bring the sting

Whenever I see your picture or hear people talk about you, my breath always catches in my throat and I’m struck by this painful twinge that twists my sides and brings the stinging of tears to back of my eyes.
It’s the thought of you being happy and living your life… imagining you laughing and joking with other people that hurts… Don’t get me wrong – I still care for you and the thought of you being happy makes me happy… but at the same time it makes me sad. Because… life goes on, or at least it did for you and being confronted with your happiness makes me feel like I made no difference to your life… as if there was never any point in me being in it at all. You were happy before you met me and you’re still the same happy person now even though I’m gone.
I know it’s foolish to wish I had meant more to you… that my absence would change your world or have some sort of lasting impact so I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that the day we said goodbye wasn’t devastating enough to make the world stop turning for you…
Not like it did for me.

You used to call me your bumble bee because I always called you honey. It was the only word I couldn’t imagine her calling you. You were her baby and my honey; I wonder if you were someone elses sweetheart.

I was never something permanent to you, just something you liked but never really wanted to live with. Nobody wants a beehive in their back yard, nobody wants a girl who can’t stay in one place, nobody wants to bring home a girl who stings everything she touches. I wasn’t the girl you brought home but my venom poisoning your relationship, but you had an Epi-Pen. You didn’t know it would kill me every time you got stung.

I always called you honey but i think you were not only the honey, but the bee too. I guess that’s kind of messed up to say because honey is really just bee vomit, but maybe that makes it even more fitting. I told you everything. But I don’t think i ever told you was that my mom cheated on my dad, and i used to write the other man hate mail; always hoping that maybe next time I would have the courage to send them. Albert Bandura has a theory that states what you see as a kid, you become. I guess what I’m trying to say is I wonder if she writes me letters too.

You are, sorry, were my honey and my bumble bee. I’m not really sure if I should write this in past or present tense. Anyways, I guess that’s kind of messed up to say because someone in this equation always ends up getting stung. My dads allergic to bee’s and even though kids usually grow out of it, they say it’s genetic. What I’m trying to say is that every time I was with you it was so hard to breathe, and every time you left I was exhausted- maybe this is because I was holding my breath trying not to say the wrong thing, trying not to tell you to leave her. Maybe it was because keeping up with the lies you told her tired me out. I guess what I’m trying to say it that I’m not sure if it hurts more getting stung, or the aftermath.

You were my honey. I guess that’s the problem. Someone always ends up getting stuck. I’m sorry that it had to be me. Part of me is stuck in your sweet and stickiness, I’m not ready to leave. The rest of me knows that there is not enough room for the three of us in this hive.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t want to be your honey anymore but I’m not sure quite how I should let my heart know.

The hardest part of this wasn’t trying to sort through our memories for the best one which would make this fucked up situation pretty. It wasn’t revisiting the text messages your girlfriend sent me. It wasn’t remembering the way you used to touch me. The hardest part of writing you this was trying to figure out of it should be a love letter, hate mail, or an apology.

You are the honey to my bee and I guess thats kind of messed up to say because I never even liked honey before you. The strangest part of this is that I like honey now, so much so my lips often crave it. I bet hers do too. I wonder who you crave, or are we both just hives caging you from someone else.

—  The Beekeeper by Heather Vance

Draco Malfoy x Harry Potter
Warnings: alcohol

“Thanks.” Draco Malfoy nods at the bartender, whom had just slid a glass of firewhiskey his way. His fingers wrap around the beverage before he brings it to his lips, feeling the slightly soothing burn as it glides down his throat.


Draco feels frozen in place. His eyes stay glued to the alcohol quivering in his cup as he struggles to swallow the massive lump in his throat. He knows that voice. And he doesn’t want to face the person behind it.

He decides to ignore it, hoping with every nerve in his body that he’ll give up and leave.

“Draco Malfoy.”

The use of his full name sends a shiver down Draco’s spine, and he’s left with no choice but to turn around. When he spins around on the bar seat, his eyes immediately fall on Harry Potter, who is standing wearing a leather jacket draped over a red flannel.

Draco’s blue eyes scan Harry’s body, taking in the sight of the boy he hadn’t seen in years. “Potter,” he breathes, more of a statement than a greeting.

He continues to stare, waiting for Harry to fidget - but he never does. That irritates Draco to his very core, as he has always liked having the upper hand.

“Well, if you’re not going to invite me to sit with you,” Harry says, finishing his thought by shrugging off his jacket and taking a seat directly to Draco’s right. The blonde boy sighs, swiveling back to face the bar. 

“For the record,” Draco says, before taking a large sip of his firewhiskey. “I didn’t invite you to sit down.”

Harry shoots him a sarcastic smile, his left eyebrow raised, before ordering a drink for himself.

“So, what are you doing here, by yourself?” Harry asks, sipping his cup.

Draco clenches his jaw, despising the way Potter asked that so naturally, and had managed not to sound intrusive. Prying his eyes from the remaining liquid in his glass, he glances at Harry, his eyes drifting to his brown curls. “I could ask you the same thing,” Draco responds, before downing the rest of his drink.

“Fair enough,” Harry says. His emerald eyes seem to drift over Draco’s face before he adds, “Let me buy you a refill.”

For the first time that night, the corners of Draco’s mouth curve into a small smile. “Are you hitting on me, Potter?”

Harry simply shrugs, and Draco can’t help but envy his complete confidence.

“What happened to the Weasel girl?” Draco asks, purely to push the Golden Boy’s buttons.

“You know, I don’t think you’re actually as bitter as you act,” Harry retorts, taking another sip of alcohol without tearing his eyes from Draco’s face.

“What?” Draco says, thrown off by the sudden comment and shift of topic. He furrows his eyebrows, avoiding Harry’s gaze.

“I think this cold exterior you have is just a front you put up. You probably always have.”

Draco’s at a loss for words, and he can’t seem to get any sound past his throat. After stuttering for a bit and trying to hide the fact that Harry Potter might have seen directly through him, Draco turns back toward the bar and lets out a small sigh. 

“Ginny and I broke up, by the way. It was mutual.”

When Draco turns back to face him, he can see Harry’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows hard, looking down at the fingers on his right hand, which are fidgeting with his flannel sleeve.

Draco considers all the possible responses he could hurl back, but in the end he decides to go with: “I’ll take you up on your offer. For a refill.”

Harry grins.

A few drinks in, and the former enemies are laughing with each other as if they’d been close friends for years. 

The blonde boy peers at Harry’s right arm, which now sits bare on the table after Harry had rolled back both his sleeves.

The tattoo intrigues Draco, and he’s not sure why. It appears to be a large star, surrounded by smaller ones in a beautiful pattern that Draco could only dream of being able to draw.

“What does it mean?” he asks, nodding in the direction of the star, his pale fingers wrapped tightly around his third glass of firewhiskey.

“Oh,” Harry breathes, looking down at it himself. Draco can’t help but notice that Potter’s grin shrinks to almost half of what is was before. He’s about to apologize for asking, but Harry answers, “It’s Sirius. The largest star in the night sky,” he says, his smile growing again. “I got it for -”

“Your godfather.”

