#tulip twinkle

[playbox]

Lyn Fletcher's illustrations of Tulip Twinkle and Fairy Dust

[dailyg3]

Daily G3 My Little Pony is: Tulip Twinkle! ♡

[mylittlestims]

i'd like to request a board of morning monarch x tulip twinkle, both g3 toys, with watercolors, butterflies and flowers! thank u!!

Morning Tulip | Morning Monarch x Tulip Twinkle Stimboard with watercolors, butterflies & flowers for @qyuryyus

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[travelling-my-little-pony]

Tulip Twinkle reclines on fish, next to peas and chips.

In Tavistock, in Devon, England.

[dearjewels22]

Are not flowers the stars of the earth?

Clara Lucas Balfour

[yourlocalcringekid]

This would be a perfect headcanon if it was just worded in that over-ly serious/angsty font that old Hetalia headcanons have

something something witty comment

-Mod Tulip

[faebled-stories]

Hidden Strength

Kinkvember Day 7: Femdom/Immobilized

Kiss Of Life Han Julie x Male reader

7.3k words

The sun began its slow descent, casting a golden hue through the tall, narrow windows of Julie's dormitory, and you could feel the enchantment in the air. The light filled the small room with warmth, turning it into a sanctuary as beams of sun danced like whispers across the furnishings. Each detail glowed in this soft, waning light—the small, well-worn books stacked haphazardly on the desk, the laundry basket in the corner that had long since needed attention, and the plush throw blanket draped lazily over the back of a chair. Dust motes floated serenely through the light, resembling tiny stars suspended in a gentle, magical glow.

Julie stood near the entrance, carefully adjusting a small vase of fresh flowers she had picked from a nearby store earlier that morning. The vibrant yellows of daisies and deep purples of tulips stood out against the rustic wood of the console table. Each petal seemed to tell its own story of the sunlit day that had just passed, stories that matched the bubbling thrill that flickered in her eyes. Tonight was the night she had been looking forward to—an evening she had imagined over and over in her mind, a night where you, the one who stirred her soul in ways words couldn’t capture, would finally meet her friends. She’d run countless scenarios in her head about how this meeting would go, spinning fantasies and rehearsing introductions. But now, here in the warmth of her room, those fantasies felt tangible, almost alive, breathing alongside her anticipation.

The dorm itself mirrored Julie’s emotions: cozy, inviting, and filled with a subtle lavender fragrance that floated through the room, calming her nerves. Soft light spilled from the delicate table lamps, blending with the gentle twinkle of string lights draped across her ceiling, casting an intimate glow over everything. It was the sort of ambiance that drew you in, evoking memories of childhood sleepovers, whispered secrets, and moments when bonds seemed to deepen in the flicker of a candle’s flame.

Then, the familiar creak of the door broke through her thoughts, and she turned, her breath catching as you stepped inside. For a moment, her eyes softened, her gaze locking with yours as a warm smile blossomed on her lips. It was as if the entire room shifted to acknowledge your presence, grounding her swirling thoughts and calming the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat. You, with your quiet confidence and easy presence, seemed to blend into the warmth of her carefully crafted haven as if you belonged there.

Julie moved towards you, her smile widening as she leaned in to press a gentle kiss on your cheek—a gesture both tender and electric, filled with the quiet intimacy of everything unspoken between you. Her fingers lingered against your shoulder for a moment, and you could sense the pride in her eyes as she stepped back, letting you take in the room. A hint of curiosity danced in your gaze as you absorbed the cozy details, the careful touches that revealed so much of who Julie was.

“Come on,” she said softly, her voice steady, colored with the warmth of belonging and a spark of excitement she could barely contain. "They are all dying to meet you." The pride in her tone was unmistakable, as if she was welcoming you into a part of herself she rarely shared, inviting you deeper into her world.

As you walked with Julie toward the living room, laughter and lively voices spilled over from the trio who formed the heart of her group—Haneul, Belle, and Natty—lounging comfortably on an oversized sectional. The warmth of their camaraderie seemed to fill the entire space, and you could feel how much they meant to Julie; they weren’t just friends—they were chosen family, each one a vital thread woven into the fabric of her life. When they spotted you and Julie approaching, their faces lit up with joy, eyes twinkling with friendliness and a touch of curiosity. Julie’s hand rested lightly on your arm, guiding you forward, as if anchoring you to this moment she had longed to share.

As you got closer, you could hear snippets of their playful banter; Haneul animatedly recounted a missed class, waving her hands in exaggerated gestures, while Belle teased her with a mock scolding. Natty, sprawled out on the couch, chimed in with an enthusiastic nod, her laughter bubbling up and pulling everyone else along with it. You felt yourself relax, letting your natural charm surface as you joined in the conversation, tossing in a few witty comments that sparked more laughter. The group responded easily, welcoming you as if you’d always been a part of their tight-knit circle.

Julie stepped back a bit, watching the scene unfold with a quiet sense of pride blossoming in her chest. For her, this was more than just an evening with friends—it was a bridge between her worlds, a blending of the people she cherished most. And as laughter and light-hearted teasing filled the room, she couldn’t help but feel that this gathering marked the beginning of something beautiful.

“I can’t believe it took you this long to bring your boyfriend over—he’s so fun to be around!” Haneul teased, a mischievous grin lighting up her face as she nudged Julie playfully with her elbow. Her words carried a lighthearted energy that filled the dimly lit room, sparking another round of laughter. Julie chuckled, brushing off the teasing with a casual wave of her hand, her cheeks faintly flushed. “Yeah, it was about time,” she replied, her voice warm with both pride and affection.

The evening continued to unfold like the pages of a captivating novel, each conversation flowing effortlessly, every laugh weaving the group closer together. You found yourself laughing deeply, the kind of genuine laughter that only emerges in moments of pure connection. It was clear you belonged here, that your presence added something vibrant to their bond.

Natty, relaxed in the comfort of the shared dorm, had chosen a loose shirt, unconcerned about needing a bra. The soft fabric draped casually over her, shifting with her movements, adding an effortless allure. Her confidence and natural grace were palpable, a quiet charisma that drew people in without her even trying.

But as the night wore on, Julie’s smile wavered just slightly as she watched you talking animatedly with Natty. Natty, with her easy charm and relaxed demeanor, was practically family to Julie—a friend who had stood by her through secrets, laughter, and tears. Julie rarely felt anything other than complete trust in her. Yet tonight, a flicker of jealousy stirred within her as she noticed your gaze linger just a fraction too long on Natty’s chest, where the loose shirt dipped slightly, hinting at more than she could ignore.

It was barely a moment—a fleeting look, subtle enough that anyone else might have missed it. But for Julie, it was enough to send an unsettling ripple through her composure. Her stomach tightened as the thought took root, her mind spinning despite her efforts to shake it off. It wasn’t as though you’d crossed any lines; you were simply being your warm, charismatic self, engaging and open as always. Yet, that fleeting glance tapped into insecurities she thought she had buried, doubts lingering like shadows even amid her trust in both you and Natty.

Julie took a steadying breath, trying to refocus as she observed the scene, almost as if from a distance. Within her, a delicate balance of pride and vulnerability settled—a quiet mix of loyalty and uncertainty that she held onto as the evening continued around her.

Forcing a neutral expression, she tried to suppress the unease that draped over her like a heavy cloak. The room buzzed with laughter and teasing, yet it was becoming harder for her to fully engage. Each time you threw your head back in laughter, your charm seemed to grow under the admiring gaze of her friends. A pang of doubt fluttered in her chest, a quiet ambivalence tugging at the edges of her mind.

Soon, the conversation shifted to relationships—a topic Belle was particularly excited to explore. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she leaned forward, her smile playful and a bit too eager. “So, what’s it like dating Julie unnie?” she asked, eyes twinkling. “Is she totally whipped for you?” The room erupted in laughter, and Julie felt warmth creeping up her cheeks—a comment that would normally roll off her back but now struck a tender nerve. Should she let it go? She clenched her jaw, forcing a tight smile.

Natty joined in, her usual boldness paired with an audacious smirk. “She's the leader of our group,” she said, glancing at you with a teasing glint, “but I bet you call all the shots at home. I can’t imagine her being in charge over you.”

You didn’t respond right away, and the group took your silence as confirmation, murmuring their agreement with amused grins. Haneul, ever the instigator, jumped in with laughter, egging on the playful ribbing. “Oh, for sure! Julie unnie, the one in control everywhere except with you,” she teased, nudging you with a wink.

The jests and laughter swirled around Julie like rising waves, each remark chipping away at her composure. She glanced anxiously at you, waiting—hoping—for you to step in and defend her, to assert the truth of your relationship and challenge their playful assumptions. But instead, you chuckled along with them, a casual shrug signaling that, to you, it was all just lighthearted banter. Seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity, and her stomach knotted tightly.

Your silence felt like a quiet betrayal. Why would you let them see her in such a simplistic, inaccurate way? How could you stand by, leaving the depth and nuances of your relationship blurred by their teasing?

A slow heat builds within Julie, anger bubbling beneath the surface, though she covers it with an artificial laugh, going along with the banter for the sake of appearances. Inwardly, her thoughts race, composing pointed retorts and fierce arguments she plans to unleash later. The laughter continues to fill the room, but joy feels painfully out of reach. She clutched the edge of your drink a bit tighter, hoping it’ll keep her grounded, but the jealousy from earlier and frustration continue to churn within, casting shadows that refuse to dissipate.

When the night finally winds down, and her friends’ laughter fades to soft goodbyes, Julie and you step out into the cool night air. The chill hits her like a sharp wave, bracing against her skin and momentarily clearing her head. But the fresh air does little to ease the simmering frustration that has been building inside her all evening.

The moment the door thuds shut behind her and you, cutting off the final echoes of laughter, the tension inside her snaps, unraveling the careful restraint she held all night. She turns to you, words tumbling out like a dam finally broken. “What the hell was that back there?” Her voice is low, sharp, and cold as it slices through the quiet of the night.

You blink, taken aback by the intensity in her tone. “What are you talking about?” you ask, confusion and concern mixing in your voice.

She crosses her arms, instinctively tightening them across her chest as if holding herself together against the flood of emotions threatening to spill. “You just sat there and let them say all that crap,” she spits, her voice trembling despite its force. “They were making me out to be a pushover, like I’m some kind of doormat at home. And you didn’t defend me—not once! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

Your eyes widen as realization sinks in, and guilt begins to weave through your thoughts. You open your mouth to respond, but she cuts you off before you can form the words. Taking a step closer, she looks up at you, her eyes glistening with restrained anger and hurt. “I expected you to set the record straight. To tell them that’s not who I am. But instead, you just… laughed along. Like it was all true.”

The accusation hangs heavy in the chilly air, each word settling deep. You feel the pang of guilt flicker across your face as you reach out, hesitating, searching for the right thing to say. But her gaze stops you, piercing and unwavering, a mix of anger and wounded pride. Beneath her anger, you see a raw sense of betrayal that gnaws at her, aching and exposed. This was supposed to be the night she introduced you to the people closest to her, the ones who saw her as strong and capable. Instead, she feels as though she’s been reduced to a shallow caricature, her relationship glossed over for the sake of a joke you let slide.

She draws a shaky breath, lowering her arms as she tries to steady herself, grounding the storm that churns inside her. “We’ll talk about this when we get home,” she says, her voice resolute and final, leaving no room for debate. She needs space to process the whirlwind of emotions before anything else can be said.

Your shoulders slump, and you nod silently, regret etching lines across your face. The two of you begin the walk back to your shared apartment in tense silence, each step echoing the growing chasm between you. The usual warmth and ease that bind you feel absent, replaced by a heavy, strained quiet that makes every footfall feel burdensome. The silence amplifies the divide, thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions, each step stretching the space further.

