#brilin | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

praetorqueenreyna · 4 months

Text

Welcome to the PQR gift giving extravaganza!!! I wrote some fics for some of my fandom friends as part of a gift exchange; expect a fic (almost) every day for the next week! This first one is for @goforth-ladymidnight, my co-runner for Tamlin Week and one of my favorite people ever!! She has spoiled me with a Tamlin/Lucien fic, which you should definitely check out! Briar/Tamlin is one of her favorite ships, so hopefully I did it justice!

Read here on AO3, or continue reading below.

Briar’s father practically kicked her out of the shop. “Are you sure you don’t need help?” she asked, even as she was halfway out the door.

“Yes yes, I’m not that old,” he snapped with false irritability. “You go enjoy yourself, and I mean it.” He closed the door to his shop behind her, and she could hear the dramatic thunk of the lock falling into place. She shook her head and grinned to herself. Normally she helped her father clean up and close his shop, ever since his back had started seizing up. But he knew how much she loved the local harvest festival, and was forcing her to go.

On the way to the village square, she combed her fingers through her thick hair. She frowned at the blood caked under her fingernails and stopped at the side of the river to thoroughly scrub her hands before continuing. Music and the chatter of joyful voices reached her long before the festival was in sight. The square was beautifully decorated with dried vegetation, stalks of wheat, and gourds. Vendors lined the edges of the square, offering food and drink and trinkets. The harvest festival was Briar’s favorite time of the year. Especially now that her father was relying on her more and more, and she had less time to socialize.

As she approached one of the stands, the large man ladling out cups of steaming hot apple cider caught sight of her. His face split into a massive grin. “Little rose! Long time no see!”

“Hello Ric,” Briar greeted. She had spent much of her childhood running around the orchard that Ricaud owned with his wife. “How’s Benji?”

Ric rumbled with laughter. “Bigger and feistier than ever. Can barely keep him out of the damn trees.” However much he complained, Ric clearly adored his son. He passed her an earthenware mug full of the fragrant cider, waving her away as she reached for her money pouch. “Don’t even think about it. Just glad to see you out and about.”

It was true, Briar had not been out much since her mother had passed several years before. She tired of the pitying glances from the others, the way they treated her like a fragile piece of glass. Not to mention her father had been overwhelmed by grief and work, and needed her in his shop to keep a roof over their heads. This was one of the reasons she liked Ric so much. He didn’t talk down to her or murmur about what a poor young thing she was. He treated her as he always had.

Briar wandered through the festival, taking in the merry atmosphere with the mug cradled between her hands. She spent a few minutes at a glassblowing booth, where an apprentice was creating a sculpture for an audience. Entranced, she marveled at how the apprentice manipulated the molten glass as if it were clay, pulling and stretching and turning it until a glorious swan was cooling in front of him. The apprentice caught her eye and smiled as though greeting an old friend. A moment later, Briar realized that she did recognize him, though she couldn’t recall his name. They were the same age and had grown up in the village together, part of a group of children that ran and played with little adult supervision. She hadn’t seen him in ages. The reminder of her isolation made her wistful, and she left the booth before he could try to talk to her.

She made her way towards the center of the square. A ragtag group of musicians was playing together, a rollicking cacophony of instruments and foot stomping. A small group had started dancing in front of the musicians. Briar settled herself at the edge of the crowd, content to simply observe. Most of the musicians were somewhat familiar to her, but she had never seen the fiddle player before. He was tall and dressed plainly, though even from a distance Briar could tell that his clothing was high quality and well made. His long blond hair, woven through with flowers, flowed loosely around his shoulders. Although he played along with the other musicians, his talent far exceeded theirs. He played the fiddle like it was an extension of himself, the bow dancing across the strings in an exquisite tune.

Her attention was dragged away from the fiddle player by a tap on the shoulder. The glassblower's apprentice, having extricated himself from his booth, held out a hand in a silent request. There was nothing lascivious in his gaze, just friendly warmth and quiet confidence. Briar accepted his hand and allowed him to twirl her into the growing crowd of dancers. It soon became clear that neither of them had any knack for dancing, which sent them both giggling. They struggled through the song, jumping and kicking in a ridiculous manner. The song ended and they let go of each other’s hands to applaud. Briar was red and breathless, feeling lighter than she had in ages. She looked up at the makeshift stage to find that the fiddle player was staring at her. When he caught her looking, he shyly looked away. Bemused, Briar turned down the offer of another dance and walked away to enjoy the rest of the festival.

********************

Later, Briar was sitting on a bench at the edge of the festivities. It had been a joy to talk to so many people she hadn’t seen outside of the shop in a long time, but her feet hurt and her throat was sore. She had needed a break. It was well and truly dark now, and torches and bonfires were scattered across the square. Soon she would need to creep in closer to the fire to warm up, but for now she was content to wait in the darkness.

“Mind if I join you?” The fiddle player was standing next to her, having approached so silently he might as well have materialized out of thin air. Startled, Briar nodded her head in assent. The musician slid onto the bench next to her with preternatural grace, settling his long limbs in a pose worthy of portraiture. “I’m Tamlin.”

“Briar,” she introduced herself. “Do you live in town?”

“No, just visiting.” Tamlin didn’t elaborate on where he was from, and Briar didn’t push.

“I liked your music,” she offered instead. “You’re very talented.”

Tamlin smiled, a warm, shy smile as if he weren’t used to compliments. “Thank you. I haven’t been able to play in a while. I was worried I’d be rusty.”

“Not at all. Why haven’t you been able to play?”

He paused, as if considering how much to tell her. “The work I do is exhausting. And boring. It’s not fun to talk about.” That only raised more questions, but Briar was too polite to push him. “I’m curious about you, though.”

“Me?” Briar was taken aback. Nobody was curious about her. “Why?”

“You seem to be a normal village girl. But you smell like death.”

Well, she certainly hadn’t been expecting that. “I smell? Like death?”

Tamlin’s face drained of color. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way! You don’t smell, and even if you did, it wouldn’t be bad.”

