#a wake of buzzards

[buzzardskorner-love]

Relax and Inspire yourself! YOU DESERVE IT!

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 08. LOSING DOGS

a/n: i can't really explain why i took so long with this chapter. possibly because of how much i don't want this series to end and we're so close. but also it's just been hard to find the inspo as of late. but thanks to a movie day with @soulores where we yearned and screamed and laughed over this man, and well me rewatching the deadpool movies 1 & 2 for wade inspo i managed to finish this. it's been a ride delving into their angst and i hope you enjoy! we're one more chapter away from the ending and from this man's happy ending.

summary: time spent apart gives logan a chance to grieve - to mourn the family he lost. it gives you the opportunity to come to terms with what loving the wolverine means. the consequences that come with the choice of betting on someone like him. after all, he's not a violent dog...he just tends to bite harder than necessary.

word count: 7k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, angst, grief, dual pov chapter sorta, wade wilson breaking the fourth wall, wade wilson therapist, laura kinney is here to stay everyone, crying, pain, emotional turmoil, ptsd, time.

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You don't sleep anymore.

This wasn't due to a lack of exhaustion—you were always tired—you simply couldn't bear to withstand the dreams longer than necessary. They filled your head with their brutality. Ripped apart your psyche in such a short time frame, only to leave you split open and bleeding for the buzzards and vultures to pick at. You were surprised Wade never commented on how you resembled a walking corpse day after day.

Walking amongst the living as your soul was claimed by the dead.

Nightmares quickly became your waking reality. A piece of what Logan left behind burrowed in your chest, settling further than you could ever reach. But that remained the horrid truth. You didn't want to get rid of it—you couldn't fathom the thought for longer than a few seconds. The remedies given by Wade, Laura, Ness, were all flimsy bandaids that you stripped off when they weren't looking—hoping that the darkness within would eventually consume you whole.

What existed in your mind—in the very depths of your heart—were all you had left of the man who disappeared without a trace.

Staring at the ceiling was easier. Tracing the cracks in the plaster, the worn in marks of people who lived here long before you ever would. You pretended that he lay beside you—his body inches away from reaching for you. In search of a slice of contentment to counteract the yawning grave that threatened to bury him alive. You could play along in this delusion, create a world of your own as your vision blurred.

Maybe if you wished hard enough...it would come true.

Eventually the need for sleep won, dropping shovel after shovel of dirt. Intent on burying you six feet under in a spot that was never meant for you. Memories played on a loop, a reminder of what could never be—a fate that had been mistakenly written in the stars— and you accepted it with a solemn heart that sang a long forgotten song.

One you never should have learned.

A creak echoed in the living room, your door left ajar in case you had to run. But the cadence of her footsteps had grown familiar to your weary ears. The drag of boots across hardwood, a shuffle here and there in her attempt to stay quiet. She hardly left your apartment anymore. Taking a spot on your couch like a guard dog you never asked to keep—a protector who took on the role her father was meant to fill.

Laura often fell asleep on the leather piece of furniture never meant to be utilized as a bed. You peeked your head out once to check if she needed anything, only to find her laying with her body faced closest to the door—a cracked picture frame of a much older version of your Logan placed on the table beside her. Her brows were furrowed, face pinched in fear, and for the first time you understood her relationship to the Wolverine.

She shared much more than his DNA.

She was plagued by his nightmares as well.

Your heart cracked a bit further at the knowledge that she might never have another night of peace in her life. Forever taunted by a past that should have been happy.

Sighing, you turned onto your side, staring at the neon glow of your alarm clock—a polaroid of Logan propped against the lamp. Wade took it months before you got the chance to meet the man who would drastically shift the course of your life. Two days ago you found it on your pillow—a chocolate bar beside it. Wade's attempt at making you smile.

Even if all it managed to do was make you cry.

Broken wet sobs that left your body wracked with shivers, your heart numb to each emotion that might have existed before he walked away. You'd gone over their explanations in your head numerous times. Mulled over each word and soft whisper of why. Yet nothing registered but the emptiness—the hollow ache that spilled over with grief.

No matter how often you patched it back up, he still managed to break his way back in. The reminder of his absence only served to split you down the middle—rendering you incapable of anything but pain.

"I miss him too."

Your body jolted at the soft sound of her voice practically filled to the brim with melancholy. She stood in your doorway, hands limp at her side, and for the first time you saw her as who she really was. A child who lost her father not once, but twice. Wordlessly you dragged the blankets back from his side of the bed, rolling to face her as she clambered onto the mattress still clad in jeans and a t-shirt.

You offered your own pajamas a week ago in the hopes of making her more comfortable. Only for her to reveal she slept in her clothes even at the mansion.

Just in case.

"What was he like? Your father." The topic of the older Logan rarely came up for you, his memory somehow entwined with the man you fell in love with. But Laura knew him best. She'd seen him at his worst, only to watch him become the father he was always meant to be. "You don't have to talk about him if you don't want to."

She sighed, shifting around as if to shed the layer of vulnerability that scratched at her. "Angry."

You smiled. "Always?"

"No," she breathed. This breached onto territory she wasn't used to, memories she never liked to look back on, but for some unknown reason...it made you smile. So she persisted in spite of the discomfort that gnawed at her stomach. "He took care of Charles for a long time before he found me. Or well before I found him. But he had a lot to be angry about."

"I imagine." And you could.

Humans were their own enemy at times, destroying all that was good in the world. After witnessing what Fortuna went through—where her path lay—you understood how people would rather villainize what they didn't understand. Logan faced it each day, the difference of being someone who slipped by unnoticed yet could never truly reveal himself.

A man that carried the grief of all he lost and persisted despite the pain.

"He would have liked you," Laura mumbled, her eyes growing heavy with sleep's desperate call.

"I don't think–"

"You're like Charles." Her eyes slipped shut, body sagging into the mattress, while you were stunned into silence. "That's why."

She fell silent before the words managed to sink deep into your mind—puncturing a spot of love that existed in spite of all this agony. A place that Logan claimed all to himself. Yet as you lay there, tracing the lines of his daughter's face with your eyes, you felt her memory merge with his. Creating a small corner of your world for her to reside in—a home in your heart.

Tucking the blanket around her shoulder, you met sleep's call with a pleased sigh. It gripped you tight, closing its arms around your steady beating heart. Unbeknownst to you as the clock struck two in the morning, a shard of your broken heart wedged itself back into place. Healing over with a jagged scar sewn together by the girl who longed for permanency in a world that offered her the bitter end of a short stick.

The girl who asked for her father and got a mother instead.

Burnt pancake batter filled your senses, burning the insides of your nostrils as you were roused from sleep to the sharp off key singing of Wade in your kitchen. The spot beside you was empty, the sheets cold, and with a ragged sigh you sat up. Rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes. What slowly became your favorite part of the mornings—waking up beside a man who did everything he could to keep you between warm sheets—suddenly shifted into a horrid dream.

You were alone. Again.

The familiar prick of tears stung your eyes faster than you would have liked. Although that might have been the pancakes.

In sluggish movements, you dragged a flannel over your t-shirt to combat the frozen chill beginning to settle in the New York air. Fall was right around the corner, leaving you with a list of things to do before the apartment was back in working order. The window still sat unfixed—plastic taped over the gaping hole per Wade's instructions—and the radiator gave out after Fortuna's whip went through it.

"Just call me angel of the morning," Wade crooned, flipping another charred piece of bread onto a stack that began to lean four pancakes ago.

Laura watched it warily, her fingers gripped around a can of shitty soda you picked up for her two days ago. Coffee was offered as an alternative to her sugary habits; she offered to steal in case you were low on funds. You figured it was easier to appease than argue.

"Do you even know how to cook?" she muttered, taking another gulp.

"Such a ray of sunshine. It's like Logan is still here with us." Wade poured another glob of chunky batter onto your now ruined cast iron pan. "Tell me does that come from your genetics or is it a fancy power they gave you?"

She snorted, her claws coming free to stab at the pile and drag a pancake to her plate. "Genetics."

"I figured." He slid the syrup her way, the bowl in his other hand nearly tipping the batter onto the floor. "Use a fork, you alley cat. Housewives do not get paid enough to cook a fantastic meal and serve it too."

"You're not getting paid," Laura mumbled through a mouthful of food.

"Exactly." His head glanced towards the stove, eyes narrowed in mock irritation. "We should talk about that huh Feige."

A pancake slipped off the stack, hitting the counter with a heavy thud and you began to wonder if the bread was in fact what he said it was. Ever since you woke up in the mansion, Wade had been your chef morning noon and night. Each meal entirely came with  

Laura squinted at the smoke rapidly rising to the ceiling. "Maybe you should cook them for shorter periods of time."

"Don't question my methods, I'm a pancake champion Oliver." Her face scrunched, disgust flooding across her narrowed gaze. "Oliver and Company? Orange alley cat led and taught by the smooth dog Dodger?" She shook her head. "Greatest take on Oliver Twist to exist?"

"Never heard of it."

He dropped the bowl, jabbing a finger in her face quick enough to startle you where you hid by the doorway. "I hope you're ready to have your life changed Howlett Junior by the voice of Billy Joel taking away all our worries. Right sweet angel?"

Your attempt to meld yourself into the wall proved unsuccessful when Laura turned to smile at you, trepidation rising to the surface in her eyes. They watched you with an air of indecision. After Logan left you became a ticking time bomb—each second passing quicker than either of them expected—and one day when it was least expected...you'd explode.

Every emotion you tried to push down would shove its way to the front, rendering them unavoidable. That's what terrified you the most. It scared them too—you could see it hidden beneath looks of false joy and hopeful glances. They wanted you to heal, to survive this grueling time of solitude.

You simply didn't know if you had it in you to appease their worries.

Peeling away from the doorframe, you moved closer with soft unsure movements. So unlike the person from before who got over the unrelenting fear of being seen, of one day being known. He read you like a book, flipped the pages with enthusiasm and love, and you thought what resided in your own heart was enough to keep him reading. You believed he might put pen to paper and script what lay in the path of your lives spent together.

But he stopped reading weeks ago, shutting the half empty story to save you from the grief that devoured him from the inside out.

He let you remain unfinished. Perhaps that's how you were always meant to be.

"Tell me somewhere in that sexy mind of yours there's a version of Oliver and Company, cause I can't be surrounded by uncultured fiends," Wade rambled, tossing two pancakes onto a clean chipped plate he slid your way.

"I know of it," you replied. The meek echo of your voice sent a wave of shock through your system—so different, so unrecognizable.

You wanted to be known again, to exist in the confines of someone's mind. Wade and Laura offered up theirs on a silver platter—promising not to tarnish the fracture spirit housed in your weary body.

The burnt flavor of bread nearly made you gag, but Wade's smile forced you to swallow with a half hearted grin. "Isn't it a cartoon?"

Wade huffed. "And we’re comic book characters. What else is new?" Chewing happily on his own plate, he drowned his breakfast in a heaping wave of syrup that dripped onto your flour covered counter. "The offer to watch it today is on the table."

You swallowed thickly, nose wrinkled at the bitter flavor that stuck to the back of your throat. "Actually I'm gonna go into work today."

They froze. Unease stirring to life in the small kitchen as they regarded you with the hesitation you'd grown sick of facing. You couldn't be a recluse for the rest of your life, spending days watching movies on your couch with Wade—sharing quiet dinners with Laura at the table that housed a vase full of decaying flowers. Things wouldn't come to a halt because a man exited your life—they couldn't.

Logan left to heal.

It was time you did the same.

"I don't have much sick leave left," you began, the argument ready to leap off the tip of your tongue. "And my shift ends at six, which gives me enough time to pick up some actual dinner."

"Wolverine 2.0 goes with you," Wade replied—the stern lilt of his voice jarring you for a moment.