Harry looks at Draco as if he’s peering into something he’d never seen before. Draco squirms slightly in his seat, clearly overwhelmed by the intensity of Harry’s green gaze. “Yeah,” the brunette breathes, his eyes not faltering from Draco’s.

After what feels like an eternity, Harry leans back in his seat. “How about you, Malfoy?” he asks, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Any tattoos?”

Draco simply shakes his head, taking another sip from his drink. 

“So just that hole in your lip, then,” Harry says, twirling the ends of one of his curls with his fingertips.

Draco instinctively starts messing with his lip ring, sucking the cool metal into his mouth for a second. He notices Harry staring. 

“What was it, a spontaneous act of rebellion?”

It sounds odd to hear the word rebellion used like that by someone who was the center of an entire war. The right side of Draco’s mouth turns up into a smirk. “Sure.”

Really, he had been absolutely hammered the night he got the piercing, as a result of a disagreement with his father. But the next morning, he didn’t exactly hate the way it looked.

“It seems like we’ve both changed, don’t you think?” Harry says, tracing his right index finger along the rim of his empty glass. 

Draco looks at him; his lips part. He shakes his head and says, “I don’t think so.”

Draco Malfoy isn’t quite sure how he ended up kissing Harry Potter inside of a cluttered broom cupboard, but he didn’t exactly resist it.

He can taste the alcohol residing on the Golden Boy’s soft lips; enjoys the pungent taste as he threads his pale fingers through Harry’s brown curls. 

Draco can feel Harry’s steady hands on his neck, his chest, his waist. He smiles into their kiss, a smile that he never in a million years thought would arise.

His fingers move to trace the ink covering Harry’s veins, just as the other boy finds Draco’s lip ring. There happens to be a broom handle poking Draco’s lower back, but he couldn’t care in the slightest.

Harry breaks away for a spilt second. “Do you want to-”

“Yes,” Draco whispers, just desperate enough to make Harry crash his mouth back onto his.

It really doesn’t matter what the question was.

The following morning, sunlight leaks through the curtains as Draco wakes up in his bed, white cotton sheets wrapped around his torso and a fresh magenta mark curved underneath the skin of his jaw.

He wakes up in his empty bed. 

Draco’s hand flies to his forehead; his fingers trace small circles to keep himself calm. He wonders if it was all a dream. A random, incoherent dream where he’d slept with -

“You’re awake,” Harry says from the doorway. 

Draco’s blue eyes dart in his direction, and he tries to convince himself that Harry Potter is really leaning against his bedroom door frame, holding two steaming mugs in his hands.

Draco can’t help but recognize his own sweatpants, hung dangerously low on Harry’s hips. 

Draco’s speechless.

Harry carefully walks over, watching the liquid in the cups so he won’t spill. The mattress curves downward next to Draco as Harry sits, saying, “I didn’t know if you like coffee or tea in the morning, so I made both.”

The grin on Draco’s face stretches for miles. He wonders again if this is a dream, but the aroma of the coffee he takes from Harry’s warm hand is far too rich and vivid for Draco to be unconscious.

“Thanks,” Draco says, before taking a long sip of the coffee. Harry smiles in response and raises the mug of tea to his lips.

“So I was thinking,” Harry says, as Draco glances up at the brown mess of hair atop his head.

“That can’t be good,” Draco says quickly, before Harry can finish. Harry dramatically rolls his eyes as Draco takes a second sip of the hot beverage.

“I want to ask you out on a date.”

Draco nearly chokes on his coffee, and it brings a sharp sting to his nose.

“What?” Harry asks. “Why is that so hard to picture?”

Draco clears his throat. “It’s not,” he reassures, biting his lower lip. “You just caught me off guard.”

Harry flashes that golden grin, gripping the cup of tea near his lap. “Are you scared, Malfoy?”

Draco smiles, raising his eyebrows. “You wish.”

hi guys!! i’m so sorry i’ve been gone for a little while. i’ve been super busy. i really missed writing on here!!
p.s. i hit 2k followers today and I just want to say thank you all for taking the time to read the words that spew out of my brain :))

Beast (Pt. 3/3)

Request: Hey love! Can i get a Derek Hale smut where the reader and him are married and they have like kitchen smut which leads to table smut and bed smut and shower smut? THANKS

Character: Derek Hale x Reader

Warnings: Very smutty, Language, and SMUT!!!!

Part one:

Part two

AU Note: I cannot thank all of you for how much support I am receiving on my writings/edits. All of my followers mean the absolute world to me and i would never trade this for anything. I love you all. Thank you for the support!!

His fingers knotted into my stringy hair as I took him in fully my hands scratching as his chest. He groaned at the marks, my nails sliding with the water. I stared up at him while my tongue worked wonders under his shaft. If we weren’t in the shower I could have sworn he was drooling. His happy trail hit my nose as he moved, my reflexes relaxing with each hit. He shuddered letting himself go as I sucked him clean, some of the ejaculation going down the drain. I licked my way up, making sure to take extra long when it came to his abs.

He hissed yanking me up, his lips capturing my tongue and sucking on it all the while he gripped onto my ass, kneading the softness. I broke away from him, turning my body around and pressing it into him signaling I was ready. He muttered dirty nothings into my ear while he entered me. I couldn’t stop myself from clenching the entire time, his movements halting to adjust. He loved it when I clenched, something about it always turning him on more so than ever.

Now the real Derek came out. He wrapped his left hand into my hair, while his right pushed my back down, hands automatically going out to touch the tiles. He then let the power consume him going faster than I ever felt him do before. I instantly screamed my throat going rasped as he senselessly fucked into me.

“Yes princess fuck yes let it out. Tell Alpha just how much you want this cock.” He yelled, his claws raking down my spine, the sting bringing tears to my eyes. I couldn’t speak I was so raw. It felt so vulnerable as I let him take his way with me. We’ve been married for five years yet I have never seen this side of him. How….?

Unaware of what was going on, I felt him pull out my body being yanked by my hair. I let out a mewl my legs numb from his force. He picked me up and slammed me against the wall, a dent forming. Gasping I took his face in my hands kissing all over as he rammed back into me, my teeth scraping over his ear. My body kept lurching forward as he smashed into me, never giving way.

“Alpha holy fuck, I’m not gonna make it.” I cried his body going faster at the  mention of his title. He looked into my eyes, the blue almost blinding. I don’t think I ever came so hard as I did right then and there my eyes blurring. His true call came out, the seed warming my insides as he scraped the wall, claws ripping tiles. I don’t remember passing out but I do remember waking up in the bed, Derek’s equally naked form wrapped around me. I guess he could sense I was awake because his arms got a little tighter, and his face grew a little darker.

“How are you feeling?” He questioned, his voice thick with panic. Now that he had mentioned it I was feeling a tad sore.

“Just a little sore. Why? Afraid you broke me?” I giggled my form sitting up to stretch. That’s when I saw it. My entire body was either purple, red or normal. I was covered in cuts and bite marks. I traced them with my index finger the feel making me clench with good feelings. I turned back to him and he was glaring out the window, hands behind his head and jaw set in a pissed off way. Confused I reached over to touch his face and he flinched, expecting me to hit him.