Mother above, the awkward stammering was cute. “What did you mean, then?”

He spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words. “It’s more of…an aura, that I can sense. Of blood. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m a butcher.” She decided to put Tamlin out of his misery. He was right, after all. She reeked of death. “I work with my father. We provide meat for this town, and all the surrounding villages.”

She understood why Tamlin would be surprised. She was a frail, willowy young woman. When she was younger, she had been prone to bursts of tears when she was overwhelmed. When her mother had been alive, her parents had run the butcher shop together. With that void in their lives, Briar had had to step into her mother’s place. She didn’t cry very much anymore.

“Oh.” Tamlin seemed relieved that he hadn’t insulted her. “You don’t like it very much.” A statement, not a question.

Briar shrugged. “I don’t have to like it, I just have to do it. It used to be harder. I used to dislike all the blood, and the dead animals. But I’ve gotten used to it.” The hundreds of rabbits and chickens she had skinned and dressed no longer phased her. Seeing them no longer made her heart ache for the life lost. Instead, they were her family’s next paycheck.

“I understand. I don’t much like what I have to do either.” He gave a shy smile that melted her heart. “You know I’d rather be a musician. What would you rather be doing?”

It didn’t take long to come up with an answer. “I like flowers.”

“Really?” Tamlin smiled again, bigger, with a flash of perfect white teeth. “Me too. You want to be a florist?”

“Not exactly. I like collecting them, learning about them. Finding the ways they are similar and different.” It was hard to explain her hobby to others. Most people assumed she wished to sell flowers, but that wasn’t exactly it. Her most prized possession was an encyclopedia of all the known plants in her area, divided up by their attributes. She had a notebook where she was making her own encyclopedia of sorts, filled with notes and drawings of all the flowers she encountered. “Right now I’m working on drying them out, so they can be preserved for longer periods of time.”

“What do you mean?”

It was easier to show than to explain. She pulled a leather folder the side of her hand out of one of her pockets. Inside was a small bouquet of flowers, dried and pressed and perfectly preserved between two panes of glass. There was no real reason that she carried it around, other than the foolish belief that someday she would meet somebody who cared about it enough to want to pay her to make more.

“It’s amazing,” Tamlin breathed, handling the glass carefully between his large, calloused hands. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Briar glowed at the appreciation for her craft. “I made that three years ago.”

“They’re perfect.” Despite the passage of time, the flowers hadn’t lost their color or shape. “How much do you want for it?”

Caught off guard by her fantasy coming true, Briar stuttered, “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not really for sale.”

“Please, I would love to have it. Money isn’t a problem.”

Staring into his earnest green eyes only flustered Briar even more. “You can just have it, I don’t think it’s worth anything.”

“I can’t just take it, I have to give you something.” Seeing that she wouldn’t be swayed, he reached into his hair and pulled out one of the flowers. “What if I trade you for this?”

Briar accepted the flower. Despite her knowledge of local flora, she had never seen anything like it before. It looked like a pale blue rose, with silver leaves. The petals had a glossy iridescence and appeared to change colors as she shifted it back and forth in the low light. “What is it?”

“It’s a rare flower, from my home,” Tamlin explained. “From my mother’s garden. She loved flowers too.”

Briar caught the past tense in his wistful words, and conceded. “Very well, I’ll trade.”

Tamlin beamed at her. He carefully wrapped up the pressed flowers and slipped them into his tunic. “I’ll take good care of them for my journey home.”

It sounded like he was preparing to go. “Are you leaving?” Briar found herself saddened by his loss. “The festival continues all night, all the way into the morning. I’m sure you could find somewhere to spend the night.”

“Thank you, but I must go. I have people at home expecting me.” Tamlin rose to his feet, and Briar followed suit. “Thank you, Briar. Talking with you has been a gift I will cherish. Apologies again for my clumsy small talk.”

“No need to apologize.” Briar gazed up at him, taking in all of his features. He really was a beautiful man. She had never seen anyone like him before. “Do you think you’ll come back?”

Tamlin leaned down and brushed his lips against her cheek. “I think I will,” he murmured into her ear. Before Briar could embarrass herself by begging him to stay, he was gone. She blinked, wondering if Ric had spiked the cider again. There was no sign that the fiddle player had ever been there, except for the exquisite rose cradled in her hands. She made her way back to the main part of the festivities, all of her attention on her gift. It was only when she bumped into someone else that she broke out of her reverie.

“Sorry,” Briar said to the young woman with silver bells on her wrists. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“All is well, sister,” the woman bobbed her head in greeting. “May the—” she cut herself off as she caught sight of the flower in Briar’s hand. Her eyes widened. “Where did you get that?”

“Someone gave it to me,” Briar answered, uneasy. “Why?”

“Tis a fae rose,” the woman breathed. “Nothing like it grows in the human realm, and it can only be picked by a High Fae.”

“But he…” Briar’s head spun. Her mind replayed everything that had happened that evening. Tamlin’s musical talent, his preternatural grace and beauty, how he claimed to sense the death that followed her like a dark cloud. Could he really be a High Fae? He had appeared human, but everyone knew that faeries were capable of disguising themselves, pulling the wool over naive mortal eyes. Everyone also knew that fae were wicked, deceitful creatures, who did nasty things to the humans they encountered.

Tamlin hadn’t been wicked. He had liked her. It was impossible to reconcile what Briar knew of faeries with the sweet man who had kissed her on the cheek.

The woman boldly hooked her arm with Briar’s elbow. “Come with me, sister. Tell me everything that happened. It sounds like you have been gifted with a visit from the High Fae. Are you familiar with the Children of the Blessed?”

“No.” Briar was taken in by the woman’s calm confidence. She clearly knew more about the fae than Briar did. And maybe she knew a way for her to see Tamlin again. “Show me.”

“Very well.” The woman lead Briar through the festival to a small group of others clad in pale blue robes. They greeted Briar warmly and gasped when she showed them the flower. They welcomed her into the fold, called her “sister”. She was home.

