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#rowanaelin
llyncooljones · 2 years
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no fucking in the office - rowaelin month day eleven.
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ao3 || masterlist || rowaelin month ‘22 masterlist 
prompt: work rivals au
word count: 6633
trigger warnings: language, smut, nsfw, incredibly smutty. mentions of drugs and alcohol
tag list: @rowaelinscourt  @live-the-fangirl-life  @rowaelinismyotp  @rowanaelin  @fireheartwhitethorn4ever  @elentiyawhitethorn  @autumnbabylon  @leiawritesstories  @backtobl4ck
the office, early morning.
Glaring at Rowan Whitehorn was Aelin’s favourite thing to do. Something about narrowing her eyes, wrinkling her nose that little bit, and channelling all the hate and anger and dislike and distrust and (just in general) horrible feelings his way, satisfied a deep and yawning hunger inside of her.
So, she did.
Simple as.
She had a need. She had a way to satisfy the said need. She satisfied that need.
And then she did it all over again, at least three more times per day. Depending on her irritability, for how long she saw him, and whether they were close enough for her to glare at him, and for it to actually have an effect on him.
Because otherwise, she was giving herself wrinkles for no good reason, and that was not something she was interested in doing. And she accepted zero criticism on the fact that glaring at Rowan Whitehorn was a good reason. Because it was. And anyone who didn’t think so, was wrong in the most wrong way they could be: wrong according to Aelin.
And the damned thing was that they were both heads of different—and yet similar—media departments at the corporate-dream conglomerate they both worked for. Their jobs were exactly the same, they just handled different aspects.
Aelin Ashryver Galathynius headed up the film, television, and radio departments. She headed the department like no one else ever had, and she did so comfortably. She proofread everything that came across her desk, and she watched all the products she oversaw, she was a fan of everything she processed—because she felt that it was the business.
Rowan Whitehorn headed up the social media, newspaper, and magazine departments. He did his job surprisingly well for a man who had gotten into Harvard on his father’s dime, had joined one of those societies and one of those fraternities, and had got his job by asking his friends ‘whose dad works in media?’ But sadly, he actually was doing a good job, so Aelin couldn’t hate him for being shit and thriving off nepotism, because he was actually bringing in more money from clients than her.
Now, it had become a competition. At the end of each quarter, they added up the stats. Found out who was best, and who would be crowned. Bets were placed, and their bosses never knew. Their first competition had been a year ago.
He had brought in the winning numbers. And she could hardly believe it. She had stayed up hours, during those three months, made more edits, and proofread her documents and proposals more times than she had on her dissertation for university. She had done everything, she had wined and dined her clients, she had met them for drinks, and she had offered the best deals she could. And yet, Rowan Whitehorn was still beating her.
Losing, the first time they had ever competed, killed her spirit. Killed a little bit inside of her, made her wonder a little more often if she wasn’t as good at her job as she thought she was.
A year ago, she had decided that if she couldn’t beat him playing her own game, she would beat him playing his. See if his approach—whatever it was—would help her win. She devised a plan, and set it out perfectly. She cleared her schedule of meetings for a day, on the day that Rowan had prospective clients coming in for a meeting.
She’d bump into them, get to chat with them, ask who they were here to see. Insist she take them to the meeting room, become fast friends, and like magic, she would be invited to sit in on the meeting.
She remembered, distinctly, patting herself on the back for that one.
But after that meeting, everything changed. It happened for the first time, and Aelin wasn’t sure whether she regretted it, or whether she was all too happy it had happened.
It was a toss-up between the two, and she wasn’t which she would rather win.
a year ago, the office
Aelin had to resist the urge to fist bump the air, or whoever next walked by her. She was walking in line with Rowan’s latest client. A mid-size company preparing to launch its new product. They wanted him to take them on, do his thing, and help them succeed. And Aelin had no doubt he would—especially given the recent competition the two had had, which crowned him the better head of department.
She chatted idly to them, smiling, and laughing in all the right places, using fun, anecdotal stories to relate to them, and so that they would relate to her. she tried to include things they seemed to be interested in, made sure they were quickly becoming familiar.
She turned her body slightly, facing the small group more so, and asked innocuously, “I’ve been escorting you to this meeting room, and yet I have no idea who you’re here to see. I am sorry for my lack of manners, but let’s just be glad I remembered myself. Who is it you’re here to see if you can say?”
“Oh, no worries. And yes, we can say. There is nothing scandalous going on here. We’re meeting with Mr Whitehorn. He heads up the department we’re aiming to work with. And, gods, we cannot wait for this meeting. He has such a unique approach. He’s so hands-on and so attentive to our needs as a company, I’ve just truly never met anyone who can tailor a package so expertly. Gods, when we found he was interested in working with us, we all collectively shat our pants. He’s a fucking legend of the industry.” The facial expressions told the story for her, they liked him because he got other people to do his work. These poor people didn’t know.
If these were the services, which he provided each and every one of his clients, then how the fuck was he standing. To be this detailed, this precise, and still be functioning? Fake news. He wasn’t doing it all and then popping into the office with no bags under his eyes.
“Oh, Whitehorn. I know Whitehorn. He’s brilliant, work with him all the time. But I’ve never had the pleasure of watching him in action, particularly. Don’t know why I’ve never sat in on some of his meetings. I truly would love to delve deeper into his style of business. Always learning, always trying to be better. That’s me!” her tone was so incredibly fake; it was beginning to hurt her throat. She hadn’t talked so high-pitched since was a cheerleader in high school.
And much as she’d like to ignore the fact that she was ageing, high school was a while ago. And she was sorely out of practice. She’d need a chamomile tea after this, and a massive helping of chocolate cake to soothe the aches along her throat.
“Oh! I don’t know why I’m only just thinking of this, but why don’t you sit in on our meeting? We’d love to help you broaden your knowledge, and it’s really no skin off our nose, not to better the business. Mr Whitehorn will be fine with it; he’s always been so accommodating.”
To you, she thought bitterly, and he most certainly will not be fine with it.
Glee shot through Aelin, the thought of pissing off Rowan Whitehorn, making her so giddy she could barely contain her laugh—her cackle most likely. She felt extra witchy at the moment.
“Oh, that’s too kind of you. I would love to sit in, my brains like a sponge, always soaking up knowledge!” her vocabulary was killing her, she felt like a child, speaking so happily. She was happy, yes, but not so happy she would be using words you could only know if you had read the thesaurus for a bedtime story.
She was a little annoyed at herself. That she didn’t trust her natural tone and vocab choices to do the job, that she had to rely on accents and tricks to become accepted. But really, the price was fairly low compared to what others did. At least she wasn’t breaking the law.
The rest of the walk passed in quiet murmurs, and sad jokes that fell a little flat. Aelin blamed them on her moment of self-reflection, realising she wasn’t enjoying whatever this was. But she needed to be perfect, unassuming and cutesy, and innocent when she walked into that meeting room. That meeting room she should not be planning to walk into.
They arrived at the door, and through the glass she could see the man himself, reclining in an office chair, spinning gently with no care. He looked light and fluffy, and she knew that if he were a cake—he’d be baked to perfection.
To catch him off guard, she didn’t knock. Just barged in, rude and brash, and all those brutal other things that made her up, that made her Aelin.
“Rowan. Lovely to see you, I bumped into your clients on the way up to my office. Figured I would escort them, and the lovely people that they are, they invited me to listen in on your meeting today. They’ve already said that you won’t mind, so that’s lovely. Honestly, this is so kind of you.” She took control of the room, of Rowan’s reaction, immediately. If she explains things, he can’t go against them without looking like an idiot, and boom! She’s allowed to sit in on the meeting. Funny how that worked.
“Greta, Alberta, Noa. It is so great to see you all again. I have been looking forward to this meeting for the longest time. I’ve been planning like you would not believe. I have to get it right for you guys, I really hope I’ve managed to fulfil all your dreams with what I’ve done.” Fuck. She could see why people loved him, he was just so good at playing to people’s tastes, interests, strengths and weaknesses. It was as though he had taken lessons on how to.
It was probably taught in that stupid little secret society. Or maybe it just flowed in his blood, as money and brains did.
one hour later.
Aelin didn’t think she had run from a room as she had just run from Rowan’s meeting. She was truly disturbed. Utterly horrified. It made her feel sick. To her fucking stomach. She debated if it was worth it to go retch over a toilet. Make sure she wouldn’t be sick.
She decided not. Her trousers were too nice to be knelt on. Let alone knelt on, on a toilet floor. She shivered, not a chance in hell.
She also decided it wasn’t worth bringing a bin with her because then she would have to empty the bin and carry a bag of puke with her to the bins, many floors down in the basement.
No, she would just pull up her big girl britches, be strong, be brave, and make sure she was not sick. Because that would be even more humiliating.
With her office door locked, the blinds for her windows drawn, and her heels kicked off—left somewhere in her office—she slumped down in her chair and placed her head in her hands. She should have never gone to that meeting. It would have been better for her if she hadn’t, better for her mental health most definitely.
But maybe it would have been bad for her sexual health.
Because being in that meeting had awoken something long-hibernating inside of her. she had read enough romance novels, bought enough sex toys, and seen enough porn to understand what it meant to be wet, what it meant to have kinks. And she knew a lot of kinks. Knew a few of them intimately from previous relationships.
But she couldn’t quite believe she had a competence kink.
But, by the gods, did she. She knew she was into butt stuff, knew she loved a little spanking, some choking, some hair pulling. Rough sex was her idea of fun—but competence was a new one. But a fucking heady one, she felt high after watching Rowan fucking Whitehorn be competent to the extreme in that meeting.
So, fucking high.
The way Rowan had moved around the room, never tripping, never stumbling, never seeming unsure—he moved competently. And Aelin found it hot, found it fucking sexually arousing.
The way he spoke, enunciating perfectly, never mispronouncing, his word choices fabulous in a manner she’d never encountered—he spoke competently.
But then, his voice? Oh, sweet, merciful gods, Aelin had a voice kink as well.
It was deep and delicious, with a foreign accent twinging when he moved certain words through his throat, the way his letters rolled over his tongue, or caught on his teeth, or pushed from his lips. She was gone, gone to fucking heaven, to paradise. But a sexual paradise, of course.
And the way he used his hands, he spoke vibrantly, using gestures and a wide range of motions to emphasise his points, to display the excitement of a deal—he used his hands competently.
But his actual hands? Staring at those hands, made her realise her third new kink of the meeting. A hand kink, she wondered if it were real. Or if she needed to make it up.
But, his hands, veins running over the back of it, winding up his forearms in the kind of artwork she would buy. His fingers were thick, his nails manicured—smooth, with rounded edges, and healthy soft skin. A little tattoo on his middle finger, and she was desperate to know what it was.
She was getting wetter, sat in her desk chair, images flashing through her mind of him: competently using those fingers, competently dirty talking her into oblivion. She was so distracted she didn’t hear the jiggle of her door handle, the snick of a key in the lock, the hinges creaking ever so slightly when the door is opened.
She only realised her alone time, her period of self-reflective reflection time, was interrupted when fluorescent light bathed her in its corporate glow and shone holes into her retinas.
“What the fuck was that, Galathynius? I knew you were fucking shady, fucking desperate, fucking competitive, but to the extent that you’ll manipulate my clients into inviting you to our meeting so you could fucking spy on me? So, you could commit some distant relative of corporate fucking espionage? I hadn’t you to be so snake-like. But fucking trust me, I won’t forget!” the voice of Rowan Whitehorn pierced through the office.
She hated herself for thinking it, but she was consumed by the distinct sound of his shouting voice, of its strength and solidity, and how it shot through her nervous system and sent nerve endings haywire just about everywhere in her body.
“That was me being smart about this competition.” She spoke angrily, annoyed beyond sense, her anger was so potent; she was mad to the point of ripping her hair out. she stood from her chair, and rounded her desk to stand in front of Rowan.
“What do you mean? Being smart, you were just fucking spying on me? How is that smart?” disbelief clouded his tone, his anger seemed less though.
“Yes. Smart. Spying was incredibly smart because we were playing different games and competing for the same fucking prize. So, I figured I’d play you at your own game. See if I could beat you with your own tactics.”
“So, you were watching me learn my tricks, to work like me? That correct?”
“Yes. So, that we’d be on an even playing field. So, it would be a fair test or competition.”
“Alright. Tell me, what are my tricks? Examine my body language, tell me how I use words to manipulate my clients and tell me what my PowerPoint colour choices tell you. Come one, if you were watching my techniques so intently, tell me about them.”
Cruel. His words were cruel. There wasn’t a way on this planet that he had any clue she wasn’t paying attention, and yet he had managed to hit the nail on the head, blindfolded, drunk, and a hundred metres away from it.
“Well. You made sure to keep your hands unclenched, and open. Your arms were never crossed, you never slipped into a power pose. Shows you’re open, suggests that you and the client are on the same level, that you want to be there.” She only knew because she had been looking at his hands, so yes, she had analysed his techniques.
Just not the ones in relation to his clients.
“Alright. Very good. Now, my word choices.”
“Don’t talk to me like that. Like I’m your subordinate. I’m not. Don’t treat me like I am.” The venom spewed from between her lips, and she loved the sting of it against her lips, loved, even more, the reaction to it from Rowan.
His head jerked back. He looked a little shocked. A little puzzled.
But then he turned hungry. Got this glint in his eyes that told her he was going to eat her alive. And he would be damned if she didn’t enjoy it. She had never met anyone who could master facial expressions quite so, never met someone who could convey quite such meaning with a quirk of their eyebrows.
She’d also never met anyone who threatened to eat her, communicating via eyebrows twitches and lip movements. She’d never met anyone who made her believe they would, who made her believe they would make sure she enjoyed it.
But now, she felt as though she had known that person for a really long time.
“Alright. Tell me about my word choices. Or, tell me why you can’t.” his smirk hit peak smirk levels at that moment, he had never been more smug or full of himself. She’d also never felt so attracted to him.
“You used… a lot of connectives, to demonstrate the cohesiveness of your idea, and you also did that to show how ideas can flow, and how you want to be a smooth ride for them. Show that you won’t jerk them around, starting and stopping.”
“I used and twice, and not too many others. My points were all rather separate. Since you failed, Aelin, your forfeit is to answer the other question.” He made a face, sympathy mixed with unadulterated joy.
It disturbed her and made her wet. She loved this dominance. And she realised she had begun to be submissive, to his dominance in her office. In her own fucking office, he had dared to come in there, and then he had the nerve to trick her into submissiveness. Oh, he was going to feel her wrath.
“You think it's funny, Whitehorn? To manipulate women with whatever tricks your buddies taught you? That it’s all fun and games, a good old laugh and then not much more. Do you realise, that it can be incredibly damaging? That your games could be triggering. That you could be doing damage. No. You don’t, because you can’t think beyond yourself. Honestly, the fucking nerve of you—doing that to me. Go home and get your rocks off, I don’t ever want to see your face again.” She felt good again, comfortable in her own skin, scales and fucking all. She’d rather have spikes than have someone dig their own in her skin.
“Think that was going to stop me? That your little spiel was going to make me realise my own ill-morality? It hasn’t. It won’t ever, I know how to manipulate people, and I am all too happy to do so. You aren’t going to scare me off, keep trying though. You might make a dent one day, sweetheart.” His voice was sweet like condensed milk, his voice was death to her sexual attraction. (That’s what she told herself, in reality, she needed a new pair of underwear—stat!)
“I could only hope. But thank you for proving my point, that all you are is a pile of misogynistic shit, I had my hopes for you, but it’s no trouble to leave you in my dust when I report you. Probably the first person to do so, huh, you tend to prey on the weaker ones, huh? Can’t handle big bites with those little teeth?”
“Sweetheart, you think I don’t know?” his voice was like condensed milk, but even more condensed. She was concerned, even more so. Once more, she was worried he knew. But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
“I know you don’t. yeah, daddy’s money couldn’t buy you brain cells, could it? It’s okay though, you wouldn’t be the first person to fail. Don’t be scared of it.” Aelin resisted the powerful urge to rip his teeth from his gums, to pull his hair from his head. She was so beyond mad, beyond annoyed, this was the reason she had gone into corporate, so she could save people from business sharks who were actually clownfish.
“Sweetheart, you spent the entirety of that meeting hanging on my every word. Every time I opened my mouth, you balled your hands into fists. Every, single time. When I took off my suit jacket, you watched my fingers move over my buttons like you were a lion, and they were your gazelles. Trust me, I know.”
Panic. She was spiralling. He was lying. There was a whole lot of stuff going on, and yet none of it could help Aelin. Not one bit.
“You know nothing. You aren’t going to manipulate me. I will not be one of your victims. I won’t. have another go, I won’t fold.” Stay strong, she was begging herself to stay strong. She could not look at how he was biting his lip, how his eyes had darkened. How his sleeves were rolled up, how his veins were throbbing slightly, and pushing at the skin.
It meant he was hot. Aelin did not disagree, he certainly was.
He took a step forwards. Then another. Two more. She scrambled back until she was gripping onto her desk. He continued forward, adjusted the strap of his watch, raked his fingers through his hair, and pulled at his tie where it rested against the hollow of his throat.
All nervous ticks, and yet he made them seem to like shows of confidence. She wanted to kill him, because how very fucking dare he. How very fucking dare he, he couldn’t be a bad fucking person, and yet still be so fucking attractive. The world simply wasn’t allowed to work like that. No, not a chance.
He didn’t stop moving until she was leaning back over the desk, cradled around the front by the angle of his body until his hands gripped the desk beside hers, and he was bending down to whisper in her ear until he was rasping his stubble across the top of her ear. Not a common erogenous zone, but, of course, it just had to be one for her.
