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llyncooljones · 1 year

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call me sir - twelve days of rowaelin '22.

ao3 || masterlist || twelve days of rowaelin ‘22 masterlist

prompt: christmas activity gone wrong. series: part two to who is he? word count: 1300 trigger warnings: language, smut, sexting tag list: @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @elentiyawhitethorn @rowanaelinn @autumnbabylon @leiawritesstories @backtobl4ck @letstakethedawn @rowaelinscourt

hi.

this is aelin. galathynius.

from the xmas fair. last week, at the weekend. and you overheard me, and i bumped into you?

Hi.

This is Rowan.

From the Christmas Fair. And I knew it was you, you’re literally the only person I’ve given my number to in the last year. Plus, I don’t know many Aelins. No need for awkward introductions—a pet peeve of mine.

well, good to know you gave me the right number, lol. was kinda worrying abt it. couldn’t believe you’d actually wanna get to know someone who was plotting an entire book to have an excuse to go up to you.

figured you might like brave girls, or some shit.

Not to be crude, but I do believe that openly, and really quite loudly, discussing the frequency and quality of dick you and your friend were getting was quite brave. As was discussing the size of my dick, and my possible friend’s dick sizes.

I don’t know anyone else who’s quite brave enough to do such a thing.

You have that going for yourself.

what i’m hearing is that you do like brave girls.

what does ‘at least you’ve got that going for yourself’ mean? i’ve got tons going for me.

No. I like girls with blonde hair, the most unique eyes I’ve ever had the pleasure of staring into, who come up to my chin. And for the record, you’ve got everything going for yourself. You are singlehandedly just everything.

Don’t go fishing for compliments. I know that you know that you’re fucking gorgeous. Don’t play games with me—I won’t play nice, nor fair.

i’ve come to realise you won't play nice or fair.

i’ve now learnt my lesson, teach.

and thank you for the compliments.

i get off on them.

If I’m going to be your teacher, and I’m going to have to teach you your lesson, you will refer to me as ‘sir’. That is, if you’re game?

I could have sworn it was big men, big hands, and big dicks you got off on. Not compliments. correct me if wrong of course.

maybe you will have to teach me my lesson. sir.

and of fucking course i’m game, didn’t you overhear me saying that i was a spoilt rich girl with a secretly traumatic past. if that means anything, sir, it means i’ve been having teacher x student fantasies since i was fifteen. sir.

i get off on all sorts of things—part of being a spoilt rich girl with a secretly traumatic past. we always have the craziest kinks. compliments and praise because my parents neglected me. similarly, some sort of teacher fetish. big men, big hands, big dicks—because we feel like they can protect us, keep us safe, complete us, which has previously never been felt by us before.

and so many more—you’ve barely scratched the surface, sir.

I can hear your evil laughter, Aelin, and I’ve never heard you laugh.

I’m always up for being your senior-year English teacher, call me Mr Whitethorn.

And trust me, I look forward to diving into the very depths of your sexual deviancy.

mr whitethorn. i like it.

you would’ve been a hit at my high school—so many spoilt rich girls with secretly traumatic pasts.

and, sir, it makes me wet when you use phrases like ‘sexual deviancy’

It gets me fucking rock hard when you call me Sir, or Mr Whitethorn. you have no idea how so.

in that case…

mr whitethorn? what’s today’s lesson on?

I think apt place to begin your education, would be with one’s own pleasure. In my experience, people put so much pressure on the idea of perfection when it comes to sex, and such acts between two people. So much so that the pleasure is slowly stripped away, and replaced with worries that won’t stop, creating a wall between yourself, and your pleasure.

Today, I’m going to focus our lesson on touch yourself, Aelin.

and what are you going to teach me, that i don’t already know? I’m in my twenties, I’ve gone to college, and i’ve been coming by my own fingers since i was fifteen. (clearly there is a correlation between teachers and me coming)

plus, and I mean this with the utmost respect, what are you—a man—going to me—a woman—about my body—a woman’s body—mr whitethorn.

If you want to doubt me, go right ahead, but know Miss Galathynius, it’s not what I can teach you, it’s what I can do to you.

I recall my language making you wet, I can’t teach you that. I can do it to you though, I can make you wet when I use long, sophisticated words, confuse you a little. Make you feel both insecure, and so very, very safe. I can manipulate your body simply with typed words.

You’d do well to remember that.

sir?

mr whitethorn?

excuse me, i’m texting you. where the fuck are you? are you fucking kidding me, right now?

Are you ready to apologise, Miss Galathynius?

for fucking what? get real.

For making assumptions about me. You seem to be under the impression that you can get away with being rude to me. You can’t, I’m unlike any teacher you’ve encountered before.

And you ‘get real’, Miss Galathynius. You can try and convince yourself that you aren’t soaking through your panties, you’re so turned on. But I know you are. You can tell yourself you aren’t going to touch yourself when you set down your phone. But I know you are.

I’ll make a deal with you, Miss Galathynius, if you message me how wet you are, and whether or not your fingers are too, I’ll continue the lesson. We’ll forget all about the fact that you swore at me no less, and that you were insolent and bratty, and you can come as many times as want during this text chain, but not afterwards.

You understand?

yes, sir.

my panties are so wet, my skirt is too.

and my fingers are fucking coated.

Take your panties off.

In fact, Miss Galathynius, get naked. Lock the door. Get comfortable. Tell me, ‘yes, Sir’ when you’re done.

yes, sir.

Put your fingers—the wet ones, before you ask—in your mouth. Fucking suck on them.

Have you got your fingers in your mouth, can you taste yourself? Fucking wish I could taste you.

yes.

what about you, sir?

You can bet your life on the fact that I’m touching myself.

That got you hotter, wetter. More desperate. Want me there, don’t you? I want you here.

im close. keep telling me what ur gonna do

You want to know what I’d do to you if I had you in my bed? I’d strip you, peel away every scrap of clothing you had on, until I could see every inch of your skin, until I can mark out every blemish with bite marks.

I’d bite your nipples, soothe them with my tongue, and then I’d bite them harder. Harder until you’re screaming, and I won’t know if it’s in pain or pleasure. Maybe I’d make them bleed. All depends on whether or not you were a good girl.

It would have got you wet, you’d be dripping all over my sheets. Your cunt would be throbbing it’d be so desperate for me. I’d treat it to a lick, lave my tongue over your clit, edging you towards your orgasm. When you’re right there I’d slide a finger in, tease you from the inside, and give you the best orgasm of your life.

And then I’d do it all over again.

holy fuck. oh fuck, i just came so hard.

fucking what?

i literally messaged you to ask if you wanted to grab a hot chocolate or something or see if you were available for a date or something. pre-dorian’s party.

And instead, you got this, huh? Regretting it, yet?

that was arguably the best orgasm i’ve ever had—and we’re in different postcodes. so, no. and i don’t think i’ll ever regret this.

And I’d love to grab a drink with you.

#twelve days of rowaelin #12 days of rowaelin #rowaelin fic #rowaelin #llyncooljones' writing #my fic #my writing #my smut #tog #tog fic #throne of glass #throne of glass fic #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #wih?#who is he?

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llyncooljones · 2 years

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no fucking in the office - rowaelin month day eleven.

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.

#rowaelinscourt #rowaelinmonth #rowaelin month 2022 #rowaelin month #rowaelin #rowaelin smut #my smut #tog #tog fic #throne of glass fic #throne of glass #my fic #my writing #smut #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #llyncooljones' writing

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llyncooljones · 2 years

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peace in the noise - rowaelin month day fourteen.

ao3 || masterlist || rowaelin month ‘22 masterlist

prompt: CANON WEEK: what if... nothing bad ever happened, and they met organically. pain-free, just vibes set in the 'canon' universe.

word count: 1229

trigger warnings: language, alcohol.

tag list: @rowaelinscourt @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @elentiyawhitethorn @rowanaelinn @autumnbabylon @leiawritesstories @backtobl4ck

a bar in varese, the evening.

Aelin was turning thirty.

Three, zero.

It was pretty fucking insignificant, people she knew were turning nine-hundred and thirty this year. But, having been brought with the knowledge that she might not settle, that she might not live past eighty-five, had made her more appreciative of her years.

So, whilst to most fae she knew or had ever known in the past, turning thirty would be insignificant, to her it felt important, to her it felt weighted—heavier than twenty-nine had been.

And she felt a little bit crazy for it, especially given the fact that she had settled, and she was going to live to see eighty-five (if the battlefield allowed for that to happen).

