#and an obligatory tea break | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vyzz-undercover · 2 months ago

Text

the voices have made this happen

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(5,900ish words) (OUUGHHHHH)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink [obligatory]

•vaginal fingering

•oral [f receiving]

•mild possessive behaviour

•the consequences of ignoring important medical devices

•mentions of (hypothetical) torture

•tumblrs recurringly cancerous formatting

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im back on my bullshit after having to do overnights so as payment to the dark gods of whoring and degeneracy i humbly offer this taglist of sweet darling who've indulged my insanity: @the-raven-lady, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @bispecsual, @lemon-russ, @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @egrets-not-regrets, @moodymisty, @sinistermojo, @justeverythingnothingelse, @pluvio-tea, @thevoidscreams, @beckyninja, @yestheantichrist!!! if you wanna be tagged (or not) in the next let me know!!! also it may take me longer to do a part four to this namely because ive got more wageslaving ahead of me soon but alas i'll definitely have rowboat girlyman catch em. also maybe give cato some top. myehehehehe,,, AND THANK YOU FOR READING AS USUAL ILY ALL!!! :3

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Cato is just about leaving.

After having spent the better part of an hour discussing the predicted destruction pathway of a hive-fleet on the system's rim with his Father; it sends his balls into his throat when you nearly run into him in the chamber's huge archway.

It only takes a fraction of a second to catalogue your presence.

You're wearing the same utilitarian blue robe as you had been last week again.

Last week, when he'd been pounding you insensible on a lounge in the library—Cato promptly quashes the insidious memory, smothering down any sort of reaction. But there is a change in comparison to the dizzying reminder: there's a new addition to the reoccurring outfit.

You've brought a navy, high-collared turtleneck into the mix, layered below your lapels.

So, the efforts of his mouth hadn't gone unheeded, then.

Throne, if he's not smug, he's got no bloody clue what he is.

Cato steps aside and turns to allow you entrance first before his exit.

"Commander Sicarius," you lilt with a soft voice and a small downward tip of your chin, all while holding his gaze.

He's transfixed periodically at the honeyed sort of warmth in your eyes.

Despite himself, he lingers and greets you with a slow, "Lady Ambassador."

The left side of his mouth twitches upward in a half-aborted smirk that he quickly tries to mask as a stern, frown-nod combination.

You break the staring match and Cato's confident he's salvaged his slip-up without detection.

Or not—because oh, fuck—if he doesn't feel the burning focus of a Primarch's eyes boring a hole into the side of his head like a brand.

It only lasts an instant, but the second is an eternity to him.

Of course, you're oblivious to this subtle exchange—and promptly trot past him to his Father's vast desk.

"My Lord Primarch," you say with a curt little bow; and then Guilliman's attention is solely on you, his favourite little pet project. "I read the data-drives you instructed from the preceding article logging. I've arranged them back to the most recent mark counts."

You're looking for an empty spot to lay them on his table, but with all the meticulously arranged stacks, it's none too easy to find one.

"Perfect," the Primarch breaths, "Just on the side there is fine, don't worry."

Obligingly, you lay them atop a small mountain of paperwork.

"Do you need anything else of me, my Lord?" You chirp brightly, the tone of your voice so very painfully sweet—Cato is nearly overwhelmed fighting a pitched battle against the urge to run over, pick you up and shake you around suddenly.

Guilliman chuckles, waving one massive hand about vaguely, "You've done more than enough for me today, why don't we leave it at that for now, hm? Go on."

"Of course; thank you, and have a good evening, my Lord," You say, bow once more, and turn on your heel from the Primarch, and—and smile at Cato as you walk back towards the exit. That's—that's the first time you've smiled at him. His twin hearts lurch, slamming forward against the inside of his fused chest cavity. It's perfect abominable. You rotten temptress, he's—he's going to rectify that audacity later. Or now, if you're... possibly heading the same direction he is. Which is whatever direction you're going, purely by chance.

It's merely coincidence, he swears.

He's certainly not planning on hounding after you like a dog tailing a bitch in heat.

He's certainly not going to drag you into a side room the second he's sure no-one with a credible opinion's around.

He's certainly not going to indulge in anything heretical, like bending you bare over his knee for daring to taunt him.

Cato makes as if to fall in step behind you as you pass the threshold before him, but is quickly halted by his Father's curt, "I do not believe you have been dismissed, Cato."

He's never been subjected to such sinking dread quite so nonchalantly.

"Approach."

Cato complies stuffily, sparing a glance at your figure disappearing down the corridor before acquiescing. He's practically dragging his ceramite boots across the intricate rugs as he nears the Primarch's seated but colossal form.

Guilliman isn't looking at him, having had returned to notating a miscellaneous form.

The scritch-scratch of his gene-sire's preferred, yet archaic method of manually writing on the parchment is like someone grating a plate with a fork to his ears right now.

"You've gotten over your petty grievances regarding the Ambassador at last, I take it?" Guilliman asks, without looking up.

It is not Cato's duty to like or dislike. Nor is it to be biased without reason—his opinions are to be intellectual, not emotional. His duty is to assess, analyse and provide feedback, so that his Primarch can take it into account when making rulings and decisions.

Cato swallows around the proverbial hunk of drywall lodged in his throat and answers, "She has proven herself... useful, yes, sire."

Guilliman finally meets his eyes but says nothing for a short while. There's dark bags under his Primarch's eyes, and the deep, stern crease permanently between his dark blonde brows is a slight bit harsher, but the only thing Cato can parse out of the expression's intent is a vague sense of knowing. Because, insofar, he's thought himself quite adept at reading his Primarch; and rather well versed in deciphering the intricacies of his moods.

And right now, he feels like he's being read like an open manuscript.

The daunting prospect Cato's caught sinks it's teeth in his gullet. It's impossible, he's not left any room for suspicion, he's covered his tracks—there's no logical reason why he should be getting raked with such a look.

His gene-sire isn't a psyker nor omniscient, just impossibly intelligent—and so absurdly good at the mathematics of plotting and planning that it only appears superficially as if he is all-seeing. He can't possibly know what Cato has been doing—or rather, who he's been doing.

"It's about time," his Father hums abruptly, suddenly disinterested. "Now you're dismissed."

Cato nods, turns on his boot heel, and nigh bolts marches out the room. His proverbial tail definitely not between his legs.

The hall outside Guilliman's apartments is a central domed area that functions as a meeting area, where people go to one of six looming hallways. It's the bottom of a series of levels; and above, three echelons encircled by arcades and balustrades, framed on the exterior by engaged columns.

But the structure itself is immense and ancient, even by Imperial standards. One of the few still-original, unaltered parts of the great Gloriana-class warship's innards. It is doused in long swathes of red carpet and great standards of Magcraggian note, alongside glorious, heroic frescoes depicting Legiones Astartes in their thousands, crusading across the heavens with the Emperor their head.

Cato keeps his head down as he passes them, uneasy with guilt. Feeling as if their lenses are following him—intent on venturing into the lower layers to brood.

Several Astartes are hovering about amongst the personnel and serfs. The baselines look up at him in awe, and his Brothers nod in respect, but he pays them all no mind.

The furthest corridor beckons him, and so he goes; down the complex system of broad walks with high, barrel vault ceilings, mazing through the vessel's higher clearance reaches like arteries through a body.

Cato is seething, and self-admittedly itching to take a howler of a swing at the next thing that speaks to him.

He cuts down the southern channel and sees one of his subordinate Victrix Guard lingering in the middle of a groin vault intersection.

The younger Astartes is about to continue straight, yet he pauses.

Brother Marcellus meets Cato's eyes for a second, clearly notes his Commander's absolutely stinking mood from a hundred meters off; nods, swallows, takes a step backward—and changes direction to go left rather than pass him.

Cato's too pissed to even linger on the strangeness of the action.

Still, he doesn't rightly blame him.

Cato strides on, back straight, chin up—the red shawl pinned beneath his pauldrons swirling behind him.

His thoughts are eating at him the whole while.

He's sure his Primarch is just trying to innocently divine his sudden change of mind regarding you. There's no way his Father's aware of why. And yet, guilt is a big black wolf nipping at his ankles, making him hasten; and unease clouds about his heart. He's mortified, for lack of a better word.

The full implications of the situation are too enormous to be faced all at once; so he picks the smallest, most banal facet he can think of.

That being, you.

You, who he'll never see again if his Primarch finds out.

You, who's practically damned him without knowing it.

You, who he's now valiantly trying not to imagine in a hundred different circumstances where he gets away with it all. Each one more heretical than the last—it's like it was before he'd managed a hand on you: his body giving in to suffocating delusions, sleepless in his cot; lapping at whatever scant, lust-soaked morsels his mind offers up.

One of his favourites remains you scantily clad beneath a moonlit night sky, on the parapet of his ancestral fortress on the coastal edge of Perusia.

He likes to fantasise you like it there.

He suspects you would.

He knows just about all there is to know about you on paper, and wonders if you know much of Talassar. Or if you've read about Castra Tanagra. He assumes Guilliman would share the tale of that famed old battle with you as a part of your readings.

Each impossible reverie is a new shiny nail in his coffin, or dreadnaut—it depends where and how he dies, and if there's anything scrape up of him when he eventually goes down in a blaze of glory and duty, and honour.

If his Primarch catches him, there's going to be none of that.

He'll be struck from living record, like Titus had been. Cato would be lucky to get a little plaque in the deepest pits of the Fortress of Hera. Reduced to a whispered memory of his achievements passed solemnly between Captains, followed up with words of disappointment. Of waste. Until his memory dies with them and his deeds fade into obscurity, lost to any new brothers.

The fate that awaits you would somehow be worse. Cato was always going to die in war, as was his right—but you—you were not fashioned for such things. Yes, Guilliman enjoys you, but that fact won't save you. Just like it won't save Cato for all his usefulness. You'd be tried as a heretic, as a source of corruption upon the Legiones, and you'd be made to suffer; because torture ever comes before execution. You're so very soft weak in so very many ways. Your life lived in a gilded cage, without pain nor discomfort that extends further than grating professional grievances—he doesn't want to imagine the sound of you screaming, but he does.

He cannot stand the thought.

The sudden urge to barricade you in his chambers for permanent safe keeping is all-consuming.

It's suddenly all he can think about.

He has to find you.

The amount of serfs passing and parting to allow his passage thin out to nothing.

Even from the sterile confines of one of the many winding hallways, Cato abruptly swears he can hear the echoed rush of sandals—your sandals—reverberating off the floor.

He hadn't notice you following behind immediately because, damn it, he's spiralling thinking.

He chances a confrontation, and rounds about-face.

You stand there in the middle of the empty hallway like you've got a bolter aimed at you, frozen.

"Come here," he says, clipped.

You do not.

"Come here."

Again, no compliance.

"Do you pride yourself on being a idiot?" His voice is scathing now, taking a heavy step into your space and being met by you staying stock stiff, still. "Do you have any idea what that stunt of yours earlier might incur?"

"What?" You blink, finally animating. "I didn't do anything—"

"You know what you did," he hisses, accusatory. "You're hollow between the ears, but you're not blind."

Lips pursing tightly in mental deliberation, you make a fey noise of annoyance as a little frown graces your features, apparently not deigning to offer a comment back.

"Do you not understand that... this," he gesticulates between you both and his voice falls to a whisper. "This... is not common allowance?"

"It's not?"

Are you being intentionally dense at this point, or is it just second nature?

Cato raises a hand to knead the crease between his brows, "No."

"That explains a lot, actually," you say, seemingly without any real comprehension on the gravity of the matter. "I couldn't find any notes or references on it."

He's genuinely stunned, "Is that what you were doing when—"

"When I was rudely interrupted," you cut in, the comment is nigh a spat insult.

Cato isn't sure what to say to that sudden display of spine, and grumbles.

He surmises the optimal action is complete disregard.

Therefore, he has no problem turning on the heel of his sabatons and starting his pace on again.

"So... this isn't normal by Astartes standards?"

He's taken aback at your abrupt want for conversation after all that. Namely because it's atypical. You never attempted small talk with him. You never do anything but scurry off when he's accosted you for you flagrant overstepping—wait.

He feels as if the paradigm between you both has shifted again since the last time for some reason. More than last time, actually. More than you just simply having the audacity to backtalk him.

It's like some symptom of a deeper sickness rising to the surface.

It makes him unreasonably curious suspicious.

He wants to see just how much ground you'll give, so he plays along and answers, "Not as far as I am aware, no."

You hum, and immediately are at it again, posturing, "Surely you have heard of cases of it happening?"

"I have not," Cato says, and you hum in consideration.

You're satisfied at that information for a brief while, but then he remembers you cannot shut your mouth for more than five minutes, and purses his lips. He's already tiring of your incessant questioning.

"But you'd done it before?"

And that's just great.

You've expertly found an exposed nerve.

More kindling on the bonfire of him having an aneurysm before the cycle's end.

Cato can feel the hint of pressure behind his eyes as he begins increasing his walking speed. "I don't think that is a relevant question."

You haste to stay in step, "It definitely is."

"You ought to learn a civil fucking tongue when you're addressing me, woman," he bites out, nose crinkling into a sneer.

Unperturbed by his short-tempered comment, another thoughtful little 'hmm' slips out of you.

"So, to conclude... you where as inexperienced as I was at the start, and all those gloating insults back then were just projection?" You suddenly blurt out at rather impressive speed, like a politician possessed—before finishing with, "Sorry, 'all those gloating insults back then were just projection,' Commander Sicarius."

Cato grits his teeth and feels his eye twitch.

He stops, turns to look over his pauldron, and stares bloody murder.

He can't even imagine the idiocy in your brain that gave you the imprimatur to say that aloud.

But Throne, the sly little glint in your pretty eyes suddenly has his face thudding with heat.

Then you smile at him for the second time ever.

Cato bites back the urge to ogle you dumbly, and actually feels himself thicken in his body-glove in real time, because oh, fuck—his hind brain practically pelts him across the jaw with the mental pict of that sweet mouth lathing up the side of his cock.

Mentally unseated for a moment, his brows furrow; and he quickly turns away, applying himself entirely to the task of trudging down the stagings.

The silence is a breath of fresh air.

Even if he can still hear your laboured breathing a few steps back him from him. You're straining to keep up with his pace, and it's an excellent punishment for you. His heavy sabatons clank-clank-clank on the steel decking, and your little shoes practically pitter-patter in contrast. It's a syncopated rhythm that he's absentmindedly trying to match—and when he lingers for a step he manages to even the beat out.

He hangs a left, and scales the wide stairs to the open intersection platform above two at a time; trying not to snort amusedly at the little groan you let out as you hurry up them behind him, heaving.

Cato realises abruptly that you're actually, really, seriously following him—and pretending you're not.