And he just had to be able to tell that.
“I know, Aelin, that those goosebumps on your arms aren’t because you’re cold. I know that you weren’t biting your lip to stop yourself from speaking, but for another reason. I know your panties are wet, soaked through. And I know you want me to pull up that skirt of yours.”
Maybe it was okay to back down. If she knew he was able to manipulate, but she was okay with being manipulated, and she was sure he wasn’t actually manipulating her. she was beginning to wonder if he only saved that for subtly changing clients' minds. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t do that, because Aelin did.
Maybe she wouldn’t be a victim, because she wanted this.
Even quieter than before, “Tell me no, Aelin, and I will go.”
And it’s those few words that make her grab his neck, pull his lips down to hers, and whisper into his own ear, quiet like he was, “I want you to fuck me like I won that competition. With all your anger, and all your annoyance.”
He takes it to mean don’t stop, to mean for him to keep talking to her like he has been, so he does. Gods, does he keep talking to her like she deserves it.
“You going to prove my point, or just stand there? I want those fucking panties in my hand, and I want them to be soaked.” Shivers. Gorgeous, beautiful, shivers.
He never moved from his position, still bent over her, still barricading. She worked around him, happy to move around him in this situation. Only too happy to bow to his superiority, as she soaks her panties beyond sense.
With straight arms, she shuffles her skirt up her thighs, baring tanned, soft skin to his feasting eyes, to his hungry-to-bruise fingers. Hurried thumbs yank at the sides of her thong, pulling it jerkily down her thighs, until it dangles off on foot, which she bends awkwardly so she can grab them.
Against her fingers, the fabric was wet. It left a clean, sticky residue on her fingers, and it made a lewd plopping sound when deposited onto Rowan’s oversized palm. He looked down, made a fist, and hummed with satisfaction.
He whispered once more, “Sodden, sweetheart. Such a good girl for getting wet when you’re being shouted at. So, fucking good.”
She moaned, loudly, at his words. She couldn’t contain herself, couldn’t handle the way he spoke those words, the way his accent tossed them around his mouth and spat them out sounding sexier than they ever had before.
“Sweetheart, you need to be quiet, otherwise the others will hear us. I’d love to be able to trust you, but you might become a silly, forgetful little slut during this. And we need to be careful, don’t we?” she moaned again, loudly again. Only affirming his point.
He gripped her chin, pulling her wide eyes to his narrowed ones, and gritted out angrily, “Don’t we, baby?”
“Uh-huh. Yeah, we do.” She couldn’t call him sir, during their first time together, she couldn’t call the other one either. No matter how much she wanted to, she wasn’t going to call her co-worker daddy in the middle of the office, the first time he fucked her.
“Seeing as you’re in agreeance, I’m going to have to gag you, sweetheart. Don’t worry, it won’t be for long, and if you tap my legs, I’ll take it out immediately. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” daddy, she had to stop herself from saying. She nodded quickly, trying to distract herself from the urge, from the need to say it.
With no more preamble, he pried her lips open and inserted the wet ball of her panties into her mouth. She moaned obscenely—but not loudly—as her own taste exploded in her mouth, tasting herself so thoroughly she can barely focus. The idea was heady. The reality was mind-numbingly arousing.
He slid a tantalising finger down the centre of her shirt, on its journey he allowed for it to catch on the middle of her bra. Pulled her bra down using it, until he let it go, and let it snap against her shoulders. It stung, and she moaned, but her gag silenced it.
With hurried fingers, he yanked her blouse from the waistband of her skirt. Pulled at the silken ends of her shirt until they were free, and he could yank it up, over her head, and let it fall gently to the floor. Her chest was heaving, up and down so fast, a red flush stemming from her collar bones and slowly fading.
Aelin scrambled to undo the clasp of her bra, yanking at the hooks until it came free, and her breasts were revealed to the cool, air-conditioned air of her office. Her nipples were pink and rosy, peaked and reaching toward Rowan like he was their God like they were his gods.
A quick pinch had her back arching, a second pinch had her wetness slipping down the inside of her thigh. The third pinch had her begging loudly through the gag, not to be heard.
With Aelin distracted, Rowan worked on her skirt, pulling it down over her hips, yanking it brutally when it would move. After too much time, the stinging sensations on her nipples were wearing off, and the skirt was finally around her ankles.
She was naked, entirely bared to Rowan, whilst the door was unlocked, whilst anyone could walk in. And all it did was make Aelin wetter, was make Rowan harder. Make them both more desperate to fuck.
She was amazed, at how in tune they were despite this being their first sexual encounter. It usually took a guy a couple of tries to understand her needs, and none of them had ever been able to do it instinctively before she even realised that she felt that way.
His broad shoulders were posed between her thighs, pushing the supple out, spreading her legs, showcasing her core to him in the truest, illicit way.
He knocked her clit with his nose, sniffed deeply, and exhaled onto her clit, the nerves screaming violently at her, pitch forks and torches at the ready if they didn’t get what they wanted. And they wanted satisfaction.
“We need to hurry, sweetheart, because I have another meeting in twenty, and you have another in half an hour. The good news is, that your little cunt is so good and so pretty that it’s already so wet. So, I don’t need to waste time getting you ready, apparently, it only took me shouting at you to make your pussy hungry for cock.” His tone was cruel, his words we cruel, and yet Aelin was looking at Rowan with some sort of sex-induced admiration because she had never been made to feel this way by anyone else. “You ready for my cock, baby, ready to take it in that greedy pussy of yours. That fucking slutty pussy, so wet already.”
He stood and his height only served to make Aelin rub her legs together, those bunching muscles making her whimper—at the thought of what they could do to her. With a firm grip on her hips, he twisted her over, so her breasts were pressed against the cool material of her desk, and so she had to tilt her head to the side, so she didn’t smash her nose.
With so little effort, she could hardly believe he could do it. She couldn’t deny that it turned her on, that he treated her like a doll, that he was strong enough to do so.
A hand rested on the small of her back, whilst the other delved into the pocket of his slacks, to grab his wallet and extract a condom. He tore the packaging with his teeth, and she hoped he didn’t tear the latex, really hoped.
If she was debating calling this man daddy, she couldn’t have a baby calling him that too.
He rolled it on with practice she was grateful for, and notched himself with confidence, and fucking competence, at her opening. Nudging her clit first, he began to enter Aelin. He stretched her blissfully, stretching what needed to be, rolling against all those hard-to-reach spots with fingers.
Thick fingers trailed up her spine, grabbing the nape of her neck, before sliding to grab her hair in a tight, unmoving fist. With leverage she hadn’t found in anyone else, he pulled her back into a slight curve, her body cooperating in harmony with his will.
With each hard thrust, with every roll of his hips, Aelin was moaning, grunting slightly, or praising the thickness of his cock. She had her hands pressed against the desk, needing so desperately to have an anchor to the real world because her co-worker's dick was surely about to send her into heaven like it was God.
She was definitely praising it like it was the lord like it was a blessing, and a miracle and good, fucking brilliant. “You fuckin’ like that, huh? Having your hair pulled on like your gonna follow, well-behaved like you know this is your place. Didn’t even try to fight me when I put my dick in you. Why would you when you’re already so wet, so needy and desperate for cock that you were dripping down these soft thighs of yours.”
She loved it.
He let go of her hair slowly, lowering her middle down to the desk, continuing to thrust, not feeling sorry about the bruise she would have along her hip bones from the desk at all. When she let her chin rest on the desk, Rowan’s cock unmoving, and so thick inside of her that she might just orgasm like this, he grabbed each wrist and placed them at the small of her back.
The other hand loosened his tie, yanking it from under the starched collar to wrap it three times around her wrist before tying it in a bow so pretty he wanted to picture it. He wanted to take a picture of the unholy stretch of her pussy around the thick, ruddy root of his cock, the little rosebud of her ass. Clenching in time with her pussy around his cock.
Aelin was feeling crazy bent over her desk, every time she attempted to thrust back on his cock, his thick thighs stopped her, every time she tried to rub her thighs together he stood more firmly between them, making sure they spread, every time she tried to grunt, he managed to move backwards and away from the needy bud of her clit without moving inside of her cunt.
Aelin was desperate, she was moaning with every breath she took, she was dripping down his balls as she became needier and needier, she was trying anything to give herself relief. A big palm cradled the back of her head, keeping it in place, whilst his other hand went around her wrists and his tie-bondage.
She knew he was gaining leverage, knew it meant he was about to fuck her until she saw God sixteen times over, and felt higher than she would after two lines of cocaine. He moved his hips back, and the soft scrape of his cock across the walls of her pussy had her mouth splitting open and her makeshift gag falling to the table in front of her.
A long, loud, ludicrous, and gaining Rowan’s attention. Moving his hand from the back of her head, thrusting in and out of her cunt at a speed she can’t comprehend, he pulls his index and middle fingers in front of her face. “I can put my thumb there, baby, if you’re more comfortable with that?” his words stuttered slightly, feeling the effects of her warm, wet cunt and the arousal dripping out her pussy.
She wraps her lips around his fingers and lightly bites at them, digging her teeth in harder than necessary. to the extent that his heavy, steady, dizzying thrusts paused, and his hand came cracking down on her ass. she did it again, just to test her theory, and his hand once again slapped against the fleshiest part of her ass and sent pleasure travelling to all areas of her body.
Sent her pussy clenching crazily around his dick, her clit begging for attention.
Even in the form of slaps and spanks.
His thrusts turn frantic, desperate. Each thrust has him gasping out praise for her, calling her his best whore, telling her she’s the best fucking cunt he’s ever felt. Aelin’s eyes are welling up as her orgasm approaches, as the edge comes closer.
Her cunt is squelching and clenching, and she’s gasping for breath. She’s not quite sure of her own name, but as she reaches her peak, as her orgasm spreads along her nerves from head to toe, she sure remembers Rowan’s. Dropping his thick, saliva-coated fingers from her mouth, “Fuck, Rowan, you’re fucking me so good. Don’t stop, don’t stop, oh my gods!” her breathing has never been so heavy, she’d never felt so heady, she can feel her orgasm begin.
And then she shatters, feeling herself in every nerve ending, feeling insane as she comes, moans leaving her mouth, all sorts of praise about the fucking stupendous cock that was fucking her steadily through her orgasm.
Fucking her until his thrusts stuttered until he hit her g-spot so brutally she screamed and felt a smaller, second orgasm spread through her body and send her limp on her desk.
Buried to the very hilt, balls against her thighs, Rowan was coming. Hips juddering and jerking, mouth open, sweat dripping artfully down his temple, caught at the end of his eyebrow.
After his final jerk, he slumped over Aelin. Cradling her in his arms, so intimate for two people, who thirty minutes ago hadn’t ever been stood next to one another.
He stayed, slowly softening inside of her for a while, breathing heavily onto her bare shoulder blades, whilst her own heart thumped, and her own breath was not yet ready to be caught. It was too long, by one-night-stand standards.
But neither seemed to care, both seemed to love the calm, the quiet, the simplicity of life in those post-nut clarity moments. But soon, Aelin knew she would panic over sleeping with Rowan. And unbeknownst to Aelin, Rowan would be stressing out because he’s finally given in, and now she believed he was an asshole manipulator, not just her opposition in healthy competition.
All too soon, Rowan pulled out and slipped the condom off, tying the top and wrapping it in tissues, before dumping it in her bin. Then he was tucking his dick back into his underwear and his slacks, doing up buttons, zips, and belts. Righting his hair and dabbing at his forehead with some tissues to get rid of the sweat there.
All while Aelin was still stuck in her tie-bondage. Rowan was apologetic over it, sorry that he hadn’t been more attentive. But Aelin didn’t mind, it gave her a few moments to cool off, and calm down. Which she most certainly needed.
He was rubbing her wrists as she sat up slowly but dropped them the second he realised what he was doing. Because that wasn’t very Rowan Whitehorn of him. She slowly got dressed, finding her clothing in all the spots it had been discarded.
A throat was cleared, and an apologetic Rowan stood before her, “Sorry. About your panties. Your day is probably going to be really uncomfortable after this, didn’t really think of that.” It was the first time Aelin had seen him look sheepish, and she felt her heart constrict when he gripped his wrists together and tugged.
He truly did look torn up over it, his concern made her feel torn up.
“It’s no worry, I have a couple of spare pairs in my desk drawers anyway, you never know what could happen. A period leak, or kinky, panty-gag sex with your work rival. Ha.”
He walked out of the door like that, and Aelin found that for the first time, she didn’t want to celebrate when she saw his back. She decided she wanted to see it in a mirror as he pounded into her, all those back muscles she didn’t know the names of working to help him, pleasure her.
And decided she would make it happen. No matter what. She would make Rowan Whitehorn fuck her again, and she would figure out if he really was that much of an asshole.
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Speedy one night stand
Ok, so this is an old scene that i never posted because I never thought it was good enough, but since I wanted to post smth before ‘Tis the Damn Season, here it goes! I’m sorry for any typos, it’s 3 am and I don’t have the patience to proof read rn. There are mentions of a car accident but I swear it is not a sad or angsty scene. It’s bad and not at all a believable situation, but I hope it’s ok enough to be mildly enjoyable!
Aelin was having a spectacular day.
She had woken up around six, laying near the hottest man to ever walk on this Earth. In the previous night, she had drank enough to practically guarantee her a bitch hangover, but apparently her beautiful, silver-haired stranger had fucked it right out of her. A few times.
Not so proudly, Aelin sneaked out of his house without making a single sound. Maybe she should have stayed, maybe asked for his name. But she was also almost sure she had given him her number yesterday, and so if he wanted to continue things, he could call her. If not… Well, it had been a fun night.
Understatement of the fucking century.
And thanks to her stranger, once she got home, Aelin felt energized and inspired enough to finally give the painting a try.
The painting had become Aelin’s nightmare for the past year and a half. She had the idea, had the ability, but didn’t know how to do it, how to tackle it. She tried a few times every few days, and left the room hating it more and more. The painting started to be a mock to her abilities— she would finish other works, beautiful works, and yet the messy canvas would always stare at her from the corner of the room.
Aelin was mainly a sculptor, not a painter, and so she didn’t even know why it bothered her so much but it did. Oh, it most certainly did.
For the past eighteen months, staring at that taunting canvas was like staring at yourself on the mirror for too long. The vision started to blur, and it didn’t look real, evoked a deep panic.
For the past eighteen months, Aelin hated that fucking painting.
And yet, when she got home earlier, all she could think is that she might be able to finish it. The painting was supposed to be of Oakwald, a beautiful forest that extended for the whole expanse of the west of Terrasen. She hadn’t been at home for so long now, and all she wanted was a painting of how she remembered the forest to be. She wanted to capture its light, its life. She wanted it to look exactly how it was in her memory, but the colors never seemed right. Her fondness of the memory was becoming stained with that stupid canvas.
All she needed was the right palette.
And he had walked in a bar and sat by her side yesterday.
Her stranger was the literal embodiment of her memory, so much so that for a split second, Aelin had thought she had gone officially insane. His silver-grey hair was the exact shade of the sky on the cloudy mornings when she and her dad would go for a walk. Eyes a combination of a few shades of green and small specks of brown that reminded her of how the trees were. His demeanor was cold, and yet Aelin found him somehow so welcoming— just like she felt back at Oakwald, back home.
Her stranger had given her the thing she had needed for the past eighteen months, even if he hadn’t given her even his name.
Aelin was staring proudly at the now finished painting when the phone rang. She was glad her roommate wasn’t at home to witness her staring at the painting for that long like a crazy person, and honestly hoped it was Lysandra calling to ask if she wanted to go out and grab something to eat.
Or maybe it’s your stranger.
Aelin forced herself to shove every single spark of hope down until they were nothing more than cinders. To be honest, Aelin knew that she probably wouldn’t get a call from him. It was his first day in town, they both had been drunk, and, even though the sex had been great, her stranger didn’t seem like the dating type.
At least not the dating type with a woman who left his house unannounced at six in the morning after leaving him with no note other than her number that could potentially be wrong since said woman was already tipsy when she gave it to him.
A fucking shame.
“Hey.” Aelin said, putting the phone to her ear as she looked for her car keys. She wanted to be in the elevator by the time the word “eat” left Lys’s mouth.
“Is this Aelin?” A female voice she had never heard in her life asked, uncertainty and hesitation lacing every word.
Aelin withdrew the phone from her ear and looked at the unknown number.
Aelin rarely gave her phone number to strangers, and lately it had only been to…
Oh fucking shit.
He had a girlfriend?
Fuck fuck fuck.
“Hum, yes?” Aelin sounded as uncertain as the girl. “I’m sorry, but who is this?”
Maybe it wasn’t what she thought. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe—
“Do you know a Rowan?”
Well.
“Maybe?” Aelin wanted to bang her head against a wall. Almost seven months without touching a guy, and the first one in her way back to the land of the social people had a girlfriend. At least she knew his name now. Rowan seemed fitting, matched his appearance somehow. “Silver hair, green eyes, looks really pissed even when he’s sleeping?”
Please say no.
“Oh, yes.” The woman said, sounding… relieved? “I’m doctor Towers, and—“
“Doctor?” Aelin blurted out, all anger and nervousness being substituted for confusion. “Doctor?”
“Yes. Well, actually an intern since I’m still halfway through my first year here and—“
“I swear I mean no offense, but I am a little confused.” Aelin interrupted her after she started mumbling. “You’re Rowan’s girlfriend?”
“No!” The woman shouted loud enough that Aelin had to take the phone from her ear. “Gods, no. I thought you were his girlfriend.”
A moment of silence passed through the two women.