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #brilin #briar #tamlin #briar/tamlin #fanfic #my fic #HERE U GO MY LOVE I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!!!!#in which tamlin is the reason briar joined the children of the blessed

17 notes · View notes

ladymidnight-goesforth · 10 months

Text

Beauty and the Beast

Tamlin Week, Day 7: Free Day @tamlinweek2023

“Once upon a time, there lived a beast under a curse of his own making. And in a faraway land covered in ice and snow, a lonely maiden dreamed of spring...”

Inspired by my WIP A Garden of Thorns, an ACOTAR Beauty and the Beast retelling (yes, another one), featuring the rescued Briar, former Child of the Blessed, and a certain beastly High Lord of Spring. It’s on hiatus right now, and though I wish I could have written another chapter for this event, it didn't work out that way. I will get back to this story one day! I love writing them and their story.

I’ve been wanting to draw these two for a while, and Tamlin Week was a great excuse to do so. :) This was my original Day 1 submission for Beast, and then Day 6 for Second Chances, but it's been a much crazier week than expected, so here it is just in time for Day 7. Thanks for looking!

Please do not repost.

#tamlin #tamlin beast #briar acotar #tamlin x briar #brilin #my art #tamlin week #tamlin week 2023

39 notes · View notes

foxcort · 7 months

Text

for @isterofimias 🩶 because the brilin asoiaf au is kicking my butt and i want to give you something in the meantime / based on prompt #3 by @dumplingsjinson.

“You’re in love with me.” Surprise lifted Briar's tone, her eyes — big and round and staring directly at him with the intensity of the sun — unblinking and steady as the truth settled into her.

Tamlin shook his head, brows furrowing, breathing suddenly difficult. “I’m not—

“Look me in the eyes and tell me it's not true.” A dare. One he could not meet. She scoffed, shaking her head and stepping closer to him. "You can't, can you?"

He took a step back, a heat in his voce when he spoke. "There's no use saying it when nothing can come of it."

Hurt flashed across her face, fleeting and rare. Briar was human, but she never relented to the Fae around her, never let them think she feared them. The worst has already happened to me, she'd said one day so matter-of-factly it froze him in his spot, and I'm too tired to be scared anymore. It made him feel like a decrepit bastard to be the one to make her falter.

“You think you’re brave for saying something like that?” she whispered, tone sharp, words half-jumbled together.

Tamlin held firm, arms crossed tightly, even as his heart beat erratically in his chest, begging him to take it all back. “I think I’m protecting us both from a mess of pain that neither one of us can afford right now.”

She shook her head, fingers harshly wiping at her reddened eyes. “You’re not brave, Tamlin. You’re not protecting us from anything.” Now there was anger in her gaze, an emotion he was use to seeing in of all his loved ones. Rhysand. Feyre. Now, her. Surely, he was cursed. Surely, he’d done something to the Mother for her to keep tormenting him like this.

Something like disappointment unfurled her brows and Tamlin’s arms slackened when she spoke again. “You’re just a coward.” And it was the way she said it that broke him a little. Voice cracking on the edge of a sob as she pushed past him and left him standing there with a gaping hole in his chest.

#my favorite thing about brilin? tamlin having to come to terms with the fact that he’s fallen in love with a human AGAIN #brilin #briar x tamlin #tamlin x briar #tamlin #briar #acotar #acotar fic #its ANGST i know but making my moots sad is my love language <3

16 notes · View notes

velidewrites · 1 year

Text

ACOTAR CHARACTERS || BRIAR

For @isterofimias

#acotarcharacteredits #briar acotar #brilin #briar x tamlin #acotar moodboard #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acowar #a court of wings and ruin #sarah j maas #sjm

76 notes · View notes

dreamersinthedaylightinspo · 1 year

Text

Briar becoming a legend among among Children of the Blessed, a fairy story - "Once upon a time, a girl went into the wood and climbed over the Wall. There, a wicked beast was set upon her until she was rescued by a fairy king, who took her to wife - and they say she lives there still, in a castle made of flowers, in a land of eternal sunshine and youth."

Theyd call her Saint Briar of the Wood, patron of the lost and the hopeful

#briar acotar #tambriar #acotar #brilin

48 notes · View notes

mossytrashcan · 1 year

Note

If you are still taking art requests, could I ask for Briar/Tamlin in this? (Maybe with a bigger height difference but it's truly up to you)

Here you go!!! I might attempt a full render later because I really like the ref I chose for Briar’s dress lol

#sage’s art tag #acotar #tamlin #briar acotar #brilin #is that the ship name? idk

30 notes · View notes

yourethehero · 1 year

Text

a quiet distant treasure (when you rise)

I could sigh into your hide, And say I hope I'm here forever

Summary:

The truth is - Tamlin knows he failed. He knows he could beg, and plead until the sun burned its last flame, and it would get him nowhere. Not with her. Not with his friends, or with his courtiers. Not with himself.

There was no amount of apologizing. There was only the future, the one he could build for his Court, and for this child. Read on AO3

The woods were his home most days, when he couldn’t handle the stares. It happened often. He remembered war, anger, and piercing blue eyes. His paws thumped heavily as he stalked a familiar clearing, the light of the midsummer sun dappled and filtered through the canopy of trees surrounding him.

Alone with his memories, Tamlin remembered.

A female, her hair braided back and face bloodied screaming and praying for someone as she gripped the making and unmaking of their world..

Not for him, no. Not for Tamlin.

Rhysand.

Feyre’s name haunted not only his dreams, but corners of his home. There were rooms he could not enter - either because of the destruction, or because of the stillness of them. At times, he would forget, and wander into all he had given her. Though he had enough sense to cover the paintings, Tamlin could still remember the blood on her face, the ash from the fires, and the way they had mixed with her tears while she pleaded with the Gods, the Lords present, the Cauldron itself, to bring Rhysand back.

Tamlin remembered feeling alone. So alone - in a world that thought him a traitor, in a court broken by the female he had loved. And yet he had helped to bring Rhysand back. Because it was the only way to repay what he owed, just as Rhysand had given Feyre a drop of his power Under the Mountain. It was the right thing to do, Tamlin had convinced himself of it.

