Oz. 27 She/Her. For writing, gaming and thoughts of the feral and deranged sort. I play Monster Hunter and I main the Hunting Horn. If you know, you know.
overbearing men wanting to be your mommy just means so much to me. add the layer of psychosexual nightmare of being your horny Mother and all that comes with that
I saved this in my inbox so I'd have an easy place to look at it and behold its glory but now I must release it and thank you deeply for sending it to me!!
Hi Oz, how’ve you been lately? I hope your wrist is doing better ^_^
HELLO! I am actually visiting the doctor today for it! Its been on and off. Some days are better than others. Im going to get back to writing soon, starting with commissions. I hope you have been well!
as your homeland teeters on the brink of destruction, alhaitham and kaveh are entrusted with the task to save it—leaving you behind for an absence with no promised end. but for someone who has never known a life untouched by your lovers, it might as well be a death sentence.
✦ content. 6.3k words ⋆ alhaitham x f!reader x kaveh ⋆ established polyamorous relationship. slight spoilers for the 6.6 archon quests. reader is a yearner and a lovergirl that adores her men so much, and they adore her in equal measure. reunions. slight angst. fluff. SMUT (MINORS DNI).
✦ foreword. the project that hauled me out of creative stasis. inshallah. i have never written neither alhaitham nor kaveh before (in big 2026?!) so please be niceys to me,,
READ ON AO3
✦ smut tags. threesome. spitroasting. oral (m&f receiving). kaveh is a munch n haitham lovesss getting his dick sucked #iktr. vaginal fingering. vaginal sex. facials. creampie. sloppy seconds (but only like a peek) (bc i got lazy) (don't kill me).
The dry, dust-laden winds blowing through Caravan Ribbat did nothing to soothe the persistent throb behind your temples. Sitting on a wooden crate near the edge of the outpost, you pulled your shawl tighter around your shoulders, trying to shield yourself from the harsh desert glare. Your stomach let out a demanding growl—probably the fourth in the last hour—but you ignored it, gently waving away a mercenary from the Corps of Thirty who tried to offer you a meager bowl of grain.
“Give it to the family near the merchant stalls,” you said, your voice raspy from the dry air. “They have children with them. I can wait for the next ration cycle.”
She frowned. “That’s what you said yesterday.”
A quaint smile touched your lips. “Because someone else needs it more than I do.”
The mercenary grumbled something about cityfolk with foolish savior complexes before shuffling off to the next group over. You couldn’t even refute her words if you tried.
You were a professor of the Sumeru Akademiya, a woman of intellect and high station, yet out here, none of that mattered. When Lesser Lord Kusanali ordered the mass evacuation of Sumeru City and the rainforest due to the sudden, catastrophic corruption of Irminsul, you were swept away with the rest of the populace. But a decree of that gravity did not come without a price. The citizens were in a perpetual state of unrest, the Corps of Thirty was stretched thin, and there was the impending danger of food running out before the Dendro Archon could resolve the anomaly within the world tree.
Desperate to help make things easier for the people in your vicinity, you’d decline every single meal the mercenaries would offer. Instead, you strictly rationed a handful of Zaytun peaches you had managed to forage when your group first fled the borders of the rainforest. You even gave up your comfortable cot inside the main barracks to an elderly couple, casually lying to the medics that your so-called scholarly insomnia would keep you awake anyway.
However, the truth was much less complicated, and much more embarrassing to admit aloud. You couldn’t sleep because, for the first time in years, your lovers weren’t by your side.
Living under the same roof as Alhaitham and Kaveh meant navigating a constant storm of clashing ideals. One was cold, fiercely pragmatic and calculated; the other was a bleeding heart, an idealist who wore his emotions on his sleeve. They were two hotheaded forces of nature, and you were the grounding wire that kept the house from tearing itself apart.
But for all their bickering, they found common ground in you.
Your lovers doted on you to a fault. In fact, they had an unspoken, fiercely protective rule that you were never to be left alone. If Alhaitham was buried in his duties as a Scribe, Kaveh was by your side, making sure you ate your fill and dragooned you into walks through the Grand Bazaar. If Kaveh was away at a construction site, Alhaitham was there, silently reading on the divan next to you, his foot hooked over your ankle just to maintain contact.
Through the years, you had been utterly, unapologetically spoiled rotten by their devotion, and now, the abrupt separation was something you had a difficult time navigating.
Logically, you understood exactly why they weren’t here. While the rest of the city fled to the desert, Alhaitham and Kaveh had been summoned to the Temple of Silence, where the grand sages of the Akademiya and the rest of Sumeru’s protectors had reached a desperate conclusion. If they could not save Irminsul, they would have to anchor Teyvat’s leylines onto an entirely different yet ancient system known as the Aaru.
They needed Alhaitham’s flawless memory, since he had meticulously read and memorized its ancient manuals, and it required Kaveh’s unparalleled engineering genius to physically manipulate and oversee the volatile revival of such a massive machine. It was a task practically tailor-made for your lovers, but knowing that did not stop the bitter taste of helplessness in your mouth.
Your own area of expertise as a professor did not touch the esoteric mechanisms of King Deshret’s civilization. For all the accolades you had to your name, you were useless to them right now. You couldn’t offer to help; you would only be a distraction, a liability when the very existence of Sumeru itself was on the brink of collapse.
“Did you hear? Some merchants tried to head back toward Gandharva Ville,” a strained whisper passed between a group of evacuees nearby, snapping you out of your thoughts. “They say Lesser Lord Kusanali was just being overtly cautious. There’s nothing wrong with the city!”
“Quiet, you fool,” another snapped. “Do you really want to risk dying like that?”
Doubt, fear, and restlessness were spreading through Caravan Ribbat like wildfire. People were panicked, cooped up in an unfamiliar, harsh environment, whispering conspiracies amongst each other. You closed your eyes, tuning out their voices as you recalled some advice Kaveh once imparted for times when your mind was too loud.
Think of the last time you were happy. That’ll help you look forward to feeling it again. Help you feel a bit more grounded.
Breathing in the dry air, you let your mind drift back to a rare, miraculous weekend where all three of your schedules had perfectly aligned. No lectures, no administrative duties, and no demanding architectural clients.
Just the three of you, tucked inside the quiet sanctuary of your home.
The morning had started with a cleaning frenzy. Kaveh was aggressively sweeping the living room while loudly lecturing Alhaitham about leaving his reference books scattered like stepping stones across the floor. On the other hand, Alhaitham merely turned a page with a smirk he knew would rile the architect up. You had ended up confiscating Kaveh’s broom and Alhaitham’s book, pulling them both into the kitchen by their collars to channel that stubborn energy into making lunch.
Cooking together had been more of a controlled disaster. Kaveh was meticulously plating a salad like a work of art, while Alhaitham chopped meat with startling precision, occasionally leaning over to press a brief kiss to the crown of your head whenever you walked past him. There was a constant undercurrent of bickering—over how much spice to use, who was taking up too much counter space—but it was laced with a kind of domestic warmth that made your heart swell.
By the time the afternoon rolled around, the heat had grown stifling, prompting Kaveh to draw a massive, steaming bath in the washroom. It was supposed to be a relaxing wind-down, but with the three of you crowded into the warm water, slick with fragrant oils, you should have known better.
You still remembered the feeling of Alhaitham’s strong hands gripping your hips from behind, his deep voice murmuring possessive praises into your ear. Kaveh had been right in front of you then, eyes dark with a fierce, burning adoration as he captured your mouth, lithe fingers tangling in your damp hair. The bath had quickly devolved into a blur of breathless sighs, and a slow, consuming passion that left all three of you completely undone. Your lovers had taken turns worshiping your body, their clashing personalities melting into a synchronized rhythm to ensure you felt entirely, completely consumed by them.
Afterward, utterly exhausted and thoroughly loved, they had carried your pliant body to the bed. The rest of the late afternoon was spent lounging in the tangled bedsheets and basking in each other’s warmth. Alhaitham’s heavy arm had been draped over your waist, his face buried in your neck, while Kaveh held your hand tightly against his chest until the sun dipped below the horizon.
Now that same sun was setting across the desert, painting the sky in shades of amber and bruised violet, but neither of your lovers were by your side. The warmth of the memory began to fizzle out, leaving you shivering as the temperature began its rapid nightly plunge. You squeezed your eyes shut against the stinging threat of tears, pulling your knees tightly against your chest on that lonely wooden crate.
Please be safe, you prayed.
Please, Haitham. Please, Kaveh.
Though your days had been a blur of endless dust and cold desert nights, the crisis did eventually break.
Thanks to the efforts of the Dendro Archon and the successfully awakened Aaru, the catastrophe had been rightfully dealt with. Irminsul burned for seven days and seven nights, but with the ancient precursor system fully operational and stabilizing the leylines, the evacuation order was finally lifted.
The journey back from the desert was a chaotic exodus. Displaced citizens flooded back through the gates of Sumeru City in an overwhelming sea of tears, laughter, and heavy baggage. Your eyes scanned the crowds, heart beating hummingbird-fast in your ribs. You hadn’t slept, you hadn’t properly eaten, and the sheer desperation of missing them had grown into a palpable ache in your chest, a terrifying certainty that you would simply wither away if you didn’t see them now.
But your lovers had a habit of always showing up exactly when you needed them most.
Striding past the entrance to Treasures Street, looking just as exhausted and road-weary as the day they left, were the two people you’ve wanted to see more than anyone in the world.
A choked sob left your throat. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t even care about your status as a respected member of the Akedemiya faculty, or the dozens of eyes that might be watching. You simply ran.
“Haitham! Kaveh!”
Alhaitham’s eyes snapped toward the sound of your voice, widening in rare surprise just an instant before your body collided with his. You practically leaped into his arms, your hands locking around his neck as your face buried into the crook of his shoulder. He caught you instantly, his powerful arms wrapping around your lower back to hoist you up, anchoring you against his chest with a sudden, fierce possessiveness that nearly cracked your ribs.
The tears you had held back in the desert finally ruining his dark shirt. “You’re back... you’re actually back,” you wept, your whole body trembling with sheer, unadulterated relief.
“I’ve got you. We’re here,” Alhaitham murmured into your hair, his voice rough with an uncharacteristic edge of emotion. He held you so tight there wasn’t a breath of air between you.
“Oh, by the Archons, look at you!” Kaveh’s voice broke into a frantic, tearful panic right beside you. His hands immediately found your face, your shoulders, his lithe fingers trembling as he took in your disheveled appearance. He noticed the slight hollows of your cheeks, the faint dark circles under your eyes. “What happened? You look like a mess! I was going completely out of my mind thinking about you out there all alone!”
Despite his lecturing tone, Kaveh was crying too, his eyes red-rimmed as he leaned in to press his forehead against yours, his hands cupping your jawline as if to ensure you weren’t a mirage.
Alhaitham let out a soft rumble of a laugh—a sound so rare and incredibly tender it made your heart ache. He slowly slid you down his body until your feet touched the cobblestone, though he kept his arms securely locked around your waist, refusing to let you go even an inch.
Leaning down, Alhaitham caught your chin. He gently tilted your face up, using his thumb to brush away the hot tears streaming down your face. With a gentleness saved exclusively for you, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, before finally capturing your lips in a deep, reassuring kiss that tasted of home and shared survival.
When he finally pulled back, a breathtakingly genuine smile graced his handsome features.
“We’re home, prana,” Alhaitham whispered as Kaveh wrapped his arms around both of you from the side, burying his face in your neck with a shuddering sigh as the latter added:
“And we are never, ever leaving you behind again.”