“What the fuck?” Was everything Aelin managed to say. She cleared her throat, mind trying to catch up with what was happening. “Why would you think that?”
“You’re the only contact on his phone.”
“I am?”
“You are.”
“I am.”
“You are.”
“I— Why are you calling me?” Aelin shook her head, her grip on her keys strong enough that started to be painful. She didn’t know if this was some type of joke her friends were pulling on her, or if Rowan was just some sick asshole that was fucking with her now that he had her number but she sure as hell wasn’t enjoying the experience.
“Well, you see.” She cleared her throat, voice tone becoming more serious, more professional. “Rowan was admitted into the Torre’s hospital a few hours ago. He was involved in an accident, and all the emergency contacts we could find are not in town as of now. I know it is not protocol, and I’m breaking so many rules here, but I went through his phone to see if I could find a contact of someone who was around. We didn’t know if his injuries were serious or not, but…”
Doctor Towers didn’t finish the sentence, and dread mixing with some type of anxiety started rolling inside Aelin’s stomach. “But?”
She didn’t respond the question, instead changing the subject. “You’re the only contact, Miss Aelin.”
Aelin slowly sat down, the dead silence of the apartment mixing with the expectant silence from Doctor Towers. She didn’t know the guy, didn’t even know his name until two minutes ago, and yet the image of the painting in the other room kept flashing in her mind, the colors in the canvas mixing with the colors she saw on his face. “I— Is he alive?”
“Yes, yes. He’s in surgery, I believe.” The initial apprehension came back to the woman’s voice. “I don’t know, actually. Again, just an intern. People don’t tell me much here.”
“And I suppose hiding somewhere after stealing a patient’s phone isn’t the best way to pick up on any information they might be sharing in the halls right now.” Aelin said, some amusement for the girl showing through her voice. “Where are you? Storage room?”
“Coma patient room.” Doctor Towers laughed nervously. “I thought I was helping.”
“It’s fine.” Aelin said even though she didn’t feel it.
The line went silent once more, and after a minute, Aelin said. “Well, bye, I guess.”
“Wait.” The doctor’s apprehensive voice sounded again. “Couldn’t you… Can you still come? Even if you’re just his friend?”
Aelin sat frozen on her chair. “I’m not his friend.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Ok. Sorry. Have a great night, Miss Aelin.”
Before Aelin could respond, the call was ended.
—————
The first thing Rowan noticed when he opened his eyes was that he was not at the rented apartment he and the rest of his friends had gotten for the summer.
The lights were too white and too artificial, the bed too uncomfortable to be the same one he had slept the previous night.
And there was also the fact it felt as if he had been thrown from the top of a building, broken every single bone in the impact and, somehow, survived.
He tried opening his eyes a little bit more and acute pain shot to his brain.
Unfortunately. Unfortunately survived.
Shit, maybe he was in hell.
“I don’t know if the struggle is amusing or pathetic.” A low and sultry voice sounded from the left corner of the room. “Maybe try not staring directly into the light and then try opening your eyes.”
Rowan turned his head to where the soft voice had come from, pain burning his neck with the movement but he found himself incapable of not looking at her direction. But the woman was right, and Rowan managed to open his eyes enough to see her seating in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs, legs crossed in front of her and fingers laced on top of her stomach.
Rowan mentally scratched his last thought. If he had actually died, that certainly was tilting a lot more towards heaven than hell even with the killing pain.
“Fuck, I think I died.” Rowan blurted out.
“I’ll pretend you just compared me to an angel, not to the devil.” She said, getting up and walking in his direction. Despite her hurt tone, she was smiling as she approached his bed. “It’s the least you could do after you ruined my perfectly perfect day. I was having a blast, you know?”
Hell, heaven, or Earth— it honestly didn’t fucking matter because the pain was the same, but her voice seemed to soothe his muscled, make the pain secondary to the pleasure of listening to her voice.
“Yeah?” Rowan rasped out, hoping she would continue talking.
“Oh, yeah.” She sat by the edge of the bed, straightening his sheets. The light wasn’t so blinding anymore, and he could see every detail on her face.
Heaven. Definitely heaven.
“I’m an artist, you know. Sculptor mostly, but I’m a decent painter. There’s this painting I’ve been trying to get done for over a year now, and today I did not only make progress I liked, but I also finished it. I thought today was going to be a terrible day, you know? Yesterday I found out my flight back home had been canceled and I would only be able to get another one by the end of summer, so I went to a bar and planned on getting drunk. Today was a day for tears and hangovers.”
“But?” Rowan asked automatically, all too focused on the woman sitting next to him.
She smiled, raising a hand to brush his hair from his face, fingers intertwining with the shoulder-length knots he most certainly had after whatever it was that had happened. She seemed too focused on her hand gently undoing the knots, but thankfully kept talking. “But I met this guy, you know? Definitely not from here, accent gave it away immediately. Also not from where I am from. Just that made him interesting enough. And,” she turned her eyes to him, eyes glinting with mischief. “Very, very fucking hot. That definitely made him even more interesting.”
“What a guy.” Rowan could feel some of the life coming back to his body, and even managed to weakly match the grin she had on her face.
“Oh, yes, what a guy. Fucked the hangover and artistic block right out of me. A hero, if you will.” Her grin extended into a smile, and she shook her head. “So imagine how ruined my day was when I got a call saying my amazing bar guy had been in a car accident.”
Rowan let out a broken laugh, his ribs screaming in pain when he did so. “So irresponsible of him.”
She assented solemnly. “And there I was, hoping he would have called me to go out on a date. I’m not picky but hospital is a huge downgrade from mind blowing sex in his expensive apartment.”
Rowan laughed again, not even caring about the pain.  “I’m sure the guy would have asked you if you hand’t left the expensive apartment at the crackass of dawn without telling him.”
“And instead of calling he let his car be smashed by a fucking truck to get my attention? Tsk, tsk, tsk… Maybe I didn’t dodge a bullet with this idiot.”
Rowan’s lips were taken by a grin. “Well it worked, didn’t it?”
“Next time try something a little less dramatic.” She said, eyes narrowing but Rowan could see how she was trying to contain a smile.
“The girl really seemed into dramatics tho. Gave it away last night when she—“
“Since I didn’t know your name until your doctor called me, Rowan, I’ll save you the embarrassment of asking mine.” She interrupted him, slender fingers going from his hair to the top of his lips. “I’m Aelin.”
“Aelin.” He said against the finger sushing him. “May I ask how you got here?”
She blushed a little, taking the finger from his mouth and straightening her spine. “I was the only contact in your list. They called me.”
“Lost my phone in the airport yesterday and had to buy a new one. Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, small nose frowning. “You’re very talkative for someone who could barely open his eyes a few minutes ago.”
“Am I?” Rowan said, hoping to push some of her buttons. Consciousness had been coming back slowly, and Rowan certainly remembered every single detail. Remembered being pissed by losing his phone, impatient because he would have to wait two more days for his friends to arrive.
Remembered all the pissy and impatience leaving his body once he sat on the bar by the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She had been quick-mouthed, with no filter, and absolutely hypnotizing. She wasn’t just fucking beautiful, but also funny, smart, and had the ability to make him forget every single thing that was making him irritated.
And the rest of the night… It was a shame Rowan was bedridden, he certainly wouldn’t mind reenacting last night again.
And again. And again.
And again.
Rowan had wondered earlier if she had been that amazing because he was drunk. The answer was obviously no.
Aelin pursed her lips, red coloring her cheeks. She cleared her throat, rolling her eyes. “The doctor guilty tripped me.”
“Yeah?” Rowan knew he was smiling like an idiot.
“She said you were in surgery and she didn’t know how serious.” Aelin finally looked him straight in the eyes, and Rowan noticed how beautiful hers were. “No one deserves to have no one in this situation. She said your friends were out of town, and the girl sounded desperate enough that it sounded as if you were fucking died. Again, no one deserves to die alone. Specially someone this good in bed.”
It took Rowan a second to understand everything she had just said. When the last sentence finally registered on his brain, Rowan laughed. Aelin shook her head, a small smile appearing again.
“Also, you’re the first guy I slept with in seven months. Letting you die alone seemed like bad luck.”
“I am honored you put so much consideration into coming to stay with me.”
“Shut it.”
“If it makes you feel less embarrassed—“
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“I would have come too. Make sure my best fuck wasn’t dead.”
“Awn, best fuck? You’ll make me tear up like this, Ro. So romantic.” Aelin pretended to clean fake tears the moment the doctor in darker scrubs and a few on lighter ones entered the room.
“Good to see you awake, Mr Whitethorn.” The man smiled at him, checking his charts. “It’s always good to see wives crying of happiness rather than sadness around here.”
“Of course.” Rowan agreed, turning to Aelin and raising an eyebrow.
“They wouldn’t let me stay if I wasn’t family.” She whispered low enough so that only Rowan would hear. Her face slowly broke into a grin, and she winked at him before turning to the doctor. “So he’ll be fine, right, doctor?”
Rowan had to bite his cheeks from laughing at how obviously fake she sounded, but no one other than him noticed. “Yes, yes. Other than a fracture to his right wrist, your husband is completely fine. Some bruising and soreness that painkillers can help, but nothing major. You two are free to enjoy your vacations when he’s discharged tomorrow.”
“Oh, great.” Rowan said, nodding seriously. “My wife here has just informed me that a hospital is no adequate place for a first date.”
All the people in the room laughed, thinking Rowan meant their first date in Antica.
Not their first date ever.
“I’ll leave you two. Anything you need, ask a nurse and they will page me.” The doctor in darker scrubs said, leaving the room with all the ones in lighter scrubs following.
“Where do you live?” Rowan asked the moment the doctor was out.
Aelin turned to him, fingers going back to his silver hair. “Have been living here for the past two years in an art internship. Going back to Orynth, Terrasen by the end of the summer.” She curled a strand around her finger before looking to his face. “You?”
“Have been and will continue to be a very happy resident of Orynth.” Rowan said, a smirk appearing on his lips. “Definitely happier after the summer.”
“Haven’t even asked me out and you’re already thinking about the end of the summer.” Aelin shook her head and clicked her tongue even though she was smiling. “No surprise you got into a car accident, so speedy.”
His smirk grew into a smile. “My dear wife, would you like to go on a date with me?”
She narrowed her eyes, taking her sweet, sweet time to answer. “I’ll think about it.”
“And, seeing how the doctor talked about all my grave injuries—“
“Grave.” She snorted.
“Do I get kisses to feel better?” Rowan’s tone was full of mockery and some laughter.
“If I kiss every place you’re hurting after being hit by a fucking truck, I think we’d be here for a long while.”
“You didn’t complain yesterday.”
Aelin half laughed, half snorted. Rolling her eyes, she bent forward, and even though she was trying very hard not to, Rowan could see the start of a smile just before she pressed her lips against his. They were sweeter and softer than he remembered, and despite the pain on his arms and specially on his right wrist, Rowan raised his hands and put them in her golden strawberry hair.
“One more thing.” He said against her mouth.
“Has anyone ever told you that you ask for too much?” Aelin said impatiently.
“As our situation is already as fucking weird as it’s gonna get—“
“You don’t say!” Aelin said, voice dripping with so much fake surprise Rowan couldn’t stop but smirk up at her.
“As our situation is already as fucking weird as it’s gonna get,” he repeated forcefully, eyes narrowing at her as her smile widened. “Tomorrow, when my friends arrive.”
“Yes?”
“Can you please still pretend you’re my wife?”
Aelin stared at him blankly for a moment before letting out a full, lovely laugh. The bed shook with her laughter, and Rowan joined her— a little weakly due to the pain, but joined her nonetheless. She bent down to kiss him again, nodding as she did so. “Of course. What type of person would I be if I didn’t help such injured person find some happiness in their lives?”
Rowan kissed her back, fingers playing with her hair. “So this means you’ll go out with me?”
“We’ll see.”
.
.
.
.
.
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tillyrubes10 · 3 years
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Is it just me who likes FanFiction more than the actual books nowadays
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kackmack · 5 years
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Rowan x Aelin 
Fake Smile
Chapter 1
Authors note: it’s my first fanfiction and I really love Rowaelin so please don’t be mean. will update till i see that no one is reading
Aelin hated it. She hated slow days at work with a passion. Now living by herself, after her roommate Lysandra moved out, the last thing she needed was to be late on rent. Serving tables at “La vine” has never been a dream come true but the money was alright for a down town French restaurant. Busy days and nights were the best though, with having no time to think of anything but orders, Aelin thrived with little time with her thoughts, but slow days, those were the ones she couldn’t help but think about the past. 
Standing in the corner of a damn near empty restaurant, watching her section with only one table sat, she was utterly bored and helpless. But suddenly a man at the door caught her attention, with his bronze skin and blonde hair that was almost as light as hers, he was utterly beautiful standing at what has to be over 6 ft. He was handsome, handsome and young, maybe mid-twenties, at most 26. Probably a business man with a short lunch. Aelin didn’t notice she was staring till he was sat at her table looking at a menu. 
“Hello my name is Aelin, I’ll be serving you today” As he looked up and noticed her, a huge smile was placed on his face. 
“ Hi Aelin I’m Fenrys” After short conversation, and serving his food, nothing was out of the ordinary. His smile lit up every time she rounded the corner to check on him. 
“So Aelin, where are you from?” it took her by surprise that he even cared enough to ask, or even remember her name in general. 
“I’m from Terrasen” Aelin said doing her oh so effective fake smile. 
“I knew it! Your accent! It’s beautiful.” She couldn’t help but blush a bit at his words. 
After more small conversation he was ready to leave so she brought the check. With a quick wave across the restaurant he was gone. And she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed in that she knew that one encounter was going to be the highlight of her day. As she looked down at the check she laughed a loud at the 100$ bill sitting on a check with the price of 20$ She’s never felt that kindness here and she couldn’t wipe the smile from her face the whole day. 
For the next three days at the same times each, Fenrys would show up, request for her, and leave a generous tip. She was utterly grateful but guilty that he might be getting the wrong impression of her, she had no interest in him, she really had no interest in anyone lately, it’s been 6 moths since her and Chaols broke up, after not feeling a thing for him Chaol really couldn’t drag him along anymore, “ Alone is easier” was all she would tell her self.
On the fourth day, she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed not to see Fenrys during her morning shift, not because of the tips but he brings a positive light to her day, When the night came around, Aelin was utterly exhausted and was about to start closing when she spotted her favorite costumer walk in, followed by two men wearing suits the same as Fenrys. The men standing by Fenrys didn’t look nearly as happy to be there, both with brooding faces, both towering over everyone, one with dark almost black hair, and the other with silver hair and a wicked tattoo on his neck that even Aelin standing across the restaurant noticed. As Fenrys noticed her, a huge smile spread across his face and he pointed at her to indicated they were requesting her section, She smiled back and walked to her section.
“ Hey Aelin! Meet my coworkers, Rowan and Lorcan.” The dark haired man didn’t even look up from his phone and the silver haired man just tilted his head up slightly and gave a halfhearted smile. They were all handsome in some way which took Aelin a second to focus as she took their orders. 
Fenrys kept conversation with her as the others were more focused on eating than anything else. “So Aelin, I know you’re closing so would you like to join us tonight? We’re heading to the bar next door.” The dark haired man, Lorcan snapped his head up and rolled his eyes. Definitely not fond of the idea. At that Aelin couldn’t help but smile to herself at how Fenrys was probably the life of the party.
“Um I really can’t leave for another 30 minutes” trying my best to excuse herself.
“Great! Well we will see you there in 30 minutes” and at that they left. Aelin stared in the mirror as she untucked her white button up work shirt and undid her bun to let out her long wavy blonde hair. 
Because she had just recently turned 22 she wasn’t totally new to the bar scene especially the bar next door. Aelin has spent too many nights after work there. 
As she walked in she noticed the three men in an argument in the corner. Fenrys perked his head up at the site of her and nearly ran to her. 
“Hey! Wow you look pretty” she smiled and in silent thank you. “We’re back here!” he said taking her arm in his. Aelin felt so awkward as she followed him to the corner. 
“Hi” was all so she can think to say to the men staring at her with unreadable still faces. After an uncomfortable silence Fenrys insisted on buying her a drink so he walked away. 
At that Lorcan finally spoke and the deep voice that erupted from him surprised her. “Could you make it a little less obvious of your indifference of him, he may be dumb but I can see it.” That statement startled her and Rowan flinched and punched his arm, Lorcan didn’t move an inch.
At that, Aelin knew she wanted the night to end. When Fenrys came back with her drink it went back to polite conversation and Aelin wanted nothing else but to leave so she tried to gulp down her drink. Before she could politely leave , he had already left to get her another. She couldn’t sit with Lorcan for another great statement so she escaped to the bathroom.
On her way back she could hear their conversation “Stop acting like a puppy following her. She has no interest in you.” Rowan said in a hushed tone. 
“She’s just a low life waitress with a pretty face. Get someone with a life. Or at least someone who won’t go for your money” Lorcan spat. 
At that Aelin didn’t say a word before leaving. 
That night Aelin couldn’t help but take her frustrations out on the punching bag hanging in her now extra bed room. With every punch and kick she could feel her nerves start to ease as her fighting calm went over her.
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asteri-ashryver · 4 years
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Let us forget not
Rowan Whitethorn is such a great dancer that he only saves them for special occasions
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kingandfireheart · 3 years
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SJM Trio Dynamics
(A half-baked idea)
I really like how SJM frames the relationship dynamic between Manon, Asterin, and Sorrel:
If Manon was ice and Asterin was fire, then Sorrel was rock. Her grandmother had told her on occasion to make Sorrel her Second, as ice and stone were sometimes too similar. But without Asterin’s flame, without her Second being able to rile up a host or rip out the throat of any challenger to Manon’s dominance, Manon would not have led the Thirteen so successfully. Sorrel was grounded enough to even them both out. The perfect Third.