He makes a right at the top and then waits for you to fall in step.

And, pointedly, he then turns and doubles back around.

You stand there stupefied for a moment, before grumbling softly and continuing down the thoroughfare without him.

If his observation skills hold any weight, he heads straight into the nearest open room and waits for you to follow.

He doesn't activate the locking mechanism on the other side on purpose when he strides in, and lets the sliding door close behind him.

This particular room is forgettable in its ubiquitousness, though unusual. He has no idea of it's actual intended purpose. It's fitted with screens and database terminals as if it's for debriefing purposes, but he has no real way of confirming. What he can catalogue is that there's wraparound surfaces littered with candles. A few strips of harsh lighting and scant furniture—a tallish counter and a few long benches. They're thankfully Astartes sized.

Which means he can sit down and pray for you to walk right into the metaphorical snare he's just laid.

Not a minute later, the door's sliding mechanism triggers and you scurry through—only to promptly go stiff.

You stare at him like a rat he's just found by lifting a crate.

The mechanism shuts automatically behind you and it apparently spooks you enough to jump a little.

"You're disgustingly predictable," he harrumphs, unimpressed.

A flush rises to your face as you scowl, "You're disgustingly predictable," you shoot back, echoing his words.

Of course, that audacity of yours leads to a short stalemate.

He huffs out a sigh as he concedes out of sheer frustration and says, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one."

You blink dumbly at him, "...what?"

"It's my locking code," he growls, and Throne, you must be acting stupid just to grate him; because there's no way your brain is so smooth as to not connect the dots. "It's for the door, moron."

A soft 'ohh' leaves you as you turn and step aside to the key pad fixed into the frame.

"Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," he's agonisingly forced to say once again.

"Three-nine-five-eight-eight-two-seven-one..." you mumble to yourself.

Cato hears an angry beep and suddenly wants to smash his head into a wall repeatedly.

Grinding his molars, he snarls, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," and then adds, "If I have to repeat that one more time, I'm going to throw you out of the nearest airlock."

And it seems the threat of violence works wonders, because you don't bungle the input this time.

Cato sighs, exasperated, and leans back against the lip of the table behind the bench.

He ought to start carrying around a correctional stun rod. Just for whenever you annoy him. If it's good enough for a Neophyte to suffer, it's good enough for you, he supposes.

Or it'll send you into a seizing fit.

He's not to sure of the maximum voltage a baseline can take without their singular, puny little heart giving out.

One disciplinary option scratched out, then.

But he can think of many, many more to make a model Ambassador out of you. The wonders of carefully applied violence are plentiful. A little roughing up never hurts, or at least, not for long. And fuck, do you need some lessons on proper manners. He could have you smacked into shape like a show pony in no time—even if it'd be more like teaching a grox to trot lateral movements. Then again, he also believes if he stuck a frag far enough up a Carnifex's ass, he could probably get it to play Regicide.

And then pointedly, he starts thinking about your ass.

Cato is so utterly lost on the tangent of hypotheticals that he's flabbergasted when a small mouth lands on his own.

He hadn't even been paying attention.

He hadn't even noticed you'd neared.

It feels like the breath has been knocked out him at the sheer unexpectedness of it.

The kiss is hasty, your eyes scrunched shut and cheeks flushed, scowling with focus.

All the while, his mind reels because Throne, the contact of his lips to yours doesn't really feel particularly profound aside from how soft your skin is—but the intention of it is the real reward.

Cato's genuinely infuriated when you pull away.

You blink owlishly at him, giving him a cautious look like you're trying to gauge his reaction.

There are a thousand things he wants to ask, to say, but the foremost among them is but one.

"Again," he huffs, lessening the distance between you just enough to invite you back.

And he thinks that perhaps he’s abusing his station over you, but when you tentatively find a hold on his gorget to steady yourself to give him another kiss—those thoughts are all but erased from his mind. It's a curious weight off his shoulders to have you initiate and to show you want him in return, especially since it's as new to you as it is for him.

Nonetheless, he can't even imagine finding a reason to stop you, so he starts blindly mouthing; trying to coordinate around the fact he's so much larger than you.

The angle is difficult, but he's willing to follow your lead. Your body is even more fragile when he's in full armour. The risk of actually hurting you is realer than ever, but he can't help the desire to wrap an gauntlet around your waist and pull you closer to him. Thankfully, you let him when he urges you to, trembling hands flitting across his chestplate like you're unsure of what, exactly, you should be holding—and he catches the tiny line between your brows smoothing out as you risk a peek. Only for you to yelp, nervously wrenching yourself back in flustered surprise upon meeting his unwavering stare.

It's as if you expected something else.

He senses he's made a mistake of some kind.

Then he remembers from the motion-picts he's not supposed to keep glaring at you when kissing.

Regardless, he studies your face, memorising the lingering want still clearly there like his life depends on it.

He pulls you in and kisses you again, just because he can, this time brief and chaste. And then he goes for a third, fourth—fifth, each time slightly longer, until finally he rears back; and when he does you push up on your toes just a little, trying to chase him, but lose the nerve; although to Cato the reason for your faltering is, frankly, irrelevant. Because just like him, you lack the practical capacity to really know what next step you should take. Still, you look down at his armour, as if there's a latch to pull that magically undoes all his wargear.

He knows he's not going to get himself out of his armour in any reasonable way or amount of time.

There's no way he's getting the satisfaction of having you on him right now—but he still wants to keep you near.

He thinks he hears you ask for something, but he's too distracted to catch it in time.

"What?" Cato scowls, "What do you want now?"

It's clear you've been struck by your own embarrassment, strung up somewhere between shy and wanton, "I.. uh..."

"Spit it out," he rumbles.

You wince, hesitant as you mumble, "You, uh... i-in me."

Cato's brain skids to a halt. And it's the gall of that request alone that has him sweeping you up off the ground and spinning you around to sit in his lap.

It's obvious you're overwhelmed at being held to the formidably larger size of himself in full-plate. But as usual, you're yet to actively complain. Using his vambrace as a leg-bar to scoop under your thighs, he folds you in his grasp—your knees pressed to your chest as you're tucked back against his pauldron and chestplate.

The angle forces the hems of your robe aside, and he can see the underside curve of your ass; along with the plump mound of your vulva under the white of your small-clothes.

Cato's suddenly offended by their existence. You didn't wear any last time, so why now? The irritation of there being one more thing between you and him is enough justification to yank at them, tearing them loose—before throwing them aside.

You grumble sourly, which he chooses to ignore.

The palm of his gauntlet smooths across your hip, and you make a small huff as you shiver, goose-bumps suddenly covering your exposed flesh.

Cato lets the pads graze closer and closer to your sex, content to watch you impatiently glare at his armoured fingers from between the gap of your thighs.

With little preamble, he's stuffing his middle in. You're already so wet it's practically a cake-walk. Your cunt swallows down each articulating segment of his armoured finger down to the knuckle. The fact he's going to have to personally scrub your slick out from between the joints, instead of a lowly serf, is infinitely worth the shrill whine he receives as tribute.

"Would that my wargear had a zipper," he breathes, and fuck, he grins behind the obscurity of his gorget at the mournful mewl that remark earns. "I'd have you on your knees sucking for all the cunted trouble you've caused me."

You're making a warp-awful attempt at keeping yourself together, high-strung as you evidently are. Little more than a minute of him pumping his finger in and out of you has you red-faced and panting. All it takes to get those heavy breaths of yours to change into proper whines is his large thumb-pad adjusting to rest on your clit, applying pressure. You jerk, reflexively trying to buck into every motion. Fighting and failing to withhold the stuffy little moans escaping you—trying to stave off the inevitable by scrambling at the thigh plating of his power armour with one hand and tugging at his couter with the other.

Some part of Cato wants to stop solely out of spite for you being so grating earlier, or some other stupid mercurial justification of his; but instead, he simply continues, letting you squirm on his fingers.

And squirm you do.

It's clear to him the tide of it all is becoming too much for you to resist. Your sandal'd feet kick out where he's got your legs secured, joining in on the struggling as it begins anew when his thumb starts circling. It's a good sign, so he adds his pointer into you to bolster the stretch, curling in; before letting his fingers fan out inside you, stretching rather than stabbing. Your hips try to stutter forward in time with the quick thrusting of his digits, broken whimpers resonating off the room's walls. He promptly stuffs down to the knuckle and curls them again—and you all but bleat his surname as you're dragged into a fast and apparently exhausting orgasm. Just knowing he's you got you beat has his erection ache where it's trapped under the suiting and plating of his navel.

Cato can't feel you clenching through all the layers separating his skin from yours, but he knows from experience that you're seizing in fits internally—tight little cunt trying to milk a load out of an Astartes cock that should've been stuffed in you.

Just to allow himself one last bit of smugness, he scissors his fingers; giving a final swirl for good measure.

The shivered sob is worth every possible future disciplinary action he'll receive.

He pulls his gauntlet away slowly, and the wet shlick of it leaving you is almost amusingly alike pulling a blade from sinew. It's a degenerate comparison, he knows, but it's true.

Nonetheless, he splays out his hand and swallows dryly, eyeing the sticky, clear liquid webbing out and thinning between each ridge of his gauntlet'd digits.

Suddenly focused entirely on the fluid on his fingers, he pulls his vambrace barring under your knees up away. Now limp, and without the support, you slide off his lap and onto the floor in a slow slump.

"Nn-ngh," You groan weakly, face-down, legs still juddering a little.

Seeing as you're preoccupied, Cato doesn't even dignify the concept of hesitation, and promptly jams his fingers in his mouth—lathing the aftermath of your orgasm from them. And Throne, the taste of your hormones make him groan. He's absolutely stunned, unsure of how to act. He's so fucking stupid, why didn't he do this earlier? He's practically drugged by the omophagic aftereffect—getting off on your second hand bliss. Some sort of fey feedback loop in his brain catalysing his next decision solely on instinct.

He clambers to the floor and gets to his knees guards, securing a mitt on your bared thigh to roll you onto your back.

Apparently boneless with afterglow, you're easy to manhandle.

You barely have the strength to do much more than crane your head up at him and whine as he arranges your thighs apart, settling on his front between them with a warp-awful clank; before lifting your legs up to rest onto either lip of his gorget.

You try to scud back on your ass suddenly, but are quickly halted when he holds you fast by the hip.

He raises a confused brow.

"I-Isn't—" you start, still gathering the scraps of your brain together so soon post-orgasm, "Isn't y-your saliva acid?"

Cato suddenly wants to cuff you on the ear, "Who the hell told you that?"

"M-Master Calgar," you mumble.

Oh, of course, the gossiping hen.

He's going to have words with the Lord Defender of Greater Ultramar the next time they meet—words like 'for fuck sakes, stop scaring the woman he's trying to eat out with talk of Betcher's gland, Marneus,' come to mind, but then Cato realises that doesn't sound like he's not fucking you, so he quickly settles on: 'stop dignifying the Ambassador's hundred-and-one insane questions.'

"Not Ultramarines," Cato manages not to snarl, "It's a vestigial organ in most of us."

Your voice is shaky as you parrot, "Most of us?"

"Yes," He grunts, and promptly buries his face in your cunt.

The disproportion in size is painfully apparent when he realises his whole damned tongue is able to drag a stripe up the entire splay of you with minimal effort.

The pitched gasp he wins out of you is pure sin, and he's on the brink of swooning; but then you're running your trap again.

"Please, d-don't tell me you're one that can spit acid—" you manage to warble, seemingly still stuck on the topic.

Cato sighs as he's forced to pull away from your vulva, "I think you're forgetting I had my tongue on your tonsils in the library."

"Th-that's different," you stammer. "That's not as sensitive."

A long, unimpressed deadpan paints itself on his face.

"So," he starts with a bated hiss, "And let me be perfectly clear in this—you believe your vagina is more susceptible to burns than your mouth?"

Your face transforms into a strange mix of embarrassed and angry.

"I didn't say that—"

"Yes, you did," Cato grumbles.

"Did not," you huff.

"You—you just fucking did," he snaps, frustrated enough that he can feel one of the veins at his temple bulge. "The implication is obvious, you insufferable little whore."

You snort, but stay silent.

The argument appears, for all intents and purposes, to be finished.

"Did not," you say abruptly once more, pouting.

Cato's eyes roll back in his skull as he grits his teeth.

"Throne of Terra, if you don't drop the subject, acid in your cunt will be the least of your worries," he all but snarls, and that apparently quietens you enough that he can get back to lapping at you—the flat of his tongue running over your clit and earning a jolt.

He wraps his lips around the pink little nub and sucks. And that's all it apparently takes to make up for his amateur career in the practice.

You siphon down a sharp breath and let out a garbled cry, hips canting forward into his mouth—to which he obligingly stuffs his tongue into your slick entrance.

There's a satisfaction well beyond simple pleasure that swamps him at the way your thighs shake either side of his head. His own breath is hot about him, stuffy and dizzying; and the skin pressed against his cheeks is warm and smooth.

You're panting when he goes back to lapping over your clit, perching yourself up on a bent elbow and reaching out a hand.

Your fingers card through the messed brown hair atop his head. And he stiffens without realising—but he realises something: like this, the touch is ecstasy—pure, golden ecstasy. Every bit of higher thought in his head evaporates when you stroke him again.

A long, rumbling subvocal moan tears from him.

The infrasound vibration makes you buck weakly into his mouth again, teary eyed afore him as he adjusts his grip on you and crawls closer.

He's suddenly acutely aware that in this new, much more prone position, he's able to grind his body armour into his groin guard pressed on the floor. And as soon as the action bears results—namely a scorching burr of pleasure racing up his spine—he's deadset on rutting against the ground like a slavering beast.

He's frotting himself at a pace so rabid it'd be cruel to subject your cunt to. It's brutal, and the harsh scraping sound of plasteel on steel only further proves that. It's just frantic lust—he's desperate.

It's complete insanity how close to finishing he is so quickly.

Not as close as you, though.

He can feel how your legs jump with each pass of his tongue; and then you're unraveling in front of his very eyes.

"I-I can't—I can't, S-Sicarius, I-I—" You ramble, dazed, trying to get away as he works you right through it, sobbing and oversensitive while he's rutting himself closer and closer to his own end.

It all comes to a head when your fingers dig into his hair, tugging—and his brain is overrun with static. A drawn out groan scathes from his maw as any sense of rhythm scatters like light through a prism. For a fraction of a second, the pleasure is serene.

Then it's abject agony, he feels—he feels like Roboute Guilliman himself has just taken a running start and kicked him in the balls.

