on her words. You’d been asleep for days?

“She doesn’t deserve to eat.” The black haired girl hisses, yanking Coco another step back. Coco whirls on her. 

“Agott! Don’t talk like that.” She pleads kindly. “She's probably starving.”

“Good.” Agott growls. “You think for a second she had good intentions saving you? She probably just wanted to turn you into the Brimmed Cap’s herself.” 

The Brimmed Cap’s. 

Your head slams with memories. You were sent to track down Coco, given a half assed description of her. You were desperate to prove yourself, to gain power for selfish reasons. You’d played by the rules your entire life and that got you nowhere. You were desperate which so happened to be a perfect personality trait for the Brimmed Cap’s to swoop in and entice you into joining their side. You were no good. No good when you entered that rainy forest with murder on your mind. But one of the others found Coco and when you saw her… she was just a child. You hadn’t known she was going to be a child. 

“Miss… are you hungry?” Coco breaks through your thoughts. Now you remembered all but how you got here.

“Where am I?” You ask a tad forcefully. Agott stepped in front of Coco, such sharp angry eyes for a young girl. 

“That’s none of your business. Coco asked if you were hungry.” She says through gritted teeth. You cocked your head. 

“It’s none of my business where I am?” You ask and revel in the anger it brings the young girl. Yeah… you remembered who you were now and exactly why these girls were so fearful. Agott doesn’t step closer, her hands shaking at her sides. You rise from your chair. “Where’s your master?” You ask in an eerily calm voice. The girls were silent. “He’s not home?” You ask and they flinch. That was answer enough for you. But it couldn’t be so easy that you could walk out of this room, they were fretting about the threshold for a reason. There must be some kind of spell cast over this room that made it more of a prison than anything else. 

“What’re you doing?” the pink haired girl asked, voice wavering.

“You know… I am quite peckish.” You say, eyes looking around the room. The bottles of ink on the desk catches your eye. 

“You are?” Coco asks carefully. You nod your head. 

“Yes.” You say and try to soften your voice but it comes out wrong. No matter what you do you’re scaring these girls. The pink haired girl grabs Coco, they’re all practically holding onto one another as though that would ward off your evil. 

“We’ll go make you something then.” Coco says kindly as she starts to walk away and the girls scurry after her. You wait until you can’t hear their footsteps anymore before sweeping off towards the desk. You grab up the first bottle of ink and sigh. Completely dried out. You grab the next and sigh even louder. Also dried. You place the bottle back down. Your pen was conveniently missing and you attributed that to the master of this place. You walked towards the window, it was still dark out but you had no idea what time it could be. Asleep for three days.. The moments leading up to being brought here were foggy still. You remembered seeing someone capture Coco, she was screaming and crying and scared and just a child. You had raised your sword to the other Brimmed Cap before even realizing what you were doing.

“Traitor!” He had yelled as you ran him through. Then your memory stalled. 

What happened after that? You groaned and sat back on the bed, running a stressed hand through your hair. How did your sword break? And how come your clothes were so tattered? And how did you end up a prisoner in the same place as Coco with no master in sight.

“Miss?” Coco’s soft voice called from the doorway, it startled you. You hadn’t even heard her steps. You sat up. “Would you like hot tea?” You look at the young girl, she must’ve slipped away from the others for them to let her come up here alone. 

“How did I get here?” You ask, hoping with her being alone she’d be less wary. 

“Master brought you here… he said you’d die if we left you out there in the forest.” She explained, fiddling with her fingers. Slowly you nodded your head. 

“Because… I got hurt?” You guessed and she nodded her head. 

“Yes you… you got hurt.” She said smally, as if it was her fault. “You were trying to save me.” You looked at the young girl, something like guilt was eating her up. You weren’t bigheaded enough to think it was all directed at you but at least some of it was. 

“You don’t have to seem so sorry. I’m the villain here.” You said and her eyes snapped up to yours, she started to shake her head no but looked down at her hands instead. 

“I think… you’re a good person… deep down. It showed in the forest. Even my master must think so since he brought you here.”

“He trapped me here.” You point out and she sucks in a breath. “Though it’s definitely better than I deserve.” You laugh softly, shaking your head. She looks up quickly at the sound of your laugh, almost like she was surprised you could make that sound. You sigh into your hand. “Who’s your master?”

“Master Qifrey.” The amusement on your face died in an instant. 

You joined the Brimmed Caps when you were only a child. It was the same sob story as most others that joined probably. Your parents wanted perfection but you never had a steady hand. You failed the second test and that was the first time your father hit you. You had run away later that night to go to your grandma’s house near the edge of the village when a man approached you. He looked scary and called himself Iguin. He took one look at you then casted a spell, healing the bruise on your cheek. 

“Are you alright, young lady?” He asked, his voice scared you. Practically everything about him scared you. You couldn't see his face, just this eerie mask with a giant swirling eye staring at you. You felt dissected.

“I’m… alright.” You answered smally, pressing a hand to your cheek, it didn’t hurt any longer. He laughed and you wondered, scared if you had said something funny. 

“If you were alright you wouldn’t be out running scared this late at night.” He did a little movement with his hands and suddenly a sweet bun appeared in his palm. He offered it to you. “For you.” He offers and slowly you reach out and take it, taking a scared step back. “That’s your favorite, right?” You nod your head and shakily take a bite. It’s perfect, light and airy with peach puree in the middle, just like your grandma made them. You smile. 

“Thank you, mister.”

“Tell me… young witch, what would you do with unlimited power?”

“Unlimited?” You echoed and the masked figure nodded his head, procuring a book from his cloak. 

“Magic without restraints. Without pressure. Without fear.” He offered the book to you. You looked at the leatherbound thing in his hand and foolishly reached out and grabbed it. You never saw your family again after that day, nor did you ever make it to your grandma’s house. Over the years leading up to today you had faced a lot of the Pointed Cap witches and the only one that ever stood out was Qifrey. He seemed desperate for information the times you faced and lost to him. The last time you faced him was… muddy to say the least. But he wasn’t someone you felt comfortable trapped within their grasp. 

“Miss?” Coco’s voice snapped you back into this moment. You blinked a few times. 

“Qifrey, white haired witch?” You ask and the girl lights up a little bit. 

“Yes miss.” She answers with a little smile. But you had nothing to smile about. Iguin had warned you about this man and here you were, a prisoner in his home. 

“Do you have something stronger than hot tea, young Coco?” You asked and she furrowed her brows, not understanding, you sighed. “Hot tea will do.” 

“Yes, Coco, go fetch our guest some hot tea.” Both you and Coco startled when Qifrey appeared just behind her, all soft smiles. You looked away in an instant as Coco greeted him and padded down the stairs leaving you two alone. “I trust you aren’t trying to corrupt my apprentices.” He says and when you look back over at him that jovial smile from a moment ago has disappeared completely. It was a chilling sight. You cleared your throat. You were supposed to be the scary one here. You were the Brimmed Cap witch, you needed to act like it. 

“The night’s still young.” You answered with as much composer as you could muster. Qifrey cocked his head a little, one eye surveying you, you wondered why the other was covered up, wondered if there was even one there to begin with. 

“How is your head?” He asks. Surely he was speaking of your memories and not the constant pounding. He stepped past the threshold and it took everything in you not to move away from him. He showed you no fear. He treated and talked to you like an old friend. It was unnerving.

“I’m remembering, slowly.” You offer cautiously. 

“I meant pain. One of your fellow Brimmed Cap’s hit you rather hard. That could be why your memory is spotty.” He says and your brows furrow. So someone knocked you over the head, huh? You felt around your head until you pressed the base of your skull and gasped in pain, white hot pulses shooting through you. He wasn’t lying, someone did clobber you good. “Take it easy,” His voice was soft, you heard one of the girls call for him at the door and the rattle of a tray being passed from one hand to another. You blinked, eyesight blurry as Qifrey pulled the bedside table close to you and placed the food on it. “Eat. Slowly as to not make yourself sick.” He directs. Your head is still pounding but it is better than it was a few seconds ago. 

The wooden tray in front of you consists of some type of creamy stew, fluffy bread and a cup of steaming tea. Shakily you grab for the spoon and slowly stir it around the stew for a moment before spooning out some and bringing it to your lips. You paused. Delicious. Utterly delectable. “Is it alright?” He asked, sitting in the desk chair across from you. You cleared your throat awkwardly, not speaking but just nodding your head. The headache caused by hunger slowly subsided as you finished the stew and dipped your bread in the remainder of your broth. 

“Do you recall your name?” 

You spoke your name to him in between bites. 

“And how you got here?” He asks. To that you shake your head. 

“I remember…” You trail off. You were in the hands of the enemy, the more you spoke the more of a traitor you were becoming. You swallowed dryly and reached for your tea, now lukewarm. “How did I get here, witch?” At the sudden shift in your body language Qifrey responds in kind. 

“Ah.” As if he knows you're slowly shutting him out. “Well… one of your… team members, though I don’t suppose you can call him that now, saw you save my apprentice. Saw you kill to save my apprentice.” He emphasises. You flinch at the accusation in his tone. 

“I did no such thing.”

“I know Brimmed Cap’s lie but this is beneath you and frankly a waste of breath. I saw you save her.” He says and your eyes snap to him. He saw everything. Of course he did. And of course if he didn’t his little apprentice would tell him everything.

“I wanted the bounty for myself.” You lie. He sits back, closes his eyes and crosses his arms, as if tired of this conversation. 

“Then why didn’t you take her to your master then and there? Why did you whirl around and ask about her wellbeing? These are very contradictory actions as you can see.” He explains calmly. You glared, clenching your jaw but his eyes were still closed. Whatever ward he placed on this room kept you from using your magic, even the spells carved on your skin were useless. “You know… maybe you remember me before or maybe you don’t but I remember you. We’ve fought… three times, correct?” At this he opened his eyes to meet yours and smiled a little, as if recalling fond moments. You stared at him, not giving an inch to how rattled you were. “I beat you once, twice and… that last time… I beat you but only because… you hesitated.” 

You swung out your sword of fire, it sparked as it hit the brunt side of Qifrey’s blade, rain pouring like mad. You kicked out your booted foot, hitting Qifrey’s leg from beneath him as he thudded harshly to one knee and you swung your sword hard enough to cleaver him in half, his sword raised to meet yours, the force of your swing sending him sprawling back to the wet dirt. This is what Iguin talked about as you stalked the prey beneath you, that overwhelming taste of power, of beating a foe stronger than you. You stomped on his hand that held the blade hard enough that he gasped and dropped it, his wrist pinned beneath your muddy boot. You pressed your blade to his throat like you had with so many other foes. But instead of finishing the job, you hesitated. Qifrey broke loose and won back the upper hand just in time for the other Brimmed Caps to come to your aid. Outmanned Qifrey retreated but you had lost once again. 

“That’s a very… hopefully deluded outlook.” You said slowly, the memory dancing around your head like a jester taunting royalty.

“How would you describe it then?” He asks.

“Lack of bloodlust.” You say and a small smile grows on Qifrey’s lips, it was a scary sight. You tensed when he stood up. 

“Still hungry?” He asked, gathering up the things on your tray. 

“If you think kindness will get me to sell out my people then you are wrong.” You say sharply, hoping to break through that carefully crafted wall Qifrey hides behind. You sense he isn’t as happy go lucky as he likes to present. But he doesn’t take your bait. It was cheap bait anyways.

“You’re people left you bleeding out in the mud.” Qifrey says without missing a beat. Your eyes snap up to him as he turns to walk out of the room. “I’ll make you another serving.” And with that he sweeps out of the room. Unfortunately you weren’t as closed off to bait as he was. You blew out a breath and walked towards the threshold. He walked over it with ease so you reached out your hand to test it, you felt the power emanating from the invisible air, crackling like lightning waiting to strike. You pulled your hand away and stepped back. Just one touch would probably send you flying across the room and you were already not in the best of shape. You walked to the circular window and reached out, feeling that same crackling of power, there wasn’t one inch of wall that he missed. You sighed and sat back on the bed just as you heard stairs creaking and Qifrey walked back into the room.

“What kind of spell is in this room?” You asked as he gently sat another tray in front of you with fresh steaming soup and hot tea, this time with two slices of bread. Your stomach lurched at the sight and you were reaching for the spoon in seconds. 

“A simple protection spell.” He says. You doubt it’s that simple. 

“Protecting me from what?” You asked, mouth full. 

“Protecting them from you.” He corrects and your eyes find him again. You were the villain, something you didn’t feel like getting fed in a prison on your own making. You felt more like a fool in a bear trap. 

“I’m not the trump card you think I am.” You say, getting back to your food. “I know you're desperate for information about the Brimmed Cap’s, my master told me so.”

“You’re master?” He asks and he’s unable to keep the interest out of his voice. You’ve ensnared him. 

“Yes. He taught me all that I know.” You look down at the bowl, you can’t remember having food this good in so long. “He carved my first spell into my arm.” Qifrey flinches, that placid look on his face faltering. You look back up at him, elated at having rattled him. You reach for your sleeve, start to pull it up when Qifrey moves across the room in the blink of an eye, hand grasping your wrist to stop you. The sudden movement upsets the table in front of you as your stew tips over into your lap, hot and stinging. You gasp as Qifrey stares at you, almost fearful for a moment. “You could’ve just closed your eyes, witch!” You growled, yanking your hand out of his grip. 

“Apologies.” He breathes out unsteadily. “Are you hurt?” 

“It’s fine, just stings.” You say and suddenly Qifrey sweeps out of the room as fast as he had moved to stop you from showing your arm. You stare after him, confused, then look down at your lap. It was silly to be upset over spilled stew but you wished that witch would stub his toe wherever he was going. You pushed to your feet and pulled off your trousers, using them to clean up the small bit that made it to the ground. Your thighs were fine, the trousers were pretty thick so it saved you from any last burns. When you pushed back to your feet Qifrey walked back into the room and paused at the sight of you. In one hand he held another bowl of stew, the other a spare pair of trousers. His eyes slammed shut, a furious flush spreading across his face. 

“Here.” He shoves the pants your way. Your hand brushes against his as you take them and he shivers, stepping back. You watch his expressions as you pull them on. He was clearly embarrassed. It was… amusing to see him this way. Then your gut slams. He’s your enemy. You grab the bowl of stew out of his other hand and his eyes peek open. Once he deems it safe he blows out a breath and both of you sit back down. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He asks and you glare at him and get back to eating your stew.

“What led to me being imprisoned here?” You ask and Qifrey takes a breath, whatever strange state you saw him in a moment ago was smoothed over. 

“You’re not our prisoner.” 

“Oh I’m not?” You ask, almost laughing as you dip bread in the broth and take a bite. “So I can walk right out of that barrier?”

“Yes.” He says and you actually do laugh. 

“Yes… it will send me to my early grave as well?” You finish and Qifrey nods his head. 

“I only had it up while I wasn’t home to protect the girls. I am home now.” He says simply, not threatened by you, he was right not to be. Not only were you weak, your special sword was broken on the table. You shove to your feet, the bowl rattling but not spilling.

“Shall I test it?” You ask and he makes a gesture like be my guest. You walk over to it and pause. This was clearly a trick but if he wanted answers out of you then he’d have to bring you back from the dead. You walk forwards and flinch as you pass right through the threshold and… nothing happens. You turn back and Qifrey is smiling a little.

“Do you believe me now?” He asks, crossing his legs and leaning back nonchalantly. 

“Foolish witch.” You say before darting down the stairs. You were in some… cozy house. You spot the front door and rush to it, throwing it open and running outside into the pouring rain. You made it down the path when finally the moments that led you being taken here slam into your mind. The final piece of the puzzle. 

Qifrey sits calmly in the room and waits. He hears the front door open back up and squelching as you make your way back up the stairs, drenched from the rain. Qifrey stands, pulling out his paper pad, casting a spell that dries you right up. You don’t meet his eye as you shiver and make your way back to the table of food. Qifrey walks over, grabs a blanket and tosses it over your shoulders. You don’t bid him thanks because you have made a proper fool out of yourself. It wasn’t some random Brimmed Cap that busted you over the head. It was your own master. He’d seen you save Coco, he’d seen you betray him and he was the second one that day that called you a traitor. Qifrey didn’t have a protection spell over this room when he got home because he knew once that memory of yours jogged you’d remember that you have nowhere else to go. Iguin would be looking for you. He’d want to finish the job. All the Brimmed Cap would be on the same page. You were just as much a wanted person as Coco was, though for very different reasons. Very different deadly reasons. 

“I’m useless to you, Witch.” You say, absentmindedly stirring your soup. Qifrey furrows his brows. 

“How so?”

“One of the things you give up for unlimited power just so happens to be autonomy.” You explain. “I can’t speak his name. I can’t write his name. I can’t lead you to him. I can’t talk about our cause or where our base is because the moment he saw me as a traitor those facts must’ve been simply… plucked out of my head.” You say with a heavy sigh. “I’m no more use to you than my broken blade over on the desk.” Qifrey’s eyes move to the discarded blade, the very same one you had pressed to his throat months ago. 

“Blade’s can be fixed, reforged. Everything has uses, even broken things.” Qifrey says, reaching out and grabbing the hilt. It was weird seeing him hold it, he turned it around in his hands, traced the blade until it broke off at the end. “You told me a little. You may not be able to speak his name but you recalled that he was your master. That he carved into your arm, that he taught you all as you said.” You nod your head. “He wiped enough but not everything.” You laughed a little and he furrowed a brow at that sound. 

“It’s not really a wiping of memory. It’s a spell… or rather a curse. One that I agreed to when I was too young to know its purpose.” You explain as Qifrey sets your blade down. 

“What do you mean?” He asks as you get back to eating, not wanting the stew to go cold. 

“You never raise a hand to your master, never speak his name to hurt or uncover him lest you face death.”

“You’re saying this curse… if you speak his name you will die?” He pieces out. You nod your head and stuff a piece of bread into your mouth. Three days without food felt more like a week. Qifrey looks frustrated, he was finally seeing just how useless it was to risk his neck bringing you here. He took the biggest gamble. Bringing you to his atelier of all places. You could’ve been pretending to be on his side to reveal Coco’s location, playing double agent. You weren’t of course but still… risky move on his part.

“Sorry witch, it must sting to go through all this trouble for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” Qifrey responds absentmindedly, his mind was on something else entirely.

“It was.” You insist but he shakes his head, running a stressed hand through his hair.

“You’re alive, that was the purpose.” He says and pushes to his feet. You make a face, shaking your head. 

“Are you listening?” You ask. “I offer nothing. I can’t help you.”

“Fine.” He says. “That is fine. Although I wouldn’t say you offer nothing. You are an incredibly skilled witch, not only with spells but fighting style.”

“I can’t help you fight them.”

“But you can help me train my apprentices.” You freeze at his words. 

“Are you mad?” You ask incredulously, voice a little high pitched. He looks at you as though what he said was normal.

“I’m not mad.” He answers nonchalantly. 

“I think you might be. Maybe you're the one who was dealt a hefty blow on the head.” You say and when he says your name your heart stutters. 

“Coco likes you. She tended over you as you slept. Agott is enamored with your blade. Richeh… well it’s hard to know what she finds enthralling about you but she was in here just as much as Coco and Tetia. They might be scared of you presently but I think you have a chance to do some good. Witches shouldn’t solely rely on magic, sometimes learning basic combat skills and bladework will do good.” You look at him as though he sprouted another head. 

“I haven’t casted a spell normally in… in-- I don’t even know… over probably ten years at this point.” You stuttered. 

“It’s easy, you're adaptable.”

“And you are a complete fool! This is why the Brimmed Cap’s are outsmarting you regular witches! You’re too-- trusting! Too--- kind!” You huff, running a stressed hand through your hair. Qifrey stands and sits beside you on the bed. You stiffen at his proximity. 