Ice. Fire. Rock.
If you think about the trios in her books (Dorian/Celaena/Chaol, RowanAelin/Aedion, Rhys/Mor/Amren(or Feyre), maybe even Ruhn/Bryce/Hunt and Gwyn/Emerie/Nesta), even though they aren't always in the same leadership positions or ranks, arguments can be made for each of them taking on an element in their dynamics.
I have been trying to assign Ice, Rock, and Fire to the Archeron Sisters and Bat Bois (to predict Az and Elain's arcs), but it got way too complicated (Cassian is definitely fire, but is Azriel ice or rock? If ice and rock are similar, shouldn't that be Nesta and Feyre? and Azriel and Rhys? Is Nesta fire or ice? Where does that leave Elain? Stone? Rhysand?)
Anyway, posting this idea without any analysis because I am trying to stop myself from thinking about it anymore, but thought it was a cool framing!
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One of my favorite ships of all times!! Rowanaelin shall NEVER sink!
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deansass · 8 years
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llyncooljones · 2 years
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drag me out to sea, set me free - throne of glass anniversary day six.
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ao3 || masterlist || rowaelin masterlist || throne of glass anniversary masterlist
word count: 4057
trigger warnings: language, mentions of her trauma, smutty smutty goodness.
tag list: @live-the-fangirl-life  @rowaelinismyotp  @rowanaelin  @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @themoonthestarsthesuriel  @autumnbabylon @rowaelinscourt
skull’s bay, their room, after elena’s visit.
“They dispersed then, Aelin and Rowan slipping off to their own room.”
Fire pounded through Aelin’s veins at such speed, with such power, she deemed it a miracle of her newfound heritage that she had not yet exploded into shreds of herself.
In her mind, scrambled as it was after the night’s amorous events and Elena’s decidedly annoying visit, she knew her intactness was to be dedicated to the strong fae warrior a little to the side, a little behind her.
She knew it was the strength he lent to her so easily, that kept her from screaming and shouting. She knew it was the solid mass of him at her back that kept her from collapsing onto her weak knees. She knew it was the feel of him at her neck that kept her from crying an endless river of tears.
He was unwavering, even when he shouldn’t be.
She couldn’t but love him more for it.
Their swift exit from Dorian and Aedion’s room, his shirtless-ness and her wearing his shirt, the blood on their necks, their change in scent and feral nature; they hadn’t gone unnoticed by her friends.
Lysandra had catalogued every interaction and smelt every undercurrent of love and arousal and desperation in their scents with that cursed snow leopard nose she possessed so frequently these days.
A tattooed, veined arm reached in front of her body as the short walk to their own room came to a close. Rowan’s long, scarred fingers gripped the doorknob and twisted, letting them into the stillness of their room. The bed sheets are strewn about the bed, in disarray from the last they slept between them. The armoire against the wall was open, Rowan’s simple clothes directly and strikingly contrasting the rich fabrics and bold colours of the clothes Aelin had managed to carry with her.
Stood in this cocoon, of them. Their scents. Their clothes. Their messes. Their bed. Their mark. Stood in it, Aelin was stifled with a sudden and vigorous need. A need she had not expected so soon after their recent activities.
Surely her body was exhausted, surely her fae instincts, her baser instincts, were happy with their three joinings. There wasn’t a chance that the ache in her cunt was the need for more, rather than exhaustion from a lot already.
She was sore in the most delicious of ways.
Most prominently her neck, the punctures where Rowan had bitten her. The blood that had stained his lips, his teeth, his tongue, and his chin matched the red dripping from her own, his blood singing to her soul as the taste reverberated around her body, her soul, her very essence.
She was sure the area was inflamed, bruised tissue surrounding the broken skin, the dripping blood, the slowly forming scab. She felt as though, for the first time in her life, she was going to pick and pick at the scab, never letting the wound fully heal. Regularly making it bleed, over and over. Maybe she’d lie in bed awake, Rowan next to her blissfully asleep, and pick his own scab off, make it so his own mark would never heal, the open wound of their love never healing.
Maybe she was sick for thinking such things.
But maybe, she was being sick if it meant she could think such things.
Unaware of the world surrounding her, knowing she was safe because her warrior prince was there, she let her thoughts drift, let arousal settle heavily in her belly, knowing Rowan would scent it. Scenarios flickered through her mind, the past meddling and mixing with the future.
She wanted to know his every desire, wanted him to discover her own. She wanted to watch his every reaction, wanted him to view her own.
The door slamming shut, a product of the gust of wind Rowan had sent through the room, and then the windows doing the same, alerted her to reality once more. In response to her love’s — gods, did it feel good to think that — a show of casual magic, she allowed a flame to flow from her middle finger, her wrist twisted so she could give it to Rowan.
The flame travelled to the wick of every candle in the room, bathing the room in subtle, glowing light. Flickering every now and then.
The old floorboards at Ocean Rose squeaked, creaked, and squealed as Rowan’s heavy feet moved along the ancient wood. Until his chest became one with her back until his arms could do nothing except wind around her midsection, the juncture between his thumb and forefinger cradling a breast each.
Even such gentle caresses, even such simple touches, even such subtle movements had the burn of a thousand suns starting in her. Had her suddenly ravenous for the glorious, understandably desired cock between her lover’s thighs. She had yet to take it in her mouth, had yet to feel its weight against her hand, her lips, her tongue. Had yet to taste him during and had yet to taste him afterwards.
She wanted to know if he would growl the same when he released into her mouth, as when he did so into her entrance. If the world would rock, and the sky would fall, and the seas would jump — and bathe them.
“My Queen, you’d do well to remember that I can smell you, beyond what one might think I can.” Rowan’s voice, her title, and his words melted deliciously against her ears in a song of devotion. She loved her fae ears so incredibly, his voice somehow more, more, and more when it grated against her heightened fae senses.
“Ah, my Blood Sworn, you’d do even better to remember that nothing happens within my court without my say-so. Count yourself honoured, for being allowed to smell me.” Her smirk was unable to be held back, joy pushing so firmly at the corners of her lips that she could nothing but revel in it. That she could do nothing but bask and bathe in all the smiles, smirks, and frowns that were never frowns, her warrior prince gifted her.
His mouth lowered to her neck, the more-than-half-a-foot difference between them forgotten as she stood on tiptoes, and he bent his neck. A kitten lick danced across her skin, the roughness of his tongue sending a more than delightful shiver up her spine. His lips, his teeth, and his gorgeous, elongated canines were so close to the bite mark that she had to stop herself from shoving his face into her neck and making him bite her more. Mark her more, claim her more.
“Patience.” It was a growl against her delicate, easily bitten skin. It bounced against her flesh and ricocheted into her heart; the cage of her ribs locking it in place. She knew, that no matter how hard it pounded against its prison, she’d never let it go.
She’d never let this go.
One arm still embracing her, holding her fast against the drumbeat of his chest, of his heart, the other slipped down to the belt he had lent her, fastened around her waist in a shoddy attempt to cover her.
The worn buckle slipped easily, Rowan’s practised, experiences, and weathered fingers undoing it masterfully. It slipped from her waist, past her hips, and landed with a too-loud clang against the wooden floors. Immobile is her desire, in the sheer impact this male had on her, she allows his embrace to end — obviously unable to predict the pain that slammed through the very core of her being, her soul as their connection ended, and she wondered what was wrong with her, what all of a sudden plagued her.
“We tend to call it the frenzy, it’s more prominent with mating bonds and such but can be just as strong for the first coupling, or the biting. It’s essentially the body’s hormones sorting themselves out, the ‘mine’ aspect developing fully. Hence the need to fuck, because that tends to display claiming, and belonging.”
Aelin learnt something at that moment, that Rowan understood her. Maybe even more so that she understood herself. Rowan Whitehorn could see past every front. He could glance to her face for no longer than a second, and already have a response prepped, he could stare into her eyes and just she was burning to make a bird joke (he was a fan of asking if Aelin was ‘burning to do so’, as displayed). He could be stood behind with no clue beyond the stiffening of her body, and the change in her smell, and know that she needed questions answered.
They were perfect like that.
“So what? You wanna fuck me? Bite me? Mark me? Do it, let’s see how many more rounds you can last, old man.”
“Aelin. Aelin, you underestimate me. You think my age is going to slow me down? All it means is that I’ve had longer to perfect this, that I’ve had longer to practice. To know what I like, and how to make you love it.” His voice… His voice.
Fuck living for Terrasen.
She needed to live, so she could hear that voice whisper all the filthy things it possibly can into her ear, make sure it never ceases to flood her undergarments, make sure it never stops sending her absolutely crazy.
She’d kill for that voice, no doubt.
In those moments, she forgot about his arms, how he’d been in the middle of stripping her down, when her walls and gates and barbed wire already sat at his feet, ready to be discarded. She forgot about the lack of a belt around her waist, forgot her nakedness beside his shirt.
Or maybe she remembered and decided to heat her icy Buzzard’s blood up to a boil.
Stood tall, strong, and feminine in the middle of their shared room, Aelin had never felt more revered. Yes, their first, second, and third times had been meaningful, impactful, and even powerful. They hadn’t made her feel idolised, praised, or worshipped as she did now.
Hands made of wind gently tugged at the hem of her — his — shirt. Lifting her arms up high, stretching her body felinely, the soft, worn, pine-scented shirt was removed from her body.
Her lover still stood at her back, but even without seeing him, without gazing into those depthless, emerald eyes, she knew he was fighting the urge to kneel down, to place his hands together and thank the gods.
And to thank Mala, most importantly, given her relation.
Thank Aelin.
As if he could tell (and he definitely could) her thoughts were straying, calloused fingertips drew patterns on her back, pulling her from past to present. They jumped across the plane of her back, swirling through the intricately inked tattoo he had done for her. Tracing ever so slightly around the scars that marred her skin.
Even through her shirt, she could feel his touch.
Even through her shirt, he knew where to touch her.
It had her nearly delirious with love, that he had such an intimate, detailed, and undoubtedly unique knowledge of her. Mind, body, and soul.
Rowan’s hands slid down her side, cupping her hips and then moving further, flirting dangerously with the hem of the shirt she donned. Goose bumps erupted on her thighs, skin sensitive despite how used she had become to his intimate, careful touches.
Maybe her body sensed that this time, that this time was different.
Too quickly, Rowan’s hands go from teasing her tegs and the hemline of her make-shift dress to gripping it and ripping. The rough sound of fibres breaking apart fills the silence of their room, a gasp catching in Aelin’s throat as her body is suddenly revealed.
Her gasp is soon swallowed by a cry of outrage and anger, at the icy wind her prince had sent through the room, chilling to the very bone. The wind touches her in places it never has before, sneaking through the archway of her legs, through the valley of her breasts, around the column of her neck. All before swirling around the top of her head — like a crown, like a halo.
“Get on the bed,” The words joined his winds dancing through the room, hot air fanning from his mouth contradicting the icy breeze still tormenting her body. The juxtaposition of sensations had her wetter than ever, had her dripping.
All her energy went into walking with strong, unwavering legs. She knew if Rowan so much as whispered, she’d collapse to her knees: far too desperate, far too needy to do anything but be taken on the gods-damned floor.
The gods-damned floor.
How unfitting for a queen.
Truth be told, Aelin didn’t feel like a queen at the moment. She was walking to a bed, on a man's command, arousal dripping from her, nipples tight and ready for the biting, blood clotting on her bite mark.
She felt like a whore.
And she loved it.
It was mindless and easy, it was a blissful distraction from the pressure and soul- and heart-crushing reality of her life. It was a weight off her shoulders, a pep in her step, a shine in her eyes, a smile on her lips.
It was heaven, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell the gods she was sinning.
“What did I say, Aelin? Why haven’t you moved?” his tone was one that would usually have her spitting fire and arrowing flames at his already-erected shield of wind. But here, she could do nothing but prove her own hypothesis true.
Her knees gave out and slid to the ground. Her legs were parted, her elbows shoulder width apart as they meet the cold wood. Her head hung between her shoulder, hair falling like a curtain around her flushed face.
“I can’t. Rowan, just fuck me. Don’t tease.” Her voice broke, at some point. She couldn’t imagine knowing precisely, mind too consumed with listening out for footsteps. Or the husky whisper Rowan had so recently adopted.
“You want to be fucked, my Queen?” the tone scratched an itch in the deepest corner of her brain, her heart, her body. She held back the whining moan she nearly let go. It was embarrassing enough she literally fell to her knees for this man, if she started moaning with little to no prompt, she would surely die.
And what a happy death it would be.
“Yes, your Queen wants to be fucked. By you. Now.” She tried to tug on the blood bond but found the string to be slipping from her fingers because the second she grasped the bond, her blood sworn grasped her hair.
In a fist.
A tight fist.
And he pulled.
Sensations rung through her; ran wild along her scalp and down her body. “And maybe my Queen needs to become patient. Good, good things come to those who wait, don’t they?” Her nod was frantic and exaggerated. She craved the tug on her hair, the edge it provided, the anchor it gave her to reality.
A hand of icy wind took over, gripping her hair between its phantom fingers, as Rowan’s delicious heat slid along her back until his gaze fell to between her thighs. She could feel him restraining himself, from teasing her, from speaking embarrassing, humiliating, erotic things.
And she almost dared him to do it, curious to find out how her body would react. To see how her love would react, and how well he could fill the role. But before she could open her mouth, his own met her soaking pussy and enveloped her in warm, shocking sensations.
His tongue was rough against the sensitive skin, the fine golden hair there. His lips were pliable and soft and ravenous, swiping across her lips. His teeth were a pure danger, one elongated canine pressing into the shape of her clit, sending Aelin shaking.
She bit down on her lip, grateful for the strength and sharpness of her own canines, the heightened pain the only thing keeping her from losing it completely, crashing into the floor and just begging. Luxuriating in the feel of him, Aelin sinks lower, her hips clicking loudly in the silence.
Rowan pauses her efforts, and Aelin curses her too-young-to-be-this-tired body, curses just about anything she can think of with her brain so foggy with lust.
“Are you okay?” Concern carves itself into his every word and tone and inflection, and Aelin melts for him and consequently drips for him.
“Yes. It’s only my body, don’t lose your mind, Buzzard. I can feel your over-protective fae bullshit creeping in already.” She ends her sentence with a quiet laugh that turns to big, full-bodies chortles, setting Rowan off as well.
Their bodies shaking with laughter, Rowan hones his tongue once again on her cunt and dives for it. The shock causes her to slip forward, legs parting further than before. She groans. He groans. His tongue is too busy to let anything but the vibration in his throat be heard, but she doesn’t care.
Licking a stripe up her slit, Aelin praises the gods. When his lips wrap harshly around her clit and suck, she screams out to the heavens and feels her climax approaching too fast for her to do much about it.
With the newfound knowledge of her near orgasm, Rowan pulls himself away from her clit, and once again licks along her, tongue flat and broad and touching every nerve ending he can find. Before Aelin can stop her prince, his tongue is fluttering around her back hole. She shrieks at the unfamiliar sensation and then moans at the wave of pleasure it brings, and flushes even deeper at the taboo of it.
On the precipice, she waits with bated breath as Rowan licks from ass to clit, waving his tongue over the throbbing bud. Slight, simple, barely-fucking-there touches, make her want to slap him ‘round the back of his oversized male head.
He keeps her waiting, shifting her hips desperately, thrusting back into his mouth, balancing on a singular arm so she can reach back and grip his hair. Grip and tug, a forceful encouragement.
Tears are collecting in the corners of her eyes, as the first drop breaks free down her cheek, Rowan’s teeth bite down on her clit and send her over the edge. She feels like she’s flying, high over the world, watching with Rowan as it burns.
Her body is clenching, her cunt is convulsing, and she’s hungrier now than she had been before. When she returns to the world, and rational thought, she’s greeted with the sensation of Rowan slipping to fingers into her soaked opening, feeling her walls clench around him. Desperate to be filled with the gorgeous stretch of his cock.
Her hands fist together and meet, as Rowan’s slow and careful pumping builds Aelin up as though she’s a spiral staircase. She’s dizzy and desperate, mindless and majestic. She’s a million things at once, and all of them love Rowan.
His middle and index fingers pump roughly, shaking her hips and jiggling her backside until they find a spot she didn’t know even existed. He twists and scissors his digits, curling them and clenching them. Stimulating her walls and that damn spot in any way possible, pushing and pushing until she reaches the highest possible place.
 Until she’s writhing so wantonly that she’s pulling on his shoulder blade (connected to his arm, connected to his hand, connection to those fingers, inside her cunt). Until he’s pulling his fingers completely out and leaving her pussy slick, tensing and relaxing around hellish fuck all.
His thumb presses down on her clit, as he moves forward. Circling the bundle of nerves until she’s jerking away from the touch, she’s so overstimulated. His bare chest meets her slick back, the arm that is occupied sliding under her body and pinching a rosy nipple between fingers.
Rolling and tugging and hurting.
Sending her soaring. On the wings of pleasure.
Her orgasm is one that has her screaming, a halo of flames fluttering around her head — eventually put out by Rowan’s wind, before any collateral can be created.
Aelin comes back to sense with the feeling of Rowan’s erection digging into her, his trousers divested during her time flying. He’s stripped bare, through the bridge of her body she can see the weight of it hanging, between those thickly, densely muscled thighs, dusted so carefully with hair.
