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skull’s bay, their room, after elena’s visit.
“They dispersed then, Aelin and Rowan slipping off to their own room.”
Fire pounded through Aelin’s veins at such speed, with such power, she deemed it a miracle of her newfound heritage that she had not yet exploded into shreds of herself.
In her mind, scrambled as it was after the night’s amorous events and Elena’s decidedly annoying visit, she knew her intactness was to be dedicated to the strong fae warrior a little to the side, a little behind her.
She knew it was the strength he lent to her so easily, that kept her from screaming and shouting. She knew it was the solid mass of him at her back that kept her from collapsing onto her weak knees. She knew it was the feel of him at her neck that kept her from crying an endless river of tears.
He was unwavering, even when he shouldn’t be.
She couldn’t but love him more for it.
Their swift exit from Dorian and Aedion’s room, his shirtless-ness and her wearing his shirt, the blood on their necks, their change in scent and feral nature; they hadn’t gone unnoticed by her friends.
Lysandra had catalogued every interaction and smelt every undercurrent of love and arousal and desperation in their scents with that cursed snow leopard nose she possessed so frequently these days.
A tattooed, veined arm reached in front of her body as the short walk to their own room came to a close. Rowan’s long, scarred fingers gripped the doorknob and twisted, letting them into the stillness of their room. The bed sheets are strewn about the bed, in disarray from the last they slept between them. The armoire against the wall was open, Rowan’s simple clothes directly and strikingly contrasting the rich fabrics and bold colours of the clothes Aelin had managed to carry with her.
Stood in this cocoon, of them. Their scents. Their clothes. Their messes. Their bed. Their mark. Stood in it, Aelin was stifled with a sudden and vigorous need. A need she had not expected so soon after their recent activities.
Surely her body was exhausted, surely her fae instincts, her baser instincts, were happy with their three joinings. There wasn’t a chance that the ache in her cunt was the need for more, rather than exhaustion from a lot already.
She was sore in the most delicious of ways.
Most prominently her neck, the punctures where Rowan had bitten her. The blood that had stained his lips, his teeth, his tongue, and his chin matched the red dripping from her own, his blood singing to her soul as the taste reverberated around her body, her soul, her very essence.
She was sure the area was inflamed, bruised tissue surrounding the broken skin, the dripping blood, the slowly forming scab. She felt as though, for the first time in her life, she was going to pick and pick at the scab, never letting the wound fully heal. Regularly making it bleed, over and over. Maybe she’d lie in bed awake, Rowan next to her blissfully asleep, and pick his own scab off, make it so his own mark would never heal, the open wound of their love never healing.
Maybe she was sick for thinking such things.
But maybe, she was being sick if it meant she could think such things.
Unaware of the world surrounding her, knowing she was safe because her warrior prince was there, she let her thoughts drift, let arousal settle heavily in her belly, knowing Rowan would scent it. Scenarios flickered through her mind, the past meddling and mixing with the future.
She wanted to know his every desire, wanted him to discover her own. She wanted to watch his every reaction, wanted him to view her own.
The door slamming shut, a product of the gust of wind Rowan had sent through the room, and then the windows doing the same, alerted her to reality once more. In response to her love’s — gods, did it feel good to think that — a show of casual magic, she allowed a flame to flow from her middle finger, her wrist twisted so she could give it to Rowan.
The flame travelled to the wick of every candle in the room, bathing the room in subtle, glowing light. Flickering every now and then.
The old floorboards at Ocean Rose squeaked, creaked, and squealed as Rowan’s heavy feet moved along the ancient wood. Until his chest became one with her back until his arms could do nothing except wind around her midsection, the juncture between his thumb and forefinger cradling a breast each.
Even such gentle caresses, even such simple touches, even such subtle movements had the burn of a thousand suns starting in her. Had her suddenly ravenous for the glorious, understandably desired cock between her lover’s thighs. She had yet to take it in her mouth, had yet to feel its weight against her hand, her lips, her tongue. Had yet to taste him during and had yet to taste him afterwards.