Your home had never felt as sacred as it did now.
The moment the heavy timber door clicked shut behind you, locking out the noise of a recovering Sumeru City, the frantic energy of the streets finally evaporated. Your first order of business was to clean all the muck and grime you all have accumulated in the desert.
The bath your lovers drew was a long, unhurried affair. It was meant to be a practical cleansing but it quickly became an intimate confessional. Crowded together in the rising steam as the scent of fresh padisarah oil filled the room, you each let out all the anecdotes of the past few weeks.
You told them about the more stubborn cityfolk who went against Lesser Lord Kusanali’s orders, how they eventually succumbed to psychosis and turned against each other. But for some reason, Kaveh was more interested in your scant diet of Zaytun peaches and how you’d barely slept a wink all those weeks apart.
He scolded you with tears in his eyes, his soapy hands gently scrubbing your back while he rambled about his own panic while trying to manipulate the volatile mechanisms of the Aaru. Even Alhaitham, typically so guarded with his words, quietly confessed how he had been vividly replaying every possible scenario of you in danger all while he deciphered King Deshret’s contraptions.
“You two have such active imaginations,” you giggled as you swiped a clump of soap suds onto Kaveh’s nose. “We all got back in one piece, didn’t we?”
Kaveh huffed as he rinsed it off. “Don’t you be smart with us, prana. We all know you were probably missing us to death while we were gone.”
“Agreed,” Alhaitham simpered as he did to you what you just did to Kaveh, delighting in the scowl you shot at him as you wiped away a bubbly mustache. “You’re so spoiled, you can’t even sleep without us anymore. What would your students think of you, professor?”
You stuck your tongue out. “And whose fault is that?”
Half-expecting him to bite back with another sharp quip like he always did, you braced yourself for the incoming banter. But instead, your silver-haired lover simply drew closer to you in the massive tub, pressing his warm lips to your forehead as Kaveh shook his head in amusement.
“None but ours,” Alhaitham murmured with a grin.
By the time the three of you finally crept into the master bedroom, the moon was high, casting a soft, silver glow over the sheets. The mattress dipped heavily under their combined weight as they brought you down between them. There was an overwhelming tenderness to the way they approached your body now—a stark contrast to the fierce passion of the bath weeks prior. Though they wouldn’t breathe a word of it, you knew your lovers were desperate to make up for lost time and completely spoil you back to health.
“Your mind’s wandering again, prana,” Kaveh whispered. He braced his weight on his forearms, his long blonde hair brushing against your cheeks as he began to rain soft, feather-light kisses along your jawline. “Are you upset with us?”
“So quick to coddle her,” Alhaitham’s deep voice vibrated against your back. He was stretched out behind you, his broad chest pressed flush against your spine while one of his thick, heavy thighs securely pinned yours down. His large hand slid beneath the small of your back, pulling your hips back against him as he leaned down to press his lips to the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. “Our prana is a resilient little thing. She can handle a few weeks without us. In fact, some time apart would just make her want us even more. You know how needy she gets.”
“Haitham,” you mewled, breath hitching as Alhaitham’s fingers traced a slow, deliberate path up your inner thigh, his touch incredibly warm and calloused against your bare skin. “You leave me to fend for myself for weeks and you’re still in the mood to tease me?”
“Well,” he started, mouthing at your collarbones. “You always sound so much sweeter after some… delayed gratification. Wouldn’t you agree, Kaveh?”
“Hmm, I guess you’re right,” the blond sighed. Unlike earlier, he didn’t offer you a comforting look; instead, his hands slid to your waist, anchoring you down onto Alhaitham’s crotch. “You really shouldn’t have given him an opening, prana. You know how he gets.”
You gasped as Alhaitham began to mouth at your neck. “Hm. She’s already shaking so much and we haven’t even done anything yet.”
“Stop,” you groaned.
A peal of laughter left Kaveh’s lips as he leaned closer to whisper, “Now, now. Did you get so used to living without us that you’ve forgotten who calls the shots?”
Damn it… When it came to sex, Kaveh’s tenderheartedness would often become eclipsed by his penchant for teasing you, perfectly aligning with Alhaitham’s love for tearing down your defenses against your will.
“Let’s remind her then,” Alhaitham hummed. “All those weeks in the desert, and all you can do is whine. How about we see you beg instead.”
You shot him a petulant look. “But—”
Before you could get another word out, Kaveh captured your mouth with his, silencing any further protests with a deep, consuming kiss. His tongue parted your lips with a soft groan, his hands sliding down to cup your breasts, thumbs rhythmically sweeping over your nipples until they hardened under his touch. You arched into him almost instinctively as your fingers tangled in his damp hair, anchoring him closer as his chest pressed flat against yours.
Behind you, Alhaitham’s hand had found the aching center of your desire. He was agonizingly gentle as his long fingers parted your folds and you could barely form a single thought when he slid one into your slick channel. A breathless cry escaped your lips into Kaveh’s mouth as your hips bucked against Alhaitham’s palm.
“So eager for us, are you?” Kaveh murmured, breaking the kiss to look down at you, his eyes dark with a heady mixture of lust and profound adoration. He leaned down to suckle at your throat, his breath hot against your skin. “Were you this lonely the whole time, prana? Tell us.”
For a split second, you wanted to be stubborn and pretend you had handled the separation perfectly fine. But as Alhaitham’s fingers stroked your weeping heat and Kaveh’s lips burned against your jaw, you realized you were just too tired of being strong. Right now, you just wanted to surrender to the overwhelming luxury of being theirs. You wanted them to take total control, to make you come so many times that the agonizing memory of your time apart would be entirely washed away.
“I was,” you whispered, the promise of pleasure finally overriding your pride. “I couldn't even sleep without you both. Please... don’t make me wait anymore.”
The raw honesty of your admission hung heavily in the dim room, prompting your lovers to share a brief look over your body. It was clear neither of them had expected you to yield so quickly, but the realization only fueled their desire.
“Alright then,” Alhaitham acquiesced, his taking on that possessive tone that always made your core ache. “Maybe you do deserve some respite.”
The sudden quickening of Alhaitham’s fingers threw your senses into an absolute tailspin. With a second finger sliding deep inside your weeping cunt, he began a relentless pace that targeted your sweet spot with excruciating precision. You could only throw your head back against his shoulder, a broken sob catching in your throat as he leaned up to suckle lovebites into the tender skin right where your shoulder sloped.
In front of you, Kaveh was utterly transfixed by the desperate, needy sounds leaving your lips. His hands slid up to eagerly fondle your breasts, squeezing and molding the soft flesh. Leaning down, he enveloped one aching tip, plucking at it with his lips and sucking on your nipple with a desperation that had you arching. He was uncharacteristically feral. His teeth grazing your sensitive skin, leaving blooming bruises across your chest and making you cry out into the quiet room.
“Would you look at that,” Kaveh panted against your damp skin, his lips slick with a mixture of his saliva and your sweat. “Wrecked for us after just a few touches. You’re dripping all over Haitham's hand, prana.”
“Please,” you choked out, your hips bucking frantically against Alhaitham’s palm as the unbearable heat in your navel coiled into a tight, screaming peak. “I'm going to come... let me come—”
But before the impending climax could wash over you, your lovers suddenly moved in perfect, unspoken synchronization. Alhaitham abruptly slipped his fingers from your soaking core, and Kaveh pulled away, cutting off the blinding pleasure so fast you let out a pathetic whine of protest.
Before you could even process the loss, their large hands were firmly gripping your hips and waist, flipping you over and shifting your pliant, trembling body until you were forced onto your hands and knees in the center of the bed.
The cold air of the bedroom hit your thoroughly marked skin, making you shiver, but the isolation lasted for only a heartbeat. Alhaitham shifted to kneel directly in front of you, aquamarine eyes half-lidded as he grabbed your chin, tilting your face up to look at him. Meanwhile the mattress dipped as Kaveh settled between your spread thighs, his hot breath fanning across your drenched, aching folds.
“K-Kaveh?” you whimpered, your fingers knotting into the damp sheets.
He didn’t offer any explanation, nor did he wait for permission. Kaveh gripped your ass with both hands, spreading you open, and immediately buried his face between your thighs. His hot tongue dragged slowly up your dripping slit before pushing inside you, letting your arousal drip straight onto his tongue. A muffled groan escaped him, the vibration shooting straight through your core as he continued to devour you.
You arched off the bed, a loud cry ripping from your throat, but Alhaitham’s heavy hand instantly came down over your mouth, muffling the sound into his palm.
“Shh, prana,” Alhaitham hummed near your ear as he removed his hand. He looked down at the sight of Kaveh ruthlessly eating you out, a dark glint shining in his gaze. “Did you think about his mouth while you were all alone?”
You couldn’t even dignify yourself with a response. Kaveh was relentless, his fingers digging into your glutes to hold you steady while his tongue swirled and lapped at you, tongue laving at your clit until your hips bucked uncontrollably against his face.
The onslaught on your senses made you dizzy with pleasure. Seeking something, anything to anchor you, your hands scrambled blindly across the sheets until they found Alhaitham’s hips. Your fingers curled into the thick, fluffy white towel still securely knotted around his waist. He hadn’t even bothered to remove it after the bath, too focused on ensuring you were tended to first.
As Kaveh’s tongue dipped deep inside you, mimicking a hard, rhythmic thrust, a wave of desperate heat pooled in your lower belly. Your face pressed right against the heavy bulge straining against the white cloth of Alhaitham’s towel. The scent of him—musk, cedar, and the faint trace of padisarah oil—filled your nostrils.
“Haitham,” you whimpered, frantically nuzzling against the heavy length hidden beneath the cloth, as your mouth brushed over the fabric. “Please... Let me have a taste.”
Alhaitham considered you for a moment, possibly thinking of all the ways he’s going to hold this over your head later. But at the end of the day, he was just a man—a man that could never say no to you when you beg so prettily to have his cock in your mouth.
“Needy little thing,” he muttered, though the hitch in his breath gave away his waning self-control. “But I suppose it’s no surprise that you’re demanding both of us at once after weeks of nothing.”
“Please,” you begged, tears of pure pleasure and desperation pricking your eyes. “I missed you so much. I need you.”
Your desperate pleading broke whatever restraint he had left. With a swift tug, Alhaitham unknotted the towel, tossing it carelessly to the floor. His thick length sprang free, heavy and fully hard, the flushed tip already glistening with pearlescent white. A neat, silver bush of hair crowned the base of his cock, making you look up at him with eager, half-lidded eyes.
When you were certain he wasn’t going to impede your ministrations, your trembling hands gripped his muscular thighs for balance as you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.
A guttural noise tore from Alhaitham’s chest as the warmth of your mouth enveloped him. He locked his fingers into your hair, not to push, but to hold himself steady as you sucked him off with a fierce, unrefined eagerness. Spit already dripped down your chin as you swirled your tongue around the leaking tip, savoring the salty taste of him before pushing forward again, forcing more of his thick shaft into your throat.
Behind you, Kaveh groaned loudly into your dripping core, clearly aroused by the obscene sounds you were making while choking on Alhaitham’s cock. It prompted him to drive his tongue faster, his lithe fingers sliding into your opening to stretch you, matching your own frantic rhythm. You were completely caught in the middle of their devotion, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
As the pressure continued to build in your lower belly, your hips took on a desperate, rhythmic motion of their own, slowly riding Kaveh’s face and fingers. The closer you got to your climax, the more your composure shattered, your shameless moans muffled around Alhaitham’s thick cock. This prompted him to gather your hair securely in his hand as he looked at the way your throat stretched, swallowing him down as far as you could take him.