"F-Fuck–ing—gh—" he chokes, vision swimming, straining against the tide of the torment. His back arches up, and he curls inward on himself; white-hot pain clocking his nervous system into overdrive. Every muscle in his abdomen is doused in acid. He's tolerated being shot, stabbed, burnt without so much as blinking—but this is an entirely new and entirely different sort of wound. It's like he's pissing promethium. It's—it's the catheter, he realises. He'd forgotten about the bloody catheter jammed up his cock.

Through the searing ordeal, he manages to force his armour's facilities to finally abide his impulses and dose him with a pain dampener.

And then everything's fine.

He opens eyes he wasn't aware he'd closed and finds your face has suddenly gotten far closer to his.

"S-Sicarius?" You stammer, and there's an honest panic in your voice. "Sicarius, p-please, please—a-are you okay?"

He realises he's on his back, and you're sitting beside him, half draped on his chestplate, frantically trying to figure out what's wrong with him to no avail.

You've leaned in so close he can feel your rushed breathing.

"I'm fine," Cato groans, and you sputter out a sigh.

"I-I don't know what happened, I-I—" you're still wildly confused and raving, and he inhales deeply; only to be greeted by the sour animal stink of fear practically dripping from you.

Cato rolls his tongue around inside his mouth and cringes knowingly at the foaming side-effect of the chem he'd self-administered, the acrid taste mixed with your slick is certainly not an ideal cocktail.

The sincerity of concern behind your reaction is baffling. He's not made of glass, for fuck sakes—and he's a bit pissy about the fact you'd actually fallen victim to the idea of him suffering some grievous injury so easily. But he supposes where there's a will of baseline overreaction, there's a way.

"You're acting like a child, woman. Pull yourself together," he sighs hoarsely, hoping the comment jars you out of your hysteria—or at the very least scares you off.

It does exactly neither, and you sidle in closer and rest your cheek on his jaw.

It’s an action so overwhelmingly horribly affectionate that it would’ve been a crime to not press into it with a lean of his head. Or, at least, that's the half-assed justification he tells himself.

Because he's loving enduring your attention, not seeking it; and therefore only humouring you when he lifts a hand and settles the wide splay of it on your flank as a comfort.

He shouldn't be, but he is.

#warhammer 40k x reader #warhammer 40k #reader insert #warhammer fanfic #cato sicarius #space marine x reader #cato sicarius x reader #writing #ultramarines #cato 'im going to kill the next person i fucking see' sicarius #*squeaky noise*#ambassador 'omg hiiiii'#FUCKKK #anyways #roboute guilliman #i am so fucking sorry you have to deal with this shit baby girl #also LMFAO I DO THINK CALGAR LOOOOVES A GOOD BITCHING SESSION

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writing-intheundercroft · 1 year ago

Text

The Night Shift

AO3 Link

Pairing: Auror!Sebastian x F!MC

Word Count: 10,206

Rating: T (just some smooches but plenty of angst)

Summary: You're the lead healer in the St. Mungo's intensive care unit, and a painfully familiar face ends up in your ward.

A/N: Took a break from my long fics this week to deliver a long angsty Seb one shot. I heard Phoebe Bridgers cover Night Shift and became feral over it. Perhaps it needs a smutty part two???

Night One

“I’m so glad you were able to slip away from work for a bit.” Poppy says, pouring tea into your cup.

You smile up at the brunette girl, who still wears her hair in a cropped bob, albeit a bit more fashionable now that you’re in your twenties. You miss Poppy’s presence in your life, but her career as a mazoologist and yours as a lead healer in the intensive care unit of St. Mungo’s has your schedules rarely crossing.

“It’s nice to be out in the sunlight,” you say coyly, lifting the cup to your mouth. It's the truth–you haven’t been out to tea with a friend, dressed in a pretty lace gown in what feels like ages. Your career usually has you in a tightly pulled bun, hair out of your face to focus on your patients, with bloodied aprons. Magic can heal most ailments, but your ancient abilities make you the best bet for the most gravely wounded. So much so that you’ve worked six nights a week every week for the past five years, sleeping during the day to make it to your overnight shifts at the hospital.

With few exceptions.

But there’s coverage today, giving you a rare Saturday afternoon off to enjoy the warm spring day. You and Poppy are sitting outside a tea shop in Diagon Alley, catching up on all things personal, while people watching. It’s strange, you think, to be surrounded by so many people. You leave for your shift at seven thirty in the evening, when most people are getting home for dinner, and return to your flat far after everyone has left for work.

Poppy had just started telling you a story about a wild herd of manticores she’d encountered on her travels abroad, when a familiar face walked up to your table.

“Merlin’s beard, I never thought I’d see the likes of you two ever again,” Andrew Larson grins.

“Andrew,” Poppy smiles. “It’s good to see you.”

There are obligatory kisses on the cheek as the handsome Ravenclaw pulls up a chair. “What are you doing in town, Poppy?”

“Visiting my gran, of course.” She tilts her head towards you. “And catching up with friends.”

“And you, it’s like you’re back from beyond the grave.” Andrew shifts his attention, teasing you. “Haven’t seen you in a long time.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “Just busy keeping people from their graves, that’s all.”

“I’ve heard.” Andrew elbows you. “Youngest lead healer in all of St. Mungo’s.”

“Yet being the youngest earned me the night shift.” You wrinkle your nose. “And very few days off.”

“How’s the auror office doing?” Poppy quips, leaning her chin into her palm.

Andrew shrugs. “Busy; we’re working on a big case right now, but we finally got a few hours off to enjoy lunch. I was just heading over to the Cauldron, meeting Sallow and Clopton for a bite.”

You swallow thickly. It’s been five years since you last spoke to Sebastian Sallow. At this point, you can’t exactly remember how it ended, except that the two of you had screamed at one another. You were fairly certain you’d thrown a book at his head, and he’d knocked over your favorite mug in the process. You still had it, the handle broken off, now used as a quill holder at your desk.

“Oi, Larson! Quit flirting, we’ve just gotten a message. All hands on deck at the office.”

Both you and Poppy turn to the voice; Everett Clopton is standing a few paces away, wearing a smart suit. He still has his gold wire glasses, but he’s grown into them. He’s wearing a hat, tipping the brim to you both in acknowledgement.

You hate the way your breath hitches when you see their companion. Sebastian is also dressed well, sporting a tweed three piece suit, shiny black dress shoes, and a gold auror badge attached to his lapel. He meets your gaze briefly before looking back up to Andrew, who’s moving the chair back to its proper table.

“Emergency meeting,” Sebastian utters gloomily. “Ruined a good lunch.”

Your stomach twists at the sound of his voice. It’s no more than six words, but your insides feel like a wet towel being wrung out. And Sebastian doesn’t even have the decency to look at you, avoiding eye contact with the person he considered his best friend for three years. The audacity of him, to completely ignore the person who once held his fate in their hands–you feel the bile rising in your throat, swallowing down the anger that once consumed you.

No, you won’t let a tiny interaction with Sebastian ruin five years of hard work. You stare at the cutlery on the table, willing him to leave.

Andrew Larson sighs, rapping his knuckles against the table. “It was good seeing you girls,” he smiles. “Hopefully I run into you again.”

The three boys–men, rather, you are all twenty three at this point–shuffle away.

There is a heavy silence between you and Poppy, until she clears her throat.

“Are you okay?” she asks softly.

You nod, collecting yourself as you smile at her. “Perfectly fine. It’s been ages, Poppy. We’re all over it.”

She grabs your gloved hand, pulling it towards her. “You certainly are,” she says playfully, twisting the sparkling bauble on your left ring finger. “It’s gorgeous, by the way.”

“I never get to wear it,” you admit sheepishly. It’s been a month since your engagement, and you’ve hardly worn your ring; your fiance’s parents are perturbed that the announcement hasn’t been posted to the Daily Prophet yet. Despite having courted for the last year and a half, it still feels like everything has moved too fast, like you’ve fallen off your broom mid flight. For the most part, your engagement ring is safely tucked in its box atop your dresser, at the risk of getting bodily fluids on it during your shifts.

“He’s a lucky man.” Poppy echoes, sitting back in her chair. “You are happy, aren’t you?”

You’re doing fine, you think. You’re at the top of your field. You have a fine flat in a nice part of London, and a promise from a man that’s kind to you. The kind of man who waited for you to get off your shift to bring you breakfast, and took you to a nice restaurant on your Friday nights off. You hadn’t expected a pretty ring from him, especially since you only graced him with your presence once a week, but then again, your last relationship had taught you not to expect anything at all.

A flash of brunette hair crosses your mind; you blink away the thought.

“I’m happy. Very happy,” you say simply, holding your teacup up to your lips again. “So about the manticores…”

You jolt out of bed, a blue wisp of a rabbit bouncing around your bedroom. It’s rare to get a patronus message at this hour; it can only mean an emergency at the hospital. It also must be bad, considering they’re calling you in on your day off.

Without another thought, you tumble out of bed, rushing to your wardrobe to pull out your clothes. Your unit specifically wears a deep purple–dark enough to hide stains. Your shrug on undergarments and petticoats, and a burgundy gown with a high neckline. Your hands know exactly how to tighten your hair into a knot within a minute, having perfected the craft over the five years of your career. Your wand is stowed in your dress pocket; you’ll grab an apron at the ward. Grabbing a fistful of floo powder next to your fireplace, you step in, yelling out for St. Mungo’s.

The ward is in a flurry as you step out of the flames. A nurse hands you a white cotton apron, which you wrap around your waist as you hold your wand between your teeth. There are men all over, gashed and bleeding, as other healers take their information.

“What’s happened?” You bark at an orderly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“Auror ambush by some ashwinders,” he says dryly. “It’s awful. Lost a few–even more are bleeding. It’s dark magic, some sort of spell to keep the wounds bleeding.”

“Of course it is, those bastards.” You mutter. “I’ll take the worst of them. Can someone bring me a coffee?”

He nods, pointing over to a bay of beds a few feet away. “Those three–they specifically requested you.” He hands off the charts, promising a caffeinated beverage.

You’re about to start flipping through the charts when you hear your name. Your head flies up at the familiar voice, and you feel the blood drain from your face. You can see Everett Clopton waving his hands at you; Andrew Larson’s voice is yelling behind the curtain. And just your luck, a pair of black shiny dress shoes are dangling off the examination table, twisted in an unnatural way.

Before you even realize it, you’re running to them. The charts are promptly cast onto the side table when you duck behind the curtain, a gasp catching in your throat.

Sebastian looks awful.

Correction–Sebastian looks dead.

“He jumped in front of me,” Everett panics, his hands on his head. “He shouldn’t have–we were talking, we thought we were out of the thick of it–”

“He’s been hit badly,” Andrew interjects. His sleeves are bloodied from trying to apply pressure to a gash across Sebastian’s chest, the blood seeping through his shirt and vest. “You have to do something,” he pleads. “He’s the best of us–we can’t lose him.”

“Move,” you urge the two of them. They scoot out of your way, and you make quick work of Sebastian’s clothing.

Years ago, tearing off Sebastian’s shirt would’ve been done out of passion, out of love. You push those thoughts out of your mind as you rip through his white dress shirt, which is sopping wet with blood. Sebastian’s skin is cold and clammy; even his freckles are pale, disappearing from his face.

“Get me some dittany and shrivelfigs,” you screech at the other healers. “And the blood renewing potions, please.” You run your hand and your wand over Sebastian’s wounds, uttering a healing charm. “Vulnera sanentur, vulnera sanentur, vulnera sanentur,” you mutter under your breath. The spell isn’t healing fast enough, Sebastian is still losing too much blood.

You let out the blue wisps of magic from your fingertips as you channel some of your ancient magic into the healing spell. You’re still mad at Sebastian, of course, but you’ll be damned if he dies on your watch.

To your relief, the wounds start knitting themselves shut faster, but the scars look awful, all purpled and raised. Another healer is next to you, urgently crushing the dittany and shrivelfigs into a paste–an idea you got from the patient lying in front of you during your sixth year. You’d been battered so often during Crossed Wands, the two of you had experimented with salves and balms to lessen the appearance of your scars.

“He appears to be stabilizing,” the junior healer claims. “Good job, as always.”

You suppress the choked out cry that’s stuck in your throat as you think of Ominis, and how he used to scold the two of you for experimenting. He’d be thankful now that you did.

“There’s others,” another healer urges you. “We must move on to the next.”

You don’t want to. Sebastian seems to be stirring, groaning as the healer rubs the salve onto the gaping wound that streaks across his chest. You can hear Everett and Andrew crying and laughing on the other side of the curtain, exclaiming your name for having saved their partner.

There’s so much commotion, you could swear Sebastian uttered your name, but when you look back, his head is flat on the table, eyes shut. The color is slowly returning to him, now no longer pale and gray.

“We have to keep him for observation,” you instruct another healer, handing her Sebastian’s chart. “I’ll check on him later. In the meantime, there are others.”

Without another glance, you move on to the next bay.

“Excellent work as always,” your boss pats you on the shoulder. “You saved six good men tonight with your quick work.”

“I should just move into the ward,” you mutter under your breath before taking a large swig of coffee.

Your dress is stained with blood, fingers aching from all the healing you’d done. From the twelve aurors in the ambush, three had superficial wounds (Larson and Clopton included). Two had passed in the field, another before you’d gotten to the hospital. But all six of the aurors you’d treated, Sebastian included, were now tucked into private rooms, safe and breathing. You were keeping them for observation, unsure of what kind of curse the ashwinders had used on them. Your ancient magic managed to seal the wounds, but all were badly scarring. They’d all have to stay until you could rule out the cause.

After a much needed shower and an owl sent to your fiance, regretfully informing him you’d not make it to brunch with his parents, you start making your rounds. Most of your patients are sleeping deeply, others dizzily asking what happened. You save Sebastian’s room for last; Clopton and Larson, faithful companions, are sleeping in chairs outside of his room.

You quietly shut the door behind you, gulping as you stare at the man laying in the hospital bed. His chubby cheeks are long gone, hollowed and chiseled by age. You’d laughed at him when you were seventeen and he claimed he had a beard coming in; now you can see traces of stubble lining his jaw. His unruly chestnut hair has been brushed out of his face in a way you know he’ll hate.

But you don’t know that, not truly. Because you don’t know Sebastian anymore.

“Oh Sebastian,” you tut, sitting at a stool next to his bed. You hover your hands over his body, a misty blue glow emitting from them. No internal bleeding at least. He’s had at least three blood renewing potions, and his breathing is steady. You would examine the scars across his chest and torso, but the thought of undressing him in his current state is inappropriate to you.

You’re about to get up, leave him to his slumber when you hear it. He whispers your name in his sleep, head falling to the side. And instead of him being the one with a gaping wound, you feel like a hole has been drilled into your chest.

Maybe you’ll ask for tomorrow off.