“Der what’s the matter?” I worriedly asked my body turning to sit on top of his. He looked up at me then his eyes menacing and dull. Gripping onto his chest, I leaned down further my breasts freeing from the sheet. His nostrils flared as he tried not to act on his instincts.

“Please stop acting like this. Stop making me look like a savior when all I am is a monster. I got too carried away and you are all marked up. Fuck why did you let me do this? Why didn’t you stop me?” He babbled pushing himself closer to the headboard, so he was sitting up. I couldn’t let the words he wanted to hear fall from my lips, because they just weren’t true.

“Derek you did absolutely nothing wrong to me. If anything I was surprised you held that back from me and we’ve been married how long? It was everything that I craved from you and if you ask me that was the best sex we have ever had.” I blushed, eyes watching my fingers the delicate pads tracing over his chest. He snatched my hands making me involuntarily look up at him. His eyes were searching. Fighting with himself on if he truly believed you.

“Do you mean it..mean that I didn’t hurt you? I loved that you had an a blast, I mean I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy myself more. But i cannot fathom how much pain i caused you.” He looked truly wounded and it ached your heart. Scooting closer to him you kissed his lips, the tenderness he carried making your chest heave more.

“Derek Hale if you do not stop right now. You could never hurt me and I asked for it anyways don’t you remember? I am the one who said the words, you merely acted upon them. So yes I would love if it happened again and no I am not hurt.” I stated my eyes closed and my lips ghosting over his. He closed the gap, my hands snaking up to his hair.

“I cannot get enough of you, fuck.” He mumbled, fingers twisting at my sides. I just sank into his arms, as he took me once more.

Taming The Brat

Okay so I was supposed to be finishing that Kookie request this weekend, and I’ve actually gotten pretty far into (it’s getting long in length *lol*) but I kept getting distracted by this Jaebum smut idea, probably all the fun research and sexual virgin tension proving difficult. Anyway I couldn’t get this idea out of my head so in the end I decided just to write it and get it out of my system so I can focus on the Jungkook smut and his innocent lady friend (for some reason I struggle to write an innocent girl, who woulda thunk?)

Small warning, this is probably the roughest and longest (I think) thing I’ve written so far (I still think it’s pretty tame in comparison to some but yeah, definitely the roughest I’ve written) and is basically a D/s AU that relates quite heavily to themes of masochism, so if that’s not your thing I really wouldn’t read this.

Genre: angst/smut - D/s!AU/BarOwner!AU
Requested: NO
Warnings: NSFW, alotta swearing, very minor slut shaming (like, twice?) BDSM/Masochism themes. Breath play. Not sure how rough but it’s the roughest thing I’ve written as of yet. Can’t think of anything else.

Pt.1 | Pt.2 | Pt.3 | Pt.4 | Pt.5 | Pt.5.5 | Pt.6 | Pt.7 | Pt.8 | Pt.9.1 | Pt.9.2 | Pt.10

Originally posted by msmichellec

~ gif is a little too playful for the content but I like it, so…  The photo tho, I’m adding because add some rips in them Jeans and its pretty much how I was imagining him… Obviously feel free to picture whichever era you prefer ~

Envy is an affliction I suffer from often, it always has been, ever since I was young. Maybe it’s because I’m an only child, growing up spoilt with an endless supply of love and affection. Or maybe I’m just a natural born attention seeker, and I would have always been this way, whether or not I’d had a sibling to steal some of my spotlight. I’m just a wickedly envious person at heart, and I know that my Master is all too aware of that fact, so why my reaction to his news comes as a surprise is beyond my imagination.

“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m agreeing to this, Im Jaebum!” I’m practically snarling as I stop my frantic pacing a few feet from where he leans against his desk. I stand with my arms folded, my nails digging into my palms, my hip jutting to the side in defiance. Everything about my body language screams bad attitude, and though this isn’t an uncommon occurrence for us, my bratty behaviour is normally performed with a playful air and a desired punishment in mind. Not tonight though, tonight I’m just plain livid.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

cs "just stay with me"

Sure, friend! ♥ I didn’t expect to get Captain Swan, but, hey, no complaints! ;)
              (prompt from here)

Somewhere in the distance, a warning bell rings, announcing her absence from one end of the castle to the other in a noise that should startle her into action. But she stays still, a roaring in her ears as the tide rises to her slipper covered feet. Mud cakes the ends of her dress and the bottom of her shoes, but she ignores it, eyes on the wreckage of a ship in the harbor. It floats feebly, its tattered crimson flag flopping uselessly on the deck, and she can see flames licking up the sides, eager to claim it’s next victim. 

She’s never seen a sight before. Pirates, she knew. But pirates had never been so close to Misthaven before and she can’t help digging in the sight; in its prime, the ship would be a beauty, but today it’s little more than a ruin. She lets out a sigh. Pirates sound like an adventure, close to the ones her parents were on, but Emma has little interest in it. She mourns more for the beauty of the ship and the wasted lives than anything. 

Therefore, she nearly misses the dark-haired figure floating in the water, just barely supporting by the piece of wood that supports his torso. For a half second, she stares, mouth agape, before she springs into action, ripping the sides of her dress as she makes her way deeper into the water. To a stranger, the tide could sweep them away, but Emma had swam in this water her entire life and she uses the current to her advantage, reaching the floating figure just as they begin to tip off the wood. 

She grasps them, dragging them back onto their float by the lapels of their jacket, narrowly avoiding the pointed edge of a hook. It grazes her cheek, bringing a sting that she ignores as she begins kicking, bringing them back to shore in a slow and tedious process that leaves her legs aching when they finally reach solid ground. 

The person is still and save for the rise and fall of their breath, they could be asleep. She pulls him off the wood, dragging him onto the shore with a grunt, her water sodden dress sticking to her legs and her hair falling from its carefully prepped bun. She ignores it; she ignores the slight sting on her cheek, the ache in her legs, the ringing bells in the distance – she focuses on him. His dark hair is wet, sticking to his forehead and there’s a small scar on his cheek, so old she can barely see it above his trimmed beard. 

He’s nothing like what she expects a pirate to be and it’s a little unfair how someone could be so handsome after narrowly escaping with his life. She thinks about this – and then she realizes that there are little to no breathes coming from his lips. 

“No, crap,” she hisses, pressing against his chest, ignoring the fine hair that tickles her fingers, remembering her mothers’ instructions as she counts. When nothing happens, she grunts. "If you’re faking this, I will give you back to the ocean. If you’re not, just stay with me, okay?” She leans down, pressing her lips to his, breathing air into his lungs.

Or at least that’s what she tries.

The moment her lips press his, magic sparks so bright that she can see it through her closed eyes; the strands of fallen hair lift as a sudden, sharp breeze springs from between them. The man lets out a sharp breath, as though there were no water in them to begin with, and blinks rapidly; if she wasn’t frozen in place, she would notice how blue his eyes were. 

“Did you just…?” He asks, fingers grazing his lips as though hardly daring to believe. “Did you just break my curse?”

“Umm…” is her eloquent response. She hears thudding footsteps in the distance.“Yes?”