“Yet you relied on my kindness after running away then coming back. Does that make you a fool as well?” He asks and it stings because it’s true. You had nowhere else to go. Walking into the forest to be tracked down and killed wasn’t enticing so you turned back, back to the warmth of this atelier. You didn’t deserve its warmth but still you came back. Living in the cold so long it was hard to pull away from that warmth. You bit your lip. 

“I’m… I’m not good with kids.” You say foolishly and Qifrey laughs. 

“Kids are wonderful, and very forgiving.”

“They know what I am. They’ll just fear me.” 

“Yet they made sure to watch over you as you slept.”

“You just have a counter for everything I say don’t you?” You shoot back and turn to look at him. He’s a lot closer now, he’s smiling a little, his eyes crinkled. You blinked at him. 

“Will you do it?” He asks softly. It wasn’t like you had anywhere else to go. Your eyes looked over his face for a moment and when your cheeks burned you looked back down at your food. “I can offer things to you. Things that your old master could never do.” That draws your attention. 

“What do you mean?”

“Protection. As long as you are in this atelier you’ll be safe from anyone that wishes you harm.”

“And outside these walls?”

“I will protect you myself.” He says and you look at him skeptically. 

“You’re full of it.” You say but some weak part of you trusts his words, or just craves something stable. He saved you once to no advantage and that didn’t sit right with you. It was hard to grasp why someone would stick their neck out for you only knowing you are their enemy. 

“I swear to it.” He lowers his head a little to meet your eyes at level. There was no trickery or deception in that look, none that you can tell at least. 

“You’re asking a viper to train mice.” You say and he nods his head. 

“I know.” He says foolishly. “Would you rather I beg and plead? I can.”

“You really are mad.” You blush, shaking your head unbelieving but he slides to the floor on his knees in front of you. Your eyes widen, cheeks burning. “Qifrey-”

“Ah. So you do know my name.” He smiles. Your stomach twists sickeningly. “Please… help me train my apprentices. I need them to be ready for what’s surely to come. I offer my protection, food and shelter to you in return. Please, I beg you accept my offer.” You could barely speak because your heart was effectively taking up space in your throat. You felt less like the viper and more like the mice. A blushing, foolish mess of a mouse. You had to look away, to cover your mouth. 

“Fine.” You answer and Qifrey breathes out in relief. 

“I was prepared for more pleading but thankfully you had mercy on me.” He smiled up at you. You felt sick. 

“Coco, straighten up a little,” You directed as Coco flushed, the wooden sword in her hand wavering in the wind. She straightens but her stance is still wide open, and her grip on her sword is practically floundering. Agott moves in, that girl took your lessons to heart, she was as flawless with a sword as she was with a wand. You were quite impressed. Coco raises her sword halfheartedly to stop Agott’s blow but the force of it cracks the wooden blade and it splinters in half. Agott smiles to herself, sensing an opening and juts her sword forwards right towards Coco’s stomach. You sigh and move in, catching Agott’s wooden blade in a flash before it can strike young Coco. Agott gasps, both girls impressed by your quick movements. 

“Miss?” Agott’s impressed look grinds into annoyance. “Why’d you stop me?” 

“Because we're just practicing, Agott, no need to go for a killing blow.” You say, letting her sword go. She steps back, huffing. You reach out and ruffle her hair. “I’m impressed with your tenacity. Your footwork has improved quite a bit.” You praise and watch in amusement as Agott flushes, trying to keep that annoyed twist to her face. You turn to Coco, her sword broken useless in her grip, she looks positively disappointed. You had been working with Agott a lot longer than the others and although Coco had only been at this for a little over a week, she sure beat herself up over it. You walked over and grabbed another practice sword. 

“Take this.” You say, keeping a softness to your voice. Qifrey had sat in on one of your first lessons with the girls and one of the only things he told you after you ended up making Tetia and Coco cry was to try talking to them softer, nicer. You hadn’t been around kids very much so it was a bit of an adjustment. It was hard not to lash out and berate them because that’s the way you were taught. But after that disaster of a first lesson you tried Qifrey’s way and was happy to find that you really were able to get through to them easier if you talked to them kinder… who would’ve guessed? 

Coco cautiously takes the intact practice sword from your hand as you toss away the broken one.

“Can you show me your ready stance?” You ask and step back. Coco slowly moves into a shaky stance, immediately your mind works at all the openings in her stance, the loose grip on her sword, her elbow extended a bit too much. You heard snickering behind you, Coco’s face fell a little and she flushed in embarrassment. You turned, eyes glaring. Tetia and Agott straightened as if caught. “You two go spar.” You say and they nod their heads quickly and fumble for their swords. Your eyes find Richeh who was currently inspecting ants in the grass. “Would you like to join us, Richeh?” You ask, she just shakes her head. You leave it be. That one was hard for you to figure out. You focus back on Coco, she looks dejected. “Don’t look so gloomy, Coco, you’ve only been at this for a week.” You say as she deflates even more.

“I know, Miss. But I just can’t seem to get the hang of it.” 

“May I ask what you were doing before studying to be a witch?” You ask as Coco lights up a little, nodding her head. 

“I worked in a fabric shop with my mother.” She says fondly. You nod your head. 

“You have to be rather precise while cutting fabric, am I correct?” You ask and she nods her head. “You have to hold the shears a certain way to keep them steady?” 

“Yes, miss.” 

“Think of the hilt of your sword like shears. Your swings will be messy and predictable the looser your grip. But the better your grip, the truer your strike.” You say and her face lights up, she liked your analogy it seemed. “So, show me your grip again.” 

The girls ate happily later that night, their chatter fluttering all the way up to your room where you poured over one of Qifrey’s spellbooks, your stew sat cold on the side of your desk. It had been years since you casted spells that weren’t used for harming others. Mundane spells, like how to heat up water or to shut a door from across the room. It was just busywork, also an excuse to keep a wall up and keep to yourself. You enjoyed teaching the girls but beyond that you weren’t really sure what your place was beyond these walls. What happens when Qifrey’s kindness ran out and you were turned out onto the streets? If the Brimmed Cap’s didn’t snap you up then surely the Knights Morales would. You needed more spells in your roster. Concealment spells, spells to keep food fresh for years on end, all spells you could use on the run. You were hoping one day you would work up the courage to ask Qifrey what spell he placed on your room the first night he brought you to this Atelier. Now that would be a useful spell. 

“Your food is getting cold.” Qifrey’s voice says from the threshold. It startles you but you don’t show it.

“It’s been cold.” You say, flipping to the next page of the book. 

“May I come in?” He asks, lingering at the door like a vampire. You shrug your shoulders. 

“Be my guest.” You say noncommittally. 

“Such pleasure.” He says and you hear his steps approaching you at your desk. “What’re you lost in now?”

“Nothing particularly gripping.” You say and he reaches over to your food and you don’t see him cast the spell but suddenly your food is steaming again. 

“I was thinking we could eat together, since you always eat up here alone.” He says, you turn to see he had his tray in his hand. You furrow your brow. 

“I don’t need company.” You turn back to your spell book. You weren’t one of his apprentices and you surely had no idea how to act around him. This all was too good to be true and in your experience things that were too good would always come to a swift end. 

“You might not need it but… I would like some.” He says and sets his tray next to yours, pulling up a chair. You feel how close he sits, your hair standing on end. You slam the spellbook shut and clear your throat, turning to glare. He’s so close, smiling so softly. “Ah, done studying? Perfect.” He says, pushing your tray towards you. So he wasn’t going to leave this alone. You sigh, relenting. Today’s meal was a pot roast you assumed, you weren’t much of a connoisseur and you sure weren’t picky either. Food was food. But also Qifrey had a gift for cooking, it was unnerving just how good he was at most things. 

“Is it to your liking?” He asks as you eat a spoonful, nodding your head with a full mouth. He smiles. “I tried some different seasonings.” He says and you give him a strange look. It was weird to be talking so casually like him. Months ago you had been moments from taking his life. Now he’s chatting to you about seasonings. Strange. 

“It’s… good.” You say, filling the air. He turns to you at your words. 

“That’s high praise from you.” He beams, you look away, that smile is too bright. “Oh! Almost forgot!” He says, pushing to his feet. “I need to grab something.” He sweeps out of your room and you watch after him, confused. He peeks his head back in a moment later. “Will you shut your eyes for me?” He asks and you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“What're you planning, witch?” You ask as you turn away, covering your eyes.

“Nothing nefarious, you have my word.” You hear him draw closer and your skin ignites. “Alright, you may look.” Slowly you turn around. The first thing that catches your eyes in the glint reflecting the light, it takes a moment for your eyes to understand your looking at your blade that had been hopelessly shattered the night Qifrey brought you here. Shattered no more, the blade was fully intact and beautifully sculpted. You sucked in a breath, slowly pushing to your feet. Your eyes bounced from the blade back to his eyes. Words failed you. “Here, take a closer look.” He offers it to you. Slowly you reach out, your cold fingers brushing the warmth of his hand as you take the blade offered to you. It’s hefty, a little heavier than what it was before but it felt entirely better made. You run your finger across the blade as a small sliver of blood blooms. Qifrey gasps and fumbles to grab a cloth from his tray for your finger. 

“It’s fine.” You dismiss, lost in the beautiful intricacies. The leather on the hilt had been replaced with something thicker and easier to gasp. You turn it over in your hand. Qifrey clears his throat. 

“It’s quite sharp as you can tell.” And you can tell he’s inching to take care of your wound. But really it is nothing. 

“Yes. Very.” You smile, meeting his eyes. He’s utterly awestruck at your expression, his breath catching. His cheeks burn impossibly red as you ignore him and look back at the blade. “Who fixed it?” You ask, looking closer at the small details. 

“It uh-- it was um…” He clears his throat. “A swordsmith in Kalhn.” 

“This blade is magnificent.” You beam, you couldn’t remember the last time you had seen something so beautiful. 

“Ah… so that’s what true praise sounds like.” Qifrey mumbles but your mind was entirely elsewhere. 

“What do I owe?” You ask, eyes darting up to him. His brows furrow. 

“Not a thing. It’s a gift.” He says. You shake your head in an instant, offering the blade back to him. 

“I can’t accept this, it’s too fine a blade.” He reaches out and gently pushes it back to you.

“You can accept it because it’s a gift.” He says. You shake your head as he’s nodding his. 

“Witch-”

“Qifrey.” He corrects with a slight smile, you glare. 

“Qifrey,” You say slowly, appeasing him. “I cannot accept it.”

“Why?”

“Why would you fix it for me?” You ask sharply.

“Does everything I do have to come with such close scrutiny?” He asks back. You don’t know how to answer that, not without sounding like the paranoid mess you were.

“No one does anything without wanting something in return.” You say, eyes just as scrutinizing as he described. “I don’t want your charity.” Qifrey sighs, he nods his head and thinks about your words, as if he’s mapping out how to talk to you without offending you. 

“This isn’t charity.” He says. “That blade means something to you, doesn’t it?”

“And what business do you have looking after my happiness?” You say, shoving the blade back towards him. “Do I walk around this Atelier like a wounded dog? Something you need to fix?” His eyes snap to yours. God… you so wish you could anger him into something truthful. You’ve sensed something simmering in him but he is so awfully careful with every aspect of himself. It's unnerving. You’d much rather anger, that’s real and tangible. More so than his false kind words and empty gestures. His breath catches, he’s measuring himself, thinking before he speaks. You strike before he can tailor a response. “What is your plan, witch? Hmm? Once I whip these girls into fighting shape, what then?”

“What? You think I’ll turn you out like a used good?” He asks, his voice wavering. You were getting to him. Good. You needed the truth.

“Yes.” You say. “Yes I do. Am I wrong?”

“Of course you are wrong.” He denies, shaking his head, his white hair moving then falling back into place as though a spell was keeping it perfect. “I have no secret ambitions hidden from you. I have been rather upfront with you from the start.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“That is fine. I don’t expect blind belief. But have I done anything to warrant disbelief in the slightest?” 

“Yes.” You’ve managed to anger yourself into feeling foolish. Attacking someone not worthy of your ire but something about him irked you to your soul. Maybe it was because you just couldn’t figure him out. Couldn’t read him like all the others. He set you off. He kept you on the edge. Your soul squirmed. He raises his brows as if to tell you to list examples. You annoyingly couldn’t think of anything and managed to annoy yourself enough that this conversation felt pointless. Breath wasted in the endeavor to push him over the edge. You wanted to make him squirm, wanted to irk him as much as he irked you. But it was unfair and frankly rude to attack without warrant. You pulled the blade back close to you. You looked at the glint of the steel. “Forget it.” You relent. “I accept if you still want to give this to me.” You say and Qifrey nods his head. 

“Please.” He says and you bite your lip. 

“Excuse my manners. It appears I haven’t any.” You say, placing the blade on your bed.

“I expected as much. Come, let us eat.” He offers, sitting back down, this time you see him cast the spell to warm up both of your stews. 

In the morning you wake to Coco milling about your door arguing with Agott. Their voices bring you annoyance at being woken. You weren’t an early riser. You pushed up, glaring. 

“Does my threshold look like the best place to argue?” You call out to them. The two jump at the sound of your voice, looking startled. 

“Apologies, miss.” Coco says quickly. You sit up, hair a mess, barely awake. You yawn, blinking slowly. “It’s just that… it’s almost past ten and Master Qifrey is still asleep and we're…”

“Hungry.” Agott finishes. You stare at the two of them. 

“Hungry?” You echo. They both nod their heads. “And you’re incapable of… remedying that yourself?”

“Well… Miss… you see…” Coco stutters. “Master Qifrey does all the cooking so we never really had to… learn I suppose.” You yawn again, bigger this time and it pitters out into an annoyed groan. 

“I’m not a skilled cook either.” You say. 

“You made us breakfast that one morning… the meat and runny eggs?” Agott offers. Bacon and eggs, you meant to cook the eggs fully but they ended up liking them. You groan, pushing the covers from your body. 

“Fine. I’ll be down in a moment.” You say and Coco breaks out into a bright smile. 

“Much thanks! We’ll prepare the ingredients.” She says, zooming out of the room. 

“Agott,” You call out, Agott pauses in the door. “Qifrey is still sleeping?” You ask and she nods her head, she can’t keep the worry out of her eyes. 

“Do you think he’s sick?” Agott asks. You think he might be. You never known a morning where Qifrey slept past six am. Sometimes you would still be awake when he’d stir, whistling as he readied breakfast. That was your cue to sleep when you’d hear his merry tune. It lulled you asleep most mornings.

“I’m sure he’s fine, go help Coco.” You say with a soft smile, Agott smiles back, nodding her head as she turns and leaves your room. You quickly brush out your hair, braiding it back out of your face, changing into something comfortable by not sleeping. You wash your face and clean your teeth. You rush downstairs, put on a jovial face and cook breakfast for the girls. You plate their meat and eggs, fixing each one of them something to drink before slipping back upstairs. You peek towards Qifrey’s door. You had to check on him. You swallowed down your nerves and knocked once and waited. You knocked twice and waited. 

“Qifrey?” You call through the door and wait again. Nothing. Your heart plunges to the depths of your stomach. “I’m coming in. Please god be decent.” You mumble the last part and twist the knob, pushing the door open. The room is dark, slivers of light dancing across the carpet from the cracks in the curtains. The room is warm, stagnant. You pad towards his bed, spotting his shape. The way he’s positioned it looked as though he barely made it to his bed before passing out. “Qifrey?” You say softly, gently reaching across the expanse, your hand is mere inches from his shoulder when his hand suddenly shoots out, grasping your wrist. You gasp in shock and his wild eye shoots to you. There’s a moment, a tense moment where you think he has no idea who you are then his grasp slackens. 

“I apologize, I didn’t harm you did I?” He asks, looking close at the part of your wrist he grabbed you at, his thumb gently sliding down a particularly visible vein on your wrist. You yank your hand away. 

“Are you alright? It’s nearly ten.” You say, rattled. His eyes widen, he shoves the covers from his body and pushes to his feet. He falters dizzily at the quick movement and falls forwards a little. Your hands shoot out instinctively, one hand bracing his shoulder, the other on his hip, fingers accidentally slipping beneath his black compression shirt. His skin is clammy under your touch. “Qifrey,” You admonish, pushing him back towards the bed. “Sit.” You say sharply. He does without argument and blink warily. 

“I don’t feel well.” He says, stating the obvious. 

“Yes, I see that.” You press the back of your hand to his forehead. It’s hot to the touch. He moves close to your touch, capturing your wrist. 

“Your hands are so cold.” He states, relishing in the cold as he presses your hand against his hot cheek. 

“Cold hands, cold heart.” You recite, his eyes shift up to yours. 

“Hm?”

“Something my father used to say.” You say and Qifrey’s expression drops. 

“You are not cold hearted.”

“It was a joke. Mostly.” You say. “Lie back.” You guide him back against his pillows, he still hasn’t let go of your hand. He’s quite clingy.

“What’s the diagnosis?” He asks. You pull your hand away and he pouts. 

“I’ll fix you some medicine and something to eat.” You say. “Can you manage a cold bath? It should help you cool off a bit.” You say as he nods his head. “Do that then. I’ll be back in fifteen.” You turn and he catches your wrist again. 

“Thank you.” He says and the warmth in his voice burns you all over. You were berating him just last night. How kind of you. 

“I’ll be back.” You say, pulling out of his loose grasp. You find your way down stairs, whipping up a recipe your grandma taught you years ago and something plain for him to eat so it wouldn’t upset his stomach. 

“Is Master Qifrey alright?” Richeh asks, startling you. You hadn’t heard her approach. 

“Ah… yes. He’s feeling a bit under the weather but I’ll have him fixed up in no time.” You smile down at her. 

“No doubt.” She says and smiles a little back at you before fixing another plate for herself. When you walk back up stairs you push open his door and falter. He’d just got out of the bath, a towel wrapped precariously around his hips. You startle enough that you just about drop the tray in your hasten to turn around. 

“Christ- my apologies.” You say quickly. 

“It’s alright. Not much to look at.” He tries to be funny. You didn’t see much but it definitely wasn’t ‘not much to look at’. You shake those thoughts out of your head. You can’t help the blush, can’t shake that away. “I’m decent.” You slowly turn back. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, red faced and pale. You walk over to him, feeling his face. He feels even hotter than before. 

“Did you take a cold bath?” You ask and he hums yes. You set the tray down. You grasp the medicinal bottle, handing it to him. “Down the whole thing.” You say, he takes it, doesn’t even question what it is. Just does as told. He makes a face. 

“It’s sweet.” 

“No doubt my grandma made it that way so she could trick me into taking it as a child.” You say as he moves closer to you. 

“Ah… family recipe?” He asks and you nod your head, handing him plain chicken broth, he takes it gratefully and sips at it. You watch him, his movements a little sluggish. 

“What happened? You were just fine last night?” 

“I… I'm unsure. It was quite sudden.” He says, popping a cracker in his mouth, chewing slowly. He got a little color back as he ate but his cheeks were still quite red. When he finished his food you took the bowl from him. 

“Alright, lie back.” He does as told as you turn, dipping a washcloth in cold water, ringing it out and turning to dab it on his cheeks and forehead. He settles, making a contented noise, relaxing entirely under your care. 

“You’re skilled at this.” He says. 

“My grandma got sick a lot.” You divulge. His eye squints open, as if he can’t believe you gave him something about yourself.

“Is she..?”

“Surely.” You say. “I’m… unsure though. I sort of… left in a hurry.” He knows what you meant. You had told him how you ran away and joined the Brimmed Cap’s.

“She could still be alive.” He says and you laugh a little. 

“Sure.” You pull back and redip the cloth, ringing it out again, you roll it up and place it on his forehead. “Rest. I’ll come check on you later.” You push up, yet again he catches your hand. 