She wanted to know if he would growl the same when he released into her mouth, as when he did so into her entrance. If the world would rock, and the sky would fall, and the seas would jump — and bathe them.
“My Queen, you’d do well to remember that I can smell you, beyond what one might think I can.” Rowan’s voice, her title, and his words melted deliciously against her ears in a song of devotion. She loved her fae ears so incredibly, his voice somehow more, more, and more when it grated against her heightened fae senses.
“Ah, my Blood Sworn, you’d do even better to remember that nothing happens within my court without my say-so. Count yourself honoured, for being allowed to smell me.” Her smirk was unable to be held back, joy pushing so firmly at the corners of her lips that she could nothing but revel in it. That she could do nothing but bask and bathe in all the smiles, smirks, and frowns that were never frowns, her warrior prince gifted her.
His mouth lowered to her neck, the more-than-half-a-foot difference between them forgotten as she stood on tiptoes, and he bent his neck. A kitten lick danced across her skin, the roughness of his tongue sending a more than delightful shiver up her spine. His lips, his teeth, and his gorgeous, elongated canines were so close to the bite mark that she had to stop herself from shoving his face into her neck and making him bite her more. Mark her more, claim her more.
“Patience.” It was a growl against her delicate, easily bitten skin. It bounced against her flesh and ricocheted into her heart; the cage of her ribs locking it in place. She knew, that no matter how hard it pounded against its prison, she’d never let it go.
She’d never let this go.
One arm still embracing her, holding her fast against the drumbeat of his chest, of his heart, the other slipped down to the belt he had lent her, fastened around her waist in a shoddy attempt to cover her.
The worn buckle slipped easily, Rowan’s practised, experiences, and weathered fingers undoing it masterfully. It slipped from her waist, past her hips, and landed with a too-loud clang against the wooden floors. Immobile is her desire, in the sheer impact this male had on her, she allows his embrace to end — obviously unable to predict the pain that slammed through the very core of her being, her soul as their connection ended, and she wondered what was wrong with her, what all of a sudden plagued her.
“We tend to call it the frenzy, it’s more prominent with mating bonds and such but can be just as strong for the first coupling, or the biting. It’s essentially the body’s hormones sorting themselves out, the ‘mine’ aspect developing fully. Hence the need to fuck, because that tends to display claiming, and belonging.”
Aelin learnt something at that moment, that Rowan understood her. Maybe even more so that she understood herself. Rowan Whitehorn could see past every front. He could glance to her face for no longer than a second, and already have a response prepped, he could stare into her eyes and just she was burning to make a bird joke (he was a fan of asking if Aelin was ‘burning to do so’, as displayed). He could be stood behind with no clue beyond the stiffening of her body, and the change in her smell, and know that she needed questions answered.
They were perfect like that.
“So what? You wanna fuck me? Bite me? Mark me? Do it, let’s see how many more rounds you can last, old man.”
“Aelin. Aelin, you underestimate me. You think my age is going to slow me down? All it means is that I’ve had longer to perfect this, that I’ve had longer to practice. To know what I like, and how to make you love it.” His voice… His voice.
Fuck living for Terrasen.
She needed to live, so she could hear that voice whisper all the filthy things it possibly can into her ear, make sure it never ceases to flood her undergarments, make sure it never stops sending her absolutely crazy.
She’d kill for that voice, no doubt.
In those moments, she forgot about his arms, how he’d been in the middle of stripping her down, when her walls and gates and barbed wire already sat at his feet, ready to be discarded. She forgot about the lack of a belt around her waist, forgot her nakedness beside his shirt.
Or maybe she remembered and decided to heat her icy Buzzard’s blood up to a boil.
