Hydrophobic Qifrey

qifrey’s hand slides up and down the hard length of his cock, legs spread and back sliding against the chair with his eyes glued firmly in front of him. the bed shakes and the headboard rattles noisily, a broken promise come to light.

“fuck, olly, you’re so tight-” your voice strains to fight back a moan as olruggio, qifrey’s best friend and partner, impales himself on your dick. his legs straddling your stomach, pumping himself up and down in time with your hips, cock rutting into his waiting hole.

and fuck, if it wasn’t a pretty sight, qifrey’s hands working overtime as he strokes his dick; mesmerized by your hold on the fat of olruggio’s ass, the way your palms dig into his flesh as if to intertwine your bodies.

qifrey wishes there was another solution. he wishes with all his heart that it could be him on that bed, pointing relentlessly into olruggio. but he can’t. he couldn’t do that to his friend.

so instead, you do his friend. your dick slides easily in and out of olruggio’s ass, and he cries out when it hits his prostate. qifrey watches with bated breath and stilled hands as olruggio’s body stutters to a halt, gasping as he paints your chest in his come.

thick white bursts of seed land in between your clavicles, olruggio’s gasping for air and moaning as you thrust deeply inside of him, burying your dick to the hilt. qifrey moves his own hands in time witch the motion, chasing the quickly mounting pleasure as he watches your hips stutter once, twice, until you moan loudly, slamming olruggio’s hips down as far as they’ll go, holding olruggio in place as you come inside him.

in tandem, qifrey comes, back arching and whimpering as thick ropes of spend burst from his own dick, painting his navel and chest in viscous white streaks. his breath hitches, legs twitching from the sheer intensity of his orgasm.

panting, you slowly move olruggio off of your body, laying him down next to you so he can relax. it wasn’t an easy position to fuck him in, and the exertion of the act sent him tumbling into the embrace of sleep with ease. he snores practically as soon as his head hits the pillow, and a soft chuckle leaves your lips at the sight.

“qifrey?” your voice calls his attention, his eyes meeting yours in an understanding glance. he looks away, shame and lingering arousal coloring his face a heated red.

“earth to qifrey,” you wave a hand in front of his face, watching until his eyes focus on you yet again. sighing, you place a hand on his chin, tilting it until he looks up at you.

his blue eyes glimmer with tears, from exhaustion or shame you aren’t sure; but as you look down at him with such softness in your eyes qifrey can’t stop the aching in his chest. “this isn’t healthy.”

qifrey freezes, before shaking his head to loosen your hold. you oblige, letting your hand fall to your side. “what are you to decide if this is healthy or not?”

your voice turns sharper. “your friend, qifrey,” your harsh tone makes qifrey jump, wide eyes meeting yours in an unsaid prayer.

don’t say that.

don’t say things you don’t mean.

don’t leave me.

“fine,” he musters, looking away from your scalding glare. he can’t stand the way you always drag the truth out of him; it makes him feel small and weak and frail. “i suppose you’re right.”

you rub the back of your neck, sighing. “i know i can’t stop you, but..” your voice trails, suddenly becoming softer and genuine. “i care about you, qifrey. i can see this is hurting you.”

“really? because i seem to be doing just fine at the moment,” qifrey dismisses you with a wave of his hand, the strong urge to tell you to leave dying on his tongue when he catches your eyes. they tell stories, unravelling the truth he held so close to his heart.

worried.

concerned.

loved.

“..if you say so,” it’s not a final answer, and qifrey can feel the weight of unsaid answers in his throat. he pushes the feeling down until it feels like cotton is clogging his chest.

“good night, qifrey. take care.”

the door shuts before he can answer, and he lays his head in his hands, staring at the floor.

“i love you.”

"Yes, you."

"You committed my efforts without first seeking my agreement?"

"It was easy when you weren't there to defend yourself," you reply lightly, leaning in to inspect the vegetables beneath his knife. They're a little limp, colours dulled and beginning to brown at the tops. "Besides, Coco is very excited to hear you do all the voices. You wouldn't say no to her."

"Both that child and you severely overestimate my talent and willingness," Qifrey huffs, though you can see him fighting to keep the corners of his mouth from turning upwards. "Still, as a reward for successfully getting those little terrors to sleep… would you like some dumplings for supper?"

It's almost embarrassing how quickly the fatigue leaves your body. "Dumplings!"