“Wait-- the girls-”

“Fed. I’ll exhaust them in training. They’re fine.” You say, his hand slides to your fingers. 

“Thank you.” He says yet again. 

“Get some rest.” You say, pulling away yet again.

When you pop in to check on him later he’s fast sleep, the rag on his forehead has fallen off so you walk softly across the room and gently grab it. You feel his face and sigh in relief. He’s not hot to the touch any longer. You fix the covers over him and place the rag on the side table. Your eyes drift back to his face. Looking at him like this, unguarded, felt incredibly intimate, so much so you felt your face flush. He looked peaceful, wholly unguarded. Without thinking you reached out and brushed his hair off his forehead. His cheeks still had a bit of blush to them. Your thumb traced the curve of his jaw, when he stirred a little you yanked your hand back, heart stuttering. He swallowed dryly and his eyes fluttered open. You were standing away from him at this point, pretending to fix him something to drink when in reality you’d rushed to get away from him. 

“Ah… hello.” He greets, his voice rough with sleep. You fix him with a second dose of medicine and some honeyed tea. 

“Sleep well?” You ask, back to him. You hear him pushing up to a sitting position. 

“Yes… I feel… much better.” He says, you turn back and hand him the medicine. He doesn’t question a thing, just throws it back. Then you hand him the tea.

“I suspect the sudden illness was exhaustion.” You say and watch him slowly bring the cup to his lips, taking a sip. He savors it, breathing in the warmth wafting. 

“Yes, I’d agree with that.” He says.

“Have you not been sleeping?” You ask and he nods his head. 

“Not well enough it seems.” He offers a weak smile. 

“Remedy that.” You say at that fake smile. “You worried the girls.” The smile on his lips dies. 

“Oh… yes. I didn’t think of that.” He says, studying the inside of his half empty cup. “You told them I just needed some rest right?”

“Yes.” You say, gathering up the tray to leave. 

“Wait,” He calls to you, you pause at the door. “Can’t you stay? You don’t need to rush off.”

“I have to cook the girls dinner.”

“They are perfectly capable of cooking, they’ve done it time again.” He says. You furrow your brow slightly.

“But they said…” You trail off and he raises a brow. You sigh, setting the tray by the door. “Your apprentices are some tricksters.”

“Ah… did they tell you differently? It’s possible they just wanted some comfort since I wasn’t awake.” 

“I’m sure.” You say. He beckons you closer. You suddenly remember your thumb tracing his jaw when he slept, you didn’t walk any closer. His hand drops back to his lap, he swallows, clears his throat then speaks. 

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“You have. Three times now.” You say and he smiles at that. 

“You’ve kept count.”

“It wasn’t hard.” You roll your eyes and he smiles again, not that fake weak smile from before. A genuine smile and the way he looked at you that made you squirm in your skin. He looked at you the way your mother used to look at your father before times got hard. That blindly adoring look of love. “Is there anything else you need?” You say in a rush, eager to end this moment. 

“Yes,” He says, sitting up more. 

“What?”

“Come… sit with me for a moment.” He beckons you again. You bite your lip hard and walk across the small expanse of his room, you sit at the edge of his bed, he could reach out his hand and brush you with the tips of his fingers if he wanted. “How is the blade faring? Did you practice with it today?”

“It’s slightly heavier than my last one.” You say and he cocks his head. “The smallest bit of weight difference is easy to tell when you use a weapon your entire life.”

“Does that affect the way you use it?”

“No. Just that my swings have a bit more power than before.” You say. “It isn’t a bad thing.” He smiles at that. 

“We should spar.” He smirks, you roll your eyes. 

“I would wipe the floor with you, Witch.”

“I meant when I was better.” He laughs warmly. 

“I know what you meant.” You say and meet his eyes, his eyes light up at your tease. 

“I believe our scoreboard is two to one at this point.” He says and that makes you laugh. 

“I yearn to tie then break that tie.”

“So that’s what you yearn for? To best me?” His voice is rich. The room felt smaller at this conversation. He leans a little closer. 

“That’s my life's goal.”

“You wouldn’t have to do much to best me.” He says softly. When had he gotten so close? 

“Is that so?” You ask and he slowly nods his head. 

“You're rather distracting.” 

“What do you mean by that?” You ask and he reaches across the short distance between you both and tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. You freeze. You were the distracted one. 

“You muddle my brain.” He says. “It’s hard to think properly.” You felt that. You were aware of your breathing and how much you hoped it sounded normal and not as irregular as your heartbeat. Your legs longed to bolt but your body stayed bolted to the bed.

“Once you feel better the fog will lift.”

“It has nothing to do with sickness.” He says and his eye dips down to your lips, he savors the sight, as though he was never allowed to look at them before in such detail. “Though maybe it’s some kind of other sickness.” You freeze again. You dig your nails into your leg and will yourself to get a damn grip. You felt like the hazy one. You had no quips to give, no sharp words, you had nothing. You watch as his eye raises back up to meet your eyes. He doesn’t look caught out or embarrassed that he took his time studying you.

“And… What sickness would that be?” Luckily your voice didn’t sound as shaken as you felt. This time he’s the one that looks away, almost bashfully. 

“One that’s indescribable." 

“How mysterious.” You note, slowly reeling yourself back together. But then he says your name and you feel yourself unraveling. “Hm?”

“Don’t you feel it too?” He asks. 

“The sickness?” You clarify and he quickly nods his head, there was a kind of foolish hope in his eyes. You weren’t sure what you felt but it wasn’t something you’d let yourself explore. You shake your head. “I don’t feel a thing.” You say, pushing to your feet. “I’ll come check on you in the morning.” He catches your hand.

“Just… stay. Please.” He pleads, pulling you back towards the bed. You sit back down, cursing your traitorous legs for not carrying your wanting heart out of this room. It’s quiet, his hand is still holding yours. He speaks your name again before pushing up the sleeve on your arm, exposing warm, carved up skin. You flinch as his finger traces the spell etched into your skin. He’s not looking at it with fear or disgust, not flinching away from it like before. His touch is reverent and you let his touch you, unable to speak. He brings your arm close to him and presses his lips to the scar. You jolt, yanking your hand out of his grip. You burn all over, the soft press of his lips to your arm felt sickeningly good. You were sick. Likely with the same thing that ailed him. 

He speaks your name again then his hand is sliding on your hot cheek, thumb caressing you like you had done to him. You part your lips to admonish him but the thought dies when those gentle lips press against yours. Your heart topples out of your chest, you grip the blanket on his bed so as to not touch him as his lips slide against yours. You can’t stop him. You didn’t want to stop him. He cracked your lips apart and deepened the kiss, stealing away your breath and the last bit of your sanity. You grip the covers so hard that it was starting to hurt, you held onto your restraint like it was the last thing you owned. But it was all done in vain because you were kissing him back, you were making little embarrassing sounds to match his. His hand slid into your hair and he trailed kisses from your lips, turning your head as he trailed his kisses down to your neck. He breathed unsteadily against your neck as your eyes fluttered shut. 

“Shall I stop?” He whispers against your skin.

“No.” Your answer was quick. Too quick to pretend and hurt yourself in the endeavor to keep your hands to yourself. He pulled you to him on the bed, you lost your grip on the covers, your cold hands flying to his face and hair as you pulled his lips back to yours, he laid back on the bed and coaxed you on top of him, his hands sliding to your hips as you straddled him, bodies pressed together as his tongue slid cleverly in your mouth. You pressed him into the comforter as the kiss grew from gentle and exploring into desperate and cloying. Hands touching anything they could as he mapped out your body, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt. God everything was warm about him, his touch and the way he made you feel. This was wrong, you should’ve been able to show more restraint. Has he really bested you for the fourth time? Well really you were on top so maybe this was a win for you? You tug at his shirt.

“Raise your arms.” You direct and he does as told. He was always a good listener. You yank the useless thing over his head and toss it aside. His hands are already pushing up your own shirt and you let him pull it up over your head. He showers your exposed skin with kisses and flawlessly kicks off his pants, you hadn’t even noticed him doing it until he started working on your own.

“Lift your hips for me, please.” He pleaded and you were just as good a listener as he was. He pulled them off, likely tossing them in the same place as his. His fingers traced the outline of your underwear, his free hand coming up to pull your lips back to his. Your hips moved against his and he made a strangled sound against your mouth. Most unclothed and feeling foolishly hot just moments ago you said you didn’t feel anything. He called you on your bluff so flawlessly you hadn’t even known you were in a trap until it was too late. His arms wrapped around you, surprisingly strong. 

“This is a horrible idea.” You say against his mouth.

“You think so?” He asks. “How horrible?”

“Astrnomically horrible.” You lie. “I hate you.”

“Do you?” He questions, back to kissing your throat. 

“Yes… yes I do.” You groan, he sits up so your chests are practically pressed together, his bright eyes looking up at you adoringly. He worshiped you with kisses.

“How much?”

“How much… what?”

“How much do you hate me?” He asks breathlessly against your collar bone. You're unable to answer for a moment. “Hm?” He hums as you tug his hair a little and his hum breaks off into a whimper.

“So so much.” You lie again. “Sometimes it's all I think about.” 

“Yeah?” He mewls, hands cloying.

“Don’t you hate me the same?”

“Not one bit.” He answers quickly he’s on top now, burying you into the mattress, showering you with kisses. He’s unable to verbally spar with you anymore and you the same. He speaks your name like a litany and you hate that you don’t hate him at all. No… you like him more than anyone you’ve ever known. Though the word ‘like’ wasn’t nearly a strong enough word but thinking past that made your head hurt and right now it was muddled enough. Neither of you let the other leave the bed the entire night and when you woke in the morning, a soft light casting across the room. Qifrey laid pressed against you, his shirt had ridden up a little in the night and the clothes you had thrown back on to sleep in were rumpled. You were tangled with him beneath the covers, his chin laid against the top of your head. You let him soak up the last of the cold inside you and listened to the soft rhythmic sounds of his breathing. You moved a little and he stirred, his arms tightening around you, pulling you impossibly closer. 

“Almost can’t believe you're still here.” He says softly against the top of your head. 

“It’s not like you're giving me much space to leave.” You throw back and feel him smile against you. “You seem moments away from casting that spell to keep me trapped in your room again.” 

“Don’t tempt me.” He speaks warmly, his voice a little deep from sleep, his accent soft on his tongue. 

“I should leave. Before the girls wake up.” You say and his arms tighten around you.

“Don’t go. Not yet.” You remember all those months ago walking up alone and confused in his room, a spell casted to keep you in. There didn’t need to be a spell now, you didn’t want to leave. But you also didn’t want to scar little witches. You push up and he pouts and groans.

“Someone has to be the mature one.” You say, warm feet hitting the cold hardwood flooring. You gather the rest of your clothes and walk towards his door. Qifey follows and gently stops you before you can slip away. 

“This… meant something to you, right?” He asks nervously. You almost laugh. You kissed him back. You pulled his clothes off. You stayed in his bed in his arms until morning. What about any of that made him think you didn’t care? You weren’t the best with words but you felt your actions were pretty clear. 

“I’m sick. Same as you.” You say and hope he gets the meaning. Which he does because the smile that fits to his lips is filled with relief and adoration. He steps in the way of the door and bends slightly so he can kiss you once more. But then it’s twice and thrice and you drop your stuff on the floor and stumble back to bed.                                     

[night-fall-moon]

Olly coming back home like: “who tf is this” 🧍

[arinavah]

orufrey sketches

[night-fall-moon]

Perfect Orufrey song: Todavía me amas - Aventura.

Ngl I have an idea… let me think about it (if anyone else wants to interpret it be my guest, but holy this is perfect). Angst on crack)

Olly’s singing the song for sure.

(Translation:

Explain to me why you don’t look at my face,

is it because you don’t want me to notice that you’re still in love?

Your eyes show false sentiments and passion.

For the fact that you reject me while you die inside)

[starkkat]

Love Me Less {part 2}

Summary: It's been weeks since you last saw Qifrey, determined to stay away this time for his sake. It's been agony, but you're managing. Until one night the very man you've been trying to spare appears on the doorstep of your little healing spire deep in the woods he knows you haunt. It's desperation that has him seeking you out, though that cannot be blamed for the way he lingers in the haven of your home once necessity no longer demands it.

Pairing: Qifrey x Brimmed Cap!reader

Word Count: 2.4k~

Content/Warnings: SPOILERS for the last ep of season 1 (feel free to come back after the ep airs on monday!) angst, hurt/(some)comfort, exes, reader has chronic pain.

A/N: hey loves heres part 2 as promised! ive really enjoyed writing brimmed cap reader trust ill be doing more both with Q and other WHA characters <333 {you can find Part 1 here!}

The muted grays of dusk have claimed the forest by the time you’ve reached the abandoned healing spire you call home, arms weighed down by your bundles of herbs. The trek back from the depths of the woods hadn’t been far, but the journey was made tiring by the constant sense that something was hovering just out of sight in the trees.

You could have sworn you’d caught the slightest glimpse of a black ribbon, the glint of golden spectacles in the dying light.

You must really be beginning to lose your grip on reality. In the handful of weeks since you’d last seen him, your mind had stayed fixated on Qifrey. The pained look on his face after the two of you kissed had seared itself into your memory. You saw him, scowling and tear-streaked, in every gloomy corner of the spire and every foggy shadow of the forest.

Staying away from him felt like withdrawal; longing gnawing at the base of your skull. But you had managed to fend off the urge to seek him out. There was a precious truth in your mind that kept your resolve solid. It wouldn’t be fair to him. And so, time crept forward, towing you along despite the way your heart ached with the growing distance.

But tonight there is work to be done, a blessing to someone so apt to wallow in their own misery. You tug off your heavy cloak once you’ve entered your little gothic home and make your way into the workshop to begin stringing up the herbs to dry.

Your hands are stiff and slow with the twine, sore from a day of yanking stubborn plants from the earth. You don’t make it very far into your collection before you need to stop; fishing in your bag for your palm quire. You’ll just take a moment to warm your hands to soothe their aching. You flip through the pages until you find the spell; dip your pen into the ink and make to close the ring, only to flinch your pen straight through the spells center when you hear someone pounding on the door of the spire.

“Who the hell would be wandering this deep into the woods this late?” You grumble bitterly as you crumple the ruined spell in your palm. You only pull the door open an inch or two before you realize who it is standing at the threshold of your home. He’s halted, arm still lifted to knock again, pointed cap sat crookedly atop his silver mop of hair.

“Qifrey?” The relief in your voice is humiliating. You’re not sure if this is real, or if you’ve finally utterly lost your mind.

“Mind if I come in?”

There’s a weariness in his voice that makes it impossible to turn him away, to do what you know is healthiest for you both and tell him to leave. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself as you pull open the door and watch him step cautiously across the threshold into your home.

“What are you…” The question fades midway through as you watch him shed his cap and cloak and make his way into your dining room. By the time you’ve shaken the fog from your brain and followed him, he’s seated at your table; slumped over the oak surface with his head in his hands and his glasses discarded.

“I didn’t know who else to come to.”

You sit across from him cautiously, as if he’s a fawn you might scare off if you make too much noise.

“What’s going on?” There’s a tension in his limbs that makes you hesitant to ask, it’s clearly desperation that’s brought him to you.

He heaves a defeated sigh, and then the explanation comes tumbling from his lips. When he finishes, you’re left dizzied by the story and immediately overwhelmed with the task he’s requested of you.

“So this boy, Euini, was forcibly given a forbidden transformation seal tattoo by a brimmed cap wielding an empty cloak as a body.” You scrub at your tired eyes as you recount the key points. “The girls managed to retrieve from said brimmed cap an amulet etched with a counter-spell, but you want me to try and find a more permanent solution for the boy.” A recreation of the seal, meticulously redrawn in what could only be Alaira’s hand, sits on the table between you.

Qifrey looks more forlorn with every word you utter. Now that you really take him in, it’s clear he didn’t escape this nightmare unscathed either. Each time he shifts, you see the ghost of a wince flicker across his features.

“I didn’t know who else to ask, Alaira is with him in hiding. I couldn’t bring myself to condemn him to lose his memories at the hands of the Knights Moralis.”

Of course. What other option did he have than to further break the pact in trying to save this child? Perhaps it was this one small mercy you could give him, to dirty your own hands in forbidden magic to save him some semblance of morality.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Relief floods Qifrey’s face, brief and unguarded. “I’ll need to reverse this counter-spell to try and determine what can be done to permanently disable the original spell. I’m guessing neither you nor Alaira was able to get a good look at the casting seal?” Qifrey shakes his head, and a weary sigh knocks loose from your chest. The night was going to be long.

──────•✦•──────

By the time you look up from your work, the windows of the spire are dark with the inky black of night. Qifrey’s face, absent of its usual hostility in sleep, is rested on his crossed arms across from you. It’s selfish to have chosen not to send him home to his atelier when you began working. It wasn’t as if you had no way to contact him with updates on the seal; you’d have no trouble finding him wherever he wandered to. But he had been quick to fall asleep as you worked, and it felt almost crueler to wake him just to shove him out of your home.

Feeling the delicate muscles of your hand begin to seize with the stress of your harsh grip on the pen, you decide you need caffeine to keep you running through the night and stand as quietly as you can to depart for the kitchen. You’re barely done brewing the water for coffee when you hear Qifrey wake, his drowsy grumbling reaching you in the next room.

“Do you want any coffee before you begin the trek back to the atelier?” A gentle push towards his departure disguised as courtesy.

“No, I’m alright. Thank you darling.”

The pet name feels like a relic dug out from beneath the years of scorn and distance, the sound of it causing your stomach to turn. Neither of you acknowledge his slipup, but you know from the weight of the silence that it wounded Qifrey just as deeply to have momentarily unearthed the affection he used to have for you. You finish pouring your cup of coffee, stirring in cream and sugar and trying not to succumb to the hollow feeling slowly expanding in your stomach.

“Why did you tell me?”

Qifrey is picking anxiously at his fingers as he stands in your little kitchen, staring so intently at you as you freeze with the mug of coffee you had been sipping from raised halfway to your lips. You hadn’t even heard him approach, his footfalls silent as a ghost.

“Why did I tell you?” You know what he’s asking, but the question still rattles around in your head without real meaning. How could you have lied? The silence is deafening, but you can’t form a response worth dislodging your heart from your throat to speak.

“You could have kept it from me; stayed in the atelier and kept our life together intact.”

“You know I couldn’t.” His blue eye is an ocean of anger and hurt, trained so intensely on your face that you’re afraid you might be drowning in it. “You know it would have been too dangerous for me to stay there and practice forbidden magic in the same space as your apprentices.”

“You would never have caused them any harm, that much I know about you.”

He’s so close to understanding that it briefly kindles that now familiar anger only Qifrey could evoke from you.

“Of course I wouldn’t have harmed those girls!” Your voice shakes violently, the breath of it disturbing the steam rising gently from your cup. “How do you not grasp that it is for that exact reason I couldn’t continue to play house with you, Qifrey? That even if I would never cause them harm, there are witches in the Brimmed Caps who would delight in my connection to you; to Coco.”

He’s scowling again, that mirage of his painfully sour expression that had haunted you these past weeks made flesh in your dimly lit kitchen.

“Did you not want to stay? Was lying to me really so unbearable that you had to flee and hide yourself in the woods?”

Your fury is dying fast, smothered by exhaustion, and you cannot continue to fight like this anymore. The time away from him, though agonizing, had made clear that these circular conversations solved nothing. It wouldn’t be until the world was entirely reshaped, good or bad, that the two of you could reconcile your differences.

“I just couldn’t lie to you Qifrey. I have no explanation for it aside from this; I loved you far too much to shackle you to a façade. I had to leave you.”

