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i-llbedammned · 5 years

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I ended up writing the Good Omens noir fic I talked about about before. I am excited and nervous as this is a hard pairing for me to feel like I am doing them justice. You can read it on Ao3 here : https://archiveofourown.org/works/19854631 I will also post it down here:

Light practically sparkled on the grey suit and fedora of one kindly Aziraphale, private eye. It was different being on this side of the pond. Yes, he knew that he could go anywhere in the universe but there was just something so comforting about London that kept him coming back to it. Instead he was here in New York City and even though it was better than dealing with the bombs and the Nazis directly there was something still colder in this city. The roving packs of gangs and the brusk way that everyone talked was just something so unsettling.

He wouldn’t even be here if it was not for a very important mission. Someone had stolen one of his books, you see and it was a first edition of a Charles Dickens novel that he just couldn’t bear to part with. Crowley had given that edition to him shortly after it was published, telling him that reading Dickens was akin to torture so he was really trying to plague him rather than give him a kind gift. The angel was grateful for it all the same.

“What’re’ you looking at?” snapped a man in a flat cap standing near a stoop.

“Oh, ah. Nothing.” Aziraphale gave him a small, brittle smile and quickly looked away.

“Oh I’m nothin’ then?” the man started following the angel, a sour look upon his face.

“I’m just looking for a book shop, I will be right out of your way. My apologies.” He said, looking aside at the man, who had moved to block his path.

“I think you owe me a bit of reparations for the insult sir.”

Oh no. Barely here and it was already leading to a fight. What did he ever do to this man?

“Sir, please just leave me alone and I will be on my way.” Aziraphale tried to move around him and the man stayed with him, blocking his path forward.

“I don’t think I will.” The sharp click of knife sounded from the man and Aziraphale held up his hands as the man brandished a knife.

“The man said he is done with you. Piss off.” Came a deep growl from beside him. A figure with long red hair and a slinky black dress strolled up beside Aziraphale with a swagger that was unmistakable.

“Listen lady, this ain’t none of you-“ the man’s cries were cut off in terror as he beheld the flash of yellow snake eyes and the sharp smell of smoke as his hat began to catch alight. Beating the flames out, the man dropped his knife and began to run in the opposite direction. Cat-eyed sunglasses were placed on her lovely eyes once more.

“Crowley, what are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked as the man fled, looking at his fellow immortal with gratitude. He could have solved the problem easily enough, but he hated having to evoke terror and do violent things. It just made him uncomfortable.

“Saving you, angel.” She drawled, with her eyebrows raised like it was a fairly obvious question.

“Oh of course." The angel grinned in an embarassed way, "Nice dress.” Aziraphale complimented sincerely, taking in her lovely red lipstick and the golden slither of the snake along her back. It really suited her hips and showed off her legs with the long slit up the side.

“Don’t stare too long, I’ll start to think you’re interested.” Crowley laughed as Aziraphale looked up, a small tinge of color staining his cheeks pink.

“I’m not-Not that you aren’t lovely, but it wouldn’t be right.” The white haired man stumbled over his words a bit before finally changing direction entirely, ”What I mean to say is have you seen a first edition Dickens book around?”

“First edition Dickens? You lost the first edition Dickens book?” Crowley backed up, looking hurt. The look almost broke Aziraphale’s heart on the spot.

“No! I didn’t lose it. It was stolen.” Aziraphale extended his arm and Crowley rested long black taloned fingers on the crook of his arm as they walked side by side, now returning to her default moody look. “The shop was broken into and I found a jacket made by an American tailor in New York with some dollars in it so I assumed it would be here.”

Crowley began to laugh, “So you just miracled yourself over here to look for a book?”

“Well there’s also a lovely Vaudeville show in town that I thought I might pop by and see once I found the book.” Aziraphale wove his way through the city streets, arm in arm with his companion following the strange sort of gut instinct that usually was divine providence at work. He was supposed to be going in this direction, he just knew it.

“Care for a little company for the show? I’m bored and could use something to excite me.” Crowley smirked as Aziraphale’s heart did an instinctual flutter and she laughed.

“Well I can’t promise it will be exciting but-“Aziraphale paused, looking at the window of a bookshop in an alleyway. There it was, his Dickens book on display.

Without a further word he strode into the bookshop. A nasally voice answered his as a tall man with glasses glare at him, “I’m sorry, sir. We are closed.”

“Where did you get that book in the front window?” He demanded.

“It’s from our international shipments, but I told you it’s not for sale. Now scram!” The man spoke in pinched tones, exchanging glances with the other men in the room. All of them looked far too scarred and muscled to be book dealers.

“But that’s my book!” He protested loudly, indignant that these mortals would have the gall to both take his book and then refuse to give it back.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure it is.” A large man with shoulders twice Aziraphale’s width started shouldering him through the door, flinging him to the opposing wall. He could have resisted, but he chose not to. Really. “And don’t come back!” the man yelled after him.

“Oh bother!” he mumbled, picking up his silver fedora and looking ruefully at the door he had just been flung out of. Wait a second, Crowley never followed him out of the door!

Through the glass he could see Crowley slink forward, with all of the men’s eyes upon her hips and chest. He could not make out the words that were being said, but they appeared to be getting into an argument over it, bickering amongst each other as Crowley made flirtatious facial expressions at the big man who had thrown the angel out.

Wait! From behind the counter Aziraphale could see a man raising a gun towards Crowley’s back. The other men appeared to also be drawing up their various weapons as the conversation got more and more heated. Oh no, if that his her she would most certainly be discoporated for a period of time. That would never do. Aziraphale channeled his energies towards Crowley and with a small miracle, the bullets missed her as they flew about the shop knocking the other men dead.