As you walk, she’s lost in thought, memories of the evening replaying in relentless loops. Every laugh, every teasing remark, and every moment you’d laughed along instead of defending her plays like an unending scene in a theater she can’t escape. Frustration simmers, coiling tightly in her stomach as she tries to understand how you could have missed how deeply it affected her, how your silence felt like a silent endorsement of their jokes.

-----

The familiar sight of your apartment, once a place that buzzed with shared laughter and the comfort of mutual understanding, now looms ahead, transformed into an arena of silent reckoning. Julie’s eyes, which once sparkled with shared secrets and inside jokes, now bore into you with a steely resolve that leaves no room for misinterpretation.

When she speaks, the word hangs in the air like a final verdict. “Strip.”

You find yourself obeying, not out of fear, but out of a deep-seated need to atone for your transgression.

As you undress, the gravity of the situation becomes increasingly palpable. Each article of clothing that hits the floor feels heavier than the last, a testament to your surrender and an acknowledgment of the power dynamics that have shifted so abruptly. The room, usually filled with warmth and comfort, seems to shrink around you, intensifying the awareness of your exposed state. The chair in the center, once ordinary, now holds an ominous presence, its unyielding surface a prelude to the control Julie is about to wield.

Sitting there, naked and vulnerable, your exposure transcends the physical; it becomes a baring of your very soul, a silent plea for forgiveness and understanding. The cool air of the apartment skates over your skin, raising goosebumps and sending shivers racing down your spine. Every sense feels heightened, tuned to the faintest sounds—the rustle of fabric, the soft creak of the floorboards, and the steady rhythm of her movement as she prepares. The anticipation stretches each second into an eternity, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

When Julie finally reemerges, the transformation is striking. Gone is the warm, light-hearted partner who shared laughter with you earlier in the night. In her place stands a figure of dominance, her presence commanding and confident. She is dressed in black, the fabric accentuating her form with precision, glinting subtly as she moves. In her hands are the tools of her trade: silken ropes that promise both comfort and captivity, a spreader bar that signals the extent of your impending restraint, and a gag that will soon silence your words.

Julie’s movements are deliberate, each step resonating through the quiet room. The click of her heels on the hardwood floor becomes a countdown to when your world will narrow to just her and the sensations she chooses to inflict. She pauses in front of you, her gaze sweeping over your form with a look that is both critical and approving. It’s not cruelty in her eyes but satisfaction—a shared acknowledgment of the trust underlying this exchange.

“Hands,” she commands, her voice low and unwavering. You comply immediately, bringing your wrists behind you as she steps closer. The scent of her perfume reaches you, teasing your senses. Her fingers are skilled, weaving the ropes with a practiced ease, the loops snug but not cutting. Each knot holds you firmly in place, ensuring your surrender is complete. The bindings serve as a tangible reminder of your submission, tightening with every subtle shift of your body.

Julie's eyes glinting with mischief as she picks up the gag. She holds it up for a moment, searching your gaze for that final glimmer of acceptance. She moves closer, fitting the gag around your head. The material presses into your lips, silencing any potential words. As the gag muffles your voice, turning your apologies and pleas into soft, incoherent murmurs that fill the room, Julie smiles in satisfaction.

The sensation is disorienting yet electrifying, deepening your vulnerability. With a playful smirk, she reaches for the spreader bar, attaching it firmly, stretching your legs and enhancing the sense of helplessness. You feel the weight of your submission settle in, the world around you narrowing to just her and the anticipation of what comes next.

She steps back to assess her work, the room momentarily filled with nothing but the sound of your breathing, now shallow and uneven. The silence stretches, amplifying the thrum of anticipation coursing through you. Her gaze lingers as she runs a finger down your arm, trailing goosebumps in its wake. The spreader bar still lies within reach, a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

“Do you know why you’re in this position?” she asks, her voice slicing through the quiet with a commanding edge. The question hangs in the air, charged with expectation.

You nod, the movement subtle but insistent. Your eyes meet hers, carrying an apology and submission that don’t need words. But the nod alone isn’t enough for her.

“Good,” she whispers, leaning down until her breath warms your skin. “Then you’re going to be a good boy and take everything I give you tonight. Understand?”

You nod again, more fervently this time, the gag pressing against your mouth as you do. Your heart thunders as her words echo in your mind, sending a pulse of anticipation through you that makes every nerve in your body come alive. Her lips curl into a smirk as she straightens, her eyes never leaving yours.

And with that, the teasing began.

Julie moves with a predator's grace, each step calculated and precise. She brushes against you, her body a whisper against your skin, as she circles the chair like a huntress toying with her prey. Every nerve heightens in suspense, registering each point of contact—her breasts grazing your arm, her hips swaying against your legs. The gag renders your mouth useless, but your eyes betray a silent, unspoken desire.

Her fingers skim lightly over your thighs and stomach, deliberately avoiding your most sensitive areas, savoring the way your body tenses under her touch. Fingernails scrape gently over your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

"Already squirming," she teases, voice soft yet commanding. "I haven’t even started, and you’re falling apart."

A muffled groan escapes as your body instinctively yearns for more. She revels in your helpless state, bound and utterly under her control. Her fingers dance over your chest, tracing the contours of your muscles before finally grazing the tip of your hardened length. The touch is fleeting, barely enough to satisfy the ache building within, but just enough to keep you teetering on the edge.

"So needy already," she murmurs, dark amusement flickering in her eyes as she continues her tantalizing torment. "And I’ve barely touched you."

Julie’s mastery in the art of dominance is clear in the way she commands every inch of your submission, drawing out your reactions like a skilled musician coaxing a melody from each note. She knows the true power lies in denial, in the sweet agony of anticipation. Her hands explore further, tracing the lines of your torso, shifting between feather-light touches and firmer caresses.

The dynamic between you pulses with an electrifying tension, a charged dance of dominance and submission. Without warning, she climbs onto your lap, her thighs bracketing your hips as she straddles you. Her warmth presses against you, her slickness gliding over your length, coating you with her arousal and leaving a heated trail that only deepens the fire within you, threatening to consume you both in its intensity.

Her hips start a slow, deliberate grind, pressing her heat against you in a rhythm that’s both seductive and torturous, a constant teasing friction that only intensifies your need. Each controlled roll of her body against yours sends waves of pleasure rippling through you, spreading outward until every inch of your skin feels alive, hypersensitive to her slightest movement. She holds herself just out of reach, the wetness from her core brushing and slicking along your length, leaving you taut with need, your body practically vibrating with anticipation. Each soft gasp that escapes her lips as she moves only fuels the growing ache within you, driving you to instinctively buck your hips, craving to close the maddening distance, to press deeper into her warmth.

But the restraints binding you to the chair hold fast, forcing you to submit, a stark reminder of your willing captivity. Every strained movement, every pull against the bindings, only sharpens the ache, the urgency growing with each second she remains perched atop you, tantalizingly close but just out of reach.

She catches sight of the glistening evidence of your arousal at your tip, coated in her own slickness, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Leaking already," she murmurs, the tone a mixture of amusement and smug satisfaction. Her eyes gleam with wicked delight, drinking in every bit of evidence of your desire. "So desperate for me… and I haven’t even let you inside. Pathetic."

Her words cut through the fog of arousal, a sharp contrast to the gentleness of her fingers as they begin to wander, tracing languid lines across your chest. Her fingertips drift over your skin with a possessive tenderness, mapping each contour and ridge with expert care. Her nails skim along your muscles, trailing down over the firm lines of your torso and sending jolts of heat to every nerve, her touch both thrilling and maddeningly slow.

She leans in, her breath warm against your neck as she murmurs softly, her voice carrying a tone of command that feels both soft and absolute. Every inch of you responds to her, every nerve straining toward her touch as she masterfully pushes and pulls you between desire and restraint, leading you through a symphony of sensation, teasing you closer and closer to the edge without allowing release.

Your breaths come shallow and ragged, each exhale a silent plea for mercy as your gaze meets hers, desperation clear in your eyes. But there’s a glint of mischief in her expression as she holds you there, a silent acknowledgment that she’s in complete control. She has you—body and mind, bound and utterly at her mercy, while she conducts each sensation with calculated precision.

In one swift, unexpected move, she rises from your lap, leaving you throbbing, trembling with unfulfilled longing. The sudden absence of her warmth is jarring, a shock that leaves you gasping as your body craves her all the more. Helpless, you watch as she steps back, just out of reach, her gaze sweeping over you with a look of calm satisfaction, savoring the power she holds. She’s a goddess in her own right, basking in the way you devour her with your eyes, the silent worship etched across every fiber of your being.

With a fluid gesture, Julie blindfolds you, plunging you into darkness where every other sense sharpens. "You don’t get to beg with your eyes anymore," she murmurs, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "You’ll just have to feel." Deprived of sight, every whisper of her movement against your skin intensifies, turning each caress into a new form of exquisite torture.

She kneels down and her hand wraps firmly around your shaft, motionless yet charged with intent. You can feel the beat of your own pulse against her palm, each rhythmic throb amplifying the ache within you. She holds you just like that, unhurried, letting the tension build until every second feels like an eternity.

Then, almost imperceptibly, her arm began to move. Each stroke is a maddening tease—soft, deliberate, and just enough to make your muscles clench with anticipation, but never enough to bring you the release you crave. She slides her hand upward, a slow and torturous ascent that ignites every nerve along the way, until she stops just below the tip. Her grip tightens just a little, holding you there, keeping you on edge, her control turning your desire into a relentless pulse.

After a breathless pause, she reverses course, moving just as slowly down to the base and stopping again. The deliberate rhythm—up, pause, down, pause—leaves you trembling, body taut and shivering under the command of her touch. Each hold, each slight squeeze, feels like both a promise and a denial, the tension building with every passing second. It’s a masterful, torturous dance, and you’re ensnared in her control, helpless yet entranced by her command over your senses.

Her lips part in a sly smile "Look at you," she murmurs, her voice low and honeyed. "So hard, so ready and I decide when you’re satisfied." Her words are a silken reminder of her power, and the restraint she demands makes the desire inside you swell even further, twisting with both longing and surrender.

Just when the suspense is unbearable, she leans closer, her breath grazing your length, warm and tantalizing. The soft, steady rhythm of her exhale sends ripples of heat through you, and the contrast between her closeness and the aching need intensifies the tension coiling within. Her breath lingers, teasing, as if savoring every second of the anticipation.

Then, her lips brush lightly against the tip, a feather-soft kiss that makes your entire body jolt in response. In that instant, a drop of anticipation escapes, and she notices, her gaze fixated on each pulse of your member. She dips her head, the tip of her tongue darting out just enough to scoop the small drop, her touch maddeningly gentle.

Her tongue traces the tiniest, deliberate flick across the sensitive skin, collecting the bead with exquisite care. Each soft, restrained stroke of her tongue stokes the fire within, leaving you teetering on the edge of release yet held back, her control absolute. Each touch is measured, perfectly calculated to keep you suspended between need and surrender, an unrelenting tease that keeps you helplessly ensnared.

Your muscles strain against the bonds that hold you, your body surrendering to the exquisite torment she inflicts. The pride that once stiffened your spine melts under her touch, leaving you utterly exposed and vulnerable. In this game of pleasure and restraint, Julie is the undisputed master.

"What a pathetic mess," she taunts, amusement lacing her voice as she revels in her dominion over your body. "You tower me and yet I can make you crumble with just a touch." Her words cut both as a rebuke and a compliment, a testament to her irresistible allure.

With each slow stroke along your shaft and each flick of her tongue over the sensitive tip, she brings you to the very edge of release, only to pull back, leaving you teetering on the brink of bliss. Your body arches, straining against the restraints, desperate for the ultimate surrender that only she can offer.