A joyous laugh escapes him and he’s sitting up, then standing up, grasping her elbows and bringing her to her feet, swinging her around enthusiastically. She’s rather grateful he doesn’t accidentally hit her with the hook and waits for him to calm, her mind numb with the sudden knowledge that this man was her… was her… 

“It’s true love,” he says, dropping her onto her feet and stepping away. “I’ve spent 300 years trying to find you.”

“Yes, well, that’s all– Hang on, what? Wait, who are you?”

“I’m Killian Jones.” 

He smiles. It’s transfixing. 

She stares. His drops at the sudden awareness of people around them. 

Her parent’s guards watch them both. 

“Wait, are you…?” His blue eyes are wide, flickering between her and the guards, taking in the fine silks of her dress and the jewels around her neck and hanging from her ears. There’s little doubt that the sight of her is worthy of a princess, even a water soaked one, but before he can voice them, a small, grumpy looking man speaks. 

“Princess Emma, your parents require your attention. Shall we bring the… pirate with us?”

anonymous asked:

What do you think would cause Maggie to have a red moment as a top? (just an answer is fine, unless you want to fic this; I would not complain!)

It’s her job to monitor Alex’s color; her job to put her fingers on Alex’s palm and make sure she squeezes before continuing; to make sure, that as Alex’s is cuffed and blindfolded and naked underneath her, her hand clamping Alex’s mouth closed, quiet, that Alex wants everything, wants more, wants it all, wants her.

It’s her job to make sure Alex is good, at every single moment.

And she takes her job very seriously.

But Alex is strong and Alex likes it rough, so when Maggie is buried inside her, ragged breath and hard thrusts, she feels Alex’s muffled screaming in her palm and she glances up, to where Alex’s hands are cuffed above her head, to make sure, to make sure, to make sure.

Because she takes her job very seriously.

But so does Alex, and Alex’s job – at the DEO, anyway – is pain, and Alex doesn’t notice that she’s writhing so hard in the cuffs that her skin is getting red, that her skin is starting to tear, that her skin is starting to bleed.

Maggie’s heart lurches and Maggie is dizzy and Maggie stops moving immediately and Alex whines and Alex begs and Alex pleads and Alex moans, because she thinks Maggie’s teasing her, she thinks Maggie just needs her to show her what a good girl she is, how she deserves to be fucked really good and just like that, but Alex freezes when she hears Maggie panting out, “Red, red, red.”

“It’s okay, babe, I’m okay, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Alex streams out in a single breath, because Maggie’s hand is gone from her mouth now and she’s shaking above her and she’s apologizing over and over and Alex can’t tell what for but she knows she wants to hold her, to hold her, to hold her, to let Maggie hold her, so she offers up her hands, her wrists, so they can be unlocked, so they can be free to sooth through Maggie’s hair and stroke her cheeks and hold her, soothe her, love her.

And that’s when she sees the red marks the cuffs have made with the force of her writhing, and that’s when she sees Maggie’s fingers tremble as they work at the lock, and that’s when she sees Maggie’s eyes water as she brings her lips to Alex’s stinging skin, and that’s when she realizes why Maggie’s color went red.

“Babe, you didn’t hurt me, I’m good, I’m okay, you didn’t hurt me, it doesn’t hurt,” Alex repeats, kissing Maggie’s forehead as Maggie worries over her wrists.

“You told me you were okay and it didn’t hurt last time you got shot in the field,” Maggie protests, and it would be funny if her voice weren’t so shredded with tears, with worry, with fear.

“Hey, hey, hey, this isn’t that. We’re not in the field, we’re at home. I’m in your bed. Your very, very comfortable, but not as comfortable as mine and I don’t know why you keep insisting we sleep here bed.”

“Your room doesn’t even have a door, Danvers – “ Maggie stops her spluttering when she sees Alex’s smile, and her eyes water again.

“You’re okay? I didn’t hurt you?”

Alex glances at her wrists and grins wickedly. “I’m pretty sure I did this to myself. You did warn me not to move, after all.”

Her voice drops and Maggie’s breath hitches and Alex strokes her hair, her cheeks, her jawline.

“I know you’d never hurt me, Maggie. I’m good. I promise. Okay?”

Maggie nods and kisses her softly before gathering her into her arms. Alex melts into her embrace and Maggie needs to make sure one more time.

“You’re not mad?”

“Of course I’m not mad, Mags. I love how you look out for me. So much.”

Maggie smiles and presses a kiss to Alex’s hair. “Good then, Danvers. Because I’m always gonna look out for you.”

“Sounds perfect to me.”

Please don’t doubt me when I say I’m asexual. No, I’m not confused. Yes, I’m sure. No, better sex won’t help. No, it’s not the contraceptives. Yes, I am sure. Whatever doubts you may have, I can guarantee you I have thought about them before, and I have thought about this more than you have. If I were doubting myself and I asked you for your opinion, then by all means. But I’m not, and I didn’t, so don’t doubt me. I’ll answer as many questions as I can about it, because I can understand not knowing about asexuality, but that’s not the same as doubting me when I say I’m ace. I finally found people that say there’s nothing wrong with me, that I’m not broken, that there are others that experience the same things. 

Tell me you don’t know how that feels.


When a honeybee dies inside of her hive, her sisters will remove her and place her outside. This naturally deceased little worker bee has been immortalized in a locket on a bed of moss. Her wings are covered in real gold leaf. The honeybee does so much for me, but all I could do for her was to give her a pretty resting place. She can be your companion if you’d like, and promises not to sting. Bring her home here.

anonymous asked:

Hi there! I understand that you already wrote something similar to this so it's ok if you don't write this, but can you do a Lucifer x reader where reader is just an ordinary day-to-day human who is aware of how painfully average she is and has low self-esteem. She's attracted to Lucifer, but doesn't think he'd ever feel the same bc she's plain and boring so she distances herself from him. Lucifer of course notices and gets fed up with her constantly avoiding him and and confronts her about it.

A/N: I’m super sorry this took awhile! I wrote a couple of drafts up as I decided which way I wanted to go with this. Finally I liked this outcome the most. I always entertain the idea that ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’ we may think ourselves average/boring/etc, but to others, we’re everything they could want or hope to be. ♥ You’re a beautiful person regardless of what you think of yourself


He visits you in your dreams at first, curious as to why you hadn’t come home, concerned even. You laugh the thought off because Lucifer being worried for you was more than any dream could actually give you. Squashing down the longing and guilt because what could you offer Lucifer? Nothing. You had nothing to give him, except allowing him to stay in your house - but that wasn’t worth noting because he could have just taken it.

You had nothing interesting to give, nothing special and nothing unique about you to offer up to someone like him. He was an Angel and you.. You were average at best, average grades in college, average family, friends. Nothing really stuck out and screamed this separates me from the rest and that was something you struggled with, daily. Overlooked in class, teachers forgetting your name while they remembered others, you blended in with the background and that wasn’t even a talent. You didn’t want to be another piece in the background, you wanted to be special - stand out, but God had dealt you an average life and no matter how much you tried to change it never made a difference.

You were destined to be the background character for someone else’s story, never the lead of your own.