As the various tough guys fell over from their various wounds, Crowley grabbed the book and walked out. “Was all that violence your doing?” Aziraphale tried to look away from all the death and violence, cringing at the thought of it.

“I wish. It certainly would boost my hellish numbers." Crowley looked mock disappointed, "Alas it was just a bunch of normal human violence though.”

“A pity on all accounts then.” Aziraphale sincerely mourned.

“Now what about that show?” Crowley asked, snapping her long black nails as a ripple of power waved over the City that Never Sleeps. “I think a private box just opened up for us.”

The box seat was lovely with red velvet seats and curtain to close them off from the world should they so choose. It just so happened that everyone who was supposed to have those seats got food poisoning and would be quite unable to attend that night. Poor things.

Aziraphale and Crowley sat next to each other, their arms barely touching.

“Angel, I do believe I owe you something,” Crowley whispered into his companion’s ear as on stage they did some sort of clown act.

“Whatever do you mean?” He responded, turning away from the act to face Crowley. Her face was very close to his all of a sudden, her heavy grey shadowed eye lids and full red lips standing out against the pale of her face in the darkness.

“You saved my life back there, don’t think I didn’t notice.” She grinned at him, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were falling a bit for me.”

“Oh not falling. Never that. But I didn’t want to see you discorporated.” Aziraphale smiled.

“You’re not falling, not even a little?” Crowley’s hands stroked Aziraphale’s arm, tracing patterns on his suit jacket.

The angel swallowed hard as his nerves began to pound, “I’m not sure this is a good idea, my dear. They could be watching us you know.”

“You know, no one can see us here.” Crowley whispered into the angel’s ear, nipping at his lobes with her teeth sending a shiver through his body. He made no effort to pull away from her actions, “And if someone was going to stop us from above, they damn well would have by now. What’s say we really enjoy the show?” “What do you have in mind?” Even though angels were not supposed to enjoy this type of behavior, Aziraphale had allowed himself to be drawn into Crowley’s actions time and time again. After all, he could just blame it on the demon should he ever be brought up by his superiors and claim that he had some sort of magic used on him.

“I ride you til neither of us can move in this dark little box while the clowns play below.” Crowley’s lips had moved to his neck and were beginning to kiss it slowly, licking along the path of the neck. Her fingers loosened his tie so she could better reach his neck.

Aziraphale cast an eye at the show below. It didn’t appear that this show was exactly the type of high art that he was going to truly enjoy as they did yet another slapstick routine. With one hand he lifted Crowley’s face to meet his, pressing his lips gently to hers as he undid his tie fully with his other hand. She moaned softly, abandoning her seat to sit on his lap.

With a flick of his fingers Aziraphale closed the curtains, throwing his hat to the ground. He ran his hands along the black satin of the demon’s dress, tracing soft swirls along her back. Crowley snapped her fingers and suddenly there was a change in her and Aziraphale’s bodies. The angel felt a quivering starting in his loins where previous to that he had been just as sexless as the day he was born.

Instincts took over as Crowley straddled Aziraphale, now kissing him deeply and letting her forked tongue explore his mouth. He responded back in kind, running his hands over every bit of skin he could reach along her back. The angel wondered which set of human sexes they had been granted this time, excited to try something new. This was all so public, even though no one was watching them from the darkness. He felt his own begin to rise as Crowley rolled her hips aggressively over him. Biting his neck rough enough to bruise. Pain, just the right amount sent a wonderful shudder through him. His hands wound underneath her skirt, feeling the garters and silk panties that were beyond her stockings.

Nothing was there to rise, feeling over the mound there. Good to know. Aziraphale unhooked her garters to let her stockings fall to the wayside and unclipped the belt they were attached to.

“Oh angel, the things I will do to you. Tell me, how much do you want me?” Crowley whispered furtively, her breath becoming thick with lust. Her forked tongue flickered out of her mouth.

“I want you more than I want to actually read the Dickens book that we saved today. More than an actor wants attention.” The grinding was doing its job and Aziraphale could feel his cock stiff against the suit pants. White hot need burned in the pit of his gut. He covered the demons mouth with his, reaching under her skirts to stroke at her clit through the underwear.

He needed release and he needed it soon. The pressure that was building up within him was going to be too intense and soon he would be able to bear it no longer. Crowley was relentless, unbuttoning the fly of Aziraphale’s pants and pulling them down just enough that the long length of his newfound cock could be released from within after a quick tug took down the underwear. With a decisive hand, Crowley reached under her skirt to peel the high waistband downward on her own underwear. A flick of the wrist sent it flying.

“How much do you want me again, angel?” She purred, as his fingers worked a steady pulsing rhythm on her clit.

“I swear, I will explode right here if I don’t get a chance to bed you immediately,” Aziraphale moaned as the demon’s fingers slowly ran up and down his shaft, his cock twitching in her hands helplessly.

“Oh but what is in it for me?” She guided his fingers towards her opening, putting in one of his fingers, followed by a second.

“I will make you feel…pleasant?” Aziraphale blanked, the length of his dirty talk coming to an end and just knowing that he wanted to feel her upon his lap riding him right now. To feel her breath on his neck hitch and her whimper as she struggled not to scream in the middle of the theater. “Please, I don’t have words for it, but I’ll show you.”

“Oh close enough, angel.” Crowley conceded, climbing on top of him once more and thrusting his length roughly into her. Her hips rolled and it was Aziraphale who had to fight back the urge to scream. To muffle himself he flew forward, pressing his lips into her neck and his hands into her hips. He felt her rump as she moved and undulated for a moment before she moved one of his hands to move down her dress. Soft breasts met his hands and the angel moved his fingers underneath the bra to massage them as they rolled together.