Night Two

You’d asked for the day off again, but the request was denied. Begrudgingly, you dress for your shift, tucking your hair behind your ears as you walk with your daytime counterpart down the hallway.

“You’ve missed all the commotion,” your fellow healer gasps. She’s filling you in on the day shift, and all that’s transpired since you left in the morning. “There was a memory charm laced in with that blood curse from the ashwinders—some of them have lost weeks, years of memories. Not recognizing their wives or their children; we’ve had to close the doors to all visitors.”

“That’s a nasty curse.” You mutter, flipping through charts. Only someone sick in the head would mess with memory tampering curses—you wonder why no one has petitioned for them to be banned. The long term care wing at St. Mungos is filled with too many people who’d tinkered with memory spells, and you sincerely hope none of the aurors under your care end up there.

“Terrible, of course. But it made for an interesting day.” She hums. “You should’ve seen Rowle’s wife, security had to cart her out after he called her the wrong name. Think he courted her twin sister too.”

You laugh with her as you walk through the hallway, until your heart fills with dread.

“How is Sallow? The patient in 213.”

She tilts her head. “Fine I think–oh, he was asking for you. Do you know him?”

You fight back the red flush that’s creeping up your neck. “We were schoolmates.” You say. Nothing more. Sebastian can’t be more, especially after you’d done such hard work to forget him in the first place.

After your colleague has clocked out and you’ve checked all your other patients, you quietly rap your knuckles against Sebastian’s door. It’s late enough at night that he might be asleep already, and you can avoid the entire awkward conversation.

“Come in!”

Shit.

You open the door, and Sebastian is staring right back at you. He isn’t scowling like you thought he would be–his eyes are bright, a beaming smile on his lips.

“They told me you were working the night shift.” he says happily, scratching at the collar of his hospital gown. “I stayed awake.”

“Right, Mr. Sallow,” You say curtly, eyes down at the chart in front of you. “It is late, you should be getting rest–”

“But I’ve been waiting for you,” he frowns.

You look up at him, and instead of a grown man, you see the puppy dog eyes that got you in trouble the few years you had at Hogwarts. “Mr. Sallow, rest is essential to your healing. You’ve been through quite the ordeal, and you need to go to sleep.”

“Why are you talking to me like you don’t know me?” Sebastian asks, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Pet, it’s me.”

You inhale sharply, white knuckling the edge of the bed. “Sebastian,” you mutter (you hate how easily his name rolls off your lips still), “what year do you think it is?”

He rolls his eyes and chuffs. “It’s 1893, duh.”

“It’s not,” you sigh. “It’s 1898. You were in an ambush yesterday, and it seems the Ashwinders are using a memory curse as retaliation nowadays.”

He blinks at you for a moment, before he bursts into laughter. “Really? I’ve lost five damn years in my head? What have I missed? Don’t tell me we’re not married yet.” Only Sebastian could be jovial about such a matter; all the others were utterly distraught at losing their memories.

“Sebastian, darling, we haven’t seen each other in five years.” you confess, moving to the edge of the bed. Your voice is quiet, and although it’s been ages since you last called him darling, you think it might be too much on his poor heart if you don’t. The poor man just asked if you were married, for Merlin’s sake.

His smile fades. “What?”

“We…we went our separate ways five years ago.” You clear your throat. “It…it was a mutual decision.” you lie. Was it a lie? You honestly can’t remember.

“I would never,” Sebastian bites back. “I would never break up with you.”

“Darling, it’s been a very long time,” you say softly, wringing your hands together. “And I’m okay–you’re okay. We’re both doing well…just on our own now.”

“I can’t–this doesn’t make sense,” he jolts away from your touch, and you flinch. “Why would I ever agree to such a thing?”

You can recognize the tell tale signs of panic on a patient’s face, so you hurry over to the cupboard, pouring a glass of water. Sebastian is too far away to see you slip the vial of dreamless sleep into the glass, swirling it into oblivion.

“Here, drink this. You’ll feel much better,” you assure him.

Sebastian absentmindedly takes the glass, gulping down the water as he tries to make sense of the current situation. “It doesn’t make sense,” he mutters under his breath as he starts rubbing his eyes. He’s fighting the effects, and he looks up at you, a deep set frown on his face. “You dosed me, dammit.” The glass rolls out of his hand and onto the bed, where you scoop it up.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, and it's sincere. But you’re not equipped to handle Sebastian in such a state–you aren’t equipped to handle him, period. It’s been five years since you’ve had to mind his temper, and your heart can’t handle the pain.

Before you know it, Sebastian is knocked out, the dreamless sleeping draught taking over his body. With his eyes tightly shut, you can finally examine him. The scars across his chest are still purple, bruises lining his torso. Your fingers dance across his skin trying to heal him, but alas, they stay.

You make notes on his chart, letting the other healers know he may be groggy and upset when he wakes in the morning. Even though they’ve put a no visitors policy on the aurors, you remind them to call upon Ominis and Anne to see if they can talk some sense into him.

The last you’d asked Natty about Sebastian, he was happy. He was climbing up the ranks in the auror office, and he’d finally moved out of Ominis’s spare room. You’d cut her off once she started telling you how he was dating–that you didn’t need to know.

That had been two years ago. You wonder what’s changed since then.

Night Three

Your pleas for a night off have gone unanswered. Your boss tells you that you’re too integral to the auror case to be gone for more than twelve hours.

There’s a note left by your fiance’s owl; he’s sad you missed brunch, but he’s excited to take you out on Friday, your next scheduled day off. His mother is insistent the two of you sit for an engagement portrait that will be posted in the Daily Prophet to announce your impending union. You fold the note and toss it onto your desk; when you have a free moment, you’ll write a letter explaining that you would like a lengthy engagement.

Planning a wedding and working the night shift is just too much work for you. You twist your large engagement ring off your finger and put it in its box before taking the floo network to St. Mungo’s.

You’re barely five steps out of the fireplace before a body hits you.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Anne Sallow breathes, her arms enveloping you. “You saved him. He’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“Anne,” you sigh into her touch. Similar to her brother, it’s been ages since you’ve seen her. She’s still thin and delicate, but her bangs are long grown out. “What are you still doing here? It’s so late.”

“Ominis and I wanted to catch you,” she claims. “The healers called us in to talk to Sebastian.”

“Right, I asked them to.” you say, smoothing your apron. “How was he today?”

Anne winces. “He’s…he’s still pretty confused.”

You give her a sympathetic smile, biting back the sarcastic words you had in mind. “It must be awful.”

Anne pulls away, digging her toe into the ground. “He keeps asking what happened between the two of you. I’m not sure what to say.” she admits.

You bite your lower lip. “You can tell him the truth. That we ended amicably. That we were fine.”

“If you were fine, you wouldn’t have disappeared for five years.” a voice says behind you.

It only takes you a second to recognize the rich voice of Ominis Gaunt. Whirling around, you throw your arms around the tall blonde. It’s been ages since you’ve given him a hug let alone seen him, so he chuckles into your shoulder when you grasp him.

“I missed you,” you pat his cheek.

“We missed you,” Ominis hums. “I’m surprised St. Mungo’s would call me; I haven’t been Sebastian’s emergency contact for a while.”

You furrow your eyebrows as Anne takes Ominis’s arm. Why wouldn’t he be his emergency contact? Ominis is his best friend, and having been together with Anne for so long, practically his brother.

That’s a question for another time, you decide.

“It’s late, you two should be getting home. Visitor hours are over.” you remind them.

“I’m not leaving before you promise to see me again,” Ominis says sternly. “Five years is far too long.”

You place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Of course. Ominis, I’m sorry. I just thought that when things ended, the two of you were best friends…”

“That was my decision to make,” he says softly. “Not yours. I decide whose side I’m on.”

Ominis’s words warm your heart, but they also leave cracks. Ominis and Sebastian were a package deal when you met them, and you’ve spent far too much of your time with the boys driving them apart.

After much coaxing, Ominis and Anne take their leave. You’re finally able to start your rounds. Rowle is starting to regain his memories and they’ve allowed his wife back into the ward. Travers still has a nasty gash on his leg that’s festering, but he’s otherwise remembering things from last week. Cattermole is fast asleep, so you avoid his room to let him get some more rest.

Your hand falters on the handle of room 213, taking a deep breath before you push in. Just as you thought, Sebastian isn’t asleep. He’s sitting upright in bed, arms crossed over his chest, frowning at you.

“You’re looking much better,” you offer, shutting the door behind you.

“You gave me a sleeping draught last night,” he accuses you. “That’s not fair.”

“You were getting hysterical, Sebastian.” you remind him, flipping through his chart. Nothing particularly new, and no memories back. He’s spent the entire day asking for you, the chart says, and fighting with orderlies. It mentions Ominis and Anne arriving, and that the two gentlemen had sharp words for one another. Ominis was right—he isn’t Sebastian’s emergency contact anymore. There’s an unfamiliar name, a woman.

“Open your shirt, please.”

Sebastian waggles his eyebrows at you. “Are you sure we’re not together?”

You roll your eyes. “Your cheekiness, I didn’t miss it.” you mutter, hands on your hips. “I need you to take your shirt off so I can check your wounds, you idiot.”

Sebastian gives you a familiar grin as he unbuttons his pajama shirt; he’s flexing his muscles, you can tell. A pinch to his pectoral has him yowling, and he stops. You grin at him, and he rolls his eyes.

“Perhaps we did break up,” he grumbles.

Sebastian’s breath stutters as your fingers prod at his scars. They’re still ugly and raised, but the color is improving.

“I’m not sure there’s much more I can do,” you frown. “I think they’ll stay.”

“That’s fine,” Sebastian breathes. “You did always say you preferred when I was roughed up.”

You give him a strained look. “Sebastian–”

“Please, listen to me.” Sebastian urges. “Ominis…he told me what happened between us. And I really, truly can’t believe we would let it get to that.” Your name is a gentle whisper from his mouth, and he pushes his brunette hair out of his eyes. “I didn’t mean to neglect you.”

You swallow thickly, backing up. “We were so young, Sebastian. Let’s leave the past in the past, please.”

“Ominis and I haven’t spoken in two years.” Sebastian interjects. “He just told me. Annie says we had a fight, and you were part of it.”

You turn around, shutting your eyes. “I don’t want to hear this,” you admit weakly.

Sebastian is rustling in his sheets; he lets out a low hiss as he adjusts his still healing torso. “If the version of me, the one that got cursed, isn’t talking to you, Anne, or Ominis…I don’t want to go back to that. I don’t want to be that version of me.” Sebastian pleads. “If that’s the case, I don’t want to remember.”

“You have friends, Sebastian.” You remind him, turning to face him again. “You have friends, your job…” you trail off, picking up his chart again. You pinpoint the section with his emergency contact; a woman who is likely sitting at home, worried sick over him. “You have a girlfriend, probably. One who is desperate to see you.” There’s a lump in your throat as you try to imagine her, but your mind comes up blank.

“I don’t care,” Sebastian breathes. “She’s a stranger.”

“I’m the stranger,” you remind him. “Sebastian…I’m engaged. I’m getting married next spring.”

That’s a lie–you and your fiance haven’t even discussed a timeline, but it seems more official to say it with a season.

The hope on Sebastian’s face crumbles, eyes wide as he stares at you.

“You’re engaged,” he croaks.

“Engaged.” The more you say it, the more it’s real. “He’s lovely. You would like him.” Now that's an even bigger lie–Sebastian would’ve called him a prat if he met him. You appreciate your fiance’s softness and meekness, especially after having been with a firecracker hothead for most of your teens.

Sebastian is crumpled in bed, twisting onto his side. “I’d like to go to bed now,” he mumbles. It was textbook Sebastian–whenever something didn’t go his way, he’d turn away from you in bed like a petulant child. It’s almost a relief to see that he does the same thing at twenty three years old.

“If you ring the bell, someone will come to aid you.” You wave your wand, dimming the lights. “You can ask for someone else, if you’d like.”

Sebastian doesn’t say anything as you shut the door, and when he does ring the bell for assistance, he requests anyone but you. It’s stupid to be upset over, it’s what you wanted–for him to stop pestering you.

But you have a nice long cry in the potions ingredient cupboard anyways.

The rest of your shift goes by uneventfully. Rowle has regained his memories and will be discharged in the morning. Cattermole finally woke up from his deep sleep and he’s on the mend, moved out of the intensive care ward. Travers has also been discharged, prescribed a salve to make sure the cut on his leg stays clean. It leaves Roberts, Jorkins, and Sallow as your only three patients left from the case, and perhaps now your boss will let you take a night off.

Night Four

“I wanted to apologize for last night,” Sebastian says sheepishly.

“Whatever for?” You mumble, pressing a strip of gauze to his chest wound. You’re trying a new salve recipe you’ve been working on, just to see if it’ll help break down the scar tissue. His bruises are starting to go yellow, and if he works back up on his memory, Sebastian can be discharged from your ward.

“For being rude.” Sebastian sighs. “I’m…it’s starting to come back to me a bit now.”

You look up at him, eyebrows raised. “Is it?”

“We fought that night.” Sebastian swallows thickly. “You and me. I can’t exactly remember what we fought about, but you threw a book at me.”

“And I hit your eyebrow.” You remind him.

“Lucky shot,” Sebastian rolls his eyes, and you have to suppress a laugh. He winces as you press the salve in; his body is still sensitive.

“I’m sorry for that. I never got to apologize to you,” you admit, rubbing the mixture in. “But I was embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed about what?” Sebastian asks softly.

“For putting up with all of it,” you pat another piece of gauze over the salve. Sebastian looks like a mess and he’ll have to sleep sitting up, but you’re hoping to salvage his handsome chest. There are a bevy of flower vases strewn across the room, and plenty of Sebastian’s favorite sweets piled on his bedside table.

“I see you had quite a few visitors today.”

Sebastian nods, trying not to move too much. “Anne and Ominis again; he’s warming back up to me, I know it.” he brags. “Clopton and Larson too. I can’t believe I was paired up with two Ravenclaws as partners. That’s probably how I got all bungled up in the first place.”

“Everett said you were quite the hero,” you back away, admiring your work (and his muscles, he’s grown quite a bit since you last saw him). “And they stayed the entire night when you first came into the ward, so I know they’re loyal to you.”

There is a silence between you two for a moment, until Sebastian breaks the tension.

“She visited earlier.” Sebastian echoed. “Rebecca.”

You turn away at the name; at least it’s not the girl you remember from your last argument. “Rebecca is a lovely name,” you offer. It’s all you can give him without treading into dangerous waters. You’re engaged after all, and stuck patting balm into the chest of your former lover.

“She was distraught.” Sebastian hummed. “Hates the scars.”