But just as your vision began to blur and you were on the very precipice of coming all over Kaveh’s tongue, the blond suddenly stopped. He pulled away completely, leaving your soaking core exposed to the cool air of the room.
A pathetic, high-pitched whine left your throat, even more-so than the last. Frustrated and desperate for release, you instinctively started to pull your mouth away from Alhaitham’s cock, wanting to look for Kaveh and demand he fix this—but the Scribe’s grip on your hair tightened, holding your head firmly and dominantly steady in place.
“Ah, ah,” Alhaitham murmured. He tilted your head up with his heavy length still in your mouth, forcing you to look up at him. “You asked for this, didn’t you? Begged for it even. Finish what you started.”
The absolute authority in his tone was a lightning strike straight to your core. It made you so dizzy that your thighs trembled, and you hardly even noticed Kaveh shifting behind you.
The blond was already pushing your knees further apart on the bed. His warm body leaned over you from behind, pressing flush against your ass as his hard cock slid between your soaked folds. He dragged the fat head up and down your dripping slit, coating every inch of his length with your slick arousal, teasing your entrance with shallow little nudges before pulling back again.
“What ever do we do with her, Haitham?” Kaveh chuckled breathlessly along the nape of your neck, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he lined himself up with your entrance.
The friction of Kaveh’s thick length rubbing against your dripping folds had you whimpering almost pathetically, but the teasing didn’t last long. With a sudden, forceful thrust, Kaveh buried his entire length into you from behind. Your eyes went wide, a muffled scream tearing from your lungs as you were stretched entirely full. You were caught in the middle of them, fucked on both ends, filled to the absolute brim by the two lovers who had never, ever left you wanting.
Kaveh didn’t give you a second to adjust. He immediately began to rut behind you, his hands anchoring your hips with a bruising grip as he hit you with deep, grinding thrusts. He moved with a desperate, animalistic rhythm, driving into you so deeply that your hips barely parted from his groin for more than a fraction of a second before he slammed back home. The heat of him was overwhelming, and with every heavy push, you were shoved further up the bed, your mouth sliding deeper onto Alhaitham’s cock.
He let out a sharp hiss—fingers tightening in your hair the moment he felt your throat swallow around him. You’ve done this so many times in so many ways, you already knew how easily Alhaitham could crumble from pleasure if you gave it exactly the way he liked. However, before you could even gloat about that little victory, he momentarily slipped his cock out of your mouth, the sudden absence making you gasp for air, your wet lips parted and slick with his pre.
Alhaitham leaned down over your face as you struggled to draw in a full breath. He pried your lips open with his thumb, stretching your mouth open as he stared directly into your dazed, blown-out eyes, and deliberately dribbled his thick spit straight onto your tongue. The sheer, degrading intimacy of it made your cunt spasm around Kaveh’s length still pounding into you.
“Good girl,” Alhaitham murmured with primal satisfaction before he fed you his cock once more, using his own saliva to slick your lips as he pushed back into your throat.
You couldn’t tell where you ended and they began anymore. Alhaitham dominated your mouth, his hips bucking in a controlled counter-rhythm to Kaveh’s frantic pace behind you. On the other hand, Kaveh was completely lost to pleasure as he slammed into your cunt with frantic, desperate strokes.
“H-Hah— shit,” Kaveh groaned, his voice a broken whisper as your dripping walls clenched around his thick cock.
He leaned down, pressing his sweat-slicked chest flat against your back, his blonde hair falling around your face like a curtain as he peppered your neck with harsh, needy kisses. He bit down on the sensitive junction of your shoulder, marking you possessively, over and over, claiming the skin that had been untouched for weeks.
“You’re so tight, prana... so wet for us,” Kaveh wheezed into your ear, his words a filthy, breathless contrast to the desperate devotion in his voice. “Look how perfectly you take both of us. Our beautiful, spoiled girl... We’re never leaving you again.”
You could only whine and moan around Alhaitham’s length, your body entirely surrendered to the synchronized assault of their love. Kaveh’s grinding thrusts were hitting your sweet spot with each pass, while Alhaitham’s thumb stroked your cheek, keeping you anchored through the dizzying pleasure. Every inch of you was covered in them—their sweat, their spit, their scent, and their overwhelming, suffocating adoration.
You were completely ruined for anyone else, and exactly where you belonged.
The continuous, punishing rhythm of Kaveh’s hips finally began to stutter. He let out a shuddering sigh against the nape of your neck, his fingers digging bruisingly into your hip bones as his deep grinding thrusts lost their frantic pace. He was right on the edge, his entire body stiffening against your back as he prepared to release weeks of built-up anxiety and longing inside you.
Sensing his climax, you desperately needed to feel him fill you completely. You instinctively pulled your mouth back, parting from Alhaitham’s length. This time, there were no consequences; Alhaitham willingly let his grip on your hair slacken, his eyes hooded as he watched you collapse forward against his pelvis.
“Inside me, please... Kaveh, please...” you panted breathlessly. Your face was pressed right against the musky brush of hair trailing down Alhaitham’s navel, and though you’d been talking to Kaveh, your eyes were locked on your silver-haired lover’s thick cock, still glistening with your saliva and a sheen of his own arousal.
Behind you, Kaveh let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating hot against your wet skin. He shifted his grip, one hand wrapping around your waist to anchor you tightly against his groin while his other hand slid down between your thighs, the pads of his fingers catching on your puffy clit.
“Can’t even focus on which one you want at a time,” Kaveh muttered, the words dripping with a heady mix of lust and amusement as his thumb began to relentlessly stroke your hyper-sensitive nub. “A tenured professor of the Akademiya... reduced to being so completely cock-hungry for us. You really are a spoiled little thing, aren’t you?”
His humiliating praise, paired with the rapid, ruthless friction of his thumb on your clit, was the final strike. Overstimulated to the point of delirium, your climax tore through you with a violent force that completely fractured your body.
The sheer intensity of your moans and the vice grip your fluttering cunt had on his length broke what little restraint Kaveh had left. All the while, Alhaitham relished in the show before him—his two lovers losing themselves in each other as you all drowned in shared bliss. He let out a ragged groan, his hand sliding from your hair down to the back of your neck, thumb pressing firmly against your jaw to hold your face up even as your limbs went completely pliant.
As the waves of your orgasm left you entirely limp and breathless on the mattress, Kaveh gave one final thrust, burying himself to the hilt. He threw his head back with a choked groan, his body trembling violently as he came deep inside you, flooding your poor hole with his hot, thick release.
You were entirely undone, floating in a daze of post-orgasmic bliss as Kaveh’s cum began to drip out from where you’re still connected.
But Alhaitham wasn’t finished with you yet.
The steady hand on your neck kept your face tilted up toward him, forcing your glazed eyes to track his movements. With his free hand, Alhaitham began to furiously stoke himself right above you, breath hitching as he stared down at your ruined, beautiful state. Within seconds, he let out a long-winded moan of his own, painting your flushed cheeks, your lips, and your chin in warm, white ropes of his spent desire.
The heavy silence of the bedroom returned, filled only by the synchronized, ragged breathing of the three of you. Kaveh collapsed heavily onto your back, burying his face in your hair with a soft, contented groan, while Alhaitham leaned down, using his unsoiled thumb to gently smear his warmth across your lips before giving you a tender yet lingering kiss.
All three of you collapsed together in a tangled, sweaty heap on the large bed. Kaveh pulled out slowly, groaning at the sight of his cum already starting to leak from your spent cunt, before he flopped down on your left. Alhaitham settled on your right, pulling you securely against his chest so he could start cleaning your face with the towel he’d discarded earlier. For a long moment, the only sounds were your shared heavy breathing and the occasional soft kiss pressed to your skin.
“You two…” you mumbled, “are actually insane. I thought I was going to pass out.”
Kaveh laughed softly, nuzzling into your neck with a blissed-out smile. “We were a little intense tonight, huh?”
“A little?” You shot him a playful glare, though it lost most of its effect with how limp and satisfied you looked. “I’m going to be sore for days. You couldn’t even let me come once before tag-teaming me like that.”
Alhaitham hummed in amusement, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your hip. “You begged so sweetly for both of us. We were simply being generous.”
You huffed, but the sound came out far too content to be convincing. “I missed you idiots… but next time I’m tying you both down first.”
Kaveh grinned against your shoulder. “We’d like to see you try, professor.”
Exhaustion quickly began to pull at your eyelids. The warmth of their bodies, the familiar scent of them surrounding you, and the lingering aftershocks of pleasure made it so easy to drift off. Your breathing started to slow, body melting deeper into the mattress between them.
Until a soft, wet sound reached your ears.
A low, involuntary moan slipped from your lips as you felt two of Kaveh’s fingers push back inside your sensitive cunt, slowly fucking his own cum deeper into you with lazy strokes.
“Kaveh… what are you doing…?” you whined.
He smiled sweetly down at you, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head. “Just lubing you up for Haitham, sweetheart.”
You blinked, still dazed. “But… he already came…”
Kaveh’s grin turned into a cheeky, knowing smirk as he withdrew his fingers. “Oh, you sweet thing. You know how much of a deviant our Scribe is. He loves sloppy seconds. I’m just being a thoughtful lover and making sure you’re nice and wet for him.”
Your face burned. Before you could even form a proper protest, you felt the familiar shape of Alhaitham’s cock, grinding slowly against your ass, sliding through the messy mix of Kaveh’s cum and your own arousal.
“Haitham…” you breathed, half in disbelief, half in renewed want.
He nipped sharply at your earlobe, his breath hot and teasing against your ear as he rubbed the thick head of his cock up and down your drenched folds, coating himself thoroughly.
“You didn’t think we were done with you yet, did you, prana?” he murmured.
Despite how exhausted your body was, a fresh wave of heat bloomed in your stomach. As Alhaitham continued teasing your entrance with his slowly hardening cock, you couldn’t help but think that there was truly nowhere else in the world you’d rather be than right here—safe, spoiled, and completely claimed between your two lovers.
✦ afterword. i would've added more and written alhaitham's sloppy seconds BUT WRITING THREESOMES IS HARD MYAN. next time maybe. who knows! thankies so kindly to my vana mewnbuns for letting me talk her ear off abt this fic,,, my shayla forever ㅠㅠ also didn't rlly proofread this as much bc i could not be assed to do that anymore after slaving away w writing this for the past few days ASJHJDHASF PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!!
⟢ tags: master x apprentice relationship, eventual exmaster!qifrey x brimmedhat!reader, ambiguous age gap, reader's age is undefined, qifrey x olruggio being gay for each other, qifrey having inappropriate thoughts towards his apprentice, lowkey codependency, reader is kinda manipulative if you squint, spoilers for manga
"The selfishness behind my reason for taking on pupils made me ill. But they'd never have to know that. So I decided that I would put every fiber of my being towards becoming a good educator. Only now do I realise just how foolish that, too, was."
Qifrey takes on an apprentice to keep the silverwood at bay. It works, until it doesn't.
⟢ chapters: one | two | three | four
III. AND A HOUND
Among the handful of villages scattered across the Downs, Azmar is the liveliest by far. But on the eve of the autumn equinox when the harvest festival begins, the place swells with life in earnest—villagers gathering to celebrate the fields' bounty before the colder months set in, filling the square with music, dancing and enough food to feed the village twice over. As usual, you and Qifrey have been invited—though the invitation seems especially enthusiastic this year, after he'd retrofitted the village's water wheel with a levitating spell that'd doubled its milling speed.