For a moment there’s silence, broken only by the occasional faint sound of the tree branches swaying outside.

“Well, I suppose I wish you loved me less.”

It’s a whisper, choked by tears you’re trying not to watch fall, but it rings like the gunshot in your ears. There’s not a single word in any of the world's languages that can properly describe the pain that settles itself deep into your chest. In a lifetime of pain, nothing comes close to the searing anguish that seizes your heart.

“That’s… surprisingly selfish of you Qifrey.”

“I know.” He laughs, a bitter rueful sound that shouldn’t ever leave such beautiful lips.

There’s another stretch of silence as you swallow the rest of your coffee and set the cup in the water basin to be cleaned after Qifrey leaves. He’s still watching you, leaning against the frame of the door, looking unhappy but slightly less angry than he usually is in your presence. When you make to leave past him, he catches your arm in his hand, his grip gentle but firm. His gaze is cast downward when you try to make eye contact with him, his cheeks tinted pink with shame.

“Please don’t make me leave.” The words are barely audible, laced with a desperation that makes your heart ache. “Let me be selfish just for tonight.”

The tension hanging between you is unbearable. It feels as if Qifrey’s palm on your bare arm is searing his handprint into you. You should say no. You should tell him this will only make you both feel worse; he knows that better than you. You should pry your arm from his grip and wish him farewell so you can drown this longing in a bottle of Silvernectar wine.

“Alright.”

The word is barely past your lips as Qifrey pulls you flush against him, burying his face into your neck and wrapping his arms around you. He’s clinging to you like a child clings to a beloved stuffed animal, breath ragged with emotion he can’t verbalize as he presses a soft kiss against your collarbone. You manage to shake the shock that paralyzes you there in his arms, threading your fingers up into his silver hair and scratching softly at his scalp. A hum vibrates through him at the feeling and he presses impossibly closer. You just stay like that for a while, pressed together in the doorway.

Eventually you pull yourself away from him to clean the solitary mug in the basin, though your personal space remains non-existent as Qifrey follows and wraps his arms around your waist from behind. When you’ve finished, you turn in his grasp and pull him to you. The kiss is softer than your last all those weeks ago in the rain, though there’s still the ghost of that intensity and desperation. Each time you break for air the return is increasingly desperate, as if too long apart would leave room for reality to douse the spark of connection between you.

That’s the entirety of your night; feverish kisses that grow sloppier as you drink your way through the bottle of Silvernectar together, the constant feeling of Qifrey’s hands tugging you closer as if trying to fuse himself to you. There’re moments tinged with sadness, shared tears that mix with the wine flavored kisses, but the night ends with Qifrey beneath your layers of blankets in the drafty healing spire. He tucks you soundly into the curve of his body the way he had every night in the atelier, presses kisses to your bare shoulders. And as the sound of the tree branches swaying outside and his breath in your ear lulls you into sleep, Qifrey’s voice drifts through the ambience one final time, the venomous tone you had long since accepted as permanent replaced with a fondness that you had thought was long dead.

“I love you.”

When the sound of birdsong lifts you from sleep late the next morning, the space beside you in bed is empty. Qifrey had disappeared sometime in the dawn, like one of your ghosts, with the only evidence he had ever been in your home the half-finished deconstructed spell on your dining table and the two wine glasses in the wash basin, waiting to be rinsed.

It would be easy to drown in the sorrow that fills you at his absence. To let the mourning of the brief tenderness you’d had consume the day. Instead, despite your heavy heart and wicked hangover, you sit back at the table and take up your pen. Like always, work was a reprieve for someone so apt to wallow in their own misery; and Qifrey had left you quite the task to complete.

He was kind even in his cruelty.

──────•✦•──────

ˋ°•*⁀➷| m.list | more qifrey works |

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[night-fall-moon]

COMPUTA KEEP THE TOXIC RELATIONSHIP GOING ✋🫵

You’ve been programmed.

Nah but genuinely this is such a good dynamic, RAHHHHHH 🥲

[night-fall-moon]

Mueheheheggeg. Back into writing baby, should be out by this week, but reminder it will have spoilers, and though it’s set in an AU, it alludes to said spoilers one paragraph in— HEY TO BE FAIR MY ORIGINAL STORY LINES UP PRETTY WELL WITH WHA AND I WROTE IT BEFORE I READ/WATCHED THE MANGA/ANIME

[qifreyswifee]

Washing Machine Heart

Summary: Living with Olruggio and Qifrey—the love of your life—things have never been better and when Qifrey finally asks you to marry him, you're the happiest you've ever been, until you realize perhaps you shouldn't be. Word Count: 5.5k~ Warnings: Could be spoilers for Manga, Angst, betrayal, chronic migraines, mentions of reader getting hurt Idea Creds: @shhhhhhxoxo125 (Don't worry, we hate ourselves for writing it too. Please Enjoy :)

Electricity crackles along your scalp, settling behind your eyes with a deep, nerve biting pain. Over the past year, you have suffered with intermittent migraines, but within these past six months, the timing and intensity has increased, you can’t go more than two weeks without an episode. Luckily, your doting lover, Qifrey, is here to nurture you back to some sort of normalcy. Helping you to the bathroom when the nausea becomes so unbearable your own two feet simply won’t hold you up, rotating your ice packs in the freezer so you always have a fresh one ready, even filling your water each time it’s close to empty–stating that dehydration will only make it worse. And when you are finally ready for him to hold you–knowing how touch can sometimes amplify the pain when your nerves are firing so intensely–he will cradle you to his chest and apologize for the pain. No matter how many times you tell him it’s alright and it’ll pass, he continues to apologize, knowing exactly what you are going through and wishing he could do more to help. 

Light shines in from the rising sun through the break in your curtains, a lingering ache in your skull from the day before. You turn over to find Qifrey’s side of the bed empty–as usual–he knew how much you valued your sleep and he liked to get started on his day bright and early. Your water bottle is freshly filled with ice cold water and a small pill sat in front of it to help with your remaining pain. 

You swallow the pill and use the bit of strength you had to push yourself from the bed, knowing some breakfast will help restore your energy. The atelier was quiet, the birds singing outside the only sound echoing through the stone halls; until you reach closer to the kitchen and the soft humming of your lover hits your ears. 

“Hello, love,” You wrap your arms around Qifrey’s waist and he startles, sucking in a breath. 

“You gave me a fright,” He chuckles, looking over his shoulder at you.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” You laid your cheek against his back. 

“It’s quite alright,” He said, setting down the knife he was using to chop, “How’s your head?” He wipes his hands off with a towel. 

“Much better, thank you,” You release his waist and stand on your toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. 

“There’s still warm soup in the pot over there if you are hungry,” He points to the table in the corner. 

“Would you like to sit with me?” You ask. 

“I really need to–”

“Qifrey,” Olruggio walks into the kitchen, face a bit red. 

“Olruggio,” Qifrey wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close, “Is everything alright?” 

“I need to speak with you.” Olruggio looks between the two of you. 

“I’m sure it can be said in front of [name],” Qifrey lays his head on top of yours. 

“It’s a private matter,” Olruggio looks down at you, “Apologies [name],” 

“No worries, I need to eat something anyway,” You pull out of his embrace, making your way to the table to make a bowl of soup, “I’ll be here when you return,” You smile at Qifrey. 

“Alright, but come find us if you need anything,” He walks to the space where Olruggio stands, “I love you,” He calls out as they walk through the threshold of the door. 

“I love you too,” You call back.

Making yourself a bowl of soup and sitting down, you wonder what the two of them could be discussing. Olruggio also seemed a bit odd, almost nervous. His face was red and he had been sweating, but you assumed it happened to be a hot day outside. You don’t remember him ever being so standoffish with you, like your mere presence alone was an inconvenience. Perhaps you were overthinking it, he just wanted to have a private conversation with Qifrey, they’ve known each other far longer than you’ve been around, it’s not like they can’t have conversations about private matters. 

But the fact that he needed to have it right now did peak your curiosity. You took another bite of soup before deciding you simply need to know what they were talking about, and you could ask Qifrey when he returns, but you doubt  he would give you all the information. So against your better judgement, you stood from the table and made your way to Olruggio's room to snoop on their conversation. 

His door was cracked, but you would’ve been able to hear the annoyance in Olruggio's voice even if it wasn’t. 

“Qifrey, you can’t be serious.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Qifrey says, his typical soft spoken demeanor laced with frustration. 

“But I know you,” Olruggio sighs, “You may love her, but you’re not in love with her,” 

Your eyes widen, why the hell would Olruggio say something like that?

“You’ve never been in love Olly, How would you even know what it looks like?” Qifrey spits out. 

“For your information, I have been in love,” Olruggio takes a breath, “But that’s not the discussion we are having.” 

Qifrey takes a deep breath, “Olruggio, I understand your concerns, but I’d appreciate it if you did not get involved in my relationship.” 

“Because you know I’m right?” Olruggio asks.

You hold your breath, awaiting Qifrey’s response as if it couldn’t come quick enough. 

“Because you are being irrational,” Qifrey clears his throat, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go make sure the love of my life is feeling alright.” 

“If anyone is being irrational, it’s you,” Olruggio calls after him. 

You run back to the kitchen before you could be caught, out of breath and ears ringing as you sit back down at the table, filling your bowl with more soup to be less conspicuous. 

“How’s the soup?” Qifrey asks, flattening out his cloak as he enters the kitchen. 

“Delicious,” You smile. 

“Wonderful,” He walks back to the counter and starts to slice the vegetables he had been working on earlier. 

You stare at his back, a pit forming in your stomach. He did love you, right? You had met him and Olruggio at The Great Hall, becoming quick friends, and when you mentioned wanting to leave, they offered you to stay at their atelier. You hadn’t planned to get attached, and you surely had not planned to fall in love with Qifrey, but life has a funny way of things. However, Olruggio had known Qifrey since childhood. They were practically inseparable when you first met them, before they had a falling out a few years ago—at least that was what Qifrey told you, Olruggio doesn’t seem to remember what they fought about—but the two of you had grown closer since then, which is how you ended up dating and well, falling in love. But maybe Qifrey is having doubts. Surely he would talk to you about them though? You both were incredibly honest in your relationship, it was one of the key factors that made your relationship run smoothly. You took a deep breath, perhaps Olruggio was feeling left out, wanting to be as close to Qifrey as he once was. Yeah, it had to be an insecurity thing. You trust Qifrey. 

You threw your wand across the room, the wooden piece smacking against the wall. No matter what you did, your hands shook. The shaking started around the same time as the migraines, making it harder to draw, and ultimately hindering your power as a witch. The days after an attack tended to make the shaking worse and it would typically subside in a few days, but that didn’t ease your frustration. You would like to go to a doctor to understand what was happening, but if the knight's moralis found out, they would consider you a hazard to witch society and surely erase your memories. Tears streamed down your face, you worked incredibly hard to get to where you were, you were a strong, competent witch, so to feel your body betraying you like this… well some days it was more than you could bear. 

As if right on cue, Qifrey walks through the door. 

“What happened?” He rushes to your side, kneeling in front of you. 

“My stupid hands won’t work,” Your bottom lip quivers.

He sighs, “Why don’t you take a break? Get some fresh air.” 

“Because I want to draw Qifrey! I can’t be a witch if I can’t draw. I don’t understand why this is happening to me!” You shout. 

He flinches as if you’ve struck him, “You don’t deserve this, any of it,” He takes a deep breath, “How about I help you?” 

He grabs your wand from the floor, placing it in your hand before holding you steady, helping you to draw the sigil, runes, and the finishing circle. A ball of flame hovers over the paper and though it's a small spell, you feel your shoulders relax a bit. 

“See? You just needed some assistance. Perhaps we can come up with something to help your hand stability.” He smiles, kissing the top of your head. 

Olruggio clears his throat in the doorway. 

“Oh, Olruggio, how long have you been there?” Qifrey smirks. 

“Long enough, I wanted to speak with [name],” Olruggio says. 

Why did he want to speak with you? Was he going to try to convince you next that you didn’t love Qifrey?

“Do you have the item I asked you for?” Qifrey questions. 

“Soon,” Olruggio assures him. 

“Soon then.” Qifrey stands, helping you up from the floor, “Are you alright?” 

You nod, “Yes, just a bit tired.” 

“I can help her,” Olruggio steps into the room, linking his arm with yours. 

“Really, I’m alright,” You laugh. 

“Doesn’t hurt to be careful,” Olruggio assures you, “I’ll bring her back in a bit and we can have dinner, yeah?” He asks. 

“I’ll finish preparation.” Qifrey trails behind the two of you before turning to the kitchen. 

“Let’s go out to the garden, the flowers are blooming beautifully,” Olruggio says. 

Neither of you says a word on the walk, the spring breeze littering goosebumps across your skin, the cherry blossom petals swirling around you. Olruggio helps you to sit on the bench in the center of the garden. 

“How’s your head? Qifrey said you had a rather nasty headache yesterday,” Olruggio asks. 

“It’s better, though I’m still fatigued,” You hold up your shaky hands. 

“That’ll get better, you know it,” Olruggio assures you, knowing how you feel about your hands not working. 

You always enjoy talking to Olruggio. Besides Qifrey, he was one of your closest friends. You knew he had your back no matter the circumstance, even if he was feeling insecure at this time, you knew if the need arose he would be there for you. 

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior as of late,” Olruggio says. 

“What do you mean?” He didn’t know that you snooped on his and Qifrey’s conversation, so you’re not sure of the behavior he was referring to.

“I’ve been a bit distant and standoffish towards you, and that’s not fair. I care for you and I don’t want you to think otherwise.” Olruggio huffs, “I’m not exactly sure why I've been acting that way though.” 

“While I appreciate your apology, I hadn’t exactly noticed,” You rub the back of your neck. 

“I am glad to not have hurt your feelings with it at least,” Olruggio laughs nervously. 

Though he did hurt your feelings with his conversation with Qifrey, you surely couldn’t say that and reveal that you snooped.  

“Leave it behind us?” You asked, smiling up at him. 

You didn’t want that to affect your friendship with him, surely him apologizing now, meant he felt bad for that conversation as well. 

“I think we can do that,” He smiled, though there was a deep sadness in his eyes. 

You tilt your head, “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to talk about?” 

“No, that was it,” He stood from the bench, “We should head inside, I’m sure Qifrey has dinner ready by now,” He held a hand out for you to take, “And you need to keep fed.” 

You giggle, taking his hand, “Keep fed?” 

“You need to get your strength back,” He led you back to the atelier. 

You sigh, “I’m not sure I’ll ever get my full strength back, Olly.” 

“Be patient with yourself. You’ll figure it out, even if you need to adapt.” 

Qifrey had the table practically set when you both arrived, grabbing the bowls from the cabinet to finish up. He offers you both a smile. 

“Smells delicious,” Olruggio sniffs. 

“Why thank you, Olly,” Qifrey sets the bowls down on the table, snaking an arm around your waist and helping you into your seat. 

Olruggio doesn’t waste a moment piling the food into his bowl and then into his mouth, making you giggle. 

“Slow down,” You say. 

“I’m starving,” He mumbles with a mouth full of food. 

“You’re going to choke,” Qifrey chuckles, rather amused with Olruggio. 

He sits down next to you, pulling your chair closer to him without a word before diving into his food as well. 

This is exactly how you liked it. A peaceful evening eating dinner with the two most important people in your life. 

Olruggio was thoroughly drunk by the time dinner ended, Qifrey having to help him back to his room, even though Olruggio insisted he was fine. You had made yourself ready for bed and snuggled under the covers by the time Qifrey came to the room, his own cheeks rosy from the alcohol. 

“Olly had a bit much, huh?” You giggle. 

“We nearly collapsed halfway to his room,” Qifrey laughs, getting into bed next to you. 

You turn to his side, lying on his chest, “Do you ever think he gets lonely?” You asked, remembering back to Olruggio saying he’d been in love before. 

Qifrey sighs, “I sure hope not,” A hint of sadness in his voice. 

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but the room was pitch dark when you awoke. Qifrey stood near the open window, the moonlight outside casting a glow over his silhouette. 

You stood from the bed, wrapping your arms around Qifrey’s waist, “Come back to bed, my love.” 

Qifrey sighs, “What do you think Olly stays up so late doing?” 

“Huh?” You look out the window, a dim light coming from Olruggio’s window, “I imagine he’s working on spells or some sort of contraption.” 

“He really should get proper sleep,” Qifrey says, not removing his eyes from the window. 

“He’s a grown adult, Qifrey,” You giggle, “I’m sure he knows how to look after himself.” 

“We all need someone to look after us, even in adulthood,” He sighs, a far off look in his eye. 

You crinkle your brows, “Is everything alright, Qifrey?” 

“Yes, why don’t you head back to bed? I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay,” You turn to go back to bed, pausing to look over your shoulder at him. 

His arms were crossed and his shoulders slumped, as if something had upset him. You trust he would tell you when he was ready. 

The next morning was rather chaotic, Qifrey seemed on edge, as if he needed to have his brain constantly stimulated. You were feeling much better than the previous day and chose to take the time to draw some spells, being able to fill your entire palm quire. Your hands were sore and cramping by the end of it, but you took it as a win that they worked long enough to accomplish that.

With a sense of pride in your chest, you went to look for Qifrey, wanting to tell him about it. The atelier was awfully quiet, and you couldn’t seem to find him. Perhaps he was with Olruggio, but when you checked his room, peeking through the door, Olruggio was mumbling into some paper on his desk, looking rather frustrated, and you chose not to bother him. 

The only other place you thought Qifrey would be is the garden, so you decide to look there. What you hadn’t expected to see, was an incredible display of light in the sky, an array of flowers, fireworks, and even different birds floating about. You smile up at the sight, looking down to the end of the garden where Qifrey sits on the bench. You sit down next to him, watching as he twiddles with his thumbs. 

“What’s all this about?” You ask, placing your hand over his. 

“You deserve something special,” He smiles up at you, “In fact, you deserve so much more than I think I’ll ever be able to give you,” He takes a deep breath, “But I'd like to try,” he stands from the bench, kneeling down on one knee in front of you, “Since you came to our atelier, I’ve always felt drawn to you, like this invisible force pulling us together. I know we’ve had our struggles in the past, but there’s no one I’d rather go through them with. I love you, I have loved you so much longer than you’ve ever known,” he pauses, “You are my person. The one I want to spend the rest of my life with. [name], will you marry me?” His hands shake as he pulls a box out of his pocket, opening it to reveal an oval cut blue gem, with a golden winding bridge, resembling the roots of a tree as they lead up to the gem. 

Tears brim over your waterline, “Yes! I would love to marry you!” You squeal, allowing him to place the ring on your finger, holding your hand in his as he admires it, looking up at you and sighing. 

He stands, allowing you to practically jump into his arms. “It’s beautiful,” You say, holding it up behind his back. 

“It certainly has meaning,” He wraps his arms around your waist, holding you close. 

He sniffles and you pull away to see tears streaming down his face.

“Aww, Qifrey,” You smile, wiping his tears, “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.” 

“The rest of our lives,” He says, “Tethered together for eternity,” He chuckles, tears still streaming down his face, “You’re stuck with me now,” He jokes. 

“There’s no one else I’d rather be stuck with,” You laugh, kissing his lips. 

“I’d surely hope not,” He smiles, though you swear there’s something else there that you can’t quite place. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Olruggio freezes, “I didn’t know you were out here.” 

“Olly look!” You run up to him, holding the ring out, “Isn’t it beautiful?” 

“That it is,” He looks up at Qifrey, offering him a smile, “I see congratulations are in order,” He looks back down at you, “An excuse for me to have another drink.” 

“As if you need an excuse,” Qifrey chimes in, wiping his tears and wrapping an arm around your waist, “Olly made that ring for you, with my specifications of course.” 