You turn around, rolling your eyes. “She’s dating an auror, she should get used to it.” you scowl.

“That’s what I said,” Sebastian laughs, trying not to move the salve covered strips. “But she wasn’t having it. She was worried I would never look the same, so I broke up with her.”

You blink at him. He seems completely unbothered.

“Sebastian!” You exclaim. “You shouldn’t break up with her over that alone.”

Sebastian shrugs. “Y’know, the boys filled in a few of the blanks for me. Apparently, not very many people actually liked Rebecca and I together, so I guess it was impending anyways.”

You put your hands on your hips. “I cannot believe you broke up with your girlfriend because Everett Clopton and Andrew Larson told you to.” you shake your head. “She was your emergency contact, Sebastian. You’ve probably been dating a while.”

“According to Clopton, I was planning on breaking up with her soon anyways.”

“Idiots, the lot of you.” You tut, washing your hands in the basin.

“We’d only been dating three months.” Sebastian interjects. “I put her as my emergency contact because I had no one else. Ominis and Anne…well, they weren’t talking to me apparently.”

You don’t say anything, letting the water run over your hands.

“I guess I’ve been a real arse the last few years,” Sebastian echoes. “Everett said I hadn’t been quite myself since we…well, you get the gist.”

“Everyone is an arse when they’re eighteen,” you remind him.

Sebastian snorts. “I’m sure you weren’t.”

“I think I might’ve been.” You chuckle under your breath. “Poppy always said I had a one track mind. Only ever thought about myself, my career.”

“Well, it’s done a lot for you.” Sebastian offers. “Youngest lead healer in St. Mungo’s history.”

You roll your eyes. “The others think I’m a show off.”

“You’re gifted,” he shrugs, and a slice of gauze slips from his chest. “That’s all.”

“Lay back darling,” you advise him, stuffing a pillow behind his back to keep him comfortable.

Sebastian does as you say, his hands balled up in fists at his side. “So, your fiance,” He trails off. “What’s he like?”

You purse your lips, pulling his sheets over his waist. “He’s nice.”

“Nice. That’s it?” Sebastian snorts. “Surely he has some better attributes, you said yes to marrying him.”

“He’s calm, quiet.” you say, turning your back to put away the excess gauze. “He’s a junior secretary for the Minister of Magic.” turning back to Sebastian, you already know he has a smug smile on his face. “Don’t you dare say what I think you’re going to say,” you warn, wagging a finger.

“What?” Sebastian scoffs. “I would never say anything about an esteemed junior secretary,” he says dramatically. “Besides, you’re the one who thought it…”

“I didn’t think anything!” You laugh. “I just knew exactly what you were thinking.”

“And what is that?” Sebastian asks coyly.

“You were going to call him a pencil pusher,” you accuse.

Sebastian fakes a gasp, holding a hand to his chest. “My stars, I would never say such a thing.”

“Stop it,” you laugh again, slapping his hand. “You’re ruining my hard work. I’ll have to do it again.”

“No,” Sebastian groans. “It’s cold. I just want to put a jumper on, I don’t care about the scars.” he pouts.

“I need you to get better,” you hold your hands on your hips. “The auror office will have my head if I keep you here any longer when your colleagues are back home.”

Sebastian fumbles with the edge of the blanket. “And what would consider me healed?”

“Well, I’d say besides the appearance, your physical wounds are fully healed.” You shrug. “But we can’t discharge you until your memories are back–or at least substantially returned.”

Sebastian is quiet, and he stays quiet until you finish putting away all your supplies. You’re about to leave him, implore him to get some rest, when he clears his throat.

“Pet,” he says cautiously (he hasn’t used your old nickname since the second night of his stay).

“Yes, Sebastian?” You ask, slipping your hands into the pocket of your apron. When you look at Sebastian from the doorway, he doesn’t look like a twenty three year old man. He looks like the Sebastian you used to know–the hotheaded eighteen year old who only ever got shy around you.

“Would you…could we be friends after this?” He asked lowly. “I know you said we haven’t seen each other in five years, and I know there’s some blame there on my end. But we’ve been through so much together, and you’ve saved my life.” he rambles.

You once told yourself that if Sebastian Sallow ever came crawling back, you’d slam the door shut in his face. The first year of your separation had been excruciating; the second had been dreadful. Once you’d gotten on to your third year without him in your life, the pain had become bearable. And once you’d gotten on to four years without him, you realized you didn’t think of him anymore. In fact, you hadn’t thought of him at all until you saw him standing a few paces away from your tea table.

“Of course, darling.” You assure him. “Only if you promise me that you’ll actually sleep.”

Sebastian’s face lights up in a way you distinctly remember–the first time you’d seen it was when you arrived in Feldcroft to meet Anne when you were both fifteen. He adjusts himself to the pillows as you wave your wand to dim the lights.

You shut the door behind you, letting out a sigh when you’re out of sight. You feel guilty calling Sebastian darling again–you’ve never even blessed your own fiance with his own nickname. And despite your refusal of the situation, you can’t help the shiver you feel at the base of your spine when you hear Sebastian calling you pet again.

Perhaps being friends is not a good idea.

Night Five

Sebastian is asleep when your shift starts, and you nearly skip over his room. But against your better judgment, you push into the door, knocking lightly.

The brunette man is slumped over, snoring lightly as if he were waiting for you. At the sound of the door, he jolts, rubbing his eyes.

“Why can’t you be on the day shift?” he complains sleepily.

You chuckle. “I can leave you, let you get some rest.”

“No,” Sebastian clears his throat. “I’d like you to stay.” He shrugs off his shirt, proudly displaying his scars. “They still look like hell, but at least they aren’t purple anymore.”

You stride over, running your hands over them. Your ancient magic was able to overpower the bleeding curse, but Sebastian will forever have a dip in his chest and bubbled over scars. They’re at least turning pink, a much better place than they were a few days ago.

“They look great,” you pat his shoulder. “And once we get your memories back in order, we can get you home.”

Sebastian gives you a strange look. “Ominis came again during the day…filling in the blanks again.”

“And?” You ask softly, sitting in the chair next to him.

“Why did we break up?” Sebastian asks firmly. “Can you tell me? And don’t give me the whole spiel about us growing apart. I want the details.”

You swallow thickly, looking down at your hands. “We were eighteen, Sebastian. I was careless, you were lonely, we were both focused on our careers and not on each other.” Truthfully, you had spent years thinking of the many ways you’d address this conversation, how you’d confront him if you ever saw him again. Now five years later and after having almost witnessed Sebastian’s death, the downfall of your first love is easily compounded into one simple sentence.

“You started working the night shift,” Sebastian says.

“I started working the night shift,” you echo. “I wanted to rise up quickly in the ranks, so I volunteered. I was working so many hours, and you were gone during the day at your job, so we barely saw each other.”

“I asked you to take time off.” Sebastian adds.

“And I said no.” you admit. “I told you that you were being insecure. That my job was more important, because I was saving lives.” It’s one of the few shames you’ve compartmentalized over the past few years–that you’d ever downplayed the importance of his career compared to yours.

“I went out that night.” Sebastian whispers, looking at his hands. “And I didn’t come home until the morning.”

“It was my only night off of the week, and you came home at four in the morning, stinking of firewhiskey and perfume.” Your eyes shut, replaying the awful scene in your head.

“Did I?” he croaked. “Did I cheat on you, really?”

“No,” You shake your head, and he lets out a relieved sigh. “You said you could have. You said you wanted to.” You add, rubbing the temples of your forehead. “That you were tired of living in half of a relationship, and that you’d wanted to kiss that girl.”

“You threw the book at me,” Sebastian says weakly. “And I smashed your mug.”

“I told you to go to her if you really wanted.” You admit. “And you left.”

“I stayed at Ominis’s that night.” he whispered. “I didn’t go to her.”

“I didn’t know that. So I packed my things and left.”

The silence hangs between the two of you, and all of the feelings you had at eighteen come flooding back. After the fight, you apparated to Natty’s place, while Anne and Poppy had cleaned out your bits in the apartment. What was meant to be a one night stay turned into a week, and then more. After a month without word from Sebastian, you committed to the night shift, forsaking your friendships and social life for work. Days turned into weeks, weeks to months, and before you knew it, you were promoted. Sebastian Sallow was a blip in your timeline, a faded memory of teenage love. He’d been just a memory until you saw him in Diagon Alley. Your heart hadn’t felt anything but anger towards him until you saw his shiny black dress shoes.

“Did we throw it all away?” Sebastian asks sorrowfully.

“We became the people we needed to be.” You remind him. “Look at you, an auror. A damn good one. The kind that jumps in front of their partner to save them from a curse.” you assure him.

“And you’re a healer,” Sebastian inhales. “A bloody amazing one, that saved my life and five others. I’m so proud of you.” Sebastian’s lower lip wobbles, and you know your heart is in danger.

“You seem to remember quite a bit,” You point out. “More than you let on.”

“I was talking to Clopton about you. We thought the ambush was over, we were trying to get to a floo point so we could get Larson’s leg checked out.” Sebastian says. “I told him how beautiful you looked, and that you looked happy.” his voice cracks.

“Sebastian.” It’s not a warning, just a statement. A week ago you would’ve never said his name aloud, let alone thought of it. But it feels right rolling off your tongue.

“Everett said something about you being engaged. It’s…it’s fuzzy from there on, but I remember the fight. And I jumped in front of him, but not just to save him.” Sebastian says, his fingers drumming on his stomach.

“Why?” You almost don’t want to hear the rest. It might upend your life entirely.

“I jumped in front of him because I knew I’d be okay. That you would probably be at St. Mungo’s when I got there.” Sebastian said weakly. “And I’d get a chance to see you again.”

“Sebastian, we’re different people now.” You remind him.

“We’re better now.” Sebastian says, giving you pleading eyes. “I was an idiot when I was eighteen; I thought I was being a man, but I wasn’t. And I’m not going to pretend that I’ve been happy the past five years–there hasn’t been another woman who’s made me feel the way you do.” he confesses.

“It’s been too long,” you try to say, but you know it's no use trying to argue with him. From your first fight in the Undercroft at fifteen to the fight that broke you two up, Sebastian has never backed down.

Before you even realize it, Sebastian has reached his hand out, taking yours. He’s rubbing your left ring finger–the one missing your large, ostentatious engagement ring.

“Don’t marry him,” Sebastian croaks. “Please, don’t marry him.”

“Why?” you ask.

“Because I understand you now.” Sebastian says. “I understand you in a way I didn’t when I was younger. And that’s good–it’s good for us now. It wasn’t the right time then, but we could try again now.” he pleads.

“Four days ago when you saw me in Diagon Alley, you could barely look at me.” You remind him. “I should have you committed to the memory ward at this point.”

“Four days ago when I saw you, I was sick to my stomach with how happy you looked.” Sebastian admits. “I saw you from a distance, smiling at Larson and Poppy. I couldn’t look you in the eye after seeing you smile.”

You want to tell Sebastian that your fiance is a good man. That he loves you, cherishes you, and doesn’t fight with you. But you can’t help being nostalgic as you hold the hand of your first love, who is currently begging you to end your relationship to risk it all again with him. Whatever strength you’ve mustered together in the last five years is about to break as his big brown eyes implore you to stay.

“Your memory seems back to normal,” you change the subject, standing up quickly. You tug your hand out from his, smoothing your clammy palms against your apron. “I’ll put you down for discharge in the morning.”

“Don’t,” Sebastian warns. “Don’t run away.”

“You ran away.” You remind him.

“And I regret it, every day.” Sebastian says mournfully. “You were my first love. You were going to be my only love, and I fucked it up.”

“We both made mistakes, Sebastian.” You say, staring down at your feet. “You need to get some rest. I’ll leave you be.”

He’s arguing as you step through the door, wringing your hands together. The thoughts running through your head aren’t right–no, they’re crazy. Except your feet keep walking towards the ward matron’s desk, gripping the stone top.

“Are you alright, dear?” she asks, frowning.

“I need to go home,” you confess, scribbling what little notes you have onto Sebastian’s chart. “There’s something I have to do.”

Thirty minutes later (your on call replacement is displeased to have been woken up late at night) you’re back in your flat. Your mind is buzzing as you pace in the bedroom, thinking about the idea gnawing at your brain.

It would be insane.

You haven’t talked in five years.

He’s emotional after having been saved from the brink of death.

He broke up with his girlfriend on the spot, because she wasn’t you.

Sebastian is most well known for his unwavering support and adoration. At least he was when you were younger. Sebastian had always been encouraging, cheering you on through crossed wands, battles in the highlands, and even when you got your first job offer from St. Mungo’s. He’d been crazy about you–obsessed with you, even. The two of you had been the couple of your year when you graduated.

Sebastian had only ever faltered once, and it ended your relationship.

Don’t marry him.

The words replay in your mind. It makes you realize your stomach has flipped more in the last four nights than it has in years. That your even tempered fiance, a kind but boring man, has not once made you feel what you’ve felt in the past week being back in Sebastian’s presence.

It is insane, you think. But you’d rather take feeling than nothing at all.

Digging through your dresser, you pull out the box holding your engagement ring.

Night Six

It has been a long, long day.

What time you would have spent sleeping is spent assuring your now ex-fiance that nothing untoward has happened. That you appreciate his kindness and companionship over the past year, but that you cannot lie to yourself.

You cannot marry him because you don’t love him as you should.

You prepare for the night shift with a spring in your step, because when you get there, you’re heading straight to Sebastian’s room. You’re going to tell him what you’ve done, and hope that he’s still feeling just as crazy as you. You pull your hair into its usual bun, wishing you could wear something a little nicer to what will be your reunion. Sebastian used to love when you wore green; perhaps you’ll buy a green dress the next day you’re off.

When you get to the ward, it’s quieter than usual. Holding your wand between your teeth again, affixing the white apron, your heart beats out of your chest as you approach room 213.

This is it. This is the start of the rest of your life.

You push through the doors of 213, but your breath stutters when you see the empty bed. It’s stripped of any linens, and all of the flowers and candy boxes Sebastian’s colleagues sent are gone.

“Where is the patient in 213?” you whip around, grabbing the closest orderly.

They give you a curious look. “Discharged this morning–you put it in their paperwork.”

You swallow, and it feels like shards of broken glass are tumbling down your throat. “I…I did.”

“Isn’t today your day off, too?” They tilt their head at you. “Honestly, it feels like your head hasn’t been screwed on at all this week. Might want to take some focus potions, ma’am.”

“Uh, right.” You admit, turning red. You were so excited at the prospect of seeing Sebastian again, you completely forgot that Fridays were your nights off from the ward. You were rather busy after all, imploding your life. “”Does it say who picked him up?”

They shrug, flipping through the charts again. “He was taken to his home in Diagon Alley by his sister and brother-in-law.”

