Jack makes this face when he comes up behind you while youre getting ready in the mirror, big arms wrapped around your waist, hands squeezing any part of you he can reach, he starts kissing on you only for you to giggle and try to escape him squealing "I've got a boyfriend, I've got a boyfriend!" All ornery and obnoxious-like and he just presses another kiss to your neck, jaw, and cheeks, mumbling "oh yeah? well he doesn't have to know."
⟢ tags: showering together, reader sucks qifrey's cock, allusions to qifrey and reader being apprentices together, ambiguous relationship, fluff
⟢ a/n: the way this was more fluff than porn. forn 😭 it was also I think my first time writing the suck suck. also you can see me losing my motivation towards the end. pwp but one p is better than the other and it's not the porn.
Qifrey doesn't like water.
It's one of the first things you'd learned about him, back when you were still apprentices—discernible in the way he'd flinched when someone accidentally knocked over a basin in the dining hall, water spilling over his hands and lap. You don't remember anything about the book you'd been reading across from him, then—only how his pale, pinched face had somehow become more pale and pinched as he stared down at himself, and subsequently, the startling blue of his eye when he'd glanced up at your proffered handkerchief, then you—his first acknowledgment of you after pointedly ignoring your existence for the past month you'd been apprentices together.
You'd asked Olruggio about it, later. He'd been evasive at first, but after your shameless pestering and unsubtle curiosity he'd finally relented. Terribly ironic had been your first thought, for a budding witch so intent on mastering water magic. The second thought that had followed had been somewhat more practically, if a little private.
How does he shower?
"Like any other regular person does," Qifrey told you much later, laughing quietly as he did, long after you'd moved into his atelier as a fully qualified witch and the relationship between the two of you had settled into something difficult to define solely with words. He'd looked amused, as if one of his apprentices had just asked an especially fascinating question. "Why? Did you think I didn't shower at all?"
"Perhaps," you'd admitted with a shrug, suddenly feeling somewhat silly. "I thought you might have had some secret cleaning spell you kept all to yourself—that, or you cleaned yourself with your tongue, like a cat."
A snort had escaped him at that—warm, startled, a little undignified—and you found yourself thinking, almost helplessly, that you wanted to keep hearing that sound, for as long as he would allow you to.
You'd proceeded to intently question his bathing habits after that, each query more absurd than the last. By the end of it, Qifrey had been laughing near uncontrollably into his hand, shaking his head as he looked at you. "Why are you so curious about this topic?" he'd asked, eye flashing with faint amusement. "Do you want me to show you?"
You'd been entirely certain, at the time, that he'd meant it as a joke. But you'd reached across the table to take his hand and said yes anyway, watched the way his breath caught at your answer. One thing had led to another, and then the two of you had stumbled through the atelier half-fumbling and half-kissing, clothes discarded piece by piece until you'd ended up tangled with him beneath warm steam and running water.
Now, joining Qifrey in the shower is one of your favourite pastimes. Getting him there, however, is a whole different story.
"Qifrey." You stand over his bed, one hand cocked loosely on your hip as honeyed sunlight streams in through the far window. "Qifrey, c'mon."
He only curls tighter on his side beneath the covers, retreating into them like a garden snail withdrawing into its shell. Nothing emerges from the blankets aside for a string of unintelligible sounds—soft, muffled protests lost to the stuffing of his pillow. You bite back a smile. He's always like this in the mornings before he's properly awake—petulant, unwilling to leave the warmth of the bed, and even more reluctant to step anywhere near the shower. In moments like these, you catch glimpses of the boy you'd once grown up with; nothing at all like the composed, inscrutable master he presents himself as to everyone else. Now, though, he's nothing more than a sleepy, sulking creature—burrowing beneath the blankets in hopes you'll give up and let him stay there forever.
You like it, though. You like being able to see him like this: soft-edged with sleep and grumbling in a way so few people ever do.
"Qifrey," you say again, more coaxing this time as you sit on the edge of the bed, mattress creaking faintly beneath your weight. Your fingers comb gently over the hair covering his bad eye. "You're going to be late taking the girls to the Great Hall if you don't get up now."
There's a pause. Then, slowly, he pushes himself upright, blankets pooling in the cradle of his lap. His pale hair sticks out in every direction, hopelessly tousled around the sharp lines of his face, while his rumpled nightclothes hang just loose enough for the collar to slip off one bare shoulder. Still sleep-soft and warm from bed. He looks like he's been dragged straight out of a dream.
One blue eye—the same shade as the cloudless sky outside—cracks open to peer at you through the tangled mess of his hair. Qifrey always looks softer without his glasses. Younger, somehow. He also looks deeply aggrieved at being awake, though, so you lean forward to press a kiss to his temple, his cheek, and then the softening corner of his mouth.
"…hrgm," he says. But he looks less put-out about it, now.