"Wade–"

"She goes."

There remained no room left to place your well thought out points in, no space for you to budge on his only demand. You supposed this was better than having both of them show up out of the blue. Your boss hardly let you get away with Logan showing up once or twice; two heroes would send them over the edge, eventually leading to your job being terminated.

You sighed, pushing the food around your plate for a second. "I guess she can learn something. Since she's supposed to be in school."

"You know I'm right here," she interjected, shoving the empty dish towards Wade.

"Hush. The adults are talking." He threw a wink your way, eyes glinting with a mischief that dimmed the day Logan left. The sight filled your lungs with air, hope settling at the base of your empty heart. "I'll pack the lunches."

Warmth filled the empty crevices of your body—sparking life into a part of you that had been vacant for weeks. "You don't have to."

"Shush. I've got to take care of my little breadwinner." He pinched your cheek hard enough to send pain flaring down your neck. "Besides I need to live up to my role as wifey or Ness will stop calling me that in bed."

Laura groaned, her eyes shutting to the sight of Wade's brash smile. "Gross."

"Ew," you replied, unable to hide the grin that cracked across your dried lips. "I didn't need to know that."

"Au contraire. If I had to hear you and Logan go at it for hours at a time. Kudos by the way it sounded like he gave phenomenal dick. You get to listen to me yap about my sex life."

Laura sped past you, vanishing into the bathroom and slamming the door shut with her boot. You couldn't blame her reaction. Hearing about her father's life drudged up pain that still existed in the back of her mind. Grief that she'd have to work through. Yet if she was anything like Logan, you'd have to face your own broken trauma in order for her to finally face hers.

"Yap?" you inquired, desperate to move on from the topic of him.

"Yeah. It's what all my fellow Gen Z’ers are saying."

With brows furrowed, you bit back the swell of laughter that bubbled up your throat. "Wade you're older than me by–"

His hand clapped over your mouth, muffling the remainder of your sentence. "Shhhh." A quick glance was thrown to the side. "Last I checked this is the Logan show. Not the Wade show. Well...not yet anyways."

"Hey Wade," you mumbled beneath a scarred palm that gripped your cheeks together. "Thank you."

For the first time all week...Wade gave you a smile that finally reached his eyes. Irises plagued with the same flicker of sadness that weighed heavy in your heart. The feeling of loss within a found family—of things changing faster than you could process. In an instant you were back to square one, struggling to keep your head above water.

Only this time you weren't swimming these dark waters alone. This time Wade and Laura clung to you, dragging what remained to a shore of a different color. A life yet to be explored.

"Anytime angel," he whispered with a kiss to your temple—drawing you close enough to feel his heart beneath the thin t-shirt. An organ that beat for one more person, that carved out space for his small inkling of hope.

For the family made up of two mutants, a blind woman, a sugar bear, the love of his life, and you.

The clatter of keychains echoed past the empty rows of shelves, bouncing off high ceilings decorated with yellowed lights. You caught sight of a small X-Men insignia stitched onto the side of the faded gray backpack. The stitches were frayed, the initials of L. K. H. placed right above it in sloppy angled sharpie, but the sight explained enough. Her entire life was stored within these aged pockets, in a pack held closed by a broken zipper and some faith.

"I like the Deadpool one." You watched her gloved hands toy with it for a moment, eyes glancing down the rows of darkened shelves every few moments.

Even here in the midst of silence and history, she remained on guard.

You wanted to promise a sliver of peace beyond all that she went through—a place where nothing happened except the shuffle of books and moving of boxes. Only to realize that you'd never be able to tell her something so untrue.

She'd never be entirely safe again. That made you want to rip at the world until your hands went bloody and raw. Until there remained a guarantee that she'd be able to sleep at night, that when her father came home things would be different.

"Peter made it." She picked at the black polish on her nails—the bottle swiped off your vanity a week ago in the hopes you wouldn't go looking for it. "Said a member of X-Force should have the marker."

"Didn't...they all die?"

"Yeah. So it's more of a warning I guess?" She grinned, wide and bright and so carefree it tugged sharply at your heart.

You placed another stack on the cart, fiddling with the order. If you kept yourself busy you could stop thinking about him. You could shove each memory and shared moment of bliss to the back of your mind. This was your chance to find a small semblance of normalcy after so much damage, a change in the rapidly shifting path of your life. You used to enjoy shelving pieces of history—find contentment in the familiar pattern of routine.

Now his eyes haunted your mind. His touch was a ghost along the back of your neck. His smile was reflected to you in the face of his daughter—the crinkles around her eyes an exact copy of his.

You were doomed to repeat history, destined to break as Fortuna did with a shattered heart and the hope that one day he might come home and find you. He'd open the apartment door set in place by his calloused hands and find you right where he left you—waiting as time stopped and dust gathered and your heart called for a man lost in time.

"I've got to shelve these," you said, voice thick with unshed tears you swallowed down. "But feel free to pick a book okay?"

She nodded, dragging a small journal out of her pack—a chewed up pen with it. "Wade gave me your lunch."

"I'll come find you in an hour?"

"I'm not going anywhere." The words were said more for your benefit than hers—a way to appease the constant flicker of unease in your mind. Perhaps this is what she lived with her whole life. The pain of yearning for someone to come back to her, to stay.

You'd be that person.

You would stay.

Smiling one last time, you pushed the cart into a row sparse with books—the light clicking on above your head as your footsteps echoed off the wooden floor. Your boss texted you quick instructions before she took the upstairs shift, the piles left behind for you to sort through. It seemed that classes were back in session, each book taken out regarding some form of historical information on New York.

Your eyes caught the titles while you worked. Sliding books into their proper spot and discarding the paper slotted in as a placeholder. It became a mindless task. A job of familiarity that your muscles immediately recognized—your arms moving of their own volition. Giving free reign to your mind that turned over information at a rapid rate.

What happens now? What would life turn into?

Now that you were back in a place that held so much of your soul you found that fitting back into the mold felt wrong. You were a human who got caught up in the affairs of mutants. It had happened before to others like you, it would certainly happen again. Yet you weren't sure you could handle the pain of being tossed into the ring with no means of protection again.

Your heart barely survived the first time.

To do it again would mean signing your name along death's dotted line. Only this time the pact would be sealed with your own blood.

A tilted stack of books slid onto their sides, grabbing hold of your attention quicker than expected. You slammed a hand against them with the hopes of saving yourself from extra work. Only for the one in your other hand to slip, hitting the cart with a thud and shoving it a foot away. Your mind went into overdrive—the noise of metal clanging against the tall shelves reverting into the all too familiar crack of a whip.

You gasped, leaping back as if the pile burned right down to your bone—the books toppling to the ground in rapid succession. A domino effect that would leave you crouching for a good twenty minutes to put everything back in its rightful spot.

"No," you exclaimed, your voice unwavering amidst the anxiety that filled your stomach.

Something ripped at the base of your spine, crackling through your body like a livewire. It pulled at every nerve, every tendon and muscle, until you were positive this was more than an overwhelming amount of stress. Your vision went black, a glare of light flashing behind closed eyelids, as the world went still and time rolled to a deathly halt.

Blue washed off your stiff form in rolling waves, curling around your stretched arms and down to the fingers that nearly curled around a book held in midair. A rush of cold air flooded your lungs, expanding them in your chest with a strength you'd never experienced before. As if the missing piece within your DNA finally settled into place—a spot always meant to hold something else.

A power that flared to life with a burning wave of heat.

It welcomed you like a long lost friend. Burrowed into the broken parts of your chest with a promise to put you back together. Time trickled by as your heart started up again—beating slowly against your ribs. Surging past each part of you that intertwined with this newfound link.

You sucked in another breath, eyes fluttering open with a flash of cerulean to see Laura struggling along the bookcase. Her face screwed up in pain, claws buried in the wooden shelves to drag herself forward. She moved an inch at a time, her cry unable to fill the vacant air as she struggled to rip you from the power that fractured your mind.

Such an inconceivable topic: time. Centuries prickled across your skin, millenniums made a home along each bone that grinded to a stop, decades offered you a life that might have ended at the age of eighty.

Infinity. Immortality. An end that rivaled Death.

Oh...what bliss.

"Yes," you relented. An answer to the question that would never be said aloud.

Another pulse of energy flowed off your shoulders, spilling across empty shelves—rattling the boxes that began to topple to the floor. If you weren't careful you'd bring destruction to a building that became your second home. But the consciousness you relied on was suddenly nowhere to be found.

"Stop!" Laura's voice struck you across the face, punching into your chest with enough blistering pain to wake up your mind to what was happening within you.

Slamming your hands against the shelves that stood on either side of you, the light of blue sputtered out, dying quick enough for you to get a hold of your body. Time fell back into place, the books you nearly dropped crashed to the floor with a loud clatter of thuds, and you collapsed. Your knees hit the floor harshly, pain coursing up your legs. Yet you could barely keep your eyes open.

"Laura," you wheezed, body sagging against the shelf.

She collapsed beside you, gathering your hands into a vice-like hold. "What happened? What the fuck was that?"

"Fortuna..."

"Is she alive? Is she here?" Her head raised, eyes scanning the vacant area for signs of your variant self.

"She–" Your vision swirled with spots of black, your head fuzzy with the prick of power that wanted to consume you. "I–"

"We gotta get you home," she muttered, shifting her strength to lift you to your feet—body braced heavily on her as she walked. "I'm calling a cab. Stay with me okay? Just stay awake."

The distant ring of her phone echoed in the background as she dragged you with her, a familiar muffled voice coming through the small speaker. Wade. You wanted to speak to him. Ask him what just happened. But only one person would hold the answers—only one person would make you feel alive again. You sucked in a shaky breath, hot tears spilling down your cheeks. The image of him—his smile, his love—filling your broken mind.

"I'm taking her home," Laura muttered into the line.

Her voice became a buzz in your ears. Sharp and unrelenting and inescapable. Your vision went dark, mind succumbing to the painful twisting of your gut—the need to be anywhere else overtaking every other thought. Laura called your name, shook your shoulders, but the world faded away before you could reach out and grasp it; your body sinking beneath the depths, drowning in the soothing waves of time.

“How did you sleep?”

“No nightmares.”

“Are you lying to me Howlett?”

“I’m not lying,” he confessed. “I didn’t really dream of anythin’ this time around.”

Your own laughter pricked at your ears. “Don’t tell me. It was because of me.”

“I think it might be bub.” His touch ghosted across your skin—breath a wash of hot air against your skin. “Guess you’re my cure. Been lookin’ for awhile.”

"Logan," you murmured, eyes fluttering open.

His smile lit up the darkness in your chest—eyes crinkled and lips parted in a sigh of love. "Yeah bub?"

"Y-You're here..."

A hand curled around the back of your neck, drawing you in close enough to make the steady beat of your heart flutter. "Where else would I be honey? I woke up with ya."

"But you've been gone." Your brows furrowed, the haze in your thoughts blocking anything other than him. "I was with Laura–"

He stilled. "Laura?"

"She was helping me," you mumbled, attempting to force your eyes to stay open. "At the library."

"You're just dreamin'," he chuckled.

"But I'm not–"

Lips that haunted you in your sleep brushed across the bridge of your nose—his fingers scratching at the base of your scalp with a hum. "You haven't met her yet honey. How could you be with her at the library?"

You wrenched your eyes open, clutching at the covers that lay over your bodies in an iron grip. "Fortuna–"

Logan's body went still, his head rearing back to stare at you in abject horror. "How do you know her name?" he rasped. "I never told you..."

"What are you talking about?" The buzzing filled each sense, each part of your already numb body. "Wait. No. I need more time," you begged, tears rushing to the surface.