You curse under your breath as you try to plot a plan. There’s no way Ominis still lives in the small flat he had when you last saw him, and you have no idea where Sebastian lives. The ward doesn’t have an address either, so you’re shit out of luck.

Unless…unless you were to find one of his loyal partners.

Apparition is frowned upon inside of St. Mungo’s, but you’ll take a scolding from the matron ward on Saturday. You immediately apparate to the Leaky Cauldron, where most of the ministry’s aurors spend their evenings. You know this because you’ve been avoiding the biggest pub in Diagon Alley for five years, hoping not to run into your ex.

The crowd stares at you in your St. Mungo’s uniform; you push through throngs of ministry employees, all wearing fine suits and dresses from their day jobs. Your eyes scan the room, heart losing hope by the second, until you spot Everett and Andrew sitting with a gaggle of your classmates from Hogwarts, Natsai Onai included. Andrew elbows Everett at the sight of you, and Clopton beams as if he’s won a bet.

“Hi,” you say breathlessly, approaching the group.

“Figured you might turn up.” Larson teased. “Gaunt, Clopton, and I had a bet on how long it would take.”

“What’s going on?” Natty asks, clearly confused. She says your name, tilting her head.

“I need his address,” You gasp. “He wasn’t at the ward when I got there–”

“Anne and Ominis picked him up this morning.” Everett says, pulling out his wand and a paper napkin. He aimed his wand at the scrap, delicately burning an address into the paper. “He doesn’t live far from here. Perhaps you’ll keep him from spending too much time at the pub now.”

“Who doesn’t live far?” Natty asks again, elbowing Andrew.

“Sallow, of course.” Larson winks. “You two had enough time to talk it through, yeah?”

“What the bloody hell–they haven’t spoken in five years,” Natty claims with wide eyes. She gives you a look, and you can’t do anything but shrug.

“Near death experiences will change you,” Everett says smugly, taking a sip of his tankard. “Well go on then, what are you still doing here?”

You mouth an apology to Natty; you’ll have to explain it to her someday soon. For now, you’re pushing through the crowd, trying to get out the door. Looking down at the napkin, Everett Clopton is right; Sebastian lives maybe a stone's throw away from the pub. Your feet are pounding on the cobblestone of Diagon Alley, looking like a blue wisp to any passersby.

Before you know it, you’re turning onto his street, with only the lamps in front of each door illuminating the numbers. You stop, gasping for air, trying to find the right one. Of course he’s at the end of the row, a dark green door with a gold knocker. It’s late now, the sky pitch black, as you start pounding.

It takes only thirty seconds for the door to swing open; Anne is standing behind it, looking shocked.

“You’re here,” she breathes.

“I told you she would,” you hear Ominis yell from the inside. “Clopton owes me ten galleons.”

“Can I come in?” you ask.

Anne bites back a smile. “Of course you can.”

You walk into Sebastian’s home; despite having never seen it, it positively reeks of him. There are touches of him all over the house–from the books stacked in the hallways, to the shoes messily kicked in the parlor room. He has trinkets from his travels on the mantle, and you can see he still leaves his teacups all over the house (something you once fought over–it seems endearing now).

Ominis is in the sitting room, lounging on a chaise. “Took you long enough.” he says teasingly. “I was rather surprised you abandoned him last night. He was absolutely bereft when we picked him up in the morning.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you admit sheepishly, digging your toe into the carpet. “I…I just had something I had to do first.”

“A break up and a make up in one day, you’re a busy woman as always.”

“Shut up.”

Ominis gives you a toothy grin; something he saves only for those he loves. “I missed you.” he stood, pulling you into a tight hug. “I can only hope Sebastian doesn’t bungle it all up and we lose you all over again.”

You press your nose into Ominis’s shoulder; it seems silly you ever thought you could live without this group of people in your life.

“I thought you were mad at him,” you say, pulling back to look up at the blond.

“I was mad that he was being stubborn,” Ominis says softly. “That he wasn’t being himself, drinking every day and dating girls who weren’t right for him. I told him he had to pluck up the courage to speak to you again, or get over it and make peace with his life. He’s been rather stuck, as you can imagine.”

You have been too, you think.

“Is he upstairs?” You ask, turning to the slim staircase. Anne is standing next to the railing, giving a signature Sallow smirk.

“He might be asleep,” Ominis warned. “But he is. First room to the left.”

You squeeze his hand in thanks before walking up the stairs. The floor creaks underneath you as you push in the door; Sebastian is laying in his bed, sleeping fitfully. You nearly knock a stack of books over as you kneel next to his bed; you also recognize the book on his side table, the spine dented from when you threw it at his face five years ago. It reminds you of the shattered mug you keep on your desk. Perhaps you two have been subconsciously keeping pieces of each other around.

Sebastian stirs as you brush his brunette hair out of his face. He opens one eye, then the other, blinking furiously as he tries to sit up.

“You’re here,” he groans, a hand flying to his torso. “Is this a good visit, or just a hospital house call? Because my scars are killing me now that I’m home.”

You give a watery chuckle. “It can be both, if you like.” You pull the blanket aside, examining his puckered skin. The scars will stay for good, but that’s fine. You did always like it when Sebastian was roughed up anyways.

“You’re here.” Sebastian repeats, only this time it's softer.

“I had to go to the Leaky Cauldron to get your address from Clopton.” you admit, blue waves emitting from your fingertips as you try to take away some of the physical pain. “But yes, I’m here.”

“By the sound of our last conversation, I thought you were done. That we were just going to have to live with our mistakes.” Sebastian breathes.

“I wanted to say more, but there was something I had to do first.” you sit on the bed; Sebastian adjusts to give you more room, taking your hands in his. “I had to give back the engagement ring.”

“You did?” Sebastian asks hopefully.

“Seeing you…being around you for the first time in five years…” You’re trying to compound all of your feelings in a simple sentence, but it doesn’t feel like enough. “It made me realize I just didn’t love him.” You confess. “I shouldn’t feel the way I’ve felt seeing you.”

“Pet,” he murmurs, putting a hand to your cheek. “You’ve saved my life. I can’t ask anything more from you.”

“Then can I?” You ask, feeling the tears welling up in your eyes as you place your hand over his. Sebastian’s hand is warm and familiar, fitting perfectly against you.

“Ask me anything,” Sebastian echoes.

“Let’s try again.” you whisper.

Sebastian scoots over, making space on the bed for you. You don’t care if anyone else has slept in it over the five years you’ve been apart; something about the way Sebastian melts against your touch tells you he’s only ever belonged to you in the first place.

“Let’s try again.” Sebastian whispers in your ear, pressing a kiss to your lips. It feels positively electric, like it’s awoken something that’s been dormant inside you for five long, sleepy years. You take good care not to press too much of your weight onto a still recovering patient, but Sebastian does everything in his power to draw you closer. His hands start pulling pins out of your hair, the tight bun coming unraveled as he weaves his fingers through your tresses.

“You’re still healing,” you remind him as he starts working on the buttons of your dress. “And your sister is downstairs.”

“I don’t care,” Sebastian murmurs into your skin, tugging your collar down to press a kiss at the base of your neck. “We’ve waited long enough, haven’t we?”

You have, you think. So you let Sebastian ravish you with kisses, blushing when you hear Ominis loudly call up the stairs that he and Anne are leaving. You only leave the bed to unlace your dress, Sebastian eagerly watching as you strip the fabric from your body. He groans in a good way when you press kisses to his chest, fingers dancing across the scars on his chest. Not all scars would disappear, and there would always be reminders of the past. But it was good to acknowledge them, to know that they were there, and that they were healed.

The two of you stay awake the entire night reacquainting yourselves with each other’s body; the sun is streaming through Sebastian’s curtains when you realize you’ve been awake since Thursday night, running off adrenaline. Your eyes begin to droop as Sebastian presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“Go to sleep, pet.” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

You’ll have to call in again, you think. You need an entire day of sleep after this week. And the next time you get to the ward, you’ll turn in your official notice, asking to move to the day shift.

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x you #ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt x anne sallow #Auror Sebastian #Auror Sebastian Sallow #hogwarts legacy fan fiction #writing-intheundercroft #this one got a little out of hand #should I write a smutty part two?????

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akkaweo-akkaweo · 1 year ago

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Taste Test

Kim Jennie x Irene/Bae Joohyun x M!reader

Tags: threesome, blindfold, facesitting, edging(?)

WC: 4.5k

—————

Working at a bistro in Gangnam-gu had two quirks that didn't need explanation: first, the money, obviously; and second, the frequency of being around Korea's rich and famous. It's even come to a point where seeing awarded drama actresses or show hosts was less interesting than seeing some more interesting figures come by: chaebol hierarchs, mid-level politicians, and the like.

Tonight, the bistro is restless; busy, but not packed. And as you wait a table of some tech company management, you're called to the front to escort another set of customers.

"Hey, Table 27. You're assigned to Ms. Kim and Ms. Bae."

Those last names may be very vague at first glance, but you were all too familiar with this duo: K-pop royalty Jennie and Irene. This was not the first time you've breathed the same aromatic-filled air as them in this space, but in those times they had patronized the joint with different sets of guests. This would be the first time you spotted them together, much less served either of them.

Quickly adjusting your collar and trying to swallow the fanboy-sized lump in your throat, you meet them at the receptionist's area.

"Good evening, Ms. Bae, Ms. Kim. Please follow me to your table," you say, as rehearsed a thousand times by now. Nothing to freak out about. The two are busy with their respective phones, but are noticeably missing their usual entourage of managers and bodyguards. And as you lead them to a more secluded and closed off portion of the bistro, you catch them putting their phones away completely. You didn't think idols could be autonomous to this degree, but you set aside the thought as you pass menus to them.

"There's no need for that, dear, thank you," Jennie said with a smile. "I'll just have an espresso please."

"Right away, miss. And how about you?"

"Do you have any teas? Just a pot of whatever you have tonight," Irene replied.

You note their orders and head to your station. The location of the console where you prepare the coffee is just close enough to catch their conversation, but a glass divider mutes it enough that the clinking of spoons on ceramic distracts you away from it. Doesn't seem like anything particularly interesting though; both just seemed to be catching up from a break in their respective tour schedules.

Upon finishing their orders, you bring them over, with the usual pleasantries to exchange. "Is there anything else I can get you, miss?," you ask.

"If you don't mind me asking," Irene chimes in, "are you new here? I don't recall your face."

"Actually, I've been working here for almost a year, miss, maybe almost two," you respond. Staff normally aren't supposed to talk to customers so casually, but you decide that it wouldn't hurt to do otherwise being out of view from the rest of the crowd.

"So why here then? You have quite the face, why not anywhere else?," Jennie asks.

You try to charm your way out of an obligatory, potentially shameful monologue, saying "Well, short answer is, I do it for the money. Don't we all?"

The two giggle, and inside you're running a football victory lap for nailing a perfectly executed quip. You leave them to it and attend to other tables, but you swear you could catch them glancing at you time to time. They call you over a second time about thirty minutes later.

"Good evening again. Did you enjoy the drinks? Anything else I can get for you?," you say.

"It was great, I don't actually think I've tried the tea here. You have good taste," Irene replied., "but yes, we would like some dessert as well."

"Alright, what would you like?"

"How about you put that taste to the test and surprise us. We trust you," Jennie butted in, with a little smirk. While you would normally be fawning over the gesture, you also felt a growing fear of embarrassing yourself. You swallow the feeling, responding with a half lie, saying "I think I have just the thing."

You walk back slowly to the counter as you ponder on what the pair would like. After a few seconds, you had an idea: Jennie might like a light cream-based pastry, and Irene would probably prefer a sorbet or anything with fruit. You find the closest approximations in your menu and bring them over. To your relief, it seems you've delighted them once again.

"Spot on with the choices, I love it," said Jennie. "How about you Joohyun, what's your verdict?" Irene, however, seemed too busy savoring the treat. "Well, I guess that speaks for itself. Three points for you."

"Thank you, miss. I do believe that's all orders complete, anything else I can do for you?"

Irene, having finished her plate, replies, "How about the bill? We have some other plans tonight."

"Certainly, miss. Just a moment."

As you leave, you can overhear them bickering and exchanging whines and banter. Probably fighting over who pays, as is custom. By now the bistro is taking its last set of customers, so the discussion isn't as hard to overhear. As you return, though, it seems an agreement had been settled; you resolved to keep this interaction short to avoid getting told off.

"Here," Irene said as she handed back the holder. "Please hand this to your manager, there's special instructions for how to use the credit card in there. He'll know how to handle it."

"Of course miss. Thank you," you replied, walking to the cashier.

A part of you felt a bit sad that your interaction with the two was coming to an end. Nonetheless, work is work, and you call your manager.

"Sajangnim, I was told to hand this payment to you."

Your manager looked puzzled at first, but opened the receipt anyway, followed by a quick furrowing of brows. Was something wrong? You try not to overthink it, considering he processes the payment in a few moments. He hands you back the receipt, with the same half-puzzled, half-concerned look, adding, "Did you talk to the customers that much? Move to the front end when you're done with this."

Uh oh. Were you in trouble, for casual conversation no less? The struggle to not overthink is getting difficult at this point, but you have no choice but to stomp it down. As you reach the table, however, you notice the pair are missing already.

Panicked, you rush to the front end to ask your colleagues, and it turns out they were just about to ride their car. You rush out and call for them, hoping to return Irene's credit card before you cause a nationwide scandal.

"Miss! Please don't forget your credit card!," you call out.

The next 10 seconds are a blur. You reach the vehicle right as Irene steps in, and before you could try and call for her attention again, a cold hand grabs your wrist and pulls you inside the van. When your brain has processed the situation, you find yourself inside the black van, facing Irene and Jennie.

"I'll be taking that," Irene said, breaking the silence and swiping the credit card you were still holding in your hand. "You've been such a wonderful server tonight."

"That's why you're here with us," Jennie added. "Don't worry, your manager already knows. The whole credit card thing was a lie."

"Hey, it wasn't a complete lie. It's still a special credit card that I absolutely cannot afford to lose," Irene interjected. "Good thing we had you, right?"

The two started teasing each other, probably hinting that they both had a role to play in what just happened. You, on the other hand, are still evidently puzzled trying to process what had just happened.

"Relax. Consider this an early clock out," Jennie reassured. "Because you've been such nice company tonight, we have one last series of tests for you."

"How exactly is kidnapping me and testing me an act of gratitude?," you blurt. The shock starts to subside and you piece some things together, but try not to assume too much nor think too highly of yourself.

"I mean, would you like us to leave you back in there? You could go back to waiting tables, that's fine with us. But," Jennie pauses, placing a hand on your shoulder and leaning in a bit closer, "where's the fun in that?"