His lips meet her neck, on the opposite side to her bite mark, sucking and licking and kissing, lathering her in sensation and sensuality, until his teeth are nipping at her and she’s flooded with a need, with a heat that pushes her back and back into the length, the width of him. “Stay still, Fireheart.” He encourages, hips moving to align himself; three and a half hundred years of practice meaning he needn’t look to thrust in.
The thought has her riotous with unfounded jealously, some sick part of her brain screaming mine, over and over until she’s crazy with it. Thrusting once again, despite her carranam’s command to stay still.
His palm stings against her ass, the sound cutting through the room (and others most likely). “I said, stay still. Be a good girl and obey, you’ll get rewarded.”
One hand gripping her hair once more, the other pulls on her skin until it sits pretty on the delicate, erotic swell of her hip. Finding her balance on abused elbows and knees, Rowan bumps the head of his length at her clit, sliding down slowly to notch it at her gaping entrance.
Her body hums with energy as he slides inside, as he pushes at every nerve ending until her body feels like it’s been through a hedge backwards. She’s ashamed to say how little time it takes Rowan’s cock to work her up, how it’s got her in so few thrusts.
With a tug on her hair and a light slap to the side of her ass, rowan speaks lowly into her ear. “Fuckin’ play with yourself, pinch those pretty nipples for me, get ‘em nice and sore so I can lick ‘em better when we’re in bed later.”
Maybe she should rear back and leave the room at his tone, buts she’s entrenched in her lust, so deep in it she follows blindly, pinching and twisting and rolling her nipples, rougher than Rowan had been so recently.
With her fingers playing with her nipples, rowan’s hands sliding and slapping and tugging and gripping, rowan’s cock thrusting and teasing and pleasuring, with her knees aching, with her clit throbbing, and her cunt spasming — she comes.
So delightfully beautiful as she does so, that Rowan thinks it should be framed. With his control fraying, Aelin feels it deep in her channel as he loses it, as his thrusts become erratic and hard, faster and deeper.
She can only moan as he takes her, using her for his own pleasure in a way that sends her so close to the edge it’s criminal. “Play with your clit, fuck, Aelin. Gods, get yourself off as I come so deep in you it’s gonna hurt…” he grunted now, with every stroke of him, he grunted. Deep and guttural in her ear, throwing the sound around her body. 
Abandoning her nipples, she slithered her hand down her stomach, until she reached the bump of her clit. Her finger grazed the hot, slick skin of her prince’s cock, the both of them shivering in response.
“That’s it, Aelin. Play with it, circle it. Get yourself off.” The words sent her spasming, spiralling out of control as she tightened, and tightened until she shattered. As she slipped to the floor, her arm caught beneath her body, Rowan slid over her, slumping down to cocoon her body as he jerked inside of her, coming violently.
Together, wrapped as one on the cold, hardwood flooring of their room at the inn, they were content. Oblivious to the tragedies it was their job to stop. They slept soundly that night, barely awake enough to settle onto the bed and cover themselves before sleep caught.
At that moment, the world was knocking at their doors, but with their love as a lock, they were alone still.
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llyncooljones · 2 years
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tell me how you really feel - elorcan.
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ao3 || masterlist || elorcan masterlist
word count: 3240
trigger warnings: language, innuendo, slight sexual content.
tag list: @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @rowanaelin @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @themoonthestarsthesuriel @autumnbabylon @letstakethedawn
her apartment, early hours of the morning.
Elide knows she shouldn’t have done it. She isn’t an idiot. She isn’t slow, nor is she stupid. She’s got a little dose of anxiety but that certainly isn’t enough to prompt her to screw up on such a massive scale.
It all started early one Saturday morning. And when she says early, she means at four in the morning in the college library whilst they are both starving themselves of sleep revising for exams that are in little more than seventy-two hours.
one year and two months ago, the library, four in the morning.
The words are blurring on the page, and she really isn’t sure whether the words she’s reading are about early childhood brain development, or whether they’re about the risk the lack of parental security poses for children in the foster care system.
She could probably guess, but she really doesn’t have the brain power to. She also just doesn’t feel like it. The idea of using anything: her eyes, her mouth, her laptop, her brain, her fucking lungs; hurts her body.
So, she doesn’t.
She’s just going to rest her head on this textbook, and she’s going to close her eyes and she’s going to wake up in a few hours ready for the day, ready for the gym session she has with her best friends every morning.
And she’s almost there, she’s almost asleep when the damnedest thing happens. A rumble akin to that of a battering ram bounces her head from the old, crinkly pages of her textbook. She restrains herself from shouting out, not because she gives a damn about whichever rude bastard just ruined her almost drifting off, but more because she knows every other student in this damned fucking library is also just trying to sleep on their textbooks and not fret too much.
The slow movement of her neck ends up hurting her aching spine, but she feels powerful as her eyes finally pull up alongside her head and she’s faced with him.
Tall, cocky, and muscular him.
Black hair, brown eyes, long legs him.
In her early childhood development classes, books the same study rooms as her, best friends with her best friend's boyfriend (does that make him her best-friend-in-law?) him.
Lorcan Motherfucking Salvaterre him.
And if she’s being perfectly honest with herself, she wouldn’t be surprised if his middle name really is motherfucking. Because from what she’s heard about his childhood through the everlasting grapevine her best friend is, it’s that his mother was in high enough during her pregnancy to make his middle name Motherfucking, and it to be a miracle he came out with a fully formed brain.
Funnily enough, he was born an addict.
This means he’s an uptight ass at parties who doesn’t drink or do drugs, who just sits on the stairs and looks at people when they try to get to the rooms upstairs.
Which means he’s an uptight ass at parties who always has the honour of helping her up the stairs to the good bathroom and holding back her hair, the uptight ass who always dresses her in one of his overly large t-shirts without managing to peek, the uptight ass who lets her sleep in his bed whilst his six-foot-seven self takes the armchair in the corner.
And this means he’s the unhappy, still-sleepy, uptight ass who gets to see her trainwreck self after a hangover, who brings her tomato juice and raw eggs and whatever else hangover cure he’s come across over the week. He’s the one who sees her with raccoon eyes, because he hasn’t quite learnt the trick of getting mascara off eyelashes whilst the subject sleeps.
And all this from Lorcan.
Lorcan who doesn’t acknowledge her presence outside of their Saturday night ritual, and their Sunday morning breakfasts-in-bed, Lorcan who sits as far as humanly possible from her in the lecture halls, who makes sure to take the seat on the opposite end from when they have dinners with their friends, Lorcan who’s an ass in general to her except when he’s taking care of her pint-sized ass and dropping her home in his too-tall truck that he lifts her in and out of, with the passenger seat permanently fixed to her height.
She would say they’re friends, he would say they don’t even know each other.
“Lorcan, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” she smiles sweetly, saccharinely, sleepily. And maybe, violently.
“Look, I get it. We don’t know each other outside of Saturday and Sunday, but I could really use your help for the upcoming final. It’s gonna kick my ass all the way to next Christmas if I don’t try to do anything.” His voice. Oh, how she platonically loves his voice, oh, how she platonically wet dreams about his voice.
“So, you decide to interrupt precious sleep, to ask for mentoring? Tutoring? Damn, Lor, new lows. New fucking lows.”
“I get it if you need your fucking beauty sleep, but what I need is to pass this fucking exam. I don’t give two fucks what I have to do, as long it ends with me passing.” His voice is rough, gravelly and dark, and even slightly sexual. But Elide is so tired she can’t read properly, there isn’t a chance in hell she can accurately discern tonal differences.
That edge to his voice isn’t unfamiliar to her, she knows it all too well. The same voice whispers in her ear about disappearing upstairs before the night is over. He says it so overtly that if she didn’t know he was joking, she’d just about fall to her knees and find out just how many inches her throat can take.
“You know what would wake me up? Do you know, Lorcan?” the answer, if she says so herself, is obvious.
So obvious in fact that they say it in perfect unison, despite never having said the word in front of the other before. “An orgasm.”
present-day, her apartment, early in the morning.
It’s been fourteen months of covert hook-ups; of fingering her under the table; of blow jobs in their friends’ bathrooms. Fourteen months of sparking sexual tension that even their most clueless of friends have caught onto. Fourteen months of his big self, pleasing her tiny one.
And now, he’s lying in her bed. In fact, they’re lying in her bed together, the covers pulled high to fight off the brutal air conditioning, with his body curled around hers, that massive hard-on of his poking deliciously at the lush curves of her.
They’re spooning in her bed, and she can’t remember the last time they didn’t sleep in the same bed as each other, can’t remember a time when his toothbrush wasn’t in the cup next to hers, can’t think of the last moment his hoodie wasn’t hanging off one of her dining chairs.
It’s either his room or hers, and whichever one you walk into, the other’s presence is painfully obvious. Elide has left her cacti tote bag hanging on the coat hooks in his hallways, and her embroidered Doc Martens are at the foot of his bed, and a bottle of her favourite perfume sits next to his delightful cologne.
Her head is resting comfortably against the muscles in his biceps and triceps, her hair falling all over her shoulders and his forearms. And her eyes are heavy even though her mind is racing, and it’s all because of the steady breaths her fuckbuddy is taking, and the slow rise and fall of his chest against her back, and the gentle reminder of his heartbeat on her shoulder.
That comforting scent of his that’s all man, and rugged, and cinnamon, and just delicious. That’s soothing and home-like to her conditioned brain.
Her eyes are still closed but what keeps her awake is as clear to her now as it would be if she were looking at it.
It’s sitting in the back left corner of her nightstand drawer, and it’s a little box wrapped in ‘woodland man’ wrapping paper. It’s maybe the size of her palm, the width of his wrist, the height of the soles of her Vans. So, it’s small, inconspicuous, and really quite insignificant.
But at the same time, it’s the most important box that’s ever existed, in relation to her and Lorcan’s situation. Because it changes everything, no matter the reaction.
No matter how many times she’s tried to convince herself it doesn’t matter, she knows it really does. No matter how many times she tells herself it’s something every friends-with-benefits relationship does, she knows it isn’t.
Underneath the neat wrapping that took her far too long to complete, is a black box with a faintly embossed logo that is written in the Old Language, and then underneath a layer of tissue paper, in a silk pouch, is a delicate, faux-weathered chain; a little medallion attached to it.
The silver oval is also faux-weathered, looking as though it has lasted a lifetime against someone’s chest, being brushed by clothes, eroded by rubbing against the sheets. Words that are smaller than others, and a face that isn’t perfect.
The necklace wasn’t supposed to happen.
She had seen it in the shop window whilst running errands in downtown Orynth, and the first thought that popped into her head was that Lorcan would love it. After that: she put it out of her mind, she forgot about it.
Until the next day whilst she was going for a run down the main high street – building up her endurance for whatever reason (whatever reason being so that she and Lorcan could go for longer without her getting out of breath so suddenly).
She had ignored it again, knowing it was wrong. Knowing she shouldn’t.
But then she did, she bought the necklace, she chose what she knew Lorcan would love, and she had it gift-wrapped to the very fucking max. She bought him a present, and it might as well have been the most nerve-wracking moment of her life.
Excluding every single moment since then, constantly plagued with the notion that he might hate it, that he might reject her, that it might be the straw that broke the metaphorical camel’s back of their relationship. Their relationship that she isn’t sure is a relationship.
A shift of Lorcan’s thigh between her own has her thoughts slipping, as the hard muscle brushes against the most intimate parts of her. With her cunt throbbing against his thigh, she makes the scariest decision.
Her sudden stillness, or maybe it’s the lack of grinding back onto his thigh, catches the attention of her fuckbuddy, and creates a sudden stillness in him as well. She hates it. They should be fuckbuddies. They should fuck, be buddies, and leave the other’s bed.
Instead, they fuck, then they fuck again, then they chat and talk like they’re married, fuck again, have breakfast, spend the day together; and so, it goes on. You get the point. She knows his habits in the way she never her ex-boyfriend's habits, he knows her moods and how to fix them like even her best friend doesn’t.
So, they aren’t fuckbuddies. Not really. They’re a couple in a year-long, hidden relationship who masquerade as fuckbuddies and keep their whole sham of a relationship (whichever way they may choose to define it) hidden from the prying eyes of their friends.
With a hand around her waist, and the other gently cupping her neck, his chest vibrates as he utters the words, she knew he would: “What you got on your mind, El?” She doesn’t respond, not for a beat, and then not for another beat. She can feel his heart racing as her shoulder blades press into the wide expanse of his chest.
“Nothing,” simple, concise, evasive (and gods, does Lorcan know that).
The dark-haired man behind her doesn’t even deign her bullshit with an answer, not even an action, not even the tilting of his neck. Instead, he stares at the back of her head like he can see the lies, like he can see the truths, like he can see the love.
“No, really, it's nothing. It’s ir-fucking-relevant.” A hint of anger has crept up into her tone, like a dog on a scent, Lorcan picks up on it. She can tell by the quick indrawn breath he takes when she curses. When his arms begin to tighten around her, as his hand forms a fist somewhere under the pillows. She can tell in a million different ways that this has bothered him, and gods-damn, does it bother Elide that she knows it.
“Seriously, El. What has your panties in a bunch?” trust Lorcan fucking Salvaterre to be relentless, trust Lorcan fucking Salvaterre to see straight through every boundary, brick wall, and bullshitted response. Trust Elide fucking Lochan to become fuckbuddies who aren’t really fuckbuddies with the one person in the entire universe who will ever know her better than she knows herself.
Trust in that.
Trust, that in any awkward situation, Elide fucking Lochan will make a dirty joke, trust that she’ll fuck it all up.
“Nothing—because I don’t have any on. Which you know, Mr Salvaterre. Which you know very well.” Her sentences are punctuated with steady grinding movements against the thick muscle of his thigh, against the dark hair there that always sends her for a loop (or five).
“Elide. I am not, in any way, in the mood for this. C’mon. Be straight with me about this. Who can we tell, if we can’t tell each other.” His words hurt. Because she knows, she knows that the next words out of her mouth are going to stab him deeper than any knife could have ever dreamed of. She’s going to make a weapon of words, and she’s going to make sure that the knife can never be pulled out.
And she’s going to hate herself for it.
“See, this! This, this right here! This is my exact fucking issue. When we go from fuckbuddies to each other’s confessor, to each other’s confidant, to each other’s one and fucking lonely. We’ve become content to stay in with each other, we’ve become ten years married during the span of a year-long fuckbuddy relationship. Isn’t that so fucked!” her outburst is loud and proud and so terribly contradictory to Lorcan’s calm demeanour, his hurt expression, she watches the progression of it across the stone-hewn features of his face.
Elide had never known his face could look like that, so utterly destroyed. It sort of folds inwards, his forehead creasing with lines, his eyebrows furrowing, crow’s feet that a twenty-something shouldn’t have even more pronounced. His nose scrunching up like a toddler that’s eaten something bad.
And then she’s angry again. 
Because they’re fuckbuddies, she shouldn’t notice all the minuscule changes in his face, shouldn’t notice what she does. And yet she does.
“Well fuck me sideways, Elide. Tell me how you really feel, then. I don’t think you got it all out that time.” His tone isn’t even angry, not even vicious. Its deeply sympathetic, understanding, and forever patient. 
Because, fuck her, he knows her in the horrifying detail. And she knows him in the very same manner. Every single secret he’s kept is trusted to her, each scar he wears is hers to weep for, all his anger is hers to understand.
“I— Lor, you know that’s not how I feel. It’s just that… well you know, don’t you. Fucking serves me right for telling you everything. After all that, I don’t want to have to let anyone in, and yet you arrived at my front door and coaxed it open without even trying to. So much so that you’re in my head fucking everywhere I go,” she stands up abruptly, shivering as the warmth of the bed and of Lorcan rifts away from her, shivering as the nerves take over her body, and shivering as she walks across weathered floorboards to her nightstand drawer and pulls out her very own poltergeist. “Anyway. You want to know: so fucking know.”
She chucks the wrapped box at his head and closes her eyes, turning her back to the hunk of man behind her. She holds herself still and he moves to sit up, her knowledge aided by the squeaking of the mattress and bed frame. She holds her breath as he pulls the paper from the tape, savouring the wrapping paper with a laugh. She loses her mind so thoroughly when she hears the crinkling of tissue paper and the slide of the string against the pouch. She just about collapses into herself when the dinging of the chain hits her ears, as she bears her soul so completely to him without even looking into his eyes.
Wringing her hands, she still faces away, her breathing in fucking shambles. So much for breathing techniques, she thinks, thanking her therapist profusely.
“It’s, uh, it’s Saint Rita of Cascia. She was, at her canonization ceremony, made the Patroness of Impossible Causes. Though she became known as the patroness of abused wives and heartbroken women. She is known as the patron—or rather patroness—saint of lost, or improbable causes, sickness, and wounds, marital problems, abuse, and mothers.
“I saw the medallion walking through downtown and it made me think of your mother, and all she went through. And then I thought of you, and what you believe about yourself. And I want it to be a sign of the future for you, a sign of what was, rather than what is. You and your mother escaped the fucking hell of your dad, and I simply will not allow you to think of yourself as a lost cause. And I know it’s stupid and you probably hate it, but I hope it reminds you of how far you’ve come a—” she cut off abruptly when she’s wrapped in, quite possibly, the tightest, warmest, most deliciously perfect hug in the history of the world.
With his thick arms wrapped around her, banded under her breasts, his chest is pressed into her back, not leaving a single atom between them. His chin is tucked against the crown of her head, and she feels the safest she ever has. 
Those soft, plush, sinful lips let loose the secrets of the world as they spill the most perfect sentence, she’s ever had the pleasure of listening to, “I love it. Lochan, fuck, I love it a little less than I love you, Elide Lochan.” 