“Well you did a wonderful job, Olly,” You smile, unable to look away from the rock on your finger. 

“Thank you, I’m glad it’s made you happy,” 

“So very happy,” You lean further into Qifrey’s side. 

Qifrey kisses the top of your head, lingering there for just a moment. 

“Perhaps I’ll make dinner tonight, as a gift of sorts,” Olruggio says. 

“And kill us all with your cooking, I don’t think so,” Qifrey teases. 

“It’s not that bad,” Olruggio says.

“Oh it is,” Qifrey chuckles. 

You smile up at the two of them, always enjoying when they pick on the other. You love seeing the two of them so close, there was a bit of time there when it wasn’t like this and you hope it never had to be that way again. 

The night air left a cool breeze in its wake, sending goosebumps across your skin, but Qifrey insisted on eating a candlelit dinner outside, thinking it would be romantic. Though it started out that way, now you were cold. 

“Qifrey, it’s fr-freezing,” Your teeth chatter. 

“Just a few more minutes,” He lifts his head, allowing the cool breeze to blow through his hair, “I want to feel the air a little longer.” 

As if right on cue, Olruggio shows up with a bottle of wine, “This’ll warm you up.”

“I shouldn’t be drinking, it worsens my headaches,” You purse your lips. 

“One drink shouldn’t do any harm, right?” 

“Alright, just one.” You smile, taking the glass from Olruggio. 

Well, you were now four drinks in, thoroughly warmed up and giggling as Olruggio and Qifrey fought over Olruggio's terrible cooking. Olly swears up and down that his cooking is good and Qifrey recalling a time when the pegasus’ wouldn’t even eat his food. You were laughing so hard, you hadn’t noticed how close they were, how Qifrey’s hand lingered a moment too long on Olly's leg, how their faces were mere inches apart, until you did. 

“What’s up with you two?” You tilt your head, the alcohol making you a bit more confident. 

“What do you mean?” Qifrey pulls away from Olruggio, face red. 

“You were awfully close there for a moment, and then just the other day,” You took a sip of your drink, “When Olruggio claimed you didn’t love me.” 

“Did you snoop on our conversation?” Olruggio furrows his brows. 

“That’s not like you,” Qifrey says, “And of course I love you, we’re getting married.” 

“It’s not like the two of you to have private conversations either, I was simply curious,” You shrug your shoulders, your head beginning to pound. 

“Where is this coming from, Qifrey and I have had plenty of private conversations since you’ve been here,” Olruggio says. 

“Not that I recall.” 

Qifrey huffs, “Perhaps you’re not thinking clearly because of the alcohol.” 

“Or maybe I’m seeing things more clearly than before,” 

Though Qifrey had turned his head, him and Olruggio were still incredibly close, and you knew they were friends, but this was different. A hand brushing his thigh, the closeness of their faces earlier that if one moved even an inch their lips would be touching, even Qifrey staying up at night to stare out the window and worry about Oruggio's sleeping habits. It was all so different from what you remember. You remember Qifrey pushing Olruggio away, not wanting to be as close to him as before and saying it was because he wanted to nurture his relationship with you, but was there more he simply wasn’t telling you? Or were you truly not remembering it correctly? 

You didn’t have a moment to ask another question before you were blasted to the side by some sort of light. 

“[name!]”, Qifrey shouts. 

A brim hat witch floats at the top of the atelier, looking down on the three of you. 

“What do you want?” Qifrey stands from the ground. 

“I was looking to have a bit of fun,” The witch laughs. 

“You need to take her and get out of here,” Olruggio steps in front of Qifrey. 

How could you be so stupid? Yes, your life was in danger at the moment, but how had you not noticed the two of them? Even now, Qifrey looks at Olly with more longing in his eyes than he has ever looked at you. Qifrey was in love with Olruggio, and he had to have felt the same. So why was he with you? Why choose you over someone he felt so deeply for? Your mind spiraled, trying to remember when his feelings changed, when he fell in love with Olruggio, but you couldn’t seem to muster a memory. Had it always been this way? Were you simply naive? 

A clash of spells battered back and forth between the witches, neither willing to back down. Olruggio was struck by lightning falling to the side. You’d never seen such an angry look as the one that donned Qifrey’s face in this moment. Pulling out his book, he began to draw something quickly. But not quick enough as the brim hatted witch threw another fireball his way. You used all your strength to pull yourself up as quickly as possible, your hands still cramped from drawing earlier and barely having the strength to write, but you were not willing to allow Qifrey to be hurt. It didn’t matter how he felt about you, you knew exactly how you felt about him and watching the man you love be injured was not something you could live with. You jumped just in time for the fireball to strike you, a scream of pain leaving your mouth as you crumbled to the ground. A blast of water shot past your peripheral before you faded to darkness. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

Your head is absolutely pounding and an almost chemical smell invades your nostrils as you come to. Your eyes flutter open, squinting as they adjust to the light around you. Qifrey sits next to your bed, except he’s not facing you, he hasn’t noticed you’ve woken up yet. He is looking at Olruggio in the bed parallel to you, holding his hand to his forehead, mumbling something you can’t quite hear with the ringing in your ears. Your eyes adjusting to the light and focusing on the sight in front of you, a wave of hurt floods your system as you remember the events from before you passed out. Qifrey was in love with Olruggio and this moment right here was proof enough of it. Without a word, you muster all the strength you can and shove the blankets off of you, Qifrey turning his head with the noise. 

“[name],” He turns to face you, “You’re awake,” He reaches for your hand. 

“Don’t touch me!” You shout, as much as you can with the hoarseness of your throat. 

“W-what?” His eye widens, blinking rapidly, “Here drink this,” He grabs a cup of water from the side table, but you shove his hand away, “Leave me alone.” 

You push up from the bed, a bit wobbly on your feet, but too determined to get out of there. As if the world was closing in on you, the room spinning in circles, you need fresh air, you need to get away from Qifrey, you can’t even look at him right now. 

“Hold on, you should be in bed,” He grabs your wrist.

“I said don’t touch me!” You scream, pulling away from him and ultimately falling to the ground. 

“Let me help you,” He leans down and you pull yourself away, pathetically crawling on the floor at this point, “What’s wrong?” 

“You’re in love with Olruggio, aren’t you?” You seethe.

He pauses halfway down, “No, not again,” He mutters under his breath, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Tears prickle in your eyes. 

You make it to the door, using the handle to pull yourself up and holding on for stability. 

“Do you love him?” Your bottom lip shakes. 

Qifrey sighs, “[name,]”

“DO YOU LOVE HIM?!” You shout, tears streaming down your face, “Am I not good enough for you?” You cry. 

“You are,” His lips wobble, “You’re just…You’re not… him.” He turns to Olruggio, still unconscious on the bed behind him. 

“How long?” You scoff. 

“Longer than you remember,” Qifrey reaches for the top of his hat, unclasping the button at the top, the flap falling down to reveal a spell you never thought you’d see drawn again, your stomach lurching up to your throat as he lifts the cap off his head. 

“Qifrey,” Your voice shakes, taking a step back. 

“I’m sorry,” Tears stream down his face, “But if I want to keep him safe, I need you.” He stalks towards you. 

“Why? Just be with him, I won’t stop you!” You damn your legs for being so shaky, for barely holding up your weak form. 

You want to run, do anything to get away from the clearly insane man coming for you, but your body won’t move. 

“It’s more complicated than that, I can’t allow myself the happiness, and by being with you, I feel guilty for hurting him,” He turns back to look at Olruggio once more, “Because he loves me just as much as I love him,” He sniffles, standing right in front of you, not doing anything just yet, because he knows you can’t move. Like a predator stalking its prey, he has you exactly where he needs you. 

“Did you ever love me?” You whisper. 

“I do love you,” He leans in and attaches his lips to yours and though you want to fight so badly, you can’t help but melt into his touch, your heart pounding against your chest, aching with how much love overflows within you for him, how much you want him to love you back, and maybe you can pretend just a little longer. 

But when he pulls away, and the expression on his face morphs into something cold, something sinister that you have never seen from the man you love before—or perhaps you have and can’t remember correctly. 

You swallow, accepting the fact that you are not escaping from this, “At least do me the courtesy and tell me how many times you’ve done this to me,” You hold your head high, trying to be strong. 

“I’ve lost count,” He sniffles, “But none of them are easier than the last,” He huffs a breath, “And watching you decay further after each erasure… it’s agony quite honestly.” 

“You don’t do this to someone you love,” Your top lip curls. 

“I suppose you’re right,” He glances at Olruggio, “But if it keeps his brain intact, I will do anything to keep him safe.” 

“I can pretend,” You try to talk your way out of it, glancing down at the spell in Qifrey’s hand, “I won’t tell Olruggio, I’ll be happy with you and he’ll never need to know.” 

He sighs, “I trusted you with that once. The moment I left you alone, you told Olruggio everything. Once is enough for him as far as I'm concerned.” 

“And what about me? What if this is the time that kills me and my brain can no longer take it?” You gulp. 

“I’m sorry, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take, for him.” He lifts his hand and it’s as if the motion is slowed down, your brain processing it at a frame a second. 

You have no idea what will become of you after this, not knowing how far he is truly willing to take this, and if your life really does mean that little to him. You can’t escape, your legs won’t allow it, not that it isn’t already too late. You won’t remember this moment, you’re not even sure how far back he’s erased you, how much of your life has been stolen from you. But the one thing that hurts the most, is you still love him, even knowing what he’s done to you, you are still in love with him, and if it means being erased for eternity and dealing with the consequences; you’d accept your fate so that he could have his sliver of happiness with Olruggio, even if it was from afar. And that’s exactly what you did, accepted as he placed the cap on your head, a stab of pain in your head before you blacked out once more. 

You wake up snuggled under the covers of you and your lover's bed, a piercing pain behind your eyelids. 

“Good morning,” Qifrey crouches at your side, “You had a bit too much to drink last night,” He chuckles, “Something about trying to keep up with Olly.” 

You groan, holding your forehead, “Remind me to never do that again,” You place your arm over your eyes. 

He laughs, “I’ll do my best, why don’t you get some rest and then we can start wedding planning?” He wiggles his brows.

You smile, remembering the ring on your hand, remembering what you were celebrating last night, and why you had drank so much. 

You nod, grabbing his hand, and kissing his palm. You were going to marry the love of your life. The kind of love that is only found in fairytales, the kind of love that transcends lifetimes. You couldn’t remember a time when you weren’t in love with Qifrey, and you hope you’d never have to. 

“I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you,” He cradles your face, eye softening as he meets your gaze, “The rest of our lives, tethered together for eternity."

Divider by: @/strangergraphics

*Please do not repost, copy, or use any of my works to feed your AI*

[night-fall-moon]

The epitome of pain for me rn. I’m not even joking. And I watched Bolt before reading this. Gonna wake up tomorrow and laugh at myself for crying over ff ✋☹️

Anyway, this was so very beautifully written. I genuinely don’t know why this invoked such a tearful response from me. Maybe it’s because I’m a romantic and seeing Qifrey and Olruggio suffer like this is just painful, but also having reader added to it makes it so much worse. Reader who is actually in love with Qifrey but doesn’t truly know him and never will because the moment she does she will forget. She’s always the first to go, hence why it doesn’t affect Olruggio at all. It’s why Qifrey keeps her by his side. She thinks he truly loves her but she lives in a perpetual facade. He does care for her, and love her, just in a platonic way, not romantic. But he’ll do anything for Olruggio.

Not to mention that Olruggio situation is hard to imagine. But from what I can see, Olruggio may only indulge in certain moments with Qifrey. Maybe small gesture such as a lingering touch as shown by the night out drinking all together, and leaning into one another. And then Qifrey distancing himself which creates a rift between everyone, but with reader not really knowing what’s going on she stays almost oblivious to the atmosphere. A hint as to how long this facade has been going on?

A perpetual facade that everyone keeps living in just for one sole person, a person they both love. (Snot is running down my face, I need to stop thinking about this before I wake up with puffy eyes). 🤡

[foresttdreams]

Is there something more to us?

chapter 2

Summary: You're happy. You have a lovely home, a wonderful husband and four bright girls. So, why does Olruggio suddenly make your heart race? And why does Qifrey not seem to mind? Pairing: Poly!Qifrey/Reader/Olruggio Genre: Romance, Drama, Hurt/Comfort Tags: qifrey is a freak and olruggio has a panic attack; multichapter, Established Relationship, polyamory, love confessions, major character injury, accidental love confessions, angst, hurt/comfort, original characters used as plot devices, cross-posted to AO3, no beta cause i post for fun and for free Word count: 4192 Rating: T/M

chapter 1

You consumed the days that followed leisurely. Through quiet lessons and simple meals, they were blissful. You were currently standing over the stove, a meal of breaded chicken and roasted vegetables sizzled soothingly in the pan. 

You felt a tug on your apron and looked down, Richeh pointed towards the fire. “Do you need help?” she asked.

“Mm,” you shook your head, “I’m alright. Why aren’t you studying?”

Qifrey had brought the entire herd of them to the kitchen for their lessons today. At first you thought it was for a change of view but you quickly realized it was the result of a rather difficult spell. The children were reaching a point in their education where their seals were getting more complex. Longer lines, bigger symbols, rings stacked upon rings. You remembered when you started to learn them, fascinating but challenging. Your father was a gentle teacher and your mother encouraged you wonderfully. Qifrey was no different. He figured it was easier to have them all gathered together to be helped as a group rather than separately.

Which meant Richeh doesn't actually want to help; she was simply avoiding doing her work.

“Lunch will be done soon.” You said and Richeh’s lip jutted out in a defeated pout. “Go on now.” You chuckled as you watched her waddle back to the table, climbing into her seat next to a wide-eyed Tetia who looked to be on the verge of tears. Qifrey pointed to a spell in the center of the table, his neat work on a large piece of parchment. 

“What is this the symbol for?” His voice was strained.

“Water,” Agott said confidently.

“Yes, and what is this one?” 

“Uhhh,” Coco looks between her notes and the example, “pressure.”

“Correct,” he pointed to a new symbol, a weird shape that was unlike the others, “this one?”

The table fell silent for a few moments before Tetia spoke up, “Fire?” She was just throwing out guesses at this point.

“…try again," he said.

You turned around to keep from laughing at the exasperated sigh your husband released. The girls just couldn’t grasp it, even Agott was struggling.  For all the things they have done and for all the things they will do, memorizing that was a battle like no other. The frustration was slowly mounting and you were positive this session was going to be washed away by big droplets of tears. It was a hard spell to learn, they’d have plenty of moments like this in the future but the waterworks would be significantly less. Hopefully. 

“What is this?” Qifrey asked again. His voice is even and calm, to the girls there is nothing off about it but you recognized his impatience immediately. 

Tetia sniffled, “I don’t know.” 

Qifrey sighed and placed his pen down, “I think it’s time for a break.” There was a whine and then a whimper and you immediately moved to stop it. 

“Girls, why don’t you get the plates set out and will one of you wake Olruggio for me?” They needed something else to do rather than sit and simmer in their self-loathing. They muttered pitifully before moving to help. Coco whispered encouragingly to Tetia as they put step-stools under the cabinets. Coco handed Tetia plates gently.

Qifrey rocked himself up from his seat and took just a few long strides to get to you. He grabbed the wooden spoon from your hand and bumped you to the side with his hip. You chuckled and wiped your hands on your apron. “You need a break too?” You said teasingly.

When he didn’t reply you molded yourself to his back and snuck your hands underneath his arms, moving them to curl across his chest. 

“Too much?” You muttered, positioning your chin on his shoulder. You had to toe up slightly to reach his height but it wasn’t awful.

He pushed the vegetables around mindlessly, shoulders sagging. “It is the hardest lesson yet.” 

You kissed beneath his ear and patted his chest, “they’ll get it eventually.” His frustration was palpable. You knew he wasn’t upset with the girls. He was upset with himself. Not being able to help them was an indication, in his mind, that he was a failure of a teacher. It was an insecurity that didn’t crop up often but when it did it was vicious and loud. 

You let him relax into you, the gesture was vulnerable and sated. You rested your cheek against his shoulder and watched Tetia and Coco place down silverware and napkins. You smiled empathetically as Tetia sniffled and rubbed her sleeve under her nose, her eyes rimmed red from holding back tears. Oh, sweet girl. You thought, you’ll be okay.

The quiet tinkering of the plates was soon interrupted by Agott’s reentry. 

“Master Olruggio refuses to get up,” she said.

You sighed, “that man…” Olruggio’s sleep schedule has been a disaster since you’d met him. He stays up too late and then wakes up too early. He’s exhausted half the time and typically runs on nothing but spite and stubbornness. Oh, and a bottle of wine.

Before you stepped away from Qifrey, he hummed. “Go easy on him.”

“No promises,” you said. 

You ruffled Agott’s hair as you passed her and just before you stepped down to the living space you paused. You turned on your heel and tried to collect a small glass of water that sat abandoned on the counter but Qifrey stopped you.

“Do not,” he said, his gaze a little less defeated and a little more amused.

You pouted, “fine…” 

You’d only ever dumped water on the sleeping man one time and it was the most successful wake up call you ever performed. Hilarious too. Well, to you anyways. Olruggio didn’t talk to you for the rest of the day. 

You heard Qifrey list off instructions to the girls as you descended the steps, your plan abandoned. 

You rolled your eyes when you found him. He was sprawled across the couch, one hand over his chest, the other behind his head with a knee cocked in the air. The contraptions he’d been working on were haphazardly strewed across the floor. He looked quite comfortable.

You stepped over his gadgets and poorly scrawled seals to reach him. “Olruggio.” You said, “get up.” 

He grumbled and shifted, “G’way, Agott,” he mumbled.

“I’m not Agott.” You said, hands on your hip. “Lunch is almost done, do you want food or not?” 

He shifted, scratching mindlessly at his chest as he sat up. He yawned, loud and large, and looked up at you with a sleep riddled gaze. “Ah, it’s yuh. I’m up, I’m up,” his hand slipped beneath his shirt as he stood, cupping the side of his chest as he gathered himself. He stepped forward, stumbled on his many toys, and nearly fell into you. 

You caught him with palms to his chest. Warm heat seeped through his shirt and he huffed, subconsciously pulling his hand from his body and wrapping it around one of yours for stabilization. 

“Shit, sorry. Still wakin’ up.” 

You stiffened, he was so close that the heat radiated off of him in waves. That strange fresh smell of someone who’d just woken up paired with the persistent scent of crackling fire that always followed him filled your nose. His hand was large enough to engulf yours and you relished in the texture of it, rough but not disturbingly so. Heavy but comforting. Exactly how they felt on your hip a few days ago.

“I-It’s fine,” your eyes caught his and you pointedly looked away, “just go to the table.” 

He chuckled and pulled back, swerving around you to follow the scent of the freshly cooked meal,  “and clean up this mess!” You said.

“Yeah yeah,” he said casually, running his hand through his hair. “Afta the meal.”

You nudged away the few rouge items at your feet and rung your hands in the fabric of your top, rubbing away the tingle that his touch left behind. Qifrey’s often left the same feeling. 

Before you could go and join them, there was a knock at the front door. You paused, who could that be? Alaira was out on an assignment for the Great Hall, Sinocia was swamped at the Spire and Beldaruit would have certainly made himself known without such a polite knock. You glanced at the clock. 6pm. It was a bit late for visitors over all and invites to the atelier were offered very rarely.

You pulled the door open curiously, “Hello? How can I—oh.”

Senaka stood on the porch, covered by a tweed brown overcloak. “Hello, Mrs.—?” 

“Is there something you need?” You asked politely. The cool evening air made you shiver.

His eyes trailed to the roof and then floated to the top of the door, soaking in the masonry of the small atelier. “Beautiful home, truly.”