"I'll shower with you." You already had, earlier that morning, when you'd dragged yourself from both the bed and the warmth of his arms to start breakfast and deal with the laundry, but you don't particularly mind doing it again. Rising to your feet, you begin undoing the fastenings of your robe as you move towards the washroom, letting your outer layers slip from your shoulders and to the floor behind you as you go. "Don't keep me waiting too long, hmm?"
You turn the corner just in time to hear the quiet fwump of Qifrey reluctantly dragging himself upright from the bed. It's followed a moment later by the sound of socked feet against wooden floorboards, uneven and sluggish with sleep.
"Manipulative," you hear him mumble, from somewhere behind you.
You bite back a smile as you fetch the bar of soap from the counter—calendula and rosemary and mint—before turning towards the vapour bubble hanging from the ceiling. The device had been modified years ago by Olruggio, miniature heating spells etched carefully into the upper and lower trays with a searneedle wand so the water stays comfortably warm no matter the weather. Qifrey had tried baths before, but being so completely surrounded by water had reminded him too much of the box he'd been found in. Showers were easier and allowed him to step away the moment it became too much.
You check the little dials along its side. You'd already used it earlier that morning, so the water heats almost immediately at your touch. Warm.
Steam is already curling lazily through the room by the time you begin peeling off the rest of your clothes. A few moments later, Qifrey appears in the doorway, wearing the mournful expression of a man being walked to his own execution. It eases slightly, though, when he sees you shrugging off your shift, soft linen slipping from your fingers to land by your feet in a crumpled heap.
It's a little strange, but you've never been shy about Qifrey seeing you like this. Never felt the need for it. You bend over to tug off the scant remainder of your clothes, kicking them off to join your discarded shift, before stepping under the warm spray. Water cascades over your shoulders and back in soft streams of steam and heat. You glance back at Qifrey in silent invitation, wiggling your fingers coyly at him.
Qifrey squints at you for a long moment before he sighs. Then, with the long-suffering air of someone resigning himself to fate, he begins to take off his own clothes.
There's not much for him to remove—only the oversized tunic he'd slept in that is nothing like, thankfully, the elaborately collared shirts he usually wears. You love seeing them on him, loathe fumbling with the accursed straps as he laughs, the sound vibrating beneath your fingertips. This one comes off easily when he tugs it over his head, and it's followed quickly by his trousers, discarded in an untidy heap next to yours.
When he's as naked as you are, he finally steps under the spray with you. You notice the way Qifrey stiffens the instant the water hits his back: shoulders drawing taut, breath hitching faintly, lips pressing tight for the briefest second. It's subtle, barely perceptible, but you notice. You always have. It's the same thing every time, never to change.
You reach up to fiddle with the vapour bubble, carefully lowering the water pressure until the spray softens to a gentle patter, then coaxing a little more warmth into the steam. "Too much?"
Qifrey shakes his head. "No, no." A slow exhale passes between his lips as he presses himself more firmly against you, leaning into your warmth like a flower turning to the sun. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, swallowing. "Just… just the usual."
"Mm. Let me help, then."
You tug him closer by the waist until there's no space left between your bodies, warm steam curling around the two of you as you tilt your head to kiss him gently. Qifrey sinks into it almost immediately, damp lashes fluttering against your cheeks until they fall still. You move your mouth slow and unhurried against his—fingers gently cradling his jaw, thumb rubbing slow circles over the quickening pulse of his inner wrist—giving him something else to focus on besides the water running softly over the two of you. Qifrey's fingers curl tighter against your waist, damp hair brushing your forehead every time he leans deeper into the kiss with a quiet sigh.
Slowly, you let your hands wander wherever the water does—over the bare expanse of his back, the notches of his spine, the sharp jut of his hipbone, coaxing his mind to focus on you instead, the closeness of your bodies, your touch. Qifrey lets out a shuddering breath against the wet curve of your shoulder. He melts into you, soft and pliant under the hot water, the same way sugar cubes dissolve in warm tea.
You reach for the bar of soap, lathering it up carefully between your palms until thick suds gather, and Qifrey cracks open one eye to watch. The whole bathroom smells pleasantly of flowers and herbs.
You start with his hair. Qifrey lowers his head for you instinctively, eye slipping shut again as you work the lather into the pale strands, fingers combing gently through wet tangles. The water will rinse it clean soon enough, so you move on to his shoulders instead, pressing a soft kiss to each to coax them into loosening before you continue. Down his arms, across his chest. Qifrey trembles faintly when your fingertips brush across his nipples—soft pink-brown against shower-flushed skin—and you have to bite back the urge to lean in and put your mouth on them. Instead, your hands continue tracing the lines of his body, nails scratching lightly over the soft plane of his stomach before gliding lower, following the shape of his hips and the long line of his legs.