A debt for a debt.

Though Rhysand hadn’t taken Feyre. He had lost her in the madness of his desire to shield her, protect her, keep her from dying again - as she had done nightly in his dreams for months afterwards. He had lost Feyre, his court, his friends. Perhaps, if the whispers were to be believed, Tamlin had even lost his mind near the end.

Not that it could ever be the end for him. For a High Lord, there could be no end to his duties. His Court hung on a thread, a shaky line of nobles and those in Tarquin’s service who wished to not see the Spring Court reduced to a vassal of Autumn. The ministers’ council, the priestesses, even some of the former sentries sometimes visited the manor, tried to clean up for themselves, as well as for him. And Tamlin knew they were wary of him, and that only the most stubborn were still around, but it was more than what he’d had when he’d returned from the battlegrounds.

The woods sang the song only he could hear, and in these musings, he almost missed the acrid, iron scent of blood as it wafted into the clearing he paced.

He huffed a breath out of his flared nostrils, shaking leaves that had drifted down from the canopy overhead onto his antlers. The blood was fresh, or he would not have smelled it so strongly, and worst of all, it was sticking to him, calling his name just like his lands did.

Someone had bled in his woods, near his den. Tamlin took off into a run, nose in the air as he sought out the offending creature, the foreign blood spilled in his borders.

His agitation grew as the scent trail dragged him further north, into the Silverwoods. The northern borders of the Spring Court were now being constantly assaulted. Creatures bleeding over from The Middle had threatened his territory since the dawn of the Courts, but after her rule, the instability of war, and an influx of Autumn Court refugees (“deserters,” Beron called them,) encroaching on his territory, his already strained control over his lands had never felt weaker.

There had been villages at the mouth of the Silverwoods, he thought. Small hamlets of farmers, crofters, tanners. Folk that lived off the land and traded peacefully, for the most part. Blood was rarely spilled there, not without cause, and never as a wanton act. Until he took over.

Add that to his list of failures.

The magic of Spring shivered just under his skin, itching for release, and Tamlin felt his hackles rise at the thought of his people being endangered. He had never paid much attention to the border villages, and he knew few of the names, but he knew the noble families that ruled them enough to worry, enough to chase the scent disturbing scent.

Carving his way into the woods, he came upon the source of the blood. Worse than he could have thought, for it was not a battle, but a single body.

Prone, he found the mercifully clothed female fae, her black eyes staring upwards and unblinking at the leaf cover, her mossy green skin ashen and drained of color. The blood he smelled came from her throat, sliced wide and deep. She had not been there long.

Her clothes marked her as a resident of Spring, her brown-black hair braided in the way many of the working villagers did. She was dressed for travel, he could tell by the layers of clothing on her - much more than one would normally wear in the mild summer breezes. But other than the quality of her clothing, which was worn in, carefully patched in places, all he could tell of her was that she was young.

There was no way to tell just how young, as she retained much of the height and slightness associated with nymphs, but her colorless, ashen cheeks were still round with youth, with a childlike quality to the way her hands rested at her sides. As if she had merely fallen asleep, alone in the forests, far from any village that might claim her.

Tamlin felt the wave of sorrow, even with the lack of knowledge to who she might have been. And yet, there was not a soul nearby to bear witness or claim guilt.

Throwing his head back, he roared into the silence of the Silverwoods.

And the silence answered, in the wailing of a babe.

He cursed himself for not checking the clearing better, whipping around to try and find where the pitiful, frightened sound had emanated from. On the roots of an alder, bluebells in full bloom beneath knotted roots, he found the child.

Small, all wriggling limbs curled into a carefully constructed nest consisting of a traveling bag and a few blankets, Tamlin felt, more than decided, to walk softly towards the baby, scanning for traps as he went. But in the stillness, the only sounds were his own breaths, the startled chirping of birds, and the child’s cries.

Not even the scent of blood neared the youngling, and Tamlin thought there might have been some magic to that, how lovingly shielded the babe was, swaddled tightly into a cloth dyed marigold yellow. Their face, flushed with the effort of producing the loud wailing, was no larger than the pad of one of Tamlin’s paws.The babe’s skin marked them as nymph - a soft, greenish tint to it, under the angry red flush of its cries. A halfling, he realized, when he noted the pointed ears. Was the female behind him the mother, then?

Alone, the child wailed, and Tamlin could do nothing but watch. He knew little of babes, little of how to contend with the way the baby announced its presence, demanded to be seen and heard and -

This was an orphan, in his lands.

He could understand the distress in their strangled cries.

Tamlin nudged the babe with his muzzle, and instantly, the babe ceased crying, startling while giving pitiful shudders, and turning their head to look towards Tamlin. When their eyes met, Tamlin felt as if his world had frozen. There, in those eyes lay uncharted space. The babe’s eyes were just like his. Darker, sure, and certainly not as hollow. Unfocused, in the way younglings were. But still, this baby, with their green skin and black hair, had the eyes of the Spring Court.

When Tamlin looked into those glassy, reddened eyes, he saw himself as he had been. Chasing after his brothers, running to and away from lessons. He remembered his father’s sternness, his mother’s gentle hands as she showed him how to hold the fiddle. This baby showed Tamlin something he hadn’t seen in a long time. A reflection of his own being, of his soul untainted, by virtue of carrying the emerald green eyes of the Spring Court’s noble bloodlines.

Bewildered, Tamlin did all he knew. He nuzzled into the nest of blankets, touching his muzzle to the baby’s cheek again, attempting to soothe with his touch. Licked at its tears, and tried, as much as he could, to understand what to do.

The mother’s body lay in the forest, and Tamlin had her child.

But Tamlin couldn’t have just left them both. Not here, in the empty Silverwoods. Not alone, like he was.