She should have been home, tucked up on a sofa with her parents, her friends, and her cousins. She should have been in the castle, enjoying the oversized chocolate hazelnut cake her parents had made for her. She should have been married, she should have had children, and she should have been more like her mother. She should have been a lot of things. But she wasn’t.

She wasn’t, and that was the crux of it all.

It was why, two weeks ago she had left a note saying she would be on holiday for the foreseeable future, and that should anyone need to contact her, she would be arriving in Varese, two weeks from that date (today), and that they could talk to her then.

And now, she was regaining her land legs, having spent the last fourteen days on a boat. She had a bag with not much in it, but that had been dumped in the tiny room she was renting, and now she was sweating herself silly walking through the streets.

Varese was so much hotter than Orynth had ever been, and was still and stagnant compared to the wild, vicious waters she had been sailing over, and living on, for the past two weeks. She felt ridiculous in her loose-fitting clothes, with her hair toppled together on her head to keep it off her hot neck, leather sandals on her feet that left her toes on display.

Left them in the open to be trodden on—which they had been, several times. Too many times.

Dusk had just descended, and the nightlife was beginning. People were already unsteady on their feet, and Aelin had already found herself wading through a crowd watching two rather large fae males fighting.

The red tile rooves—she wondered if it was terracotta, or if they could paint rooves in a city like this—provided a glow that she hadn’t seen in Terrasen, lights were reflected off metal finishing and mirrors, and the white walls of the houses and establishments she wandered past.

She was waiting until she found a quieter street, a darker street, a street she would never normally be allowed to walk down. Because surviving a war meant that she was obviously incapable of keeping herself safe. But Aelin did not, and never once had, pretend to understand how her mother’s mind worked (in mysterious ways), she just liked (in fact, to live her own life).

Hence the drastic measures.

Her ears twitched at every sound, and every movement had her eyes following, each time a person was pushed into her, or brushed her skin as they hurried past—her skin tightening, and her mind throbbed with the urge to punch them.

Healthy, it was not. But Aelin, it most certainly was.

With her senses having taken all they possibly could, ignoring the need for somewhere down a dark and deserted street she would never normally be allowed down, she darted into the doorway of the nearest bar.

The walls were white, or as close to white as they could be given the fact it was a bar and drinks got spilt and stains got left. The bar was blonde wood, which was shined and sanded, smooth to her delicate, explorative touch. She picked her fingertips up, rubbed them together, and blew on them.

Found no dust.

She took a seat, and she cursed her mother for creating this clean freak.

With her head cradled between two hands, she couldn’t imagine she was the kind of person that frequented a bar like this. But when she looked around and found people talking quietly, subtle piano music playing over the speakers, and too many open chairs to call this place busy, she found that she happened to be their target audience, no matter who that might be.

“Rough day?”

Aelin startled, looked up to find green eyes peering down at her from his place behind the bar. He held a cloth in one hand, and a jug in the other. He had on simple clothes, those you would normally find on a barkeep.

But Aelin couldn’t help but notice the warrior’s tattoos that featured all across his body, trailing up his arm, along his fingers, and across the backs of his hands. He had symbols drawn on his face, markings that displayed his rank, his wars, and his kills.

They were the markings of an ancient warrior. The exact collection belonged only to six men to ever exist, the elite. They were rumoured to have dispersed years ago, never to be seen together again. But here Aelin was, staring her history books right in the face, wondering if he could tell her war stories, wondering if he had any tips and tricks to prevent nightmares from waking her up.

She couldn’t stop, once her mind had started. Wondered which one he was. There was the hawk—Rowan Whitehorn. There was also the dark—Lorcan Salvaterre. The white wolf—Fenrys Moonbeam. The black wolf—Connall Moonbeam. The lion—Gavriel, but Aelin couldn’t recall his last name. and finally, the osprey—Vaughan, again, whose name she couldn’t remember.

The Cadre.

That was what her books liked to call them, and Aelin had liked the term. She and her cousin, Aedion, had spent much of their shared childhood playing like warriors. Stealing moves from the history books, using them on each other. Until Aelin’s mother had deemed it inappropriate and had stopped it from happening.

“Such a rough day that you’ve lost your hearing?” he asked again, becoming impatient in the time she was thinking.

“No. Not all.” She let out a harsh laugh, that maybe said today was a rough day, “it’s the best damned day I’ve had in fifteen years. Just a little over the crowds, I’m not quite used to the noise of this many people without the noise of war, accompanying.”

“It can be rough, but for now, I can offer you a drink, and my company. I’m Rowan, the owner.” His voice slid over her skin like honey, soft and silky, sticky as though it would never leave.

Aelin was glad when he said his name. he had always been her favourite; she had loved his bravery. Wondered whether his wind, his ice, would be enough her calm her fire, and be enough o encourage it.

She was glad, when he placed a drink in front of her, his own dangling from his fingers.

As they talked, telling stories, reminiscing about days gone by, and sharing war stories—each worse than the one before—Aelin was glad she had walked into the bar.

#rowaelinscourt #rowaelin month 2022 #rowaelin month #rowaelinmonth #rowaelin #tog #my fic #throne of glass #tog fic #my writing #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #llyncooljones' writing

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llyncooljones · 1 year

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actions have consequences - twelve days of rowaelin '22.

ao3 || masterlist || twelve days of rowaelin ‘22 masterlist

prompt: santa getting caught out.

word count: 1193

trigger warnings: language, sexual themes

tag list: @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @elentiyawhitethorn @rowanaelinn @autumnbabylon @leiawritesstories @backtobl4ck @letstakethedawn @rowaelinscourt

It was Christmas Day, and Rowan Whitethorn-Galathynius was reclined on the massive sectional his wife had bought years ago, in order to fit him, and his giant friends. There was a similar couch opposite, which she bought for her and her similarly small friends.

He was no longer sure which had been bought first, nor which person coveted it the most.

He was bedecked in matching Christmas pyjamas, a shirt proclaiming him ‘GRUMPY CLAUS’ with a shoddy illustration printed beneath it of him in a Santa hat. Also, his frown—is majorly exaggerated.

His wife’s named her ‘MRS CLAWS’, a similarly shit drawing of a cat wearing a Christmas hat, and a turquoise collar declaring it ‘A.A.W.G.’.

His kids’ pyjamas were a variation of animal puns, and their own most identifiable personality trait. Their oldest, Oren, who was barely five hadn’t taken his off since they presented to him on the twenty-third, and no matter how hard they tried, he was irrationally attached to them.

As his wife stood, popping into the kitchen to grab herself another drink, Oren stood from where he was laying out his latest unwrapped gift—a LEGO set he’d practically begged for. He toddled his way to Rowan, and with scrambling legs got himself up onto the sofa.

He squashed the cushions that Rowan had agonisingly plumped the night before, and he couldn’t help but laugh. “Squashing down the cushions so that your uncles are uncomfortable—maybe you’re less like me than I thought. That is all your mother, Ore.”

For once, when he compared his son to the boy’s mother, he didn’t smile, grin, or laugh and run to tell Aelin. He frowned, his lips wobbled, and he looked absolutely distraught. “Don’t say that, daddy. Don’t. You don’t know what you’re comparing me to.” His son frowned even deeper, and Rowan's heart broke.

What on earth was going on?

“Kiddo, can you tell daddy what’s wrong?” his son shook his head, and slam himself into the couch cushions as if the world were ending. His heart rate picked up with a concern, what was his son doing, let alone talking about? “Can you whisper it in my ear? So, no one can hear, yeah?”

Oren gave a shaky nod, and scrambled along the cushions to settle himself right next to Rowan, practically breaking his ribs with the force he sat down. He got himself onto his knees and grabbed onto his hair, yanking Rowan’s silver locks like it wasn’t attached to his head. “Ow, bud, that hurt,” he chastised gently, prying the little fingers from his hair.

“This gonna hurt e’en more, daddy. But I need to get closer, so I can whisper in your ear, so mummy doesn’t hear me. She can’t know, daddy. She can’t!” he emphasised his final point with a foot stomp absorbed by the fluff in the cushion, but it rocked Rowan like an earthquake’s epicentre was directly beneath him.

“Alright, no telling mummy. But let’s tell daddy now, yeah. Because daddy really wants to know, you’re making him worried, Oren.” His tone was muted, calming to his nearly five-year-old.

Placing a foot on his ribs to reach his father’s ear, Oren began “Y’know how Mrs H and Mr H divorced because he loved other women, daddy?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Mummy loves other men.” Oren's tone is gentle, and he tries to run a soothing hand up and down Rowan’s shoulder but only serves to catch a sharp bit of fingernail in the soft, loose cotton, and snag it. He whimpers as Rowan pulls it out.