Crowley’s breath became more strained as she moaned, “Teeth. Bite me angel. On the neck. As hard as you can.”

“But won’t I hurt you?” Concern flashed across Aziraphale’s face.

“Yes, that is the point.” She growled, her hips moving faster and faster til he felt like he was about to explode.

Aziraphale obeyed the orders gratefully, biting her hard enough to bruise on the right side of her neck as he felt the sharp wave of an orgasm wash over him. Crowley’s body tensed him as he bit and she whimpered into his ear as she rode him hard.

That was not to be the end, mind you. The cycle continued three more times, til both of them felt exhausted and were very done being human and messy. With a flick of her talons, Crowley dismissed the sexual organs. Aziraphale focused very hard and they were both in a bedroom, a familiar bedroom that was draped in black.

“All the way in London, angel?” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s neck as the angel laid down next to her on the bed. They could have miracled off their clothes, but even that felt like too much of an effort after the show they had just put on. They were cleaned up and that was really what mattered. And he had his book, which was promptly placed

“Well I wasn’t going to sleep in New York. It’s the City that Never Sleeps after all.” Aziraphale joked, feeling his eyelids be awful and heavy. With drowsy hands he moved the covers over both of them, glad that Crowley had invested in soft blankets despite the fact that both of them only slept as a hobby.

“Remind me to yell at you for that joke when we wake up,” mumbled Crowley, nesting closer to his angel. Aziraphale certainly didn’t mind considering how warm he was.

“I still wonder how they got my book.” Aziraphale queried as he draped his arms around the lovely demon in front of him.

“Oh that. Right. I arranged it. Figured it would be a good way to get you in the Vaudeville show and actually in New York. You’d never go to New York otherwise.” Crowley mumbled as Aziraphale nuzzled her ginger hair.

“Oh that’s wicked.” Aziraphale answered, but without any venom to his voice.

Crowley smirked, lazy and satisfied, “It worked didn’t it?”

The angel demurred softly as they both drifted off to sleep, the sound of bombs echoing in the London skies.

#good omens #fanfic #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #female crowley

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sugaroons · 7 years

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citrus and smoke (hp au)

“Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you weren’t a pureblood?”

(image credit)

pairing: regulus!min yoongi x reader wordcount: 4572 chapter summary: min yoongi is the little king, the heir to the most illustrious line of purebloods. he’s prepared to fulfill his destiny—the one his older brother had thrown away—until the illusion breaks, the blood on his hands too much to bear. disclaimers/warnings: i blame namjoon’s hogwarts sorting for this gratuitously angsty, borderline-crackfic-y collection. (x-posted on ao3.)

When Min Yoongi is nine years old, he loses a loved one forever.

Yoongi is born less than two years after his older brother. He's a runt of a child, sickly and skinny and small. Yoongi’s size makes him invisible: he often overhears the adults who visit, the ones who call him a 'poor specimen’ and tell his parents they're lucky their first child is such a success. Yoongi cries himself to sleep, but he agrees: for the first ten years of Yoongi's life, his brother is his sun, moon, and stars.

In a home like theirs, where Mother is bored unless she's gossiping with other pureblood socialites, and Father is always out negotiating deals with foreign merchants, Yoongi and his brother take care of each other. Only his brother will help him get the books he wants from the top shelf, will run at half the speed so Yoongi can catch him, and watch stars with him on the roof of their manor. When Yoongi is nine years old, he sends his brother off to Hogwarts with tears welling in his eyes.

He gets his first letter by owl a day after classes begin. Yoongi can tell from the look in Father’s eyes and the tightness around Mother’s mouth that something is wrong. “Gryffindor.” Mother spits the word out like a curse, and Yoongi knows, then, that something has been irrevocably broken.

Yoongi continues to receive weekly letters until the second month. He suspects it’s because of the group of friends his brother has made: an old-money pureblood Mother and Father would approve of; a half-blood whose books are the only thing more worn than his robes; and an awkward fourth boy whose name his brother can barely remember. Yoongi is comforted by the thought that someone like Kim Seokjin made friends with someone as great as his brother. Maybe going to Hogwarts will be better than Yoongi expects.

When Min Yoongi is sixteen years old, he becomes the heir of his bloodline.

The Mins celebrate with a lavish affair, their manor filled with pureblood guests and free-flowing elderflower. Only the best for their only son, Mother declares to her friends, with a smile and tightness around her eyes. Yoongi weaves his way through the circles gracefully, the perfect pureblood son. It's the best revenge on those who'd called him a runt, but it all feels empty. With each interaction, Yoongi cannot help but wonder how his brother would have spoken, how much charm or guile or bluntness he would have used.

He makes it to the end of the room mentally exhausted, and his brows furrow at the sight of an almost-familiar face. You’re in his—what is it?—Potions class, he thinks, and in Slug Club with him right after. He racks his brain trying to remember what your name was, but he’s drawing a blank. You’re not part of the Sacred 28, but evidently your parents are important enough, or possibly, rich enough, to warrant your presence at his party. He reaches you right as your guardian leaves, and you’re all alone, swirling your glass of sparkling champagne and staring at it with disdain. “Hello,” he says with a nod.

You smile at him pleasantly enough, but you narrow your eyes like you’re trying to remember something. “Ah, Yoongi-sshi!” you say suddenly, your eyes wide.