The atelier's windows are dark at your backs as you head out together. The lowland winds are strong tonight, so Qifrey decides against sylph shoes; the journey on foot is pleasant enough, with Olruggio chatting easily about some recent commission while you walk quietly at Qifrey's other side.
You never did quite warm up to Olruggio despite Qifrey's early hopes, though perhaps expecting otherwise had been unfair of him. But you seem to have grown accustomed to him at least, your initial wariness sandpapered and buffed down to something almost resembling tolerance. Sometimes, you even answer his questions without Qifrey's prompting, though you continue stubbornly referring to him as Mr. Olruggio despite how loudly he complains about it.
Despite the years, Qifrey finds that Olruggio has slipped back into his life with startling ease. There are evenings where Olly appears in the atelier's kitchen uninvited, sometimes to discuss spellwork or steal food from the stove while Qifrey swats at him half-heartedly with a spoon. His work as an artificer takes him far from the Downs at times, to distant towns and villages scattered across the peninsula, but he always circles back eventually—much to your resignation and Qifrey's amusement.
The three of you arrive to find the festival already in full swing. Lanternlight spills across the village square in warm swathes of gold and amber as music drifts through the crisp evening air—lute and drums and the uneven rhythm of clapping hands—mingling with laughter and the crackle of open bonfires. Qifrey locates the village chief almost immediately, one hand on your shoulder as he guides you through between the long tables laden with roasted meat skewers and honey cakes. Out of the corner of his vision, he catches Olruggio eyeing the steaming decanters of mulled wine with great interest. Typical Olly.
You make your greetings to the village chief while Qifrey introduces Olruggio. The chief's face brightens almost immediately upon hearing about his affinity for fire magic.
"Ahh! You will be a very popular man once winter comes around," he guffaws warmly, clasping Olruggio's forearm with both hands. To Olruggio's credit, he accepts the praise with only minimal fumbling.
Once the greetings and pleasantries are finally over, the three of you drift back towards the noise and chatter of the festival—or rather, you and Qifrey do. Olruggio makes a beeline straight for the mulled wine.
"This smells heavenly," Olruggio exclaims when the two of you catch up with him. He's already hunched over a table, sniffing appreciatively as spiced steam wafts thick through cold autumn air. Qifrey's just about to remind him about the dangers of drinking on an empty stomach when Olruggio knocks back a generous mouthful, right before coughing out a wheezy sputter. "Woah. That's some strong stuff."
Qifrey snorts softly. He normally prefers to indulge only in private, but tonight's atmosphere is lively enough to ease his usual inhibitions. "I'll have a cup."
Olruggio grins, already reaching for the decanter again. "Tonight, we drink till we drop," he promises.
"Who's going to get us home, then?"
Qifrey takes the goblet from Olruggio—half-filled, but still heavy in his hand. The corner of his mouth lifts when he notices your eyes lingering on its contents, stirred by quiet curiosity. As far as he remembers, you've never had the opportunity to imbibe before.
"Apprentice, do you want to—"
Before Qifrey can finish, you're already leaning across the table to pick up a decanter. Both men fall silent as you begin to pour carefully into an empty goblet.
"Um," Olruggio starts, visibly alarmed when the level of liquid continues creeping higher and higher. "That might be a little too much—"
You ignore him. Only when the goblet is filled nearly to the brim do you set the decanter back down, deep red swishing dangerously close to the rim as you lift it to your lips.
You take a cautious mouthful. At first, there's no reaction from you at all. Qifrey's about to gently prompt you when your face scrunches up ever so minutely.
"Euh."
Without another word, you push your goblet into his empty hand before ambling off into the festival crowd—presumably in search of water to wash the taste from your mouth. Qifrey sighs softly through his nose and looks down at the two drinks he's now holding, though the fondness tugging at the corner of his mouth ruins any real attempt at exasperation. He raises your abandoned goblet to his lips instead.
Olruggio stares after you until you disappear amongst the throng, before glancing sideways at Qifrey. "You spoil them," he says, after a while. Qifrey smiles faintly into the rim of your—his now, he supposes—cup.
"It's hard not to."
Olruggio watches him for a moment longer. For a second, Qifrey thinks he might speak further, but whatever is on his mind ultimately goes unvoiced. The two of them drink silently side by side beneath the flickering lanternlight instead, arms brushing ever so often, and Qifrey is starting to feel the faintest hum of warmth unfurling in his fingertips when a passing villager suddenly recognises him.
It's not long before Qifrey finds himself pulled into conversation. He barely manages a glimpse of Olruggio—grinning, goblet lifted teasingly in farewell—before an over-eager farmer tugs him further from the table, insisting he hear about this year's harvest. Another villager he vaguely recognises comes up to thank him profusely for removing a boulder that'd been damming the river upstream. A young couple insists he share a toast with them, while an elderly woman presses yet another cup of wine into Qifrey's hands and refuses to let him leave without trying her granddaughter's honeycakes.
By the time he manages to extricate himself and circle back to the wine tables, the powdered sugar from the pastries still clinging faintly to his tongue, he finds Olruggio sprawled face-first across the wood, snoring faintly. Qifrey stares at the two empty decanters next to him before slowly reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
He's drooling.
"…Unbelievable." Qifrey unclasps his cloak with a quiet sigh. The heavy fabric slips from his shoulders, and he gathers it carefully in his hands before draping it over Olruggio's slumped back. The man barely stirs, mumbling something utterly incomprehensible into the tabletop.
Qifrey shakes his head and goes to find you instead.
He spots you eventually, near one of the smaller fires scattered along the edges of the square. It's quieter here, far enough from the heart of the celebrations that the festival clamour softens into a distant hum. You don't notice his approach—seated cross-legged with your back to him, next to a girl roughly your age. The flickering firelight washes over you both, casting your silhouettes in shifting glow and flickering shadow, outlined against the dark.
And the two of you are alone.
His steps slow instinctively. Even from a distance, Qifrey recognises her as the baker's daughter. He cannot make out your face from this angle but hers is plainly visible—dark curls pulled back from a heart-shaped face, a smile designed to put people at ease. Her eyes shine bright as polished amber as she speaks, hands moving expressively while the fire crackles warmly between you.
It hasn't been long since you passed the Pentacle's second test—he needs to ensure you don't accidentally let slip the secret behind magic. Qifrey lingers a few paces away, remaining just close enough to stay within earshot.
She's asking about your spells now. About the magic you've learned and yet to, the villages you've helped as a witch. Her fascination is written openly across her face, her smile bright at every answer you give. You're responding in your usual tone—brief, practical, somewhat curt—but she seems delighted to listen to them regardless. Even as Qifrey watches, she shifts closer gradually across the mat, until her shoulder bumps lightly against yours.
Quite suddenly, Qifrey realises what he's looking at. This girl isn't interested in magic. She's interested in you.
The thought lands strangely, oddly shaped and ill-fitting, a square cube shoved through a round hole. For a moment, Qifrey can only stand there half-hidden in the shadows, watching—and realising, with faint disbelief, that somewhere along the way, you've stopped being a child.
And he hadn't noticed. Not until now.
The baker's daughter is still talking animatedly beside you, chin propped in one hand as she rambles on about how exciting it must be to be a witch—learning magic, seeing things ordinary people never will. Every so often she laughs at one of your short replies, smiling as though your reticence only encourages her further. Eventually, her expression softens slightly.
"But it must get lonely sometimes, doesn't it?" she asks, tilting her head to look at you so that her dark hair spills over her shoulder. "Living all the way out there in the atelier?"
You shake your head. "I have Master," you say, plainly.
The words strike him with embarrassing force. Catch him off guard, soft and aching all at once, fingertips rolling over old bruises that have yet to fade. Qifrey still remembers what you'd said that day, by the fountain.
Master is the prettiest.
"No, I mean…" The girl blinks, then laughs softly under her breath, before nudging your shoulder lightly with hers. "Do you have someone you're interested in?"
You stare at her blankly. "What does that mean?"
Her smile widens. "It means someone you think about a lot," she explains patiently, leaning in with one hand cupped around her mouth, the ends of her hair tickling the curve of your shoulder. Qifrey can barely catch what she's saying from where he stands. "Someone whose smile makes your heart beat faster. Someone you want to kiss. Someone you like more than anyone else in the world."
Your brow furrows, before your gaze drops to your lap. From the shadows, just out of reach of the firelight, Qifrey feels a faint frisson of guilt stab through him; perhaps, he has kept you too isolated all these years as his apprentice. You should not have to learn about these things from a village girl beside a bonfire while he lingers awkwardly in the dark, hiding from your sight. As your master, Qifrey should have explained such matters himself—or at the very least, asked someone more experienced in these conversations to guide you through them.
You are frighteningly skilled in the domain of magic. You are quick to learn and quicker to understand, your mind sharper than most young witches your age, and you can navigate spells even some adults would struggle to grasp. It is his failing, then, that this conversation is leaving you aflounde—
"Oh. Then yes."
Qifrey stills.
The baker's daughter brightens at first—only for disappointment to flicker almost immediately across her face a second later. It's subtle, but unmistakeable. She leans in closer, echoing the question hovering in Qifrey's thoughts.
"Who is it?"
Qifrey should leave. This is not a conversation he ought to be listening in on; he should have walked away minutes earlier instead of lurking like a thief, making flimsy excuses for himself. He's just about to make a hasty retreat when, for some unfathomable reason, you suddenly look up and glance over your shoulder—eyes landing directly on where him, standing just beyond reach of the firelight.
"Master."
Qifrey's heart vaults into his throat. Caught. "Sorry," he finds himself saying before he can think better of it. "Olruggio passed out from drinking too much, so…"
So what? His explanation trails off uselessly. The words feel awkward and clumsy in his dry mouth, slipping from his tongue without direction or purpose. Under your gaze Qifrey feels painfully transparent—as though you are picking apart every half-formed thought behind his fumbling excuse with ease. It is a deeply unsettling feeling, considering you are simply looking at him the way you always do.
Before Qifrey can scramble for another excuse—or perhaps, to flee entirely—you rise to your feet, brushing the dust from your clothes.
"It's alright. I can go."
Behind you, the girl's expression deflates with poorly concealed disappointment. It's quickly smoothed over with a smile, however, when you offer her a polite nod in farewell. Manners obliged, you cross the short stretch between you, grass crunching softly beneath your feet and fall into step next to Qifrey, the motion as easy and natural as drawing breath. Qifrey tries his best to keep his gaze from wandering as he leads the way back to the village square.
By now, majority of the festivities have begun to wind down. The two of you retrieve Olruggio from the wine tables; his friend is too drunk to do anything beyond mumble incoherently, much less offer any assistance. Qifrey quickly inks a levitating spell onto a stretcher you assemble from spare canvas and poles, and Olruggio moans tragically when you roll him onto it together.
"I'm never drinking again," he mumbles.
Qifrey sighs, one hand pressed to his forehead. "You say that every time."
"This time I mean it."
You snort softly under your breath, reaching down to cajole the stretcher into the air. "Mr. Olruggio can tell himself that tomorrow morning."
In response, Olruggio only groans.
Despite the sorry state Olruggio is in, it's a leisurely walk back to the atelier. Normally, Qifrey wouldn't mind the trek—embedded glowstones illuminate the winding path with soft pools of warm light, and the autumn wind is pleasantly cool against his cheeks—but tonight, his thoughts eat away incessantly at the edges of his mind. The question circles endlessly, its grip unrelenting, no matter how hard he tries to dismiss it.