It hurt to think about sometimes, especially the more you thought about how delusional you had been in thinking that Lucifer would want something like you. You, who had only recently learned that Angels and Demons actually existed, that God was very much alive and Lucifer was very real, and just as beautiful as all the scriptures made him out to be. He had only come to your house because you were average at best, easily overlooked and the perfect place to hide away from prying ‘hunters’ who were on the look out for him.

You had indulged in the idea that you had stood out to him, but the longer time went on and the more you had stood beside him the more you realized how wrong you were. He chose you because of how easily forgotten you were, it was hard to suspect someone who blended in so easily to the background. Even in dreams the thoughts bring the sting of tears to your eyes, and you press the palms of your hands up against your eyes with a shuddering breath.

You know he arrives when the hard concrete beneath you changes into grass, and the cold air turns into a warm summer breeze. The warmth of the sun against your back and you peel your hands away from your face, ignoring the fact that your eyes are probably red along with your nose. You had never been a elegant or attractive crier.

“You’re avoiding me, and starting to hurt my feelings.” He says quietly, his fingers pressed together as he slowly makes his way up the hill he had placed you on. The blue sky casts a halo of bright white clouds around his head as he stands at the edge of your hill he’s placed you on and a forced laugh crosses your lips.

Drawing your knees up to your chest you wrap your arms around your legs, curling into yourself as if hiding your vulnerability. But that was a laughable thought, if he really wanted to know, no amount of curling into yourself would stop him.

“I am not, I’ve been busy with classes and exams.” You lie smoothly, a lie you’ve told your parents when you didn’t want to come home or a lie you’ve told friends when you didn’t want to hang out.

“I haven’t been alive longer than the entire human race to fall for such a lie,” He says casually and you skirt your eyes away from him, lacing your fingers together tightly until your knuckles are white.

“It’s not polite to invade my dreams,” You try to change the subject and Lucifer only stares at you with a bemused expression on his face.

“I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t avoiding me.”

You didn’t want to argue that you weren’t avoiding him because you were and he was right, you couldn’t lie to him and get away with it. But you didn’t want to face the truth, because you were still trying to come to terms with it - that you weren’t anything special to him. You were the average girl he’d leave behind once he no longer needed a spot to hide away in, not that he needed to hide.

A frustrated groan mixed with another sting of tears against your eyes and you untangle your fingers and thread them through your hair, tugging on the strands. It hurt to think about and you didn’t want to deal with your feelings - your inability to cope with the fact that Lucifer would never care about you, you were too average for that.

“[Name],” His voice is quiet, tilting his head down a fraction to look at you but you’re unwilling to meet his gaze.

This was still your dream and his visits had made you aware of how easy it was to manipulate them to get away. You didn’t want to face the truth, not right now.

“I have to go.” Your voice cracks, and Lucifer twitches, ready to stop you but the dream melts away and you wake up on the floor in your friend’s bedroom. A shuddering breath as you wipe away the stray tears with the palms of your hands, hoping you hadn’t made any noise in your sleep. Lucifer commented once or twice that occasionally you would mutter in your sleep, incoherent but things that bothered you that you were trying to work out.

The morning goes by quickly, quizzing yourself on the way to campus for the exams you have. The pencil feels heavy and so do your eyelids, the words on the test fill your head with cotton and you’re frustrated and exhausted all at the same time. So when the letters on your exam paper start to move around you blame it on your exhaustion and rub at your eyes, but they’re still moving.

Look up.

Your gaze slowly drags up and it’s only then that you notice the entire room is completely silent, no one is moving and your gaze falls on Lucifer standing in the front of the room. He doesn’t look pleased to say the least, and your stomach clenches and there’s a thousand lies on your tongue that you swallow down.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well you don’t give me any time to talk anywhere else.” He’s pressing his fingers together in the familiar fashion as he slowly makes his way up the aisle of desks toward yours. “Are you going to tell me why you are avoiding me?”

You didn’t want to deal with this, not now, not today but he wasn’t giving you an option. The familiar sting against your eyes lets you know that they’re slowly turning red and you drop your pencil to rub at your face stubbornly. Your nose burns, your eyes burn, your chest hurts and the anxious butterflies manage to tie down your tongue.

But he waits.

“I-I don’t,” Your voice and lips tremble, and you fight back the tears that threaten to spill as you try to get how you feel out. But it’s not something you do, not something you’re used to. You’re the one in the background, keeping everything to yourself because you just didn’t quite fit in anywhere enough to express them. “Why do you even care?” You finally turn to look at him, the corners of your lips twitching down against your will.

It’s easier to just ask him, to accuse him, to throw the blame all at his face and though he knows that’s exactly what you’re doing he takes a seat on the edge of your desk. There’s no anger on his face, nothing like you were expecting - after all why would he give someone as average as you the time of day? Or allow you to accuse him?

“Why do you even want me around? I’m- I’m-” You inhale sharply and look away, glaring at the front of the room. “I’m just.. A nobody, nothing special. Not some.. Some.. hunter or demon, or angel. I’m one of the things you hate so- I don’t. Why?”

It spills past your lips and the tears make their way down your cheeks and you rub them away furiously. Clenching your teeth together because goddammit why did he have to come around and make everything complicated? Why did he come into your life if all he was going to do was make you aware of how small you were, insignificant and how much you felt you didn’t fit in.

He sighs and shifts on your desk, you glance up at him and he’s looking up at the ceiling with his hands folded in his lap.

“You humans are so emotional.”

If he was going to berate you, then you didn’t want to hear it. You had enough torture of being in love with him and knowing he didn’t love you back, but to hear him berate you? It would hurt a little too much, but your body won’t respond when you want to get up and you shoot him a pained glare.

“You’ve done enough running away from me,” He keeps you rooted to your seat and your face scrunches up as you look away.

“If you’re just going to make fun of me I don’t want to hear it,” Your voice cracks and the tears drip down but you can’t move your hands to wipe them away, he’s got you frozen in place.

“You’re avoiding me because you think I care that you’re not something else?”

Your lips tremble and you bite down on your lower one, furrowing your eyebrows and looking away from him. The only comfort you have since you can’t escape the situation, he was kind enough to allow you to look away from him, it was something at least.

“I’m nothing.. I’m, I’m human. I’m not- I’m not even a good one,” You laugh bitterly and you desperately want to rub at your face but he’s still got you frozen. “I’m nobody special, I’m.. I’m average in life. I don’t, I can’t understand why you are hanging around. Why do you even care?”

“Who says you’re average?”

Your eyebrows furrow, and you grit your teeth.

“I am average, I have nothing unique-”

“Says who?”

You floundered for words, why did it matter who said it?

“It doesn’t matter-”

“Says who?”

“Me!” You ground out, frustrated because why did it matter who said it? It was the truth and it didn’t explain anything you wanted- no, needed to know.

His hands gently press up against your cheeks and you flinch but he’s careful, making you look up at him as his thumbs brush against the stray tears.

“You’re not average, you are humble. You don’t think you’re special but you’re modest. You don’t look down on others, you don’t get angry when you think someone else is prettier or better than you. You are what God created perfectly.”

A sob makes its way out and you clench your eyes tightly because you can’t bring yourself to look at him, because he’s lying and it hurts in the worst way. He hated humans, so why was he being so kind?