Qifrey laughs quietly at your immediate enthusiasm. "Yes, yes. I'm making some now." He sweeps the chopped vegetables into a bowl with practiced ease, and only then do you notice the rest of the ingredients spread across the counter beside him: minced flying shrimp and meat, a little dish of carefully measured seasonings, and a neat stack of dumpling wrappers lightly dusted with flour. So that's what he'd been doing the entire time you were upstairs battling the girls into bed. "I was taking stock of the kitchen earlier and realised these vegetables needed to be used soon. But I haven't wrapped them yet, so you may have to wa—"

"—do them with you," you finish for him, already reaching for the wrappers before Qifrey can protest. "Double the hands make for half the work, don't they?"

Qifrey just sighs. He knows better than the argue by now. The sound is touched with quiet amusement despite the air of resignation he tries to maintain—helplessly fond, in all of its indulgences.

The two of you stand at the kitchen counter to wrap the dumplings. Quiet nights like these are often your favourite—not that you don't enjoy the company of the girls—but moments like these are made all the more precious in their rarity. Little stretches of time where it is only you and Qifrey, where he can simply be himself and not the witch or the master, the two of you sharing in the stillness of the sleeping atelier together.

Your hips bump together every now and then in the cramped space between the counter and kitchen table, and your fingers brush with murmured apologies neither of you truly mean when you reach for the same wrapper more than once. You watch Qifrey's hands while you work; long fingers pleating the dumplings shut with practiced ease, each one cradled lightly in the cup of his palm before being placed in neat rows upon the tray. There is something strangely tender about the motion—careful and familiar in the same way he handles all fragile things.

The same way he handles your heart.

By the time you finish wrapping the dumplings, the water on the stove has come to a rolling boil. Qifrey lowers a handful carefully into the pot while you gather the rest, sliding them neatly into the cold box to keep for another day.

When you turn back, Qifrey is already holding a single bowl in his hands, waiting for you. Steam curls upward lazily from the broth.

You glance up at him. "You're not having any?"

"Hm?" Qifrey hums lightly as he sets the dumplings down on the table. "I assumed we could just share. It'd be less to clean up."

The easy casualness of his words makes something warm unfurl quietly in your chest.

The two of you eat the dumplings at the kitchen table, shoulders brushing every so often as you pass the spoon between you. The dumpling skins turn almost translucent in the broth, pieces of shrimp glowing a faint pink under the lamplight like small crystals. Qifrey nudges the bowl slightly closer when he notices you slowing down, waiting patiently for you to take the next one before reaching for his own. Between bites, the bowl slowly empties until there is nothing but broth, and then, even that too, is gone.

"I'll do the dishes," you say as you gather the bowl and spoon, already beginning to rise from your seat. The quicker you get it done, the sooner you can return to his side. Qifrey's brow furrows behind his glasses.

"It was my suggestion to cook, so I should—"

"Qifrey." Your hands slip over his shoulders before he can stand, fingers idly combing through the soft hair at his nape as he peers up at you. "You already stayed up late last night preparing snacks for us and Olly's lunchbox. Let me."

He tries, regardless. "But—"

"Qifrey, dear," you interrupt, voice dropping into something unbearably sweet. You can already see the first signs of impending embarrassment creeping across his face. "My love, my moon and stars, the apple of my eye, the keeper of my heart, won't you please let me have the honour of—"

"Oh, stop it." Qifrey pulls away from you halfheartedly, one hand coming up to cover part of his face as though it might hide the warmth gathering there. His voice is exasperated, but weakly so—far too flustered to carry any real force behind it. "Do as you like."

You think you want to kiss him, then. Desperately, a little. But experience has taught you the moment your lips touch his, neither of you will accomplish anything you intend—so instead, you settle for a light peck to his cheek before carrying the bowl over to the basin. Warm water laps softly against your hands as you scrub at the porcelain, the quiet clink of dishes filling the kitchen.

Even so, you can still feel Qifrey's gaze lingering on your back. A few quiet moments later, there's the soft scrape of chair legs against the kitchen floor, and you barely have time to glance over your shoulder before his arms are slipping around your waist from behind, warm and loose. He folds himself against your back with a quiet sigh.

"I missed you," he murmurs into the crook of your neck.

"I was with you the entire day."

"Not like this."

Qifrey's lips find your neck first, trailing warm kisses along your skin unhurriedly in a way that makes your breath catch. Your head tilts back instinctively to give him more room, and you feel the gentle nip of teeth against the sensitive underside of your jaw before he finally turns you just enough to kiss you properly.

It starts off slow—soft, familiar in a way only Qifrey can be around you; careful without restraint, gentle without hesitation. Your breaths mingle warm and wet in the spaces between each kiss as your mouths part and meet again, his glasses nudging lightly against your cheekbone as he leans closer. To your dismay, your hands remain suspended awkwardly over the sink, dripping wet and a little soapy. You want to touch him properly, to turn fully into his arms, card your fingers through his hair, and tug just enough to earn that quiet little sound he always tries and fails to swallow.