His face blurred, your name a distant call on the tip of his tongue as the waves crashed over your body. Dragging you back to a shore meant for you. Darkness swallowed you whole in an instant. Until you could barely catch your breath—the speed of time rushing to a quick stop. Within the hold of darkness, the drifting peace of nothingness, you heard it.

The vibrant sapphire call of a woman you believed to be the enemy.

“Do better than me."

"Love him the way I couldn't.

You gasped, thrashing against the vice hold that wrenched you apart. The voice whispered soothingly in your ear, a warm compression against a heart that longed for more than this unfathomable excruciating ache.

She drew you to your feet, hands clasped around your wrists, and helped you stagger to the ocean's edge. She faced you with a mirrored smile that faded weeks ago—her eyes bright and flickering with peace.

"Do what I couldn't." Thumbs pressed into the base of your wrist. "Protect them. All of them."

A thick sob ripped from your chest—eyes blurry with tears that refused to stop. "How? I-I shouldn't be this."

"It was always meant to be you. Not me."

"W-What?"

"When Death asks for your hand. Take it. She will lead you home." The scathing brightness of sunlight burned your closed eyelids, pushing you towards something familiar. A place you knew would protect you. "Until then. Show them that time was never the enemy. We're simply their companion."

"Fortuna!" you cried, the form of her slowly dissipating back into the realm of darkness not yet meant for you. "I can't do this! I'm not supposed to be this!"

"Tell him I'm sorry."

Hands grasped at your shoulders. The cold press of metal against the bare skin of your arms jolted you awake—lungs expanding with air that felt like home. The floral scent of your laundry soap filled your nose, the warmth of your bed dragged along your body, and the brush of hair on your neck drew you back to the present. Your eyes fluttered open, chest heaving for any amount of air you could draw in.

"Laura?"

She sighed, dropping the hold she had on your shoulders. "You did it again."

"Did it again?"

"Looks like someone got jealous of all these special powers around her," Wade teased from the doorway of your room—a glass of water in his hand.

"What?" you croaked, suddenly aware of how raw your throat was.

He huffed, settling on the side of your bed. "You've got a bad case of the McFlys. Traveling to and fro in the timeline. Don't think the big guy upstairs will like that very much."

"God?"

"Victor."

You choked. "Who?"

"Or maybe it's Loki," he huffed. "I get that show's timeline confused. Anyways up you go. Drink this. Nurse Wade's orders."

With reluctance you downed the glass of water, Laura's watchful gaze burning into your from the chair. They moved with hesitation brimming to the surface of their eyes—a glaze of uncertainty prominent in each shift of their bodies. They were scared. Whether it was due to what you were turning into or what you could become. You couldn't be certain at this time, but the fear still lingered in the air.

Thick and bitter and so unlike the two mutants who'd become your family in the past few weeks.

"What's happening to me?" you whispered, Wade's hand reaching for yours with a placating grin.

"I've got one guess and it's dredging up memories of that fucker Francis, but dormant mutant gene." The panic in your eyes had him reaching for your other hand. "Hey look at me angel okay? I know how to handle this."

You shook your head, that unsettling twist in your gut rising to the surface. "I'm not...No. That's not possible. I would have..." You hiccuped, oxygen becoming harder to reach for as his words began to settle along your skin. "I would have known," you whispered.

"I didn't." He drew you close enough for his nose to brush your forehead. "That little surprise landed in my lap like a bad case of chlamydia. It's rare, but it happens."

"Why me?" you uttered, unable to process anything other than Laura's sharp gaze."

He sighed. "We don't get to pick and choose. Something must have triggered it."

Fortuna's hold on your jaw, the rocks scattered along the dirt digging into your back. It all came back to you. Her final words bleeding with an act of sacrifice—a promise to gift you with the curse she was unable to handle. Do better than her. Protect them better than her. Wield the ebbing and flowing of time better than her.

She awoke a part of you that had yet to come to life. A dormant section of your DNA that might have forever gone unnoticed if her powers hadn't unlocked it. She gave you everything, dropped the burden on your shoulders, because she knew something you didn't at the time.

You had people—a family, a lover—to keep you stable.

You had the one thing she couldn't save.

"It was always meant to be you. Not me."

Laura sat up, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "It's time."

Wade glanced over his shoulder. "We don't know where he is Oliver."

She sneered, digging out the small phone from her vest pocket. "I do. I gave him the keys."

"Call who?" you rasped, barely able to process that you were back home somehow.

Until her eyes met yours and drew you back to the surface with a name that burned right through your heart. "Logan."

The sharp thwack of an axe against wood filled the still air. Mist clung to the area, settling over his shoulders with a wet layer of frigid condensation. He felt it weigh in his hair, sink into his flannel, and send a wave of cold familiarity through his body. A place he never thought could exist in a different universe somehow stood the test of time. The Logan that came before was somehow more like his variant self than expected.

He sighed, wiping the sweat from his forehead—the split open skin of his palms healing over before he could get a glimpse of them. The axe remained lodged into a mangled tree stump. Slivers and pieces of all that he chopped scattered in the clearing. He'd have to pick them up eventually, but he chose to stick with the same motion.

A piece of muscle memory he'd grown used to.

The sun began its descent beneath the thicket of trees, nightfall coming once more to a home occupied by a single person. Merely him and the stack of unread books left behind by a man who shared his taste. He yanked the flannel off his body, tossing it to the chair on his small porch, setting another log into place with a breath.

"Fuck," he muttered, cracking his neck slightly.

A mug of cold coffee sat discarded on the small table he constructed two weeks ago. A means to an end. A way to keep his racing mind busy from the pain that echoed like a bad dream in his head. He'd forgone the whiskey bottles stored in the liquor cabinet, opting for the bitter tang of the wine you preferred with your dinner.

The image of your smile kept him awake most nights. The sound of your laughter playing on a loop like a scratched record he clung to. This was his salvation. Your memory, your joy. It kept him going on days where the horrors threatened to drag him beneath the surface of the Earth.

He dug his grave long before he met you. Whether or not he crawled into it relied on one simple fact.

Though he dragged you through hell—became the cause of so much suffering within your life—you still loved him. You were waiting for him to come home.

"Desperado," he hummed, yanking the axe out of the splintered wood. "Why don't you come to your senses."

Discarding the tool to the side, he gathered what wood might be needed for a small fire. It wouldn't have any effect on whether he stayed warm or not, but it would put him at ease after such a grueling task. Tomorrow he'd go back to work at the yard—his measly paycheck enough to keep him fed with meals cooked in solitude.

He tossed them beside his fireplace, wiping the dirt and mud from his hands with the damp flannel. Life shifted the second Laura handed him the keys to this house on the edge of nowhere. Back to a routine he once knew so well. To a life that once offered him the facade of peace. He might have deluded himself into thinking it would happen again—that he'd get the chance to breathe again.

But your memory clung to his soul. You refused to release him from the spell of your love.

Fortuna's memory remained at the back of his mind like a long lost friend—someone who once offered him a future filled to the brim with hope. And then there was you. His honey. His lover till death. You were the reason he kept himself breathing, the reason his heart continued to thrum in his chest.

You were his savior, guiding him through the grief with a warm smile and a kiss of life.

The shrill ring of his phone broke the haze of memories he found himself in. Dropping into the chair beside his bed, he unlaced his boots—yanking the device out of the drawer on his dresser. He rarely needed it anymore. The contact he had with the rest of the world now whittled down to the people he worked with and the cashier at the small market.

With a sigh, he flipped it open in the hopes it was Wade calling to finally bug him about returning. It wouldn't be unusual. Weeks went by sluggishly, dripping like honey from the jar as he attempted to fix the broken parts of his heart.

Leaving without saying goodbye is what hurt the most. His silent kiss pressed to your cold forehead, his lingering gaze that did what he could to burn your features into his mind. He wanted you with him. Here in this small home. He wanted to hear your laughter fill up the empty spaces, the warmth of your love shining in the air with a palpable physicality that stole his breath away.

Logan ached for you.

But you didn't deserve a man riddled with demons. Certainly not the version of himself that left you behind.

Laura's name flashing across the screen set that familiar unease back in his stomach. The terror that something happened again—something brought you pain when he wasn't there to protect you—filled the crevices of his heart. And with a shaky breath, he answered.

"Laura."

She interrupted him before empty pleasantries could rise to the surface. "You need to come home."

He swallowed thickly. "What happened?"

"I can't explain over the phone, but it's bad. She's not gonna cope without you here."

"What the fuck do you mean cope?" he bit out, his eyes flashing to the small framed image of you that sat proudly on his nightstand. "Is she hurt?"

"No."

He sucked in a breath, relief washing over his shoulders. "Is she okay?"

Laura hesitated. "She's...broken." The word struck him with a visceral anger—an emotion that nearly caught him off guard. "She needs you here Dad. Wade and I can only do so much and if I knew she was dormant I could have helped sooner."

Dormant.

He stiffened, fingers tightening around the phone hard enough for it to crack. "What do you mean by dormant?"

Laura sucked in a breath. "She's..." A beat of silence filled his chest with a fear he never knew could exist in this universe. "She's like us, Dad. She's like her."

Like her.

The world shifted on its axis as he sat there listening to Laura's shaky attempts to explain what occurred. How you needed him this time around. His heart rammed an unsteady beat in the confines of his chest. An echo that rang with a crippling hollow promise of loneliness. Only this time it didn't scream for him—it raged for the person he loved.

The person he left behind.

"Send her here," he said. And before his mind could comprehend the words spilling past his lips, he made a vow he failed to keep—a promise he'd fulfill until his final breath. "I'll keep her safe."

note: this is incredibly late than what i originally planned, but life has been chaotic. and to everyone in the us who are struggling, i hope you take care of yourself this week. we got this and i love you.

[comfortless]

HIYA SYL! I LOVE UR WORK WITH THE DEPTHS OF MY SOUL AND ALSO I HOPE YOURE HAVING A GOOD DAY (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

AHEM! I constantly have this idea of Hybrid!Konig discovering the scent of Hybrid!Reader on his territory, but due to it being so vast he can never catch her in person. All he has to go off of is scraps of food, her scent rubbed against stones and stumps, and prints that are MUCH smaller than his! Until on one faithful day, he catches the lil thing creeping around his personal space!

I just wanna add that I’d love to see you tweak this idea ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ (If you want!) like making it human!reader instead orrrr in a more human manner such as it being a cabin in woods and reader is stranded, maybe. ANYTHING, KEKEKE ID JUST EAT UP ANY OF YOUR AMAZING WORK

raaah thinking about a bear hybrid König because of the cute lil kaomoji.. he would be so big and soft… ;; reader gets to be a fox..! also thank you for your sweet words and the prompt, angel!! ^^ 💘 too many ideas… i should write more hybrid!Kö…

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. reader & König are mostly human like last time! just with ears and tails. König is incredibly awkward in this (has 0 idea how to talk to a lady someone help him), possessive behaviors, very much… love? obsession? at first sight, fluff, implied sex.

The pretty thing in the grove does not know that she sits on the cusp between admired and threatened. She skitters through summer foliage like a dance, twists and winds and stretches to reach each fattened, ripe fruit hanging from vine or limb. The scent that lingers in this place fills most up with dread, their eyes wide as they look for places to hide or run, any place but here. She hardly seems bothered when she takes a plum into her mouth, it’s juice dripping down her chin as her tail curls over her bare stomach.

She laughs when the birds in their trees warn her of danger, bares her teeth at them and tells them all she’s far faster than some old bear, speaks off-key when she’s drunken on stolen fermented fruit and dazed on the rays of sunbeams shifting through the leaves.

He could rush out, take her by surprise and hook a claw into her throat before she would even have the mind to spare him a glance. It’s just that no part of him wants to, not now, not when he’s been made aware of the beautiful passerby that steals his food and leaves a pattern of uneven, dancing footprints in her wake. He had only had the thought once when he saw this earthly garden uprooted with only the foreign smell of rosemary and lilac left behind.