His heartbeat doesn’t even change. Doesn’t speed up, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t skip a beat. He’s so painfully in love with her that he doesn’t even react. He’s so used to feeling this way, that it’s like unlocking a front door he’s been knocking on. It’s like sitting down on the sofa and wrapping a blanket around himself, it’s like everything he ever wished for when he was young, it’s like everything he thought it would be, and better.
Elide can barely believe what he’s saying, but the heart of her knows he’s right, knows he’s telling the most wonderful truth, and knows that she’s feeling the exact same fucking way. 
“Ditto, Lorcan Salvaterre, ditto.”
And that is all they’ve ever needed. That’s all they ever will. As they travel through life together, their love for each other.
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llyncooljones · 2 years
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soulmates are rare, it's the point - rowaelin month day two.
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ao3 || masterlist || rowaelin month ‘22 masterlist 
prompt: pregnancy/babies. part one — miracles are rare, it’s the point part two — blessings are rare, it’s the point
word count: 2349
trigger warnings: miscarriage, language, depression, pain, angst, and hurt/comfort.
tag list: @rowaelinscourt @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @rowanaelin  @fireheartwhitethorn4ever  @elentiyawhitethorn @autumnbabylon @leiawritesstories
many years later, the living area.
Rowan had woken that morning knowing what day it would be. His wife was asleep next to him, and to anyone else she might have looked peaceful, content, and happy even when they spied her freakishly relaxed expression.
But Rowan had known immediately. Her eyebrows were straight, severe lines. Her lips held no soft tilting at the corners, her eyes were screwed closed, her hair was a rat’s nest, a bird’s nest atop her head; were she to have a good day, she would have woken up with nary a knot in her spun sugar hair. Even in her sleep, she appeared to be readying herself for battle.
And she would be fighting one today.
But just as always, Rowan would ready himself alongside her, fight next to her, with her, together. Never leaving her until she’s put the last demon to rest, whether that be in hours or in days.
He knew his movements were frantic, jumpy, and all together rushed. But he couldn’t seem to be able to bring himself to care about such irrelevant things as how he appeared to his friends. Not when he could feel his sleeping wife’s torment through their mating bond.
Stood before his entire court, in yesterday’s tunic and loose canvas trousers, he felt drained. He had already got their children ready for the day, telling them that he and mummy were going to hang out alone today, that they would spend today with aunt Lysandra and uncle Aedion, as well as aunt Elide and uncle Lorcan. They had all been so excited, whilst all Rowan could feel was sympathy and the sort of agony only matters of the heart could conjure.
Luca had arrived bearing a chocolate hazelnut cake that was too big for most but just right for Aelin. Alongside him were several other boxes of Aelin’s favourites for later in the day, when she had made her way through the cake.
Fenrys was there, with a little note. Written in which was the code he and Aelin had used to communicate whilst they were locked away. When her bad days were the worst, she couldn’t bring herself to speak, so the blinking code they had come with was most effective. Rowan already knew the code by heart, but he couldn’t blame Fenrys for coming along and giving it to him.
Everyone knew how tough these days were for Aelin and Rowan, all anyone wanted to do was support them. With his children handed off their aunts and uncles, the chocolate cake in his arms, and the rest of the food set to be delivered to their room after lunch—the note tucked firmly between his tunic and his chest—he began the journey to his rooms.
His heart grew heavier with each step towards her, as he grew closer, as the bond grew stronger, he could almost feel the exact same pain as her. His lower lid grew heavy with unshed tears as he too was consumed with the thoughts of their unborn children, of all the what-ifs and the ' once-upon-a-times .
He was a red-cheeked, tear-streaked mess when he arrived at the doors to their room. He couldn’t help but lean against the strong wood of their carved doors, and heave out a sob, followed by more. He needed to be strong for his mate today, for Aelin but that didn’t mean he couldn’t also be weak.
There was power in crying together, wrapped around one another, supporting the other beyond what words, items, or anyone else could. As he pulled his free hand down his face, muffling another sob, he was helpless to block out the thoughts of his mate. The bond was only stronger as they both cried, as they were both so close to the other.
A thousand things he wished he never had to feel again, a thousand things he’d felt before, when he had loved his wife through days like this before, slammed into at once. The shame and guilt, the fear and the anxiety. The hate and the anger, the failure and the neglect. It was so much, all the micro emotions, all the mal wishes for herself, all the self-loathing.
He was overwhelmed by it, by the strength of his partner, the strength that sometimes needed to be built back up, restructured, rebuilt, and supported more. He was overwhelmed by it, by the bravery his wife constantly showed to even get out of bed every day.
The strength he had never had before meeting Aelin, now together, they met every challenge they faced (positive or negative) head on. As opposed to turning into birds and avoiding the real world for ten years.
The thought of his young idiocy brought a smile to the old male’s face, his harsh, sad features cracking to allow a self-deprecating laugh through.
He stayed slumped against the door for far too long, crying, thinking, composing himself, being weak so that later he could be strong for two people. With a heart heavier than he thought possible, he made his silent way into the bedroom they shared. The cake was placed on his bedside table, whilst the fire she set last night was encouraged by a wave of warm air.
Stripping out his hurriedly adorned clothing, he relaxed back into bed, gripping Aelin's curled-up form, placing her back against his whilst he wrapped his limbs so tightly around her, he could barely breathe; let alone her.
The warmth was delightful, and with tear-stained cheeks, and a broken heart, Rowan Whitehorn-Galathynius went back to sleep with his wife in his arms.
some hours later, the royal chambers.
Mornings had once been quiet; Aelin was haunted by that quiet this morning. Those when she couldn’t hear the shouts and laughter of her children as she woke in the morning. She felt those long ago pressing down upon her chest.
Twisting a hand around her throat, strangling her until she couldn’t keep her head up straight, until she couldn’t feel her feet.
They always used to be. And, gods, how haunting they were, once upon a time, in the Whitehorn-Galathynius castle. Those mornings had been hell, knowing she had failed once more. Knowing that once again it was her own fault she had to wake up to silence, to empty cots and unused rooms.
She, in her mind, couldn’t decide which was worse. Never having heard the laughter of her own children or knowing and remembering when she didn’t. she didn’t want to dwell on it, but her mind wouldn’t move forward. Would continue its thought process beyond those losses.
She hadn’t yet opened her eyes, hadn’t braved the world just yet. Couldn’t bring herself to bask in the morning’s light and glory when all she could feel was shame and failure and the overwhelming sense that she was an awful person, that she didn’t deserve the love she was given every day by her husband, by her children, by friends and family, by her subjects.
She didn’t feel deserving of brightness, all she wanted was the dark, the infinite blackness she imagined hell to be. Where she belonged, for all the times she had failed, for all the times she forgot about that failure.
She was content to be afraid, she didn’t much care if she got out of bed, didn’t much care if she faced the world today. She felt guilty, she felt dirty, she felt all these things and she couldn’t escape them.
Every time she tried to move past, tried to think of how Rowan would react to her thoughts, of her children’s smiles, of the happy laughter she had helped create, her mind shut back down.
She was pulled back under, ripped apart in the riptide that was her warring mind.
The part of her that knew she was deserving, that her miscarriages were a cruel twist of circumstance, that none of it was her fault, that she could be happy with her children, that being happy wasn’t a betrayal to the children she had failed previously.
Versus the part of her, that was dark and ugly. That said she couldn’t be happy, that it was a disservice to all the children she had now forgotten about. The voice that asked if she even remembered how many times she had miscarried or if she was too happy to even care for her  failures .
She got up most days, ninety-nine out of one hundred days she was happy and grateful and thriving. She was silently grieving but the weight had become lighter as she learnt to appreciate how she had grown through the trauma, how she grew and matured. The weight became lighter as she earnt to share its load, as she learnt to focus on the present and future whilst only learning from the past.
But today, she was having her one day out of one hundred. She couldn’t smile, couldn’t laugh, couldn’t even get up. She couldn’t escape the weight of her miscarriages as it punched at her heart.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her body curled into itself under the thick, soft, and luxurious duvet and blankets. She wished she and her husband had designed their royal chambers darker, the whites and gold and pale greys of everything were too bright as she wallowed. It was all too happy, and her brain screamed at her that she didn’t deserve happiness.
Not after what she’d done.
Even as she lay there, doubting her validity as a person, a partner, a parent, she could feel the vehement anger and disagreement from her sleeping husband. She could feel the subconscious tightening of his arms every time their bond—both carranam and mating—picked up on her negative thoughts about herself. The worst ones were always shortly followed by a growl and a still-subconscious kiss on her head.
Her limbs were screaming at her to be stretched out, so with careful movements, she pushed herself from her coiled position to a straighter one. Her back against the infinite warmth of his chest. She felt that it was a perfect metaphor for them, the way they fit together, the way they were lined up, the way they were hot and cold, soft and solid, Rowan and Aelin.
A large hand of his spread out across her stomach, the familiar position brought tears to her eyes. The mornings she and Rowan had spent cuddled around one another, his hands pressed against her stomach, trying to get as close to their child as he could without physically slipping into Aelin’s body.
Her mind was instantly darkened, transported back to the days after a miscarriage when they behaved as they did now. When Rowan gripped her stomach not out of love and adoration, but in a constant transfer of his healing power, to quell the ripping sensation in her lower stomach. To heal the only pain he could, as her heart remained ripped to shreds where his magic could not touch it.
Behind her, beyond the shroud of darkness, she felt lost within, swallowed by, Rowan roused. His head nuzzled into the top of hers, kissed her all over and showed affection he would usually deem excessive—and she would usually agree with him.
But the understanding during her bad days, during these days, is that no level of affection could be too much. She needed so much, and Rowan felt better when he was physically connected to Aelin.
“Fireheart,” he murmurs. The sadness in his voice, the slight break also, told her all she needed to know. That he had already broken himself and pieced himself back together whilst she’d been sleeping. Her heart broke for him, for the fact that she couldn’t help him. Rolling over was suddenly important, her movements became frantic as she manoeuvred to hug him closer and wrap herself around him.
“Oh, Buzzard,” was whispered in return. A silent message was passed between them, the support offered and taken, love shared and kept close, understanding cherished and understood. They would become strong again together, they would rebuild her one brick at a time, no matter it if fell down, no matter if it was shattered until she was whole again.
The rest of their day was filled with chocolate hazelnut cake, and all the other delicacies Luca had whipped up for them. They shared tears and smiles, and their laughs filtered through the castle like a transmission from a radio. Their tears were often, and their tears were heavy, but Rowan always had a corner of his tunic to offer to Aelin’s nose, and Aelin always had a kiss ready for his lips as a thank you.
They talked about all the  what-ifs , Rowan cried as Aelin explained the exact feeling she had woken up to, and cried even harder when she explained how potent and frequent some of her self-hatred was.
They stayed together until they were strong enough to be apart again until there were no gaps in Aelin’s emotional armour for the demons that taunt her to get in through. The was no doubt about her motherhood. They hugged until Aelin was sure the red marks from his grip around her would end up being tattoos.
They loved each other and took care of one another until the was no room for hate in their atmosphere until there was space for anything beyond admiration, adoration and irrevocable, undeniable, irreplaceable love.
Aelin fell asleep that night, her children lying safely between her and her husband, exhausted from bath night with their parents and a fun day of whatever the hell Lysandra, Aedion, Lorcan, and Elide could agree on.
She fell asleep in love with herself, in love with her determination, her perseverance, her passion, her general brilliance, once more and made sure that as they tumbled head first to sleep that he too was in love with himself, his grit and his hard work, his fabulousness, his overall superbness.
But most of all, she fell asleep with Rowan.
And Rowan fell asleep with Aelin.
And they fell asleep with their family.
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llyncooljones · 2 years
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lie down, sleep now - rowaelin month day twelve.
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ao3 || masterlist || rowaelin month ‘22 masterlist 
prompt: CANON WEEK: rowaelin in the library rowan gifted.
word count: 1377
trigger warnings: language.
tag list: @rowaelinscourt  @live-the-fangirl-life  @rowaelinismyotp  @rowanaelin  @fireheartwhitethorn4ever  @elentiyawhitethorn  @autumnbabylon  @leiawritesstories  @backtobl4ck
the library, late afternoon.
The library was the first project they completed, after ensuring the rest of the kingdom was living in relative comfort. It had been so many weeks of hard work, hammering and building until all hours of the night.
Aelin had not been allowed to help, but since the completion of the library, over ten years ago, she had made the most of use of it. Even compared to scholars who worked in the library—she spent more time between those stacks.
The end of each bookshelf had wrydmarks carved or burnt into them, preventing the shelves from being broken, burnt, or drowned. There was this black space in the knowledge of the world they lived in, a complete lack of literature about fae and their lives.
It was being rewritten, books were being rediscovered, cross-world contacts and deals were being called, trying to restock the ancient libraries and the new libraries. Making sure there would be such a lack of knowledge that a new war would break out.
Aelin worked tirelessly to fill those gaps, to write her own accounts, to send their message to as many dark corners of the universe as they could. To try and eradicate the message the Valg had spread. It was an exhausting job, heartbreaking, too.
But she would never stop doing it, she would rather die trying than watch another war break out, and see other innocent people killed and hurt over somebody’s horrific ideals. She would rather cry herself to sleep after reading eyewitness accounts than sleep soundly and wonder what-if.
These were the sacrifices she had to make, and she was all too happy to make them if it meant she kept her kingdom, her universe safe from the likes of the Valg. She would do everything she could, everything at all, to ensure the children she would have—would never even have to consider the word ‘genocide’.
She loved her library, loved even more so that it had been designed, overseen, and partially built by her husband. It didn’t hurt that he took care of maintenance to the wrydmarks and the general shelves. Didn’t hurt that he loved to restock her shelves or find books for her.
But as she opened one of the double doors that lead to the library—she couldn’t muster the strength, energy, or general excitement—to push them both open and strut through like she was young and crazy still (she was only thirty). Her steps were slow and quiet, and she was so exhausted that she even closed the door softly, so she didn’t send her head throbbing with the clattering bang it made.
Her hands were limp by her sides, not stretched out to graze the books or the bookshelves, her eyes weren’t drawn to recently re-done wrydmarks, nor did she notice the eyes that trailed after her, the concern etched in the scholar’s faces, the murmurs about why she was acting like she was.
Everyone was concerned, and if Aelin had known she was being watched, she would both be flattered and grateful for their worry, and yet also be horrified she had let them see her so weak, so feeble.
She kept walking, and didn’t stop until she found her husband, her mate. He was stood against a shelf, consulting a book on wrydmarks, tracing the shape in the air with his finger, his mouth moving in time. Aelin stood before him for a moment, not for long, because when her husband looked up, and he saw her, he closed the book. Closed it like it had bit his fingers off and he sent it flying on a gust of wind to the shelf it belonged on.
She smiled faintly at the casual show of his prowess, of his control, and couldn’t help but feel so indescribably safe. So happy in her fatigue, in her sadness, in her heart-crushing reality. Because Rowan was there, and he was going to help, he was going to support her until she didn’t it anymore—but when she did again, she knew he would never hesitate to do so.
And then she smiled again, a little brighter, as she vowed to herself that no matter how busy she got, and that no matter how big the pile of paper next to her desk was, she would never get so busy, that she couldn’t support her husband, that she couldn’t be strong for him when he felt weak when he was remembering all the worst things—and she had to be his sunshine, she had to be his happiness.
Aelin watched through tired eyes, as her blurred husband walked towards her. His arms outstretched, she smelt him so strong as he stood before her. she felt him so solid, so real, so lovely as he enveloped her in his arms, in those strong, shielding arms.  
“Fireheart,” he murmured against her ear, she heard him, and she shivered, she heard him, and she sighed. “How about we go to your section, and we have a little lie-down? Sounds good, baby?” the softness in his voice, the way he delicately brushed against her back, would have made her a little embarrassed had she not been so close to collapsing entirely.
She nodded, too tired to make her vocal cords work. She nodded, desperate to feel the friction of her husband’s shirt against her cheek. She nodded, hoping it would wake her up.
Aelin’s favourite thing, though, about Rowan designing the library, and building it too, was that he tailored it to her, to them. He created a section entirely for them, entirely for him and her, and whatever family they would have in the future.
He built shelves so high they needed ladders, he built sofas so luxurious that Aelin loved to sleep in them, and he built a fireplace so warm that Aelin never felt the need to leave. He built a place so perfectly that could never imagine calling anything else hers, anything else theirs, anything else home.
He gripped her body calmly like she was glass, and he physically could not drop her—but the nightmare of it happening still plagued him. His fingers were soft on her body, and his carry was luxurious as the meandered through bookshelves and tables, light becoming bright, light becoming dimmer.
When they reached the door, she felt the strain of his arm to open the heavy doors, but she knew deeply that he hadn’t entertained, hadn’t even thought, to put her down and make his life easier. Maybe she fell a little bit more in love with him.
The door swung open but didn’t slam. Aelin knew it was because Rowan had sent his wind to stop the door, knew he was happy to use his magic like this, that it soothed a hungry instinct in him, that she let him take care of her, even when she felt the need to be independent, and do things alone, do things her way.
And she loved it so much, that he didn’t let her run herself dry, that he refused to stand by and let her hurt herself, that he was always going to be there to hold her back when she needed to be; always going to be there to stand beside her with his hand in hers, his crown crooked like hers; always going to be there to guide the way when she was lost in the darkness and had no light; always going to be there to push her further and help her succeed in ways she hadn’t imagined.
The door closed when they were through the doorway, the little surge of wind closing it softly, saving Aelin from a headache.