“Thank you,” you said quickly, “but is there—“

“My love, who’s at the door?” Qifrey questioned from the kitchen. You looked over your shoulder and called back, “No one really! Just give me a second.” The statement landed hard and Senaka winced.

“Sorry, what did you say?” you asked.

“Ah yes, um, is this yours or one of your children’s?” He pulled a brown palm quire from his pocket. Oh, had the girls dropped it on the way home? You plucked it from his hand. The leather was tanned nicely and weighed nearly nothing. You flipped it over, looking back before flipping through the blank pages. Strange. There was a single seal etched into the back cover of the book, you don’t recognize it. You act like you don't see it and fight the hesitation in your response.

“Oh! Thank you, it is.” You said, slipping the notebook into the front of your apron. It's quick and finite. 

The man’s eyes widened, “Really? Amazing. I’m glad I was able to return it to its rightful owner.”

You both stood there, staring. His eyes bored into yours and your brow furrowed in confusion. “Is there something else?” 

He just watched. His gaze was empty, as if all of the color in his eyes had been sucked away, but his pupils were dilated. Wide, deep, endless darkness. That's all they were. Your ears started to ring and you found yourself frozen, like a deer on a busy road. The sound of Olruggio's deep laugh breaks the trance.

Senaka shook his head, as if clearing it of fog. “No, nothing at all.” He grinned but the smile reached further than it should have. You gripped the edge of the door, ready to close it now. You didn’t want to stand here anymore. 

“Right, then have a good evening.” 

“Yes, I will,” he said. You stepped back and let the door shift. Senaka did not move, not until he heard the squeak of the hinges and Coco’s voice in the background. When he leaned to the side, moving to get a look into your home you broke the line of vision with a quick side step and a click of the lock. You stared at the golden handle, your fingers flexing as you waited. 

When you heard him turn, shoes scuffing the cobblestone, his steps fading down the path, you relaxed. You glanced at your apron pocket before gathering yourself and turning. 

How did he find your house? Your atelier was in a relatively isolated location. Not many wandered up this way save for a few lost travelers and a confident trader. The laughter from the kitchen forces you to refocus. 

You don’t have time to ruminate. You'd do it later.

“Now, who’s ready to eat?” You marched up the steps and waved Qifrey away from the counter. 

“Who was at the door?” he asked as he slipped into a seat across from Olruggio. The girls sat at their own table, already waiting with plates piled high. They were always served first.

“Nothing,” you brushed it off, scooping spoonfuls of vegetables onto the plates Qifrey had been preparing. You finished the boys’ first and laid the plates gently in front of them. You could feel Qifrey watching you and you knew he has already picked up on something, but it's Olruggio who almost made you confess. 

He was looking at you with genuine concern. His brows were relaxed but there was a shine in his eyes that makes his focus all the more analyzing. When you retracted your hand, he laid his on your forearm. 

“Who was it?” he asked, though it translated more as a gentle command. You pull away smiling softly, “No one, just a hiker. They got lost on the road.”  

When you walked back to get your plate you used the girls as a distraction, asking them if their food was good and that dessert was going to follow after. With your back turned to them, you don’t see Olruggio look over at Qifrey. They spoke silently, eyes reading the atmosphere like a book. They knew something was wrong, but neither of them were going to pry. Not here, anyways. 

Qifrey nodded once at Olruggio who only grunted his response before reaching for his fork. 

“Scoot over, dear.” You stood at Qifrey’s side, food in hand and nudged him with your hip. He complimented your food as you settled next to him. Olruggio agreed but was too busy stuffing his face to say anything coherent. 

“Thank you,” you said. You smiled but you know it doesn’t reach your eyes and you can’t help but glance at the door every few minutes as the evening creeped on. 

Qifrey sunk into a pile of cushions that were stacked against the front of the couch, dressed in his pajamas, he soaked in the warmth of the nightly fire and the calm that had finally fallen over the atelier. You smiled and glanced at him as you poured tea into the three cups on the coffee table. Olruggio sat across from the two of you, tinkering away. He had yet to change out of his daily clothes. Honestly, you couldn't remember when he last moved from that spot. He'd been sitting there since after lunch.

“Are they asleep?” you asked. The girls had requested that Qifrey read them a story. A simple plot about a princess and witch falling in love. It was cheesy and cliche but they loved it and Qifrey had always been a good storyteller.

“Yes,” he groaned as he rolled out his shoulder, “the day exhausted them.” 

Following lunch and a much needed break, Qifrey had gathered the girls for another attempt at learning the spell. He was determined to get them to understand and, eventually, they did. It took two crying spells from Tetia, a well-timed curse from Richeh and a couple of ripped palm quire’s from Agott, but they got it. 

The lesson, however, had used up all their energy and as soon as they were done they wanted to eat dinner and go straight to bed. But, when Coco came down a minutes, dressed in her nightgown and peaking around the corner shyly, she asked Qifrey if he could read them a story. He couldn’t say no. They deserved something after such an arduous day.

You pushed a cup towards Olruggio who grunted in thanks, still focused on his product. You were the only other dressed in pajamas, a cotton night gown that just barely brushed the floor when you walked, ghostly in nature but so very comfortable. 

“Do you think it will stick?” You asked Qifrey. He hummed and glanced at the tea, swirling it a few times before speaking, “yes, hopefully, I just—I was just hoping that we wouldn’t have to learn in such a way.” 

“You’re starting harder topics Qifrey, they’re going to struggle.” 

“But they should not be reduced to tears.” 

“It’s not you,” you reassured him. You took a sip of your tea, “they were just frustrated. It’s all very normal.” 

“But I don’t like being the cause of it, they will associate me with—”

“They’ll associate yuh with bein’ a good teacher.” Olruggio suddenly said. He blindly reached for his cup, taking a casual drink before going back to his work. When he placed it down his hand lingered over the rim. “Yuh’re doing a fine job.” 

As if he realized what he said he paused and glanced at the two of you. Qifrey’s face softened at the compliment, “thank you, my friend.” 

He scoffed, “it’s nothin’, you’re good parents. I mean—well,” he was stumbling over his words. His ears reddened with each passing second.  “It’s obvious. Yuh’re a whole lot better than half of the teachers out there.” 

You giggled, “that’s sweet of you to say, Olly.” 

“I’m jus’ sayin’,” he refused to meet your eyes.

“Where would we ever be without you?” You said.

“Lost,” he snorted.

“Olly,” you said, voice soft but commanding. 

“Hm?” he only glanced up briefly, eyes catching how Qifrey’s free hand fell to your thigh, squeezing it affectionately. Olruggio pursed his lips.

“I’m serious.” 

“About what?” 

“We wouldn’t be able to do any of this without you. You keep the atelier afloat.”

Olruggio snorted, “yeah I’m sure—”

“Olruggio,” you scolded. “Everything you do around here makes our lives so much easier, you care for the girls just as much even if you don’t want to admit it. I don’t know where’d I’d be if you weren’t here." Your eyes gleamed with sincerity.

He doesn’t really say anything in response but the blush that coated his cheeks was enough to tell you he received the compliment. He’d never admit how much it flustered him, though.

Olruggio took a drink of his tea and cringed. He brought the cup to his nose and sniffed it before taking another sip. 

“What?” Qifrey asked. “What’s wrong with it?” he took great pride in his tea blends, spending hours meticulously weighing each herb, flower, and spice to make the perfect balance. 

“What’d yuh put in this?” Olruggio asked. 

“It’s the sleep blend?” You said, thinking back to the jar you had plucked from the shelves. Top shelf, unlocked cabinet, dark green bottle with a cork top. You brought your cup to your nose and smelt it. Qifrey did the same. Lavender and Chamomile, a mild drop of lemon and honey, simmered valerian root. 

“Smells like the other blend.” Olruggio said as he took another long drink. Qifrey jumped. He looked offended by the accusation even though you didn't know what that accusation was.

“No it doesn’t!” He hissed. He carefully rolled the liquid on his tongue as he tried to determine the flavor. 

“What other blend?” you asked. You didn’t know everything Qifrey kept in the cabinet but you knew which ones for sleep and energy. For only the adults and the ones safe for children. Qifrey had a carefully detailed system that worked rather well. It was easy for the girls to go in without help and get what they wanted even when an adult was not around.

Olruggio raised a brow, his contraption forgotten on the floor next to him. You still don't know what he's working on. It looked mechanical. “Oh, you’ve never told her?”

Qifrey flushed and your curiosity took root. “Told me what?” Qifrey refused to make eye contact with you and that only fueled you more. “What blend?”

Qifrey hid very little from you, but you knew there were things that he would never tell you. Not because he didn’t trust you but because he trusted you too much.

You can’t imagine a tea blend being one of those things though.

“Do not tell her,” Qifrey muttered, embarrassed. 

“I am,” Olruggio said, “back when he first started—”

“Olruggio!” Qifrey moved, ready to launch across the table to cover his mouth but Olruggio pushed him away with a palm to the face.

Olruggio laughed, “Back when he first started making this stuff he accidentally combined a bunch of herbs that did the opposite of relaxing the body. And he made me try it.” 

You tiled your head, “What? was…was it caffeinated?” When Qifrey averted his gaze and Olruggio side eyed the man with a smirk, your eyes widened in realization, “you did not!” 

“It was an accident! I didn’t know!” Qifrey’s cheeks bloomed pink. 

“Aphrodisiac flowers come 'n all sorts of varieties apparently.” Olruggio said. He slowly brought cup to his lips, regarding you mischievously. “He didn’t know what he was doin'.”

“They had relaxation properties and you couldn’t sleep!” 

“Yeah and then I definitely couldn’t sleep after I drank that mess.” 

You watched the two of them bicker back and forth, eyes darting from one man to the next. Olruggio’s got a shit-eating grin on his face and Qifrey is so bright he matched the flames in the hearth. 

You snorted, trying to stop the laughter from bubbling up but it was futile. They both quieted when it echoed their argument. 

“So,” you said, wiping away tears “what did you do?” 

It was Olruggio’s turn to flush. He scratched his chin. “Uh, well…” 

“He made me drink some too, when we realized what was happening.” 

“And…?”

“I drank it and we…um,” Qifrey looked away. You knew that the two of them had some obscure form of a relationship when they were young. Somewhere between a couple and not, they walked a strange line of affection with one another. It never bothered you and sometimes the fact that it didn’t bother you bothered you. All things considered, you were living with your husband’s ex-boyfriend. Kinda. You should've had reservations about it but you never did.

“We slept together.” Olruggio was looking into the flames when he said it. The firelight danced in his eyes but there’s odd longing behind the reflection. Your chest aches but not in a way that tells you its jealousy. 

Qifrey groaned and leaned back against the couch covering his red face, ashamed. “Please do not think less of me, it was before we met.”

“Long befor' the two of yuh met,” Olruggio watched you from the corner of his eye. The light hearted atmosphere had shifted and there is a weight that settled over the three of you. You don’t really say anything. The image of the two of them, pressed against each other, desperate and seeking release, lit a fire in your core that should'nt be there. 

You opted to drink your tea, hiding the heat you know has bloomed across your cheeks. 

Qifrey sighed, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

You smiled, “there’s nothing to be sorry about. You were young, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.” The comment made Olruggio freeze and he shuffled to get his gear. You hoped you didn’t run him off, the conversation was a bit more crass than you were used to having with them but you were all adults. There were no kids around and it was late. You were allowed to relax a little. Have a little fun.

There was a sudden scuffle from the kitchen, a soft scratching sound that you were all too familiar with. 

“Stuck again?” Qifrey inquired as he looked over at the darkened landing. 

You nodded, “he must have snuck in while I was putting dishes away.” There was a soft whimper and you stood. The resident brush buddy always had a habit of finding himself in strange places around the atelier, most of the time he could wiggle his way out but in the kitchen he could not. “I’ll get him.” You stepped over Qifrey, hiking up the hem of your dress for better movement. He held up a hand in case you tripped.

When you turned, Olruggio watched as the firelight illuminated your bare figure beneath the white cotton gown. Deliciously silhouetted by shadow and moving like water, your body swayed as you walked towards the kitchen. 

When he pried his eyes away from you, ashamed that he let them linger for so long, they were captured by Qifrey’s intense gaze. He watched him over the edge of his tea cup, over his glasses, blue eyes focused. The fire shadowed his jaw seductively. Olruggio blinked. Qifrey’s gaze wasn’t threatening, there was no fight in them, no challenge. Olruggio wanted to say something but couldn’t. What would he say? Your wife is naked under that gown and I can’t help but ogle her. Can I stare a little longer? 

But, to Olruggio’s shock, the way Qifrey regarded him made it clear that he didn’t mind that Olruggio’s study was longer than it should have been or how his focus was on that of his wife. 

He was sure that he was tired and the low light translated it all incorrectly but it looked like Qifrey was welcoming the action. Inviting it even. 

She is beautiful, isn’t she? His eyes whispered. Go on, look a bit longer, drink her down like I do.

He'd seen that look only once before, when he was whimpering beneath him while they were chasing each other’s pleasure, high on badly measured tea and desperate for release. He didn’t think he’d ever see it again. Let alone directed at him and about you. 

And poor Olruggio didn’t know what to do with that.

[night-fall-moon]

Don’t even know what to say to this other than I’m kicking my feet, but I feel like I say that all that time. It’s true tho. ✋☹️

[cozmowrites]

It'll Pass

[Qifrey, WHA]

x reader, angst

-----

The kettle clicked softly above the fire. You watched it, waiting for the whistle, although... watching it never sped it up. Somewhere upstairs, brushes clinked in a jar where one of the girls was late night studying. It was probably Coco, to be honest. She always studied late.

The atelier was quiet enough that your thoughts had nowhere to hide.

You sat cross-legged on the floor near the low table, your gaze snapped back to what you were working on. Sorting through stacks of parchment and half-finished spell diagrams while trying very hard not to look at Qifrey.

Which, unfortunately, was difficult.

He sat opposite you, hair spilling over one eye as he carefully repaired a student's practice page. Candlelight softened the sharp edges of him. His visible eye moved slowly over the page, thoughtful and patient.

You had spent years beside him now. Years teaching together. Traveling together. Fixing problems around the towns together. Sharing meals at impossible hours because neither of you remembered to eat until midnight.

Somewhere in all those ordinary little moments, your heart had ruined you.

“You’re staring again,” Qifrey said lightly without looking up.

Heat rose immediately to your face. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“You can’t prove that.” You huffed, looking away immediately.

A smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Mm.”

You hated how fond that sound made you feel.

The rain outside grew heavier. It hit rough against the windows and the wind blew which rattled the frames.

You forced yourself back to organizing papers, though your hands had started trembling again. Ridiculous. You had faced tattooed witches before., difficult students, injuries, exhaustion. The brimhats themselves.

And somehow this was worse.

Qifrey finally closed the book in his lap with a soft thud. “You’ve been restless all day,” he said. “Did something happen?”

“No.”

“That was sooo convincing.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

He tilted his head slightly then, studying you more carefully now. Concern settled into his expression almost immediately. It always did when it came to you.

Qifrey cared. Qifrey cared too deeply. He remembered your favorite tea without asking. Sat beside you when nightmares kept you awake. He deeply and utterly cared about you.

Anyone would mistake it for love. You already had.

Your fingers tightened around the parchment in your lap. “Qifrey,” you started.

He hummed softly.

Then the words died in your throat. Coward.

“You know,” he said after a moment, voice warm with amusement, “usually when someone says my name like that, they’re about to confess to something terrible. Olruggio does it and Coco...”

Despite yourself, you laughed quietly.

“There,” he said. “Better.”

It didn't feel better. He eased tension like it was second nature. Smoothed rough feelings before they could fully emerge.

“I think,” you said slowly, “I’m in love with you.”

The room became still.

Qifrey’s expression did not change immediately, which somehow made it more painful. The candle crackled softly between you. Rain against the windows. Your own heartbeat growing louder and louder.

Then Qifrey smiled. Devastating. “Oh,” he said quietly. Qifrey set the repaired book aside carefully, buying himself time. You watched the movement of his hands instead of his face. “I care about you very much,” he said.

There it was.

The beginning of the end.

You swallowed hard and nodded once, trying to save him from having to continue, but Qifrey always insisted on honesty when things mattered.

“You’re one of the most important people in my life,” he continued softly. “And I think… perhaps because of that, I should be truthful with you.”

Your chest hurt.

“I don’t feel the same way.”

The words were gentle.

You looked down immediately because your eyes had already started burning.

“Oh,” you echoed faintly.

Silence settled again.

Qifrey shifted forward slightly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I think I should.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He looked like he wished that were true. Your throat tightened painfully. You stared at the paper in your hands until the ink blurred.

This was humiliating. Some awful hopeful part of you had believed he wouldn’t. All those late nights. All those soft looks. The way he always sought you out first in crowded rooms.

You had built a home out of crumbs and convinced yourself it was real.

“I don’t want things to change,” Qifrey said quietly.

You pressed your lips together hard before speaking. “They probably will for a while.”

His visible eye softened immediately with guilt. You hated that too. Hated making him look at you like you were wounded.

“I should’ve kept it to myself,” you muttered.

“No.”

“But—”

“No,” he repeated gently. “I’m glad you told me.”

You shook your head, smiling weakly despite the sting in your eyes. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Qifrey fell silent. He was a fool.

The candlelight flickered across his face, and for a brief moment something unreadable crossed his expression. Something tired. Then it vanished.

“I know this hurts,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

Another silence.

Qifrey’s gaze had drifted downward. His fingers rested loosely against his arm, almost tense beneath the fabric.

There was a distance in him suddenly. A wall.

You had noticed it before over the years, in brief moments like this. Times when he looked like he was standing very far away despite being right beside you.

You had never known why.

“I wish…” He stopped himself.

The sentence dissolved unfinished.

Qifrey looked toward the rain-streaked window instead of you. “There are parts of me that make this difficult.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“I know.” A faint smile touched his mouth, tired around the edges. “But I don’t want you thinking you were foolish for caring about me.”

You suddenly thought of all the things Qifrey never spoke about. The way he redirected questions about himself. How he smiled through conversations that became too personal. The careful distance he maintained even with those closest to him.

There were locked doors inside him you had never been allowed near.

Perhaps he believed if you ever reached them, you would leave. The realization hurt almost as much as the rejection itself.

“You really are terrible at letting people love you,” you said quietly.

Qifrey let out a soft breath that almost resembled a laugh. “Yes,” he admitted.

Tears finally spilled over despite your efforts. Embarrassing, awful tears you immediately wiped away with the heel of your hand.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

“You never have to apologize for crying.”

“That sounds like something you tell the children.”

“It’s something I tell everyone.”

Qifrey watched you carefully, helplessness flickering briefly across his face. It looked unnatural on him. “I don’t expect you to just stop feeling this,” he said after a moment. “But… it’ll pass.”

The words were meant kindly. But that didn't mean they hurt any less. You stood abruptly before you could embarrass yourself further.

“I think,” you said carefully, voice unsteady, “I’m going to go home.”

Qifrey rose immediately too. “Should I...” He couldn't even finish before you interrupted him abruptly. Too quickly.

“No.”

His expression dimmed slightly.

You closed your eyes briefly, then sighed. “No… I just need a little space tonight.”

“…Alright.”

He respected distance better than anyone.

You gathered your cloak with clumsy hands and moved toward the door. The rain outside could already be heard against the wood.

Before leaving, you paused. Qifrey still stood near the table watching you quietly, candlelight glowing around him.

He was beautiful, and kind. Gentle and now? He was unreachable.

“I don’t regret loving you,” you said softly.

Something fragile crossed his expression. “…Thank you,” he whispered.

You nodded once and stepped out into the rain before he could see you cry again.