“You are not how you see yourself, how I see you. You think you’re average, the sidelines - I’ve heard how you think of yourself. You are the only thing holding yourself back of being the star of your story, you are not forcibly on the sidelines watching. You are waiting until you are strong enough to take the lead, and that in itself is beautiful.”

“You hate humans,” You blurt out, opening your eyes to see his amused expression.

“No, I hate that I was to love them more- to bow to them instead of my father. You are his creations, and you are his perfect one.”

You were always an ugly crier, the tears and snot threatening to slip out and he releases the hold on you. Allowing you to furiously wipe away at your face and curl into yourself, his hand brushing against the back of your neck as you bury your face into your hands. Soothing circles rubbed against the skin there as you hiccup into your hands.

“Are you going to keep avoiding me?”

You can’t bring yourself to look up at him so instead you shake your head back and forth and hear him sigh softly. His hands slipping beneath your chin to lift your head up and leave you stunned as his lips gently press against your own for the briefest of seconds.

“I’ll see you at home?” His forehead is against yours and you give a weak nod, sniffing once and he smiles softly. A beautiful smile that melts your heart before the rustle of feathers and he’s gone - the entire room moving once more and you look down at your exam. Too exhausted emotionally to really want to continue it - maybe you can feign illness and take a makeup later. To your surprise the answers are all filled out, and at the bottom the small moving text catches your eye.

You’re welcome.

A laugh slips past your lips and you quickly cover your mouth, standing up to hand in your completed exam.

You had someone waiting at home, after all.


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anonymous asked:

Hello, Dark. Do you have an opinion on roses? Favorite color? Reresentation to you?

Dark smiled, and from one of the inner pockets of his tuxedo, slowly yanked out the slightly drooping black rose that resided close to his chest. Although it was worn, crispy, and most likely dead, its initial structure still remained true to its original appearance.

“The black rose is the symbol of my work. Not only is it my favorite flower, but it is the blend of primal beauty that I myself am prided to obtain. It is admired from afar, its aroma influences attention and comment. But attempting to go to such an object, attempting to truly interact, is far more dangerous than what the eye may perceive.”

Dark’s eyes ripped away from the rose in his hand.

“It brings pain. It stings the flesh and causes for a silly human to lose trust of such a flower again. They refuse to ever pick up said flower, knowing what it will bring. But they will always, always, enjoy the aroma.”

the moment pleasantly frightful.

Introduction: namjoon is a handsome devil, you are an inexperienced witch.
Method: sext a composition professor, boil your brains in holy water.
Result: 9k words rated MA for sex, loss of virginity.
Conclusion: i need a cigarette.

a fair few of you seem confused with the ending so let me just preface by saying this was written for halloween, and is meant to be a little unnerving.

“Hello?” You call out into the dimly lit depths of your bedroom. For a moment you think you see the candles flicker, a shadow ghost along the wall, but it must have been a moth, because you receive not so much as an echo in return.

“Did it work?” You mutter, now mostly to yourself, and while you look around contemplating this you bring your thumb to your lips, gingerly wiping the blood from your self-inflicted pinprick.

Then, a little embarrassed that you expected company in the first place, you return to your grandmother’s crumbling spell book on the bed, running a chalk dusted finger along the page to make sure you said the right words, holding the old grimoire up and comparing the illustration on the parchment to your own sigil scratched across the worn floorboards in white chalk.

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A/N: I have zero idea where I am/was going with this. Enjoy some Sam x Reader.

It hurts.

Like a thousand pin needles against the inside of your skull and against your eyelids, your head pounded with such ferocity it made you feel sick to your stomach. A gag willing its way up your throat and out your mouth that has you lurching forward against the cuffs that kept your arms together. Pulled taut so they were loosely hanging in the air while the rest of you remained seated on the floor.

The tears that gather are immediately soaked up by the cloth that covers your eyes and you’re unable to remove it. It feels like it’s stitched into your skin and a sob rips itself from your lips as you lean forward, pressing your forehead into your arms.

The groan of the door makes your head jerk up, sniffling pathetically and fear sets in.

“Who-” Your voice twists in pain, and immediately the familiar voice of Sam is hushing you as he sits himself next to you, gathering you into his arms.

“It’s okay,” The iron shackles that kept your arms up loosen and you immediately press yourself into Sam’s warm embrace as the tears continue. But the emotion makes you exhausted, makes your head hurt even more - makes you want to throw up and scream at the same time.

“What did they do to me?” Your voice is a trembling whisper against his shoulder as he holds onto you closely, one hand gently at the back of your head and even that hurts.

“I-” He struggles for words, voice unusually quiet and gentle. You can’t remember but you know he’s been helping you with whatever this is for awhile now, that even the softest sound makes your ears want to bleed and your skull feel like it’s cracking open. “I don’t know, but we’re trying [Name].”

“I’m scared.” Your voice is a whisper and it hurts him enough to bring the sting of tears to his eyes as he holds you just a bit tighter.

He stares at the symbols drawn across every inch of the room, the cracks in the floor beneath where you sat day in and day out and bit his lip. He didn’t want to say anything, but he was scared too.

God only knows what they did to you.


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anonymous asked:

"I'm sorry, but _____ didn't make the accident" + Yoosung (707 breaking the news to MC, from Yoosung ending)