Had you forgotten his name at his own celebration? His mouth quirks up in a smirk of disbelief. “Yes, that’s me.” Clearly, someone had failed their pureblood etiquette classes. It makes Yoongi all the more curious, enough not to return to his Father’s side like he’d planned.

“The decorations are lovely. Compliments to your mother’s excellent taste,” you say with a smile, the words coming out like you were reading them from a page. Yoongi narrows his eyes at you, impatience written all over his face. He’d come across many people playing the manipulation game, and you’re either a real rookie or not trying at all. Or, perhaps, a test from his mother. At that thought, his mind clears.

Yoongi regains his composure and lets his face assume a more neutral expression. “I’ll be sure to tell her,” he says. “You’re familiar with our family’s motto?”

“Yes,” you murmur, studying the flower arrangements, “amaranth and white lilies, toujours pur , I should have seen it earlier.” You beam at him, and the genuineness of the smile almost has him taken aback. You seem to be a stray kitten walking into a den of vipers. “Always pure, hmm. How far back can you trace your ancestry?”

“As far back as it matters, I suppose?” Yoongi raises an eyebrow, making a mental note to review his family tapestry. Surely the purity of their bloodline was ensured?

“‘As it matters,’ I see,” you say dismissively, the fake smile back on your face. “I suppose that’s why Mama wanted me to talk to you so badly. I apologize for taking so much of your time, Yoongi-sshi.” You bow your head once and scurry away, the champagne nearly spilling from your glass as you walk briskly.

Yoongi works to keep his face stoic at one of the most oddly honest interactions he’s had in over four years. He feels a tinge of annoyance at how easily you’d dismissed the importance of bloodlines but cannot deny how refreshing it was to speak to you. More importantly, he did not think of his brother once during your whole conversation. Letting out a quiet snort, Yoongi faces the rest of the night feeling a little less tense than before, his eyes drifting to the lilies found in every corner of the room.

The first time Yoongi remembers his mother smiling directly at him is when he gets his Hogwarts letter. The Mins are entertaining guests that day, and Mother needs to maintain her perfect image. Yoongi nods once, promising to live up to the family name.

Yoongi’s older brother runs off to his friends as soon as they’re at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, leaving Yoongi and his father behind. Father pats him on the shoulder, and Yoongi tells himself not to get used to it, to keep his face stoic. Amidst the noise on the platform—mothers kissing their daughters goodbye, sisters telling their little brothers scary stories about the Whomping Willow, bright-eyed children waving at their older siblings—the place where the Mins stand seems bleak, two figures clad in black, silent and somber.

The other first-years chatter excitedly to one another on the boats across the Great Lake. Yoongi is silent, listening to them and trying to sound out responses in his head. When he can’t think of what to say, he dismisses them as young and inane, instead searching for the Squid in the depths below.

“My, my,” the Sorting Hat says when it’s placed on Yoongi’s head. “So much ambition in you, isn’t there? So much greed and want, and the will to make everything happen. Clever, too.” Yoongi smirks, though he feels a spark of joy at being recognized for what he’s wondered about all along. “Yes, there’s no question about it. You belong in…SLYTHERIN!”

The cheers and applause Yoongi gets as he walks to the table, the feeling of belonging among the students clad in silver and green, the looks of admiration as they find out his last name: all of these Yoongi claims as his birthright.

The first time Yoongi remembers Slughorn looking directly at him is his first sixth-year Potions class. Maybe it’s because he’s finally the Min heir, or maybe it’s the fact that Yoongi’s grades are the highest in his year. Either way, something about Min Yoongi is indelibly different, and his head of house cannot help but notice.

Min Yoongi’s assigned partner had the second-highest OWL score. He’s more surprised that it’s you he ends up partnered with, though he should have known, before seeing you in the blue-and-bronze-lined robes, that you’d be in Ravenclaw. Thankfully, Slughorn says your name, so Yoongi can address you properly when he needs something done.

“Chop chop chop,” he says, tossing you the roots you’ll be needing for the experiment. You shrug, taking the roots and slicing them just so, the juice seeping from them like blood from a wound. Yoongi’s only seen his house elf do it that way before, and the simple efficiency of it has Yoongi trying to make conversation. “No comments on the meaning of these plants?” he says.

You look at him, making a face. “Mama has given up on marrying me to anyone. You’re the most eligible young bachelor, now, and she wanted a last hurrah from me, but what can I say?” You shrug, the lopsided smile on your face more charming than you think. “I’m hopeless.”

“Spoken like a true Ravenclaw,” Yoongi says as he begins to heat the cauldron up.

“You’d be surprised, Min Yoongi, at how many Slytherins end up dying from poisoned potions,” you say, gesturing with your knife. You laugh a little, then, before saying, “House stereotypes are silly, anyhow, but not as bad as blood purity reasoning.”

Yoongi doesn’t think any Slytherin in his year would ever talk like you, but he keeps that to himself. The two of you make the potion quickly and quietly, as you will the rest of the year. Odd comments aside, you’re probably the best Potions partner Yoongi’s had so far. Both you and Yoongi have plans to take Potions NEWTs, so Slughorn assigns you extra work, and the two of you find yourselves working on assignments together in the library, or after hours at the top of Ravenclaw tower. Tonight is one such night, your study session lit by the bright full moon.

“Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you weren’t a pureblood?” you say, scribbling some notes on your enchanted parchment. As they appear on Yoongi’s own sheet, he marks them with his comments, then taps at his chin with the feather-end of his quill.

“I wouldn’t be me,” he says simply. “What would be left?” Not his housemates’ respect, nor his parents’ love. Maybe his older brother. Yoongi doesn’t want to go down that rabbit hole, refuses to think about how his brother is out right now with his gang of friends, in the Shrieking Shack with their werewolf of a housemate.