In between cries, while the babe tried to open the world again by sheer force of will, Tamlin shifted into his Fae form. The first time in days, if he was honest, and he felt foreign in his own skin, in the way he could now see his hair spill beyond his shoulders. But it allowed him the movement needed to take the babe in his arms, and hold them to his chest. The child seemed to calm the moment Tamlin wrapped his arms around them, settling into the crook of his elbow, only their tiny face poking through the blankets. Stepping towards where the mother lay, Tamlin took a hold of her hand - cold, cold, so cold, and winnowed back to his home.

Landing with a thud onto the checkered foyer of the manor, Tamlin had barely straightened himself before Marius sprinted towards him, sword pommel in hand. Skidding to a halt, Marius could do nothing but gawk.

When he had been given orders, directly from Tarquin, to travel to the Spring Court and assist in the reinstating of their own Lord, Marius had expected very little, given the rumors that circled Adriata - a madman, a fae lost to all. A lord cruel enough to whip sentries in plain sight, to abuse his betrothed and ignore the pleas of his people. A High Lord so unworthy of his title that even Rhysand, pompous as he had been during the time Marius shared air with him, seemed more fit for the title.

Instead , he had found a fae all but dead. Tamlin’s eyes - once famous enough in their beauty that even Marius had heard of them, were dull and unseeing when he had arrived with his retinue. The first time Marius had seen the High Lord transform into the Beast he seemed to prefer had been the same evening of his arrival.

It had taken a month before Marius saw him again, barely long enough to explain his presence in the Court.

He missed Summer. He missed the warmth, the way the surf crashed against the rock walls of Adriata. Most of all, he missed the people. Though close to various villages, the High Lord’s manor in Spring was farther than he had ever been from the bustle of cities. At times he imagined drafting a report to Tarquin, telling his cousin that the High Lord of Spring had finally vanished for good, taken back to the Mother as some ancient fae had been in the stories, if only as an excuse to leave his post and return to Adriata.

Marius was no deserter, and he certainly was not a male who was easily surprised. The sudden appearance of the High Lord of Spring that afternoon had been far from expected.

There stood Tamlin, his blonde hair matted, his skin smudged with dirt and his formerly fine clothes not much better for wear. Marius shuddered at the scene, and the way Tamlin’s hollow eyes scanned the manor’s foyer. But what had worried him more was how Tamlin was holding onto the wrist of a clearly dead nymph.

Raw blood assaulted his senses immediately. Marius watched as Tamlin straightened, releasing the wrist of the nymph and adjusting a bundle of cloth in his arms.

No. Not just cloth.

Because from that bundle emanated the shrill, desperate cries of a hungry babe. In seconds, Marius ran through the reasons why Tamlin would have appeared in the manor carrying a dead female and a babe.

None sounded good in his mind, let alone spoken aloud. Instead, Marius stood to attention, as he had been trained, and placed his fist over his heart. “M’Lord,” he greeted. “Are you hurt?”

Tamlin looked at him, and Marius cringed. There had been precious little eye contact between himself and the High Lord of the Spring Court, but here was another moment.

“No.” the word was a raspy grunt, and nothing was said for a moment before another shrill cry from the babe turned both the male’s attention towards them. “I- hungry. It’s hungry.”

The absurdity of the statement nearly caused Marius to chuckle, before remembering the dead female in the room. “Sir, may I ask -”

“I found them in the Silverwoods. Can you feed it?” Tamlin did not wait before thrusting the babe towards Marius, who took them into his arms, regretting the thick, armored leather surrounding his forearms.

Marius watched as Tamlin took a step back, as if seeing Marius for the first time - and Marius thought it may as well have been, since this was the first time he had heard more than grunts of acknowledgement from the High Lord before him.

Silently, with little more ceremony, Tamlin lifted the female from the floor, and carried her through the halls, Marius and the crying babe following closely behind.

Tamlin lets his body carry him through the motions.

He buries the mother.

The skies above him begin to darken as he digs - shovel in hand, no magic, at the space beneath a shaded cedar. Close enough to his mother’s garden, but out of the way. Private. He digs until he hits hard-packed soil and rocks, and then he goes further. He’s vaguely aware of the Summer fae - Marius, he thinks - following him out, until he had finally tired of the babe’s crying and gone to try and feed it.

Maybe Tamlin should have felt some sort of guilt over the way he could barely remember the male’s name. He should feel plenty of guilt over needing fae from a foreign court to run his manor and most of the Spring Court for him.

Tamlin has never been good at sitting with his own thoughts. As a youngling, he would race away from them and into ponds and meadows. As part of the war bands, he learned that music could do the same for him. Take the noise in his mind away. Silence the fear, the rage. Eventually, music became one of the few things that brought him joy. Honing his body into a fine killing machine had been his father’s goal. The third son - captain of the armies, nothing more. His father had stopped the music as often as he encouraged it. He had been a master of the give and take.

He buries the mother, and he does it by hand, if only to spite the memory of his father.

There had been many burials in the Spring Court during his rule. Some in the manor itself. He remembers a time when a small human female had lived in the manor. He remembers bloodied stumps where membranous wings should have sat.

Tamlin remembers, most of all, what Feyre Archeron had said that night.

“I’d want someone to hold my hand until the end.”

He hadn’t been allowed to hold Feyre. In his dreams, he sometimes still watched her neck break. He wasn’t able to hold this female either, her name unknown to him, her youthful face and green skin and black eyes and-

When the grave is finally deep enough, Tamlin summons a meager scrap of his magic to clean her skin. To remove the dried blood from her throat, from her clothing. There’s enough in him, unpracticed as he is now, to re-braid the few strands of the female’s hair, and to shroud her in an undyed linen cloth. Before he covers her face, he looks at her once more. The lashes brushing cheekbones. The thin lips, the widow’s peak. Does the child have these features?

He realized he didn’t know the gender of the babe just as Marius reemerges from the manor.

The male had lost his vambraces, the blue tunic normally housed underneath his gambeson now with sleeves rolled up towards the elbows. In his arms is the babe, bundled in the same cloth as before, but quieter now. When Tamlin straightens and looks at him, there’s a moment of awkward, pained silence that passes between them.

