.flow smile

Broken Bones

“You’re entitled to nothing, boy,” Warlund said in a scathing tone. He stood just inches from the young man’s face, knuckles whitening as they flexed against an opening and closing fist. “Now hit me again!” The boy reared back, closing in suddenly with a soft right hook. Warlund parried it easily, following up with a quick jab straight to the lower ribcage. Crack! The boy yelped, falling to one knee. “That’s it! I can’t take anymore!” Bruising had already formed from a flurry of recent hits, all targeting the boy’s weaknesses. “You leave yourself too exposed,” Warlund said, circling the squire. Quentin wasn’t but fifteen, and he was as soft as they came. He had a winning smile and flowing brown hair, but he couldn’t fight for shit. From behind, he looked more girl than boy.

“I can’t do it!” Quentin pleaded, clutching his cracked rib(s). “You can’t do it?” Warlund questioned, moving towards him with purpose, “Bullshit, boy. When I was your age, I took down a wild boar with nothing but a heavy rock.” It had been a heavy, heavy rock, and it was already half-dead from an arrow sticking out of its throat. “Quit whining, get up, and hit me!” The boy nodded, taking a few shallow breaths before raising to his feet. “That’s it,” Warlund said, “Now hit me!“ Quentin sneered as best he could, prepared, and charged! He landed face down in the dirt, a tiny stone acting as the boy’s chief obstacle. “We have a lot of work to do,” Warlund muttered in realisation.

“You’ll be fine,” Mara said, nursing Quentin’s broken nose. “It’s nothing,“ the boy said. Suddenly, he was fearless in the presence of an attractive blonde. “Just another battle scar.” Warlund entered the room laughing, having overheard Quentin’s final words. “Oh, yes, that was a ferocious beast you tangled with and won,” uttered Warlund, sarcastically. The boy gave him a ‘please don’t ruin this’ look. It only made Warlund laugh harder, to the point where it was contagious. Mara shook her head, smiling. After a moment, the healer gathered up her things and left the men as quietly as she’d arrived. Quentin watched her go.

A hard smack across the back of his head startled him. “Hey! What’s that for?” Quentin asked. Warlund needed only to narrow his eyes. “She’s pretty, that’s all,” the boy added, rubbing where Warlund’s hand had landed. “Temper your expectations, boy,” Warlund said. He moved to open up a heavy brown tome, bloodied knuckles wrapped. “Why?” Quentin blurted out, growing defensive, “I’m more than ready. I’m old enough. I’m nearly a man.” Warlund huffed out a laugh, “You don’t have what she likes.” The boy’s face went from anger to confusion to a dawning of realisation. “Oh,” he said. He sounded defeated. Quentin sighed, feeling of his bandaged ribs and recently corrected nose before standing and moving to Warlund. “What’s this?”

“My mother’s journal,” Warlund admitted, flipping through the pages. Quentin glanced down at it, as to not be rude. “Where… Where is she?” He landed on a particular page before answering, “Somewhere, I suppose. But not here.” Warlund seemed more determined than anything else, not bothered by the boy’s questions. “What happened to her?” With a sudden motion, a page was torn free from Adelaide’s journal. It was crumbled up and thrown into a nearby hearth. “She killed herself,” Warlund said. “O—” Quentin began, “—Oh.”

“‘Oh,’ indeed,” Warlund commented, tearing free a second page, then a third. He crumbled them both up and sat them aside. Quentin was now at a loss, so he rocked back and forth on his leather-heeled boots. He started to whistle, which immediately annoyed Warlund, but he was too focused on finding any mention of Kimberly to care. Adelaide’s journal was eventually closed, with an additional three or four pages ripped out beforehand. They all sat to the side, one by one being picked up and tossed into the nearby hearth. A subtle climb of the flames met each crumpled up, torn out page.

“Tomorrow, I’m not going easy on you,” Warlund stated. “That was you going ‘easy’?” Quentin asked, having to look up only slightly. The boy was tall for his age, standing at an early six feet; lithe, too. “Yes,” came Warlund’s only reply as he ushered the boy to the door, a light push sending him out into the hallway. “So get an early night.”

@kimberlyducayne (mentions)

This is for the beautiful @stylesforinfinity who is an absolute babe and who yesterday was super sweet about my writing, so this is the only form of thank you that seems adequate. 

This isn’t how Andrew expected the day to go…

The day starts normal enough. Or as normal as it can with house guests. He and Neil picked up Nicky and Erik from the airport yesterday, and with the jetlag, both are up especially early. It’s them puttering about in the kitchen–the gurgling of the coffee maker, the clinking of mugs, and their whispered voices–that wakes Andrew. Andrew opens his eyes to Neil still fast asleep beside him. The striker’s cheek is creased from where it’s pressed into the pillow, and his bangs have curled over his eyes. Andrew’s fingers twitch to fix it. 