Stood tall, strong, and feminine in the middle of their shared room, Aelin had never felt more revered. Yes, their first, second, and third times had been meaningful, impactful, and even powerful. They hadn’t made her feel idolised, praised, or worshipped as she did now.
Hands made of wind gently tugged at the hem of her — his — shirt. Lifting her arms up high, stretching her body felinely, the soft, worn, pine-scented shirt was removed from her body.
Her lover still stood at her back, but even without seeing him, without gazing into those depthless, emerald eyes, she knew he was fighting the urge to kneel down, to place his hands together and thank the gods.
And to thank Mala, most importantly, given her relation.
Thank Aelin.
As if he could tell (and he definitely could) her thoughts were straying, calloused fingertips drew patterns on her back, pulling her from past to present. They jumped across the plane of her back, swirling through the intricately inked tattoo he had done for her. Tracing ever so slightly around the scars that marred her skin.
Even through her shirt, she could feel his touch.
Even through her shirt, he knew where to touch her.
It had her nearly delirious with love, that he had such an intimate, detailed, and undoubtedly unique knowledge of her. Mind, body, and soul.
Rowan’s hands slid down her side, cupping her hips and then moving further, flirting dangerously with the hem of the shirt she donned. Goose bumps erupted on her thighs, skin sensitive despite how used she had become to his intimate, careful touches.
Maybe her body sensed that this time, that this time was different.
Too quickly, Rowan’s hands go from teasing her tegs and the hemline of her make-shift dress to gripping it and ripping. The rough sound of fibres breaking apart fills the silence of their room, a gasp catching in Aelin’s throat as her body is suddenly revealed.
Her gasp is soon swallowed by a cry of outrage and anger, at the icy wind her prince had sent through the room, chilling to the very bone. The wind touches her in places it never has before, sneaking through the archway of her legs, through the valley of her breasts, around the column of her neck. All before swirling around the top of her head — like a crown, like a halo.
“Get on the bed,” The words joined his winds dancing through the room, hot air fanning from his mouth contradicting the icy breeze still tormenting her body. The juxtaposition of sensations had her wetter than ever, had her dripping.
All her energy went into walking with strong, unwavering legs. She knew if Rowan so much as whispered, she’d collapse to her knees: far too desperate, far too needy to do anything but be taken on the gods-damned floor.
The gods-damned floor.
How unfitting for a queen.
Truth be told, Aelin didn’t feel like a queen at the moment. She was walking to a bed, on a man's command, arousal dripping from her, nipples tight and ready for the biting, blood clotting on her bite mark.
She felt like a whore.
And she loved it.
It was mindless and easy, it was a blissful distraction from the pressure and soul- and heart-crushing reality of her life. It was a weight off her shoulders, a pep in her step, a shine in her eyes, a smile on her lips.
It was heaven, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell the gods she was sinning.
“What did I say, Aelin? Why haven’t you moved?” his tone was one that would usually have her spitting fire and arrowing flames at his already-erected shield of wind. But here, she could do nothing but prove her own hypothesis true.
Her knees gave out and slid to the ground. Her legs were parted, her elbows shoulder width apart as they meet the cold wood. Her head hung between her shoulder, hair falling like a curtain around her flushed face.
“I can’t. Rowan, just fuck me. Don’t tease.” Her voice broke, at some point. She couldn’t imagine knowing precisely, mind too consumed with listening out for footsteps. Or the husky whisper Rowan had so recently adopted.
“You want to be fucked, my Queen?” the tone scratched an itch in the deepest corner of her brain, her heart, her body. She held back the whining moan she nearly let go. It was embarrassing enough she literally fell to her knees for this man, if she started moaning with little to no prompt, she would surely die.
And what a happy death it would be.
“Yes, your Queen wants to be fucked. By you. Now.” She tried to tug on the blood bond but found the string to be slipping from her fingers because the second she grasped the bond, her blood sworn grasped her hair.
In a fist.
A tight fist.
And he pulled.