+++

masterlist ⟢

more qifrey ⟢

requests ツ

[night-fall-moon]

The pain… make it stop - Spider-Man 2 game

[qifreyswifee]

Slow Dancing with Qifrey

It’s a quiet evening in your home. You’re sitting on the couch reading a book when you hear the softest humming from your bedroom. Your lover had insisted on folding and putting the laundry away, allowing you a relaxing evening, but you couldn’t ignore the allure of his saccharine voice. Marking your page with a bookmark, you stood from the couch, and made your way to your bedroom. No matter how many times you saw him like this—lost in his own little world—it never failed to make your heart punch against your chest. You didn’t recognize the song Qifrey was playing, but it didn’t matter, you were more focused on how he was feeling about it. You leaned on the doorframe, watching at the intermittent, subtle sway in his hips. He hadn’t noticed your presence yet, still humming along to the tune and folding the basket of clothes in front of him on the bed. It was a rare moment, and one you would cherish. You couldn’t help the smile that graced your face and it was as if your aura alone compelled his attention.

“Hi, darling,” He smiled, looking you up and down, “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” You sauntered over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist, and laying your head against his chest.

He chuckled, kissing the top of your head, “Would you like to dance with me?”

“What?” You lifted your head, looking up at him.

“Here,” He stepped backwards, out of your embrace—earning a small pout from you—“Take my hand,” He held his palm out for you to take.

You flattened your hand over his, gasping as he pulled you into him, his other hand making its way to your waist. He lifted your hand to his shoulder, “Relax, my love,” He chuckled.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Your cheeks burned, not comfortable at all in your dancing skills.

“I will lead, just follow me. I’ve got you,” He squeezed your hip, and you relaxed a bit in his hold, trusting that he would lead you, but worried about stepping on his toes.

He stepped once, you following in line. “There you go,” He encouraged, repeating the motion until you felt more comfortable in your movements. You smiled, looking up at him to giggle, only then to step on his foot.

“Qi! Oh, i’m sorry,” You pulled away.

He chuckled, “My love, it’s alright. I’m not made of porcelain,” He grabbed your hand once more, slotting his hand against your lower back, and pulling you flush to his chest. “How about we just sway?” He tilted his head, as if asking your permission to continue.

You nodded, laying your other palm flat against his chest, your head following soon after. He swayed back and forth, allowing the rhythm of the music to control his fluid movement. The soft patter of his heartbeat calmed your nerves, allowing you to melt into the sound. You closed your eyes, your chest squeezing at just how much you loved the man you were held against. His patience for you truly knew no bounds, he knew exactly how to calm your restless heart. And when you thought you couldn’t fall any further in love, he chest rumbled gently as he once again hummed to the tune filling the room.

You smiled, lifting your head to look up at him, only to find his gaze already fixated on you, pupils dilated with a glassy sheen over his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, hair lolling to the side and a childish grin donning his face. Your heart skipped a beat. He was so incredibly handsome. Before you had the chance to, he lifted your chin with two fingers, your toes lifting as if an invisible force pulled them up, attaching his lips to yours. Drowning out the music around you, the only thing existing in this moment being the two of you. Hopelessly and endlessly in love.

When he pulled away, neither of you said a word, falling back into rhythm with the music. You took a deep breath, fully melting into him. Maybe dancing was not so bad, or maybe you just had a good partner. Either way, you wouldn’t mind dancing with him for eternity.

Based on a comment from the wonderful @originalhideoutcloud 🥰

A/N:I am an absolutely TERRIBLE dancer, so I felt like I needed to include a bit of that lol. Last time I danced was with my uncle at a wedding, and he told me to stick to sports.

*Please do not repost, copy, or use any of my works to feed your AI*

[night-fall-moon]

The Wild Waltz - Cecile Corbel

Ngl I can imagine this as a first meeting. Maybe an AU of sorts? Especially with this song. It just adds to it. It sounds mysterious, experiencing something for the first time ever. First impressions.

First meetings of him as a prince, a ball has commenced and he runs into you. It’s intense, new, wild, carefree. There’s this mystery to him that you can’t seem to grasp just yet. It makes him all that more alluring. What could he possibly be hiding from everyone?

It’s not like a Romeo and Juliet kind of thing, just you being interested in his character and the endless possibilities of what he could be hiding. More like a oneshot, just a once in a lifetime experience. Dancing with the prince who presents himself in such a manner, but his actions and choice of words exhibit something else.

Mind you Arrietty is such a good Ghibli film, please watch!! I need someone to edit Coco and her encounters with magic to this song. It just tingles my brain the right way. Like the song was made for it!!

Reason for why I thought about this is underneath!!

Be warned spoilers ahead.

Spoilers!! Don’t continue if you’re not caught up to the manga (plz I don’t wanna ruin your experience)

Anyways, there’s this theory that qifrey’s part of the royal family and more and more (possible) evidence is piling up. I can no longer deny that the theory has ransacked my brain. Hence why I’m thinking of this as a possible different scene for an AU. Omg I’m cooking? (I’m probably not lol).

[gingernut1314]

Spring Rain and Coffee pt. 5

Summary: Two years have passed since the raid on Anteiku and dead seem to have come back to life.

Content: Female reader x Hide Nagachika, ghoul reader, shy reader, takes place during seasons 3 (Kaneki spoilers, Scarecrow spoilers)

Word Count: 3.8K

Song: "Need Ur Luv" by Charli xcx

A/N: And that's a wrap on this little fic! Thank you to those that do read it, I enjoyed writing it very much! 😊

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Two years had passed since Anteiku burned to the ground. Two long, bleak years. You tried not to let the events that happened there take you over. You even tried to finish school but--you just couldn’t. Not when the campus felt so--dull without him there. Not when you saw him around every corner and when the memories hurt you too damn much.

So you’d dropped out and spent months rotting in your apartment. You painted to try and keep yourself sane, but the art you produced was only a painful reflection of everything you missed. 

Nishiki had been the one to come and check up on you. To get you out of your apartment and try and get you away from your grief…no matter how harsh the words and tough love had been. 

Touka offered you a job at her coffee shop, :re, which Nishiki all but threatened you to take. 

You didn’t like it. You hated it actually. You didn’t want to pretend to be happy all the time. You didn’t want to move on like you hadn’t lost someone so important to you. 

And the worst of it was Haise Sasaki, a CCG officer who came to grab a coffee from time to time. A Dove and someone who looked very much like Kaneki. 

Who was Kaneki. 

The others had had to stop you from marching up to him and revealing your ghoul status when you’d first seen him sitting there, reading a book and sipping happily like he hadn’t been the one to do it. Hadn’t been the individual who had killed him. 

You tried to not hate Hasie. You really did because you knew he wouldn’t want you to hate his best friend. Knew he had probably offered himself up on a silver platter to the crazed ghoul, just as he had to you. 

You tried and you tried and you tried but it wouldn’t stick. Not when all you saw was Kaneki sitting there. Not when he had forgotten who he had killed. 

The other’s issued you warnings anytime Haise visited and you took yourself very, very far away from the coffee shop every time. 

Time past you blink after blink. Work, walk home, sleep. Work, walk home, sleep. It's all you did. All you were willing to do. 

When Hinami was captured, you didn’t react. When the other went to help go rescue her, you couldn’t find the goodwill within you to help. And when Kaneki came back, really came back, he approached you despite the others warning him to just leave it. 

He sat with you as you scribbled in your sketch pad, the drawings never once coming out the way you wanted. Not once. 

He just sat with you. Said nothing. Like he knew nothing he would say would ever be good enough. 

“I saw him, you know.” You spoke after the passing of a few, long minutes, voice tight and eyes never once leaving the page. “That night.” Again, Kaneki was quiet. So eerily quiet you almost thought he had got up and left. “I told him not to. I told him you weren’t you. Of course, he didn’t listen.” 

“That…does sound like him.” He finally spoke. You snapped your eyes up to look at him. To find the guy who had taken your chance at happiness away and saw just how tortured he really was. Not just about his friend. But about everything. Saw just how hurt he was. 

He’s doing his best to help everyone. Destroying himself to do it. Is what he would have said…what he would have wanted you to see. 

“I can’t forgive you.” Kaneki nodded in understanding. “But Hide would.” Your throat tightened. Your grip on your pencil tightened. Pain unlike anything you had ever seen filled into Kaneki’s eyes then. Pain the amount of which was near terrifying. “You have a second chance, Kaneki, to be with the people you love.” You continued, starting back up on your drawing. “Don’t mess it up.” 

“I’ll do my best.” And he left and you felt so--hollow. Neither angry or sad or anything. Just--empty. 

Nishiki had brought you a cup of coffee you didn’t touch and sat with you for a long while afterward. 

Cold rain drizzled over you and the gathered ghouls as they tried to decide what to do about what Kaneki had become. It was all back and forth you tried to keep up with. Tried to have feelings about, but ever since your talk with the man of the hour, you couldn’t even get angry. Just numb. It was such a strange feeling--to be so completely unbothered, but here you were doing just that and letting the rain dampen your hair and clothes. 

The smell of spring rain filled your nose, pulling you from your dissociation. 

Fresh. Clean. Different from the rain currently falling around you all. 

It was a smell that had you glancing between hooded ghouls surrounding you to try and see who it belonged to. All you catch was a glimpse of Tsukiyama’s purple hair and the flash of Nishiki’s glasses and-- 

A gray robe blocked your vision and you allowed it, feeling yourself slowly slip into another bout of dissociation. Just stared blankly at the muddy grass and think of nothing. 

A hand grabbed hold of your upper arm and began to guide you away suddenly. Rain wasn’t falling over your head anymore, you noted as you blinked rapidly to see who had you. It was Nishiki, looking more troubled than he had when Kaneki had turned into that beast. 

“Did I miss something?” You asked, glancing around to find everyone still mulling about, as if waiting for their next move. 

“Uh--yeah. Something.” Nishiki agreed, glancing back himself. 

“What?” You questioned. When Nishiki didn’t answer you pulled him to a stop and went to head back towards the others, but he was quick to step in front of you. “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“Okay--just--shit, I don’t know why I didn’t just get Touka to do this.” He gruffed. 

“Do what?” Nishiki watched you for a moment, worry clear in his eyes. Worry that was so unusual for Nishiki to have for anyone. “Nishiki.” You warned. 

“Okay, okay. Well, there’s no good way to say it then to just say it so…he’s back.” You blinked up at Nishiki, confusion muddling around in your brain. 

“You mean Kaneki? Great.” You deadpanned, “I don’t see why you needed to pull me out here to--”

“No, no. Not Kaneki. He’s back.” Your heart froze.

Spring rain. 

Fresh and clean. 

That’s what you’d smelled. A familiar smell. One you had worried day and night about forgetting and you had really smelled it because--if Nishiki wasn’t playing some mean joke--

With breath held, you looked past Nishiki’s tall form to scan over the now leaving crowd of ghouls slowly. To find Touka watching you, worry seeming to have permanently etched itself into her eyes, not just for her husband, but for you too. You definitely didn’t need her to worry, not with everything going on with her now, but, as she joined her Uncle and your eyes found the only figure still standing there in the rain, maybe you did need it. Maybe she was right to worry. 

Your mind ran blank all over again. Your throat tightened so painfully you thought someone was trying to choke the life out of you. 

You didn’t--how were you supposed to react to this? 

You didn’t realize how bad your body was shaking till a solid hand came to rest on your shoulder.

“What do you want to do?” It was Nishiki's voice that sounded in your ear. Nishiki’s hand on your shoulder. 

You took in that wild dirty blond hair and those brown eyes so richly deep you could get lost in them and--you didn’t know.

What had Touka done when you all thought Kaneki had died? What had Touka done when he had come back, but as Hasie? You knew what she’d done when Kaneki came back for real. She’d slapped him but then married him in the span of a few days. 

Should you just do that? Just forgive him for--for not dying and go on with your life? Try to go back to--to normal? 

Understanding. 

That’s what shone in those rich brown eyes of his. Sad understanding, just as they always held for you. Because he always seemed to know what you were thinking--who you were and yet he always understood. 

“Do you want to leave?” Nishiki asked again. You looked the ghost over again. Noted how he hadn’t once pulled that scarf, which covered his neck and face from the nose down, off. 

“Yes.” Nishiki was quick to pull you away. 

You didn’t turn back. Not once. 

You fought not for Kaneki, but so you could sink your teeth into flesh and tear into it with your nails. You fought so you could feel something. So you could choke on the taste of blood and finally just break. 

He had been alive. 

This whole time. 

He had been alive for two years and hadn’t come to find you. Hadn’t even sent a letter or an email. Nothing. 

He had let you suffer through griefing him just for there to be nothing to grieve. 

After everything was said and done, Nishiki had come to find you again. 

“What are you going to do?” You asked, kicking a bit of rubble as you walked. “Are you going to try and fix things with Kimi?” Nishiki was quiet for a long time as the two of you walked down the destroyed street aimlessly. 

“I think I’ll try.” He started, “Because that chick--I hate to say it but I missed the hell out of her. I love her enough to try and win her back.” You nodded, but said nothing in return. “You still don’t know what you’re gonna do about Hide?” Just hearing the name still made your heart ache. 

“What would you do? If you had thought Kimi had died horribly only to find she was still alive. Alive and hadn’t even bothered to let you know?” Anger flashed in your chest as you spoke. You didn’t want to be angry. You didn’t want to feel this way towards him but--you couldn’t help it. Not when he had hurt you so, so bad. 

“I don’t know.” Nishiki’s words only made you feel even more lost. “But I think I would at least hear her out…From what I know, there was a reason Hide didn’t come back.” 

You had showered, changed, and covered yourself in a cocoon of blanks willing sleep to come and claim you. You needed sleep to come to keep you from thinking, but all you could do was think. Was struggle with what to do about Hide. It was maddening, really. 

A soft knock on your door had your body tensing. 

You knew it couldn’t be Nishiki. The two of you had grown closer as friends over the two years since Anteiku, but he was never eager to come to your apartment. Especially when it was still in the state it had been in for just as long. He’d said as much to you.  

You knew it wouldn’t be Touka, too busy with Kaneki and being happy. 

No one else would have possibly come knocking on your door. You had made a point of isolating yourself from others your whole life--keeping them just far enough from you to never cross over into that friend territory. 

There was only one person you could think of that would be knocking on your door now and the idea of facing him only made your stomach tie into such a tight knot you thought you might puke. 

Somehow, you found your body moving. Found yourself yanking your blankets off you body, shuffling your slippers on, and heading towards the door. 

Fresh, clean spring rain and coffee filled your nostrils as you grew closer and closer. Smells that had you freezing when your hand grabbed for your door handle. 

What would you say to him? Hi? How have you been? Why did he leave you for so long? 

You opened your door just as he had begun to head back down the hallway. 

You froze all over again when your eyes found him. Tensed up so painfully when his rich brown eyes turned back to find you. 

Silence filled the hall for a long, long moment. Silence and the sound of halted breaths. 

“I, uh,” Hide was the first to speak. A creaky, staticy sound you found his voice within easily but--but it wasn’t the same. Something wasn’t the same. You eyed that scarf covering his face from his nose all the way over his neck.

What had Kaneki done?

“I brought you coffee.” He continued, raising the white cup a bit to show you. “I know you think Starbucks’ coffee tastes burnt, but it was the only thing open right now.” He gave a sound that tried its struggling hand to be a huff in amusement. A sound that was more microphone feedback than anything else. 

You hadn’t forgiven Kankei. And found as you imagined what lay under the scarf Hide wore, you probably never would, no matter how hard he tried to redeem himself. 

“I think you’d be able to find less burnt coffee in hell.” Hide gave a cheery yet distorted laugh. A laugh that was still his. A laugh that tugged at your heart so much it hurt. 

You never thought you’d be able to hear it again. Never thought you would see him again, let alone joke with him. 

“You’re probably right.” His laughers calmed as you just--stared.

“Do you…” You started, voice breaking in utter betrayal of your will to keep it together. “Do you want to come in?” Hide’s eyes softened. 

“I don’t want to intr--”

“Come in.” Again your voice betrayed you. Made you sound so frail. Hide gave a small nod and started towards you. You held your breath as you held the door open wider for him. Held your breath as he stepped into your apartment, his clean scent washing over you like a tidal wave. 

You were quick to shut the door once he was inside. Quick understand just why Nishiki hated having to even look upon your home. 

It was a mess. 

Just a complete and utter mess. 

Crushed coffee cans and crumbled bits of paper lay scattered around the floor in numbers that could have only been assessed from years of neglect. Unfolded newspapers lay over the floor of the living room, paint splattered all over it. 

Two wooden easels stood on those newspapers, paintings you had abandoned still sitting there. More paintings you had abandoned leaned against the walls and sat in stacks. Sketches you had ripped from sketch pads lay amongst them and you even spotted a take-out container or two, residual blood of meals once within them still covering their insides. 

You kicked the closest take-out container far away from immediate view. Began to pick up the cans you'd littered all over the floor. 

“I--sorry about the mess.” Something like panic shone through your voice then. Something wound so tight it sounded like it might snap at any given moment. 

You took the cans to the trash only to find that too was overflowing. Had needed to be taken out weeks ago, so you resorted to placing the cans you’d grabbed at its base.

“It’s okay.” Hide tried to comfort.

“It’s really not.” The words snapped out of you more sharp and fast than you had intended. But you couldn’t help it. Not when that ball in your chest was expanding and expanded out of your control. 

You found rich brown eyes watching you. Rich brown eyes again filled with that understanding you only found yourself growing bitter towards. A bitterness you checked immediately as you rubbed your hands over your face. Rubbing at your eyes like you might gouge them out. 

“I--I’m sorry.” You breathed. 

“Why would you be sorry?” Hide asked softly. So soft it almost didn’t sound through whatever distortion was messing with his voice. You pulled your hands from your face to find his eyes once more. 

“Because--” You felt that pit in your chest harden. Harden so much it began to crack under the pressure. “Because I want to be--be happy. I want to be excited that your--” Your voice quivered, it pulled pain to the forefront of Hide’s eyes. “I just--I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know how to act or what to do. I’m sorry I walked away from you the other day. I’m sorry that I don’t know.” Hide gave a small nod. 

“I…I don’t expect you to know. I just…selfishly wanted to see you.” Tears burned in your eyes then. Because you too had only wanted to see him. Had only wanted to hold him when he was gone. It had been your only dreadful wish and now--now you could hardly bring yourself to look into his eyes. “Can I…explain? I don’t expect it to change anything. Hell, I don’t expect you to ever want to speak with me again but…can I please explain?” 

“I think I would at least hear her out.” Was Nishiki’s answer to you. Nishiki, who was one of the most cynical, quick to turn things negatively, person you had ever met. 

You found yourself nodding and Hide explained everything he had been doing for the last two years. How he had been trying to find a way to help Kaneki. To help you all. How in doing that he had gotten on the bad side of a very powerful and dangerous clan. How he had kept away to keep them from finding you. How he had disgusted himself as a low ranking ghoul called Scarecrow. How he hadn't even been able to start his dangerous mission for a whole year while he recovered. 

“All I thought about was you.” Hide’s brown eyes shut then tightly. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I just wanted to keep you from getting hurt.” Eyes so full of pain and regret found yours. Eyes that only push tears to well and fall from your eyes in hot streams. “But I only hurt you by keeping you away. I never wanted to hurt you.” 

“Can I…” You’re croaked after a moment of quiet passed between you two. Hide gave you his full attention, nodded slightly as if to say anything. “Let me see you.” 

His nods stopped. His brown eyes grew a bit wider at the request. 

“You don’t want to see that.” His voice came out small. Scared. Unlike anyway you had heard him speak before. It was--insecure. And Hide was never insecure. 

What had Kaneki done?

“P-please? I do.” You saw Hide’s fingers flex at his side.