There is someone.
Qifrey thinks hard, as you walk through the dark fields with Olruggio's stretcher floating between you, his soft snores accompanying the steady crunch of your footsteps on gravel. Who? Who have you been watching when Qifrey wasn't paying attention, thinking about, wanting to kiss? A few faces come to mind, but none feel right. And worse still is the uncomfortable realisation that he hadn't noticed—anything at all.
"Master?"
He nearly stumbles over his own feet. Qifrey's arms flail for balance, windmilling wildly, before he manages to catch himself at the last second. Faintly mortified, he glances over—only to realise belatedly you've been observing him the entire time.
"Master seems deep in thought," you say, unhelpfully.
Qifrey feels like an insect—pinned to a display card, positioned beneath a viewing glass, exposed to your wordless scrutiny—this feeling, again. He swallows and glances away, throat dry all of a sudden.
"Sorry." The admission slips out eventually, awkwardly. His own voice is oddly startling amidst the quiet rustling of wind in the fields. "I… overheard, earlier. What you and that girl were talking about."
You eye him for a moment before shrugging. "It's okay. I don't mind."
Now Qifrey just feels silly. The conversation lapses back into silence after that and Qifrey must bite his tongue to keep himself from prying further—your private life is your own, and if there are matters you've chosen not to bring to him, then he's no right to interfere. Yet on the other hand… as your master, is he not also responsible for your wellbeing beyond magic alone? For guiding you through all the fragile, complicated parts of adolescence no spellbook will prepare you for?
Unfortunately, Qifrey's own experience is painfully lacking—woefully inadequate for someone attempting to act as a proper mentor in this regard. He fights back the urge to scrunch his face up in frustration in front of you and drops his gaze to the path beneath his feet instead. Beldaruit had shoved a stack of books into his arms before he'd left the Argentgard—books about apprentice raising, books he hadn't so much as glanced through before abandoning them at the door. In hindsight, a mistake—because now, Qifrey hasn't the faintest idea how to broach this subject.
"Well," is how he ends up doing it, anyway. "The one you're interested in… what kind of person are they?"
You glance up and your eyes meet. Qifrey has to hope that the faint light of the glowstones are too dim to illuminate the desperate curiosity on his face.
"Master wants to know?"
"Of course." Your matters are Qifrey's matters, and the thought of you miserable or hurt over some unworthy fool makes something unpleasant tighten low in Qifrey's stomach. But you hadn't told him, and remembering that leaves behind a faint, irrational sting that Qifrey immediately tries to strangulate with both hands. "But if you don't want to tell me, that's alright too. I promise not to pry."
Olruggio snuffles loudly between the two of you. He'd fallen asleep before you'd even stepped foot out of the village and hasn't stirred since. Without looking, you reach over for the loose edge of his cloak and yank it carelessly over Olruggio's face.
"They're kind," you begin, after a few contemplative paces. Your voice is barely audible beneath the night wind, and Qifrey has to lean in to catch your words. "Gentle. Everything I do, they're always encouraging me, no matter how I perform. And when I'm standing by their side…" You inhale quietly, then push out a soft breath before continuing. "It feels like being under the shelter of a big tree—as if nothing can touch me there."
Qifrey searches for something to say in response and finds himself strangely empty-handed in the face of your frank response. An emotion he can't quite put a finger on twists like gnarled roots beneath his ribs.
"They sound like an amazing person," is what he says, at last.
You smile—more to yourself than him, cradling a secret you're not quite willing to place in his hands. It's soft-edged, quiet, so achingly sincere that Qifrey finds himself caught somewhere between looking away and simply staring. Terrible as the thought is, he's never imagined you capable of looking at someone that way—so unbearably tender Qifrey feels as though he's intruding simply by witnessing it.
Yet, he's been proven wrong. Someone has managed. Who? Just who managed to put such an expression on your face?
"Yeah." You nod, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil, lacing both hands behind your back as you walk. "They are."
Something sour settles against the roof of Qifrey's mouth but he swallows it down before it can fester into something uglier. Qifrey should feel relieved that you've found someone who makes you feel safe—it's what he wants for you. What he needs to do is trust your judgment.
"Do they know?"
You tilt your head at him like the answer should be obvious. "No."
"Oh. Well…" Qifrey coughs lightly, unsure. "If they're so important to you, then maybe you should tell them?" It seems like the next step in the natural order of things—or, at least Qifrey thinks it is. He doesn't know. His gaze flickers down to the snoring lump on the stretcher, one arm dangling limply over the side before he looks away again. You frown.
"How?"
Qifrey immediately regrets bringing up the subject at all. "Well, I…" He falters almost at once, floundering—fingers steepling together before he starts absently wringing both hands instead. It's an impossible struggle, scrambling desperately for words that don't make him sound completely inane while you stare. "I think it should… probably be somewhere private? With only the two of you?" Qifrey offers uncertainly, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. "A good moment when the other person isn't busy or distracted… and all their attention is on you."
"Oh," you say, far too seriously. Qifrey can feel his face growing warmer by the second. Stars above, he wants to pluck off his hat and shove his head face-first into it until this conversation passes. But you are looking at him attentively, still awaiting your master's advice, and so Qifrey forces himself to continue.
"I don't think you need to prepare anything elaborate," he adds on, weakly. "The important thing is to be sincere when you do it."
"Sincere," you repeat.
"Yes. Even if they don't share the same feelings…" Qifrey clears his throat lightly. He desperately needs something to distract himself but has nothing. "If what you say is genuine, then I believe the other person will understand that."
You're silent for a moment. There's a thoughtful expression on your face that makes Qifrey wonder whether you are truly turning his disastrous advice over in your head.
"What about Master? Is there someone you're interested in?"
For the second time that night, Qifrey nearly trips over his own feet. He lurches dangerously for a second, gravel crunching sharply beneath the soles of his boots before he glances over with a light chastisement on his lips; certainly, you must be teasing him. But it doesn't seem so. You only regard Qifrey with those familiar, inquisitive eyes—and heat crawls slowly up his neck. It's moments like this that make him even more grateful for his collar.
"You…" Qifrey reaches out before he can think better of it. You startle, eyes darting up when his hand comes to settle atop your head.
"Master?"
"I don't have time for romance," Qifrey says, with a lightness he doesn't entirely feel. "My hands are already full with an apprentice like you."
"So Master is blaming me?"
Your disgruntled expression almost makes him laugh despite himself. "Perhaps." Qifrey doesn't elaborate, offering no further explanation before his hand begins ruffling through your hair instead. You let out a startled yelp and try to duck away, glaring up in poorly concealed offence while Qifrey smiles properly for the first time that night.
"Master!"
One day, you will leave the atelier behind. You will become a fine witch—far finer than Qifrey ever was—and perhaps you will travel farther than he's dared, to lands past the peninsula and beyond. Or perhaps you might follow in his footsteps, taking on apprentices of your own with kinder intentions than he did you, and maybe you will build a life with the person you spoke of so warmly tonight, your future unfolding slowly beside theirs instead of his. There are infinite prospects, such countless possibilities, yet the one thing Qifrey is certain of is this: that one day, inevitably, you will surpass him in every way, just as a sapling eventually outgrows the shade of the tree that sheltered it. And that day…
Qifrey finds himself looking forward to it.
The spring weather here possesses a notoriously fickle mind; one moment the sun hangs bright and warm overhead, turning the hills of the Downs golden with its light—and the next there's rain scattering across the grassy slopes in glittering sheets. Olruggio's out today, on another job at some nearby lord's castle, and Qifrey is in the kitchen taking stock of the pantry staples when the first droplets begin pattering against the atelier windows. Frowning faintly, Qifrey glances up from baskets of legumes on the counter to peer out of the glass, just in time for the drizzle to abruptly thicken into heavy rain.
The laundry, Qifrey remembers suddenly, just as you exclaim, "The laundry!" from somewhere near the door.
"Apprentice—" he starts, intending to tell you to leave it and wait for the rain to pass, but you're already out before he can get the words out. Sighing softly through his nose, Qifrey crosses the atelier to where you've left the door hanging half-open instead and looks outside.
You've already made it to the clothing lines strung up beside Olruggio's workshop somehow. You're reaching up on your tiptoes, struggling to to tug down one of the larger bedsheets he'd hung earlier that morning, arms already laden with gathered laundry. Even as he watches the rain steadily soaks the darkening fabric of your robes, trickles down the strands of hair plastered to your cheeks.
Before he can think twice, Qifrey steps outside. The cold spring rain splashes across what little bare skin he has exposed, droplets scattering unrelentingly across his senses, but it's still enough to make him cringe. Qifrey ignores the discomfort, hurrying across the grass towards where you're wrestling with the sheets.
"Apprentice."
"Master?" you blurt, visibly shocked to find him standing beside you in the rain. "What are you—"
"Focus on getting the sheets down," Qifrey says, already reaching out to take the bundles of damp fabric from your arms while you tug the clothespins free. "I'll hold these."
You hurry obediently. Rainwater trickles unpleasantly down the back of Qifrey's neck in rivulets, but he exhales slowly through his mouth and keeps his attention of you instead. With your hands free, you dart quickly from line to line gathering the remaining laundry before shoving them into his arms. Qifrey is just about to take your wrist and make the mad dash back to the shelter of the atelier when—
"Wait!"
You tug at his robe before he can move. Qifrey blinks in confusion, droplets of rainwater catching on his lashes as you yank your palm quire from your inner sleeve, hunching protectively over the paper amidst the downpour. In your other hand, your wand. You set the nib against the page, sketching with quick, practiced strokes as the spell takes shape beneath your hand—sigils and keystones instantly familiar to Qifrey. Then you're rising onto your tiptoes again, leaning in close, and Qifrey's breath hitches when your fingertips brush over the bare column of his throat.
A slip of damp paper slides neatly into the folds of his collar. Qifrey glances up just as the rain parts above his head, as though held at bay by an invisible hand. Water continues pattering steadily against the grass, the atelier's shingles, your dripping sleeves—but not a single drop touches Qifrey.
"I've always wanted to do that," you say.
Qifrey looks down at you, frowning. "What about you?"
You shrug lightly. There's rainwater dripping from your wand, and your palm quire is soaked through. "I'm already wet. Doesn't matter."
Qifrey clicks his tongue softly at that, but before he has the chance to admonish you—or simply drag you beneath the shelter of his own arm instead—you're already turning on your heel. Qifrey huffs, fondness and faint exasperation mixed together, and follows after you, easily catching up with his longer stride.
"You've gotten good at that spell, haven't you?"
"It's my favourite."
Qifrey glances at you over his armful of laundry in mild surprise. You've always shown to be partial to water magic, but this is a simple spell—nothing more than practical utility, the sort of magic most witches learn early and rarely think about again. An odd choice, considering how much of your talent lies in far more complex magic. "Why that one?"
"It changed my life," you say, simply.
It's hard to keep the smile from his face when you slip past him and through the atelier's open doorway. It's a small thing, really, but the thought that you've kept that spell close all this time makes him absurdly happy. Qifrey shakes his head, warmth settling in his chest despite his damp clothes, before he follows you inside.
There is already a trail of water dripping across the flagstones. Qifrey pauses briefly to inspect the topmost sheet bundled in his arms, rubbing absently at the drenched fabric between his fingers. Despite your efforts, it looks like the whole lot will have to be rewashed—a pity. He'll toss them into the washing barrels later after he's drawn you a hot bath.