Rowan attempts to sit up, going to find the nail scissors he and his wife have stashed all around the house for such incidents, but fails as his son whispers once more, “She loves Santa, daddy. I snuck downstairs yesterday, and I saw her kissing him, just like she kisses you. Gah,” he spits out, horrified by the idea of affection and others ‘things’ between his parents.

Shit. Shit. Shit, Rowan thinks. How could he and his wife—his very attractive wife—have been so absorbed in each other that they hadn’t noticed their four-year-old making his way down the ancient, creaky staircase?

And how come his son couldn’t recognise him, when he clearly recognised Aelin, Rowan hadn’t even been wearing a Santa hat, for the gods’ sake.

He wasn’t insulted, he wasn’t. But it did sting a tad.

“Oh, kiddo. Let me grab some nail scissors so you don’t snag your nail again, and then we’ll talk this through.” Rowan placated, finally moving his son off him enough to stand up and stretch.

“And don’t tell mom—”

“I won’t trust me. I won’t tell her.”

Rowan wandered into the kitchen, cool as a cucumber, but quickly changed attitude when he caught sight of his wife. His body reacted, but he shushed it—and he suddenly remembered why they weren’t able to hear their clumsy, loud, and not-very-sneaky child as he made his way down the stairs last night. He had picked well, so very, very well.

His hand caught her shoulder, and he dragged her out of the kitchen, to the downstairs bathroom, which he pushed them into. He locked the door and turned around to find his wife with her pyjama shirt off and matching trousers around her thighs, bent over the sink, a wicked glint in her eye.

“Time for my Christmas present, babe?” she asked, crooking a finger at him, winking, and shaking her hips a tad. Her arse jiggled too, and he had to physically restrain himself from pouncing on her, and delivering on every promise he’d whispered in her ear this morning—whilst their children were heading for their bedroom door, of course.

“No.” she pouted, and ran a hand under herself to entice him, “No! your ‘present yesterday whilst we were setting up stockings is why we’re in here now, and we need to have a chat.”

“Uh-huh, hence why I’m trying to have you fuck me.”

“No, as in we were so caught up in our kiss that we didn’t notice Oren sneak downstairs just in time for him to witness us kissing.”

“No, oh my gods, no.” she hurriedly pulled her trousers, and with a chaste kiss to the top curve of her boob, Rowan pulled her shirt over her head. “we have to have the talk with him, about Santa not being real. Fuck, I wanted to hold on to that, at least till next year.

“Yep. Worse than that, he recognised you, but not me. So now he thinks you’re cheating on me, like Mrs H cheated on Mr H, only you aren’t cheating with your assistant, you’re cheating with fucking Santa Claus.”

“So, we need to find out where he heard about Mrs and Mr H, and we need to tell him that—”

“Santa’s not real. Perfect, honestly.”

A gasp sounds outside of the door, first “Santa’s not real?” at a decibel loud enough that their youngest two children heard—perfect—and then, “I hate you, daddy, you told me you wouldn’t tell mummy!” in a hurt tone—perfect—before a final, “have you got the scissors daddy, it got caught on the sofa?”

#12 days of rowaelin #twelve days of rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #rowaelin fic #rowaelin #tog #tog fic #throne of glass #throne of glass fic #llyncooljones' writing

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llyncooljones · 1 year

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i'm snow longer - twelve days of rowaelin '22.

ao3 || masterlist || twelve days of rowaelin ‘22 masterlist

prompt: hallmark movie. word count: 1942 trigger warnings: language, smut, sexting tag list: @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @elentiyawhitethorn @rowanaelinn @autumnbabylon @leiawritesstories @backtobl4ck @letstakethedawn @rowaelinscourt

the staghorn mountains, almost christmas.

The first time Aelin had retreated to a ski resort for the Christmas period, she’d been shocked. Shocked, not only by many people chose to spend time away from their families during such a time of community and family, but also by how many families chose to spend Christmas in a hotel. and not in the ultra-decorated, ultra-comfort of their homes.

She’d quickly realised she was being a hypocrite because wasn’t she just the same as all of those people? Avoiding her family on Christmas, choosing to spend Christmas morning declining calls, and watching the messages pile up during the moments she wasn’t skiing down the side of a slope.

And it was the fact of her reason that made her feel so much worse, she was avoiding spending time at home because ever since her father had died, her mother had brought home increasingly old men, with increasingly deep pockets. She was avoiding all of her friends, all of her family—but not her presents, she always emailed the address of the local post office to her friends and family—purely because she didn’t like her new stepdaddies.

To pile even more guilt on herself—Aelin sometimes liked to feel shit about herself, liked to think it gave her motivation, really it gave her an increasing bill for therapy—she’d been avoiding home for so long, that she now exclusively skied down Black Diamond slopes. She’d started out without gear, or even a clue.

She only visited for two weeks out of a year, to make matters worse.

By now, she recognised the locals, and the locals recognised her. in fact, she recognised the regulars at the ski resort, too. She knew which ones lived in the neighbouring towns during the snow season, knew which ones visited just for the weeks of Christmas frenzy.

Safe to say, she knew how to live her life at a ski resort, she’d been doing it for a long fucking time. Which meant she understood proper conduct when it came to skiing. She was no fool. Nor was she one to accept foolishness.

And if it led to sore knuckles for the next week, who cared?

In conclusion, when some dickhead with a fucking complex of some sort—she’d never sat down to memorise all of them, sue her—cut her up repeatedly, and refused to show some common fucking decency or even respect for fellow skiers, she’d make sure he was out of line.

So now here she was, bent down slightly, as aerodynamic as possible, skiing for her absolute life whilst chasing after the dickhead in the green kit who’d cut her up. So. Many. Times.

She focused on the snow, planning out the quickest route—and even then, she didn’t have to work very hard, she had it memorised—to get to him.

Maybe Aelin had a penchant for vigilante justice served with a side of her fists—sue her. She’d encountered every brilliant, fabulous, perfect person in her life due to her penchant, it had only done her good.

Up until the point the police had knocked on her door and issued her with a warning over a bar fight in which she’d punched a dude so hard, his friends called him ‘bobblehead’ afterwards. Now, she had to watch herself.

But who was going to drag out an already overworked police force to break up a fight, to break up Aelin doing a favour to the entire community at the ski resort? That was it, they would herald her a hero after, for eliminating a source of danger on the slopes.

She can hear the chants and feel the exhilaration of crowd surfing over her adoring fans. Yeah, this was going to be her best match yet, going to be her most famous.

Before she could fully comprehend it, the skier in green was just in front of her, slowed down and instead—practising? He seemed to be going over one position repeatedly, working his body into shapes that she didn’t want to know about.

She had the urge to laugh but instead pulled to a stop in the middle of a Black Diamond slope, pushing herself to the edge. The edge he was also on—oddly considerate for such a previously inconsiderate skier, but people had depth and were like onions when it came to structuring, so she disregarded her doubts. Being a dick about others once was enough to discount him as a quality skier.

“Hey!” she shouted, fumbling to pull down the fabric protecting her chin, mouth, and nose. He hadn’t heard her, so she tried again, “Hey!”

This time, he looked up—similarly pulling down the fabric over his face. Only, with a lot less fumbling, and a lot more skill. She hoped he thought her flushed cheeks were a result of the cold weather and not her sudden on-set embarrassment. He made a motion, to point himself, checking it was him she was talking to.

“Yeah, you. D’you see anyone else around here? Don’t play coy with me, dickhead. You know just why I’m here; you know full well you’ve been dangerous, reckless, and careless on the slope. You’ve cut me up seven times, and almost embedded yourself in a tree four times—and we’re only a third of the way down! I don’t enjoy fearing for my safety, nor others’, and I especially don’t like watching some dude’s brain explode over a tree trunk.”

She’d torn off her eye protection at one point, pulling them up to rest on her head. He’d followed suit, managing to make it look effortless, where she had fumbled, and plucked at the tight strappings. It was as if he’d done everything a thousand times before as if he was some kind of skiing master, a fucking Winter Olympics gold medallist.

Which he certainly was not—he couldn’t be, because those people knew how to ski, and this man evidently did not. Aelin could have kicked him in the shin she was mad at him. Her perfect brand of perfect vigilante justice.

It would be a perfect way to spend Christmas Eve, it could even be her Christmas present to herself.