It’s only a few moments before Neil’s eyes flutter open, the blue of them softened by the early morning sun bleeding in through the curtains. 

“Morning,” Neil mumbles, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. 

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The One with the Scarf That Donna Made

Title: The One with the Scarf That Donna Made

Summary: Christmas has become just another day for Dean, not worth celebrating. Donna, on the other hand, loves Christmas. Can she instill him with the Holiday Spirit by Christmas Day?

Author:  Dean’s Dirty Little Secret

Characters:  Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum

Word Count: 610

Warnings: None

Author’s Notes: Written for the 12 Days of Christmas Challenge from @waywardlullabies. Day 3 of 12 Days of Christmas, Prompt: Scarves + Xmas Cookies

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“Hominem a Morte” - Rowan

In war, there are loses and there are gains. There are winners and there are losers. I shall be the one to win @hermajestymanon

At this point you should know Warning : HIGH HIGH FEELS HA


Rowan refused to scream. No matter how much it burned, no matter how hard it burned at his skin, the Prince of Doranelle, the King of Terrasen, refused to scream. Maeve stood back slightly, her silver dress flowing behind her. She smiled. 

“You won’t break me” Rowan groaned. His arms hung from the rafter and the iron shackles dug into his wrists. His toes just barely grazed the ground, and his chest was covered in welts, burns, and gashes. “You trained me to withstand every and all types of torture” 

“This is true,” Maeve smiled slightly. She tilted her head to the side, her hair braided into a crown. She tapped the two Fae’s shoulders and they left the room, without another word. “But your dearest Aelin has given me a few tips. While I was torturing her mind” Maeve pressed her fingers against Rowan’s temple and the King growled, yanking his face away, “She screamed all the things I could do that wouldn’t break her” 

Rowan fought against the iron and it burned into his wrists further. He arched his back as blood slowly rolled down his arms. He glared at the Queen, baring his canines. “Put those away. Or don’t, I don’t care. Let’s see if you can survive what assassins survive when they’re captured”

Maeve snapped her fingers and two figures walked in. They set down a bucket, filled with a silvery like substance. Rowan cringed away and he whimpered. Iron. Oh gods, she had melted iron. “It’s mixed with salt water, and it’s cold. Since you’ll be experiencing mortal pain, I can’t have you dying too early”

“You wouldn’t hurt one of your own” Rowan said. But as he got a better look at the figures, they were human. Rowan kicked and bucked, trying to pull himself up. He was let out of his chains, but he was too weak to fight them off. And when he looked at them, those poor humans, no older than Aelin, he knew he wouldn’t have fought them off anyway. 

They stripped him quickly, their fingers never lingering. They rolled the King onto his back and Rowan stared at the ceiling as his hands and feet were tied to an iron rod. His chest pressed against his knees. Rowan looked into two pairs of brown eyes, and he saw a hint of sorrow. 

They grunted as they picked Rowan up, leading him over to the bin. Rowan started screaming as soon as the nape of his neck was touched by the iron and salt water mixture. And the King hollered, screamed, and begged as he was forced under, his bubbles rising without him. 


Rowan spent forty-eight hours, swimming in iron and salt water. He could barely move in the corner. His wrists and ankles were still bound together by iron, and he was bare and shaking. Rowan groaned and he pressed his forehead against his knees. Aelin. He had failed her. His Fireheart. 

He had failed his mate. Lyria flashed behind his eyes and Rowan moaned, rolling onto his back. He screamed in agony, the salt water still rolling down his body, burning at his wounds. His breathing came quickly, or slowly, or sometimes he felt like it didn’t come at all. 

The door opened, letting in a small beam of light. Rowan tilted his head up. He didn’t even have enough energy to snarl at Maeve. She smiled, dressed in a sky grey. She walked towards him, bending down. 

“You don’t look your best, Rowan” She smiled coldly. Rowan spit at her and Maeve winced, turning her face. The salt water, with a hint of iron, burned a small dint in her cheek. 

Maeve slid on a glove and she settled with slapping Rowan across the face. The King groaned. Maeve smiled cruelly and she gripped his chin tightly. Rowan moaned, looking up at her. “Do you find pleasure in this?” Blood spilled from his mouth.

“From you dying a mortal’s death? I find more pleasure than you can even imagine, Rowan” Maeve tapped his cheek harshly, before standing up. She walked out of the door, but then turned around. “You’ll see Aelin soon. Very soon”

Rowan rolled over but he cried out as the iron shifted, burning deeper into his skin. Soon, it would burn his bones. An hour, or maybe an eternity later, Rowan was swimming in a pool of iron and salt water, screaming and choking as the mixture slid down his throat. 


Rowan’s head rolled forward as he was nailed to an iron cross. He didn’t have the energy to scream as the iron nails slid through his skin, through his muscle, and through the other side. 

He opened his swollen eyes, blood sliding out of his mouth, down his chin, and he saw Maeve. She wore a new dress, and Rowan supposed that meant it was a new day. It could have been a new year and he wouldn’t know. 