Then, without warning, she stops.

Julie stands back, posture exuding a blend of amusement and authority, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips as she watches your frustrated contortions. Her eyes glint with mischief, sparkling like sunlight on an unruly sea, as she takes in the sight of you squirming under the weight of your desire. The tension thickens, a palpable pulse wrapping around you both, amplifying every flicker of energy flowing between you.

“You want to cum so badly, don’t you?” she taunts, her voice dropping to a low, sultry purr that resonates in the core of your being, each syllable dripping with seduction. The words hang in the air, tantalizing and laced with playful command, pulling you even deeper into her orbit. She leans closer, her warm breath brushing against your skin, strengthening the connection that crackles between you.

“Beg for it,” she continues, her tone turning sharper, though still steeped in teasing allure. “Apologize for what you did to me earlier.” Her eyes narrow, challenging you to surrender, to embrace the vulnerability simmering just beneath the surface. The power dynamic dances between you, electric and heady, anticipation swirling like a cyclone that leaves you breathless, utterly captivated by her control.

Your response is a garbled attempt at speech, the gag reducing your words to incomprehensible murmurs. Yet the desperation is unmistakable, a raw testament to the intensity of your need.

Julie chuckles softly, her breath hot and laced with playful mischief as she leans in, her lips hovering near your ear. The warmth radiating from her skin sends a shiver down your spine, heightening the tension simmering between you.

“I can’t understand you,” she teases, voice low and sultry, each word leaving a trail of excitement in the still air. Her playful tone cuts through the intensity, a lightness that only sharpens the edge of the moment. A mischievous grin dances across her lips, a blend of challenge and allure that sets your heart racing.

“You’ll have to try harder than that,” she purrs, her eyes bright with mischief. The space between you crackles with unspoken desire as you struggle to respond, caught in the spell she weaves. Julie’s confidence and sass infuse the moment with an infectious thrill, holding you captive in a deliciously precarious game of cat and mouse.

With renewed urgency, you try again to plead, your muffled cries growing more frantic. But Julie’s smirk remains, her head shaking in silent refusal as she drinks in your pleas, delight flickering in her gaze.

The seconds stretch, each one a small eternity that settles heavily on your consciousness. The yearning inside intensifies, a silent plea for release that feels like a prayer. Each minute seems to stretch further, blending into a timeless void filled only with the sound of your ragged breaths and the pounding of your heart.

Julie watches with an intensity that’s both unsettling and thrilling, her gaze tracking every twitch, every involuntary shudder that runs through you. She seems to derive a certain pleasure from this power, this control she holds over you.

Then, as if guided by an impulsive whim or sensing a subtle shift within you, her demeanor changes. Her fingers, which have been teasing around your length, suddenly tighten around your shaft. The warmth of her palm contrasts sharply with the cool air, the pressure sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

In an instant her hand begins to move in deliberate, fast strokes. Each motion is a symphony of sensation, a calculated descent into the depths of pleasure. Your muscles coil like a spring, tension mounting with every pass of her hand.

The room fills with the sound of your muffled moans, the gag doing little to stifle the raw, animalistic noises escaping your throat. Parched from panting, forming words becomes impossible, but your body speaks for you, each tremor a language of pure need. Your back arches, every fiber straining against the crescendo of sensation threatening to overwhelm.

Then, with a suddenness that’s both startling and inevitable, the wave of release crashes over you. After the relentless teasing and countless moments held just on the brink, the sensation is nothing short of explosive. It’s as though every nerve in your body has been ignited, the intense buildup finally finding its release in a torrent that consumes you completely. The climax is powerful and shuddering, each pulse deeper and more overwhelming than the last, streaking across your stomach and chest as Julie angles you just so, letting every drop land exactly where she intended.

The sensation is almost blinding, leaving you trembling in its wake. The sheer force of release leaves your muscles shuddering, as if they’re catching up to the relief they’ve been denied for so long. Your breaths come in sharp gasps, each one echoing the intensity of everything you’ve been holding back. Every ounce of tension unwinds, cascading through your limbs until you feel weightless, utterly spent.

As the aftershocks ripple through you, your head was buzzing, the world narrowed to the warmth and satisfaction coursing through your body. Julie’s hand slows, her touch soft and almost reverent as she loosens her grip, fingers tracing gentle circles along your skin. Her gaze lingers over the evidence of her careful work, a quiet triumph in her eyes as she takes in the effect she’s had on you, savoring each tremor and shallow breath.

You thought you were done, that the punishment had finally matched the crime, but you couldn't have been more wrong. The game is far from over.

The air hangs heavy with the scent of leather and the unmistakable musk of arousal, filling the space between you. Julie’s fingers work with expert precision as she reaches for the buckle behind your head, the slick click of metal releasing the ball gag from your mouth breaking the tense silence. As the gag falls away, you gasp for air, your chest heaving with a sharp, grateful intake, savoring the rush of cool air against your parched throat—a fleeting relief from the intensity she’s kept you under.

But she allows you no time to settle. Her fingers glide up to the blindfold, and with a quick tug, she pulls it away, letting light spill into your vision. Your eyes squint and blink, adjusting to the sudden brightness after so long in darkness, the details of the room coming back into focus in a dazed, almost surreal clarity. Julie’s face comes into view, her gaze heavy with satisfaction, her expression carrying the weight of everything she’s just put you through.

In one fluid motion, she gathers the overwhelming evidence of your surrender—your release, slick, warm and copious in her hand, holding it up between you, letting the light catch it as if it were some prized possession. Her eyes, dark and filled with a knowing glint, meet yours, and the look she gives you is laced with pride, satisfaction, and a sense of complete ownership that sends another shiver down your spine.

Her expression speaks volumes, a blend of triumph and control, as if marking this moment as her own creation. The silence stretches, laden with all the unspoken promises she’s fulfilled, and the intensity of her gaze makes it clear that she isn’t done with you yet.

“Open,” she commands, her voice a silky rasp that brooks no disobedience. Your lips part instinctively, the submissive reflex inside you responding to her dominance. Slowly, deliberately, she tips her hand, letting the viscous fluid slide over your tongue. The taste is salty, bitter—a potent reminder of your surrender.

"Keep it there until I say otherwise," she instructs, her tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. You nod slightly, eyes wide, a blend of fear, excitement, and adoration clouding your gaze. A soft whine escapes you, a sound that speaks volumes about your submission.

Her hand resumes its relentless rhythm on your sensitive member, merciless in its pace, drawing you back to the peak of pleasure despite the sharp, overstimulated ache that borders on pain. Each jolt that courses through your body makes you feel your vulnerability tenfold. The strength you once prided yourself on is gone, leaving you trembling, utterly at her mercy.

“Keep squirming” she purrs, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she revels in the sight of you reduced to this state. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Your body twitches under her touch, control completely relinquished to her hands. The overstimulation is overwhelming, but stopping is a luxury she’s denied you, and you’re left trapped in an intoxicating blend of ecstasy and agony that only she can navigate.

Julie’s eyes, darkened with unrestrained desire, stay locked onto yours as her slick hand works you closer and closer. But there’s no comfort in her gaze, only dominance and satisfaction as she sees you fall apart under her touch. She leans in, a mocking smile on her lips. “Look at you—just a mess. Can’t even handle a little girl like me.”

The pressure builds unbearably, each second a dizzying rush that overwhelms you. Your face twists in desperation, begging silently for her mercy as her pace continues. Just when you think you can’t bear it anymore, your control shatters, a raw moan escapes you as a couple drops of liquid spills from your lips onto your chest as your release is forced from you again.

But Julie only smirks, her hand still working with an unrelenting rhythm, refusing to give you even a moment’s reprieve. She watches, amused, as you whimper and struggle beneath her, her mocking voice low and taunting. “I didn’t say you could stop.”

Your eyes widen, pleading, but she doesn’t relent. The sensitivity has your body spasming under her touch, every nerve frayed as she pushes you toward a second release, knowing it will push you past all limits. You can only submit, powerless as she drives you quickly over the edge again.

With a broken moan that quickly crescendos into a loud, uncontrollable cry, your body surrenders, releasing one last time in a shuddering wave. The climax is so overwhelming that your muscles, usually clenching tight in moments like this, go limp under her dominance. The sensation crashes over you, leaving your mind blank and your body helplessly convulsing.

As the intensity peaks, your previous release spills from your mouth, dripping down to your chest and mingling with the sweat beading your skin. The warm, slick mess spreads across your torso, the sensation amplifying the vulnerability coursing through you. Every fiber of your being is overtaken, leaving you quivering and trembling as she finally eases her grip. You collapse, utterly spent and broken before her, breaths coming in ragged gasps as the overstimulation echoes through your limbs.

Julie’s eyes never leave yours as she leans in, claiming your mouth in a fierce, possessive kiss that leaves you gasping. She pulls back with a sharp smirk, then spits harshly onto your chest, the suddenness of it making you shudder as the warmth mixes with the already smeared fluids. The act stings with raw dominance, each drop marking her claim. Slowly, she drags her fingers through the blend, smearing it purposefully across your skin. Each stroke is deliberate, a cool reminder of her power as her touch lingers over your heaving chest, spreading the warmth until it clings to every inch of you.

“There,” she murmurs with a smirk, voice a perfect blend of pride and satisfaction. “Now you’ll remember exactly who owns you.”

Julie rises slowly, her fingers gliding down your chest, pausing to press lightly where your heartbeat betrays your surrender. She steps back, her eyes sweeping over you—bound to the chair, hands secured tightly behind your back, legs spread wide by the bar at your ankles. Every inch of you is exposed, vulnerable, and yet there’s no desire to resist. The calmness settles deeper, the certainty of yielding to her undeniable.

A small, satisfied smile plays at the corner of her lips as she studies you, taking in the way the ropes hold you exactly where she wants. Her gaze fixes on you with a confidence that’s unbreakable. “This,” she says, her tone soft yet edged with command, “is exactly where you belong. Tied up, under my control, waiting for my command. You don’t get to call the shots here—that’s my role.” Her words settle over you, embedding themselves like an invisible mark, a seal on the surrender you feel.

She steps behind you, her hands resting firmly on your shoulders, anchoring you in her presence. She begins to knead away the last traces of tension, her fingers firm yet gentle, drawing you deeper into her influence. A shiver races down your spine as she leans close, her breath warm against your ear.

“Think about tonight,” she murmurs, her voice both soft and unshakable, as though each word is settling into you. “Think about how easily you yield, how completely you become mine, just as you are right now. Because this”—her nails trail lightly down your back, drawing a sharp breath from you—“is how things will be. In this house, and anywhere else we go.”

Her hands slide back to your wrists, her fingers deftly working to untie the ropes that have held you so tightly. She moves with care, releasing each bond one by one, each motion a reminder of her control. Even as the ropes fall away, the feeling of being held by her command remains. She moves to your front, kneeling to remove the spreader bar from your ankles, her fingers brushing your skin lightly, each touch a reminder that it’s her choice to free you, her decision.

Once free, you feel the urge to stretch, but her gaze roots you to the spot, grounding you in her authority. Her eyes stay fixed on you, unwavering, and without a word, the weight of her expectation presses down. It’s instinctive—you feel yourself slowly sinking down, lowering to your knees before her, your hands coming to rest at your sides.

Julie steps closer, her fingers reaching for your chin. She tilts your head up, bringing your eyes to meet hers, and the weight of her command settles even deeper within you.

“This,” she says, her thumb brushing softly over your jawline, “is exactly where you belong—at my feet, waiting for my word. I want you to see who’s in control, who makes the choices. And every time you look at me like this, you’ll remember that every action, every decision, is mine.” Her fingers tighten just slightly, her gaze holding yours with a depth that leaves no room for doubt.