You look at him, then, incredulity in your tone but sympathy on your face, as if you’ve read his mind. “Many things, Yoongi.” You reach out and pat his hand, your eyes focused on his. He looks away first, uncomfortable with the intimacy of the moment. Most people tend to keep him at arm’s length, especially now that he’s the Min heir.

“Doesn’t look like this potion we’re writing up will be one of them, especially if we keep staring at the moon,” you say lightly, changing the subject. You shift closer to him, though, your arm touching his as you write. Yoongi doesn’t move away.

There’s something about Min Yoongi that has his housemates clamouring for his approval. Maybe it’s the careless way with which he speaks his mind, his words as sharp as a well-filed blade. Yoongi doesn’t play quidditch, gets excellent marks, and doesn’t party—by normal Slytherin standards, he’d be at the bottom of the food chain. In his eyes, however, is a hungry look, one that warns his housemates not to get in his way.

No one dares mention Yoongi's older brother, who's growing to be more of a blood traitor with each passing day. He and Yoongi acknowledge each other in the halls with a quick nod, though his brother's friends glance at him as if he were something strange. Yoongi maintains the cool façad e, but misses his brother dearly.

The red and gold posters begin to appear in his brother's room, along with paraphernalia that clearly isn't of the wizarding world, and Yoongi begins to worry. He knows his older brother's friends aren't the type of people Mother and Father would approve of, but this was something different. Still, Yoongi has faith that his brother will do the right thing. He would never leave Yoongi behind.

He does and leaves Min Yoongi devastated, all the more determined to be the perfect pureblood son. When Yoongi graduates, he is immediately assigned as the executive assistant to the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. It’s a desk job with a lot of glory attached, and Yoongi receives many simpering letters from the purebloods trying to suck up to him, still trying to find a place at his side. You send him a pleasant enough message, but he knows you’re disappointed he didn’t take a job he’d actually enjoy, one he’d feel fulfilled in. Never mind, he thinks, how much did your opinion matter? He ignores the sinking feeling in his gut as no new owls from you come in, your last words to him being a cold, sterile congratulations.

There’s something about Min Yoongi that you can’t put your finger on, something different about him five months after graduation. You’re looking him up and down, watching him standing on your doorstep. He is, weary and worn, skinny and pale like a waning moon. You pull him into your small flat and lock the door, turning around to find he’s dropped a concealment charm. Yoongi stands there, blood streaking his cheeks and bruises all over his arms. Wordlessly, he yanks his sleeve up and shows you his Dark Mark.

The moment stretches on, your breaths and his the only sounds in the room. Yoongi is afraid he’s made the wrong decision: maybe you’ve misunderstood, or maybe you’ll report him to the Ministry, or maybe you’ve been his mother’s spy all along. You rush at him, and Yoongi shuts his eyes and prepares for the worst—he could never hurt you—not expecting the feeling of your arms around his neck. The angle is awkward, and he’s getting blood all over your clothes, but Yoongi tucks himself into your embrace. Your shirt becomes wet with the tears he’s held in since he first took the Mark, from the moment he’d been made to torture a muggle then obliviate them after. “It’s too much,” he says between gasps, and you hold him tighter but say nothing.

Beneath the smell of smoke and blood and dark magic—a scent overly sweet, like fruit on the verge of rot—is the smell of clean citrus and Min Yoongi, the Yoongi of your Hogwarts nights in the starlight. In his embrace you feel his repentance. When you clutch him close to you, the warmth of your body seeping through the chill of his cloak on a cold, stormy night, he knows he can place his life in your hands.

You instruct him on how to use your muggle shower, turning the heater on and showing him which knobs to twist. For a moment, Yoongi is tempted to ask you to stay, if only so he won’t be alone, but he can’t find the right words to say. Yoongi lets the shower run on his clothes, standing there for what feels like hours. He startles when someone knocks at the door, his hand going to his wand, and he doesn’t put it down till he hears your muffled voice telling him you’ve left some clothes out. Yoongi foregoes wearing the dark sweater you’ve lent him; even the soft fabric would rub against the wounds on his torso. He pulls on the loose pajama pants and pads downstairs in your soft slippers.

Sitting him down on your kitchen counter, you get to work, pouring him a cup of black tea while you pour liquids from different vials into a big metal bowl. Yoongi recognizes Murtlap essence and dittany leaves when you bring it beside him. The look on your face is blank as you place a towel into the mixture, squeeze it, and begin to wipe it over his chest. He realizes that you’re counting his wounds in your head, your breathing becoming unsteady as you continue to heal his wounds. You bite your lip, and Yoongi resists the urge to wipe the tears at the corner of your eyes. “It’s too much,” he says again, his voice hoarse. You look up at him briefly, and Yoongi knows you can feel how quickly his heart beats in his chest, like it’s threatening to burst.

“He’s inhu-human.” Yoongi stutters as your hands, cold from the liquid, make their way across his back, taking the viscous drops from the bowl and rubbing them into his larger wounds. “I’ve done horrible things in the past few months, but today they asked me to kill someone, a house elf that was too slow in its service. I hesitated and was punished for my disloyalty. I’m lucky I’m not dead.” Yoongi sounds detached, but his fists clench in anger. You place one hand on his, and he holds it loosely.

“I mean it literally when I say he’s a monster. His soul, it’s split into pieces, and one of them is in Slytherin’s locket.” His whisper is fierce, his grasp on your hand tightening. “My house elf, the one he wanted me to kill, knows where he hid it.” You wait for him to say more, but it seems he’s waiting for something.