Instead, you make a helpless noise against his mouth and Qifrey laughs softly into the kiss, like he already knows what you're thinking. He's leaning in again when—

There's a sudden creak from the staircase. The two of you freeze instantly, Qifrey's fingertips still gently cradling your jaw. A second later, you hear the unmistakable sound of whispering—poorly hushed, at that—followed by the muffled shuffling of feet retreating back up several steps in frantic succession.

You and Qifrey slowly turn to look at each other.

“…Were they spying on us?” you whisper, more amused than anything.

“I am choosing,” Qifrey says with an immense attempt at dignity, despite the lingering flush across his face, “to believe they merely came downstairs for water.”

Another loud whisper drifts from the stairwell.

“I told you they were kissing—”

"—really just like in the book—"

"—can we go back to bed now—"

“Shh!”

The last one is definitely Agott. You bite down hard on your laughter, glancing up at the man behind you. Qifrey closes his eye with the exhaustion of a man enduring profound and arduous trials, one hand coming up to rub briefly at his temple before he leans in to steal one last kiss.

“olly..”

olruggio stands like a pillar next to you, chest pressed against yours as he holds you close. his chest rises up and down comfortingly, and he rubs your back in smooth motions. “hm?”

you slowly move his hand away from your back, moving it until it presses against the apex of your chest. his breathing stutters, and you crane your neck to kiss his hand. “i’m too tired to do a lot tonight.”

he smiles, warm and fond, letting his hand fall away to quickly write up a spell. a muffling spell, you note, as he presses it against the door now closed behind you. he brings your hand up to his lips, kissing it, the scratchy brush of his stubble against your hand making your stomach flutter.

“that’s alright,” he consoles, gently guiding you to the stairs and laying you on the bed. he presses his palm to your cheek, letting you rest your head against it before he slips to the floor, pressing a pillow underneath his knees.

“just lemme take care of you.”

his hands make their way up the outside of your thighs, dipping under your trousers and boxers to gently snake them down your legs. he lets them fall to the floor, before resting his head on the crook of your thighs, pressing sweet, soft kisses in between them.

olruggio’s hair brushes your navel, and you laugh breathlessly, running your hand through his hair. he hums, pressing his face against your crotch and inhaling deeply. you sputter, flustered, blush reddening your face.

“what are you doing-?!” you gasp, embarrassed. self consciousness grows in a pit in the center of your chest, unconsciously sucking in your stomach. olruggio pouts, his reply sounds breathless underneath you as he pats your stomach firmly. “it smells like you. and stop that nonsense, i wanna see your stomach.”

you groan but concede, earning a happy hum from olruggio. he lays there for a few more moments, pressing soft kisses to the skin of your thighs, beard tickling the sensitive skin.

his grip tightens on your waist as his head dips lower, extending his tongue and licking a strip up your cock. you gasp in surprise, gripping the sheets as olruggio starts lapping at your cock.

“fuck, olly,” cursing under your breath at olruggio’s ceaseless motions, waves of hot pleasure pooling in your core as he works his tongue masterfully along your dick. he laps at the gathering pre like a man starved, stubble tickling the tender skin.

he works you to the brink effortlessly, tongue circling the head of your cock until your vision turns white, a broken moan leaving your body as you come from ulruggio’s tongue alone. he greedily swallows every drop of your cum, only pulling away once you stop twitching.

“i told you to just let me take care of you,” he teases, grabbing a rag from the side of the bed and gently cleaning you up. you glare at him, too tired to move. “at least you’ll sleep well.”

“shut up.”

the room you’re in is dark, cold, and wet. for shits sake, they couldn’t even put you in a dry dungeon. it’s always the ones with moist bricks so old they’re porous, holding water as it runs in rivulets from the walls. heavy ropes work as bindings, digging angrily into the skin of your wrists and holding you tightly against the cold floor.

so, you’re probably underground. that means unless you can’t escape on your own, and no one will be coming for you. not that you expected to be saved- the brimhats don’t particularly care for concepts like “loyalty” or “no one left behind.”

whatever. you hated your colleagues anyway and you’d never live it down if they had to save your sorry ass.

so, plan b. one you really don’t like, but what can you do?

you’ve used your body to get past obstacles before. sure, it felt humiliating and degrading having to jut your chest and ass out like a peace of meat out on display, but at least you lived. if not for the crippling feeling of dysphoria that left you bed bound immediately after, you’d say it’s a pretty good tactic. not one you like to use often, but, it’s better than being dead, right?

right?

a door opens somewhere, followed by a loud grinding noise of stone-against-stone. definitely a windowway then. a light burns shadows into your eyes, pyreball held above long, slim fingers. the man attached to those fingers..

lord if he wasn’t beautiful. cool blue-grey eyes, fluffy white hair akin to a cloud, glasses that mimicked a birds beak. wait.. where have you seen those features before?

oh, right. he’s the man who captured you. because obviously.