Watching her now, it’s all too different.

She leaves the pit of her plum at her side when she lies in the grass to rest, tail plumed up and over her middle like a blanket as her ears flick and rustle her hair. It’s not a tentative sleep: she’s soft, warm and utterly exhausted from her day of pilfering if the long, quiet breaths were much to go by.

Any other bearman would eat her whole and pick the bones from his teeth to leave as offerings for the birds, the buzzards with their wild eyes and ruffs of feathers about their necks. But… it’s only summer, what good would eating her do? He reasons it would hurt him more than it could ever hurt her, because then all would fall back to tedium and silence. There would be no more hushed laughter and dizzying prances, no more of a sight prettier than any view he’s seen prior.

He wants more of her than this— more than what he should ever have at all or more of her than even she could offer with honeyed words or soft touches.

So, he only watches her rest. In the gentle calm of daylight, she rolls against the grass in sleep, bares herself unknowingly when the sun warms her and her thighs are too warm to press against one another. And finally, he wills himself to turn away, to wander back to that dreary cabin that serves as a proper home, because as much as he wants, he does not deserve.

The days go on like this.

The haze of summer does not let up, and she’s made a home of a strawberry patch in a glade closer to the cabin than she’s ever been before. He watches her bask amongst the bushes, lying on her belly while the sun beats down against her hide, kisses over her shoulders with a yellowish glow that only makes her look as sweet as warmed honey, a bonfire, lovely as the fruit she steals.

Nothing changes in her even when he does bring himself to detach from the shade of the pine, force himself into the light for the birds and tiny humming bees to see. She tilts her head back, flicks her tail and smiles like she’s known he’s been there all along. Known the loneliness and tastes it on her teeth to spit it back out in refusal, but she hasn’t— not like he has, because she’s the one who speaks first.

“Are you going to eat me?,” she asks when she’s risen to her feet. His little fox does not hide herself from him; her tail sways lazily behind her, each dip and curve displayed so openly that he wonders if she sees him as a threat at all, or then, maybe the danger coaxes up an unseen heat within her.

He shakes his head stiffly, ears pressed back to his skull.

The world itself must have played some horrible joke upon him now, because all thoughts of what he wanted to say filter out into a plume of smoke. It’s maddening, how he wants to tell her he would like nothing more than to drag her back into his cabin and lick honey from her mouth, yet all that comes out is a brittle, “The strawberries are not ripe yet.”

She laughs at him, not cruel, but it still feels like teeth tearing into his throat. All hope isn’t lost, though, because even through her laughter her gaze is fond and sweet. Perhaps she’s seen him time and time again, too. It isn’t easy to hide when you’re as large and difficult to settle as König.

The fox beckons him closer with a curl of her fingers and a strawberry between her teeth. She drapes an arm over his neck to tug him down to her level and kisses him there, with the berry crushed between their mouths. Bitter as expected, but not a single complaint billows up in his mind.

This sweet fairy does not know what she’s done with that shared bite, how his mind goes doughy and sap sticky when the fruit dissipates between them and his mouth finds her own.

He wonders if she does this often, seduces larger beasts to toy with and steal from to continue her reckless romping through the forest, drift off further to the mountains and the sea, endlessly searching for the very thing he’s already found with her. It does not escape him how tightly he keeps her in his hold then, nails leaving indentations in her waist as he brings her as closely as he can, licks into her mouth until she shivers.

He would bring her flowers and honeycomb, carve little idols of her from every tree she loves if she would just—

“Will you be my mate?,” he asks, abrupt, face heating up to his very ears as he finally lets her go. A croak, a shameful one that leaves him wanting to scurry off like a rabbit, but she’s already heard it all and stares up at him with a look part doleful, part adoring. The poor thing doesn’t even know him, doesn’t know that he’s already contemplated clearing out the fox dens in the forest and chasing out the wolves to make sure that she was his alone.

If she tossed him into the river now he wouldn’t dare blame her, he would only take it out on the stupid salmon with their glistening tails, and maybe if he brought her back a treasure made of fish bone and scale he could change her mind.

But she only kisses him again, lingers right on his cheek like something a proper lover would do, before telling him that she’s grateful he’s never come to harm her, that he didn’t mind sharing his fruit on those too-hot days when she didn’t feel roused enough to hunt down the mice and the bunnies, and she even appreciated his kiss: something she tells him that had made her feel like nothing else in her life. All of the very things he’s only imagined her saying in that sweet voice she uses to whisper to the pretty flowers and the bright red cardinals tweeting back to her.

He’s never been sweet, but he believes it when she tells him that he is when they’re lying side by side in the cabin later. There’s a bruise on his shoulder the shape of her teeth and one to match of his own making on her thigh. He can’t keep himself from curling his hand around her there, thumb brushing over that purple mark he’s left as he buries his face into her shoulder and catches magnolia in her scent.

“I really like you,” she admits quietly as the night air begins to chill the sweat on their bodies, as she guides his hand up to press a kiss to his fingertips. As if she had no idea just how badly he longed to ruin anything else she’s ever said that to, set the forest ablaze and lie and laugh with her in the ash.

“I love you,” he says in turn, damning himself further as he always did to a somber oblivion. Only, this one doesn’t leave. Not even when his hand pries from her mouth to take hold of her breast and his teeth graze her skin. Her face is warm, eyes misty, like she’s just been given the most hearty helping of something delicious amidst pure famine.

She doesn’t laugh at his confession, doesn’t bat his face away from her nipple, only suggests that they bathe beneath the moon. He can not fault her for not reciting the words; this bout has only made him further intent on pulling her in to keep. He convinces himself that all it would take is time, or a rougher fuck, something. He’s never been too patient, either.

The fox curls into his lap as the water reaches them, head thrown back where she sits, impaled and ecstatic while his fingers drift to her hips, head pressed to her chest where he tells her that she has more than paid him back for what she’s stolen.

She didn’t need to lie or let him sully her out of pity anymore. Testing and prying in his own way, even as he whispers that confession to her again and again, against her clavicle and up to her neck with every languid roll of her hips.

The truth spills from her mouth like rain when she comes undone, a soft sentiment that pulls him below a warm tide, drowned out and washed away only by the words she speaks then and the way her body wraps so snug around him.

She tells him that she wishes to stay like this… for as long as she possibly can.

He carries her home like a princess from some storybook, lies her in his bed and pulls her close with a grip so tight that she whines about it being too hot— that his warmth is almost smothering, but still melts beneath him when his lips find her own again. Breaking away from her feels worse than those hangdog days he had only spent watching her from afar, longing for the things that she had only now allowed for him to feel.

But König swears to her then when her eyes lock to his and her tail begins that gentle swaying again, that no matter what she will be here forever. He’ll make sure of it.

[throneofsmut]

Kinktober Day 6: Temperature Play

Aelin Galathynius and Rowan Whitethorn x Reader || WC: 803

Your lips part gently, each soft pant escaping like a whisper, your breath warm and shallow.

 “Gods,” you mumble as Aelin kisses the right side of your jaw and neck, nibbling and sucking the soft warm skin.

Rowan claims your left side, his elongated canines scraping against your skin gently and another wave of heat floods your body, but you can’t tell if it’s from their touch or Aelin’s magic.

Your fingers twitch with the need to touch them, to feel them, but Rowan holds them both in the strong cold grip of his hand, above your head . 

Your skin glistens with a fine sheen of sweat, each bead catching the sunlight streaming in from the windows of your shared chambers. Highlighting the curves of your body, creating a sensual, almost mesmerizing glow as tiny beads slide between the valley of your breasts with each breath. 

The tiny strands of hair along your hairline cling to your forehead, sticking to your skin due to the tiny beads of sweat there. Your tongue darts out, licking your lips, tasting the saltiness of the skin surrounding your mouth. 

You gasp, squirming between both of their bodies when Rowan slides an ice cold thick finger between your wet pussy lips. A pathetic whine leaving your lips and he answers with a growl, rubbing your clit. Making your shiver. 

Aelin’s warm hand lazily drags over your tummy, up your chest, over the front of your throat, and grips your jaw. Leaving a hot trial in its wake. You moan when she turns your face to the left and licks a long strip up the side of your neck, her pleased hum filling your ears.

“You’re so hot, kitten,” she murmurs against your throat and you feel your cheeks burn at the nickname. Her and Rowan started calling you “kitten” after the first time they saw you shift into a leopard. 

Then she moves to capture your lips in a hungry kiss. Grinding herself against your thigh. Her hips rolling into you frantically as she chases her climax using your slick body. 

Your lips part in a lewd moan when you feel an ice kissed wind race over your body. A cold sensual caress that sends shivers down your spine, causing tiny bumps to rise on your body in response, and your nipples to harden almost to the point of pain. 

Aelin swallows the moan greedily, deepening the kiss. 

Rowan pulls her off of you with a growl, his lips replacing hers in a frantic, claiming kiss. 

You whimper into his mouth and he groans into yours, flicking your clit faster. his finger covered in his ice magic feels delicious against the heat of your clit from Aelin’s fire magic. But you want more. Need more.

“Ro,” you beg, against his lips. 

He nips your bottom lip. “Yes, kitten?” You feel his lips curve into a knowing smirk. 

“More.” You beg breathily. Feeling his cock twitch as he starts to grind against your other thigh. Spreading his precum on your slick skin.  

“You want more?” He moves his finger faster. Pressing and stroking your aching, throbbing clit. Your eyes squeeze shut and your thighs press together. “You want to fuck my fingers, kitten?”

“P-please,” you nod, aching for his fingers to fill you. 

“Give our little kitten what she wants, buzzard,” Aelin murmurs huskily. 

And before you can even draw your next breath, Rowan dips his finger lower, the coldness of it filling your warm soaked cunt has you keening. 

He pumps his finger all the way in, to his knuckle and almost all the way out, to the tip. Curling it inside you. Hitting your sweet spot with every pump. 

You cry out when he adds another finger. “F-fuck!” At the same time Aelin grips a handful of one of your tits in a hard squeeze as she cries out too, her hips grinding against you frenziedly. 

Your back arches from the pain and pleasure. From the heat and cold. 

Mouth falling open in a silent scream when Rowan works his fingers into you faster. To the same pace he grinds his cock against you. 

Your movements and theirs are becoming frantic, feral. 

Then your entire body jerks, pussy clamping around his fingers as you cum. 

You feel your release drenching your inner thighs, dripping onto the bed beneath you. Your  eyes squeezed shut so tightly you see stars as you cry out. 

The sound urging Aelin and Rowan to bite—to sink their teeth into the space where your neck meets your shoulders as they cum too.  

Aelin’s release gushes against your thigh, dripping onto the bed, and Rowan’s cum spurts onto your other thigh, spilling onto the bed. 

All three of you lay there on the bed, a mess of slick covered limp and tangled limbs. 

****

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Main Masterlist

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

[facts-i-just-made-up]

*smacks your door open like Shrek* FACTS ABOUT VULTURES, BRO?

A… VULTURE is a raptor across the world adapted to feed on diverse creatures once dead. They can snack on carrion pausing from aviation to shine as pinnacle symbols of dread.

Well, these birds barf acid and they digest rapid, Circling a carcass even 'fore it goes flaccid. But some will kill lambs just to eat their bones, they scoop 'em up live and they drop 'em on stones.

Some have bald heads, some fly in fleets, Some cool off by pissing on their feet. Their stomach acid kills most disease, As digitigrades they have funky knees.

Condor- That's a Vulture, They're endangered, must breed. Bearded- That's a Vulture, They digest bones to feed. There's species in new world and old, They have feathers to protect from the cold.