  • Yoosung hasn’t slept in forever. He doesn’t want to and he knows that if he tried, he wouldn’t be able to anyways.
  • Whenever he closes his eyes, the image of them lying there, skin pale, body limp and lifeless, pops up.
  • He hasn’t been saying a word for just as long. He’s just been sitting at this chair in the hospital hallway, staring into the void.
  • At least one of the other RFA members is sitting next to him at all time, but nobody managed to make him speak up so far. They’re lucky if they draw a nod or him shaking his head from him when they offer to bring some coffee or water.
  • At first he had been so angry, aggravated, shouting at the doctors to help them and to let him inside, claiming he needed to be with them, needed to see them.
  • But once Seven managed to pull him back and convince him that he needs to let the doctors to their job, he sat down, burying his face in his hands and sobbing quietly to himself.
  • “Why can’t I protect the ones I love? Why does everyone I hold dear get hurt?”
  • It’s the last thing he managed to say before falling silent for hours, days even.
  • After two restless nights, Seven finally gets him to nap at least.
  • It’s the worst timing ever, but right then doctors run in and out of MC’s room and nobody is willing to say what’s going on.
  • It’s easy to tell though that it’s not good news. Nurses and everyone are on high alerts and run around.
  • Seven contemplates back and forth. He knows Yoosung would want to know what’s happening, but  waking him after he’s finally calmed down seems so cruel right now. He deserves some rest more than anything.
  • It all happens so fast anyway. Suddenly there’s much less chaos and Seven’s tension passes, thinking they solved whatever problem occurred just now.
  • But when he sees the expression of one of the doctor’s approaching him and the sleeping Yoosung, he feels his heart sink into his stomach.
  • Seven immediately stands up, wanting to stand a few feet away from Yoosung to not wake him.
  • “They’re fine, right? They have to be.”
  • But the look in the doctor’s eye is enough of an answer. There’s not much to say about the grief that takes over, it’s mostly feeling numb. It almost feels like the cruel reality doesn’t really want to sink in fully.
  • But he knows he can’t afford to break down now. There’s so many things to take care of. He needs to tell Yoosung and be there for him. He needs to tell the others, especially Jumin, who offered to take care of any circumstances and payment of the treatments and what not.
  • It’s the first thing he does, in fact. He dials Jumin’s number, saying he needs to come over and take care of last necessities. Seven can’t bring out the sentence, can’t put it to words, but Jumin seems to figure and understand. His voice, though slower and dryer than usual, is calm.
  • “Who are you talking to?”
  • Yoosung’s still sleepy voice makes Seven freeze. It surprises him he even speaks up at all, but he must sense that something’s up. Seven can’t even bare to turn around and face him.
  • “Seven? What’s wrong?”
  • Everything. Everything is wrong. “Nothing.” He says though, voice quivering.
  • “Was that Jumin just now?”
  • “Yeah, he… he’ll come over and– he’ll provide a car for you–”
  • “A car?” Seven hears Yoosung shift and when he turns to face him, he sees his face brighten a little, that spark of hope glistening in his eyes. The weak curve of a tired smile adorns his face. “MC, are they… are they awake? Can we bring them back home?”
  • It stings and his lungs feel like they’re going to burst and his voice seems to be giving out any moment now. “The car is meant for you.” He can barely murmur his words. “You should go home, get some rest.”
  • “For me? Seven, I’m not going anywhere until MC wakes up.”
  • “They’re not going to wake up,” he mutters under his breath, forcing himself to not avert his gaze and look directly at Yoosung, whose eyes widen. “I’m sorry… they didn’t make it. The– the doctors… they said… there’s nothing they can do.”
  • The young man just stares at his friend in shock and slowly shakes his head. The second a nurse turns the corner and appears in his field of vision, he jumps at her, demanding for her to tell him what happened, demanding for her to save MC and demanding to see them.
  • The nurse fails at trying to calm him and again it’s Seven who has to tear him away. Only this time, Yoosung is so hurt that he straight up swats away the redhead’s hand from his shoulder.
  • He gives up though, the nurse slips into the room and he feels like dropping to his knees and throwing up.
  • And there it is again, only now it’s ten times worse. Yoosung’s entire expression falls slump, as does his shoulders as he falls into his chair again, growing mute, his face buried in his face as he curls into a ball and tears fall down his cheeks.
  • “Yoosung, you should go home and rest. Jumin will take care of–”
  • “I’m not going to leave!” The blonde shouts and everything rises inside of him at once. The anger, the refusal, the anxiety, the sadness.
  • Not many minutes later Jumin arrives, alongside Zen and Jaehee, who both look like they’re about to burst into tears.
  • While Jumin speaks with the doctors, Jaehee and Zen get to Seven and Yoosung and a heavy silence fills the atmosphere, interrupted by Jaehee’s occasional sniffling.
  • “I’m so sorry,” she sobs.
  • “Yoosung, Driver Kim is waiting outside,” Zen speaks and even his voice is filled with nothing but grief and pity.
  • “I don’t want a damn ride,” Yoosung sighs, still not looking up at any of the fellow RFA members. He knows it’s not fair, but at that very moment, he can’t feel anything but anger towards them. It’s too much and they’re not helping. “I’m not going to leave.”
  • “You need to calm down and get some rest,” Seven insists, but he’s repeating himself and Yoosung knows he can play the same game.
  • “I’m. Not. Going. To. Leave.” His head finally goes up to direct his gaze at Seven, but the angry glare he throws him almost has all of them wish he wouldn’t have looked up.
  • A little while after Jumin joins the group and begins to explain what is going to happen, how they’ll take care of things from now on, but Yoosung can’t even bare to pay attention and listen to the group discussing how to deal with MC’s death.
  • For him, there is no way to deal with MC’s death. There’s no way to handle the loss.
  • “I told Driver Kim to bring you home, Yoosung.”
  • “I’ll walk.” His voice burns in the back of his throat and his bones feel sore as he stands up.
  • “Are you sure?” Jaehee asks hesitantly. “I don’t think you should be alone right now.”
  • “Oh yeah? You could put me in a room filled with people, with MC not there I’ll always be lonely.” he hisses and he still knows it’s not fair to direct his anger towards the others. But he does.
  • “If any of you cared half as much about MC as you do now, then maybe this would’ve never happened.”
  • Zen wants to add something to the conversation and have him calm the fuck down, but Seven holds him back. It’s probably best to leave him be for now.
  • In the little mess of it all, Yoosung manages to part from the group and leave the building. He is going to walk home. And every step is going to feel heavy. And no time can heal that wound or ease the weight of this tragedy.
It's Okay [Prequel]

A/N: This is simply just a further exploration of my short little one-shot “It’s Okay”, a Percival x reader imagine. A couple days ago, I received a lovely request for an imagine about having a relationship with Percival pre-Grindelwald, and the aftermath of the reader and his reunion. This is much more delayed than I expected, and I’m so sorry for that, :( , but you all seem to enjoy these comforting graves ones, and I’m more than happy to comply!

warnings: mentions of torture, mild descriptions of violence, angst, angst, angsttttt

Originally posted by newdscamander

     “Hey, (Y/N), how you doin’?”

     You grin at the cheery greeting from Jacob, the kindly man who always walked beside you on your way to work. You had first met a couple months ago, right after moving into an apartment near him. You couldn’t bear living in the same house as…him, not after that particularly messy breakup.

     “No, no more thinking about that,”, you tell yourself sternly. Shaking of the all too familiar sting in your throat, you smile back at Jacob. “Good, good. I’m fine. What about you, Mr. Kowalski? How’s that bakery of yours going along?”

     He flashes you a nervous beam, patting his suitcase. “I’m off to the bank for a load. Willin’ to bet that the pastries’ll convince them. No one could resist grandma’s recipes.”

     You laugh bemusedly, offering him another smile. “Well, best of luck to you, Mr. Kowalski.”

     “You too, (Y/N)! See you!”

     The grin fades from your face as Jacob disappears around the corner. Biting back a heavy sigh, you glance around the busy sidewalk before hurrying into an empty alley. With a quick survey to make sure it’s clear of any witnesses, you disapparate.

     An instant later, you pop into existence at your desk inside the headquarters of the MACUSA. Frowning at Tina’s missing presence beside you, you set your bag down with a thump. The both of you had grown quite close since your demotions, but she encouraged you to talk to Percival daily.

     “No,” you would snap, “Mr. Graves has made it clear that he wishes not to see me.”

     “Come on, (Y/N), you know that’s not true,” Tina would urge, “You both miss each other. I know you do, don’t deny it.”

     You would soften, perhaps pause for a moment before replying quietly. “Even if I did, there’s nothing that can be done. It’s too late now to fix things.”

     But right now, Tina was missing from her usual spot beside you. She had a tendency, as you had discovered, to take matters into her own hands. You bite back a groan at the thought of Abernathy discovering her absence. She doesn’t appear for another hour, and it’s only with some strange man in tow, who hauls around a rather clunky case.

     “I’m off for my break, Tina,” you tell her, eyeing the now fidgeting wizard curiously. “Don’t get into too much trouble.”