You nod subtly, the acceptance in your gaze mirroring her certainty. Her hold on your chin remains, her fingers pressing a little firmer, reinforcing the truth she’s just spoken. “I don’t want you to just obey. I want you to feel it, to know that every inch of you is mine to command. You stay when I say stay. You move when I allow it. Understand?”

The air is thick with her authority, her words pressing into you, reinforcing her control in every possible way. You nod then finally, she releases your chin.

She smiles, her satisfaction evident. “Good,” she murmurs, watching you closely. “Get up and go clean yourself. Then meet me in bed. We're going to discuss your behavior at the dorm.”

You rise slowly, each movement a reminder of the boundaries she’s drawn. As you turn toward the bathroom, you feel her gaze lingering, following you like a weight that holds you in place even as you walk away. And when the door clicks shut behind you, the image of her small, knowing smile remains etched in your mind—a reminder of the perfect place she’s found for you, right where she intended.

[samblerg]

Contemporary Living Room in Seattle

[elixirfromthestars]

Usual

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Florist!Reader

Summary: Bucky keeps to his usual routine every week. On Mondays, it includes you.

Word Count: ~700

Warning(s): none. fluffy goodness <3 established nickname ⟶ tulip

a/n: This Bucky has been swimming in my head for a while, so this little drabble came out as a result. Hope you enjoyed reading! Feedback is always appreciated 🤍 Also I'm hosting a little writing challenge if you want to check it out. 🤍

the whole collection ♡

The bells above your shop door chimed a short melody as it opened. The steady thud of heavy boots followed suit. You turn to face the entrance with your usual welcoming demeanor. 

It was Monday. He always comes on Monday. 

“ Hey, Bucky. Here for the usual?” You ask like clockwork, already knowing the answer. 

“ ‘Course, Tulip,” he replies, smiling at you with that usual twinkle in his eyes. The one that only shows up when he talks to you. You can’t help the way your heart skips a beat when he uses that nickname he gave you months ago. 

“ Coming right up,” you respond, turning to the small shelves behind the counter. The ones lined up with your homemade jams and honeys. Every Monday he buys three of each to serve at his bar in a mix of different snack dishes. 

His favorite happens to be the one he named after you—Tulip’s Sweet Special.  

Bucky strolls over to the flowers that align the walls adjacent to the front counter. Rows upon rows of an array of colors and different-sized petals. A rainbow of the prettiest blooms nature has to offer. 

Meanwhile, you’re putting the mason jars of sweet spreads in a small wicker basket. Glancing at him briefly to stare at his side profile and the way he looks at the flowers intently. Almost as if waiting for them to speak to him. 

You wonder what flowers he’ll choose today. 

You don’t have to wonder for long as he walks over to the counter with a bouquet of white and pink daises, adorned with a touch of lavender. You look at them with a knowing smile on your face. The rugged biker almost looks comical—in the sweetest way—with the bouquet in hand. 

“ Will that be all?” You ask him, motioning to the flowers and the goods in the basket. Bucky nods, lightly scratching at the stubble on his face,“ That’s all, Tulip. And I’ll get ya that basket of yours later. Forgot it back at the bar,” he mentions the basket he borrowed a week ago to transport last week’s items on his bike. 

Of course, he forgot it. He always does. 

“ No need. I’ll just come by the bar later and get it,” you say to him—this little forgetful exchange an excuse to see each other again. It's about the fifth time you’ve done this little rendezvous in the last two months. 

Bucky grins in a way that would make any woman swoon,“ I’ll be waitin’ on ya then.” You can’t help the warmth that finds its way to your face. 

You ring him up, and as you’re getting his change ready he places the flowers in the empty vase on the counter. The one you leave for whatever flowers he buys for you that week. You look at them and the way he delicately places them inside, with a tender care you were one of a handful of people who’s ever seen him dawn. The action envelopes you with a doting affection.

“ Thank you for the flowers, Bucky,” you say with a soft sincerity. No matter how many times he buys you flowers the action still causes your heart to flutter.

“ No need for the thanks—or the change,” he says, lightly closing your fingers around the change in your hand with his calloused one. The slight touch is electric and it makes you both yearn for more. 

You give him that look. That usual look that says you’re doing this again and he replies with a look that conveys hell yeah I am.

You know better than to argue with that look. 

“ Come spend it at my bar later instead,” he suggests shrugging nonchalantly—but his eyes and grin reflect everything but nonchalance. There’s a deep rooted sentiment there that is desperate to be freed and brought to the surface.

You hum, pretending to think about it,“ Alright, deal.” Bucky responds to your agreement by giving you a pleased nod.

Bucky grabs the basket of goods. The rough exterior of his hands contrasted with the gentle almost tender way he held the basket. He was always delicate and careful with anything that belonged to you.

The basket looked so much smaller when he held it. 

Bucky sends you a farewell wink,“ See ya later, Tulip,” and then he turns to leave with a small wave of his hand.

“ See you later, Bucky,” you reply before leaning on the counter, hands resting in your palms. You watch him walk back out to his motorcycle with a longing stare. 

When he was out of sight, you listened intently to the revving of his engine bike, anticipating the day you two would go past the usual.

Until then you’d cherish this routine affair.

[astraystayyh]

The wedding and the morning after

inspired by that cute twitter trend :,) very soft bang chan fluff. use of wife and husband a lot but they just got married so they get a pass!!!!!

if you guys enjoy reading please leave a reblog or comment it means the world to me <3

Your wedding ceremony with Chan was a simple one. You weren't one for extravagance and neither was he. So you opted for an intimate setting, only inviting your favorite humans in there.

You felt as if everything was more vibrant that day- the colors of the flowers you both hand-picked, the smell of food that wafted through the air, the twinkling lights you had installed because they reminded Chan of your eyes (or so he insisted).

But you knew it had a lot less to do with the decorations, and more with the man you married. Being with Chan was like looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses.

You felt grateful that you were alive because you got to experience being loved by him.

There was music, lots of laughter, and admittedly, tears. You can blame Chan's vows for it. His words rang in your ears throughout the night- how he vowed to love you until his last breath, and long after that.

But he didn't need to make those promises, they were just honorifics. Chan has shown you time and time again that he was in love with you.

You knew by the way he tore down your walls, gently, at your pace, your hand tightly clutched in his. How he deeply cared for you, on your happy days but especially on your saddest.

You and Chan weren't perfect, but you complemented each other like two halves of one heart. You found in him a home, a safe place for you to exist and be loved.

"You are so beautiful", he whispers in your ears while the both of you sway on the dance floor. You could faintly hear the cheers of the boys who were watching you, but you paid no mind to them. All you could focus on was Chan's warm hands on your waist, holding you close.

"So are you", you beam at him. When you looked at Chan, you didn't simply see his beautiful features- his brown eyes, straight nose and plump lips. You saw a warm coffee shop, where you seek refuge on a cold day; you saw a sunset slowly casting down into the sea; you saw a field of tulips stretching into the horizon.

Looking at Chan reminded you of beautiful sceneries, of the smell of earth after the rain, of a hearty soup that fills your insides when you are ill. You saw in him every beautiful feeling you've ever experienced in your life.

"I don't know how I got so lucky", he kisses your forehead gently and you close your eyes, savoring the feel of his lips on your skin.

Chan's forehead kisses held a special place in your heart. You always felt them deep within you- as if he was kissing beyond your skin and into your soul.

"I'm the lucky one", you reply, standing on your tiptoes and pecking his forehead back. Chan blushes at your gesture, eyes crinkling closed like half moons. It made your heart sore, how affected he was by your touch even after four years of dating. You liked to believe you'd be seventy and still a giggling mess around each other.

Chan then twirls you around, your laugh echoing around the venue. He thinks to himself that he'd do anything to make you laugh this way for the rest of your lives.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

"My feet are killing me", you whine to Chan as he parks in front of your apartment. You chose not to rush into your honeymoon, because you wanted to savor the quiet after your wedding, just the two of you. And you couldn't think of a better place to do so than your apartment.

It wasn't a huge one, but it had a makeshift studio for Chan, and a little balcony where you read. You painted the walls blue together and he bought you plants that you water everyday.

It was messy at times, but it was still your home. You knew that no matter what happened throughout the day, you can leave your worries at the door and head inside into each other's safe embrace.

Chan quickly hops to your side of the car, and opens it for you. He takes your heels off, throwing them into the backseat, before scooping you up bridal style.

"I've been dying to do this on our wedding night", he giggles excitedly and you smile, loosely looping your hands around his neck.

"Well now you can, husband."

"Say it again", he smiles as he leads you up to your apartment.

"My husband", you repeat and he quickly leans down to steal a kiss.

Chan opens the door to your apartment, finally placing you on solid ground. He loosens his black tie and you lean against the wall, admiring the view.

"Like what you see?", he teases and you smile mischievously, "This is what I married you for."

"So you are only with me for my looks?", he pouts. You would have thought he looked so adorable if not for him slowly unbuttoning his white shirt.

"I am", you smirk and suddenly, you are thrown over his shoulder. You laugh as he runs towards the bedroom, with you perched on his back.

He then gently places you down on the bed, caging your body with his arms; any hint of playfulness gone from his eyes. His gaze is so intense, you feel a blush creep up your neck. He notices, of course, and he smiles softly at you. "Is my wife getting shy on me?"

"Shut up", you glare playfully at him, and he grins, "Make me."

"You are so cheesy", you giggle as you grab his tie, pulling him down to meet your lips in a feverish kiss.

°°°°°°°°°°°

"Morning, my love", Chan smiles at you, his hand threading through your hair gently.

"Morning, honey", you smile back, stretching slightly.

"Did you sleep well?", he asks, snuggling closer to you.

"Mhm, like a baby."

"I must have tired you yesterday", he smirks and you glare playfully at him, "Cocky much?"

"And you love it."

You're about to reply when your stomach grumbles loudly. "Is my pretty wife hungry?", he teases and you bite his arm in response.

"I'll take that as a yes", he chuckles, pulling you up with him, "Let's go make you breakfast."

"Make who breakfast?" you singsong and he smiles softly at you. "Make my wife breakfast."

°°°°°°°°°°°°

You are clad in Chan's oversized t-shirt and he's only wearing a pair of black shorts. The view of Chan's back muscles is so enticing you'd almost skip breakfast if you weren't so hungry.

When you are both done cooking, you happily dig into the breakfast while recounting the weddings events- how Hyunjin and Minho got so drunk they ended up confessing their love to each other, how Felix cried during your vows, how Seungmin and Jeongin surprised you with a song cover during your first dance. You can't help but sigh contently at how simple yet loving it felt.

You then wash the dishes while Chan dries them- an easy routine you both fell into as soon as he moved in with you.

You've been married to Chan for a day but you've loved him for what feels like forever.

When the kitchen is clean, you high-five him but he doesn't let your hand go. Instead, he intertwines his fingers with yours, bringing you closer to him.

"I love you", he whispers as his thumb slowly caresses your palm.

"I love you more."

"Impossible."

"But-", Chan silences you with his lips on yours, and you both can't help but smile into the kiss.

When he leans away, he bows down slightly, offering you his hand, "May i have this dance?"

You giggle as you curtsy back, "Yes you may."

Chan twirls you around the kitchen and you feel light as air. You then spin him around and you almost lose your balance, but Chan is there to steady you with a gentle grip.

As you catch your breath, you take a moment to look around you. The kitchen is bathed in warm, golden light, and the aroma of freshly made coffee fills the air. You can't help but wonder what you'd look like to an outsider, waltzing in the kitchen with no music on.

But as you gaze up at your husband, you don't find it in you to care. You've come to learn that with Chan, even the silence can sound like the most enchanting melody.