“Thank you, for the concern. But I’m not about to flatten myself to a tree trunk, and also, by cutting you up, did you mean skiing perfectly safely across you, roughly 20 metres ahead of you? and if you did, I suggest you learn what skiing means.” His breath didn’t make little clouds in the air, and Aelin assumed it was due to the ice heart that he housed in his chest. He clearly was just as cold and just as frigid as the air was, a third of the way down a pretty fucking tall mountain.

i.e., he was very cold and very frigid. Perfect for riling up, pissing off, and beating up.

One of Aelin’s favourite things to do—under the large, umbrella term of vigilante justice, of course.

“Give it a rest, you think you fucking walk on water—”

“—correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that what snow is? Again, correct, but I do believe it is water in a frozen-ish state. But don’t catch me out on the science of it all—I haven’t gone to a science class in over fifteen years—”

“—you’re just the type to say that, you know. I could tell. The second I opened my mouth and said what I did, I got a psychic vision of you being a pretentious, pedantic arsehole and telling me all that. Telling me all that and going all shy and bullshit.” He let her finish her sentence, but she was immediately thrust back into his delusional environment.

“Please spare me the lecture—you’d be more useful if you were dead, than giving me, me of all people, about how to fucking ski.” Before she could consider his words, her hand was flying out, slapping him around the face.

“Don’t you dare—how fucking rude, and inconsiderate, and inhuman do you have to be, to wish fucking death on someone. Someone you don’t even know—I genuinely, genuinely, pray that I never see you ever again.”

She felt so strongly that she’d order room service for the rest of her stay, that she’d stick to the baby slopes with all the incapable children, and parents who wished they were on Black Diamond slopes. She hated him so thoroughly that she’d willfully immerse herself in a child-rich area.

Gods, this man was clearly doing funny things to her. not only regarding her choices to avoid him but in her style of violence. She typically would punch someone—felt as though it would hurt more, and leave a deeper, darker, more painful mark.

This idiotic, stuck-up-his-own-arse dickhead deserved something so humiliating as to be slapped around the face. So hard that he twisted around, and was almost knocked off balance. That was what he deserved, with a nice defined handprint across his cheek—the cherry on top of the already perfect cake.

He shook his head and opened his mouth, but Aelin had enough self-preservation to understand that she needed to get out of there. Soon. As soon as possible, or else she was going to find herself with a wonderful mugshot.

Before he could get his sentence out, Aelin was sliding her eye protection down, and tightening the thick fabric keeping the bottom half of her face warm(ish). It seemed that no matter which brands she tried, or who she consulted on the matter, she came out with a snowy chin, and a nose verging on frostbite.

Clearly, she didn’t care too much, given that she was still skiing with the pain, and suffering it ultimately delivered to her doorstep.

She let her anger flow through her as she skied down the mountainside, taking riskier and riskier corners and jumps, though still somewhat more careful than she would be, with the knowledge her newfound arch nemesis was somewhere behind her. the scenery was slowly shifting around her, the thick, tall pine trees thinning out, making room for rocks, and the pale blue of the winter’s sky.

The snow was practically untouched due to the early hour, just a couple of sets of tracks that never seemed to stray far from one another. The chance someone was training was low—but Aelin knew of some hard-core skiers who never took a day off. If there wasn’t snow, they’d simply find an artificial slope somewhere.

It was dedication in a way that Aelin couldn’t fathom, nor could she aspire to it. The only thing she was just as dedicated to, was not being introduced to her thirty-seventh stepdad in four years.

The trees dissolved from her view, leaving only the sky and the clouds, and the glaring sunshine. Her eyes burned, but she couldn’t look away—mesmerised by the twinkling of it against the snow, the shifting particles in the air.

It was gorgeous.

All until a fiercely cut figure in green smoothed his way across the snow but five metres in front of her, having come from within the trees. It was dangerous, and she was pissed off. She was more than pissed off—he’d disrespected her, and all the fellow skiers on the slope, just to be a show-off, just to seem cool, he’d been rude, cold, and inconsiderate in the most horrifying of ways.

All Aelin could do was watch on as he threw up a distinct middle finger, his dark green a stark contrast against the white snow.

Oh, she’d get him, she’d get him.

#twelve days of rowaelin #12 days of rowaelin #rowaelin #rowaelin fic #tog fic #tog #throne of glass #throne of glass fic #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #llyncooljones' writing #my fic #my writing

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llyncooljones · 1 year

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one winter's night - twelve days of rowaelin '22.

ao3 || masterlist || twelve days of rowaelin ‘22 masterlist

prompt: a christmas carol-esque retelling. word count: 1302 trigger warnings: language, tag list: @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @leiawritesstories @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @elentiyawhitethorn @rowanaelinn @autumnbabylon @backtobl4ck @letstakethedawn @rowaelinscourt

downtown orynth, the evening.

Rowan Whitethorn exited his building, a glass and brick masterpiece he’d overseen the design and construction of, it was to a scene out of winter wonderland.

Snow was falling, landing in his hair and melting off immediately, and the streets were turned some idyllic, hopeful shade of white that had every child losing their mind. Smiles had never been so broad as the children’s smiles were as they kicked at the snow under their boots, and Rowan narrowly missed a load of it heading for his shin—and ultimately the three-thousand-dollar trousers that covered his legs.

Some would call him extravagant, too attached to his money, and what it could mean for him, and he would call them naïve, and childlike in return. They’d huff, no doubt, and would sulk on the minutes for but half an hour before they found themselves in front of him—begging for a hug.

Not that he had a specific person in mind, not that the exact scenario had played out more times than Rowan could be bothered to remember.

Rowan shook out his hair when enclosed in his car, pulling down his visor to check over the fine ins and outs of his outfit and hair. He slid the glasses on his nose higher, allowing him to see better, whilst he adjusted his tie—straightening it.

He couldn’t afford to be caught with his pants around his ankles, so to speak. He’d been named Terrasen Magazine’s Most Stylish Man in the last month, which as much he hated the showboating around the fashion industry, he’d appreciated, and made an effort to continue.

His briefcase was lain on the passenger seat, driving gloves bundled inside, being able to have forgone them in his vehicle, equipped with heated seats, and a heated steering wheel. The engine spurred to life, and he was able to pull out of his parking space. He’d moved his driver to a different sector the previous month, after the light of his life, the love of his life, had complained to him about how pretentious it was, how rich it was.

She seemed to be shy when it came to some of the more common aspects of the upper echelons of society, whilst she had no problem accepting some of the more crazy, unexpected, and stupid aspects. He wasn’t sure why, but Rowan was pretty sure Aelin existed to confuse him, to keep his brain working even when he knew and understood most else.

Because he will never understand the crazy, bold, blonde he’d somehow made space for in his life. He’d forever be able to wax poetic about the golden hour sunshine on her hair, or the exact marbling of the turquoise in her eyes, or how he hoped that the gold of the engagement ring he’d chosen somewhat matched with her eyes.

He’d spend forever trying to solve her, in all her gorgeous entirety, only for her to reveal a new puzzle each time he thought he got close. He’d never tire of the surprises and the gifts and the love she granted him with—her whole heart full of love for him, even when each day she decants half of it into her actions towards him.

He’d given up some of the luxuries he most loved, purely because she had expressed an opinion that was decidedly not positive.

Each time he got home, he could barely believe that it was his life that he was living, not some alternate reality, not some dream universe he would wake up from. He never could remember what had been so twisted, so convoluted in his brain, and his heart, that had led to him almost losing her.

What was it inside of him, that had replaced her with money, with the insatiable desire for money, success—everything he could possibly have? How could money ever compare to the heat in his heart, and the warmth in his body she brought on? The sense of home, he’d never felt before.

She was invaluable to him, she always had been, and he would never let her slip from the number one space on his list of priorities (or his to-do list). Which was why he was leaving the office at five o’clock in the evening, saying goodbye to the executives who remained. Which was why he was headed home, an unshakeable smile drawn across his lips, too excited to see his wife, to see the love of his life.

The drive sped by, as he thought of nothing but his wife, of nothing but her hair, and her eyes, and her lips, and her body. The excited smile that shone every time she pulled open the front door pre-emptively, her body curled around it, watching his every move as he parked the car.

And before he knew it, he was pulling into their driveway, his wife was leaning around their front door, smiling the kind of smile that made him smile, and he was throwing the car into park. Grabbed his briefcase, and slammed the door.

The few metres between them were agonising, and each centimetre closer was like a breath of fresher, cleaner air. Her body draped in comfortable fabric, he envied her, sick of the suit he jammed his body into each and every morning. He was sick of the tie that choked him, and the cufflinks which clinked against his desk when he did anything.

He just wanted to be home, with his wife, with his Aelin, cuddled together on the sofa. They didn’t even have to be doing anything, just relishing in the other’s company, the underlying tone of undying love, the atmosphere of ‘to whatever end’. With Aelin, he was absolved of the pressure the world put upon his shoulder, he didn’t have to do anything.