“Are you gonna point and call me a freak?” He tried at being humorous again, but that fearful tremble never once left his voice. Tears fell faster from your eyes as you gave him a quivering smile. 

“Never.” Hide watched you for a moment longer before his hands reached for that pale gray scarf. 

The skin starting from his just below his right ear and crossing all the way over to the left had been ripped off. Bits of flesh too. The flesh of his left cheek had been completely consumed. Teeth and bone having been devoured in Kaneki’s gorge too. 

The damage ran down the center of his throat, veering off to the left over his collarbone and disappearing under his jacket. A speaker-like device had been implanted into the base of his throat; the reason why his voice had been so distorted. 

Your lips cut into a deep, trembling frown as you fought off the strangled sob that wished to bubble its way out of your throat. 

You knew he wouldn’t want you to cry for him. Not for this. You knew him well enough to know he didn’t blame Kaneki for it. Was glad he had done it, as messed up as you thought it was. 

“Creepy, right?” Again he tried to cover his vulnerability with humor. You closed the distance you’d left between you two instantly. Coming so close you were invaded by his familiar scent and could see every last detail of the damage done to him. 

You brought your hand upward, going ever so slowly as to give him enough time to push your hand away if he wished. He never did and your fingertips felt over the line between smooth, warm skin and the rough scarring of his right cheek. 

“You’re,” His eyes were big--watery like a kicked puppy dog’s. A small, choked sob sounded through the voice apparatus that tore at your heart so deeply. “Perfect.” 

“You don’t have to pretend.” He managed to get out, shoulders drooping low. 

“Why would I pretend?” You grazed your fingers higher to brush some of his dirty blond hair away from his forehead. Touches Hide leaned into, the watery pools lining his eyes threatening to break. “You’ve never once been anything other than perfect to me.” Hide said your name so small--so weak in the emotion washing through him.

“I missed you…” Tears streamed down his unmarred and marred cheeks. Tears you wiped away. “I know it’s not fair of me--too miss you like this when I left, but--” You gently guided him closer so that you could wrap your arms around him tightly. Hold him close to you and breathe in his scent and feel his presence--feel that he truly was here with you. 

Hide’s arms were quick to hold you back just as tight, burying his forehead into your neck. His body shook in the force of his held back cries. 

And though you were still hurt by him, you could no longer find it within yourself to keep being angry. To keep yourself from him when he had been dead for two years. Had been dead, never to come back. 

All you had wanted during that time was for one last chance to say you loved him. One last chance for him to hold you and kiss you and laugh with you. 

“I--I miss you too. God, Hide--” You couldn’t keep your own sobs from spilling from your lips either. “Please don’t leave me again. Please.” You begged, burying your face in his hair. “Please I can’t--I love you too much. I love you so much. It almost killed me, you dying I can’t--please don’t leave.” Hide nuzzled his forehead and face deeper into your neck, pulled you so close there was only the clothes on your back keeping you two separate. 

“I--I won’t. It’s over. I’m--I love you so goddamn much.” His fingers dug into your flesh as if he could permanently latch himself to you. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“Promise me you’ll stay.” You begged on your breaking voice. Begged as you slumped into him and he slumped into you.

“I promise.”

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[night-fall-moon]

Peak Tokyo Ghoul: Re angst

[ghostlygrotesquerie]

yellow! uh uhm I think you accept requests on WHA? ignore this or delete it if you dont though! I wanted to hear your thoughts on brimhat!reader x qifrey? if you have any??

Qifrey x Brimhat!Reader

Now this is an interesting question....

I think Qifrey would have a LOT (and I mean A LOOTTTTT) of conflicting feelings; I think no matter how close the two of you are, he'd be against it basically 100% of the time.

More thoughts down below, MANGA SPOILERS!!! vvvvvv

Okay so we all know of Qifrey's immense hatred for the Brimhats, especially for what they did to him when he was younger; we also know he holds major grudges, as seen by his less-than-amiable interactions with the Knights Moralis (I can't blame him, I am NOT an Easthies fan either 😭)

However....what if Reader dipped their toes into forbidden magic for Qifrey's sake....walk with me here

I'm imagining you somehow find out about Qifrey's condition and before he can erase your memories, you flee to find any type of cure, no matter how forbidden it is

It's a double-edged sword because even though he never wanted you to find out about his affliction, his apprehension about your fate -- especially if the Knights Moralis catch wind of it -- staves off the spread of the Silverwood

Very conflicting feelings; his hatred of the Brimhats and his love for you grapple each other every moment of the day. Even though you've gone down this path, he wonders about you and desperately tries not to assume the worst -- that once you get a taste of forbidden magic, you'll never be able (or want) to be rid of it.

This was never the life he wanted for either of you...but in his deepest heart of hearts, an infinitesimal glimmer of hope flickers; sometimes, he finds himself dreaming against all the odds that you'll find a cure and return to witch society -- to the atelier -- to him.

I haven't written headcanons in like six years so I hope it wasn't too egregious!! 💙

[night-fall-moon]

Yk I thought about making a character that acts on pure innocence while wielding a brimmedcap, and holding medical knowledge as well. In the eyes of the Knights of Moralis this is essentially a death sentence, so they’re gambling their life away in hopes that they’re able to help anyone who’s fallen victim to forbidden magic.

SPOILERS AHEAD!!

They would first appear at the serpents road arc, attempting to help Euini get rid of that nasty tattoo of his. Alaira obviously tries to defend him (cause brimmedcap, duh) but comes to find that they don’t really want to fight. Instead they help each other out, in turn they must keep everything secret.

Euini warms up pretty quickly, but Alaira still doesn’t trust them. Eventually they tell them the full story and give Qifrey’s Atelier a visit in hopes of getting a better understanding of what happened.

I’ll have to see what happens next lol. That’s all for today folks.

[ootooru]

Storm Surge

*:･relationship: Qifrey x Reader *:･word count: 1k *:･tags: gn!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, Qifrey cries, yearning (if you squint), reader and qifrey are both professors and have their own ateliers, friends since the great hall days, i'll get better at tagging, i promise *:･notes: MAJOR SPOILERS for the Witch Hat Atelier Series! Please read at your discretion. *:･ "It's heartbreaking. It's like I would be killing a person." "Pardon?" Qifrey turns to look at you. Your sudden thoughts hit Qifrey like a storm surge.

*:･ami says: first time posting on tumblr! i apologize for any grammatical errors or mistakes. this is also posted on ao3!

“It’s heartbreaking. It’s like I would be killing a person.”

“Pardon?” Qifrey turns to look at you. 

You lean back to get comfortable in the cushions and look up at the wooden beams of the ceiling. Sighing, “Just a witch’s musings…”

Receiving nothing as a response, you continued, “To erase the memory of magic… Or even erasing memories at all… Oh, what am I even saying?” Shaking your head, your wry smile does not give Qifrey peace.

Qifrey feels his insides churn. It’s dizzying. Disorienting. How such simple words could turn his world askew. The cold of the night is seeping into the hearth and his insides are crawling and chewed up, how can you sit so serenely by the fire none the wiser?

He scrapes his composure. “Killing a person?”, he finally replies.

You blink for a moment, surprised he entertained whatever words tumbled out of your mouth. Glad to have something to say though, you ramble on. “Not depriving them of life… It’s like you removed a version of themselves. When they come to their senses again, are they really the same? Are they the same person from before?  Fascinating to think about. Yet it is so heartbreaking…”

You close your eyes. The warmth of your atelier brings your tensed shoulders down from the tiring day, guiding your body towards sleep.

Qifrey, sitting near, was as taut as a string. The warmth of the hearth does not do anything to combat the chill in the air. What musings his dearest (friend) has that could undo a man like him. A monster bubbles from his stomach, and its tendrils crawl and freeze every nerve and fiber of his being. Guilt comes as a massive, rushing wave towards him while his consciousness renders him immobile. He hates water.

He dares to look around the room, and his eye catches the ribbon ornament of his pointed cap. His gaze follows it only for the monster in his stomach to grow and reach his throat. A storm surge slams into him, hit with every instance of the cap's button being unclasped. The Tower of Tomes. Olruggio. The night before he left the Great Hall. You. The Beginnings of His Atelier. Olruggio. You. Too many to count? Too many that he doesn’t want to remember? He doesn’t know.  He feels underwater. He hates water.

“Qifrey?” Like a siren’s song, he hears his name. Your eyes meet his blues. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Once you know you have Qifrey’s attention, your eyes pan towards his cheeks, widening at the sight of his tears. 

“Oh goodness! I’m sorry, I didn’t… I don’t–” Still shocked at his tears, you’re unsure of what to say or think. “I-I’m sorry Qifrey! Did I say something wrong? It was only just a thought, y’know! I’m  just thinking about the Knights of Moralis! They protect us! It just sank in me that I can’t stomach if I were the one to – oh, I’m so sorry, please don’t cry!” You face him and wipe the tears running down his left cheek. 

He was crying? Qifrey snaps out of it, leans down and covers his face. He breathes a shaky laugh. 

“No need to worry. I’ve just never thought of it that deeply…” He lies. His words feel like vomit to him. I hope you never forgive me. He raises his head and seeks to meet your eyes. He sets his glasses to the side, and breathes out a laugh he hopes doesn’t seem tense, “The hearth’s heat makes people a bit sentimental…”

“Oh…” Still unsure if Qifrey’s alright, you open your arms. Wanting to ease the tense atmosphere, you smiled at him. “Do you want a hug?”

 “I…–” Qifrey blinks. Then he huffs out a laugh, the tension in his shoulders dropping, even if slightly. He nods with a smile, leaning towards you and gearing his head towards your shoulder. He dares to inhale and bask in your warmth. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, as his hands find respite on the center of your back.

You hum and pat his head gently. Feeling wet drops on your shoulder, you close your arms around him further. You can never tell what Qifrey is thinking in times like these, and you have never found the right words to comfort somebody. So, you stay. The atelier’s walls are the only witness in this cold night.

Qifrey stays too. Alarms are ringing in his head, his heart tearing into two. It still comes back to him. The Tower of Tomes. His tassel and Olruggio’s ribbon. The night before he left the Great Hall. The button on his cap and the one on your cloak. Olruggio’s anger turned to understanding. Your eyes when he said those three words. His pointed cap and the sigils hidden inside.

Enveloped in your arms, Qifrey feels a crack. His hold on you tightens. Tears well up in his eye and dares not to glance at your face or his cap.

As the night grows deeper, you can’t help but wonder how much pain he has gone through in the times you were apart. When the days keep you both busy with your apprentices in your ateliers. How much has he gone through? How many secrets does he only keep to himself? 

You have known Qifrey for most of your life, ever since he stepped foot in the Great Hall. You, Qifrey, and Olruggio being the trio that was always causing headaches for the masters. From being apprentices, and now as fully fledged witches, he has seen you. You have shared so much of yourself, your dreams, and worries to him - and yet no moment comes to your mind when it's the other way around. He seldomly talks about himself, and you hope that he would share some of his burdens with you too. 

Oh, but he does. But you do not need to worry. You do not need to know.  That is reserved for the “You” he dreads to “kill” whenever his roots and branches grow rampant again.

[night-fall-moon]

Just kiss the chair from beneath me before kicking it over. Im so serious.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Strategy Meeting… Derailed || Sokka ||

A/n: Sokka smut first, then Aang.

Warnings: P in V , war room sex, table sex, bent over a table fucking, cream pie

The war map was spread across the table.

Tokens, markers, notes, everything perfectly placed, because Sokka had been at this for over an hour.

“And then,” he continued, pacing back and forth with a stick in hand, “we flank from the western ridge, force them into the narrow pass, and—”

You leaned back in your chair.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Your arms stretched over your head, your chest pushing out as your shirt raised.

Sokka stopped, mid speech, mid step, mid thought as he watched you. “…and then we—uh—”His eyes dropped, just for a moment only for them to snap back up. “…you did that on purpose.”

You smiled sweetly. “Did what?”

“That,” he gestured vaguely, trying and failing not to look again. “The...stretching, the very distracting stretching—”

You tilted your head. “I’m just sitting here.”

He scoffed. “No, you’re strategically sitting there.”

You leaned forward slightly this time, elbows resting on the table, of course your shirt had to have a low enough cut to show off your cleavage.

Sokka’s brain short-circuited. “Okay!!! no! nope—new rule, no leaning, no stretching, no… being hot while I’m trying to think—”

You reached out and dragged one of the tokens in a slow circle. “Continue your plan, strategist.”

He swallowed, hard. “Right. Plan. Yes. Plan.”He turned back to the map. “And then we...uh....push forward..."

You brushed your fingers against his wrist, just lightly though it was enough to make Sokka freeze.

“…I’m under attack,” he said quietly.

You smirked.

He turned his head slowly. “Are you trying to sabotage my planing?”

“Maybe.”

That was it.

Sokka dropped the stick. “Okay,” he said, stepping toward you. “New plan.”

Before you could react, he grabbed your waist and lifted you easily, setting you on top of the table.

The map crinkled beneath you, pieces that were once settled on the map scattered. “Hey—!”

“You started it,” he shot back, stepping between your knees.His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirts higher. “You know exactly what you’re doing when you look at me like that.”

You raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to burn the entire strategy meeting to the ground,” he muttered.

Your hands slid up his chest. “Maybe I am.”

He leaned in and kissed you hard.

All teasing gone.

All strategy abandoned.

His mouth was warm, insistent, a little messy and exactly like him as his hands gripped your hips and pulled you closer.

“God,” he murmured against your lips, “you’re trouble.”

“Your trouble.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, “I am painfully aware.”

His hands moved faster now, tugging at your clothes, pushing fabric aside until your pussy was exposed to the cool air.

Sokka sucked in a breath.

“Oh wow,” he whispered. “You’re already, okay, yeah, this meeting was doomed.”

You laughed softly until his fingers brushed through your slick folds.

Then your breath hitched.

“Still think I’m overreacting?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good.”

He fumbled with the belt around his hips because of course he did, getting it half undone before swearing under his breath. “Why are these so complicated, who designed—”

You leaned forward and kissed him.

He forgot the belt entirely. “…right,” he muttered, finally freeing his cock. “Priorities.”

He stepped closer, positioning himself between your thighs.

“Last chance,” he said, though his voice was already rough. “We can stop and go back to the map—”

You wrapped your legs around his waist. "Fuck the map." you whispered.

Sokka grinned. “Yeah, I thought so.”

Then he pushed inside you, slow at first.Just the tip, the man groaning into your neck as it brushed your clit.

Then deeper.

Until you were filled completely.Both of you let out another groan.

“Okay,” he breathed, forehead dropping to yours, “that’s… that’s better than any strategy I’ve ever come up with.”

You tightened around him, legs wrapping around his hips.

He hissed. “Don’t...don’t do that unless you want this meeting to end immediately—”

You did it again, a grin on your lips. "You're adorable when you think you can't last."

“Okay!! meeting’s over.”

He started moving, quick, eager thrusts that made the table creak beneath you.

The scattered map slid under your hands as you clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Sokka—”

“Yeah,” he breathed, “I know, I know—”

His pace was messy but strong, driven by pure need, his hips snapping forward as he tried to find a rhythm that didn’t completely destroy the table.

“Next time,” he muttered between breaths, “we’re—definitely..not..doing..this...on...important—documents—”

You laughed and then moaned as he hit deeper.

“Okay,” he corrected, “we are absolutely doing this on important documents again.”

Your body tightened, your breath breaking as the pressure built.

Sokka felt it. “Oh!! there it is, yeah...come on—”

His hand slipped between your bodies, rubbing your clit clumsily but effectively.

“Finish it,” he murmured.

You did. Your orgasm hit hard, your body tightening around him as you gasped his name.

Sokka followed seconds later, groaning loudly as he thrust deep and came, his grip tightening on your hips as his body tensed.

He collapsed forward slightly, catching himself on the table.

For a moment, everything was quiet until Sokka gave you a shaky smile. “…we should probably fix the map,” he said weakly.

You looked down at the scattered pieces, the map torn then back at him.

“…nah.”

He grinned.“Yeah,” he said, kissing you again, “we’ll wing it.”

The map was ruined.Pieces scattered. Ink smeared.The entire western flank plan now crumpled beneath your hands.

And neither of you cared.

Not when Sokka was still inside you, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours, trying and failing to recover.

“…okay,” he said weakly, “that was..uh, very productive.”

You smirked. “Was it?”

“No,” he admitted immediately. “Absolutely not. We are definitely losing that battle.”

You laughed softly.

His hands were still on your hips, still holding on to you, not letting you go. “…but,” he added, voice dropping, eyes flicking down where your bodies were still joined, “we might win this one.”

Your breath hitched slightly. “Oh?”

Sokka swallowed. “Yeah.” He pulled back, just a little only to push back in as a groan left your lips, your nails digging into his arm.

“Still sensitive?” he asked, a little too proud.

“Shut up.”

“Not a chance.”

His hands tightened on your hips as he shifted, guiding you forward.

“Turn around.”

You raised a brow but obeyed, sliding off the edge of the table just enough to bend forward, your hands bracing against the ruined map.

Sokka took a second and just looked. “…wow.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, a smirk forming on your lips. “What?”

He shook his head slowly. “Nothing.Just...… wow.”

You rolled your eyes but your body warmed under his gaze.

He stepped closer, hands sliding over your hips, up your sides, squeezing your waist.

“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he muttered.

“You’ll survive.”

“Debatable.”

He lined himself up again, the head of his cock brushing your already sensitive pussy.

Your breath caught. "Sokka—”

“Yeah,” he murmured, softer now, leaning over you slightly. “I know.”

Then he pushed back inside you, your hands tightened on the table as your back arched, a broken sound leaving your lips.

“Spirits,” he breathed, gripping your hips as he settled fully. “You feel even better like this, how is that fair?”

You tried to answer, only for it to die on your lips because he started moving again.

Harder this time, more confident. His hands held you steady as his hips snapped forward, each thrust pushing you slightly against the table.

The wood creaked beneath you.

“Okay....okay....this, this is good,” he muttered breathlessly. “This is very good, this is....yeah—”

You laughed weakly, your head dropping slightly, eyes closing.“You’re still talking.”

“I talk when I’m—” thrust— “focused—”

Another thrust.

“Very focused.”

Your walls tightened around him.

He groaned.

“Oh—don’t do that!!don’t do that—”

You did it again.

“Okay!! no!!now I’m losing focus—”His grip tightened as his rhythm sped up, less controlled now, more instinct than strategy. The slap of skin echoed softly in the room, your breaths mixing with his low, broken sounds.

“Sokka—” your voice broke.

“Yeah!!! yeah. I’m right here—”His hand slid up your back, pulling you slightly upright so your back pressed against his chest.

His mouth found your shoulder, biting lightly before kissing over the spot. One hand still holding your hips as the other clutched the betrothal necklace around your neck.

“Next time,” he muttered, thrusting deeper, “we’re not doing this where people can walk in—”

“You said that last time.”

“And I meant it less now.”

You laughed and then moaned as he angled deeper, your breasts bouncing with each of his thrusts.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s the spot—”

Your legs trembled, your grip on the table tightened. “Don’t stop—”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

His pace grew rougher, his control slipping again as he chased your reaction, your sounds, your body, the way you tightened around him.

“Come on,” he murmured.

Your orgasm hit fast, your body tightening around him as your breath broke into a sharp gasp.

Sokka groaned loudly, his thrusts stuttering before he buried himself deep, coming hard with a breathless laugh against your shoulder, a whimper leaving your lips as you felt his release slide down your thigh.

For a moment, neither of you moved, just breathing, recovering.

“…okay,” he said finally.

You waited.

“…we definitely need a new map.”

You snorted.

He kissed your shoulder. “…worth it.”

[night-fall-moon]

God he really is so fucking hot…

Papa more movie ☹️