In some legends, they can play the grim reaper. Then in others, they can be your soul's keeper. To Aztecs they meant rejuvenation, In the Ramayana one had earned much veneration. Some can use tools like rocks to break shells, some can hunt well only using just smell, some will dye their feathers with red blood, without them most ecologies would go thud.

Turkey- That's a Vulture, Turkey Vultures, I mean. Buzzard- That's a Vulture, They're endemic to Crete. A feeding group is called a "wake," then when they're in flight, a "kettle" they make.

(Musical interlude and wet Vulture eating sounds sample)

Hooded- That's a Vulture, They can nest in palm trees. Griffon- That's a Vulture, They're big on Halloween. Dress as vultures to impress your friends, They'll all miss the bird jokes when holidays end…

Some vultures lack notes- There's no organ in their throats that can make a chirp or caw or a squeak. But, if they were to quote, they would probly rather eat a goat, that was already minced for their beak.

So, that's a vulture, that's their avian culture. Immortalized in paintings and immortalized in sculpture. They're pretty cool birds and they sure look neat, especially when dripping with rotting meat. So help conserve and leave them be, and adore them if they're in a tree. Accipitridae or Cathartidae, Enjoy them all and look at them fly!

White-Rump, that's a Vulture, it is named for its butt. Palm-nut, that's a Vulture, it can feed on mollusks. So that's all about this fine bird. Go and fact check everything that you've just heard. Yes, that's all about this great bird. No go write about them, you absolute nerd.

[manonblaqkbeak]

Libraries and Chocolate Cake

i can't believe i've managed to post two stories in one day--i feel like im back in 2021 with the first rowaelin month where i managed to write a fic for pretty much every day lol

Day 16-Opening of the Royal Library/Theater. @rowaelinscourt

i miss writing fluff and i hope you enjoy it too!! xx

cw: none words: 900+

Aelin was woken up by Rowan shaking her shoulder. Frowning, Aelin looked at the time on her little clock on her nightstand. Dawn was still a little while away. Almost always, Rowan woke up first, and sometimes he would wake her up by nuzzling her neck with kisses, or with gentle touches.

Usually, he left her to wake up naturally, as Aelin often needed the rest more than Rowan did (according to him, despite the fact that he was still rebuilding Orynth and beyond, was always training with the guards and their ever-growing army and navy forces).

“What's wrong?” Aelin asked, her voice groggy. She rubbed heavily at her eyes. She didn't hear anything amiss, just Fleetfoot's light snores at the end of the bed and some birds chirping through the open balcony doors.

“Nothing,” her husband answered. “But you need to get out of bed, I want to show you something.”

Aelin's frown deepened. “Can't it wait until the sun has fully risen?”

“No.” Rowan got out of bed, the movement causing Fleetfoot's snore to pause, just for a moment, before her hound kept on sleeping.

Aelin really wished she was still sleeping.

Rowan came over to her side of the bed, her silk slippers and red silk robe in his hands.

It must be important, then, if it involved getting out of bed. Her nice, warm, comfortable bed.

Stretching, Aelin shuffled on her new slippers and robe—gifts from her mate that he had purchased during their trip to Antica—and left comfort behind as she took Rowan's hand in hers and let him lead her to wherever he wanted them to be so urgently.

On the way, Aelin heard the beginning motions of the cooks and morning guards leaving their barracks to begin a new day. The people they passed greeted them cheerily, and Aelin wished that she could have said that she responded as brightly as they did and she knew that they questioned the slight frown still gracing her face as she and Rowan walked without end.

Well, seemingly without end, but eventually, the queen and king-consort stopped in front of double wooden doors, the scent of lacquer still lingering in the air.

“Buzzard, did you really bring me hear to admire these freshly lacquered doors? Because if you did, you're sleeping on the floor for a week.”

Rowan smiled at her, his eyes sparkling, her curiosity growing at the joy in his eyes. “No, I didn't bring you here to see these doors, but I brought you here to see what's beyond them.”

“And what is behind these doors?” Aelin asked, although deep down, she already knew.

Rowan's smile grew. “My mating present to you—your royal library.” With his wind, Rowan opened the doors, the wood gliding smoothly against the stone floor.

Aelin wondered inside, her eyes darting from place to place. It looked just like the Great Library of Orynth before it burned down—but instead of simple windows (although there were plenty of them), Aelin spied stained glass instead. Some depicted flora and fauna, some books and swords, ancient art from around the world. But the most glorious one of all was the one that Aelin was staring at right now; the Lord of the North, his eternal flames bright even in glass, surrounded by kingsflame.

“This is what I wanted you to see, the dawn lighting up the new era of knowledge. I managed to find some of the old librarians that worked in the Great Library and they're more than willing to come back here again.”

Aelin spun around, her eyes filling with tears as she took in her mate. When she had first met him, she never thought that he could be capable of doing such things, but here he was, standing with her in her new library in his night clothes and slippers.

Tears fell from her eyes as she hugged him tightly, breathing him in as he wrapped his arms around her just as tight.

“Rowan...” she breathed, not able to find the words right then and there, but he knew—he knew what she wanted to say without her being able to say it. He kissed her on the cheek, forehead, anywhere that his lips could reach in their tight embrace.

They stayed like that for eternity, until eventually Rowan pulled away and turned her around to the window of the Stag, his arms wrapping around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder as he told her to watch as the sun rose up the horizon, lighting up her library—sending rainbows to scatter throughout the space.

More tears fell at the beauty of the world. A reminder, that while she may still face her nightmares of her time with Maeve and Cairn, she was alive and living an eternity with her mate and husband. Her best friend.

They stayed in that exact spot until the sun rose high and while she could have spent years in the library, her stomach had other ideas.

She and Rowan walked to the kitchens, not caring about still being in their night clothes as they came across their hard working cooks and in the middle of the table full of food ready to go out, was a chocolate hazelnut cake.

Aelin kissed her mate again and all but dragged him and that cake back into their bed chamber to finish off the most beautiful day she had in weeks.

[correctrvbquotes]

Cut back to the Gulch, where Church and Simmons are dropping off the Reds in front of their base.

Church: Okay, Donut, wait until we're gone, and then you can wake 'em up.

Donut: Well what do I tell them?

Church: I don't care, tell 'em you busted in and rescued them. Get yourself a medal. You deserve it.

Donut: I always did wanna be a hero... and a liar.

Church: Well then, it's your lucky day.

Donut: Don't you want anything?

Church: Like what?

Donut: Well, every time someone surrenders they take somethin'. Like when we took the medic, and you guys took Grif's dignity.

Simmons: Hyeah, like that ever existed. Uhhh, I mean, which one is Grif? Is he the yellow one?

Donut: And this time you guys don't want anything?

Church: Well, technically you're not surrendering. This is what we call in the Military, a "total asskicking." Oh, and also, we're taking your car.

Donut: What? You're leaving us out here, without any transportation? We'll die!

Church: Die of what?

Donut: Exposure! We're stranded! This is murder.

Church: Your base is right there, I can see it.

Donut: You may as well just feed us to the buzzards right now!

Church: You could have walked back to the base in the time we've been discussing this.

Donut: Go. Just sign our death warrants.

[pumpkin-daydreams]

No Man's Land is lonely, with only buzzards and ruins for company. At night, Vash sometimes dreams that he's safe in bed on Ship Three, listening to the hum of the air vents, but when he wakes up, he finds that it's just Nai's breath, blowing steady and cool against the back of his neck.

[scarletknightreterns]

Brutally Honest- Darksiders

“Brother, she is ill beyond our knowledge. We cannot take care of her.” War was not kind about it, either. The words came off as cold, merciless without any restraints latched onto whatever morality he had in his heart. Complete and utter ‘survival of the fittest’ driving his choices. The only issue was, he couldn’t fathom why his brother lacked the same conviction to leave the woman in the dust of her ill-begotten state and just, move on?

It got the strong killed when they allowed emotions of pity or compassion to leave them lingering by the bed of someone who only would tear them down and bring about misfortune. If the buzzards did not get to her first, her sickness would. Whatever it was... it festered and writhed in her body like a plague growing in stale waters, overrunning her health and dragging it literally through the mud. The only question was, how long until it came after them next through contagion?

She hardly had any strength, yet it was a miracle alone she still breathed. And this realm had no trace of heaven nor did any heavenly influence have any BUSINESS being here.

War could, within the moment, acknowledge that she was a fighter. But the odds were against her.

So then, why did Death put a cold cloth on her sweaty, pale forehead, her breathing so shallow and body so weak not even her subconscious could register the act of kindness?

To War’s honest opinion, it seemed as though Death ‘cared’ about the woman. Extended his hand, heart, and attention to ANOTHER person who was NOT apart of their family, yet he called her as one; apparent, by his actions alone.

“I will not abandon her, not after all she’s done, and put herself through, for our sakes. The very least we can do to return the favour, is help her,” Death’s eyes were cold as steel in their warm orange glow. Mind made up and unable to be swayed otherwise, they stared at War like a warning looming in the night. “Even if she does not recover... she at least won’t be alone or abandoned.”

Over by the bed’s cold and vacant edge was the second youngest of the siblings, Fury, watching her brothers both bicker at one another because of this woman who one of them singlehandedly took her care into his palms.

She was confused because she thought they had ALL viewed Cinder the same way by now; as family. She was angry because Cinder was sick and they didn’t know why or how. And she was scared because she didn’t WANT Cinder to leave them behind. To go someplace else where they couldn’t reach her.

“She... is going to wake up again, right..?”

The innocent question, painted with a completely normal and reasonable amount of fear, caught Death’s attention almost immediately. The pale one looked over at the small sibling standing there, her silver eyes so big and found, filled with a heart-wrenching amount of concern and questions.

He found the kind answer evaded him, avoided every grasp of his fingers.

All Death wanted was to tell her that, yes, the woman would be alright, ease those fears away, but he found only a bitter reply slipt past his lips, one that tasted wrong across his tongue, “I do not know...”

Honest words hurt sometimes.

And the way Fury’s face twisted into anger and anguish, before she scampered out of the room, hurt Death more then any rusty-edged blade through his heartless chest. If he could take back those words, he would, but he was brutally honest.

Even he did not know.

—

Just a little angsty thing I wanted to get off my mind before I lost it :P

[jwk7]

request: Can I ask for a hurt/comfort, angst to fluff onseshot fic for Rowaelin? A second chance romance or their transformation from friends to lovers if you will? I would love to read it!

warning(s): none, just some light angst

word count: 531

a/n: this is my first fic, so please be gracious; i just thought it’d be interesting to touch on rowan’s emotional side since it isn’t explored very much in the series. anyways, i hope you enjoy!

-

Aelin sat at her desk in the castle of Orynth late one night, pouring over a stack of diplomatic documents by candlelight. Despite the matter at hand, she found her mind continually drifting to her consort, Rowan.

Over the past couple of weeks, the Fae prince had been acting unusually distant. Though he maintained a stoic demeanor around the members of their court, he was more open and relaxed when he was alone with Aelin. However, he had recently begun conversing with her through grunts and short phrases when he didn't happen to be avoiding her altogether.

Aelin's heart ached at the thought of him slipping through her fingertips, and she couldn't ignore it anything longer. Ever the one to take action, she stood up and stormed into their shared bedroom that connected with the study.

The Fae prince was asleep and the sound of his light snores filled the large bedroom. Aelin placed her hands on her hips, debating whether or not to wake him. She decided to and shook his broad shoulders. After a few seconds, his eyes fluttered open, and he wiped the tiredness from them.

"What's going on?" He asked, his voice gravelly.

"We need to talk." Aelin responded, and sat down on the bed beside him.

"You've been avoiding me." She stated, not able to make eye contact with him.