Here, you have to crouch down to reach the rest of him. The water runs in rivulets over his thighs, his lean calves, his narrow ankles. You're about to start when you feel a hand at your shoulder, long fingers closing over your upper arm to tug you back up.
"Hey," he murmurs. Qifrey's voice is soft, slightly hoarse when he peers down at you. "You don't have to. I can do that myself."
You look up at him, blinking away scattered droplets of falling water. Qifrey's face is flushed—perhaps from the heat or your hands, perhaps both. His eye is bright in the dim light of the bathroom, darting back and forth from your face uncertainly like he still hasn't decided whether he wants you to stop or keep touching him forever. His lower lip catches briefly between his teeth.
You have the sudden urge to reach up and tug it free with your thumb, to suck it into your own mouth and kiss him until that hesitant expression dissolves into something else completely. But you are already on your knees, supplicant before him, and so you simply smile and kiss the side of his knee. Qifrey shivers.
"I want to," you say, simply. "Besides, I'm down here already."
You kiss his other knee, too, just because you can. A quiet breath escapes Qifrey as you start to lather up his legs properly, careful to remain gentle as you work the soap over his calves, his shins. You can feel him watching you as you do.
By the time you reach his thighs, you notice. His cock, soft when you'd first stepped into the shower together, has thickened up somewhat. Not fully hard, but stirring with interest despite the heat and water and everything else. You wrap your soapy fingers around him and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.
"What's this, hm?"
Qifrey exhales slowly—a shaky, half-laugh caught somewhere in the back of his throat. "How else am I supposed to react with your hands all over me like that?"
You laugh quietly at the faint strain in his voice. His hips twitch ever so slightly towards you when your thumb sweeps lazily over the tip, spreading the drop of slickness you find there. The flush on his cheeks has deepened, crawling down his neck. Smiling, you settle properly on your knees, warm water cascading over your shoulders, and guide his cock into your mouth.
Qifrey lets out a quiet sound, caught somewhere between a gasp and a groan. His hand finds the side of your head, fingers curling through the damp strands—winding loosely, but not pulling or pushing. It's not as comfortable as some erotic catalogues make it out to be. Water seems to run endlessly into your eyes and your knees are beginning to ache where they're pressed against the tessellated tiles. But you care less about your pleasure and more about the way you can feel him tremble under your palms, the way his quiet pants become audible as they echo off the slick walls. You trace your tongue over the tip and he shudders. There's no taste of him yet—not with the water washing away every trace of him in the shower—only the faint remnants of soap still clinging on his skin. You want more than that. You want him.
You take him deeper, slow and deliberate, letting your tongue press flat along the underside. His breath stutters above you. You take your time, unhurriedly, feeling him grow heavier in your mouth, the way his thighs tense beneath your free hand. The water continues to fall around you both, but Qifrey doesn't seem to notice it at all. He lets out a quiet moan, one hand tightening ever so slightly in your hair while the other braces flat against the wall behind him.
"Hah…"
You pull out until only the tip remains, dragging the flat of your tongue over the head before suckling lightly there. Qifrey chokes softly. The faint salt of his precome coats your tongue and you hum happily, glance up through your lashes. His lips are parted, chest rising and falling too fast, eye squeezed tight. You frown. He's not looking at you.
You curl one hand around his knee for balance and swallow him down further, gagging lightly when the head nudges the back of your throat. Qifrey makes a strangled sound—half a moan and half your name.
"W-Wait—"
His knees buckle with a gasp that sounds suspiciously like a curse. He nearly falls—would have, if the wall hadn't been there to catch him. You let him slip out of your mouth with a soft pop, laughing quietly as he sags against the damp tiles, chest heaving, panting.
"You—"
"Watch the language, love." The endearment slips out before you can stop it, a captive prisoner making a run for it. You nibble at his hip, hope it's enough to keep him from noticing. "What if the girls were to hear, hmm?"
Qifrey huffs a breathless laugh, his head tipping back against the wet tiles. "That's the least of my concerns when—" His voice breaks into a whine when you take him in your hand again, stroking lightly, idly. "—mgh—when this is happening right in front me…"
You grin up at him, slow and a little wicked, before you slip him into your mouth again. This time, you keep one hand wrapped around his thigh—keeping him close close—while the other strokes where your mouth can't quite fit. You work him deeper and deeper, patient but with a focused intent, until the head presses against the sensitive back of your throat again. The familiar urge to gag rises but you force yourself to breathe through your nose, relax your jaw to take him deeper still, until he slips past the last resistance and into the tight confines of your throat.
Qifrey's whole body shivers, toes curling against the wet tiles. His head tips forward then back, like he can't bear to look at you but also can't bring himself to look away. Look, you want to say. Look at me.