"Apprentice," Qifrey calls as he ruffles his damp hair roughly, glancing around the mess of the kitchen counter. He'd been sketching a moisture-extraction spell earlier before the rain interrupted things. The water on his glasses makes it difficult for Qifrey to spot his own quire and he tugs them from his face, but he can still hear your footsteps pattering about near the hearth. Qifrey swipes at the lenses with a sleeve before he finally finds what he's looking for, quickly flipping to a fresh page. "Come here. I'll draw a heating spell to—"
His throat abruptly closes around the rest of that sentence.
You're standing by the hearth, back half-turned to him as you wring water from the hem of your robe. It's soaked through, rainwater falling in steady drips from the sleeves, pooling at your bare feet—you must have kicked off your boots in the doorway earlier—and the wet cotton clings to the shape of you. It is what allows Qifrey to see: the water beading at the ripe peach-flushed skin of your nape, every divot of your spine beneath sodden cloth, where fabric gathers at your thighs and pulls taut at the small of your back. More than he should have ever allowed himself to.
Heat roils low in his gut, a long-starved beast rearing its head—familiar in its shape but frightening in its intensity. Desire.
Qifrey wrenches his gaze back to the kitchen counter, heart suddenly hammering hard and fast in his chest. What is wrong with him? You're his student. You're his apprentice. You are so young, still barely just a—
—but you haven't been for a while now, have you?
Dread, cold and tinged with something uglier Qifrey doesn't dare name, curls its claws viciously into his stomach. How can he be having these thoughts? Worse, how can he possibly still be lingering on them at all, instead of recoiling outright from sheer shame?
"Master?"
Qifrey's head snaps up. You've turned toward him, brow furrowed faintly in concern. Your hair is still dripping, and the firelight catches maddeningly on the droplets clinging to the tip of your nose, your upper lashes. He tightens his grip until the quire's bronze edges sink like fangs into his skin.
"The spell—" Qifrey tries, his voice sounding strained, strange to his own ears. "I need to—I forgot the—"
"Master?" You're too close all of a sudden, frowning openly now. "Are you feeling alright? You're acting strange—"
He turns away before you can come any nearer. There's a faint rushing noise in Qifrey's ears, so shrill it's almost a scream, rising to a fever pitch—loud enough that he can barely hear the rain outside.
"I forgot I have something urgent," Qifrey says abruptly. "Dry yourself off. And put on something warm."
He leaves before you can respond. His footsteps ring sharply down the hallway, too quick and uneven against the floorboards to be anything but fleeing. When Qifrey reaches his room he shuts the door firmly behind him before slumping back against the wood, breathing hard.
Master?
Qifrey groans and squeezes his eyes shut, digging the heel of his palm harshly against his good eye as though he might somehow scour the image from his mind. What is wrong with him? He's washed your hair before, when you'd broken your arm chasing quadryphons down the hillside just outside the atelier. It was him who'd changed your bandages and tended to your wounds after that incident at the Kestrel's Maw, applying creams and salves gently as you'd tried not to wince and hiss. He's even shared a bed with you on nights when bad dreams left you sleepless and in need of a warm presence. And not once—never once—had he looked at you the way he just did.
Qifrey lets his hands fall between his knees. His palm quire slips loose from his fingers, clatters to the floorboards. On the page where he'd started sketching the heating spell for you, conjuring ink smears wet and crooked across the paper, dark stains blooming through the unfinished spell. Ruined.
When did this happen? Qifrey thinks despairingly to himself. When did I—
Qifrey cannot bring himself to finish the thought. The very idea makes something twist violently in his chest. Qifrey cannot put a name to it, because naming it would make it real, and making it real would make him a monster—even more of a monster than Qifrey ever thought he could be.
Qifrey throws himself desperately into avoidance after that.
Dangerous thoughts thrive when left in stillness, and so Qifrey gives himself none. He starts taking on jobs he normally wouldn't—ones that take him far from the atelier, some of them for days at a time. It's easier to exhaust himself into numbness than risk thinking too deeply at all. And when he cannot escape the atelier outright, Qifrey buries you beneath increasingly difficult assignments under the guide of preparing you for the Pentacle's third test—research work, spell reconstruction, transcription—anything that will keep you occupied in your room while he locks himself away somewhere else.
But at night, alone in his bed, the thoughts come anyway. Memories twisted into sick, perverted fantasy—the way your spine would feel under the curve of his palm through wet cotton, the warm press of your body against his in the dark, bare legs tangled with his. The soft whisper of your breath against his throat. Master. Master. Times before he can catch his thoughts they slip from his grasp, and he wonders what it would sound like if you said it different—if the word would catch on a moan, if it would break apart with a sigh against his mouth.
Master.
It's a futile exercise. Qifrey runs all the much harder, anyway.
In a desperate attempt to curb his thoughts, Qifrey turns towards safer, uncomplicated things instead. Olruggio's visibly surprised the first time Qifrey asks to accompany him on a job, but welcomes him with the same thoughtless warmth he does most things. And it's easier—easier to sink into the familiar steadiness of Olruggio's presence and gentle eyes, to lose himself in the long evenings spent shoulder-to-shoulder beneath the stars, to share spells and wine and laughter that doesn't ask anything of him. Easier than thinking about you.
You notice, of course. It would have been an insult to assume otherwise. But you've never been particularly forthcoming about your own feelings, and so you still call him "master" and do the work he assigns and prepare tea for him in the mornings. Tea that Qifrey now drinks steaming hot instead of lingering at the kitchen table with you, before leaving the atelier on yet another week-long job. You're upset by this new arrangement, that much is obvious, but at least Qifrey is spared the small mercy of having to confront it directly.
You'll grow accustomed to it eventually, Qifrey tells himself as you watch him tug on his cloak by the door, one hand already on the latch.
It'll pass.
You catch him one summer evening, vespertine insects chirping softly outside while the sun pulls and stretches at the atelier's shadows. Qifrey hears your approaching footsteps but does not turn around, busying himself instead with packing his satchel at the kitchen table, the light from the window staining his hands saffron-yellow.
You're quiet for a while, hovering silently behind him like a spectre. Eventually, you work up the courage to speak.
"Master, about dinner—"
"Hm? Ah, there's soup in the perpetual cookpot." Qifrey cuts you off before you can continue. He'd spent most of the afternoon preparing a fresh batch of shorecumber yoghurt soup while you were shut away in your room—as though feeding you properly could somehow compensate for everything else Qifrey's failed to do lately. "I also made some carapace and mountain apple salad, if you'd like."
"No, I'm not—" He catches the faintest edge of frustration creeping into your voice before you stop yourself. "I don't want perpetual soup."
Qifrey blows out a quiet breath between his teeth. The conversation is already slipping towards dangerous territory, toward questions he does not want to answer. He lowers his head to rummage through his satchel instead, pretending to check for an ink bottle he doesn't really need.
"Oh. Well then, there's some bread in the pantry that needs clearing, and—"
"Actually," you interrupt softly, "I was thinking I could cook for Master, tonight."
His fingers slip on the rounded glass. Qifrey barely catches the ink bottle before it can tumble from his hand and shatter across the table; the Qifrey of a few months ago would have accepted immediately, probably with an embarrassing amount of enthusiasm—but now the thought of sitting across from you at the dinner table feels almost terrifying. Your eyes are always watching, always observing; Qifrey is suddenly terrified you might somehow notice the ugliness festering behind his own.
The thought alone turns his stomach. No. No, he cannot.
"Sorry," Qifrey says, still refusing to turn around. "I'm helping Olruggio with a project tonight. I'll be late, so don't wait up for me." He gathers the loose papers scattered across the table, shoving them carelessly into his satchel as the pages crumple beneath his fingers.
"You're always late now."
Qifrey's thumb falls still against the clasp. Your words are quiet but the accusatory note in them pierces him cleanly, a bolting deer felled mid-flight. He turns slowly. You are standing behind him with your expression carefully blank, but Qifrey knows you too well by now not to recognise every little sign and tell—your shoulders held stiffly, hands clenched within the sleeves of your robe.
"Does…" You falter, voice lapsing briefly before you force out the words anyway. "Does Master not want me anymore? Because he has Mr. Olruggio now?"
All the air flees Qifrey's lungs at once like a rushing wind. What?
"Apprentice—" He hurriedly sets his satchel down on the table, but even with his hands freed Qifrey still does not dare reach out and touch you. You're not looking at him now, your gaze fixed stubbornly on the ground between his feet. His fingers curl helplessly into fists at his side, panic crawling up his throat like bile. "No. No, that's not—"
But it has been, hasn't it? Suddenly, horribly, Qifrey's reminded of the story you'd once told him—of the cliffs, of the sea. The way your parents had decided there were too many mouths to feed and chose yours to abandon because you'd been the smallest. And in his frantic attempt to bury his own shame, it dawns on Qifrey with terrible clarity that he has been doing the same thing to you all over again.
The realisation makes him sick all the way to his stomach.
"I'm sorry," he blurts out. "I'm so sorry. I—I've been an idiot."
You look up at him then, and Qifrey's breath catches painfully in his throat. Your eyes are stubbornly dry but rimmed faint red, shadowed with exhaustion. Your cheeks seem thinner, too. Questions strike him one after another in sickening succession: Have you not been sleeping properly? Eating as you should? Questions Qifrey would have—should have—been able to answer easily, had he paid you more than a passing glance these past few weeks.
He takes a step closer, then another, before Qifrey fully realises what he's doing. "I didn't mean to make you feel that way. I was just—I was just being selfish. Caught up in my own things. I forgot—" Every word that passes his lips feels empty, and his explanations sound like nothing more than excuses even to his own ears. Qifrey reaches out and gently loosens your fists from their white-knuckled grip on your robe, one finger at a time. Your hands are stiff in the cradle of his own. "I forgot you needed me to be here. I'm sorry."
You don't respond; you only look at him with those quiet, uncertain eyes—like the ones that had stared up at him in Havso all those years, dulled and wary all at once—as though weighing whether you can still trust the things he says to you. Please, Qifrey wants to beg. Please tell me I haven't already broken something I can't fix.
"I'll make it up to you," the words tumble out of him now, wobbly kneed and hurried, tripping over each other on the way out. "I promise. No more late nights, no more disappearing for days. And—I'll cook dinner. And make any dessert you like." Qifrey squeezes your fingers gently, almost desperately, trying to make you believe him in ways he doesn't know how. "I'm not going anywhere. Understand?"
You stare at him for what feels like an eternity. Slowly, you nod.
"Okay," you say.
Relief hits Qifrey like a blow to the gut. He wants, all at once, to pull you into his arms—to feel your smaller frame against his chest and hold you there until that bright-eyed certainty returns to you, to reassure himself that he has not yet destroyed whatever fragile thing exists between you beyond repair. But he is weak and a coward, too aware of himself now in all the wrong ways, and so Qifrey settles for simply holding your hands, his thumb stroking carefully over the faint ink-blot stains along your knuckles.
"What do you want for dinner?" he finally asks.
Your brow pinches. "You're not going to Mr. Olruggio's?"
"Olly's smart—I'm sure he'll figure the problem out without me." Qifrey reluctantly releases your hands to undo the clasp of his cloak. He hangs it carefully on its hook by the doorway before turning back to you with a smile. "I'm staying in tonight—it's been a while since we've had dinner together."
Finally, something flickers across your face. Then—
"Stew," you say. Qifrey blinks.
"Stew," he repeats. "You mean, the one with the squash vegetables?"
"Yeah."