     The next time you see her, it’s under a decimated subway, as you take in the aftershocks of everything that just occurred. You breathe out, but you wonder if it’s any use to you, to inhale the particles of crushed stone and the remnants of a broken boy.

     “Tina?” you murmur quietly, backing away from Madame Picquery, as she looks on, cool and collected façade cracking. “Tina, what’s going on?”

     The man you’ve been trying so hard to avoid looking at speaks up. It brings another sharp sting to your already aching chest, to glance at Percival, who used to be your closest friend and lover, who barely even spares you any look.

     He’s certainly not staring at you now. That familiar, steely gaze is directed at everyone, burning with contempt and thinly veiled frustration. “Percival,” you whisper, allowing the name to slip past your lips for the first time in months. “Percival, what is this?”

     He sneers at your naïve, innocently cautious question, directing his suddenly stranger eyes to you. Perhaps it’s some hidden instinct, some whisper of a past, but your fingers tighten around your wand. Everything feels subtly wrong to you; the world has shifted off its axis. It’s Percival; no matter how much unresolved history there remains between the two of you, he wouldn’t hurt you.

     But the glint of madness in his eyes is telling you different.

     “You,” he hisses quietly, dangerously. “Sweet little (Y/N), the one factor in my plans that I never considered. Do you know that Percival begged me not to kill you?”

     And suddenly, nothing is the same anymore. The breath you took in earlier seems to have disappeared, and you can feel nothing but the faint thumping of your roaring heartbeat.

     “What?” you demand, because the implications in his words cannot possibly be true. "What are you talking about?

     You vaguely register the movements of Aurors behind you, the shifting of Tina behind your Percival. But your eyes are focused on him, and you can hear nothing but the rush of blood in your ears.

     “It’s true,” he scorns, flicking his wrist in a smooth, casual wave. The Auror beside you goes flying into the ceiling, and his wand clatters to the floor loudly. “Please, not (Y/N)! Anyone but (Y/N), please, I’m begging you!”

     In a horribly accurate imitation of Percival, the man taunts you. He directs his wand to deflecting the flood of spells that come rushing towards him, leaving you utterly breathless. You can feel nothing but a chilling numbness, and you need to breathe, you must, you have to force your lungs to move, to inhale a mouthful of crushed stone dust, but you can’t, you can’t breathe.

     “Where is he?”

     It’s a hushed, deadly whisper, and somehow, in the midst of the chaos, he hears you. It’s only a single fraction of a moment, but he hears you, and that second has cost him dearly. A strange, steaming contraption coils around him, and he grits his teeth, forced to his knees.

     The stranger with the accent, followed by Tina, points his wand directly at the not Percival, murmurs Revelio, and you can feel the world beneath you dropping as the hair turns to blonde, as the eyes melt away to reveal the face of a stranger.

     “Grindelwald?” The name runs through the crowd, panicked and awed and terrified. How can Grindelwald be here, in America? But that’s not the most important thing right now.

     “Where is he?” you murmur, and no one seems brave or heartless enough to stop you from approaching. “Where is Percival?”

     Your voice is a lethal calm, the very second before the storm hits, crashes, and you’re teetering on the cusp of the something immensely destructive. Tina shares a fearful glance with Queenie, the sweet, younger Goldstein. “(Y/N),” she soothes, “Calm down. We can get the information out of him later, can’t we? Right, Queenie?”

     You’ve already apparated away. It’s only when you’ve carefully made your way into Percival’s house, the one you know by all its curves and halls and corner, wrapped yourself in one of his coats, and locked all doors that you let yourself cry.

     You can’t breathe.


     Seraphina Picquery notifies you the instant she’s told the Aurors have found Percival Graves. Exactly three days and seven hours after Grindelwald’s capture, her Patronus appears to you, whispers only three words, “They found him”, and dissipates into the air. You’re not there to see it disappear, though. You’ve already disapparated.

     “Percival?” Your voice, after three days and seven hours of disuse, cracks hoarsely. “Percival, what did he do to you?”

     Oh Merlin, you can feel every single bruise, every single bloody gash, every single limb that hangs awkwardly on your own body. It sears, scorches at your skin, and you half-collapse, legs giving out. What did Grindelwald do to him? What could have happened to him, that the bones on his face protrude so prominently, that you can hardly see a bit of his flesh that isn’t stained with dried blood?

     There are fresh tears and old tears marring your face, and you collapse entirely onto the cold floor, weeping out “Percival! Percival, wake up! Open your eyes, please.”

     The minute movement of his chest, barely visible through the blood and gashes, is the only thing that keeps you from dissolving down completely. When the Healers come to take him away, it’s ever so slight, but you can feel the infinite pressure on your lungs lessen. You can’t breathe, but you think you’re getting there.


     He wakes up exactly fourteen hours after they first carry him off on a stretcher. You’ve refused to let go of his hands since, if only to reassure yourself of the faint heartbeat along his wrist. His hands, hands that used to hold you so tightly and fight so bravely, have been broken, and the realization brings on a fresh wave of tears for you.

     “(Y/N)?” His voice is rough, scratchy from the amount of damage done to his physical body. “(Y/N), where am I?”

     You meet his eyes, wide and poised for an attack. His hands clutch back at you fearfully, and he makes to struggle out of his bed. You lay a soothing hand on his head, brushing away some of the hair that’s grown far too much. “Rest, Percival,” you whisper, burying your face into the crook of his neck. “You’re safe now, I promise.”

     When he does, hesitantly and slowly, but he does, you let out the tiniest of breaths. Air seems to be a bit easier to force into your lungs this time.


     Of course, that doesn’t mean there aren’t trials left for the both of you to face. Once the Healers give him permission to leave, Percival is gone instantly. In the bright, vulnerable light of the hospital, he can’t bear the pitiful looks, the wide eyed stares that pass by his room daily. He’d rather be with Grindelwald than struggle through greeting his old coworkers from a hospital bed, barely able to walk for longer than ten minutes.

     “Percival,” you tell him, pressing a kiss into his forehead. “Percival, it’s okay to break down sometimes. You’ve done and gone through so much; rest. You’re home, remember?”

     That doesn’t stop him from clutching his wand so tightly you fear it’s going to break. His hands, though fully healed, tremble at the slightest touch, and you blink away the tears that threaten to fall from your eyes. Instead, you give him a watery smile, pressing his wrist to your lips. “You’re here with me,” you murmur, his heartbeat thrumming against your mouth. “You’re safe now, I promise, Percival.”

     It’s not okay, Percival thinks. It’s not okay, not when he still wakes up each night, covered in sweat and lashing out violently at anything beside him, screaming himself hoarse to please, please, no more, no more please just make it stop. Not when he can’t go through a day without having a sudden flashback, and he can only see the imprint of Grindelwald’s condescending sneer against his shut eyelids.

     But you don’t say ‘it’s okay’. It’s not okay, you agree, when there is still so much to be healed, but there are simply some things that one cannot recover from. But it’s going to be okay. One day, you will be able to breathe freely once more, and you believe - you have to believe, you must believe - there will be a day when it’s going to be okay.

     Sometimes, if you whisper it to each other enough, Percival can almost believe you.