Sensations rung through her; ran wild along her scalp and down her body. “And maybe my Queen needs to become patient. Good, good things come to those who wait, don’t they?” Her nod was frantic and exaggerated. She craved the tug on her hair, the edge it provided, the anchor it gave her to reality.
A hand of icy wind took over, gripping her hair between its phantom fingers, as Rowan’s delicious heat slid along her back until his gaze fell to between her thighs. She could feel him restraining himself, from teasing her, from speaking embarrassing, humiliating, erotic things.
And she almost dared him to do it, curious to find out how her body would react. To see how her love would react, and how well he could fill the role. But before she could open her mouth, his own met her soaking pussy and enveloped her in warm, shocking sensations.
His tongue was rough against the sensitive skin, the fine golden hair there. His lips were pliable and soft and ravenous, swiping across her lips. His teeth were a pure danger, one elongated canine pressing into the shape of her clit, sending Aelin shaking.
She bit down on her lip, grateful for the strength and sharpness of her own canines, the heightened pain the only thing keeping her from losing it completely, crashing into the floor and just begging. Luxuriating in the feel of him, Aelin sinks lower, her hips clicking loudly in the silence.
Rowan pauses her efforts, and Aelin curses her too-young-to-be-this-tired body, curses just about anything she can think of with her brain so foggy with lust.
“Are you okay?” Concern carves itself into his every word and tone and inflection, and Aelin melts for him and consequently drips for him.
“Yes. It’s only my body, don’t lose your mind, Buzzard. I can feel your over-protective fae bullshit creeping in already.” She ends her sentence with a quiet laugh that turns to big, full-bodies chortles, setting Rowan off as well.
Their bodies shaking with laughter, Rowan hones his tongue once again on her cunt and dives for it. The shock causes her to slip forward, legs parting further than before. She groans. He groans. His tongue is too busy to let anything but the vibration in his throat be heard, but she doesn’t care.
Licking a stripe up her slit, Aelin praises the gods. When his lips wrap harshly around her clit and suck, she screams out to the heavens and feels her climax approaching too fast for her to do much about it.
With the newfound knowledge of her near orgasm, Rowan pulls himself away from her clit, and once again licks along her, tongue flat and broad and touching every nerve ending he can find. Before Aelin can stop her prince, his tongue is fluttering around her back hole. She shrieks at the unfamiliar sensation and then moans at the wave of pleasure it brings, and flushes even deeper at the taboo of it.
On the precipice, she waits with bated breath as Rowan licks from ass to clit, waving his tongue over the throbbing bud. Slight, simple, barely-fucking-there touches, make her want to slap him ‘round the back of his oversized male head.
He keeps her waiting, shifting her hips desperately, thrusting back into his mouth, balancing on a singular arm so she can reach back and grip his hair. Grip and tug, a forceful encouragement.
Tears are collecting in the corners of her eyes, as the first drop breaks free down her cheek, Rowan’s teeth bite down on her clit and send her over the edge. She feels like she’s flying, high over the world, watching with Rowan as it burns.
Her body is clenching, her cunt is convulsing, and she’s hungrier now than she had been before. When she returns to the world, and rational thought, she’s greeted with the sensation of Rowan slipping to fingers into her soaked opening, feeling her walls clench around him. Desperate to be filled with the gorgeous stretch of his cock.
Her hands fist together and meet, as Rowan’s slow and careful pumping builds Aelin up as though she’s a spiral staircase. She’s dizzy and desperate, mindless and majestic. She’s a million things at once, and all of them love Rowan.
His middle and index fingers pump roughly, shaking her hips and jiggling her backside until they find a spot she didn’t know even existed. He twists and scissors his digits, curling them and clenching them. Stimulating her walls and that damn spot in any way possible, pushing and pushing until she reaches the highest possible place.
Until she’s writhing so wantonly that she’s pulling on his shoulder blade (connected to his arm, connected to his hand, connection to those fingers, inside her cunt). Until he’s pulling his fingers completely out and leaving her pussy slick, tensing and relaxing around hellish fuck all.