"What?" Rowan looked just as confused as he had been before, and sat up in the bed. "I haven't been avoiding you, Aelin." "Yes, you have." Aelin replied firmly, managing to look into his eyes. "And I want to know why. Is it something I've done? Has the pressure of assisting me in ruling Terrasen gotten to you?"

"I've been thinking about Lyria." Rowan answered.

"What about her?" Aelin asked. She knew that Rowan had once loved his deceased wife, and felt responsible for how she died. "I- just.." Rowan began, and ran a hand through his silver hair in frustration as he tried to formulate his thoughts into words. He took a deep breath, and spoke with a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "I feel guilty that I'm here, the King of Terrasen, while she's in the heavens."

Aelin reached out and twined her fingers with his. Rowan shivered at her touch, though he didn't pull away. He stared up at the ceiling, and then looked at Aelin, his green eyes pools of emotion.

"She deserves this. Not me." Rowan croaked, gesturing to their surroundings. As tears began in the Fae prince's eyes, Aelin pulled him into a tight embrace. She allowed him to sob into her shoulder, his tears staining the fabric of her nightgown.

After Rowan had settled down a bit, Aelin rested her chin on his head. She stroked her fingers through his mop of silver hair, and looked out the window. The mountains stood in the distance, and a smattering of stars could be seen in the inky sky. The moon shone above, bathing the room in a metallic light.

"I love you, Buzzard." Aelin murmured, using a teasing nickname she had once coined for him.

"I love you too, Fireheart." Rowan whispered back, a smile tugging at his lips.

[fisherrprince]

writers block BEGONE wol eats fruit

Ch’ari is awoken to a muffled curse coming from what counts as Dragonhead’s kitchen. 

Well, “awoken” implies he was sleeping beforehand — which he was not. He was, instead, counting every grey fur the past weeks had given him, metaphorically, and sitting in bed counting the stones that make up the walls literally. Two hundred and thirty-odd, he’d lost count due to the “—! …swiving insect…!“ that interrupted him. 

There are only about three voices Ch’ari cares about hearing — the fourth optional voice being the Coerthan scout on Ul’dah’s front — and the string of curses came from the youngest one. Statistically the most likely between his companions, but that doesn’t mean it’s a common occurrence. Especially not at bloody 2:45 in the morning. 

Ch’ari rolls off the bed sideways, wincing as his paws touch the cold stone and shuffling into the slippers he’s fairly certain Haurchefant made himself for the outpost’s overnight visitors, and he makes his way in near-darkness and near-silence towards the kitchen. 

The kitchen itself is much like a dorm room; functional and simplistic and decorated here and there with furs and cloths and left-behind baubles to make the whole thing seem any measure more homey. Anything to ward off the biting cold nothingness of outside, measures for which Ch’ari is incredibly grateful. It makes his thoughts calm. Like how trees do for wind. 

He finds exactly — or almost exactly — what he thought to find in the little side room. Alphinaud stands at the counter wielding a small string of something, the lamp he brought to illuminate his workspace making him look almost comically gaunt. His tail is completely puffed out in shock, shivering as if he’s about to launch himself at the wall. With little ability to see in the dark, but good enough hearing that his copious blanket shuffling should have alerted him to his presence, Ch’ari somehow manages to sneak up on the kid.

“I didn’t think you were one to swear more’n once at a time,” Ch’ari says, as quiet as he can be to mute the echoes that plague Dragonhead in the silence. 

Alphinaud startles — again, if Ch’ari had to guess — and nearly knocks the lamplight off the counter turning to face him. “W- Master Tia! I didn’t mean to wake you!”

“You didn’t, I wasn’t asleep. What’s with the yelp?”

Alphinaud shakes himself and puts his composure back on as best he can. “I— I was merely fetching some of the provisions we were given, and that thing fell directly in front of me,” he huffs, gesturing forcefully (with a knife! He has some dried fruit on a cutting board. Ch’ari is struck with the sudden and very real possibility that Alphinaud does not know how to use a knife) at the wall. Ch’ari squints. A creature that looks a bit like an egg-sized grey yarzon is slowly creeping its way back up to the altogether too-tall ceiling. 

“Eugh. Do you want me to get it?”

There is a long moment where Alphinaud seriously considers the beast’s demise. He eventually looks away from it, his ears drooping. “No,” he sighs. “It was probably an accident. He didn’t mean to fall.” He fixes the lamp and the cutting board, thankfully putting the knife down as well. The mini yarzon continues its slow crawl up into the darkness. “Asides. Those creatures eat buzzard gnats, and I would much rather deal with the occasional fright if it means I do not have to deal with those pests.”

“What a lovely name for a bug,” Ch’ari grimaces. He carefully pads forward a few more inches and watches Alphinaud set the string of fruit (persimmon) back on the cutting board, a bit too hard and a bit too white-knuckled.

He pauses, looking up at Ch’ari’s lingering intrusion. “I am not in danger, or anything. Pray return to bed. I apologize for disturbing you.”

“Would you like me to cut it?” Ch’ari asks, completely ignoring him. 

“I am perfectly capable of cutting fruit.” 

“You are still shaking,” Ch’ari points out. He’s very aware every second word he says further bruises the boy’s pride when the thing has already been battered to shreds, but he’s not about to let some lordling cut himself holding a knife wrong when he clearly hasn’t slept and isn’t holding himself together. 

“I am — I’m just tired. And was not expecting the spider,” Alphinaud protests weakly. 

“You sit,” Ch’ari decides, snatching the fruit and untying the blasted things. “It doesn’t need to be cut anyways.”

Obediently — a new occurrence — Alphinaud turns to sit, and finding no chair, simply sits against the wall on a fur blanket. 

Ch’ari cuts the cold persimmon into pieces. He has a feeling that the lordling won’t take to ripping it apart with his teeth like an animal, like you’re supposed to do.

Probably two of them will do? He chances a look at Alphinaud, who looks like he’s about to become a part of the furs with his same-color cloak. He has darker circles than is strictly necessary, and a dangerous wobble in his eyes that bespeaks having too many other things on his mind at once. Mayhap three, then. 

Ch’ari slides down the wall next to him and offers him his handful of fruit. “Odd time in the morning to get a snack. Couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” Alphinaud whispers. He takes a piece of fruit and stuffs it in his mouth, and rather un-lordly-like keeps talking around it. “I’ve not been able to. It isn’t that it’s cold or, or uncomfortable, I swear, House Fortemps’ hospitality is more than gracious.” The more he speaks, the more he works himself up. “I try and then I just — awaken! With an awful pit in my stomach, and I can’t help but think of — and, not knowing what happened to the Scions or to the Braves who were unaware, if— if any were, if they were all—“ 

His breath hitches. “Oh, Twelve forbid,” he whines, and buries his head completely in his knees. 

“Head up, you’ll dirty the coat, I think.”

Alphinaud’s head slowly pulls out of the fabric, resolutely facing away from him and hiding his face beneath his hair. “I cannot help but perpetuate these thoughts over and over. That it was mine own folly that ruined everything I naively tried to build. And I cannot help but feel-- feel as if, I don’t know. Not sleeping is perhaps punishment for the way I acted, and now they’re…” He breathes shakily, and Ch’ari can see a damp spot forming on his knees that he quickly hides with one hand. 

Ch’ari puts a slice of fruit on it. Alphinaud doesn’t turn to it, but accepts the slice and miserably puts it in his mouth.

“Now I’ve nothing to do but wait and think. I do not know what to make of it. And, and this,” he sniffles, quickly rubbing his face with the heel of his palm. “I know you don’t like me much, so why do you do such things for me now? Is it out of pity?”

Mildly offended, Ch’ari quickly remembers that at one point (out of misplaced frustration, he swears,) he did call the kid pompous and irritating and “a bratling’s role model”, so that’s probably why Alphinaud believes he still doesn’t care for him. He was irritating. But Ch’ari was irritating right back, and then worried and persistent to the point of projecting, so… He taps his claws, then eats another piece of fruit, then adjusts the way he’s sitting, then lets out a big overdramatic sigh. He throws his arms up. “Come here.”

Alphinaud instead makes himself a smaller ball and angles the tips of his ears away in displeasure. Ch’ari, having none of it, scoots directly next to him and drops his chin onto Alphinaud’s head and begins purring as loud as his raspy throat can manage it. 

“-You are vibrating,” Alphinaud says thickly, surprise overriding his distaste at being hugged sideways. 

“It’s purring. Do not call it vibrating.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Ask Azeyma. Now hush, I am to tell you a story. It’s important and also strictly not to be revealed to the public, got that?” Ch’ari feels Alphinaud nod under his chin. “Good. Eat more persimmon.”

Ch’ari gathers himself, adjusting his position so that the embrace is not so awkward. Alphinaud quietly lets himself be moved, having wholly given up on being embarrassed. He simply nibbles on the fruit, sniffing occasionally. 

“When I was much younger,” Ch’ari starts, hesitantly, “my mother called me her little prince. I do not think she called me this full knowing how I would take it to heart.”

He pauses. “To make a long and rather grating story short, I realize now that I was set up to fail. Not to absolve myself of responsibility, but I… was sheltered. I guess.” He shakes his head, interrupting his purr before plopping right back down. “I was the only male kitten in our tribe. My first nunh loved me enough to spoil me, and I liked him well enough. He made me think I was king, and none of them stopped him. My second thought me to be a threat, and it was then that I was old enough to hate back.

“It was also then that we were old enough to bully each other, as kittens. I’m sure it’s not surprising that no one liked being bossed around much. By a child, no less, while they were already being ordered to tasks with no relief. So my orders were suddenly ignored, while his were obeyed. I saw him. I saw what the family thought of him. No one liked him, but they respected him. And so I, a shirked prince, tried to copy his behavior. 

“The more I vied for attention, the worse it got. And the worse it got, the more I hated. My intentions were not good, not like yours. I wanted respect, and power, and to be the most important, most competent hunter anyone knew, and I wanted this all without working a day for it,” Ch’ari growls. “I wanted love, and I reached for it through arrogance.”

“To be loved is not an ignoble intention to have,” Alphinaud mumbles, still nibbling on persimmon. 

“Kind of you to say, but I believe it was less to be loved and more to be lauded. Or maybe I wasn’t sure at the time what love felt like. Ch’leure — my nunh, Goddess let him burn — I doubt he knew either, and I doubt he’ll ever know, no matter how much he takes advantage of his filched status. 

“Is the purring helping?” Ch’ari interrupts. 

“W— What is it supposed to be doing?”

“I’m unsure. I’ve heard it’s relaxing.”

“It’s.. rumbling, for certain.” Alphinaud has sort of un-balled himself, so Ch’ari counts that as it’s helping. 

“Anyroad. I was ‘encouraged’ to leave the tribe at fourteen. I wouldn’t have stayed longer even if I weren’t threatened by nearly every girl my age, to be honest with you. I was determined to find somewhere I would be respected. So obviously I took to scammers and piracy,” Ch’ari snorts. “The most respected of professions. But I was coveted there! I was small and novel, and great at pinching pockets, and very easy to control by my ego. As long as I followed the leader, I would be welcome, and it was closer to princedom than I ever was before.”

He nabs one of the last persimmon slices and pops it in his mouth, thinking. “I don’t remember too much of why it happened. But one of the companies I was with hatched a plot to plunder hundreds of thousands of Gil, and all we needed to do was murder some four Dunesfolk merchants. I had slain innocent men before. I’m not sure what compelled me to stop. But I couldn’t do it.”

Ch’ari can feel his tail twitching in distress behind him, without his consent. He puts a hand over it. The Scions know -- knew, in the past-present sense, of his track record. He’s certain Alphinaud was either informed or investigated, but killing does tend to put most sensible people off, and he’s taken care not to mention it much. 