[revasserium]

hiii can i pls request zayne with prompt 60 “home”? also love ur writing btw and i look forward to reading more of ur works <333

send me one + a character and i'll write u a drabble

60. home

zayne; 2,264 words; fluff, fem!reader, no "y/n", whipped!zayne, implied sex, fade to black, zayne being a simp as per usual

summary: a friday afternoon

a/n: idk i just love writing dialogue for zayne he's so !!!!

The Hospital - Friday, 4:36PM

Linoleum floors and fluorescent lights; the smell of antiseptic, the rhythmic beeps and hums of heart rate monitors and nebulizer machines. He spends too much time here, knows the flow of the hospital like he knows the web of arteries and capillaries in the human body, the wards branching off of each other, the hustle and bustles of nurses and staff familiar, oppressive.

It is only in the quiet of his own office, with its big windows and even bigger piles of paperwork (be it virtual or physical), that he ever allows himself to relax. He glances at the vase of brightly colored tulips on his desk and allows himself a grin. He remembers the shape of you, can feel the weight of your hand in his as you’d tugged him around the farmer’s market on Sunday morning, pointing at the various vendors, asking to try a bite of this and a bit of that, until finally, you’d come across the flower seller — a middle-aged woman with a sweet smile and a gleeful glint in her eyes as she explained about the language of flowers.

“There’s sunshine in your smile,” you’d repeated, looking down at the yellow tulips before grinning up at Zayne.

“Perfect for you, isn’t it?”

He could hear the tease in your voice, see that familiar playful twinkle in your eyes and he’d raised an eyebrow before wordlessly handing over a few bills from his wallet.

And now the flowers sit, quiet save for all their brilliance, on his desk, in a simple vase filled with crystal-clear water. He stares at it for a second longer before pulling out his phone and swiping it open to your contact.

Coming home early today, he texts. Immediately, a typing bubble appears, and a second later, a short shoomp sound as your reply appears on his screen —

oh? dr. zayne leaving work early??? is the sun setting in the east today?

He chuckles to himself before dialing your line and a second later, your voice answers, a little hesitant.

“Hello?”

“If you’re going to be sarcastic, at least do it in person.”

Shuffling noises, and then — “Not my fault you’re never around for me to be mean to you in person.”

Zayne leans back in his chair with a sigh, “Hn. How’s shopping with Tara?”

“Fun! But my legs are getting tired…”

“I can meet you at the main shopping center around 5:30.”

A moment of quiet, and then “Ah… but that’s still an hour from now…”

Zayne scoffs, “I could stay till 7PM like I usually do —”

“No, no! That’s… that’s not what I meant — I’ll see you at 5:30, then? Don’t be late!”

You end the call before he can protest and for a second, Zayne stares at the screen, the picture of your smiling face fading after another few seconds as the phone screen darkens.

“Doctor? Your next patient is here,” the nurse calls through his closed door.

“Yes, I’ll be right there.” Zayne glances once more at the yellow tulips on his desk before pushing himself up and adjusting his white coat. He’ll have to make a note to change the water soon.

City Center Shopping Mall - Friday, 5:38PM

“You made it!”

Zayne turns at the sound of your voice to find you slightly breathless as you jog up to him, coming to a stop a few steps away.

“You sound surprised.”

A blush dusts your cheeks as you avert your eyes, “I — I’m not! I just thought… you might be a bit later than this.”

Zayne keeps his expression neutral even as he reaches out to take your hand, casually lacing his fingers between yours. He feels you give him a small squeeze and contents himself with letting you take the lead as the pair of you start to wander through the mall, glancing at the window displays.

“Oh… that smells good!” you both pause as the smell of scallions and garlic warms the air. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, “I think it’s coming from that restaurant over there! Tara was telling me that it just opened a week ago and it’s already going viral online for their stuffed pancakes —”

“C’mon then.” Zayne starts off for the restaurant.

“W-wait! We don’t have a reservation! We’ll never get in!”

Zayne keeps walking, gently tugging you behind him till you both round the corner to see a truly impressive line outside the restaurant doors. He walks passed the massive line straight to the front where a smiling girl in a flowery apron stands at an electronic podium, taking down the names of the next party in line.

“Is Liam here?”

“O-oh! Uhm, I think so!” the girl blinks, surprised as she looks down at her reservation list, “May I ask who’s asking?”

“Zayne.”

The girl nods as she slips into the restaurant. Beside him, you look up, confused.

“Do you know someone here?”

Zayne nods but doesn’t explain any further as the smiling girl comes back and motions for you both to follow her.

“Right this way Dr. Zayne! Enjoy your meal!”

Zayne gives your hand a small tug as you stumble after him, the confusion on your face blossoming into something like surprise as the pair of you duck into the bustling restaurant to be greeted by an enthusiastic young man, around Zayne’s age, his sleeves rolled up, a bandana tied around his forehead.

“Zayne! You should’ve told me you were coming!”

“It was a last-minute decision,” Zayne supplies, shaking Liam’s hand firmly, pulling you into his side even as Liam’s eyes slide onto you.

“Oh… is this the girl you were always talking about back in —”

“I think we’ll take a booth in the back, thanks,” Zayne cuts him off with a loud cough, already making for the back of the restaurant. Liam laughs good-naturedly, leading you both to a booth tucked in the very corner, away from most of the noise and bustle.

You inch into the booth, casting Zayne a curious look.

“Is that the owner? How do you know him?”

Zayne doesn’t look up as he glances over the menu before pushing it towards you.

“We went to medical school together. Pick anything you want, it’s all very good.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, “And he decided to become a chef instead?”

Zayne’s lips twitch, “Is that so unbelievable?”

You shrug, looking down at the menu at last, pursing your lips, “No… it’s just… did he drop out of med school then?”

Zayne shakes his head, “No, he was one of the best in our year.”

“Oh. Then…?”

Zayne taps the menu, “I thought you were hungry.”

You blush, looking down, “I am!”

It’s not till the middle of the meal that Zayne speaks again —

“He said it didn’t make him happy.”

You look up, your cheeks bulging with food. Zayne watches you swallow with a concerted effort, reaching out to wipe at your lips with an indulgent smile even as you swat at his hand.

“Liam? About… being a doctor?”

“Yes. And… in a way, I understood him. He said that the kitchen’s always felt more like home.”

You purse your lips, looking at your half-eaten stuffed pancake.

“Then… does the hospital feel like home? To you?”

Zayne chuckles, leaning forward to add some more veggies to your bowl with his chopsticks.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Then…” you trail off, waiting for his answer. There’s a familiar color seeping into your cheeks as Zayne looks you over before his eyes flicker down to your bowl.

“Eat. Or else the veggies will go cold.”

Zayne’s Apartment - Friday, 7:01PM

“I’m so full!” you slump down onto his couch with a long sigh, patting your stomach.

“You were the one who wanted seconds of dessert,” Zayne says, hanging up his coat and turning to join you on the couch. You make a small noise as he lifts your legs and lays them across his lap, his thumbs absently digging into the backs of your calves.

“Ow…” you make to jerk your leg away as he hits a knot but he only grips your ankle and pulls it back with a soft tut.

“Hold still.”

You bury your face in one of the couch cushions as he continues to silently knead at your calf muscles.

“There, better?” his voice is soft now, tugging on the frayed ends of your subconscious as you turn your head to blink at him, a bit dazed.

“Yeah… lots better. Thanks.”

You make to get up but he loops an arm around your back and lifts you easily from the couch, bridal style.

“Zayne?”

“You’re staying the night, right?” he asks, even as he makes for the bedroom.

“I — I am?”

He glances down at your face as he sets you down on his bed.

“I can still drive you home if you want —” He makes to pull away.

“No! I — I can stay. I mean — I want to stay.” You reach up to tug at his shirt, fingers crumpling the material as he stills. You can feel your cheeks blazing as his gaze flickers over your face before settling on your lips.

“Alright then.”

There’s a breath’s pause before you give his shirt another tentative tug and he tips forward with the motion, leaning in to brush his lips against yours.

A soft groan bubbles out of you as Zayne presses you back and back and back, until he’s caged over you, trailing hot lips down the line of your neck, skimming his teeth along your collarbones.

“Mm — Z-Zayne…?”

He pulls back, his eyes a bit unfocused as he looks you over — you can feel the weight of his gaze as it flutters over the planes and ridges of your face, from the arch of your brows to the line of your nose. You can’t help blushing beneath this intense scrutiny, and you tug once more at his shirt, your fingers somehow having inched up to his collar, one of your fingers hooked into the top loop of his buttons.

He reaches up to cover your hand with his, fingers easily curling around your smaller hand.

“What is it?”

You lick your lips, stomach twisting, the base rumble of his voice sending shivers shaking through your body.

“Nothing just… I don’t remember you drinking at dinner so…”

He leans down to press a soft kiss to the back of your hand before dropping it back to his shirt collar.

“No, but… alcohol’s not the only thing that might cause someone to lose hold of their senses…”

You watch as his eyes darken at your intake of breath, the way his grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly.

“Then…” you swallow, eyes fluttering shut as you feel his lips trail back up your neck to your jaw.

“Are you going to make me say it?”

You let out a tiny whimper as he presses a leg up between yours, his breath now hot against the lobe of your ear.

“Say… what?”

Zayne pulls back just far enough to cock an eyebrow at you. And like this, you’ve never seen anything so alluring — the sight of him with his shirt tugged open, his eyes blown dark with desire, his hair slightly mussed from your eager fingers, his lips kissed pink, his cheeks warm with color.

“Hn. Is this my punishment then?”

“For what?”

“For being late to meet you.”

You fight back a grin, “Well… you did say I could be mean to you in person.”

Zayne lets out a sigh, “Alright then.”

You walk your fingers up his chest before pushing him back till you’re both sitting up again. He waits patiently for you to push him down and straddle his hips, slowly tugging open the buttons of his shirt, loosening his tie till it hangs undone around his neck. You lean in to press a soft kiss to his chest and revel in the way he hisses.

His fingers reach up for your hips and you catch them with a quick shake of your head.

“No touching… not till I say.”

Zayne stares at you for a second before relaxing and letting his hands fall back onto the sheets.

And it’s not until you lean down to kiss at his exposed abdomen that he groans, head tipping back. Then, a second later, you find yourself pinned beneath him, breathless, Zayne towering over you with parted lips, the moon casting stark shadows along the lines of his face.

“I said you could be mean… I didn’t say I wouldn’t retaliate.”

After, when the pair of you are curled into each other like pieces of jigsaw puzzle that’s finally found its missing parts, his breath warm along the nape of your neck, Zayne finds himself smiling.

“It’s always been you…” he murmurs, though he’s nearly certain you’re already asleep, your breathing sweet and level, your body pliant and perfect against his.

He laces his hands between yours and drops a soft kiss onto the skin of your bare shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter what I do… or where I do it… because my home has always been… you.”

[ladywaterfall]

the wait is over omg

these are stunning and SO creative! absolutely IN LOVE with Moon Shadow's little witch outfit, the vibes are immaculate and I need her immediately

🌈 My Little Pony G2 Redesigns! 🌈

The second half of the '98 ponies!

Moon Shadow, Satin Splash, Tipsy Tulip, Dainty Dove, and Sweet Berry

[vampykween]

more dad!ghost because i'm obsessed currently pure fluff! wc: 320

Simon makes it in the nick of time for your daughter’s dance recital. He silently slips into the chair you left empty, in hopes he’d be able to make it. You turn and smile widely at him, you knew your daughter was going to be overjoyed at seeing her father in the crowd. In his lap lay a bouquet of pink tulips, your daughter’s favorite, your husband was always one to spoil his little girl. 