With a shaky finger, she sent sparks to light the fire, and Rowan sent his wind to expedite the process. He cradled her carefully as they moved to the sofa, and when he sat down, she didn’t even notice—not until the floor was suddenly closer.
With slight movements, Aelin felt him shuffle back, lay her down on the material, and then position himself behind her, dragging a thick blanket over them, making sure her comfort was key, making sure her rest was the best it could be.
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llyncooljones · 2 years
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orange love - rowaelin month day ten.
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ao3 || masterlist || rowaelin month ‘22 masterlist 
prompt: unconventional way to score a date.
inspired by this tumblr post, which i found on tiktok. i spent a while trying to find this.
word count: 1388
trigger warnings: language.
tag list: @rowaelinscourt @live-the-fangirl-life  @rowaelinismyotp  @rowanaelin @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @elentiyawhitethorn  @autumnbabylon @leiawritesstories @backtobl4ck
campus, after class.
It was in his third class of the day, when Rowan discovered the twenty-eighth orange in his backpack. This time, it was slipped into the open front pocket of his bag. He often forgot to close the zip, only carrying a pack of gum and a spare pencil in the pocket.
He had needed that spare pencil in the class, and reached down to grab the smooth article, only for his fingertips to be met with the waxy, thick skin of an orange. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised. He shouldn’t have been, not when the trend had been going on for so long.
Going on for so long, that he had analysed which people were in which of his classes, who was in all of them, who he saw regularly outside of campus, and who he saw at parties.
It truly had him puzzled.
To the extent that, on one tired afternoon, after finding orange segments squished under his water bottle and staining several of his notebooks, he went to every store that college students went to, and that sold orange-like products, and bought all of their orange-like products.
Every, single one.
Yes, it was expensive for a broke college student. And yes, it was time-consuming, eating at least one orange per pack, and trying to decide if it matched the flavour profile of his oranges. Of the oranges, most with the leaves still attached, juicier than they had any right to be, tart and sweet, and the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.
But now, he had tasted every single orange-like product he could get his addicted hands, and none of them matched. By now, he had literally catalogued every single person who was in his classes, and all of them that he saw out and about on campus.
And yet, no answers. Not a single one.
At the rate he was going, he was going to have to start believing in poltergeists and aliens and teleportation and invisible people. Because he had quite literally ran himself dry trying to find a fucking answer.
And he didn’t want to say it was pissing him off, but he was a little sick of not knowing, especially given how his friends made fun of it all. Every time they saw an orange, no matter where they were, no matter who they were around, there were kissing sounds made, fake fucking going on, and a whole load of ‘Rowan Whitehorn, the orange-sexual’ being chanted.
The good news was that his friends, and he in fact, were known for their jokes and their pranks. And the idea that it was friends planting them in his bag had crossed his mind, but he had ultimately dismissed it. Because, they didn’t have the patience for it. They were more, a bucket of water on a door, kind of people. Not keeping someone on the edge of their chair for weeks, kind of people.
But now, he was peeling the orange he had found during his third class, and meandering through back streets, and walking down roads he had never walked down before, on his way home. He was taking a breath of fresh air, stopping and smelling the roses.
But when he smelt orange blossoms, his head turned. Surely not. He can’t have spent so much money, just to find which orange had been placed in his bag, just for those oranges to be completely free.
Following his nose, he turned a corner around the house on the end, to find a towering orange tree planted in the corner of the garden. With branches twisting over the pavement, blooming white flowers, and ripe oranges dragging their branches down, Rowan would say that he had found his source.
Now he just needed to know who was picking these oranges from the tree, because he could not afford to keep finding soaked notebooks. It simply wasn’t in the cards, not when his parents had sent him off to college, with a hug and nice, warm ‘provide for yourself’.
They were kind like that.
As he continued around the tree, reaching a hand up to pluck down an orange, his actions were interrupted. A lone voice called out to him, obviously upset to see someone picking the fruit. “Hey, what are you doing? You can’t go around stealing someone’s garden fruit. That is not on, you fucking fruit thief. I need these fucking oranges. How the fuck else am I supposed to get oranges to—”
Her blonde hair shocked him, light in comparison to the black of her mood. But when those individual strands shone in the late autumn sun, all he could see was how the strands were reflected in her eyes, gold ringing her blue pupils.
He sort of stood there, struck dumb by her beauty, and wondered if she was ever going to finish her sentence. He was curious why she would need these oranges, and what she could have been doing with them.
“Why do you the oranges, can’t you just buy them at the shop, they aren’t hard to come by. Pretty fucking common, no need to be all defensive. I’m not trying to steal them.
“It’s just, I’ve been finding these oranges in my backpack for nearly a month now. And I’ve been trying to work out who’s been placing them there. And I’m genuinely struggling, none of the times matched up. So, I tried to work it out based on orange, but then my friends told me I was mental. But not as mental as someone who would leave oranges in someone’s bag. So now I think I’m being haunted for something I did in a previous life, and let me tell you, I do not believe in ghosts, nor do I believe in reincarnation.”
She stood there, sort of struck dumb. Her mouth was gaping, and she seemed to not understand him. He wondered if it meant she was the orange person, or whatever clever he would come up with soon.
She couldn’t be.
That would be ridiculous. And crazy. And just, how had he not noticed her, how had he never seen this girl putting oranges in his backpack? He really should have. Maybe he should apologize to her. for never truly seeing her.
Before that, though, he should make sure it was her. before he went around accusing every girl he saw as an orange poltergeist.
Because that would not be smart. The last time he had accused a woman of being something she wasn’t, he’d found himself wearing tequila and beer for the rest of the night. But he was able to get drunk just by licking his fingers. So, who was the real loser, in that interaction?
“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say that I’ve just insulted you. And called you insane. Because you have been putting these oranges in my backpack.” He was hesitant. Not speaking regularly. Giving pauses for her to stop him during, making sure he was never speaking over her.
But she didn’t stop him. And she let him continue on.
And with his keen sense of smell, he had found his orange person. And he really needed to find a better name.
“I get that this doesn’t make sense to you. About the oranges. And I’m sorry about that. But I kind of thought it would. Where I come from, as a way to show our affection for people, we would give them food. The brighter the food, the brighter our feelings. The fresher the fruit, the deeper the feelings. The nicer the fruit, the crazier the feelings. So, fresh off the tree, bright orange, oranges would be like a love declaration.
“Not that this is a love declaration. But it is a like declaration? If you accept it?” he watched her mouth move, the way she shaped her words and proved her accent with those tiny, flicked motions of her tongue, and the thickness of her vowels.
“So, what you’re saying, is that for the last month, you’ve been covertly asking me out, in a way I never knew existed. And you still want to go out with me.? Because if so, yeah. I'd love to, the last time I experienced so much dedication was when, was a while ago.”
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llyncooljones · 2 years
Text
ladle your love on me - rowaelin month day eight.
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ao3 || masterlist || rowaelin month ‘22 masterlist 
prompt: rowaelin dancing
word count: 1314
trigger warnings: language, slight sexual content
tag list: @rowaelinscourt @live-the-fangirl-life  @rowaelinismyotp  @rowanaelin @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @elentiyawhitethorn  @autumnbabylon @leiawritesstories @backtobl4ck
their kitchen, dinner time.
It was their first night in their own apartment. Aelin was sat snug on the countertop, between two teetering towers of moving boxes. If she tipped her head up, to read the messy handwriting in black permanent marker, she would discover they were full of her clothes.
In other words, the movers—Lorcan, Fenrys, Elide, and all the rest of their ragtag group of friends—they’d hired—bribed with Rowan’s cooking and Aelin’s stellar company—had done a shit job and deserved to be fired—kicked out of the living room they were lying down in, sans Rowan’s cooking.
Neither Aelin nor Rowan had thrown out any of their stuff nor did they want to. They weren’t hoarders, but when you put two lots of twenty-two years’ worth of stuff it certainly did appear so. Two sets of everything, double the amount of art than they had wall space to hang art.
She had a feeling that the next few months would be spent crying as she and Rowan donated copious amounts of stuff to charity shops and homeless shelters. She had a feeling that the next few months would be spent shouting at each other trying to figure out whose bedsheets were nicest, and whose plates were the newest, or the nicest, or the least likely to break when inevitably dropped by Aelin and her famed butter fingers.
Now, though, during their first night in the first place they can call theirs, she doesn’t worry about it. Or at the very least she tries not to worry about it all. Instead, she occupies herself by eavesdropping on the conversations their friends are having in their brand-new living room.
She joyous laughter jumping around from Fenrys, the low grunt that Lorcan rarely supplies their friend group with. The echoing slap as Elide swats at his upper arm, the chuckles Aedion and Lysandra blurt out, turning into one another’s arms for support.
And she just sits there, praying the teetering boxes don’t fall down on her head, thankful for all she has. Because she isn’t sure she could have done it—do anything, alone and cold.
As the voices quieten down, as turns her attention to the hulking figure in the same room as her, the giant who is cursing the too-short countertops and stopping every few minutes to roll his shoulders out and stretch the tightening muscles in his back.
And what a back it is, she thinks, staring intently at the muscles rippling and the way his tattoo peeks up at the neckline, and the way his bulky shoulders flow down into biceps you could squash a man’s head with.
“I can feel you staring at me, babe. Something you want to tell me?” his voice is smooth and scratchy, delicious in a way she can’t quite define.
She opens her mouth to answer him, suddenly shy. She taps her tongue against the back of her teeth, thinking up an answer that isn’t fuck me, right now. She can’t. She honestly can’t fathom a thought beyond the stunning looks of her boyfriend, her new live-in boyfriend.
“Taste test?” she asks, now with an excuse. Her boyfriend turns to her, his eyes raised, suspicion written all over his facial expressions. She knows it’s flimsy, why would she be staring, drooling over her boyfriend if all she really wanted was to taste his food. It doesn’t make sense, but ever the Aelin-lover, Rowan ignores her silliness, opting instead to grab a spoon and dip it in the sauce that was simmering, slowly thickening and becoming sticky.
He takes one measured step to the island, to her, before slotting himself in between her legs. Automatically, she wraps them around him, ankles resting above the curve of his ass. The ass she’s obsessed with, that she dreams about, that constantly wants to take a bite out of.
A hand goes under her chin, tipping her up to her boyfriend’s level, thumb and forefinger gripping her jaw, the others curled under to support her chin. The hand holding the spoon taps against her lips and she accepts the offering as if she’s a goddess and Rowan is her worshipper.
She feels the analogy fits, because the food he gives her, is a form of worship, and if it isn’t already should absolutely become a form. The rich flavours, the textures that just feel like heaven over her tongue, the skill and effortless passion he puts into his food, the way he cares for his recipes like he would a pet, or a family heirloom.
He slowly pulls the spoon from between her lips, she purposely bites on it, just so her boyfriend—ever irritated by the sound of teeth on metal—smacks her lightly on her hip, enough to sting, enough to heat her blood. With her legs still wrapped around his waist, her arms join the party: winding around his neck, her finger scratching at the short hair at the nape of his neck.
The trill of him placing the spoon down on the quartz countertops acted as a beat for them to begin to. With practised hands, Rowan grabbed her under her ass, pulling her up, spinning her around, and letting her slide down his front until she was on her feet.
Knowing some cosmic beat, Rowan timed them as they swayed. Her head tucked into the junction between his neck and shoulder, her arms slung lowly around his waist, thumbs snaking a journey under his shirt, playing with his waistband and the hot, supple skin there.
The thick arms of her boyfriend were slung around her shoulders, tightly squeezing her to him, and the delicious heat and weight of his body against hers. He swung them around the kitchen area, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, sometimes dramatically, sometimes subduedly.
It was gorgeous, the intimacy between them, how calm and in tune, they felt. They forget their food cooking on the stove, they forgot they had friends to feed, boxes to unpack, worries to worry about, and lives to live. All that seemed to exist was their imaginary music and the other.
Together.
two years later, their wedding.
Rowan and Aelin had not stopped laughing, crying, and smiling since the speeches had begun—over an hour and a half ago. Once one of their friends finished a speech about them, another took the stage, uninvited but very welcome.
Now, all their friends took to the stage and began their ‘together’ speeches, talking about times between all of them.
“Now, as a special treat to the married couple, we want to share with a video of the two of them, on a date over two years ago, on the day they moved into their apartment. If anybody were to ask me, ask any of us, when was the first time we realised Rowan and Aelin were never going to stop loving each other, would always be together, I, we, would tell you about this moment,” spoke Fenrys, “and I am man enough to admit, that watching this video brought tears to my eyes every single time.”
On a projector screen that had previously displayed slideshows of guests and the couple, was now a massive play button. With much fanfare, Fenrys reached onto his phone screen to press play.
The noise of socks against tiles filled the hall, and the slow breaths of whoever was filming it, they filled most of the screen—the rest obscured by a door frame. Squashed together on the screen were Rowan and Aelin.
Looking at the video, neither could tell where one of them began, and the other ended. They seemed to be one person. The video was short, but the swaying dance and the quiet murmurs of their conversation were enough to get their point across.
Was enough to have tears welling in both Aelin and Rowan’s eyes.
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llyncooljones · 2 years
Text
everything changes, but you stay the same - rowaelin month day four.
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ao3 || masterlist || rowaelin month ‘22 masterlist 
prompt: royalty/modern royalty au.
word count: 2527
trigger warnings: language, slight sexual content.
tag list: @rowaelinscourt @live-the-fangirl-life  @rowaelinismyotp  @rowanaelin  @fireheartwhitethorn4ever  @elentiyawhitethorn  @autumnbabylon @leiawritesstories
twelve years old.
Rowan loved the outdoors. Loved it, liked it, adored it. He was enamoured by it, as his best friend in the entire world would say. Rowan didn’t say things like that, he didn’t know all the fancy words and all the fancy spellings like she did. She tried to teach him, she loved to sit against the big oak trees in the forests and tell him to repeat after her.
Sometimes he listened, but other times he was distracted by the sun shining off her hair. And sometimes when she would smile, he couldn’t think for a moment. Because he felt blinded, like when she dared him to look into the sun.
He wondered if she knew the fancy word for that feeling, but he didn’t ask. He didn’t want to seem any dumber to her than he already did.
On the good days, when they went down to their oak trees, she would bring a pencil and a notebook, so that she could teach Rowan the fancy spelling, and the correct way to write. She was writing in perfectly joined up, perfectly straight, perfectly formed cursive. All while Rowan could barely write legibly on a good day.
She had brought a notebook and a pen today, and Rowan wanted to be able to say it didn’t freak him out. But then he’d be lying. And she said that lying was unbecoming, so he tried not to do it. He loved it when she smiled, and he wondered if unbecoming meant she wouldn’t smile again.
He didn’t want that.
Not at all.
He also really didn’t want a pen. He didn’t like that you couldn’t erase it, make it better. It was permanent, it was forever. He didn’t want his bad handwriting to last forever. He didn’t know how long forever was, but it sure sounded like it lasted for a while.
He, however, loved the outdoors most when she could come with him. When they could play together. When her dressers put her in slightly less expensive clothing, and when his mother told him as she walked on by, busy with work, to put on the grass-stained jeans and the t-shirt from yesterday.
Today they ran around the forests and the castle grounds. Ducking in and out of trees, sliding their way through tiny gaps in hedges, and sliding underneath the branches of their favourite trees to climb on.
But before they could get very high, a royal guard had stomped into the wooded area and informed the princess she was needed elsewhere, that she needed to go. Right away. Without the riffraff.
Rowan didn’t know what riffraff was, but the way she gasped, the way her cheeks turned red, and her ten-year-old teeth were bared—gaps where her teeth had fallen out. More like gaps where she had pulled her teeth out when they had been wobbly for too long.
She was like that. A little bit crazy, but only ever in a good way.
He had watched as she was marched to the wood doors of the castle, sneaking in behind them as she wriggled around in his grip, black leather gloves holding onto her upper arm. He had to calm the rage that bubbled inside of him, had to tell himself it was a bad idea.
He followed her and the royal guard all the way to the king and queen’s chambers, eyes and ears pressed against the gap between the doors. He could spy the bright colour of her dress, could see hear he vaguely. But not enough to make sense of it.
All he heard was ‘forbidden to see him anymore’ and ‘inappropriate conduct for a royal’. He knew they were talking about her horrible cousin, who had tried to grab her butt at the last televised royal function. Because the only other person it could be was him, and her parents would never forbid them from seeing each other.
He walked away, keeping to the shadows, and wondered when they saw each other tomorrow if they would finish climbing the tree, they had been trying to climb today.
fourteen years old.
It had been so long since Aelin had seen him, spent any quality time together, with him. The last time they had exchanged anything more than smiles, quick hugs, and notes had been two years ago. It had been two whole years since she had taught him how to write, how to spell the ridiculous words her governess loved to teach her.
She hated to be taught them.
She hated her parents more and more, each and every time she saw him wandering the castle’s halls alone. Each and every time, it blew a hole in her heart, a hole she knew only his reassurance could mend. On each occasion, she saw him climbing the trees they had once climbed together, and her eyes welled with tears. She wanted to climb those trees, she wanted to wander the halls with him, making fun of the extravagant paintings of her ancestors.
She wanted to teach him how to spell extravagant when he quietly whispered he wasn’t sure what it meant.
She sometimes felt so angry she cried. With her head in her pillows, she would let out heaving sobs at all the moments they had missed out on together, all the things that had changed and she hadn’t been able to notice in time. She would weep tears, cry rivers of them down her cheeks, as she thought of all the words, he’d had to teach himself, of all the times he’d accidentally written pen and she hadn’t been there to rip out the page and shove it into one of the roaring fires in the castle.