“Did it eat?” is all Tamlin can think to ask. The baby is so small. Small enough they may still need to be abreast, and Tamlin doesn’t know how to ask.

Marius snorts. Tamlin feels a spark of anger at the male’s lack of deference. “Yes. She has some teeth. I fed her porridge.” Looking down to the freshly dug grave, and then appraising the surrounding area, Marius continues, “It’s a lovely place to rest.”

“She was young.” Tamlin looked down to the now shrouded body. “Someone did this to her.”

“Nothing was left with them?” Marius’ eyes narrow. “I sent a sentry to the Silverwoods - if there is a sign of a fight, Argent will find it.”

Tamlin felt his throat dry. He cleared it, drawing a raspy breath. “See if there is family searching for them.” Speaking hurts. When was the last time he had said as many words to anyone?

“Sir. Is that wise? Should we not send her to the Priestesses?”

“No. No priestesses.” Sharper than he meant to say it, Tamlin turned back to face Marius - looked the male in the eye, trying to speak the thoughts that had stormed through his mind as he dug the grave.

None came. Instead, he nodded to the mother’s still body. “Help me get her inside.”

Marius laid the baby down onto a patch of grass - well away from the grave, and came to stand on the opposite side of Tamlin, towards the bottom of the shrouded figure. Silently, the two males lowered the mother into the grave.

The sun sets behind the manor, and the stars begin to blink into existence above them as Tamlin shovels earth back into the grave, covering the female. Letting her go.

Tamlin doesn’t know her name, and can’t place a marker down yet. So the grave goes marked only by the sprouting bluebells he wills the freshly turned earth to present to her. Just like in the meadow.

Tamlin lifts the baby girl from the grass, and with the stars and her daughter as witnesses, lays to rest the immortal soul of an unknown female.

“Cauldron save you. Mother hold you.” Why are there tears? Why now? “Pass through the gates, and smell that immortal land of milk and honey.”

“Fear no evil. Feel no pain.” Marius echoes the prayer, solemn.

“Go, and enter eternity.”

#acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #tamlin acotar #brilin #tamdemption #I said I'd be normal about it #clearly I cannot #not not ic critical ya feel?#acotar #rebuilding the spring court one OC at a time #big sad man and baby #tamtam's mandalorian era

55 notes · View notes

separatist-apologist · 2 years

Text

Time, Curious Time

And isn't it so pretty to think all along there was some invisible string tying you to me

Summary: Briar just barely survived the war with Hybern and his terrible camp. All she wants is a little peace…especially from her dreams. Nightmares plague her, urging her to return to the place that tormented her.

What lies beyond that woodland threatens to reshape Prythian and Briar?

Well, she's right in the middle of it

for @ladynestas (who also made the moodboard)

Read on AO3

She still had nightmares.

More often than Briar could count, she woke coated in sweat. She didn’t know why her mind forced her to relive the days spent in the Faerie camp. No amount of safety would ever convince her body, her mind. Briar ought to have been right back to that spinning wheel, utterly naked for the amusement of the males. She could feel their hands, their teeth, their blades, always plucking, biting, pinching.

She still wore the scars, hidden beneath her dresses. She’d said nothing to her parents after Viviane returned her to the now ruined wall. They’d made her swear her days as a member of the Children of the Blessed were over.

It was an easy promise to make, harder to keep. There had been stories, when she was a girl, that to drink faerie food or drink faerie wine bound you to their land. She knew that king was dead and yet a tugging in her gut was always pulling her back. Briar had done a good job ignoring it over the last year but tonight it was too much.

She pushed the blanket from her bed. It was cold out, the last vestiges of winter clinging to the windowpane with clawed fingers. The promise of dawn lit over the sky, casting purple shadows as Briar dressed, sliding fur lined boots over warm, woolen socks. Her parents would be furious with her, though that was hardly new.

They wanted her to get married. Phillip. He wanted her to get married too. Sometimes even Briar herself wanted that. He didn’t know what happened in Prythian. Didn’t see how she was haunted. What would he do when he unlaced her wedding dress to find the knife marks? The whipping scars? The burns forever etched into her skin? Proof someone else had been there first, that many people had. He wouldn’t understand it wasn’t necessarily, sexual. He would assume it all the same and human men were far too willing to believe the worst of women associated with the fae.

Briar braided her silky, dark hair from her face, cursing the beauty staring back at her from the mirror.

Her friends had been killed on sight. She’d been preserved because one of the fae took a liking to her face. The king of Hybern doubly so. It would have been far kinder to execute her on sight, she thought. Brian rubbed the heel of her hands against dark brown eyes, wishing the fae had marred that, too.

Maybe Phillip wouldn’t be so interested, then.

Pulling a hunter green cloak over her head, Briar stepped out of the cottage that had once been home. She’d dreamed of leaving this village behind, of finding love and beauty and something more beyond the wall. She’d found a nightmare, one Briar could not wake up from. She was cursed, trapped in that enchanted sleep.

There was no waking and whatever was calling her back would certainly only damn her further. If Briar had been smart, she would have turned back, crawled back into bed, and stayed there. As Briar trudged through snow with only a small knife–gifted from the fae princess Viviane—she considered that her curiosity had always been her problem. She wasn’t content to leave well enough alone.

It was what kept her moving. Briar had considered that she was walking straight back to her doom. She wasn’t afraid, not this time. The worst had already happened, right? Maybe it tempted fate to assume that but Briar almost hoped something was waiting for her with glistening teeth and an open maw.

The forest was endless and massive and by the time the sun was fully up, Briar realized what a terrible idea the entire thing was. She’d brought no food, had no thought as to where she was going. Her body was half dragged, propelled on, on, on. She knew what it was.

Magic.

She’d smelled it before—coppery and metallic, like blood but worse. The wall was gone, reduced to ash and yet Briar had thought she’d see the wreckage. When Viviane had brought her home, rock and rubble lay ruined along the ground, creating division.

It had all been cleaned, removed by some unknown hand.