His thumb presses down on her clit, as he moves forward. Circling the bundle of nerves until she’s jerking away from the touch, she’s so overstimulated. His bare chest meets her slick back, the arm that is occupied sliding under her body and pinching a rosy nipple between fingers.
Rolling and tugging and hurting.
Sending her soaring. On the wings of pleasure.
Her orgasm is one that has her screaming, a halo of flames fluttering around her head — eventually put out by Rowan’s wind, before any collateral can be created.
Aelin comes back to sense with the feeling of Rowan’s erection digging into her, his trousers divested during her time flying. He’s stripped bare, through the bridge of her body she can see the weight of it hanging, between those thickly, densely muscled thighs, dusted so carefully with hair.
His lips meet her neck, on the opposite side to her bite mark, sucking and licking and kissing, lathering her in sensation and sensuality, until his teeth are nipping at her and she’s flooded with a need, with a heat that pushes her back and back into the length, the width of him. “Stay still, Fireheart.” He encourages, hips moving to align himself; three and a half hundred years of practice meaning he needn’t look to thrust in.
The thought has her riotous with unfounded jealously, some sick part of her brain screaming mine, over and over until she’s crazy with it. Thrusting once again, despite her carranam’s command to stay still.
His palm stings against her ass, the sound cutting through the room (and others most likely). “I said, stay still. Be a good girl and obey, you’ll get rewarded.”
One hand gripping her hair once more, the other pulls on her skin until it sits pretty on the delicate, erotic swell of her hip. Finding her balance on abused elbows and knees, Rowan bumps the head of his length at her clit, sliding down slowly to notch it at her gaping entrance.
Her body hums with energy as he slides inside, as he pushes at every nerve ending until her body feels like it’s been through a hedge backwards. She’s ashamed to say how little time it takes Rowan’s cock to work her up, how it’s got her in so few thrusts.
With a tug on her hair and a light slap to the side of her ass, rowan speaks lowly into her ear. “Fuckin’ play with yourself, pinch those pretty nipples for me, get ‘em nice and sore so I can lick ‘em better when we’re in bed later.”
Maybe she should rear back and leave the room at his tone, buts she’s entrenched in her lust, so deep in it she follows blindly, pinching and twisting and rolling her nipples, rougher than Rowan had been so recently.
With her fingers playing with her nipples, rowan’s hands sliding and slapping and tugging and gripping, rowan’s cock thrusting and teasing and pleasuring, with her knees aching, with her clit throbbing, and her cunt spasming — she comes.
So delightfully beautiful as she does so, that Rowan thinks it should be framed. With his control fraying, Aelin feels it deep in her channel as he loses it, as his thrusts become erratic and hard, faster and deeper.
She can only moan as he takes her, using her for his own pleasure in a way that sends her so close to the edge it’s criminal. “Play with your clit, fuck, Aelin. Gods, get yourself off as I come so deep in you it’s gonna hurt…” he grunted now, with every stroke of him, he grunted. Deep and guttural in her ear, throwing the sound around her body.
Abandoning her nipples, she slithered her hand down her stomach, until she reached the bump of her clit. Her finger grazed the hot, slick skin of her prince’s cock, the both of them shivering in response.
“That’s it, Aelin. Play with it, circle it. Get yourself off.” The words sent her spasming, spiralling out of control as she tightened, and tightened until she shattered. As she slipped to the floor, her arm caught beneath her body, Rowan slid over her, slumping down to cocoon her body as he jerked inside of her, coming violently.
Together, wrapped as one on the cold, hardwood flooring of their room at the inn, they were content. Oblivious to the tragedies it was their job to stop. They slept soundly that night, barely awake enough to settle onto the bed and cover themselves before sleep caught.
At that moment, the world was knocking at their doors, but with their love as a lock, they were alone still.