He’s watching you like a cornered animal, readying himself for whatever response you’ll give. Disgust, fear, disappointment: all of them, he deserves, and all of them he’s prepared to hear, but you still manage to surprise him. “My parents decided to leave this blasted country two weeks ago.” Your tone is light as you squeeze the towel over the bowl, the liquid turning light brown with blood before growing clear once more. “Business is better abroad, they told me, asking me to follow.”

You lean in, gingerly pulling him close. The scent of your soap is strong on him, you think as he wraps his arms around you, keeping you in place without force. You sigh, your breath hot against his damp hair. “Where do we begin?”

It is an hour past midnight, but the sea is alive, crashing loudly against the rocks by the cave. Yoongi had prepared to say his last goodbyes to you, but here you are, standing with him and his house elf at what looks like the entrance to hell. He wants and does not want you there, but he cannot deny how glad he is you’ve come.

Kreacher eyes you with distrust, but stays quiet in deference to his young master. Yoongi has told you little about what is to follow, though he asked you to fill four vials with Dogbreath potion. You brought three regular ones and the experimental version you made, mixed with an oil to make it temporarily impervious to water. Yoongi’s placed a locket on your neck, telling you to keep it safe. Still, you have no idea what will happen tonight, and it is only the thought of Yoongi’s face at your flat, vulnerable and desperate, that keeps you from bolting.

Fear sits heavy in the pit of your stomach, and you reach out for Yoongi’s hand in the dark. He grasps it and pulls you close, and you feel his nose against your own before you tilt your head up, kissing him in the dark. You close your eyes, and for a moment, you’re standing at the window of Ravenclaw tower, the stars twinkling down on you. You can taste the salt on his mouth, not knowing if the tears are yours or his. In your kiss are all the stolen moments in the library, where both of you ignored the parts you had to play, the press of his mouth against your own like a final blessing. You break apart too soon, and you hold back the sobs that threaten to choke, the thought that this may be the last time it will happen.

You both cast Lumos, and Kreacher points up at a door that neither you nor Yoongi would have seen. Yoongi takes a knife from his pocket and lets drops of his blood drip onto the door, which shudders open, the rusty hinges creaking. To your relief, the door does not shut, but the light from your wands give no clue as to what’s inside. Yoongi holds you back when you step in, lighting the ground below with his wand. Five more steps, and you would have fallen into the eerily calm lake that takes up nearly the entire inner cave. You hold your breath as Kreacher gestures again, this time to a chain dangling from the ceiling, pointing to the island in the middle of the lake. Yoongi approaches it, pulling at the chain and revealing an invisible boat. He places it on the water and gets in, and the water remains undisturbed, but when you try to step in, he shakes his head frantically, not allowing you to follow. Kreacher steps in after him, and the boat moves across the boat with Kreacher’s magic. Yoongi gets off and nods at you from the island, allowing Kreacher to go back for you.

When you get to the island, you find Yoongi facing a basin, a serious look on his face. “Have you tried everything?” you murmured, like any sound in this cave would wake things too terrible to name. He nods solemnly before placing his mouth to the rim, preparing to drink. You gasp quietly and reach out to stop him, but something holds you in place, and Kreacher stands in front of you sternly.

As he drains the liquid, he begins to shudder and his chest heaves. “No,” Yoongi says, the tears streaming down his face, his body curled over onto the basin. He's looking at something over your shoulder, but when you turn, there’s nothing there. “Don’t leave! Don’t!”

“I won’t, Yoongi!” you say, biting back the tears. Kreacher has still not let you go, and you realize that Yoongi’s ordered him to do this to you. The house elf is watching his master with pleading eyes, as if begging him not to do this.

Yoongi does not seem to hear you, shaking his head and continuing to drink. When the basin is completely empty, he gestures at Kreacher, and you run to Yoongi’s side. At the bottom of the basin is a locket identical to the one around your neck. You take yours off immediately and swap it for the one in the basin. As you put it on, you feel as if a weight’s been placed on your shoulders, a despair seizing you. You watch dully as Yoongi reaches for water, tries conjuring some up and eventually bends down to the lake’s edge to drink. It’s when you see a hand reach up for him that you wake from your daze, casting Expelliarmus at the hand that tries to drag Yoongi in.

Kreacher pulls Yoongi back from the surface, and you take a gulp of Dogbreath potion, breathing out hard to ward off the Inferi that have started to climb out of the water. You gesture wildly at Kreacher, who levitates Yoongi’s body into the boat and begins to make their way across. You toss Kreacher a Dogbreath potion and continue to blow flames at the Inferi, narrowly avoiding your foot in the process. Yoongi is still barely moving as they land nearer the entrance to the cave, and you see Kreacher stand there, looking at you. You see his intent, how easy it would be for them to leave you behind, and you call out Yoongi’s name desperately. “Please, Yoongi, please wake up,” you say, as you uncork the last vial of Dogbreath. You see Yoongi wave an arm up, and immediately Kreacher boards the boat to return for you.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” you say, finding it difficult to resent the house elf. You too would not choose to leave Yoongi’s side, especially in the state he’s in. Still, you feel heavy with fear until Kreacher yanks at the chain of the locket, gesturing for you to place it on him. As soon as it’s off you, you’re clear-headed enough to plan your next steps. You shut the heavy door behind you before kneeling onto the ground, cradling Yoongi’s body in your arms.

His pulse is weak and his lips are dry, and you immediately try to conjure water for him. Mercifully enough, you’re able to, and Yoongi finally, finally opens his eyes. Before you can say anything, Yoongi looks at Kreacher again, who apparates you back to your flat before disappearing, the locket’s weight stooping his back more than usual. You wait for him to follow, watching the clock tick slowly.