A quiet laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It's such a painfully simple request that Qifrey cannot help the sudden rush of fondness that swells in his chest—he would have cooked anything you'd asked for after all this. But you asked, and so Qifrey turns toward the kitchen instead, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows.
“Stew it is, then.”
That night, a knock comes at his door again.
Qifrey knows who it is before he opens it. It's been a while since you've sought the comfort of his bed—you haven't since he started pulling away—but you've always had the habit of reaching for him on nights you are frightened or too troubled to sleep on your own. And after today, Qifrey supposes he should have expected this.
"Master," you say quietly, when he nudges the door wider with a tentative hand. Part of him knows he should tell you no—however innocently this ritual started, it is surely inappropriate now, especially with the way his thoughts have muddied as of late. But you don't ask, and by the time Qifrey opens his mouth you are already slipping past him and into his room.
His refusal lodges itself in the back of his throat as he watches you from the doorway. You're already seated on the edge of his bed, bare feet tucked under his blankets while you reach for the pillow he keeps for you. It's routine, now; you arrange his bed to your liking and lie down once satisfied, and eventually Qifrey settles beside you with deliberate distance kept between your bodies. Sometimes he reads compendiums aloud until your breathing evens out, others he talks about whatever spellwork occupied his day. But most nights end the same way: you, tucked against his side, one of his hands absently combing through your hair until sleep finally absconds with your consciousness.
His presence comforts you, Qifrey supposes. The same way a baby suckles on a pacifier, or a frightened child reaches for a familiar blanket. You are not thinking of anything improper—not of the way the dim lamplight catches against the bare slope of your shoulder, nor the way his eyes lingers on the exposed sliver of skin for a second too long before he tears them away.
He's the only terrible one here. Perhaps Qifrey should gouge out his other eye, too.
"Master." You're watching him from the bed, knees drawn up beneath the blankets, waiting. "Are you coming?"
Qifrey has already been terrible enough of a master to you these past few weeks. The thought of rejecting you yet again because he cannot control his own mind is unbearable.
You turn down the lamp as Qifrey climbs carefully into bed next to you. The mattress dips beneath his knee in the dark, and he lies stiffly atop the blankets with his hands folded over his chest, squeezing his eye tightly shut. Even with his poor sight this close proximity is too much; he cannot—will not—look at you.
"Go to sleep," Qifrey says quietly.
You remain still at first. He can hear your soft breathing beside him in the dark, and for a fleeting moment Qifrey thinks you might have already drifted off.
But suddenly, you move. The mattress creaks as you turn on your side, blankets rustling, and then your arm is sliding around the curve of his waist. Qifrey's breath shudders out, lips parting in a soundless gasp. You pull yourself close, the entire line of body pressing flush against his own, and bury your face against his throat—nose barely skimming the sensitive stretch of skin just beneath his jaw—and Qifrey can feel can feel your heartbeat, thrumming against his ribs like it belongs behind them instead. Every place your bodies meet burns as though his nerves themselves have been doused in oil and set alight.
Sparks race down the length of his spine, flint striking steel in his belly. A feeling slips down his throat, thick as honey, sharp as glass. Qifrey cannot do this. He can't, he can not—
"Don't leave," you murmur, breath curling against the naked hollow of his throat. "Master can't ever leave me."
Your words are small in a way Qifrey has never heard before, fingers trembling faintly where they're twisted tightly into the fabric of his sleep shirt as though he might disappear the moment you let go. You're afraid—truly afraid—and Qifrey loathes the fact that he was the one who made you feel that way. So despite the quiet part of him still insisting this is wrong, that the line between master and apprentice was never meant to blur like this, Qifrey carefully threads his fingers through your hair and pulls you closer against him.
"I'm not going anywhere." His voice is barely a whisper in the dark. "I promise."
"Really?"
"Yes."
His answer must have finally reached that quiet, terrified child inside you, because not too long after that your grip on his shirt loosens and your breathing begins to even out to soft, damp exhales against his skin. You must be exhausted from today—or perhaps you simply haven't been sleeping properly for a long while, now. It shames him that he doesn't know the answer.
The shadows stretch and settle against the far wall, pale moonlight washing silver across the blankets at the foot of the bed, the tangled line of your legs beneath them. And Qifrey holds you in the dark and lets himself pretend—just for a little while—that this quiet, aching hunger within him is not something so terrible after all.
It's a good morning when Qifrey's worst headache yet hits.
The morning starts off pleasantly enough. Sunlight unfolds slowly in a corner of his room, warm and sleepy in a way that demands nothing of him, and Qifrey wakes to the sound of you pattering carefully about the kitchen. You're likely on your tiptoes, a valiant attempt not to rouse him—but a futile one, unfortunately; his left eye has always left him a sensitive sleeper. Qifrey tarries in bed for a moment longer before finally pushing himself upright, and fumbles blearily across the nightstand for his screwtop tin of glueflower paste.
There's already a steaming cup of erbe tea waiting for him on the kitchen table when he steps outside. It sits beside a half-finished piece of buttered toast, whose owner seems to have become distracted; you're standing at the sink with your back to him, attempting to wrestle a particularly fat willowgrape from your brushbuddy's grasp before the greedy creature can choke on it. Qifrey very pointedly ignores the stirring behind his ribs as he slides himself into his usual chair.
Your eyes find his over your shoulder, regardless. "Morning, Master."
The brushbuddy chirps, emboldened by your momentary lapse in attention, and instantly makes a grab with its tiny paws. Despite himself, Qifrey finds it difficult not to smile. A good morning, he thinks quietly to himself as he reaches for his cup. A perfect one, actually.
The pain strikes without warning. It is sudden, blinding—as though someone has driven an iron spike through his head and is now deliberately twisting it, grinding its point deeper into the soft tissue of his brain. Qifrey's vision swims. The cup slips from his spasming fingers, and then he feels the scalding splash of tea across his fingers, blistering hot. He groans into the heel of his palm, the sound muffled strangely, ringing in his ears as if he's underwater.
"Master?"
Your hands are on him all of a sudden—his shoulder, his waist, and then his forehead, damp and clammy with cold sweat. Qifrey register your touch only in fragments, words reaching him as though from some distant shore; the next moment he's half-collapsed on the couch, worn cushions sagging beneath his weight as you lower him carefully. He catches a glimpse of your face for less than a second—pale, jaw tight, lips pressed in a thin line—before you're gone, footsteps hurried and shouting for Olruggio.
Qifrey barely manages to make out the hushed snippets of your exchange before Olruggio's rushing out of the door. He squeezes his eye shut against the pounding in his skull. Part of him wants to protest—that it will pass, that calling for the doctor is pointless, that there is nothing they can do for the ailment that plagues him—but the words barely make it past his lips.
Suddenly, your hands are on the sides of his face again, slapping his cheek lightly to rouse him when his head lolls. "Master. Master." Your voice is gentle, but even in this state Qifrey can pick up the undercurrent of worry bleeding through. "Drink up."
Something presses against his lips—the blunt edge of a wooden spoon. Qifrey parts his mouth obediently without thinking, swallowing whatever you offer him.
The tincture is sharp and metallic like cold moonlight on his tongue, slipping down his throat. But its effect is immediate. The pain does not vanish but loosens its grip with alarming speed; the muggy fog over his thoughts lifts, his nausea easing, and the pressure behind his eye recedes.
Too quickly.
Qifrey grabs you by the wrist before you can pull away. You startle in his grip. "Did you use forbidden magic?" His voice comes out hoarse. "Tell me."
"Master—"
"What did you use?"
His gaze drops instinctively to your hands, searching for the telltale traces of fresh spellwork. Qifrey has spent years wrestling with these pains—yet no physician, tincture or elixir has ever managed to cut through one with such frightening speed. How could you have—
"Tell me, Apprentice," Qifrey repeats, and this time the fear seeps through despite his efforts to hide it. "You didn't use healing magic, did you?"
You look at him, and for a second Qifrey feels dread warp, cold and heavy, in his stomach. Then, slowly, you shake your head.
"No."
Qifrey blinks. "No?" But—
"I didn't use healing magic." You glance down at the wrist still caught in his hand, before continuing. "I used magic during the extraction process—the spineedles are delicate, so I used a preservation spell to stabilise the active compounds while the toxins boiled off during heating." You hesitate. "I've been researching it for a while, now."
Spineneedles. Relief floods through Qifrey, so suddenly he nearly sags back into the couch. Not forbidden magic. Just careful study, patient experimentation, and far more thought than any apprentice should be devoting to a problem like this.
"Perhaps you shouldn't be a witch after all," Qifrey mutters tiredly, tipping his head against the cushions. It's like all the tension has gone out of him, leaving only fatigue in its place. The ache in the back of his skull has lessened to a distant throb. "With your talent, you should be a doctor instead."
"If it'll cure Master, I'll be anything."
Your words are spoken matter-of-factly, but Qifrey's breath lodges thickly in his throat. Something about it feels dangerous, precarious, like he's standing on a sheet of ice so thin he can hear it cracking beneath his feet. Qifrey is suddenly reminded of another conversation similar to this one—one that had drifted too close to unspoken territory for comfort. You'd not been particularly satisfied with his answer then, but he had not possessed a better one to give. "Apprentice, we already had this discussion about why healing magic is forbidden—"
"I love Master."
You say it so matter-of-factly that Qifrey barely registers what you've said at all, until he does. Everything inside him seems to go still at once. Slowly, disbelievingly, he lifts his head.
You are still watching him, wrist resting within the loose cradle of his fingers. Surely, he must have misheard. But there is no embarrassment in your expression, nor nervous laughter, no frantic attempts to retract your words. Only certainty.
"You—"
"Master said confessions should be done sincerely," you interrupt quietly. "When it's only two the people involved. When all their attention is on me." You hesitate, just for a moment, and then: "I just wanted to Master to know he'd be worth it. Master is everything to me."
It's as if time has lapsed into nonexistence for a second. Qifrey can hear the soft rustle of the morning breeze stirring the kitchen curtains, the faint squeak of your brushbuddy as it slinks about the rafters—but all of it feels impossibly far away. Because you are still looking at him with that earnest, unwavering gaze, admitting to the same feelings Qifrey has spent months convincing himself belonged to him alone, and yet—you are his apprentice.
You are his apprentice.
You'd been little more than a child when he'd picked you up in Havso; young and impressionable back then, his to protect and care for. And now a terrible thought reaches deep into his chest, a worm burrowing into the rotten core of an apple—had he done this? Mistaken possession for care somehow, shaped your innocent devotion into something it was never meant to become? Every lesson huddled over spellbooks, every time he'd reached across the cluttered kitchen table to guide your hand, every reassurance whispered into your hair in the dark—suddenly they rearrange themselves into something more disgusting, grotesque beneath his scrutiny.
The possibility that he might have been cultivating this unknowingly all along sickens Qifrey to his stomach. The only thing that frightens him more is this: how desperately he wants, anyway.
You are so painfully ignorant of it all—the warped thoughts he has harboured of you, the nights he's lain awake, hand fisted in his pillow to keep it from wandering someplace it shouldn't. You don't know about the ways he's been slowly driving himself mad in the dark. You have no idea what kind of monster you have just confessed your love to.
"Apprentice," he manages at last. "You can't—this isn't—this is only infatuation, and—"
Your hand closes around Qifrey's before he can drop your wrist—gently, like you're approaching a spooked stag, poised to bolt. Nausea rolls unpleasantly through his stomach.
"I know my feelings. Master needn't try convince me otherwise."