“I don’t know. I probably thought that maybe if I spoke up the company would see my reasoning, would apply the faux respect they had for my skills to my character. But, no, I was a disposable seventeen-year-old who ruined their plot and deprived them of their coffers, and I learned that pirates don’t forgive so much as they beat what irks them to the ground.” Ch’ari clears his already-tired throat. “S’where this happened,” he says. “Believe it or not, I used to be a bit of a singer. Not a good one, but I could carry a tune well enough.”

“I’m sorry,” Alphinaud speaks up. He sounds unsure, but genuine, and Ch’ari ends up purring harder. 

“Wouldn’t trade it back. In any case, I hear Nanali — I didn’t introduce her earlier, I should have — Nanali Nali, a completely unrelated lalafell nearby at the time, thank the Twelve. I hear Nanali scared them all off herself on account of yelling real loud and firing a years-old magitek gun into the air. Not sure if I believe her, she’s strong, but not intimidating enough to scare off that many pirates. I also hear she dragged my sorry corpse back to her house on her own, but I don’t believe that either. Dudunobe says he helped, he loves to take credit where there isn’t any.”

“They are…?”

“Farmers. Out past the deserts of Thanalan where you can actually grow something. S’also where you can kill a half-grown cat without being seen by the Brass Blades. Not if Nanali has something to say about it, though, she’s a real nosy piece of work. And Duno’s her closest neighbor, he has a right loud laugh and won’t even let me look at his sheep sideways. He thinks I’ll chase ‘em, and I did once just to piss him off. Rough folks. Very blunt.”

Alphinaud considers his fingers very carefully. The fruit is gone, which leaves his hands to fiddle with themselves. “They sound very dear to you.”

“Aye. I'm certain I wouldn’t be alive without them.”

“… Why tell me this?”

“Because,” Ch’ari hums, feeling his purrs slow to a crawl. “The next few months were miserable. Everything I had thought about the world was wrong in a way that made me culpable, and the avenues through which I thought I had control were naught but fabrications to placate me. Nanali did not treat me like a prince, nor did she treat me like a wet rat, she treated me like the hurt, wretched child I was. And in return, I yelled at her to leave me alone. She was too stubborn to let me be, though, and while I was having a crisis in her home she just kept giving me food. And bed. And kindness, cloaked in anger to get it through my skull before I was able to see it for what it was. Imagine my horror when I realized what was happening,” Ch’ari snorts. “She watched me fall apart, and then helped put the pieces back in the right order just because she wanted to. You know I nearly cried myself to sleep when I got an inn for the first time? Momodi paid for me, because I helped her with the most menial task in the world.” He lets go of his tail, and leans back against the wall, his ears trembling. Alphinaud remains very stiff, attentive but carefully unmoving. 

“It’s not that I pity you. It’s that I don’t think I could bear going through those months again. It is different, yes, but Nanali is malms away, and we could not visit her besides. Tataru, I do not think, has ever experienced such betrayal, and I hope she never does. …And I think Lord Haurchefant is rather too sunshiney at all hours of the day,” Ch’ari muses. Alphinaud huffs a little laugh. 

“He is very enthusiastic.”

“And a morning person,” Ch’ari groans. “I know I’m a sun seeker, but I seek the sun when it has risen, not before it has. It’s East, it’s always East.”

Another half-laugh. Alphinaud smiles rather awkwardly, with his eyes first and then about three-fourths of his mouth, but at least it’s not a put-upon face in his presence.

“I am… new at being kind,” Ch’ari admits, looking back at the elezen. “And I am an old hand at learning things the hard way. But as much as I can prevent it, I would have you less of a horrible mess than I was. Which means cutting dried persimmons at balls in the morning, sure.” 

“...Oh,” Alphinaud says, and turns away again, conspicuously rubbing his nose on his knees in lieu of having a handkerchief. “Thank you.”

“It’ll never be a problem.” That sentence broke him when he heard it first. Alphinaud seems to be attempting to regain his posture, failing twice before shaking his head and whiskers. 

“Now. As I’m sure Lord Haurchefant will be awake and cheerful soon,” -- Alphinaud snorts -- “we should attempt to catch some sleep. Without waking Tataru, I should hope.”

[thisisprettybroken]

"What do men even do?"

Well for one, when they wake up they fight off the buzzards.

Then they immediately take to waist-high water, their native habitat.

There's a lot of pirhanas lately so men will team up to go "fishin" as they call it

By mid-morning the snakes arrive.

They pop on a brimmed hat for snake-fighting and find their first woman of the day.

Which they'll drag around to more of the morning's snake fights.

Then the spide- Hey babe! Hold still! Where you going!?

So a man will generally go back to the same waist-high puddle of water to grab a different woman around 11. Sweet, the monkeys are out!

They like monkey fights better than they like women though, so this takes up most of a man's day until lunchtime.

And after besting roughly 27 hordes of monkeys, the dead snakes have attracted a swarm of crazed mustelids. So he's gotta handle that.

[leiawritesstories]

Congrats on 500!! ✨🤍 I am here for some fluffy rowaelin with these dialogue prompts, pleaseee:

"I never want this to end." + "I feel like I can breathe better with you around."

Thank you!!

thank YOU so much, these are adorable 🥰🥰🥰 it would be such a pity if the angst monster got ahold of this

Word count: 803

Warnings: it got a lil spicy but nothing explicit ;)

enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The gilded rose and orange hues of sunset slowly bled into darkness, night falling over the beach as softly as the gentle lap of the waves against the shore. Aelin breathed in time with the waves, warm and cozy in the cocoon of Rowan's arms as the campfire they'd built earlier in the evening died down into charcoal and crackling embers.

He stirred, jus a small movement to alert her. "Fireheart, love." A kiss brushed her forehead. "We should get back to the house."

"Mmmmmrrrrphhh," she mumbled, not budging from her snug spot.

His soft, deep laugh rumbled against her back. "I'm gonna need to move, love."

"Don't go," she protested, softly. "I never want this to end."

"Me neither." His fingers carded through her hair. "I don't really think it's legal to camp on the beach overnight, though, and I'll sleep better knowing my car is parked at the house instead of right there by the beach access where anyone could--"

"All right, you silly old buzzard." She pressed her fingers over his mouth to shut him up. "Help me up, Ro?"

"Stay right there." Before she could protest, he stood up, swept sand over the embers of the campfire, slung the beach bag over his shoulder, and then bent down and lifted her easily into his arms.

"Rowan!" she gasped, her arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders. "Gods, give a woman some warning!"

"Thought you liked me impulsive," he murmured, heat dancing in the depths of his playful gaze.

She suppressed the moan that rose up her throat at the promise written all over his face. "We're literally staying with our whole families, love. I wouldn't want to horrify your poor mother with all the sounds you make when I tie you down and--"

"Aelin," Rowan groaned, his tone heavy with desire. "You can't do these things to me." They'd reached his car, so he set her down, unlocked the car, and put the beach bag in the back.

"These things?" she asked innocently, slyly dropping her hand down into dangerous territory. He groaned, louder this time, and caught her wrist before she could do anything that would result in them tearing off their clothes right then and there.

"Yeah, love." His breathing was ragged. "Those things."

"So boring in your old age," she teased, rising onto her toes to steal a soft, sweet kiss.

A tiny little smile that he reserved for her curled his lips when they parted. "C'mon, Fireheart. Let's go home."

The drive from the beach to the beach house where the Whitethorn and Galathynius families were staying only took a few minutes; almost before either of them recognized it, Rowan was parking in the house's driveway and helping his sleepy wife out of the front seat. As quietly as possible, they slipped in through the garage entrance, crept upstairs, and made it into their bedroom without waking anyone else up.

Rowan closed the door with a soft click. "Ready for bed, love?" A grin creased his cheeks when he saw Aelin already sitting on the side of the bed, half-asleep. "Aelin?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't you want to change out of your beach clothes?"

"Yeah, but I'm too tired." She yawned. "Oh, wait!" A smirk flickered across her face. "This is the whole reason I have a husband." She raised her arms above her head. "Help me change, buzzard?"

"Of course." He tugged her sweatshirt up and over her head, his breath catching when he realized that she'd conveniently forgotten both a shirt and a bra. But she was practically falling asleep in his arms, so he drew in a deep breath and kept getting her into her pajamas, which consisted of a pair of old sleep shorts and one of his college basketball t-shirts. "Now come brush your teeth, my love."

"Noooo," she protested.

He laughed softly. "You hate morning breath, Ae. It'll only take a few minutes."

"You make too much sense," she muttered. "All right, fine." A few minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, crossed the room, and flopped into bed. "Mmmmmph, so comfy."

Rowan couldn't control the smile that spread across his face at the completely adorable sight. "C'mere, Fireheart." He tucked Aelin under the blankets, curling his larger body around hers so she was secure in his warmth. It had always comforted her, ever since the early days of their relationship. He could still remember the first night they'd spent wrapped up in each other's arms like this, the way Aelin had looked up, her normally guarded face open and earnest, and whispered, "I feel like I can breathe better with you around."

He'd known since then that he wanted to spend the rest of his life by her side. And gods bless him, here he was. By her side.

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@chronicchthonic14

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

[goddess-aelin]

Antics

Made for Rowaelin Month Day 20: Drunken antics

@rowaelinscourt

Masterlist

Word count: 1k

Warnings: drinking, drunkenness

It all began when Rowan insisted Aelin needed a night out, something he absolutely should not have done. She had been working so hard in the year since the war, never taking a day off and doing her best to attend to the needs of every single resident of Terrasen. Until yesterday, when she almost half collapsed from exhaustion.

Rowan took it upon himself while she was resting to cancel all of her meetings for the following two days and adamantly insisted that Lord Darrow not speak to her the entire time. The latter alone would make her feel loads better.

All the while, Rowan played the part of doting husband. To anyone else, it just looked like he was taking care of his sick wife. But to those of fae heritage, he knew they could see the thin rope he was dangling from, fae instincts riding him hard, just moments away from stabbing someone if they even dared to come near his mate.

But that was okay, Rowan thought, since he got to lounge in bed with his mate all day. To his surprise, Aelin didn’t put up that much of a fuss about not working, something that was actually very concerning to him. When he said as much, she simply said that she’d rather be spending the day with her handsome yet overbearing mate than a bunch of stuffy old men. He wasn’t sure if he should’ve taken that as a compliment or not.

Once the end of the first day rolled around, Aelin was itching for something to do, he could tell. She had already read through the stack of books that he brought her and snacked away on enough cake that even she said she couldn’t possibly eat any more. And that was when Rowan decided it was time for a night out, just the two of them.

He knew that if they left through the front door, the guards would insist upon accompanying them, Aedion and Darrow would berate them otherwise. But Rowan didn’t want that. He wanted it to be just the two of them, a date of sorts. He could also tell that Aelin’s eyes lit up when he mentioned sneaking out of the castle, handing her a dark cloak and telling her they were going on an adventure. An adventure which ended with them in a fairly run-down bar, drinking the night away.

Rowan had a fairly high tolerance for alcohol so by the end of the night, he was barely tipsy. Aelin, on the other hand, not so much. If anyone would ever mention it to her, she would deny it to her last breath, but Aelin was a lightweight. And this delighted Rowan. Very, very, much. His Fireheart didn’t get to be the carefree young woman she was almost ever, so if he could give her this small slice of fun, of what life would have been like without a war, then his job was done.

And this was how he found himself half-walking, half-carrying the almost dead weight of his mate up the dusty road to the castle. There was absolutely no sneaking back in in their state, his large form supporting the stumbling and babbling Queen. Aelin typically had a lot to say on a normal day and when she was drunk? It was like a floodgate was opened into her brain. Anything she thought would make its way out of her mouth at some point, no matter the content. Rowan loved it. He loved her.