He didn’t have to be some kind, benevolent, CEO; he didn’t have to be cold, calculating, and controlling, the owner and ultimate king of a fucking empire (of his own fucking making); he didn’t have to be anything but a man who loved his wife—and more than anything, that was why he loved Aelin Ashryver Galathynius-Whitethorn.

Because she would love him if he lived in a trailer, she would love him if they lived in an apartment above a Chinese takeaway, she would love him if they lived in a three bed two bath in the suburbs, and she loved him as they lived in an ostentatious monstrosity that satisfied all of his alpha male ego bullshit, that allowed him to sleep at night—knowing there was a state of the art security system protecting them.

His world came together as the front door closed behind him, and he felt complete: stood opposite his wife, he felt everything at once, and for once he wasn’t overwhelmed. He was calmed by the rush of emotion that overcame him as he watched her shift, and saw the fabric of her sweater reveal the bump to her belly.

His heart crumbled and came together stronger each and every time he saw his wife pregnant, each and every time he remembered that this ethereal, this powerful, this crazy, loving, wonderful, amazing, simply majestic woman was creating, was threading together a life. A life made of him, a life made of her, a life made of them.

This amalgamation of the parts of them, the very picture of their love and devotion to one another. He knelt before her, smudging the bottoms of his dress shoes against the seat of his slacks, hitting his knees too hard on the floors, hands flying up to cradle her bump. He pressed a kiss to it, and he was home in a way that could never mean four walls, a roof, and some trick of a mortgage.

#12 days of rowaelin #twelve days of rowaelin #rowaelin #rowaelin fic #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #tog #tog fic #throne of glass fic #throne of glass #my fic #my writing #llyncooljones' writing

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llyncooljones · 1 year

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on thin ice- twelve days of rowaelin '22.

ao3 || masterlist || twelve days of rowaelin ‘22 masterlist

prompt: warming up during a cold night. word count: part three to who is he? and call me sir trigger warnings: language, tag list: @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @leiawritesstories @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @elentiyawhitethorn @rowanaelinn @autumnbabylon @backtobl4ck @letstakethedawn @rowaelinscourt

the ice rink, the early evening.

When Rowan had suggested they go ice skating, Aelin was all in. She was all too willing to go ice skating. To put blades on her fucking feet, and put said blades on the ice, and then balance on them, before moving around on them, above a substance that will break her nose should she fall onto it.

Yeah, for how cautious she was, she was all too eager to put aside every worry, and every horror story ice skating trip she’d ever heard of, in favour of going on a date with Rowan ‘call me sir’ Whitethorn. If anyone else were in her place, they’d make the exact same decision. She wouldn’t budge on that—it would always be a hill she’d happily die on.

What Aelin hadn’t considered—and the list was small, so very, very small—was where they’d be going ice skating. Aelin had thought that the ice rink, the one that’s erected each year at the Christmas Market, would be the location for their date.

Oh, how wrong she was.

Instead, Rowan had driven her to the high school—one of only two in the town, and the one she hadn’t attended—and parked around the back, sliding his truck through a narrow to ‘the one place here with no cameras’. She should have been concerned after hearing that, but she hadn’t been.

Visions of car sex had been spinning through her head.

What was not spinning through her head, at that moment, was running away from the security guard who’d been called out, on account of the alarm being tripped.

After all Rowan’s boasting, about how he had a key, and about how no one would ever know, because he snuck in here all the time and no one ever found him, or found out. After all that, he’d forgotten the message which had circulated his messages from other classmates, which stated the introduction of a security system due to how many people broke in, and used the ice rink for ‘improper activities’.

So now, here she was running across concrete with only socks on, cursing her date for all of this. Her ice skates were swinging from one hand—in fact, they were borrowed ice skates from the reserve the school had—and all the ways she could castrate a man with said ice skates ran through her mind.

He unlocked his truck as it came into view, slamming his door shut as he finally hauled himself up there. Aelin was already buckled in, wearing a look of murder she knew would kill. He didn’t notice, and she made sure her expression would eviscerate him, and burn him from the inside out.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You take me on a date, and then you have us chased out by a security guard? Get your priorities straight, Rowan, and don’t even consider me until you’ve got a date in mind that won’t involve the cops,” her arms rested across her chest, and she’d like to say it was an accident that it pushed her tits up, but that’d be lying, and she didn’t like liars.

So, sue her, she wanted to be sexually appealing to the guy who’d brought her to orgasm with his words on a fucking screen. She’d worn a thong and lace bra to go ice skating, and it wasn’t a fucking crime. It certainly hadn’t kept her warm like a cotton bra and little cotton boxer shorts would have done, but she was dedicated.

On their first date, only two days prior to this fucking disaster, she’d worn stilettos and a skirt in five degrees Celsius weather, if that didn’t scream commitment to sexuality and getting it on the first, she didn’t know what did.

But he hadn’t mentioned anything remotely sexual on their date, not mentioning their sexual roleplay via text, nor his apparent ‘sir’ kink. But Aelin didn’t blame him, she hadn’t wanted to discuss the depths of her kinks, the extent of her sexual deviancy with him on their first date, either.

So, she’d turned up to their second date in lingerie, having previously gotten herself off to their texts because she was a starved woman when it came to sex, and now she was debating if any of it had been worth it.

“You cannot be serious, right now? I had no idea this was going to happen, do you think I would’ve taken you here, risked your safety or your wellbeing, if I had any clue that we could have been caught.” He seemed angry, but Aelin was now staring out of the window, feeling a little bad.

“I’m sorry, it’s just. It’s been so difficult to have a connection between us, beyond a text chain. A text chain we haven’t even talked about yet. So, forgive me, if I’m not one hundred percent clear on what this relationship is. If this is even a relationship. Don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind as well.” She tried to keep the anger from her tone, or the general irritation from her hand gestures, but some of it couldn’t help but seep through—like rainwater through the roof of an old convertible.

“You want to talk, simply? You just want to talk?” his tone was disbelieving, and Aelin wanted to dig deeper into it—an archaeologist who discovers something just as the light dies—find out why, why he found it so difficult to believe or to believe she simply wanted to talk their relationship through, confirm the page they were reading. Hell, confirm they were reading the same fucking book.

“Yes. Literally, all I want is for you to tell me where you see this going, for you to tell me if I should practise my pronunciation of ‘Whitethorn’ because I’m going to be putting ‘Mr’ in front of it constantly, or if I need to change your contact info from ‘sir’ to ‘don’t answer’. I don’t need to know anything beyond how interested you are in me, in pursuing us. Because I fucking want to see this go all the way, but if you don’t—”

“—I do. I’ve never told someone about the whole ‘sir’ thing before. I didn’t even mean for it to come out during our texts, one second it was all good, and the next I was being a creep, waiting for a message to pop up, telling me to go fuck myself. So, trust me when I say, I want to see this through. Because I’ve got some fucking connection to you, I trust you for some reason when we’ve interacted for a total of like four hours, so I’d fucking follow you over a cliff to find out what this is.”

Aelin felt her heart melt, felt herself sink into her seat, turn her head, meet his lips in a culmination of textual, sexual tension, and this trust, this innate, puzzling trust they had with each other. She felt warm, and cosy, even despite the chill which had followed them from the ice to the car. He warmed her from the inside out.

#who is he?#wih?#twelve days of rowaelin #12 days of rowaelin #rowaelin fic #rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #my fic #my writing #llyncooljones' writing #tog fic #tog #throne of glass #throne of glass fic

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llyncooljones · 1 year

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up 'til midnight -twelve days of rowaelin '22.

ao3 || masterlist || twelve days of rowaelin ‘22 masterlist

prompt: after the kids have gone to sleep. word count: 816 trigger warnings: language, alcohol abuse, drunkness, sexual themes tag list: @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @elentiyawhitethorn @rowanaelinn @autumnbabylon @leiawritesstories @backtobl4ck @letstakethedawn @rowaelinscourt

the whitethorn Galathynius house, nearly midnight.

Sometimes Aelin was grateful, that she and her friends had all accidentally decided to have kids or get pregnant around the same time. Or in the same age bracket, no one had a child who was of the age that they began asking questions—which was handy at times.

Christmas eve was one of those times.

As the friends with the biggest house—bought specifically with hosting their gatherings in mind—Christmas was held at Rowan and Aelin’s house. Everything was held at Rowan and Aelin’s house. Because, and pardon the bluntness, no one there had parents to go to. They were a sad, sorry bunch of thirty-year-old orphans—give or take a few years and parental figures.