Faes with gloves on slowly pushed against the iron cross, rolling Rowan out. He cried out in agony and Maeve laughed, following behind them. She closed the door with a click and the sun burned into Rowan’s eyes. 

His head hung forward and he groaned. It was harder to breathe now. His ribs, crushed, probably turned to fine dust by now. Rowan coughed up blood so thick, it might as well have been black as it slowly poured from his mouth. 

Maeve walked in front of him, her hips slowly swaying. She grinned and slowly sat on her throne. They weren’t even in Doranelle. He had no idea where they were and he barely remembered how he had found Aelin. 

No. He hadn’t found her. It was more of Maeve’s games. Gavriel, Lorcan, and Elide were somewhere else, looking for Aelin. They should have never split up. 

Rowan groaned and he looked around him. Water. Water everywhere. Salt, by the smell of it. Black salt water. He groaned as he was ripped off the cross and he slammed into the water. He heard someone cry his name as the salt water fizzled in his blood, through his veins. 

Rowan lifted his head up and he saw Aelin, struggling against Faes. Water. Darkness. His Fireheart. Locked in the dark. Drowned in the water. He would die the way Maeve had intended for Aelin. He would die in front of her. Rowan grimaced. 

“Don’t do it, Maeve” Aelin snarled, her muscles spasming. She was…fine. She wasn’t strong enough to burn with all the water and darkness, but she was fine…She would be fine. She would burn Maeve and the water and the darkness. She would find Gavriel, Lorcan, and Elide. 

She would go home, with her army of misfits, assassins, and outcasts, as she had promised. She would rid her land of the Valg and she would sit on her throne. Not with Aedion. Maybe with Galan. 

It was Rowan’s turn to plan, to make plans that didn’t include him. It was selfish of him to think he would have forever with his Fireheart. As of that moment, Aelin was not his to have anymore. 

“I’ve worked him over for weeks and weeks, Aelin,” Maeve gave a cruel grin. She pulled her hair over her shoulder, rubbing the ends of it between her fingers. “You gave me some wonderful suggestions. I especially liked the one you thought about, how Arobynn used to drown you, to make you stronger” 

Rowan growled at the thought of that…that man drowning his Fireheart the way he had been drowned over and over and over again. Aelin winced and she struggled some more, but Rowan knew she was desperately wishing the fire to come. But not with the iron shackled to her wrists. 

Maeve was going to win. 

“How do assassins make their kills again?” Maeve wondered. She tapped her chin and her gloved-hand came out from the folds of her dress, holding an ash blade. A tear rolled down Rowan’s cheek. 

“Rowan, I’m going to talk you through this,” Aelin smiled softly. Rowan lifted up his eyes and a cold understanding passed through their eyes. More tears spilled out of his green eyes. He wasn’t stupid, he knew he was doing to die. He just didn’t want to. 

He didn’t know what was waiting for him, he didn’t know if something was waiting for him. More tears spilled and Maeve smiled cruelly. Rowan sniffed and he winced, the strain on his lungs burning. “Your brain said you slit throats, you liked to let them choke on their blood. I think it’s the perfect ending for Rowan. Though Sam’s ending was beautiful, I have to admit” 

Rowan froze, snarls spilling from his lips, along with more blood. He knew he had internal bleeding. A quick death, would be a mercy in itself. Aelin let out a slow sob and then she swallowed. It’s going to be quick. If she goes slow, there’s a small chance you’ll heal. If she cuts deeply, it will spill onto the ground. If she cups shallowly, you’ll choke for about thirty seconds. Rowan, if you’re choking, don’t fight it. Spit and spit and spit. And know…know that I love you. My carranam. My mate. My husband. 

My Buzzard. Aelin smiled at him sadly. 

Her voice caressed his mind and Rowan nodded. He swallowed and tilted his head back, as his hands were bound behind his back. Rowan swallowed again as Maeve slowly walked off her throne. She stood behind him, gripping his hair tightly. “Any last words to your King, Aelin Galanthynius?”

Aelin took a deep breath. She looked at Rowan and smiled softly, “He’s my Rowan Whitethorn and he will never be afraid” Rowan forced a smile, through the pain. He stared up at Maeve and spit in her face one last time. 

Aelin smiled and she closed her eyes. Maeve flicked her wrist and the ash blade sliced across Rowan’s neck. Aelin screamed as she felt Rowan’s blood splatter across her face and her body. It slowly ran down. She screamed louder and fell to the ground, the same time Rowan did. 

Aelin opened her eyes as she was met with Rowan’s blank, dead stare. Aelin Ashryver Galanthynius screamed in agony as the final tears slid from Rowan Whitethorn Galanthynius’s eyes. 


The End 

I really enjoyed writing from Rowan’s POV! Hope you enjoyed reading it, guys! :))

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