She wondered all the time if he was taller than her now. If she had missed out on his growth spurt or not. If he had grown into the bushy silver eyebrows, she had teased him about. Wondered if his arm punches when she called him ‘old man’ would hurt now. And thought about how if it hurt, did it mean he was muscular?
And then she wanted to know how he had got muscular, was it the climbing trees and the scaling of castle drain pipes? Or if he had taken up a manual labour job in the castle, alongside his mother, like he had said he would.
If he kept all the promises he had made when they were still friends.
Most of the time though, she flicked through their old notebooks—seeing his spelling attempts, his terrible handwriting, the doodles, the hangman games, the noughts and cross in corners and between words. And when she does so, she sat on her window sill, looking out onto the castle gardens, trying to spot the flash of silver that belonged to him.
And if she did, she’d knock on the glass until he turned around. And when he did, she would smile and wave and try to convey how she missed him, and how she wished her parents hadn’t assigned her a royal guard who kept out of his way.
And if she couldn’t get his attention, she’d knock on the glass until her knuckles were bruised, and she had switched hands, and her arms muscles screamed, and he had re-entered the castle with no knowledge of her watching, and her wishing.
sixteen years old.
It had taken two years, six months, three weeks, four days, and give or take twelve hours for Rowan to break. It had taken that much anger for him to finally punch her guard in the face, with enough fucking built-up anger to knock him out.
He had been closing in on fifteen years old when he just couldn’t take it.
He couldn’t bear the thought that her parents had so much say about her friends, about him. He thought they were the monarchs of the people but really all they cared about was their power and their control.
And he was sick of the thumb on top of him, and on top of her. So, he did something about it.
And he got himself saddled with community service as a window cleaner (of all things) at the castle for his efforts. And in all his heroism, he landed the princess an extra guard.
Every time he saw the slightly crooked nose of the guard he had socked, he smiled how criminals did. With a sick twist to his lips, happy to have inflicted pain, happy to have caused damage, pleased.
He had taken pleasure in his new job, in his responsibilities as a junior window cleaner under some crotchety old man who had been doing so for five decades. Because the princess's room had a grand total of seven windows. And he just so happened to only be able to clean one window a day.
He sat, each day, on the window seat she had watched him from. Ready to evacuate the room at the first sign of guards. Because he should never have been in them, to begin with, they were still banned from seeing the other. Under absolutely zero circumstances, would he be permitted in her rooms. Not even to catch up about the ins and outs of their lives during the two years, six months, three weeks, four days, and give or take twelve hours they hadn’t been able to talk for.
Their conversations were interspersed with silence when footsteps sounded outside her doors. Their words were stumbled over as excitement to talk took over and they couldn’t contain themselves anymore.
Sometimes Rowan was silent, just so he could watch her without being distracted. Not creepily, not rudely, not selfishly.  
He watched her because he could remember when he hadn’t watched her closely enough, because he remembered the day, he could no longer match the turquoise of her eyes to the exact Pantone shade.
He watched her because he never wanted to scroll through their database at three AM because he couldn’t rest without knowing it again.
Sometimes she cleaned her room, sometimes she did the homework her governess set her, sometimes he sat, leaning against the window, watching her. he loved to watch the way her hair teased the underside of her breasts, always indulging when questions of what colour her nipples would be, ran rampant through his hormone-muddled brain.
Her hair rippled in the light, changing colours from gold to yellow, to some sort of magic that sent images of midday picnics by their old oak trees, and midday kisses on their branches. It made him wonder what her hair would look like in a braid, in a bun. He wanted to see her every variation, just so he never had to lay in bed and try to remember if he’d ever seen her with two braids, or only with one.
He watched her tap the fountain pen she’d been gifted for her birthday against her bottom lip, slightly fatter than her top. And he suddenly wished he were a magnifying glass, so he could watch the pink flesh ripple underneath the force.
But then he disappeared out of the window, not making a single sound.
eighteen years old.
Aelin lounged against her headboard as she watched him. She couldn’t look away. Not now. Not ever. Something about him, as a child, as a pre-teen, and as a teenager, had been magnetic to her. had pulled her in, and dragged her down to him, without ever asking if she was okay with it.
She was, undoubtedly, she was. She was probably too okay with it when it was all weighed up, but she really did not care.
She was enjoying the show he was putting on for her, she wasn’t weighing the morality of it all. She didn’t have the energy for all of that. She was conserving it, for her master plan.
She continued to type out her homework, still set by her geriatric governess who just did not quit. Similar to how someone’s arse just didn’t quit, the very same arse she was staring at through the window it was currently cleaning.
Perversely, she watched him. The sweat glistened on his bronzed skin. The thick thighs covered by thin, athletic shorts—which were definitely not uniform, but definitely should be uniform, according to her—and all the other things she could see there. She focused on the drawstring holding it, and she would love to be able to say she didn’t wish for it to fail, but as she used to tell him, the very owner of the drawstring, lying was unbecoming.
But so was staring intently at someone’s crotch, which she was doing. But, in all fairness, she had never claimed to be a pinnacle of modern morality and becomingness, so could she really be faulted here?
The answer was no. She absolutely could not be.
Especially when the window cleaner was opening the window, with a nifty hook she had placed there during a genius moment last year. Especially when the window cleaner looked as good as he did, sweaty and shirtless.
Aelin sat, far too happy, on her bed. Sat there smirking to her heart’s content, smug until she could no longer be smug—which for reference, was never. She was never going to stop being smug, especially when she was rightfully smug. She watched on, enraptured, as he began to unfasten the harness he wore whilst dangling from the castle roof.
She watched as the tan lines caused by it were slowly revealed, she had to press a discreet hand to her risk, just to make sure her heart palpitations were, in fact, all in her head. She watched as he placed his sunglasses on the window seat, and gazed hungrily at him, as a predator would at prey, as he slipped from his shoes.
She followed each shake of his pecs as he walked over the plush carpet she loved to lie on, in front of the fire on the coldest, darkest, loneliest days of winter.
She let out a quiet breath when he picked her laptop from off her lap, and placed it on the bedside table, closing the lid with a final snicking noise. A low groan escaped her lips, teeth quickly biting down on the bottom one to stop it from happening again—only louder.
They could not be heard.
He pulled back the covers, and revealed her sat there, in a t-shirt of his she had to hand back to him to wish, only to have to hand it back to her once it was dry, because should her ladies-in-waiting find a shirt of his, Aelin was sure her parents would go to a greater length than they had previously.
He gazed upon her, hungrier than he should have been, given they had both been satiated not twelve hours ago, in the middle of the night when he had snuck in. it took all of Aelin pulling the shirt up to reveal her bellybutton for him to pounce on her, and for her to forget she shouldn’t be moaning.
Aelin couldn’t have wished for a better outcome.
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llyncooljones · 2 years
Text
as we watch planes takeoff - rowaelin month day one.
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ao3 || masterlist || rowaelin month '22 masterlist 
prompt: songfic. based on cop car by sam hunt.
word count: 2319
trigger warnings: language, police presence.
tag list: @rowaelinscourt @live-the-fangirl-life  @rowaelinismyotp  @rowanaelin  @fireheartwhitethorn4ever  @elentiyawhitethorn  @autumnbabylon @leiawritesstories
 
on the road, just before dusk.
Aelin Ashryver Galathynius knew one thing. She was immediately obsessed and addicted to the feeling of Rowan Whitehorn’s hand on her bare thigh. She loved the thick fingers, the wide knuckles, and the grip they had on her. She loved the faint green and blue of his veins she could spot through the skin of his hand. She also loved the way those veins twined up and around his forearms.
She just fucking loved his arms, his wrists, his hands, his fingers.
She especially loved all those things he could do with his fingers. To her very own body.
But here they were, his fingers gripping her thigh which was closest to the centre console, the windows down and her hair flicking this way and that in the wind, his sunglasses pulled down over those pretty, pretty eyes of his as they drove toward the sunset.
A giddy giggle escaped her, finger flying up to her face to catch it, simultaneously pulling the strands that have crisscrossed over her face away. She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t quite contain herself. She reigned in the urge to let out a ‘whoop’, whilst tossing her hair around in the wind.
The sun was a blazing ball, cocooned by the tarmac, the trees, and the clouds, and the glow of the just-emerging moon. Her mind jumped from thing to thing, her skin hypersensitive, her senses over-aware of where Rowan was sitting.
Where he was sat, looking far too relaxed, far too cool, driving with one hand on the wheel.
Because, of course, his other arm was bent at an awkward angle to keep his hand on her thigh. A low, thudding base drifted through the car, her fingers tapped against one another in time, whilst Rowan’s did so against the steering wheel.
As they veered left, she slid her sunglasses to the top of her head, twisting her body so she could face Rowan, so she could see where they were turning into. Along barbed-wire-topped, metal chain link fences sat many impossible-to-ignore ‘NO TRESPASSING’ signs, but they navigated past them and into the field without a pause.
“I can feel your excitement from here, Ace. You look gorgeous with that mischief in your eyes.” His voice was deep, washing over her in waves that sent shivers down her spine, and heat through her core.
“Don’t you sweet talk me, Whitehorn. Don’t you dare. I am breaking the law so that we can wish upon planes taking off. I am risking the very foundation of my relationship with my parents to do this, so don’t. You. Dare.” The last few words fell out on a snarl, her eyes narrowed dramatically while her lips twitched playfully.
She jumped, nearly from her fucking skin, when a fingertip slid down her jawline, before dragging down the soft, pliable flesh of her neck. “What’s that crazy head’a yours thinking about now, honey? It better be about how damn good I look in this shirt–it is, after all, the one you love so much.”
A dazzling smile filled her field of vision, all braces-straightened teeth and slightly cracked teenaged lips. A flash of minty breath passed over her before she releases a breathy sigh, followed by a breathless, “Do tell me, kind sir, why is it that you’re wearing the shirt, I simply cannot stop wonderin’?” The southern twang she’d always felt was too strong, was in fact far too weak, when compared to the full-bodied accent Rowan had, complete a vocabulary of phrases no one had heard since cowboys in the ‘50s.
“For all the right reasons, don’t worry that head, miss Galathynius.” She loved the teasing in his voice, loved it so.
The rumble of Rowan’s ancient truck had quietened, only the chirping of crickets, and the bird song to keep them company. Her eyes darted from window to window, trying to take in as much as she could.
Parked in an abandoned field, now owned by the airport next to it, they were alone. The air in the cab of the truck was calm, the two of them sat still, just taking it all in. The views and the sounds; the realities and the risks of what they were doing.
Aelin had always wanted to come here, she had begged and pleaded as a child, as a preteen (she was so desperate that even as an awkward preteen she wanted to be here) to be brought here. But she had always been turned down. Always been denied the absolute pleasure she knew she would find here.
But here she and Rowan were, on their fifteenth date in three months, breaking the law already. She had some inkling that this date would end up being the one to set the precedent for their entire relationship and some. She let her head rock back to lean against the leather, whilst still looking at the joyous person who was her boyfriend.
It felt crazy to say, that she, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, had a fucking boyfriend. But godsdamn, did she have the best one. The kind of boyfriend who would risk jail time for her, who would risk everything just to fulfil a wish she’s had since she was five.
Dusk had rolled in quickly, the colours of the clouds changing constantly. She relished watching the colours stroll on by, enraptured by the sheer power the sun could capture, the light walking across the impossible expanse of sky she’d looked up at every day.
“Excited?” questioned Rowan, his thumb stroking across her thigh, his eyes drifting from feature to feature as he took in the image of her.
“So. I really can’t express to you how much this means to me, that you’re here with me. I really never thought I’d find someone who would want to wish upon a plane taking off with me.”
With soft lips, he planted a kiss on her cheek. Both their eyes fluttered closed as they basked in the emotions they were feeling, the feelings they didn’t quite understand.
The ambience was broken when Rowan swung his door open, closing it gently so that the locking mechanism barely made a sound. She thanks him for it with a small smile, a subtle one. He knows that slamming doors send panic through her veins, knows that raised voices and smashing glasses put goose bumps on her arms.
He just knows her.
Entirely. Completely.
Her heart beat like the bass of a song she’d dance to at a party, and her head thumped like she was drunk. But it was all eclipsed when her door opened, and she was lifted with–both shocking and apt– ease into the arms of the only man she’s ever trusted.
A hand grasped her own, the connection sending her to another planet, whilst another snuck around her middle to unbuckle her seatbelt in the smoothest show of chivalry she’d ever seen. And Aelin had watched her fair share of movies.
“C’mon,” he whispered, wrapping her legs around his waist, and hoisting her up. He shut her door with a booted foot and made his easy way around to the bed. With her newfound height, she could make out pillows and blankets lining the unforgiving metal and plastic of the bed.
The fire in her heart crackled and spat as she thought back to all the late nights they had spent talking to each other, sharing their hopes and dreams, cuddled together like puzzle pieces. She’d never felt that sort of dedication, that absolute joy and happiness to be with her before.
The thrill of Rowan listening to her and putting effort into making her dreams come true filled her heart more than she could have ever imagined.
Before she could even think another thought beyond the overwhelming gratitude, she was placed on the lowered tailgate and his arms were tensing to pull himself up onto it. An awkward shuffle full of laughter and stomach stitches and collapsing into one another later, they snuggled into the back of the truck bed, heads leaning against pillows, limbs tangled together like messy strings of fate.
Like all the messy strings of fate that have managed to tangle Rowan and Aelin together.
It seemed like hours had passed, as they whispered to one another, lazy pointer fingers gesturing vaguely at the sky as they watched the planes flitting around the world. They shout out the animals they could see in the cotton candy clouds.
And when the planes take off, she mumbles wishes under her breath.
And Rowan was close enough to her that he hears them, but he pretended not to; tries to forget them, because he knows that the blonde beauty in his arms believed vehemently that a wish known by another person, was a wish that does not come true.
It’s her tenth wish of the same thing (and the tenth plane she’s wished on) when they were suddenly bathed in sensation. Blue and red lights splattered across her vision in a cruel show of power, whilst she placed her hands against her ears in a feeble attempt to block out the sirens that threatened to deafen her entirely.
The loud music she listened to when her parents fought had already done half the job for them.
With a spark in his eyes, her boyfriend turned to her, the very second, she turned to him, and mouthed the word ‘run’.
With hurried limbs, and hearts that were beating too fast (not because of the cop cars, obviously because of each other) they scrambled to be free of the height of the truck bed. In her Converse and his tired boots, they swung their arms forward and back, forward, and back, until they were panting and nearing the edge of the field.
With minds only half functioning, they were heading to the far corner of the field. The far corner of the field had no exit point. The bushes were only taller, and the barbed wire was only more menacing when you could see those spikes up close.
“Orynth Police Department, place your hands against the fence. Facing the fence!” An out-of-breath officer shouted, he was portly and yet still the quickest officer on the outdated force.
Aelin had to hand it to the man.
She truly did.
“Now kids, I have to ask, why did you run? My colleagues haven’t found any evidence of crimes beyond the obvious trespassing. I’m not quite understanding why.” The man was still catching his breath, hands grappling with his belt to find his handcuffs.
Aelin was quickly losing whatever admiration she’d had for the officer.
An indifferent shoulder raise moved its way through her body, whilst her mouth couldn’t seem to behave. “Figured running for it would make a good story, get me a little street cred, give me a wild story to tell the grandkids, but whaddya know? All it's gettin’ me is arrested. Mighty crazy, that is.”
the corner of the field, eleven o’clock.
Cool metal met warm flesh as he handcuffed Rowan’s arms behind his back, reading his rights to him as the officer radioed to his fellow officers that he had the situation under control. That the romantic teens were not in fact armed.
“Now, officer, why don’t we discuss this? Is this whole ‘arresting us’ thing really necessary? I mean, can’t you just slap us on the wrist, write a warning, and send us merrily on our way? Wouldn’t that be easier? Less paperwork for you could get home to your wife quicker.”
A chuckle left Rowan, disbelief that this crazy wild child girl was his girlfriend. Trust Aelin to try and sweet-talk an obviously seasoned police officer into letting them go.
With one hand around one arm of each of them, they were marched back to Rowan’s truck, and then further. An officer took Aelin around to the opposite side of the largest police car and pushed her into the backseat. Rowan restrained a growl at the rough handling, but before he could a hand was on top of his head, and he too was shoved into the backseat.
The second they were alone, laughter burst forth, bathing the car in the careless joy of teenage menaces. Despite their clean records, neither he nor Aelin were strangers to breaking the law.
Police officers filled the two front seats, and tried to quieten them down, but ultimately gave up. The innocence of him and Aelin just relishing in each other’s presence in the same backseat of the same cop car was enough to relax them some.
He threw jokes around at her, whilst she made fake passes at the officers and asked them if they had a light. They were light and easy despite the very real ramifications of their actions, and the crimes they could be tried for committing.
But caught in the moment, young and falling in love in the back of a cop car, neither could bring themselves to care.
Rowan wasn’t worried, as he watched Aelin’s nose twitch with an itch she could not scratch (and he laughed too hard at his own jokes he made about the situation). He couldn’t tear his eyes from the blonde of her eyelashes and the way he could pick them out in the dusky lighting. He was never going to be distracted again, as he watched Aelin exist, as she smiled, laughed, frowned, and sweet-talked her way into a telling-off from a middle-aged officer.
He was falling in love with her, deeply and irrevocably, and yet he was pretending this was the first he had heard it. That this was the beginning, when in fact that beginning was far too many years ago for him to remember exactly. Just a feeling of sudden warmth and belonging that he always felt when Aelin was nearby.
He wasn’t worried.
He was falling in love.
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