She forced herself to keep going. It was too late now to turn back no matter how she might like to. Her heart fluttered in her chest, smashing up against her ribcage until she was panting with the effort it took to keep air in her lungs. Whatever corded around her now yanked, causing her to stumble and trip. More than once, Briar fell to the cool ground, cognizant that the snow had melted into the crisp afternoon of spring.

She remembered the High Lord of this place—not by name, but face. He appeared in her dreams as often as the rest of them did. The monster who’d come at the last minute, who’d fought those vicious dogs she’d been certain would kill them all. His face should have been the worst given how beastly it was. Furred and horned, with vicious fangs and a body as large as a moose.

She would have taken one hundred monsters like that over the beauty of Hybern’s soldiers.

The ripping in her body ended abruptly before a tree. Spiked and vicious and so utterly out of place with the tall oaks that swayed around her. This tree was something else—old and ancient and utterly magic. She almost laughed out loud.

“This?!” she called out to the world, looking skyward at the cerulean blue peeking through treetops. “All this effort for this?!”

Briar reached her fingers through the thorny branches for one of the golden pieces of fruit. Maybe the magic was offering her a way out. A reprieve from the hellish nightmare she’d been trapped in. The fruit was squishy and not firm like it appeared. Slimy, even, as if it were rotten. Briar ripped her hand back, pricking her hand in the process

The world seemed to tilt and three drops of blood rolled down her wrist, dripping to the earth.

Briar.

The wind wrapped around her throat.

Welcome home.

She let it take her.

~*~

Tamlin had been living in the forest for too long. Three years since the war, surfacing only when the insufferable Night Court came to pay him a visit. Lucien was the usual suspect but sometimes it was Rhysand. Lucien wanted things to go back as they were and Rhysand?

Tamlin understood the High Lord of Night merely wanted to know if he was alive or not. Perhaps he meant to fight Beron for the remainder of Tamlin’s land when the world finally took him. He’d felt it, that pull, that aching tug. Dragging him towards the wall, towards the place the Cauldron had sat before it pulled that ancient magic apart. Tamlin refused.

Usually, anyway.

Not today. He could sense Rhysand prowling about, nosy as always. He’d drag Tamlin back and pretend he cared while digging through Tamlin’s mind. It was all so tedious. Exhausting. He simply lacked the energy to watch Rhysand preen about, hero in his own mind. He’d vanquished the terrible evil that tried to take his mate.

Wasn’t that enough?

Apparently not. Tamlin knew Rhysand wouldn’t truly be satisfied until he was dead. Maybe he deserved that for what he’d done to Rhysand’s mother and sister. Maybe that was a fitting punishment for giving in to his father, to his brothers. Tamlin had made peace that made blood demanded blood and though his own mother had paid for his mistake, perhaps the world wouldn’t be right until he was dead too.

He plodded forward, nails digging in the ground. Some days were better than others. Some days he could take on the shape of the male, could bathe and dress and clean up the estate and turn his attention to the land.

Other days he couldn’t bring himself to eat, let alone walk on two feet. Today was one of those days. Tamlin pushed deeper in the woods, wondering if this was the route Andras had once taken. So much death was piled around him, their bodies scattered like ashes. What had it been for? What had he accomplished?

It was all for nothing.

Nose practically dragging against the leaf strewn ground, Tamlin didn’t notice the tangled thicket of thorns and brambles that stretched like a wall in both directions. He reared back, slashing his nose against the sharpness, dragging three drops of blood against the ground. Around him, the air hummed with approval and that ancient, whispering voice murmured a greeting.

Welcome home, High Lord.

He snuffed in response, stamping his foot impatiently. These were still his woods. The Mother, ancient and wise as she was, had no right to interfere this way. Another metaphor, he nearly asked. He simply lacked the energy.

A soft, whispering laugh made every hair on his body stand on edge. He disliked the way the gods still played their little games, no longer content to watch from above. Using the Cauldron had awoken something primordial and Tamlin was certain he wasn’t the only creature that felt it.

The vines retreated into the earth, filling his body with the sensation of life reborn filling his chest. He’d forgotten, if only for a moment, how the magic of Spring truly felt. He was more than just the vicious beast.

Tamlin hesitated when the last of the vines vanished, revealing a tree that certainly did not belong. Stepping forward, he snuffed at it, snarling at the violent tang of magic. He’d wondered what would happen when Daglan and Brannagah had set the Cauldron on his land. What might rise up when they spilled it to the ground? The tree was rotting and yet somehow brimming with life.

Tamlin sighed. He’d be forced to tell the other High Lords who would be rightly furious. Tamlin took another careful step, his clawed foot colliding with something soft beneath a layer of fallen leaves and other debris he’d mistaken for the ground itself. Sighing, he lowered his snout, certain’d find more rotting carcasses from the unfortunate creatures that dared to try and eat from the tree.

The scent clanged through his body like a bell, rippling through his blood like a brand. He didn’t realize he was digging against the earth, trying to find the source of this new thing. He shifted without meaning to, utterly naked, to reach for the female laying in that soil filled grave. He recognized her face though her name eluded him.

She’d been the human in Hyberns camp. He still thought of her from time to time, wondering what had become of the human who’d survived the camp. He supposed now he knew—she’d come back, had eaten from the tree.

Cursed, was his first thought as he gently pried her from the earth's loving grip. How long had she been there? She had a distinctly immortal glow to her, though the arching ears tipped through her brown black hair was a dead giveaway.

Lowering his ear to her breast, Tamlin could hear her steady, soft heartbeat. Alive but only just. Enchanted sleep was rare, not because the spell was difficult but because the curse was easily broken. True loves kiss, according to the ancient grimoire but in truth, the fae had learned any kiss would do.

Maybe not a naked male, he decided wryly. He’d take her back to the estate, break the spell, and send her on her way. She could stay the night but after that Tamlin wanted her gone—out of his estate, off his lands and ideally, out of his mind, too.