Christmas being held at Rowan and Aelin’s meant their three children: Oren, who was six years old; Seraphina, who was three years old; and Isa, who’d been born but two months prior; Elide and Lorcan’s twin daughters: Mathilde and Valerie who were both four; as well as Aedion and Lysandra’s three-year-old boy, named Arlo.

Beyond that, Fenrys and his girlfriend joined, but only after the kids had gone to bed, and they were done at his girlfriend’s parent’s house. Because that was what you had to do when your parents were still alive—work out how to split your Christmas.

Much simpler when they were dead.

With a house full of six kids, and six adults, it was a squeeze, but Isa still slept erratically, in Rowan and Aelin’s room—a little bassinet over to the one side. Meanwhile, all the rest of the kids slept on the mattresses from the spare bedrooms still going spare in Oren’s room. Which meant there was a room for Lorcan and Elide, a room for Lysandra and Aedion, and a room for Fenrys and his undoubtedly better half.

It was a tight squeeze, and a crazy couple of days—but none of them would change it. Especially not the adults, because after their movie and dinner, and putting out a snack for Santa, the adults stayed up, and saw Christmas day in. Usually, till two in the morning, talking, drinking, wrapping presents, stuffing stockings, and having a fucking blast.

It was now nearly midnight, they were all thoroughly drunk, and the wrapping was thankfully over. Conversations had instantly taken a turn, going from excited comments over what they’d bought their kids, to the kind of dirty shit someone would run from.

Aelin was leant back into Rowan’s chest, her head buried into his neck and shoulders, his hands feeding through the knots of her hair. And it’s perfect, it’s so wonderful Aelin can’t help but wonder if it’s a dream. If it’s something fake, and unnatural.

Because what had she done in her life, previous to meeting Rowan, that meant she deserved this perfect life, this perfect love, that was perfect even with all its ups and downs.

“Guys, do you think any other animals have got clits?” Aelin wasn’t quite sure what brought out the urge to ask such a question, but she’d been wondering ever since she’d found out humans weren’t the only hypersexual creatures.

She was pretty sure goats were—which was enough to have her banning goats as possible pets. There was a list on their fridge of banned pets because if their prioritising of curiosity when it came to parenting led to anything, it led to their eldest wanting the craziest kinds of pets.

“Fireheart, what?”

“No, I mean what if? Like, do they? It’s a question we must be asking. We must find out the answers. How can you be okay with not knowing if like, a kangaroo has a clit—or like even a g-spot. These are quality questions—we should invest in the research. We could start a charity for all those poor women animals who have clits, and their men animals who don’t know to find it. Oh, and Rowan you can sponsor it, and everyone will know how much you love animals.” Excitement bubbled into her tone, her hands were flung so wildly in her animation, Rowan was forced to duck or be bruised.

And Aelin could practically feel the moment Rowan decided enough was enough, and wrapped a large hand of his, around each of her wrists. “You’re gonna hit me if you aren’t careful, babe. We all know how that’s gonna end, don’t we.” His tone is dark and soft. A blanket over her hyperactive mind, and a muscle relaxant, her arms slowly lowering to her lap—still wrapped in his hands.

“If you’re going to act that, freaks, you better be heading upstairs.” Commented one of their friends, but Aelin was stuck in her position, entranced by her husband.

“You know what, we fucking will. And we’ll be such freaks—that you’ll hear us. Bet you can’t wait for that, you perverts."

#twelve days of rowaelin #12 days of rowaelin #rowaelin fic #rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #tog #tog fic #throne of glass fic #throne of glass #llyncooljones' writing #my fic #my writing

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llyncooljones · 1 year

Text

behind the scenes - twelve days of rowaelin '22

ao3 || masterlist || twelve days of rowaelin ‘22 masterlist

prompt: accidental mistletoe.

word count: 1357

trigger warnings: language, sexual themes

tag list: @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @elentiyawhitethorn @rowanaelinn @autumnbabylon @leiawritesstories @backtobl4ck @letstakethedawn @rowaelinscourt

their wedding, the speeches.

“As I believe many of you know, it’s traditional for the maid of honour to give a speech, for the best man to give a speech, and for the father of the bride to give a speech. Unfortunately, I am not giving any of my friends the chance to tell you about my wild younger years, nor am I giving my husband’s best friends the chance to ruin a two-hour-long marriage. And finally, my father is dead, so no speech from him. Quite frankly, as I stand before you many of you will be shocked to find that the bride giving a speech, nor the groom.

“The thing is, my husband can be a shy man—which you wouldn’t guess given the places we’ve had sex and the number of times we’ve been discovered. These statistics would give the impression that we are shameless perverts—which is correct. Thankfully, my parents are dead, so they didn’t have to hear me say that. My husband, the shameless pervert he is, would hate to have to stand up in front of you, and tell you the story which kick-started arguably the best love story of this century.

“Lucky for all of you, I am shameless beyond sex, so you will hear the origin story of The Newly Wedded Whitethorn-Galathynius’. In fact, you shall the origin story which the Whitethorn half of The Whitethorn-Galathynius’ hasn’t heard. Babe, this one’s for you.”

where it all began

senior year of high school, the winter formal.

Aelin’s dress was by far the best dress on the dance floor. A mixture of Christmas songs, slow dances, and pop was playing over the ancient sound system in the school’s gymnasium. Snowflakes and angels were projected onto the wall, whilst cheap baubles hung from the ceiling. Tinsel adorned the few high tables in the corners, whilst Christmas trees stood on either side of the snack table.

It was the perfect setting, the perfect atmosphere for the beginning of a romance.

Aelin had made sure of it. She’d spent all her afternoons since being elected on the dance committee absorbed in her Pinterest account, saving ideas and aesthetics, scrolling through so Instagram pages her fingers hurt, googling so many colours palettes and decorations suppliers her internet connection lagged.

This was all to say, that she was in control. She hadn’t come off as a control freak, and as cruel, ignorant, and rude to many of her peers for nothing. She had done it all for them. She’d had help, of course.

She couldn’t orchestrate the entire foundation for a relationship just by herself.

All summer she had taken dance lessons from the community centre, afterwards consulting with Lysandra to translate dance to cheer. She’d spent much of summer hanging out with Lysandra and Elide practising her dance and cheer moves, often on the outskirts of the field, the soon-to-be-senior boys played their pick-up football matches.

This time was also used to eavesdrop and find out where his interests were, what he was curious about, and what he liked in a girl. The last one was the most difficult because no matter how hard his—shockingly gossipy—friends tried to get him to talk about the hottest girls in school, he refused. Said he wasn’t going to be so blatantly sexist—Aelin had wobbled in her cartwheel when he’d said that, promptly spraining her ankle.

Aelin’s ankle had still been strapped up with tape and bandages, unable to try out for cheer during the week before school began, but she had watched Lysandra’s tryouts. Which had turned into watching the football tryouts, on the opposite side of the field.

He had waved at her as he walked off, and her heart stopped and kickstarted each time. She realised she was just a teenage girl with a crush, but what did that matter? Wasn’t being a teenager all about having stupid, unattainable crushes, on people you like superficially?

She was merely doing what teenagers did. That’s how she reasoned with herself at least, she was kept up at night by her own thoughts, calling her creepy. But she ignored them when she fell asleep, into dreams of a future with Rowan.

For the rest of the semester, Rowan had waved when he saw her, and she would wave back—ducking her head, or swiftly turning around so he wouldn’t see the blush that raced up her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose.

But now, she was drinking spiked punch out of a tiny, plastic cup and waiting for the moment. The perfect moment. The moment she had planned, the moment she had thought out so carefully, there was no way it could go wrong.

Her favourite song would begin playing—the song she’d been raving about in chemistry, in chemistry where Rowan sits just in front of her, hoping she would get to dance to it, with someone. She’d been planting the idea for so, infiltrating his mind like no one would believe, that if it did go wrong she was liable to explode and cover everyone with over-worked, non-sensical brain matter. But her heart would remain intact.

Trying to locate Rowan, she wandered around the school gymnasium and marvelled at how well the dance committee had handled her dream, her image, her moment. She was worried, that they wouldn’t take her blackmail seriously—but clearly, they had, and they had delivered on the aspect.

She could jump, she was so happy.

She stopped on the fringes of the dance floor and spotted Rowan weaving his way through dancing couples, and the few solo dancers who jumped around during a slow dance. He caught her eye, waving as he always did before his eyes flicked up—above her head. He smiled and dodged further couples, heading for her.