Your certainty is what unspools the remainder of his repudiation. He's helpless, Qifrey thinks ashamedly, to stand before it. For one treacherous second he imagines what it would be like not to pull away; to turn his hand beneath yours and weave your fingers together, to close the distance he's spent months desperately maintaining. He imagines allowing himself the same foolish hope he'd once indulged in with Olruggio—before knowledge, before loss and guilt had hollowed him out and taught him the price of wanting something he could never have.
The fantasy dies almost immediately.
"I don't see you that way." The lie scrapes against his throat on the way out, self-mutiliation—if words could cut, they would leave his pharynx in ribbons, a bloodied mess. But this must end here and now. "You're my apprentice, and I care for you a great deal, but nothing beyond that."
Silence settles between you, quiet folding in on itself. Then, softly, you say, "That's alright with me. I just wish Master would be more honest with me."
Qifrey has heard those words before—not spoken in exactly the same way, but close enough. Close enough that for one dizzying moment he is in two places at once: here, your wrist still caught in his grasp, and somewhere years ago, watching someone else he loved—still does—offer up everything for a wretched, unworthy cause.
All I have left to say is… just go easy on me, okay?
For a strange, terrible moment, Qifrey thinks he would have preferred anger. Hatred he could have endured. Tears he would have tried to comfort. Instead you place something infinitely more fragile in his hands and ask for nothing in return—and Qifrey wants to weep from the absurdity of it all. Who is he to deserve such grace, such senseless devotion?
You deserve better, Qifrey thinks, despairingly. But still he cannot bring himself to speak those words aloud, in the same way he cannot seem to release your hand and so they remain, lingering like ghosts—everything he wants to confess but can't ensnared in the silence between you.
The smoke reaches them before any messenger does—a dark, greasy plume unfurling against the pale morning sky. It is visible even from the atelier's window, though Qifrey does not notice it until Olruggio bursts into the room without warning, already yanking on his cloak as you glance up from your books.
"Fire," is all Olruggio needs to say, breathless, for Qifrey to understand. His hand closes around Qifrey's upper arm, drawing his attention toward the horizon. "It's coming from the direction of Hearthglen Village."
Qifrey is on his feet even before Olruggio finishes speaking. Despite the dry spells of summer, Hearthglen is protected by enough fireproofing spells to withstand far worse than a stray spark or lightning strike—Qifrey has full trust in Olruggio's magic, in this regard. Small fires could happen. But infernos capable of producing a column of smoke like that—thick and black enough to stain the horizon from miles away—are impossible.
Should not be possible.
"Apprentice," Qifrey calls over his shoulder as he strides urgently towards the door, pulling his hat onto his head along the way. "Stay here."
He doesn't wait to see if you listen. He and Olruggio are out of the door in the next second, sylph shoes flaring with green light as they take to the air, hurtling straight towards the smoke billowing upwards into the morning sky.
Qifrey should have trusted his instincts.
The fire is not natural—Qifrey knows it the instant they crest the hill and the village comes into view, fire licking at the thatched roofs, dragging barns and homes alike into its insatiable maw. And there they stand amidst the carnage—their white hat and trailing veil a stark smear against the smoke-charred sky—a single painted eye staring back at Qifrey from where their face should be. For a heartbeat, the years collapse inward and hate rises in the back of his throat like bile, acrid. But answers can wait—and people cannot.
Olruggio doesn't hesitate. He banks sharply left, already racing toward the line of burning buildings, shouting for the villagers to flee. Qifrey launches himself at the Brimmed Hat, water surging from the village well in a roaring column in response to his spell.
The Brimmed Hat laughs. They're infuriatingly talkative—they make several attempts to strike up a conversation in the middle of the fight, chattering away as though this is some pleasant afternoon stroll rather than a village burning around them. Qifrey ignores every word. Water tears through the square at his command, rushing in great swells to smother flames and strike at his opponent, but the Brimmed Hat dances around each strike, veil fluttering in the heat haze, that ominous painted eye seemingly able to see Qifrey's every move before it happens.
Out of the corner of his eye, Qifrey glimpses Olruggio moving through the smoke and chaos. Olruggio disappears into a burning building and emerges with a wailing child tucked carefully in the cradle of his arms, depositing them into a frantic mother's embrace before he turns back to the flames. Again and again he does this—vanishing into the smoke and reappearing with another villager in tow. The fire continues to spread, racing from rooftop to rooftop with unnatural hunger.
And then Qifrey sees it. Olruggio runs into another house, this one already half-consumed by flames. But one of its support beams has already begun to bow beneath the strain, and the building is tilting dangerously; already Qifrey can hear the groan of timber in his mind under the strain. But before Qifrey can say anything—so much as do anything—it gives way. The entire structure collapses onto itself with a roar, disappearing beneath a shower of firebrands and burning debris. For a single, terrible instant, it resembles a funeral pyre.
It's only a momentary lapse, but it is enough. The spell catches him squarely in the chest.
Qifrey is on his hands and knees even before he registers the fall. He hunches over, scorched ground hot beneath his palms, and tries to clear his throat, but the damage presses heavily up his windpipe—wet and viscous. Blood. Qifrey chokes. The taste of copper floods his tongue.
"Oh dear." The Brimmed Hat drifts closer. Their veil flutters lazily behind them as they hover just in the corner of Qifrey's periphery. "Not so threatening now, are we?"
They raise their hand again. Qifrey tries to move but his body will not obey him, his wand slipping from between his fingers, viscid with his own blood. The cobblestones beneath him spin into dizzying tesselations. And then—
A blade of water cuts through the air. It hits the square with enough force to split stone, carving a deep furrow into the ground where the Brimmed Hat had just been standing just a second ago. Both Qifrey and the Brimmed Hat look up at the same time.
Qifrey almost doesn't recognise you at first, hovering above the town square, framed against the smoke-darkened sky. The hem of your cloak flaps in the wind, your wand and quire just barely visible beneath it. The Brimmed Hat's visage is concealed behind that painted eye, but Qifrey can tell that they're surprised. They turn toward you, hands lifting as if in greeting or surrender.
"Now that's intere—"
Another spell hurtles down. The Brimmed Hat vaults backwards, vanishing into a cloud of smoke before reappearing atop the remains of a collapsed building several yards away. Your magic obliterates the ground they had been standing on, stone and dirt exploding outwards in a violent spray.
"You're serious!" They sound more delighted than alarmed, laughter echoing through the ruined square. "What terrifying killing intent, for a Pointed Hat so young!"
You ignore them. The moment your feet touch the ground you are already running to Qifrey's side, dropping to your knees next to him hard enough to tear the fabric of your trousers. Your hands are on him immediately, one bracing his shoulder while the other presses desperately against the wound in his chest. Qifrey struggles to lift his head to, pain lancing through his chest with each ragged breath he drags into his lungs. The edges of his vision blurs every time he inhales—his ribs are definitely broken.
"I thought…" He coughs, the words coming out rasping and wet. "I told you to stay… at the atelier…"
"Master can punish me all he likes later." Blood continues seeping stubbornly between your fingers despite the pressure, but that isn't the problem—it's the fluid slowly accumulating in his lungs, the way his breathing has gone thick and rattling. Qifrey can see the moment realisation dawns behind your eyes as you listen to each uneven breath, and with it comes panic. When you meet his eyes again you look frighteningly young, your fingers slick and red with his blood.
"Master." Your voice catches. "Master, what do I do?"
The answer is supposed to be there; behind his teeth, on the tip of his tongue. Qifrey is your teacher, your master—he should know what to say, how to fix this. But the only thing staining his mouth now is blood.
"Master," you say again, and this time you almost sound like you're begging. "Please. Tell me what to do."
"Oh, how touching." The Brimmed Hat drifts over, knees tucked loosely against their chest. Their painted eye is now fixed entirely on you, and when they speak again, their voice seems to have softened into something coaxing, almost kind. "Such devotion. I haven't seen such an adorable master-apprentice pair in years."
You don't react. Your attention remains fixed wholly on Qifrey—one bloodstained hand pressed against his chest as you desperately rifle through the contents of your satchel, searching for something, anything that might help. The Brimmed Hat laughs, a little pitying.
"It's admirable how hard you're fighting to save him, little Pointed Hat. A shame that even if you succeed today, he'll be dead soon enough, anyway—though I suppose dead isn't quite the right word for it."
Qifrey's stomach drops.
"No," he chokes out at once when your hands go completely still. Blood flecks his lips as he struggles for breath. "Don't listen to them—"
"What do you mean?"
At your question, the Brimmed Hat tilts their head—and though their face remains hidden behind their white veil, Qifrey is suddenly, horribly certain that they are smiling.
"You haven't told them?" They click their tongue softly, delighted, almost sympathetic. The gesture is mild, mockingly gentle. It makes hatred surge through Qifrey so fiercely that, for a moment, it eclipses even the pain. "You should be more honest with your apprentice."
"Shut up—" Qifrey tries to force himself upright and immediately regrets it. Agony carves a white-hot line through his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. A violent cough doubles him over, sends fresh blood bubbling between his lips and splattering across the cobblestones. "Apprentice, they're lying. Don't listen to—urgk—a word they say—"
But you are no longer looking at him. Qifrey feels a wave of panic surge through him, overwhelming, drowning him beneath it. He knows that look, is familiar with it—the expression you wear when confronted with a puzzle you cannot solve, when every thought narrows around a single question like a predator's jaws clamping around a prey animal's neck.
"Master," you say, very slowly. "What are they talking about?"
"I—"
The Brimmed Hat cuts across him with a low hum of amusement. "Little witch… did your master ever tell you about how the silverwood propagates before?"
Whatever remaining blood Qifrey has drains from his face.
"Unlike other plants, the silverwood spreads by lodging itself into animal hosts... even humans." They tilt their head at Qifrey, and he very briefly catches the flash of a sharp grin beneath their veil before they continue. "Gradually, it takes over the host's body bit by bit, until there is nothing left but a very beautiful silverwood tree." They spread their hands with a flourish, a theatrical gesture. "That is the fate awaiting your master, dear apprentice."
The words land like stones, sinking silently into still water. Qifrey dares not look at your face. He cannot. He is afraid of what he will see there—the dawning horror, the terrible understanding, the slow realisation of his deception.
Then the Brimmed Hat laughs.
"But do not despair!" They throw their arms wide, head cocking as they look at you. "We are witches, are we not? Magic exists to challenge the impossible, to overturn fate!" They hover just a little closer, voice lowering into something almost conspiratorial. "As long as you are willing, you can save your master. I'll even give you a nifty little spell to preserve his life until you can find a better solution." One hand, bare-skinned and terrifyingly human-like, slides up to curve around the shape of their mouth. "All you need to do is cast it yourself."
"Apprentice—" The word comes out mangled with fresh blood, thin and watery with his spit. "Apprentice—don't—you cannot—"
Qifrey tries to push himself up, to reach for you, to do anything to stop what he sees coming. His arms shake violently beneath him before they give way altogether, and he crashes back against the cobblestones hard enough to drive what little breath remains from his lungs. He needs to move. Why won't his body listen to him?
Slowly, you get to your feet. You move as though caught in a dream, entranced by some spell, hands hanging at your sides, stained with the drying streaks of his blood. And your face, your face—when he finally forces himself to look—is bloodless and set, and yet, so very terrifyingly calm.
hey um. so sorry to tell you this, but op of that post plays toys kinda weird. yeah you should just block them, that's not how normal people play with toys
yah it's just a carpal/tinnitus issue. they held out until the last day of the semester and then gave out but thyre feeling better now! thank you for your concern youre very sweet