With dawn comes the knowledge that you will never see Min Yoongi again.

It is an hour till the sun rises, your partner tells you. The two of you are assigned to the night watch, the last shift before the Order moves its headquarters. You’re new and a pureblood, so Moody assigns you to one of their staunchest members. “Min, keep an eye on her,” he’d said, and you can’t hide the look of shock on your face at finally meeting Min Yoongi’s older brother.

He’s more traditionally handsome that Yoongi, his shoulders broad and features strong. His easy laughter and charming winks mark his differences from Yoongi, but you watch him closely and see the similarities: the nose scrunches, the proud smirks, and the gummy smiles. When you first see him, you resist the urge to burst into tears. Now, the sight of him brings with it a dull ache, a longing that will never go away. It’s been nearly a year, and it’s only now that you’re beginning to accept that Yoongi is gone forever.

Yoongi’s older brother nods silently at you, apparating off to the next location. Before you can follow, however, four hooded figures appear, and you groan.

Thankfully, you see them before they see you, and you’re able to hit one of them with a full-body bind, leaving three of them for you to fight. You cast a spell that has another one thrown against a lamp post. You’re in the back alley of a mostly muggle district, and you’re praying no one passes by. Your non-spell hand is hit with some kind of paralysis hex, and your arm begins to tingle painfully, till it feels like it’s on fire. You fall to the ground, the curses flying around you, when you hear the footfalls of someone running from behind you. You raise your wand arm, eyes half shut from the pain, trying to aim at the hooded figures as they stand in the shadow, the sky above beginning to streak with orange.

The person from before runs in front of you, his worn sneakers skidding to a halt a foot in front of your face. You cannot see his face, but the scent of citrus is impossible to mistake. You drink a numbing potion and get to your feet, and Min Yoongi reaches out for your hand. You can’t feel his fingers threaded between yours, but the sparks up your arm are no longer from pain. You raise your wands in synch, twin smiles on your faces.

With dawn comes nothing sure, no destiny to live up to, nothing but the firm, solid grip of his hand in yours as the two of you stand to fight.

#yoongi.net #networkbangtan #yoongi scenarios #yoongi angst #bts angst #mine #v: thaumaturgy #fic: cas #yoongi #suga #bts #fic

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bornpariah-a · 7 years

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Looks directly at you; five times kissed or punched whatever

FIVE TIMES KISSED. // @extravagantliar

FIRST. all things considered it could have gotten better, though he hardly thinks that it warranted such EXTENSIVE ACTIONS. for one, he probably could have fade stepped out of the way of the imminent blade in time, though now they will never know. for another, now varric is injured and well THAT isn’t very good, is it? for various reasons. namely the fact that it is varric and there are a great many people who are fond of the dwarf, for reasons that dorian cannot even begin to fathom.

( so that is a slight lie, considering the fact that he, too, is fond of the damn dwarf. )

regardless, the situation remains: varric is bleeding and hurt, dorian is low on mana, the battle is winding down all around them, all immediate enemies in their surroundings are dead. good. ❝ festis bei umo canavarum —— that was INCREDIBLY UNNECESSARY, i believe, ❞ dorian says, irritation lacing his tone and he knows that he is worried, yet how do you express that? he does not know. so instead he defaults to irritation, to anger, to kneeling beside the idiot dwarf and swallowing a lyrium potion, making a slight face as he does. ❝ no, no, you stay right there, dwarf, let me take care of at least some of those wounds. ❞

varric laughs, low and hurt and yet he is STILL LAUGHING and oh, dorian is going to throttle him. once he fixes the gaping wound situation. ❝ come on, sparkler, is that any way to thank your savior? ❞ dorian groans behind his teeth, pulling forth his magic and ignoring the way that his bones ache with how tired he is. he glances at varric, at the slight smile on the dwarf’s face, and both wants to punch him and wants to thank him profusely. ❝ ah, yes, yes, where are my manners? ❞ he says, sweet as sugar, sarcasm poisoning the words. all the same he leans forward and presses a fleeting kiss against the man’s cheek, straightening quickly. ❝ thank you, for saving me UNNECESSARILY. you have my eternal gratitude.❞

SECOND. varric saving him is becoming something of a HABIT and he does not much enjoy it. really, it’s almost annoying, considering the fact that he is a GROWN ADULT who can defend himself. however, even dorian can admit that, perhaps, in this situation ( and this situation alone ) he would have had a hard time getting out of it. he had goaded too much, had driven the man too far. the knife had been drawn so QUICKLY and he would have certainly lost at least a finger had varric not reacted so quickly. perhaps dorian needs to work on his reaction time. or needs to stop goading people into fighting him, apparently.

❝ ——— well, that could have gone better, ❞ dorian said, blasé as could be, tipping his head to see where the man had fallen to the floor after dorian had thrown a temporary petrification spell at him. what? he has to prove himself SOMEHOW. it’s a matter of pride.

the dwarf is just looking at him and dorian sighs, deep from within him, emptying out nearly all the air from his lungs. ❝ alright, yes, perhaps i should not have gone so far and perhaps i should not have been so OBVIOUS about cheating. in my defense, i didn’t actually think that he would draw a knife on me. some people these days have no tact, nor sense of humor.” varric rolls his eyes and laughs at that, leaning over to shove dorian lightly.

that shove is quickly followed by a quick kiss pressed to his temple and dorian’s brows raise at the simple show of affection, momentary confusion whirling inside of him. when was the last time someone had shown him such platonic affection? had it been felix? oh, he does not remember. he does not remember at all. ❝ never change, sparkler. maybe get attacked less, in the future, but never chance. ❞