“Aelin, hi.” He was breathless, and his eyes sparkled. She was endeared by it, she didn’t usually consider that teenage boys had sparkling eyes. Clearly, she needed to spend more time considering because she was so absorbed in them that she didn’t realise he’s said something else.

She just nodded, unable to think up the right excuse.

He leant in, hands slipping to cradle her neck and chin, a thumb caressing her cheek. She could barely take in all the points of contact, couldn’t even make sense of it all. Not before his lips hit her own, and the world seemed to go silent, only the beating of her heart audible. And maybe the calmer thrumming of his.

He pulled back, his face serene and pleased, dropping as he stares at her longer, and longer. Never taking his eyes off hers. Aelin can feel the blank expression on her face, shock disallowing the muscles in her cheeks to work. She was unfrozen, and the brightest grin overtook, warming the world with its shine.

“What did you do that for?” she questioned and didn’t pinch herself even if she felt the need to—this couldn’t be a dream.

“The mistletoe, right above you. I told you—you nodded. I thought you were stood under it on purpose, to make sure we kissed.”

“Yeah, I stood here on purpose, mistletoe is always handy.”

No, I stood here not realising there was mistletoe above my head, we were supposed to slow dance and murmur quiet conversations, until the song ended, and I beckoned you down for a kiss. I was supposed to take the credit. Now the fucking mistletoe can.

the wedding, the speeches

“And to conclude, I can in fact say it was all me—even if he took the time to kiss me, and spot the mistletoe, which I stood under accidentally. Because if I hadn’t been obsessed and learning cheer to be a cheerleader to his football player, I would not have been on the field in time to sprain my ankle at the sight of him. Which lead to the wave, which ultimately lead to our kiss, and this wedding.”

The crowd cheered, and clapped, and Rowan could only stare at his wife, and could only love all the creepy, obsessed parts of her.

#twelve days of rowaelin #12 days of rowaelin #llyncooljones' writing #rowaelin fic #rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #tog #throne of glass fic #throne of glass #my fic #my writing

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llyncooljones · 1 year

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sing me to sleep - rowaelin yulemas swap.

ao3 || masterlist || rowaelin masterlist

gifter's note: i really hope you like this, as per your guidelines i tried to keep sexual content and trigger content to a minimum but i seem to be pretty bad at eliminating them entirely. i really hope this level is okay, and the meet-cute is one of your dreams. as someone from the UK it was so fun to write a little british au, and all the tube stuff is painfully accurate! sorry if you had hoped for something a little more festive, or a little longer (exams and being really ill don't mix well with writing over 6k, which is what i had hoped for this au)

merry christmas @thegloweringcastle, hope you enjoy!

word count: 3122

trigger warnings: language, slight sexual innuendo/content

tag list: @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @backtobl4ck @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @elentiyawhitethorn @rowanaelinn @autumnbabylon @leiawritesstories @letstakethedawn @thegloweringcastle @rowaelinyulemasswap

the london underground, commuting time.

Aelin wondered what went through someone’s mind when they decided to fall asleep in public. She couldn’t help but be concerned for both their mental state and their common sense. Because she could swear, hand on her heart, swearing to the fucking gods, that she would never be so stupid.

She kept her thoughts on staying awake, on making sure her eyes remained painfully open, so wide that if she weren’t riding the London Underground, someone might ask if she were okay.

The good news was that she was riding the London Underground, and a could-be-high employee from the office of some obscure marketing company was the most normal thing most of her fellow passengers had seen all day. So, it didn’t matter, even as her eyeballs began to dry, began to hurt, and began to slowly shut.

She blinked herself awake again, she would not become a hypocrite purely because she’d stayed up all night watching the football with her best friends and losing her mind on social media as she trawled through Rowan Whitethorn’s Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok.

As well as his team’s accounts too, and finally the stories and recent posts of his teammates'. she wasn’t particularly proud of herself for the rabbit hole she had fallen into but forgave herself in the name of being human (and a red-blooded woman).

Who in their right mind, and their right sex drive, could stare at that man for his pre-game interview, highlight reel; the ninety-minute match, and the half time ad campaigns; his post-game interview, and celebration, and not find themselves, happy, by the end of it all?

So now she suffered the consequences, on the tube, trying her best to stay awake and not have an explicit dream about the literal man of her dreams. She tried not to think of those hands, and how she knew those thick yet dextrous fingers would know for some reason the exact pressure she needed her head to be massaged at for her to fall asleep.

She didn’t like the fact that her mind couldn’t escape thoughts of how gorgeous his thighs were and how they would feel under her own as she sat across his lap, as they spooned in bed, as she leant against him at one of the numerous fundraisers she would have to attend as a WAG.

And the fundraisers she would host in order to abolish that term because she just longed for it to be gone.

aelin's seat, ten minutes later.

Ten minutes later she was still sat on the tube, now with a numb arse, on the tube. She was warm underneath her coat, and the pinching at her heels because of her new ankle boots was slowly fading. As was her ability to stay awake.

The tube slowed suddenly, the doors opening, people exiting and entering, a vague figure in a baseball cap, with his hoodie hood pulled over his head, and the makings of a tattoo on his hand sitting down next to her, purely the patchwork nature of his sleeve: a collation of lyrics from One Direction songs, and doodles of cats and ammonites making her trust he was somewhat decent enough.

And with the knowledge, she was sat next to a decent-ish man, and someone’s grandma with an ‘I ❤ London’ T-shirt on, she began to debate the actual consequences of falling asleep on the tube because as distant as Londoners were from each other, and as little as they wished to interact with each other, one would surely step in if someone started to do something inappropriate or, illegal.

And if that failed, there had to be an audacious girl on the train who’d grown up loud and proud, and very willing to punch misogynists in the nose. And the throat. And then the genitals.

Normally, Aelin was that girl, so she hoped positive karma was in the air, and she let her eyes drift closed with a heavy sigh and the thought that Rowan Whitethorn was known for patchwork tattoo sleeves, 1D lyrics, cat doodles, and recreations of the ammonites his grandfather had found on the beach and displayed.

the seat next to aelin's, a few moments earlier.

He hoped, somewhat desperately, that no one recognised him. He wasn’t in the mood, nor the right head space, to deal with fans, or dickheads who thought they could criticise his performance when the last time they had played football was secondary school lunchtimes.

He had slumped to a surprisingly low height in his tube seat, his arse sat on the very edge of the no doubt filthy fabric seats. His AirPods played one of his most random playlists, an amalgamation of songs from friends past and present, from primary school plays to bangers that had dropped during his time at sixth form.

Those two years had been hell, his time split cruelly between the academy at West Ham United, and trying to pass the three A levels he had picked based on ease of passing. But some moments were so clear to his twenty-five-year-old mind that he could hear the music playing in the shopping centre as he and his friends drank from Stella Artois cans, chucking them into the bins as if they were basketball players.

He was hyper-aware of the girl next to him, as the song ended, during the second-long gap between songs, he suddenly heard her slowing breaths, and saw her closed eyes, the slight part to her lips. He was curious as to what colour her lips were exactly, where she had got the little diamond nose stud from, and if he could buy her more in every colour of the rainbow.

As he wondered about her interests, and if she’d be bothered to deal with the bad press that came involving oneself with a football player, she sunk deeper into her sleep. Her head lolling around with each judder of the tube. When they turn a corner somewhat brutally, she fell into him, head whacking against his shoulder joint, and bicep.

He winced, and resisted the urge to push her head away, as it now lolled with each judder against his shoulder. He knew that letting her rest against his left shoulder was a recipe for physical therapy, ice baths, and a thousand and one other things he doesn’t want to do. But more than he doesn’t want to do any of those things, he really doesn’t want to knock her head off his shoulder.

Not only because his mother had raised him to be a gentleman, to be kind and gentle with women when he needed to be, not only because his father had taught him how to ‘woo’ a girl and sweep off her feet (and not put her down until she was in a wedding dress and they were both crossing their front threshold). Mainly because something in her exhaustion called to his.

He hated talking about it to anyone because he felt ungrateful. He got the sense that when he complained about the drain of being a professional football player, about the emotional strain, and the physical abuse of his body, people thought ‘how dare he!’ and only saw the pounds that entered his bank account.

But something in this girl’s freckles, and the waning crescent moons beneath the eyelashes that fluttered with every movement of the underground. And maybe in the vulnerability, she displayed, falling asleep on the tube, her desperation, her willingness to subject herself to the unknown for forty-fucking-winks.

Rowan couldn’t help but ponder the reasons which might have kept her up so late, even as her head dug into the inflamed tissue of his shoulder, and twinges of pain, akin to that of cattle brand, shot down his left arm.