Your girl dances her heart out and you can pinpoint exactly when she scans the faces in the crowd and spots her father. Her eyes twinkle brightly and a smile overtakes her face; she doesn't falter in her movements though and continues floating gracefully across the stage.  

The moment the recital is over your daughter is sprinting towards you both, arms flailing wildly and yelling, “Daddy!” 

She leaps into his arms, and he spins her around gleefully. “Hi princess, you did so well. I'm so proud of you, love.” she peeks her head out from the crook of his neck, her eyes shining with tears. 

“You saw the whole thing?” 

“Didn’t miss a second.” 

You hand him the flowers he brought, and he holds them out for his daughter. “These are for you sweetheart.” 

You don't dare to interrupt the moment between Simon and your daughter, knowing how hard it’s been on both of them for Simon to be gone for so long all the time. Even though at times you felt a twinge of jealousy at your daughter being a daddy’s girl, especially since she takes after his looks as well, you understand that you get to see her every day and your husband doesn’t have that luxury. 

He sets her down, and she takes his much larger hand, “You’re the best dad ever.” 

You don't need to see your husband’s face to know he’s fighting back a flurry of emotions at her words.

[natsgrave]

THE MANUSCRIPT | wanda maximoff

the only thing that's left is the manuscript. one last souvenir from my trip to your shores. now and then i reread the manuscript but the story isn't mine anymore. i do not give permission for my work to be copied or translated on other sites. plagiarism is a crime!! masterlist whispers of heartache m.list

It was a serene Saturday afternoon, and Y/N and Wanda were cozily ensconced in their favorite spot in the living room. The fireplace crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room. They were wrapped in a shared blanket on the couch, Wanda's head resting on Y/N's shoulder, a feeling of contentment enveloping them.

"Y/N," Wanda began softly, breaking the comfortable silence. "Have you ever thought about what our wedding would be like?"

Y/N smiled, tilting her head to look at Wanda. "All the time. What about you? What do you imagine?"

Wanda's eyes sparkled with excitement as she shifted to face Y/N fully. "I've always dreamed of an outdoor wedding. Somewhere surrounded by nature, maybe a beautiful garden or a vineyard. Lots of flowers, twinkling fairy lights, and the sun setting in the background."

Y/N nodded, picturing the scene vividly. "That sounds perfect. I can see you walking down the aisle, looking stunning in a dress that flows with the breeze. I'd be waiting for you at the altar, feeling like the luckiest person in the world."

Wanda blushed slightly, her smile widening. "And what about the ceremony? How do you see it?"

"I think it should be intimate," Y/N said thoughtfully. "Just our closest friends and family. I want it to feel personal and meaningful. We could write our own vows, speaking from the heart about our journey and our love for each other."

Wanda's eyes misted over at the thought. "I love that idea. Our own vows, spoken with all the emotion and memories we've shared. It would make the moment even more special."

Y/N reached out, taking Wanda's hand in hers. "And after the ceremony, we could have a reception under the stars. A big tent with fairy lights, good music, and delicious food. Lots of dancing, laughter, and love filling the air."

Wanda squeezed Y/N's hand, her heart swelling with happiness. "Yes, and we could have a dance floor set up in the middle of the garden. Our first dance as a married couple would be to our favorite song, something that means a lot to both of us."

Y/N grinned. "Maybe 'Can't Help Falling in Love'? It's timeless and beautiful, just like you."

Wanda's cheeks flushed with warmth. "I love that song. It would be perfect for our first dance." ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Y/N stood in the middle of the sprawling garden, taking a deep breath as she surveyed the space. This was where their dream would come to life, where Wanda's vision of a perfect wedding would unfold. The garden was a beautiful, verdant expanse, with lush greenery and vibrant flowers blooming everywhere. It was a picturesque setting, and Y/N could already see the transformation beginning in her mind.

The first step was to ensure the area was properly prepared. She had spent weeks coordinating with a team of landscapers and gardeners, making sure every detail was perfect. The grass was meticulously trimmed, and the flowerbeds were overflowing with colorful blooms. There were roses, lilies, daisies, and tulips, each chosen for their vibrant colors and sweet fragrances. The garden's natural beauty would serve as the perfect backdrop for Wanda's special day.

Next, Y/N focused on the seating arrangements. She wanted to create an intimate yet elegant setting for their guests. She decided on wooden chairs with white cushions, arranged in neat rows facing a beautiful archway covered in flowers. She enlisted the help of a skilled florist who spent hours weaving flowers and greenery into the arch, making it a stunning focal point.

As she supervised the setup, Y/N couldn't help but smile, thinking about how Wanda's eyes would light up when she saw everything. She knew how much this day meant to her, and she was determined to make it perfect. The ceremony area was taking shape beautifully, but there was still so much more to do.

Moving on to the reception area, Y/N envisioned a large tent set up in the middle of the garden. The tent would be draped with white fabric, creating a soft, romantic atmosphere. She worked closely with the rental company to ensure the tent was spacious and elegant, with enough room for dining, dancing, and mingling.

Inside the tent, Y/N decided on round tables covered with crisp white linens. She chose centerpieces of wildflowers arranged in mason jars, adding a touch of rustic charm. Each table was set with fine china, polished silverware, and crystal glasses, creating a beautiful contrast with the natural setting. Small, flickering candles were placed around the centerpieces, adding a warm and inviting glow.

The dance floor was another important aspect of the reception. Y/N envisioned a wooden dance floor under the stars, surrounded by twinkling fairy lights. She spent hours stringing the lights across the garden, ensuring they were evenly spaced and would create a magical atmosphere once the sun set. The lights would not only illuminate the dance floor but also add a whimsical touch to the entire area.

Y/N also arranged for a small stage where the band would play. She and Wanda had chosen a local band known for their ability to set the perfect mood, from soft, romantic ballads to lively dance numbers. The stage was decorated with more flowers and lights, blending seamlessly with the overall theme.

The food and drink were carefully selected to match the garden setting. Y/N worked with a caterer to design a menu featuring fresh, seasonal ingredients. There would be a variety of appetizers, a sumptuous main course, and a selection of decadent desserts. A long wooden bar was set up at one end of the tent, stocked with fine wines, craft beers, and signature cocktails. Bartenders were instructed to create custom drinks that reflected Wanda's tastes, adding a personal touch to the celebration.

Finally, Y/N turned her attention to the smaller details that would make the day truly special. She designed a welcome sign made from reclaimed wood, with elegant calligraphy welcoming guests to their wedding. She also created personalized wedding favors-small potted succulents with tags that read, "Let love grow." These would be placed at each table setting, giving guests a beautiful and lasting memento of the day.

The final touches were in place. The garden was a vision of beauty, filled with vibrant flowers, twinkling lights, and elegantly set tables. Y/N stood at the entrance, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. She hoped that Wanda would love what she had done, even though the day wasn't exactly what she had envisioned for them both.

As Y/N took a deep breath, she felt a presence beside her. It was Natasha, one of Wanda's closest friends and someone who had been a rock for both of them through the planning process.

"Hey, Y/N," Natasha said softly, her voice filled with warmth. "You did a really great job with everything. It's absolutely beautiful."

Y/N turned to her, a grateful smile spreading across her face. "Thanks, Nat. That means a lot coming from you. I just wanted everything to be perfect for her."

Natasha nodded, her expression thoughtful. "It is perfect. Wanda is going to love it. You've put so much heart into this, and it shows."

Y/N looked down, her hands trembling slightly. "I just want her to be happy."

As the music started to play softly, signaling that the ceremony was about to begin, Natasha gave Y/N one last encouraging smile. "Are you ready?"

Y/N took a deep breath, her heart aching but resolute. "Yeah, I'm ready."

Natasha gave her one final squeeze before walking towards the seating area, leaving Y/N standing at the entrance. She watched as the guests took their places, the garden filling with an air of anticipation and excitement.

And then she saw her— Wanda, looking breathtakingly beautiful in her wedding dress, her eyes sparkling with happiness taking in the beauty of the garden and the thoughtful details that Y/N had put into making her dream a reality. Wanda's gaze found Y/N's, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. Wanda's eyes softened, and she mouthed, "Thank you," her expression filled with gratitude and love.

Y/N managed a bittersweet smile, nodding slightly as she mouthed back, "You're welcome."

As the wedding march began to play, Wanda turned and started her walk down the aisle towards her groom, Vision. Y/N's heart clenched as she watched Wanda move gracefully, every step taking her further away from the dreams they had once shared.

Y/N found a spot at the back, where she could quietly watch the ceremony without drawing attention. She saw the joy in Wanda's eyes, the love between her and Vision palpable. It was a beautiful ceremony, filled with heartfelt vows and tender moments.

As Wanda and Vision exchanged rings and sealed their union with a kiss, Y/N couldn't hold back the tears any longer. They flowed freely down her cheeks, a mix of sadness and acceptance. She was happy for Wanda, truly, but the ache in her heart was undeniable.

Natasha found her after the ceremony, pulling her into a comforting hug. "You did great, Y/N. It's okay to feel what you're feeling. Just remember, you're stronger than you think." Natasha placed a reassuring hand on Y/N's shoulder. "You're incredibly strong for doing this, Y/N. Letting Wanda go and still making sure her day is perfect— it takes a lot of courage and selflessness."

Y/N sighed, her eyes glistening with tears. "I just… I love her so much. I want her to have everything she's ever dreamed of, even if it means I'm not the one standing beside her."

Natasha gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Wanda is lucky to have someone like you in her life. And remember, you're strong enough to get through this. You've shown that already."

Y/N nodded, wiping her tears away. "Thanks, Nat. I needed to hear that. I just… I need a moment."

Natasha gave her a reassuring pat on the back before heading back to join the other guests. Y/N took a deep breath, looking around the garden one last time. She had poured her heart into this place, for Wanda's happiness, and that was something she could be proud of.

As she walked away, leaving the newlyweds to their joy, Y/N felt a sense of closure. She had given her all, and now it was time to find her own path, her own happiness. The garden, with its beauty and memories, would always be a testament to the love she had for Wanda, a love that was selfless and true.

Ans now, the only thing that's left is the manuscript. Now and then Y/N reread the manuscript, but the story isn't hers anymore.

hi, everyone! i hope you like this one, i really don't know how to feel about this... i hope this is good enough and reblog is highly appreciated!

[separatist-apologist]

The Prophecy

Summary: No one has seen or heard from Elain Archeron in two months…until she turns up one day in the Spring Court with no memory of where she's been or what she's been doing.

Tamlin and Lucien will have to work together to untangle the mystery of Elain's missing memories.

Surprise, @olenvasynyt- I was your secret santa! I hope you enjoyed spending time together as much as I did- and I hope you enjoy this gift as well!

@acotargiftexchange

Read on AO3

-

She woke up on the damp, forest floor beneath a blanket of twinkling stars. Her breath curled around her face like shadows, dancing through the cold, midnight air like lovers. Elain Archeron lay flat in the grass, her skin so cold it burned. 

Elain Archeron had merely closed her eyes for a moment on the Summer Solstice, exhausted from the constant partying that kept her up into the wee hours of the morning. How she’d gotten here was a mystery. 

Where was she? Elain forced herself to sit up, her once beautiful, purple gown stained with mud and what appeared to be blood. The sleeves were ripped, the dress itself tattered and torn so it appeared to be more rags than anything. No shoes, which meant she had to walk. Elain took a step, causing shooting pain to scream up her left shin, settling in her knee.

She gasped, leaning against a nearby tree trunk as she tried to gather her bearings. It should have been warm—it was still summer. This felt more like the final frost before spring than a warm, summer evening. 

“Hello?” Elain called out, surprised to find her voice cracked, the words burning in her throat. It was as if she’d screamed at the top of her lungs for hours, shredding her vocal cords. She was terrified to see herself in the mirror.