THIRD. to say that he is so angry that he cannot see would be an OVER STATEMENT, actually. it is not that he is so angry that he cannot see, it is more like he is full of so much vexation that his decision making skills are somewhat dulled, at the moment. he likes to believe that he is completely justified in his anger, though he knows that some ( read: ahvir ) would say otherwise. very much so. regardless, he has simmered in this irritation for HOURS, so the fact that when he first sees varric his immediate compulsion is to punch him ————

well, that shouldn’t be all that surprising, should it?

he follows through with the urge, for a moment feeling like he were a circle student once more, getting into fights with his peers. the feeling of his fist meeting varric’s nose is a satisfying one, it soothes some of the anger that has been burning at him, douses the flames and leaves behind embers. they both know why. they both know.

the thing is this: ahvir is his BEST FRIEND. it is not a matter of her being the inquisitor, nor the herald of andraste, nor the only one who can fix things. she is his best friend and he loves her, would die for her, never mind her status at the present moment. he knows her, or would like to think that he knows her, and does not want to see her HURT. does not want to see the world who has taken so many things from her continue to take from her. the thing is also this: varric is his friend, and he cares for him. knows him. wants him to be happy, as well.

❝ do you ——— ❞ that word is on the tip of his tongue, that wretched L WORD. love. ahvir is full of it and dorian —— well, that is something else entirely. is it love? is it infatuation? is it something else? varric is not a bad man, he knows this well, would never dare to hurt ahvir. not truly. ❝ ——— KAFFAS, never mind, ❞ he says, and starts to walk away without so much as an apology. oh well.

FOURTH. the sky is above him. that much he is certain of, though he isn’t entirely certain that the ground is beneath him. his body HURTS, and lifting his head is a monstrous effort and oh, there is a hole in his side. lovely. just what he needed. someone is talking but it all seems muffled and he is shaking, somewhat. shock, perhaps? he tries to remember and —— ah, that’s right. stupid dwarf being attacked, stupid mage stepped in to help, stupid mage ends up on the ground bleeding because he took a hit for the stupid dwarf. they’re all rather stupid, aren’t they?

someone is lifting his hand and he turns his head and opens his eyes again ( when had he closed them, actually? ) and varric is there, looking at him with a wretched mix of worry and almost despair and dorian wants to both sigh and laugh all at once. what slips from his mouth is something of a weak chuckle, which brings something of a smile to varric’s face. ❝ not dead just yet, am i? ❞ dorian manages, weakly. ahvir appears beside varric and looks both pissed off and fretful and he wants to take these expressions from both of their faces. ah, hell.

❝ not yet, sparkler, ❞ varric says and ahvir disappears again and he dips his head, presses a kiss against dorian’s hand. gentle. kind. how strange. a potion bottle is suddenly pressed against his mouth and he groans, not at all happy about this turn of events, but he opens his mouth anyways to drink it. makes a face, and varric is laughing, and well. that’s good enough.

FIFTH. the battle is won, and isn’t that something? they have WON. they are ALIVE, for all that dorian was fairly certain that he, at least, would not be. realistic to the end. or is that fatalistic? all the same, they are all alive and he is enjoying yet another drink with varric, the sounds of celebration a cacophony all around them. he has been thanked, multiple times by multiple people. he never thought the day would come where people would not turn their noses up at him or just run in the other direction. he isn’t certain which one he prefers.

their silence is a companionable one and dorian does not find that he wants to break it, particularly, but a thought occurs to him. a fact that he has not told anyone yet, not even those closest to him. he supposes that VARRIC is included in that small list of people closest to him, though how and when that happened are a complete mystery. he wonders for a moment, if he should mention this fact to someone else, first, but. well. news travels fast, around skyhold.

❝my father has passed,❞ dorian says and perhaps that isn’t the BEST WAY to breach this news. varric is looking at him now, eyebrows raised, and there’s no going back anymore. ❝ assassination, most likely. shockingly enough, he’s left me his seat in the magisterium, for all that i assumed that he would not. you understand, of course, why i had assumed that he would leave his seat up in the air insofar as who would succeed him, ❞ it had never been confirmed that his father wouldn’t have left it to him, of course. it had been assumed. that is always a problem, isn’t it? assumptions.

varric is looking at him and dorian knows that he understands what that means. ❝returning back to tevinter, then? after all this? ❞ varric says, anyways, as if wanting to confirm it. dorian is RELUCTANT to speak, again. as if that will make it all the more real. he supposes that it will. it is bound to. ❝and never return, yes. well, never is a rather finite word. rarely, will i leave tevinter, from hereon out.❞ varric doesn’t look sad, precisely, but the look on his face is not one that dorian can properly describe. dorian stares at him for a beat longer, before leaning forwards and pressing a kiss to his forehead, in an attempt to lighten the mood. and perhaps for another reason, as well.

❝ no need to be so gloomy about it just yet, varric. there is still time for me to remain in the south, yet. ❞ useless platitudes, useless words. dorian never thought that he would be so sad to leave the south. then again, it’s less about the south and more about the people in it.

#extravagantliar #( ∞ ┈┈ extravagantliar ) WEAVE YOUR TALES INTO MY HEART / SO AS TO NEVER LEAVE IT.#( ∞ ┈┈ inquisition ) WELL THERE'S A GIANT HOLE IN THE SKY AND A DRAGON OR TWO AROUND.#[ thIS IS SO LONG AND I'M EMO ]#( ∞ ┈┈ ask ) SARCASM IS AN ART FORM.

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