Your mouth is currently full, however, so you have no choice but to settle for other means. You dig your nails lightly into the back of his thigh—not enough to hurt, just to get his attention—and when his head dips down, you look up at him through your lashes. His eye finds yours, hazy and glassy and dark as ink, just as you hum around him. The vibration pulls a sound from his chest—something desperate, almost broken—and his hips jerk forward before he can stop himself.
Qifrey arches off the wall with a shuddering cry—one hand scrabbling against the slick tiles while the other tightens fractionally in your hair. His pleasure spills hot across your tongue, and you have to resist the urge to close your eyes to savour the taste. You want to watch him, and watch him you do—the way his mouth falls open, the way his eye squeezes shut then flutters half-open, how his chest heaves like he's forgotten how to breathe. He's flushed all the way down his pretty neck, white hair plastered to his forehead, dark with water. His lips part around something that might be your name.
Beautiful. So damn beautiful.
You swallow slowly, one last time, only pulling back when Qifrey's grip in your hair loosens and his thighs stop shaking. Your calves ache ever so slightly when you get back to your feet, but when you pull him into a kiss and feel him moan at the taste of himself on your tongue, all of it seems to fade away. Much in the same way you hope it does, for him.
When you finally pull back, you smile at the dazed look on Qifrey's face. "Come on," you murmur, leaning in to kiss him one more time before reaching for the soap again. "Let's get you cleaned up for real this time."
Thursday morning arrived with perfect skies — the kind only Pudge could bless the city with, according to your personal cosmology.
You hummed to yourself as you went to make your weekly peanut butter sandwich—and stopped dead in front of the pantry at Hotel Z.
Because it was full. Not just stocked. Overflowing.
Row after row of peanut butter jars sat neatly arranged like a shrine. Crunchy. Creamy. Organic. Imported. Several brands you’d never even heard of.
Front and center lay a small folded note.
With an insignia pressed into the paper — a stylized metallic Rust Syndicate crest, embossed in deep red wax.
You didn’t need a signature.
You smiled so hard you covered your mouth with your hand.
The note read, simply:
“For Pudge, the one who controls the weather.”
— (no signature, of course)
Heart glowing, you quickly made a few sandwiches and headed for Wild Zone 2.
The moment you stepped through the barrier, you paused.
Corbeau stood by the riverbank, coat fluttering in the wind, hands in his pockets as though he’d always belonged among the Alpha Pokémon. His eyes softened the moment he saw you.
And beside him, floating serenely in the water, was the enormous Alpha Magikarp — Pudge — staring with the solemn authority of a god.
Corbeau waved once. “That one is Pudge, I presume.”
You laughed breathlessly. “Yes. That’s Pudge.”
He nodded, as though meeting a deity. “Very well.”
You approached, kneeling by the water to tear the sandwich into pieces. Corbeau crouched beside you — far more gracefully — and held out his hand.
“Allow me?”
You blinked. “You… want to help feed Pudge?”
He nodded solemnly. “If Thursdays belong to Pudge… then I intend to behave accordingly.”
Your heart nearly stopped.
He tossed a piece of sandwich into the water with surprising gentleness.
Pudge accepted it with a dignified glorp, sending a ripple across the surface. Then it gave a soft, happy, cry.
Corbeau almost smiled. “I believe I’ve been approved.”
After a quiet moment, you glanced up at him, teasing:
“Corbeau… do you know anything about the mysteriously stocked pantry at Hotel Z?”
He took up another sandwich piece, expression perfectly blank.
“I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Philippe would’ve cracked instantly. Corbeau did not. But the corner of his mouth curved — soft, warm, betraying him entirely.
Before you could reply, he stood, brushing dirt from his slacks.
“Well,” he said lightly, “if you cannot join me for lunch on Thursdays…”
He reached behind him and produced a picnic basket — elegant, woven, and unmistakably expensive.
“…then I will simply bring lunch to you.”
You stared.
He opened the basket.
Inside were peanut butter sandwiches — several of them — along with cut fruit, pastries, a thermos of your favorite tea, and a cloth napkin printed with tiny Gyarados.
Your throat tightened.
“Corbeau…” you said, touched.
He set the basket between you, then reached out, brushing your damp cheek with his thumb.
“We can eat here,” he murmured. “You, me… and Pudge.”
Pudge splashed approvingly.
You laughed, tearful and bright, and leaned into Corbeau’s hand.
“I love you,” you breathed.
His voice softened to velvet.
“And I,” he murmured, “would stock a thousand pantries… if it keeps your skies clear.”
Then he kissed you softly — with the river beside you, the Alpha Magikarp blessing the day, and a basket of peanut butter sandwiches ready for your weekly ritual.
Happy valentines everyone!! Here’s an oc drawing that was inspired by this post. I love love love g/t fluff TEHEHEH. Yes, Corvin and Wynn are married it is mandatory 🤭
Edit: idk why the link died but hopefully it’s working now! If it dies again, the original post was made by @atthesizeoftulips :]