“Hello?” she tried again, noting that the forest had become eerily still. No bugs chirping, no wind rustling leaves, no animals scurrying about. Just the sound of her breath, waiting for whatever had silenced the world around her. She’d noticed when a High Lord approached, the world seemed to react with the same reverence so many others did. As if it could sense all that power, too.

“Rhys?”

It wasn’t Rhys that appeared. She knew that creature, with the glowing green eyes and the massive, elk like horns, that suddenly appeared before her. He’d once broken into her home and stolen away her sister. Elain wrapped her arms around her body to try and hide the trembling that overtook her. It hurt to stand, to hold herself upright.

She wanted to lay back in the grass. “I…” she tried to say something, swaying ever so slightly on her feet. In a moment, the creature was gone, replaced by a man she’d seen, too. Tamlin, of the Spring Court, caught her before she collapsed.

“Elain Archeron?” he asked, the disbelief in his voice plain. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Dead?” 

Why would she be dead? Elain pushed weakly at Tamlin’s chest for all the good it did. He was warm and strong and uninjured and she was none of those things. He’d begun walking, holding her close enough to leech some of the heat from his skin. “What did you do to me?”

Tamlin only shook his head, his jaw clenched. “Archerons,” he grumbled softly, offering her no other information. Each step jostled her body, causing her bones to rattle beneath her skin. It was agony, pure misery of the highest order.

“Take me home,” Elain tried to demand, but the words came out small and soft as though a child spoke them. Tamlin didn’t acknowledge her, either. He merely stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable. 

He didn’t take her home—not that Elain was sure she had one. Instead, he took her to a sprawling manor adorned with creeping ivy and slumbering roses. The drive was dotted by tulips, peeking from just beneath that first frost as though to warn the others it was safe to erupt. The world was still in his arms, though behind her, she could hear life reemerge, chattering loudly like the gossips they were. 

“Is it just us?” she asked when he took her into the warmth. Had Feyre truly lived here, she wondered? It was so quiet, so empty and clean. Tamlin’s boots echoed off the checked marble floors while each inhale of air seemed to echo, making it seem as if a million frustrated men lurked just out of view.

The manor had seen better days. Walls that had once been papered were torn apart, the strips still hanging where the glue held fast. Wooden railings were splintered and doors missing entirely, only noticeable as they passed. Tamlin took her up the stairs, past a room that was entirely covered in ivy. 

That wasn’t the room she was put in. Several doors down, in a room that reeked heavily of dust, Elain was set back on her feet.

“Don’t move,” Tamlin ordered. She wanted to ask where she’d go given there seemed to be no one around. She could have screamed, she supposed, though what good would that do? Elain did as she was told, assuming Tamlin was going to get someone helpful. Someone she wanted to see—like Feyre, or Nesta, or even—

“Lucien?”

Lucien Vanserra appeared in the doorway with his shirt half on, hair a mess. He was barefoot and his pants were unlaced which made her nervous. 

“You’re…” he yanked his shirt wholly over his toned chest, swallowing audibly. “Do you have any idea how worried everyone has been? Where were you?”

“What are you talking about?” she replied, drawing her legs up to her chin as he stalked into the room. With a snap of his fingers both the fireplace and the faelights overhead ignited, illuminating the dark room. 

“You’ve been missing for two months,” he told her, his voice lethally soft. Lucien was angry. 

She shook her head back and forth. “No, that’s not…that’s not true—”

“Where were you, Elain?”

“Nowhere!” she exclaimed, holding up a hand to keep him from coming any closer. “I haven’t—you’re lying.”

“You sound just like your sister,” he hissed, half turning for the hall where Tamlin stood, watching the pair warily. 

“Take me back.”

“No.”

That came from Tamlin, who’d entered the room quietly. “She stays here for now. No word to anyone until we know where she was and what she was doing. After everything Rhys did…I want to know exactly where she was.”

“I wasn’t anywhere!” Elain repeated, but Lucien and Tamlin weren’t listening. They were facing off with one another, some strange tension hanging in the air.

“I don’t work here anymore,” Lucien said in a whisper soft voice.

“Then leave,” Tamlin replied, stalking toward Lucien. They were matched for height, for strength, though Elain suspected Tamlin still had the upper hand given the power he commanded.

She’d never quite figured out how magic worked in Prythian, though to be fair, she’d never really tried, either. 

“Run off, and tell Rhysand what we have…and let him know I’m not sending her back. She’s a threat, and for all I know, she’s his spy.”

“I’m not a spy,” Elain chimed in, though it didn’t matter. Neither one of them acknowledged anything she’d said, too busy with whatever argument was clearly about to erupt. 

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that? Just ask me to stay,” Lucien snarled.

Tamlin wasn’t going to. Even Elain, who barely knew him at all, could see that pride, or stubbornness, or some other emotion entirely, would prevent him from asking what Lucien wanted to hear. Lucien’s gaze flicked back toward Elain, though all she could see were the brutal scars and the mechanical eye, visible from his profile. 

“You know where my allegiance lies,” Lucien murmured, unclenching his fists. Elain didn’t know, though she assumed it was not to Rhysand. 

“Then she remains here until we learn what she was doing out in the forest and where she’s been. I doubt it's a coincidence she just so happens to show up here after I closed my borders.”

They both glanced back at her with matching expressions of distrust. 

“They’ll realize she’s here after a time,” Lucien said slowly. “Rhys’s network of spies are endless.”

“Then we close the estate to everyone but the three of us. Ward it so no one comes in or out—”

“Ward it with blood?” Lucien breathed, his brown skin paling ever so slightly. 

“Mine and yours,” Tamlin said, his jaw set. “She doesn’t leave this manor until I know what Rhys was doing with her. This reeks of one of his games. You scent it, too.”

Lucien and Tamlin both looked at her again. “She smells like magic.”

“I have magic,” Elain snapped, frustrated with the pair of them. “And you can’t hold me here.”

“Watch me.”

“Not forever,” she breathed, noting how they both took a healthy step backward. “No wards can hold me.”

Tamlin blew out a sigh. “They will for now. Go,” he added, sending Lucien into the hall. Elain considered who she felt safer around—neither, truthfully, but she thought she’d prefer if Lucien remained in the room with her. Lucien, too, hesitated for a moment before doing as he was told. 

“Traitor,” she whispered at his retreating back. He stiffened, but swept out of the room just as he was told to do. 

“The only traitor is you,” Tamlin voiced, the words empty of ire or malice. He didn’t give her an opportunity to respond, leaving just behind Lucien so she was alone in that room. Alone in the Spring Court, which Feyre sometimes likened to the Court of Nightmares. This is where it had all begun, truly. Had Feyre not killed that wolf, had there never been a curse swirling around her youngest sister, Elain would still be human. A familiar anger rose through her, heating her blood until she felt the urge to scream.

She didn’t, though. 

Elain merely stood, looking about the dusty room. The cell was different, though the manner of prison remained the same. Feyre and Rhys offered the illusion of independence though she’d often caught Azriel trailing her in the markets—reporting back, if she knew him. 

And she didn’t. 

At least Tamlin was up front. He wasn’t allowing her to leave until he understood where she’d been and what she was doing. What, then, she wondered? When she herself didn’t know what she’d been doing. She knew one thing, though—she wasn’t spying on behalf of Rhys or Feyre. She’d offered to help scry only once, and after a little pushing, had been told she’d been voted against.

Lucien appeared in the doorway again, pulling his long, thick hair up off his face. “It’s the kind of thing he’d do, you know.”

“Lock up a woman?” Elain snapped.

Lucien’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “Erase your memories, Elain. Though…I think he’d do that, too.”

Ah. She’d assumed he was speaking of Tamlin. “You don’t know Rhys very well.”

Lucien’s temper seemed to flare, causing his cheeks to darken. “I know him better than you ever could. Sending you on some absurd mission only to erase your memories is the exact kind of thing he’d pull. He wouldn’t even be sorry, he’d just say it was for some greater purpose.”

“Let me go,” she ordered, well aware he wasn’t going to. 

Lucien shook his head. “Tamlin is right on this account.”

“Even if I knew where I’d been, I’d never tell you,” she whispered, hatred crawling up her throat. Elain felt like luggage, dragged around without any say in where she went, and forced to be wherever she was placed. She didn’t want to be in the Spring Court, but…she didn’t want to be in Night Court, either.

The realization was a revelation. Getting out of Night Court was next to impossible because Elain was always being watched by someone. If not Azriel, the twins who moved from room to room with her, or her sisters, or Rhys or his friends, or—

But here she was alone. Only Tamlin and Lucien for company, and they were already fighting. They’d barred the manor from anyone leaving or entering that wasn’t them, had used their blood to key the lock. Elain, though, knew there was always a way out of magic. She could see it in her dreams, with her eyes closed, could visualize all the threads of Tamlin’s wards. 

And perhaps, if she was patient and unassuming, she could simply pluck one of those threads, slip in between the warding chains, and make her way into another court. Another continent, even. Somewhere she could live a life of her own making and not one ruled by more powerful men. 

Lucien was watching her, the silence between them stretched thin. Both eyes of russet and metal were narrowed and she wondered if he, too, couldn’t hear her thoughts. 

“Get some rest, Elain,” he told her, before adding he was just two doors down the hall. Elain waited for him to sweep out before she jumped off the bed, her own temper besting her as she slammed the door. That wouldn’t do. She needed to let them see what they wanted to see—soft, sweet, unassuming. No one to concern themselves with. Practically a child, too stupid and helpless to do anything for herself.

Gripping the handle, Elain forced herself to breathe. She’d felt like this before, had felt the rage building too often as of late. Darkness blurred the edge of her vision, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d lose herself in the world in between the one she currently stood in and what lay beyond. 

Deep breaths.

She was in control.

—

Lucien had always been a practiced liar. 

That didn’t make walking into Feyre and Rhysand’s home, armed with multiple lies, feel any better. He had to remind himself to breathe normally, to keep the stench of fear off him. Tamlin had shifted into the beast beside him which should cover anything related to Elain, though he’d also refused to see her that morning and scrubbed his skin raw.

It wasn’t like he’d been fucking her, anyway. Whatever traces of her could be easily explained by the items of hers he did have. Lucien was supposed to be tracking her, an impossible task when Rhys had so much of his territory marked off limits to anyone but his innermost circle.

That didn’t include Lucien. 

Rhys was at his desk, Feyre in a chair facing the fireplace. Thankfully the spy master was nowhere to be seen, meaning fewer eyes to witness the lies about to come out of his mouth.

It would be the last time Lucien came into this home and he knew it. Rhys and Feyre didn’t seem to, given the warmth in which they looked at him. They’d know, soon enough. Lucien could by himself time, but inevitably someone would spread word that would reach Rhys’ network of spies.

Tamlin wasn’t prepared to handle the wrath of Rhys. Lucien would have to make him ready. Or they’d hand over Elain—either way, Lucien knew he was never going to get the life he wanted. There was peace in the realization. Life would go back to how it had been before Feyre dropped into his life.

“How is Spring?” Rhys began, just as he always did.

Lucien launched into his report, handing the paper to Feyre who merely scanned it over. This was all perfunctory. 

“He’s closed the borders to Spring,” Lucien added casually, hoping Rhys, who was back to scanning his own paperwork, wouldn’t care. That was too much to hope for. Violet eyes snapped to Lucien’s face, searching his expression. Lucien knew better, now—his walls were well fortified. If they wanted to break into his mind, they’d have to use force to do it.

“Why?”

“He’s tired of Azriel circling over his home,” Lucien replied dryly. “Isn’t he supposed to be stealthy?”

Rhys didn’t respond to that, though Feyre’s brow furrowed. “Is he allowing you back?”