“You’re such a han-some buzzard. Di’you know that?”

With amusement, he nodded his head. “Only because you’ve told me 20 other times tonight.”

“Psh, I’m jus speakin the trusth.”

“Mmhm. And you, my love, are very, very drunk.”

Her contentment quickly turned into dramatic outrage. “No! No, I’m not! You’re the one who’sh dru–.” The statement was quickly ended by a stumble.

“See?” Rowan looked pointedly at her.

“Shut up, Buzzard. Jus’ carry me, damnit.”

“If I carry you, though, you’re going to fall asleep. And before you do that, we absolutely need to get some food into you. Otherwise, you’re going to wake up and regret every decision you made tonight.”

Aelin stopped walking and crossed her arms. “Hmmph. You’re a mean buzzard. You’re not my mate ‘nymore.”

Rowan chuckled at her grumpy expression. “I’m not sure that’s quite how this works but, sure.” He started walking away, knowing that as soon as he did, she would try to follow.

And follow she did, albeit crookedly and looking like a baby fawn who just found their legs. Abruptly, she stopped and stomped her foot. “Why can’t you just carry me?”

“If I carry you, are you going to fall asleep?”

She kicked her foot through the dirt guiltily. “No.”

He chuckled and walked closer to her. “Fine, I’ll carry you.”

A smile lit up her face and she stretched her arms out to the side to embrace him. But Rowan had other ideas to carry her, bending down and hauling her over his shoulder, her hair falling down his back and her ass in his face.

“Hey!! Put me downnn!” Aelin’s voice was a screech in his ear, probably loud enough to wake up the entire city, though definitely loud enough to catch the attention of the guards standing by the palace gates.

“Hey! You there!” Both guards turned toward Rowan, spears pointed. Rowan quickly pulled his hood back, revealing the silvery hair only a few in the entire world had.

“Your Majesty! I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize it was you!” The poor guard looked frightened, probably ready to throw up at the prospect of what punishment he’d get for pointing a spear at the King and Queen. “Is she…is she okay?”

“No worries. She’s fine, just dramatic.”

“Hey!” she cried.

“Now if you’ll excuse us, I have to get this one,” he lifted the shoulder that Aelin was flung over, “back to the castle before she wakes up the entire city.” Indeed, Aelin was now jauntily singing a sailors tune, her voice loud enough over the unsavory parts to make the younger guard blush a deep tomato red. Both of the guards simply nodded and cleared the way for Rowan to enter.

“Hey where’r we goin?” Their path to the kitchens, at least, stopped Aelin from singing long enough to give his ears a tiny, much needed break.

“To the kitchens, remember? You need food.”

“Nooooooo, I sleep!” She started wiggling violently, causing Rowan to almost drop her when trying to set her down. He huffed a laugh. If he knew taking care of drunk Aelin would’ve been like taking care of a child, he never would’ve suggested a night out.

Who was he kidding, he’d deal with anything his Fireheart threw his way if it meant she was happy.

He took her hand, trying to pull her toward the kitchen, enticing her by naming all of her favorite foods. She tugged back with a surprising strength for someone who was heavily intoxicated.

“No, I sleep!”

“You need food, Fireheart.”

She put her finger to his lips, “Shhhh.” With surprising dexterity, she wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. “No food, only sleep.”

He chuckled, once again trying to get her to relent. But unfortunately, drunk Aelin was just as stubborn as sober Aelin. “You will regret it tomorrow morning if you don’t get some food in your stomach.”

He felt rather than heard Aelin’s scoff. “Sleep is food. I sleep.” He could tell by the pauses between words that she was just seconds away from falling asleep on his shoulder. “Dream of meat. Meat on a stick!” Her laughter was maniacal. Yet a few seconds after it began, it abruptly stopped and he could hear her breathing even out.

Rowan let out a sigh. Looks like he wasn’t getting her to eat something tonight. Gently, he maneuvered her so he was carrying her in his arms again, this time bridal-style. She settled in, nuzzling his shoulder and curling her hands between their chests. The sight was so cute it almost made him stop in his tracks. He settled for a gentle kiss on her forehead and made his way back up to their suite.

To Rowan’s dismay, Aelin woke up before him the next morning, fit as a fiddle and ready to start her day. Rowan, on the other hand, had a splitting headache. Though it hurt, he just shook his head with a smile and was grateful that his Fireheart was happy.

A/N: I had at least two other fics before this that I was planning on writing but didn’t get to do keep an eye out!

Tagging:

@cretaceous-therapod @morganofthewildfire @tomtenadia @live-the-fangirl-life @charlizeed @violet-mermaid7 @euphoric-melancholyy @kritical24 @rubyriveraqueen @dealfea @wellofnothing @ayaashryver @moonknight-spector @leiawritesstories @whoever-you-choose-to-love @holdthefrickup @heirofflowers @thecrispypotatochip @shanias-world @rowanaelinn @bruiseonthefaceofhumanity @hanging-from-a-cliff @fantacysoup @swankii-art-teacher @thegreyj @fromthelibraryofemilyj @westofmoon @lovely-dove-zee @books4eva04 @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @backtobl4ck @dreamer-133 @elentiyawhitethorn @writtenonreceipts @shyvioletcat @aelinchocolatelover @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @athena127 @highqueenofelfhame

[harper-sherman]

s1:e25 - Ride or Die

This is one of those episodes that's woefully low on Slim/Jess interactions, but at the very beginning they have a meaningful conversation. They're tracking a bank robber who gunned down a deputy, and the trail leads into the desert. They stop at a small watering hole named Sodium Wells to find that it's gone dry. Jess wants to turn back but Slim, stubborn as ever, resolves to go on. He asks Jess for half his water and tells him to come back in 3 days with food and water, and not to look for him if he's not there. Slim says something during this discussion that I thought was very powerful, and it ultimately convinces Jess to go along with his plan.

SS - "If we stand around clucking and shaking our heads every time somebody gets hurt, then we're next. We'll wake up with a surprised look on our face and a bullet in our chest. I figure the kind of people we are, we'd rather be buzzard bait than be buzzards."

Jess isn't even able to muster a reply, he just swallows hard and hands over the water. It's easy to imagine the worry and fear that he's holding back.

[thelostexperiment]

The Life of Brian Buzzard

It started as a perfectly average day for the old buzzard. His routine ticked on as usual, wake up, get ready for the day, get coffee, drive to work. He could hear the car that stopped next to him at the light blaring Crane Carpenter’s ‘We’ve Only Just Begun’ through their opened window, even though the song isn’t as nearly as bad as the other modern trash kids are playing these days it still annoyed him no less have it drown out his quiet drive. Once the light turned green he wasted no time to get away from that car.

His work at S.H.U.S.H. Was just as uneventful if not a little taxing trying to balance the books with all the chaotic escapades they get into… especially with that philanthropist McDuck interfering with missions. That hurricane of a duck had been giving him a migraine ever since his first mission with S.H.U.S.H. Throwing his finances into a tizzy, giving him more messes to clean up, MORE WORK, and that’s just with his day job…

By evening, the buzzard had showed up at F.O.W.L. H.Q. with a briefcase of S.H.U.S.H. financial notes, not to share with his partner in crime, it was the leftover work of the day that he needed to finish on top of running F.O.W.L. from the shadows it seemed like there was no rest for him anymore. 

Things only became more restless once Black Heron burst into his office as manic as ever, “I’VE DONE IT! IT’S BRILLIANT I TELL YOU! THE SCHEME THAT WILL HAVE US RULING THE WORLD MWAHAHAHAH!”

The sudden ruckus caused the old buzzard’s pen to streak across the paper as he was shaken in his seat.

“Heron! Do you EVER knock!?” He asked, exasperated.

“Who has time to knock when evil is afoot?” she retorted while rubbing her hands together with minising glee. 

The old man was already beginning to tune her out as he looked at the runed paper with frustration. Maybe he could just white-out the imperfection and that that would be good enough… As he carefully fixed the paper and continued with the paperwork he could still hear her gabbing away about something involving the stone of what-was but he was too busy to pay attention while he was hunched over mantaling his work. He only gave her an off-handed “Mm… Mm-hmm” as acknowledgement, just hoping she’d leave him in peace soon.

Suddenly Heron’s bionic fist slammed down on the table, jolting him back to reality.

“Will you PLEASE pay attention to my evil schemes of world domination!?”

With a sigh he took off his glasses to rub the bridge of his beak, “How many times do I have to repeat myself, we do not do ‘evil schemes’ because we are NOT VILLAINS!”

Heron rolled her eyes, “Oh whatever, just listen to my-”

“Heron, please! I am far too busy to listen to your ideas right now.” He interrupted with his eyes still on the papers, “I'm already far behind schedule with these invoices. Could you pitch whatever you had in mind later?”

“But you always say that!” she complained and flopped her torso on the desk dramatically, “You’ve been too busy for any of my plans, it’s almost like you don’t want to take over the world.”

Her covering his work with her body only annoyed him more. “Of course I do but between S.H.U.S.H. and my work here I just don’t have time for anything else right now.”

“Hmmm… If only you could be in two places at once, riiiight?” She said as she craned her resting chin between her thumb and finger with a smug crooked grin.*

The buzzard sat in silence staring at her for a moment, now interested in where she was going with this but also dreading it too. “Yes… I suppose so…”

“Well now you can! We’ll just use the stone of what-was to clone you and let him worry about your boring day job while we take over the world!” She announced as she stood up straight and flung her arms in the air with pazazz.

“That sounds… like such a bad idea.” he replied exhaustedly, “It’s too unpredictable. How do we know it won’t turn evil or god forbid reveal my involvements with F.O.W.L.?”

“That’s the beauty of it, I will have your memories, your personality, It will know not to step out of line. And if it is flawed we’ll just replace it and make an example out of it to its replacement.”

He was still skeptical about the whole thing but she was very persuasive, this was all just giving him another headache on top of the pressure he was already under. “I… I need some time to think about it…”

“That’s not a ‘no’~!”

“It’s not a ‘Yes’ either!” He snapped, and pointed his pen at her accusingly “I meant it when I said I don’t want any unauthorized experiments, especially ones that involve me, do you understand?”

“Of course, Of course, I’ll give you your time to think.” She assuredly backed away with her hands up. She backed into the open doorway with a confident smile, “Let me know when you make a decision on my offer,” she slowly began to shut the door but she kept her head in his view and added, “When you’re not ‘too busy’...” and with that her head disappeared and the door completely closed.

He was finally left alone in the room. Despite that the ever present stress weighed heavy on his chest as he stared at the unfinished work. The old buzzard leaned forward burying his face in his hands,letting out another sigh, then leaned back in his chair with his eyes still closed. The room was getting stuffy, he could feel the moisture in the air become unbearable, it was getting hard to breathe…

He couldn't breathe.

His eyes could barely open but he couldn't see.

He couldn’t breathe!

HE CAN’T BREATH!

The buzzard clone inside the tank was finally ready to emerge and by the way it was pressing its hands against the glass it seemed eager to be out. The viscous fluid that drained from the tank finally lowered below his head, leaving it free to take his first breath.

It gasped, coughing and sputtering. It tried rubbing the fluid from his eyes but it was a fruitless endeavor, he was covered in the stuff. Finally the tank was fully drained and the hatch opened. The clone took his first steps into the cold air. He looked around the room for Black Heron furiously but couldn't see anything clearly through the fluid in his eyes.

“COUGH...Heron!" He weakly called out through a fit of coughs, “This is your doing isn't it!? I told you no unauthor—! COUGH–COUGH” Another fit of coughs made it impossible to chastise anyone properly.

With his outstretched arm he tried feeling his way around the room, trying not to show how frightened and confused he truly felt. His emotions were already raw but he was not about to give whoever might be watching the satisfaction of seeing him panic.