“well, if it isn’t qifrey,” you mean for it to sound menacing, but with your voice so hoarse the threat sounds more like a croak. the man lets a thin smile purse through his terse expression, eyes grazing over your body like a brand.

“save it,” he commands, voice low and incensed. qifrey kneels down on one knee in front of you, so close you can feel his breath fan against your face. “i don’t have the patience to entertain you, brimhat.” the word comes out like a curse, making you grin lopsidesly.

“what, scared of a little forbidden magic? that why you got me tied up like this? you’re scared-” you’re cut off by a loud smack against your cheek, a startled yelp leaping from your throat before you can stop it. your face pulses in pain, skin red and angry.

“let me tell you how this is going to go,” qifrey’s voice is low and dangerous, a hot iron pressed against skin. “i’m going to ask you questions. you’re going to answer them. if you choose not to, please keep in mind no one can hear your screams.”

you bare your teeth, threat rolling off your body like rainwater. “what’re you gonna do to me, huh, pointy hat?” he tilts his head mockingly, mouth opening to reply.

but you’re too fast, mouth hurling a glob of spit right against his cheek. it hits its marks with a wet splat, and qifrey turns, slowly, calmly. it sends a sudden bolt of fear down your spine, his thumb wiping it away like it was nothing more than a fly on a window.

his hands move before you can even draw in a breath, wrapped around your throat and pinning you to the floor. the bindings scream against your skin, every tiny shift sending red-hot bolts of pain straight to your brain.

speaking of your brain, the asphyxiation makes it panic, hand closed around your jugular too far to bite and squeezing just enough to be painful. your survival instincts scream at you to get it off, to find oxygen, anything. but your bindings keeps you firmly stuck in place, and qifrey’s other hand hasn’t hit its mark yet.

the loud sound of fabric ripping makes you gasp, lower body now fully exposed to qifrey. he tosses away your undergarments like they’re nothing, then adjusts you so your bare back and thighs meet the cold, wet floor.

“what- what’re you-” you gasp, fear and panic swelling into a cacophony of dread in your chest. you watch, terrified, as a manic smile slips into qifrey’s face, the hand on your throat tightening ever so slightly.

“since you insisted, we’re going to do this the hard way.”

you don’t even get time to scream before qifrey’s hand plunges into you, working quickly so his fingers drag against the tip of your cock. you wail, punctuated by a keening moan.

his teeth are white razors in your tunnel vision, gasping and sobbing and choking under his touch. he works himself around your cock brutally, never stopping and always brushing right where you need him. your body shakes with fear and twitches with pleasure, your hindbrain screaming at you to flee.

qifrey leans in close, loosening his grip on your throat ever so slightly, but enough so you can take in panicked gasps of air. his hair falls in front of his face, obscuring his eyes. “tell me who you’re working for.”

“hah-?” you try, unable to register his words. he doesn’t wait for you to catch up, instead landing a rough slap on your face, on the same spot as last time. you cry in pain, gasping through pitiful sobs.

“who. are. you. working. for?” his question works in time with brutal thrusts of his fingers, and you squirm, tears pouring down your cheeks. “i- iguin,” the answer is broken and hurts your shredded throat, but it’s enough.

qifrey hums, but never lets up his brutal thrusts, pumping your cock until your toes curl and you’re so so close-

he pulls away, and the loss of contact makes you whine. you watch his face work, thinking to himself. probably debating on if keeping you alive is worth it.

“well, olly does need some stress relief,” qifrey says, apparently deciding on a solution as his hand releases its vice grip on your throat. “isn’t that right, olly?”

“hm,” a gruff voice echoes from somewhere behind qifrey, and you almost sob as his hands let up on your throat entirely, going to dig through his pockets.

he retrieves a small, rounded wand, and with a quick spell inked onto the surface, it starts vibrating in his hands. an evil smile on his face as he lowers himself back to you.

“can’t have you getting too comfortable,” he says, like a teacher correcting a student. the device slips between your thighs and against your cock, the vibration making you choke. you squirm, trying to dislodge it, but it’s no use; every movement shifts against your pulsing dick in pleasurable agony.

“now stay here like a good little brimhat slut, and you might yet live.”