“Tentatively,” Lucien lied. Better to keep up the ruse as best he could. “I’ve been searching the grounds, but no one has seen your sister. Tamlin doesn’t have her.”

Feyre sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “I don’t understand where she went.”

“Are you sure she even left Night?” Lucien questioned like the liar he was. “Maybe she ran off with someone.”

Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “Like who?”

A knot formed in his stomach, a memory slamming into him with such ferocity it stole his breath. Solstice, a near kiss, and an argument had loud enough Lucien had heard it echoing upward through the vents. “You know.”

“He wouldn’t.” Rhys said it so flatly, inviting no follow-up conversation. Ferye’s eyes were wide, her curiosity palpable. So Rhys hadn’t told her? Lucien guessed he wasn’t the only liar in the Night Court. 

“Did you question him like you questioned me?”

They both knew Rhys hadn’t. Cassian and Azriel were excluded from the prying Lucien had willingly subjected himself to. While Nesta was out combing the streets of Velaris and begging Helion and Thesan to help her, Rhys was still spying on Tamlin. 

Rhys didn’t respond to Lucien’s challenge, though his fingers curled tightly around the arm of his chair in a mockery of what he’d like to do to Lucien’s throat. The feeling was mutual. Lucien stood, delighted he could storm out with the air of a wounded male. Turning Rhys’s attention inward would only last so long—but there was doubt there. Just enough to make Rhys question his own friends.

Oh, what a gift. If he and Tamlin were getting along better, Lucien would have brought Tamlin the news alongside a bottle of wine. 

“Let me know if she was with him. I’ll send them a gift.”

“Lucien,” Feyre called, but he’d made his dramatic exit and wasn’t going to stop so Feyre could try and convince him to see reason. Feyre should have been his friend—she’d been his, at the expense of every other relationship in his life. How had she repaid him? Lucien knew if Azriel had hidden Elain, Feyre wouldn’t tell him the truth. She’d lie, she’d cover, she’d let him continue searching beneath every stone, every fresh mound of dirt, trying to find her. And she wouldn’t be sorry for any of it.

That was what stung the most. She’d always pick Rhysand over everyone, even the people who’d loved her when no one else had. It wasn’t personal, he decided as he stepped into the crisp autumn air. He simply had to look out for himself for once. 

Feyre caught him just at the edge of the ward, finger’s curling around his wrist. Lucien didn’t jerk back, though he didn’t immediately stop what he was doing, either. He took another step so she was still within it, he without. Just in case he needed to make a quick exit. 

“Azriel wouldn’t—he wouldn’t—”

“He would,” Lucien replied flatly. “Whatever they had going on, your mate knew and concealed it from everyone. If he doesn’t want to look at his friends, fine. I’m done being interrogated, though.”

Rhys must have told her everything, was likely listening to the conversation in Feyre’s mind. He’d never have a moments peace when it came to Rhys, the nosy fuck. 

“He would have told us.”

“And you would have told me?” Lucien questioned. 

Feyre shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Right. No one in Prythian has seen Elain in two months, and every court has been thoroughly searched—”

“Except Autumn,” Feyre told him. “Beron won’t…he wouldn’t tell us anything.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Beron jealously guarded the borders of his home and hated Rhysand. He wasn’t about to let a foreign court's troops into his territory. Even Helion had bristled, vocalizing that it felt more like a mapping of territory than a search for a missing woman. After all, they’d all agreed to use their own manpower to search for her, which hadn’t been good enough. It had to be Cassian’s warriors or Azriel’s spies—no one else could be trusted. 

“Ask Eris.”

“We did—he’s a liar, though.”

“So is your mate,” Lucien snapped, frustrated with the same circular conversation. “What do you even know about any of this, Feyre?”

Her eyes sharpened. “Excuse me?”

Lucien shrugged, jamming his hands into his pockets. He was so, so angry. “From where I’m standing, it looks to me as if he doesn’t tell you much. Lies of omission are still lies, you know.”

“I don’t think you get to tell me about my relationships,” she bit out. Cruel, but fair. 

“Maybe not. But I’ve done my part in this, and I’m tired of being viewed with hostility and suspicion. I’m not returning for the time being—Tamlin needs help strengthening Spring, and frankly, it would be nice to be around people who enjoy my company.” Elain notwithstanding.

“Lucien—”

There was a warning to her voice, likely echoing whatever threats Rhys was making in her mind. Feyre, ever the good little mouthpiece. She’d say it all softer, sweeter, but she’d say it all the same. 

“I know. If I leave, I’ll never see Elain again. So your mate has all but said—but she’s gone, and I don’t think she wants to be found. That’s her choice, and this is mine.”

And then he winnowed off, needing both to have the last word and to get away from them before he dug his own grave. Lucien’s feet slammed against springy, fresh grass and the unchanging season before him. It was sunny, the bird chirping merrily as a lilac scented breeze wafted his hair. Gods above, he shouldn’t have said any of that. Regret slammed against him hard as he plodded back to the manor, replaying the conversation with Feyre and Rhys over and over. Why had he said any of that? He should have kept it cool, should have shut his mouth.

Who cared about his feelings? He’d made a mild enemy of Feyre when he’d meant to slip out unnoticed entirely. 

Though, it did amuse him to think of Rhys going through Azriel’s life. Had Lucien planted enough doubt? Just enough to cause a small rift among the inner circle? Probably not—Azriel would allow it, Rhys would endure, and their gazes would turn toward the south once more.

Still, a little time was better than nothing. As Lucien stepped through the shimmering ward, his blood reacting the key that allowed him in, he figured he had just enough time to figure out what Elain had been doing before he dropped her back off at Rhys’s doorstep.

Whether her disappearance was yet another lie from the High Lord of Night. 

Lucien plodded up the stairs, pulled by the knowledge she was there, hostage and still close enough he could see her, if he wanted. And he did—he’d been dreaming about her the night before. He’d be thinking about her until the day he died, which, if he was lucky, would be mercifully short. 

She wasn’t in her room. Lucien followed the thread between them, winding down the empty, ruined corridors of the once splendid manor. It was as if he could see the damage through her eyes and all of it spoke to Tamlin’s temper, his rage, his refusal to let Feyre go. Lucien sighed as he stepped into the music room. Elain was seated on the bench, her fingers hovering over the keys.

“Do you play?” he asked, reclining against the door frame. Her back was to him, long, thick curls half pinned by a pretty, white bow he distinctly remembered being given to her sister among all the finery Feyre had once had, here. Not that she’d ever worn any of it. It was pretty in Elain’s hair. 

She didn’t respond. She didn’t move, either—Lucien expected her to tense up, to betray she’d heard his voice. Strange, he thought, pushing off the frame to walk to her. “Elain?” He reached the piano, overlooking the ruined gardens just outside. Dust covered the keys and the chaise nearby, though it did little to stop her from coming in. He was hit with a visceral memory of he and Feyre, embarrassingly drunk while he played at the keys and taught Feyre all the filthy lyrics to songs he’d once found impossibly amusing. 

“Elain?”

Lucien dropped to one knee at her side, head cocked. Elain was staring at a sheaf of paper without moving save for her eyes, which seemed to be reading the notes on the page at impossible speed.

Lucien touched her knee, hoping it would bring her back. She turned so suddenly he would have fallen backward had he not been stabilized on his knee. It wasn’t her, he realized, but her magic staring out at him through a blue gray film akin to the fog that had once poured from the cauldron. 

Elain opened her mouth, but it wasn’t her voice that emerged. 

Blooming rot and ruined sun

Brought forth with magic to a golden land

Wind and flame see the night undone

Brings new life into a barren land. 

She slumped forward, saved from crashing to the floor by Lucien’s quick reflexes.

“Elain?” he asked, genuinely afraid of her for the first time since he’d met her. What did it mean?

“Why are you touching me?” she asked, pulling away. She sat on the floor while Lucien crouched over her, unsure what  to do.

“What you said…the prophecy…Elain, what does it mean?”

She blinked those wide, doe-like eyes up at him.

“What prophecy, Lucien?”

[bullet-prooflove]

Memories: Dean Winchester x Reader (feat: Michael) - NSFW

Tagging: @kmc1989 @district447 @cosmic-psychickitty @volumesofforgottenlore @@spaghettificationandpretzels

Companion piece to: Six Pack

You aren’t at home when Michael shows up on your doorstep. The lights are off and the house is locked up much to his disappointment. He can’t explain the urge he has to see you again, it’s a need that has nothing to do with purpose and everything to do with desire.

Where is she? He asks Dean but the other man remains stubbornly silent.

He’s been this way since the two of you shared a moment in that field in Mill’s Park. Quiet, reclusive. Michael thinks seeing you in that state hurt the other man in a way the Archangel can’t comprehend. He wants to though, he wants to understand the emotions Dean feels when he’s with you, he wants to experience them.

He spends ten minutes surveying the outside of your house, taking in the nuances that personalise it. You have a wildflower wreath on the door that Dean helped you make in the fall last year and rose bushes that were planted long before you were a twinkle in your Papa’s eye. He runs his fingers over the velvet petals before he plucks one and carries it with him inside the house.

There’s been changes since Dean was last here over Christmas. A new rug underneath the oak coffee table, a fresh pitcher of yellow tulips in the kitchen, he set the rose down amongst them before he heads into the kitchen to rifles through the cupboards. He takes out your favourite mug before filling up the kettle in order to make coffee. It’s as he’s waiting for it to boil that he sees the calendar attached to the fridge, the one you leave there for Dean so he knows where you are on the occasions he turns up.

Fire Tower is written under today’s date. It appears you’ll be there for several days.

He feels a pang then somewhere in his chest and he realises in some sort of odd sort of way that he misses you. He considers making an appearance but he knows instinctively that his presence will wreak havoc up there, it’s best to leave that alone for now.

It doesn’t take long for him to find himself in your bedroom. His eyes fixate on the bed and he reaches for Dean’s memories only for a door to slam shut in his head.

They’re not for you, his captive snaps and he wants to laugh because really Dean has no choice in the matter, but he still can’t help resisting. It becomes a tug of war between the two of them, each yank of the door becoming more desperate, more violent until Michael tires of the game and completely obliterates the damn thing.

The memories, they all come spilling out then, scattering across his mind like pictures before they form into videos and then suddenly he’s right there, face buried in the curve of your throat as he fucks you from behind and the things he’s saying to you…

They’re enough to make an Archangel blush.

Dean tries to snatch them back but it’s too late because Michael’s already moving onto the next one and the next one, experiencing them in a raw, maddening rush of euphoria and ecstasy.

Is this what it feels like for you? He asks Dean. Is this what it feels like to fall in love?

But the other man’s retreated again and Michael can feel his anguish vibrating through his mind as he begins to search through the drawers of your dresser, eager to learn more about your tastes. His fingertips brush across a pair of dark mauve panties and he’s thrown back into another memory.

His mouth ghosting over the underwear, the press of the material against his tongue as you hit that high, your taste flooding his senses.

Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s half naked, tangled up in your sheets, his face pressed into your pillow, inhaling the scent of sunshine and gardenias that clings to your skin. His pants have been shoved down his hips and he’s fucking those panties like he’s inside your wet cunt as another of Dean’s memories overtake him.

“Christ, you feel so good baby.” He whispers, his palm coming to rest on your throat squeezing just a little and your breath hitches as you tighten around him. “Gonna come for me aren’t you? That’s it honey, I’m right here with you.”

Michael climaxes into his hand, silver streaks staining those pretty panties as he spills his release into them. He stays there like that, gripping them in his fist as he stretches out amongst your sheets. His entire body relaxes and the sensation of being surrounded by you lulls him into a drowsy, sated state.

Is this what it’s like? He asks Dean again.

And once again Dean, he refuses to answer.

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