The things he was willing to sit through and suffer for this girl on the tube, with spun gold hair, and a certain je ne sais quoi about her.

But before he can further consider what it is about her that calls out to him in this violent, demands to be seen and heard and tasted on the tongue, he’s receiving a message from his teammate and fellow Stella Artois basketball player, Lorcan.

rowan

did you just get on at stratford?

yes

do you plan to get off at notting hill gate?

yes

are you going to an event there?

no, got plans to meet enda there. we’re having dinner then he’s dropping me back at mine.

good news, otherwise, you have a stalker who is posting about the event you’re currently taking the tube from stratford to notting hill gate to attend an event, from the account rowansbiggestfanevah.

you may want to consider getting off at the next stop. her story already has more than thirty thousand views and she posted it 3 mins ago.

can’t

why

there’s a girl asleep on my shoulder. and she’s snoring really quietly. and she looks like she’s had a really hard day. all exhausted and worried and just precious honestly. don’t have the heart to push her off.

push her off. you’re about to be bombarded, and by my calculations, you’ve got 31 mins left in your journey, bc your phone says you’re halfway between stratford and mile end.

nah, the most that’ll happen is they’ll take pictures bc this is London, and beyond that the London underground. unless there’s an american around here, no one’ll come up to me.

And before you say, I’ve checked, the girl’s scarf and coat cover her face, and the rest is pressed into my shoulder and coat.

which shoulder?

rowan. which shoulder? you better not say the left, you better not. i know that tackle in the second half knocked it, and i know damn well it flared up yesterday after the match. why would you purposefully hurt yourself?

you are exhausting.

the left. and i won’t hear anything more about it. she’s exhausted, and she doesn’t know it’s me, and she’s fucking gorgeous. like gold.

don’t fucking say i didn’t warn you. because i did. i so totally did.

alright taylor, how was growing up on an xmas tree farm?

and don’t hold back, girl, i want—no, need—all of the details!!!

Pulling his cap down lower, and the jacket he had on tighter around himself, he ignored Lorcan’s messages that continued to light up his phone, the vibration an annoying sensation against his stomach, where his phone rested through the fabric of his jacket pocket.

He could see people begin to check their phones, and he braced himself. He felt a little self-centred, thinking that all these people would be somewhat fans of his, or that they would know him, or recognise him. He felt a little self-absorbed thinking only one person on the train was checking their Instagram, and finding out he was on the tube.

But he had accepted that even if he had to fight off an army of crazed West Ham United fans, he would let this woman, whoever the hell she was with the audacity to hurt his heart she was so gorgeous, get her sleep on the train. And then he would take her dinner, in some small, family-owned restaurant that promised privacy, and discrete service.

As a thank you, for existing, or maybe an apology for landing her on the cover of the weekend’s magazines. An olive branch, or an offer. A hint to the way he wanted more with her than he had ever wanted with anyone else. Even if he didn’t know this woman, he felt her. Somewhere deep inside of him, which had remained cold, hard and unfeeling since the death of his parents at eighteen.

He didn’t want to overwhelm her, nor himself, with claims and declarations of love at first sight. And he didn’t want to lie, because the connection they shared was most certainly not love. It couldn’t be. But it was a deep familiarity, a sort of home-feeling when her body had chosen him to fall asleep on.

His body to be so vulnerable with.

But the longer Rowan thought on it, the more curious he became. As he listed all these words and metaphors and similes and equivocal sayings, he thought maybe that when one put them all together, there was an overarching, kind of umbrella term for them.

And he pondered if maybe love at first sight exist, but it couldn’t. Not for two strangers on the tube, one of which was asleep. (Rowan wasn’t known to the public as a creep, but certainly, if mind readers existed, and were on this tube, he would be known to the public by such a moniker.)

He didn’t think too much further about it.

Not as she leant on him, on the tube, and he braced himself against the pain she caused, and braced himself for the influx of passengers, and no doubt West Ham United fans who had seen their Instagram stories, and now knew where to find him.

He didn’t think about how, as a child, he had clambered into bed with his mum and dad, and listened reverently to their stories of finding each other, their meet cute, and their dates. His proposal, their wedding, Rowan’s birth.

And he certainly didn’t imagine little golden-haired children with eyes like pine forests, snuggling into bed with him and this nameless woman (Christ alive, Rowan needed to consult a therapist about this, it couldn’t be normal) as they whispered to their children about how daddy had been on the train, and how mummy had fallen asleep on his shoulder, and how it was the best tube ride of anybody’s life. Ever.

He didn’t. Because that would be fucking creepy of him, and as he mentioned, he wasn’t known as that.

aelin's seat, not much later.

Thickly woven cotton slid against her skin as she roused, her hair falling over her face. The morning light was much too bright as it shone through the room, burning her retinas, and forcing her to turn over in a muscular chest.

The skin was golden, rich like caramel, and soft like the fucking softest thing in the world. Gods, it felt brilliant against her skin, slipping against hers and warming. Her tilted upwards, meeting the awaiting pine eyes of the man she loved, the cute furrow in his thick eyebrows as he watched her sleep.

At first, she had believed him to be a creep, watching her sleep and not seeing anything wrong with it, but since she had seen the light and admitted the behaviour was cute and endearing, (in a creepy way, still).

His tattooed arms encircled her, one sleeve dedicated to his life pre-Aelin Ashryver Galathynius Whitethorn, and another dedicated to his life post- Aelin Ashryver Galathynius Whitethorn. She loved the thought behind each sleeve, and more so she loved the juxtaposition between the monotony of his pre- sleeve, versus the riotous, headache-inducing array of colours on his post- sleeve.

Aelin awoke with a start, her head jerking up only to be pressed back down by a large, strong hand. A hand adorned by rings if the hard points of pressure across her skull were to indicate anything. Her instant reaction was to push against the hand, but try as she might, she could not budge it from her head, nor could she budge her head from the shoulder it was pressed into.

This was karma. This was what she got for trusting the tube enough to fall asleep on it. She didn’t stop fighting, even when her attacker, or restrainer, or whoever the hell it was, leant down to whisper in her ear, “I am doing this for you. There are seven different people on the carriage trying to find me, to photograph me, and if they do, I don’t want your face in it. Because you don’t deserve that, for just falling asleep on my shoulder. “

His voice was smooth and welcoming and calming, and strangely familiar. Aelin couldn’t help but think that she knew this person, so in order to answer her question she asked him, “Uh, who are you? And why the fuck do people want to take your photo?” her tone was accusatory, and she felt bad about it, but said feeling swiftly fell away when she thought of how his hand was holding her head down. She didn’t have anything to feel sorry about.

Nothing!

“Listen, when I tell you this please don’t get at all hyper, or fan girly on me, I don’t think you’ll even know who I am, because you don’t seem the type but, I play football for West Ham United, and my name is Row—”

—Aelin’s ears stopped working, the second the first syllable of his name was uttered, her brain had already begun short-circuiting when he’d mentioned he played football, and an idea had begun to form in her mind of whose shoulder she was pressed against. But when he said West Ham, Aelin almost passed out from shock, she’d been having a fucking dream about the same guy who was sat next to her on the tube, who she had fallen asleep on, and who was the reason she had fallen asleep in the first place because she’d been up all-night thirsting over him and his teammates.

But when the R, and the O, and the W of his name left his mouth, Aelin was sure she’d become paralytic, her arms seemed to go limp, and she fell even deeper into his coat, and she might have even drooled.

“—take you to dinner to apologise for all of this, I know this wasn’t what you signed up for tonight, on your commute. And, again, I’d like to apologise for it all, with more than just my words. They tend to seem quite sad compared to all the other things I could do, with all my amassed wealth and that.” He was trying to sound cool, even to Aelin’s quite distracted ears, she could tell. She found it endearing, and cute and sweet and quite adorable.

Made her want to pinch his cheeks like a grandma, like she knew him. Which she supposed she did, she knew every detail about him that could be known, but maybe she wouldn’t share that just yet. Because it might scare him off, and she didn’t want that. No, not at all.

So instead, she put on her own, faux-cool, tone and responded as if she were merely curious, not restraining herself from shoving her hands under his coat and feeling that smooth skin she’d dreamt about.

“Dinner?” is how it came out.

And he responded, “Yeah, I don’t know when you’re free so: tell me your number?”

She did, she watched as he entered it into his contact list, of only fifty people. She liked that.

#rowaelinyulemasswap #gift fic #rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #rowaelin fic #throne of glass fic #throne of glass #tog #tog fic #my writing #my fic #llyncooljones' writing

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