You pause for a second, looking straight into both idols' eyes for a few seconds. They looks seem as sincere as their words.

Without hesitation, you reply, "Well, if you trusted me, I'll trust you as well. Please take care of me."

Irene claps her hands before pulling out a black cloth. "Okay," she adds, "let's start with this."

~~~~~

Blindfolded, your ears are a little more sensitive than normal. In the 15 minutes you gave up your sense of sight, you got off the car, were escorted slowly and carefully by the duo across a bunch of corridors, and brought to what sounded like a medium-sized room (on account of how much their giggles seemed to fill the space easily).

You try to ask a question to gauge your surroundings. "Any chance this blindfold is coming off soon?," you ask.

Someone put their finger over your lips, replying, "Shh. Don't think about that just yet." The voice was a bit higher in pitch, maybe that was Irene? Seemed likely.

"So, are you ready for our little game?," a deeper voice asked. That must be Jennie then. "We're not gonna stop you from saying no." The aforementioned sensitive hearing was most obvious as you felt two different breaths whistle from each side of your face.

Nervously, you try and crack a joke. "Hey, as long as neither of you are serial killers, I think I'll be fine."

"Like I said," the deeper voice chuckled, "you're way too cute to be a waiter." Suddenly, a pair of lips peck yours. Now, your sense of hearing might be a bit stronger, but trying to identify a pair of lips from a kiss? That would almost be a superpower — one you wished you had as a softer voice started to talk.

"I guess that's your first test then. If you can successfully guess which one of us is kissing you three times in a row, you get a step closer to removing the blindfold."

Before you could interject with a "But that's impossible!," another pair of lips meet yours, this time kissing you deeper than the last. After a few seconds, you're asked, "so who do you think that was?"

You took a second to try and think, but the mere shock of what happened in the past few minutes alone blinded your intuition even more than the cloth over your eyes. You take a shot in the dark. "Uhh... Irene?"

"Nope. Try again."

Another pair of lips, this time her tongue meeting yours. They feel a bit less plump this time, and after the kiss ends, you're asked the same question. "What's your guess this time?"

"No, that's Irene. I'm sure."

"Please," a different voice replied, "just call me Joohyun. And yes, that was me. Two more guesses to go."

Another pair of lips meets your cheeks, moving down your neck. The sensation shocks you too much to make a more educated guess other than "I think that was Jennie?"

"Oops, guess you're back to square one," a voice taunted. You couldn't explain it, but the two voices started to match each other, yet were somewhat distinguishable. You could tell the one who just spoke was Jennie, so maybe it was Irene that time?

The test proved to be much harder than you thought. The two alternated between light pecks all over your face and neck, deep make outs, or some mix of both. At different points, their kisses sank deep into your skin, causing you to tremble and moan. And for every instance of that or any wrong answers, a couple of giggles follow. It was never actually long enough to catch any hints right away, but about 6 tries later, you actually make it to a second correct answer: you figure that Jennie tends to be a little bit more aggressive, while Irene was softer, but still playful.

"Last chance," Irene taunted. "Ready?" You give a simple nod.

This round's pair of lips go straight for your neck, but move lower to your collarbones as your dress shitt is slowly unbuttoned off you and exposing a bit more of your upper chest, at least what wasn't covered by any undergarments. Without warning, a second pair of lips meets yours, and starts making out with you. Fuck, both of them at the same time? Did they even want to do anything else except play with you?

Both lips stop at the same time, and Jennie asks, "So, who kissed you that last time?," which threw you off guard. You tried to give it serious thought, trying to think of whose lips you felt on your chest.

With a bit of hesitation, you reply, "That was Joohyun. Jennie was the one all over me."

A short bit of silence freaked you out, before being broken by Jennie. "Finally. We thought we'd have to let you go too soon."

"How about you show us how you kiss this time?," Irene says, as she grabs one of your hands and places it on her cheek. You try to hold back, scared of shocking the delicate woman, but another hand – Jennie's – turns your head the other way. "Don't hesitate. You're good," she adds.

They take turns guiding your hands to their cheeks, to signal whose turn it was to have a taste of you. After a few turns, both of them start working your undershirt off you, taking turns on your chest and neck. You weren't the most buff, but you could feel their soft lips cover you little by little. The past however-long-it's-been of teasing has most definitely gotten you hard. A hand glides over your groin ever so slightly, which is enough confirmation for them to continue.

Jennie giggles, breaking the silence. "Looks like you're ready for the second test."

"What makes you say that?," you reply nervously, your breath still rushed.

A hand guides you to what felt like someone's shoulder, down to their chest. You feel a soft handful of skin and cloth fit into your palm; instinctively, you squeeze, and you hear a soft, low moan. That's what that was. When did they even remove their dresses?

"I see you get the idea," said Jennie. "Same thing: three consecutive tries to guess who you're touching, and this time we'll actually remove your blindfold."

"Feel free to do whatever you want to figure it out," Irene added. "You're doing great."

This time, your other hand is guided to a bigger, softer handful. You guess Jennie, and you're correct. The second time however, your hand touches something warm, and your fingers are squeezed tightly inside wherever it currently is. You try to feel around, and you hear a louder moan just as deep as the last.

"Was that still Jennie?," you try and guess.

A voice whispers in your ear, "Nope. But that was good." Irene.

Just like last time, the two take turns having you touch their breasts or through their panties. You never realized how similar their bodies were; with every guess, each groin you touch is hotter and wetter, each nipple poking into your palm more sharply than last. It takes you less tries this time to get to two in a row, about 4, and by then the room felt much hotter – or perhaps it was just you, extremely flustered by the nonstop moaning in your ears that most definitely left you a little bit wet as well.

"Okay," Jennie huffed, since she was the last one you touched. "Another twist."

You feel your pants finally come off slowly, and both of them sit on either one of your thighs, slowly rubbing themselves against your legs. Their hands make their way all over your back and your neck, and you try to respond by reaching out for both their chests to play with their tits. Their moans are a bit too similar now, both louder than before.

You try to even the playing field by trying to remove their bras, and making your way to suck on their nipples. Whoever you were doing that to, their moans got louder. You could feel Irene's more toned body and firmer breasts on your left, paired with a deeper, more throaty moans. To your right, Jennie's higher pitched moaning matched her softer features pressing on you: her thighs, her breast, her arms grasping you.

Struggling to get a word in from the overwhelming amount of pressure, you gasp, "It's... Irene... I mean Joohyun... on my left, and... Jennie on the right."

Moans turn into pleased giggles. "Fuck, you're good," Jennie said under her breath. A pair of arms wrapped around your head, and you could feel the blindfold come off.

After being glared by the single lamp in the room, you can see both idols in full view: both their dresses and bras on the floor, and a pair of frazzled heads of hair and deep lustful gazes staring back at you. You proceed to take turns making out with them again, as you try and stand up to get them off. You find a bed right behind you, and you take them there.

Jennie and Irene are now both spread out on the bed, each trying to catch their breath. "You took care of me, how about I take care of you next?," you said.

You slowly work the panties off Irene, and Jennie sits up to kiss your chest. Irene comes in with a kiss to Jennie's lips, distracting her enough from you to get her panties off next.

"Don't worry, you'll definitely get to do that for this last test," Irene replied.

"Haven't I proven myself enough, miss?," you respond sarcastically.

"Not with tongue of yours, you haven't," Jennie added. "Here's the deal: one last round of being blindfolded. Three correct answers, not consecutive this time. Just three."

"The catch?"

"Just guess who's tasting you," cooed Irene.

"And the reward?"

"I think you know that already," Jennie teased.

Any sense of inhibition has left you at this point. "Surprise me," you reply.

Jennie grabs the blindfold from the floor and places it over your eyes once more. "One last thing," she adds, "if you cum, you lose."

Once more, before you could muster a "Wait, what?", you're pushed down on the bed and a different pair of lips meet yours.

Jennie's warning makes much more sense when you feel two pairs of lips start to work on your dick. Just the sensation alone of both of them working their tongues along its length, giving it light kisses and occasional licks, was enough to get you throbbing.

The pussy on your face is warm and wet, and you feel your cheeks and chin drenched. Every entry of your tongue deeper into it brings out a moan, which while being sucked off brings more pleasure-filled vibrations down to your base. The challenge is getting the one you're licking to make a recognizable sound, but your own stimulation makes it hard to focus. You catch a lucky break however, and you hear Irene's moan with a flick of her clit. "That was Joohyun!," you rush to say, trying to get the two to give you a break.

"Good job," Irene replied. "Two to go!"

You can feel the pair getting off the bed and walking around, likely to throw you off from assuming they'd just switch places. Your face gets sat on once again, while someone rides your thigh like last time. This time, a pair of hands meet at your cock, taking turns to stroke either head or shaft. You could hear their moans, but this time it seems they were making out with each other, because they seemed to be coming from the same area. You reach ever closer to the edge, and you try to focus on the pussy you have to taste. However, you don't find anything in particular to make an educated guess, so you blurt, "Is that Jennie?"

"Nope," she replied, with a light tap to your dick, as if to mock you. "Though Joohyun here is loving all the attention."

The girls get off the bed again, and you notice the one sitting on you this time is facing the other way. No one is at your dick fortunately, but you can hear Joohyun moaning. Something does feel different however, from the taste of the fluids drenching your face to Irene's moans sound a bit too distant. You weren't sure however, so you kept going for a few minutes (to also catch your breath), and you notice Joohyun's moans didn't match your pace. You make a guess again. "This is Jennie."

She lets out a deep gasp, as if she was trying to hold everything in. "That's two," she adds.

"One last," Irene chirps. Same routine, but this time it's back to facing the other direction, while another starts grinding along the length of your dick without getting it in. This was the toughest one yet: not only were the moans muffled with them making out with each other, or simply being right up on each other's faces, but whoever was grinding you was really good at it. You feel yourself ready to burst any minute, so you try to fixate on anything: the direction of the moans, the taste of the squirt, now mixed with sweat, anything. No dice, not for the two longest minutes of your life.

Desperate to not lose, you beg, "Let me guess!," hoping to buy time.

"Go," Jennie gasped.

"Hurry... please..." Joohyun added.

The synchronicity of their moans alone was testing your resolve to the fullest. But you think you've got it, from the taste on your tongue to the way your face was ground on.

"Fuck, get off Jennie! It's Joohyun on my face!," you plead, as you feel cum start to well up inside you.

The two get off the bed, and you remove the blindfold yourself. You're all heaving and gasping for air. You check to see who's closest to you: it was Irene, and Jennie, facing you from the farther end of the bed, looks at you. She stares for a few seconds – her eyes were incredibly seductive – and gives a smirk.

"Looks like... you won. You're good," she said.

Joohyun adjusts to meet your eyes as well. "Guess I guessed right when I said you'd be great in bed," she added.

You look up, staring at the ceiling, still dumbfounded at everything that's happened in the past... hour? Two? You've lost track. But you felt the two women crawl closer to you on both sides, starting to make light, tender kisses all over your neck and chest.

"We're sorry if we went too hard on you," Joohyun said. "We don't usually last this long with anyone... and we certainly don't feel as good as with you."

"Too good to be just wait staff," Jennie repeated. "But, I guess it's time for us to serve you then."

Their hands make their way down to your dick again, stroking it at the right spots to give you chills, but light enough to not bring you too close to the edge. They seem much more experienced than you thought – probably since they were a bit older than you as well.

"You can do whatever you want with us now. No more tests," Irene whispered in your ear.

"This is the best aftercare of my life," you joke.

Jennie giggles by your other ear. "How can you still make jokes?," she sighs, before locking her lips with her yours. Irene meets both of you in the middle, and the three of you take turns kissing each other, occasionally meeting all three tongues in the middle.

The two split away from your face and make out with each other, and you sit yourself up to watch them turn their backs to you as they flash their pussies in front of you. You don't see their faces, but you feel them start to work their mouths over your dick again, slow and steady but enough to lubricate your whole length, bottom to top.

You take advantage of your position, and moving up the bed to lean on the headrest, you play with their clits, much more properly now that you can actually see what your doing. Their light moans were enough assurance you were doing the right thing, doing the same process of sending waves of pleasure all over you.

You don't hesitate to try and please them more, moving between using two fingers and going back to rubbing their clits. The moans intensify; Jennie's moans turn into high pitched screams, and Irene's turn into chest-deep heaves.

Joohyun, unsurprisingly, is the first to buckle. "Fuck! I'm gonna...," she trails off, before holding her breath letting it all out in a single squeal. You can feel her cum all over your fingers, coating it thick.

"Please," Jennie begged, "me too." You oblige, and you use a third finger to try to stimulate her. Fortunately, it was enough to send her body trembling, and a bit of her juices sprayed out and all over your arm and the bed.

Both ladies catch their breaths before turning to face you, and resume blowing you, with a last wind of effort to try and fish out an orgasm from you. They take you in their mouths all the way, and you throw your head back, inching closer to actual release.

"I'm gonna cum," you try and warn them, but the pair stare at you while they do their deed, resolved to make you finish. They clasp their hands together with your dick in between and start stroking you fast. You find yourself moaning to a backdrop of Irene and Jennie begging for your cum, and before you know it, you burst all over their hands and faces.

They seemed to have fun licking each other up right after, sucking on each others' fingers and exchanging kisses to suck up any stray strings. They have quite the bond, managing to giggle and tease even after such a tiring night, up until they lie down by your sides once more.

"So," you break the silence again. "Did I pass your tests?"

Irene puts a hand over your chest. "With flying colors."

Jennie, however, props herself up on an elbow. "Though, I think I'll be visiting that bistro more often. Just to see if you've still got it," she added with a wink.

"Is that a challenge?," you tease.

"Sure," Irene replied, "if you don't mind us upping the difficulty."

"Well," you said, thinking hard about your answer for a few seconds.

"Then what can I do for you, miss?"

—————

A/N: much longer than my usual, and honestly a bit fun to write. hope it didn't drive you crazy with the length, though i'm pretty sure there's longer here.

#girl group smut #kpop smut #red velvet smut #irene smut #blackpink smut #jennie smut #male reader

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nowritingonthewall · 1 year ago

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Wake me up before you go-go

Fandom: Moon Knight

Pairing: Steven Grant / gn!reader

Word count: 600

Summary: A little fluffy Steven morning blurb because I miss him 🥺

Steven is not a morning person. Even though his sleeping schedule has improved immensely after his life-altering adventure in Cairo, there still seems to be a part of his body convinced that the time when the moon is out is not a time for resting.

Or maybe it’s because he is usually way too excited to tell you about all the new interesting facts that he has stumbled upon during the day. And since you hardly ever have the heart to ask him to stop, your discussions often take up more than half of the night. Which doesn’t exactly increase your motivation to get up again only two hours later.

As lovely and soft and sweet as Steven is during the rest of the day, the best that you can hope for when you try to persuade him to get up, is a disgruntled groan and two loving yet uncooperative arms that refuse to let you get out of bed.

Sometimes you can convince him to let you go for a few minutes if you promise that you’ll be right back with a fresh hot cuppa. But today clearly isn’t one of those days. Upon your proposal, he lets out a sulky huff and burrows his face even deeper into your shirt.

As much as it breaks your heart, you come to the realization that more severe measures will be required today. Like stealing his warm blanket and taking it with you into the kitchen after skilfully winding yourself out of his embrace. And telling him that he would have to come into the kitchen to get his morning cuddles.

It doesn’t take long before you can hear him shuffle into the kitchen. At least you assume that it is him hidden somewhere under that walking pile of blankets. You are convinced that he looks even more adorable than usual, with his sleepy eyes and his curls sticking out in every possible direction and it takes all the willpower that you can muster up to restrain from taking him back to bed immediately. You won’t give Donna that satisfaction, not today.

Instead, you try to turn your attention back to preparing breakfast for the both of you. Though you can’t keep yourself from smiling as you feel him hugging you from behind burying his face in your shoulder. Clinging to you like a koala, he shuffles along with you as you keep scuttling around the kitchen. And you don’t mind bathing in his warmth a little while longer.

While he may not be capable of more than a grunt here and there, he obediently follows your instructions whenever you tell him to walk left or right. That is, until he gets the instruction to “Let me turn around, sweetie!” Letting out a final grumble, he reluctantly lets you go, allowing you to face him and put a large cup of tea into his hands.

Gently brushing his tousled curls out of his face, you place the softest of kisses onto his forehead. As his curls fall back into an even wilder pattern and start to tickle and make him scrunch up his nose, you can’t stop yourself from leaving a few kisses on its tip.

These are followed by a few obligatory and very important nose rubs before you begin to cover the rest of his face in soft smoochies, tenderly kissing the last remnants of his sleepiness away. You don’t stop until his grumpiness gives way to his very first crinkly-eyed smile of the day.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!”

“Mmmmhhmmmmorning, love!”

#steven grant #moon knight #steven grant x reader #steven x reader #steven grant fluff #steven grant blurb #reader insert #fanfiction #chrissie gifs #chrissie tries to write #oscar isaac

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youling-the-ghost · 4 months ago

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More sfth incorrect quotes! ft. hopefully better formatting (the link I used to generate these)

*obligatory "none of the shipping quotes are me actually shipping them"

Tom: When I said you should try being friendlier this isn't what I meant. Luke, stirring a cup of tea aggressively: Oh, so now I'm TOO friendly? There's no pleasing you. AJ, who broke into his house an hour ago: Two sugars please. Luke: Coming right up. Luke: Tom, I don’t think I can handle any more of your tomfuckery. Tom: Oh yeah? Well I can keep going until you’re all tomfuckered out!

Tom: CHARACTER. FLAWS. ARE. FUCKING. IMPORTANT. Luke: Me when someone tells me to stop eating mayo packets like they’re gogurt tubes. Sam, making a cup of tea: Yeah, get into that leaf juice, you sexy, sexy bee sauce. Tom: Hey, do you take constructive criticism? Sam: I absolutely fucking do not. Tom: I never understood why people cared so much about their dumb friends until I got a dumb friend myself. Tom: *Picks up AJ* Tom: I’ve only befriended AJ for a day and a half, but if anything happened to him I would kill everyone in this room and then my self. AJ: Everyone has a toxic trait. Except Tom, he's perfect. Tom: Wrong! My toxic trait is how badly I want to domesticate a raccoon. Luke: Ew. What kind of tea is this? AJ: I boiled gatorade. AJ: I know what a prism is! It's where you put bad people. Sam: Do you want this handful of moss? Tom: Why would I want a handful of fucking moss? Sam: Damn, you could’ve just said no. Tom: For self defense reasons, I'm going to pretend to be a burglar and you guys have to act wisely. AJ, Sam, & Luke: Okay. Tom: If you don't want to die, give me all your money. AJ: Bold of you to assume I have money. Sam: Bold of you to assume I don't want to die. Luke: Bold of you to assume I can die. Luke: Two brooooos! Sam: Chillin' in a hot tub! Luke: Five feet apart 'cause we're not gay! Sam: Luke: Sam: *tearing up* Luke: Babe, c'mon… Sam: AND HERE YOU REALLY HAD ME THINKING WE HAD SOMETHING. Luke: Babe… Luke: Wow, they really hate us. Sam: Yes, perhaps they’re homophobic. Luke: But we’re not gay, Sam. Sam: Luke: Sam: We’re not? Sam: What’s it like being tall? Luke: Is it nice? AJ: Can you reach comfortably for the cupboards? Tom: We live in constant fear of the short ones who, in my experience, will climb four chairs, two boxes, a small coffee table, and six oddly placed stools to get what they want. Luke: I think we should have glow stick juice injected in our bones when we're born, so if we break our bones, we get a fun little surprise. AJ: What's the surprise? Tom: Blood poisoning. Tom: There's nothing worse than people using big words they don't understand. AJ: I photosynthesize with this. Luke: What is it called when you kill a friend? Tom: Homicide. Sam: Murder. AJ: Homiecide. Tom: What do we say when making bread? AJ, glumly: That's the dough rising. Tom: And what do we NOT say? Sam, sadly: That's the yeast fucking. Sam: What if people had food names and food had people names? Luke: Hey, spaghetti, we’re having Sam for dinner. Tom: What is wrong with you people? AJ: Shut up, chocolate. Sam: Time freezes for everyone but you one day. What do you do? Luke: Oh… I’d mildly trouble everyone. Sam: Alright, so what would you do? Luke: I’d shave a one-inch thick line in every thick beard I saw. Luke: I’d twist all the lightbulbs just a little bit so no one would know when they aren’t working. Luke: I’d make every wing on girls eyeliner just a little bit higher than the other one. Luke: And I’d tie everyone’s shoelaces together. Luke: And then lastly, I’d snip a little hole in every tea bag. Sam: Sam: Remind me to never allow you to have power.

#I thought that this formatting would be better since the old one had some weird sizing issues #now that it's just text tumblr can do all the resizing work for me!#(hopefully this formatting is actually better and I didn't just accidentally make it worse on the eyes ^^;)#shoot from the hip #shoot from the hip incorrect quotes #tom mayo #luke manning #sam russell #alexander jeremy

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sednonamoris · 2 years ago

Text

SFW Alphabet

John Price

Obligatory disclaimer that these are simply my onions and you are free to have your own 😌🧅

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

PDA is generally a no-go (unless you’re both off duty) but he is an old fashioned romantic at heart. He wants to kiss your hands and the top of your head and for you to cling to the crook of his arm when you’re out on the town. Lowkey but possessive.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Loyal and steadfast, always putting your needs above his own.

He was impressed with you from the start, but it blossomed into a friendship when you matched his dry humor during the infrequent but recurring instances you’d run into each other. Slowly but surely you work your way closer until you’re sniping witty remarks at one another over tea every morning.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

He is such a cuddler in private. When you sleep in the same bed no matter what position you start in you always end up in a vice grip come morning. Having his strong arms wrapped around you as he kisses “five more minutes” into your shoulder is definitely not the worst way to wake up… 😳

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Price will admit he’s married to the job, but oh how he yearns. One day he’s going to settle down with you nice and proper. If you want the picket fence life he’ll give it to you, and if not he’s happy to explore wherever life takes you so long as he’s by your side.

He’s a shit cook but makes up for it by volunteering for dish duty every time.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

It would break his heart in a million jagged pieces if he let someone get that close only for it to not work out, but he’s mature. He doesn’t string anyone along and makes the break as clean and fast as he can. Always in person. Always with that sad smile.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Once he’s in, he’s all in. I think it would take him a while to propose bc he doesn’t want to tie you down to his lifestyle (if you’re non military) or damage the team dynamic (if you are military), but once he gets past that he makes it a priority to get down on one knee.

He has this grand plan compete with flowers and dinner, but it might slip out before then in a moment of pure domestic bliss. He wakes up and the sun hits your face just right or you come out of the shower with steam rolling and “marry me” just tumbles out his mouth.

Of course you’d say yes either way.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

He swings to opposite sides of the spectrum on this one. Sometimes he’ll hold you like you’re made of glass, and other times he squeezes too hard, like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t.

Emotionally it’s the same. There are times he’s achingly tender and others where his temper gets the better of him. He’s always so apologetic afterwards, and tries to find ways to redirect that anger in the future but it’s definitely something he works on. The man is an emotional pressure cooker.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

He loves hugs, but he doesn’t really know how to ask for them. The more secure and comfortable in the relationship he gets, the easier this becomes for him.

His hugs are warm and all-encompassing. He loves having you tucked up against his chest, loves that extra reassuring squeeze he can give just to remind him that you’re real and you’re there and you’re his just as much as he’s yours.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

He feels it long before he says it. It’s just such a big step and even though he’s confident that what he feels for you is love, there’s a voice in the back of his head that tells him you can’t possibly feel the same, and that even if you do you shouldn’t.

He might say it first when he just can’t keep it in any more, but if you’re the one to do it he’ll be quick to say it right back.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

He doesn’t get jealous often, but when he does it’s usually around someone who can give you the things he can’t; stability, consistency, youth and carefree fun, etc. He won’t say anything (unless he’s in a mood and finds something arbitrary to snipe at them over), but he’ll snake an arm around your waist and pull you close just to prove he can. Him, and not them.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss their partner? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Strong and passionate and all-consuming and always with an edge of desperation to them. He likes to kiss anywhere he can on you, but if he’s pressed to choose he’ll say the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder, just to hear the sweet sounds you make when his whiskers tickle.

He likes to be kissed on his face. The lips are an obvious one but he absolutely melts when you kiss his cheek or his forehead or the tip of his nose. He also likes when you kiss his hands - so much blood on them and you still handle them with tenderness and a certain kind of reverence that both breaks his heart and drives him mad. 🫣💓

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

He’s the best with kids. They flock to him (you always tease it’s because he’s dad shaped and watch the tips of his ears go pink), and he talks them through their incoherent toddler babble with serious nods and follow-up questions. To see him cradling an infant to his chest is to see the gates of heaven.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Mornings on the go he makes sure you still take the time to have tea and a quick bite to eat together. Whether sitting in silence or quietly chatting about the day ahead he loves these early moments with you.

Having a lie in is a different story. You’ll wake up with his arms wound tightly around you and his breath fanning your neck. If you can convince him to get out of bed, you’ll make breakfast together. If not, you’ll have some of the best half-asleep snuggles of your life.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Cup of tea just how you like it + puttering around the sitting room doing independent activities in the same space. Maybe he’s reading or watching an evening football match, but whatever it is it’s not far from you. He 100% falls asleep on the couch in the middle of whatever he’s doing and starts to dad snore. You have many blackmail videos.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

There are some things he’ll never tell you, no matter how close you are. You have to be okay with that. What he does reveal - slowly but surely - is sad, and often shocking. He hates to be coddled over it but from the look in his eyes you know he appreciates the support and space you give him to say what he does out loud.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

The man has a short fuse, no two ways about it. He does his best, however, not to let that anger out on you.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about their partner? Do they remember every little detail they mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

How you take your tea, your favorite foods, a catalogue of your petty grievances - he remembers it all. It still takes you by surprise sometimes when he brings up the cashier who bagged your produce wrong three weeks ago, but it warms your heart to know he cares that much.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in their relationship?)

The first time he woke up apart from you and searched for your body beside his in those few half-awake blinks before consciousness. Obviously it was a bittersweet moment to realize you weren’t there, but the fact that he wanted you to be said a lot, and really solidified how much he wanted the relationship and wanted things to work out with you.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect their partner? How would they like to be protected?)

He knows you can handle yourself, but that doesn’t stop him from walking closer to the road when you’re out on the town and guiding you with a warm hand on the small of your back no matter how many times you’ve traveled the route with him. He never fully goes into ‘civilian mode’ and will sit where he can see the exits at a restaurant and check corners for threats, etc.

The only thing he needs to feel protected by you is when you reciprocate his love and make it subtle but clear nonetheless that the two of you are together.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

He’s an effort man through and through. Maybe you can’t always be together due to the demands of the job, but rest assured he has gifts planned months in advance that he’s hidden in your shared flat complete with a hand-written love letter for every birthday, anniversary, milestone, etc. If he does get to be there he completely wines and dines you old-school style, taking you to a nice restaurant and putting his jacket over your shoulders if you get cold. Maybe even if you don’t.

If it isn’t a big occasion he sometimes forgets that date nights can be as simple as going to the cinema or staying in to cook a meal together. He’s just about bursting with love, though, when you remind him by doing just that.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Obviously he indulges his vices (whiskey and cigars), but the biggest thing for him is that the job always, always comes first. Before you, before him, he will do anything to make the world a better place and pay the price he knows others won’t to keep it that way. It’s self-destructive, and as much as you can explain why it hurts to see him like that and why you wish he was more invested in coming home, you both know that if it comes down to it he will always make that tough call and stake his life on it.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He keeps himself well-groomed (hello beard maintenance!!) but he’s not too terribly concerned with his looks - that he’s willing to admit. Even though thirty-seven isn’t that old, he’s the type who took on a ton of responsibility very young and as much as that aged him prematurely, he let the people around him age him more. ‘Old Man Price’ is an easier persona to maintain than a war-torn Captain not significantly older than his team whose youth was all but stolen from him. All this to say, if he admits it to himself he is a bit self-conscious about greying early.

It helps when you tell him you find the whole silver fox thing sexy. 😘

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without their partner?)

He’s whole on his own. Lonely, but whole. He knows exactly what he’s missing out on when he doesn’t let people get close and that makes it hurt even more, so when he finally does let someone in there’s a feeling of more.

Having a loving partner makes him better, certainly, but not complete.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

He likes to grasp your chin and tilt your head up at him before he kisses you. Something about the trust and power you put in his hands at a moment like that really does it for him ❤️‍🔥

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Lived-in clutter is one thing but I think he would be genuinely upset by someone who leaves a mess in their space. Disorganization makes his brain fuzzy and angry and he couldn’t live with anyone like that successfully.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

He snores. Not obnoxiously loud but definitely audible, and only when he’s sleeping deeply. He’s mildly embarrassed by it but you think it’s cute and love watching him go ever so slightly pink in the face when you say so.

#sfw alphabet #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #cod x reader #cod mwii x reader #sharing my gospel truth with you all 🗣️🗣️🗣️#fran writes

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