He took his time on the trip back, sensing Rhysand’s departure mere moments before he emerged from the woods. It took no great effort to winnow directly into the estate itself given he hadn’t used his magic for anything significant in years and his wards were no longer maintained. Lucien occasionally came by and threw one up and Tamlin always pulled it down the minute the Autumn court male—Night court, now—vanished.

Rhysand’s scent lingered in the dim halls, taunting Tamlin all the same.

Look what’s become of you.

Pathetic.

Tamlin knew all too well.

He took the female up the stairs to the one bedroom still in good condition—his own. She could have it, at least for now. Tamlin had no intention of sleeping here. He set her among the white and gold duvet without a second look. He had to dig through his things for a pair of pants, a shirt, and tunic. Good enough, he thought, sweeping his long, blonde hair off his face. He doubted he looked less mannerly but clothed and semi-groomed was far better than letting her wake to a naked male hovering over her.

Tamlin hesitated at the edge of the mattress, eyes locked on full, pink lips. She truly was lovely. He hadn’t thought so when he rescued her, had been too busy to care for such things but now? He understood why Hybern had chosen to torture her. All faeries coveted lovely things and given the reputation of humans for being dull, ugly creatures, this female was a gem among rocks.

Blowing out a breath, Tamlin leaned forward and brushed his lips across her own. She was warm, practically asleep for all he could tell. He stepped back and waited, fascinated at the rippling gold and green shimmering off her. How long had she been down there for? It took her a moment to shake it off, to inhale sharply. Long lashed fluttered, revealing the warmed set of brown eyes set in her heart shaped, moon-pale face. She blinked, brows pulling into a frown.

She turned her head to look at him, detonating a vicious, ripping explosion in his chest. Tamlin choked, stumbling back a good four steps before he regained his balance.

The reverberating snap in his chest was an answer to the question he’d been asking ever since he’d met Feyre.

Mate, that laughing voice murmured against his cheek.

She was staring at him too. Tamlin came towards her, halting when she scrambled away, her whole body trembling violently. “Where am I?” she asked him, fingers curling in the blanket. How did he explain when the walls were covered in curling ivy and the windows were shattered husks? Ruined floors from years of rain water and sunlight weren’t any more inviting. Only the bed was intact given he still slept in it on occasion.

He could fix this.

“Spring Court,” he said, speaking for the first time in months. His voice was hoarse, a terrifying grunting even to his own ears. “You’re safe.”

“Safe,” she whispered, looking away from him with hollow eyes. “Safe in Prythian.”

He nodded. “I…” Gods, he didn’t know what to say. “My name is Tamlin.”

She looked back at him, recognizing that, at least. “The monster?”

He cringed.

“The monster,” he agreed, swallowing hard. Her shoulders relaxed, filling Tamlin with the strangest mixture of hope and fear.

“Will you take me home?” she asked him.

He hesitated. This was his mate, after all. Returning her back to the humans was risky. They were likely to kill her.

“Home?”

“I live in the village beyond the wall,” she said earnestly, scooting closer. Pretty eyes, he thought. The same as lightning churned earth, of rough bark branching into green treetops against a clear blue sky.

“For how long?” he asked her. Maybe the humans were softening, were willing to tolerate her because she’d been one of them.

She frowned. “My whole life. My parents, they’ll…” she bit her bottom lip.

They’d be worried. Tamlin’s whole body rebelled at the notion and yet to force her to stay was merely replicating all his past mistakes. He nodded and the female stood. He needed, at least, to know her name.

“What do they call you?” he asked her softly. She passed by a mirror, turning her head to look.

“Briar,” she whispered, halting in front of the cracked surface. Her hair was unbound, falling in soft ringlets down her back, her eyes dark and wide and utterly lovely. Her lips parted and, with trembling fingers, she reached for those delicate, arched ears.

“I…” she trailed off. “Is this a trick?”

He didn’t know what to make of that. “A trick?”

She looked at him with such anguish though Tamlin didn’t understand the cause of it. Gesturing down her body, Briar said, “My body.”

He didn’t dare comment on that, though he couldn’t pretend he didn’t appreciate it. Tamlin merely shook his head back and forth.

“I went into the woods human!” she said, a tear sliding down her face. Tamlin truly studied her in that moment, drinking in her fur lined cape and her waterproof boots. At best she’d been in the woods for almost a year. At worst…he cleared his throat.

“Did you eat from the tree?”

She shook her head back and forth. “It was rotting.”

Tamlin closed his eyes, thinking of the offering he’d made in order to gain entrance to the thicket itself. What a cruel joke, offering up his blood without knowing what was waiting. He’d thought, foolishly, it was merely to signify he was High Lord.

Like called to like.

“Did you spill blood?”

She looked down at her unblemished hand and without hearing her answer, Tamlin knew the answer was yes.

“Take me back–”

“They’ll kill you–”

“Take me back!” she sobbed, sinking to the ground. He caught her before she crashed, lowering her gently. “Please. Please take me back.”

Tamlin resisted the urge to run his nose along the back of her ear, to inhale the soft scent of hyacinth and honey clinging against her skin. This was close enough, gripping her slim arms while she trembled mere inches away.

“Winter was nine months ago,” he whispered, earning another strangled sob.

“They need to know I’m not dead,” she said, turning those beautiful, tear soaked eyes on him. He would have done anything in that moment to see her happy. Without considering what kind of male he was or even if she even wanted a mate, Tamlin nodded his head.

“You won’t be able to stay,” he warned her. She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“Where will I go?”

“Here,” he said, his own voice breaking at the thought.

Their eyes met again and he prayed that she’d feel that snap, too.

Nothing.

“Take me home.”

BRIAR:

Tamlin was terrifying to look at. He’d clearly seen better days if his rough shaven face and the smudging purple bruising beneath his eyes were any indication. He spoke very little as he walked her across the overrun grounds. Everywhere he went the world seemed to right itself a little. The grass shrank, the vines retreated. Floors reknit themselves, the glass repairing. If he put any effort into this strange clean up effort, Briar genuinely could not tell. His face was utterly impassive.

She was tempted to ask how it became this way. It looked as if a war had ripped through the land. He’d said she could stay, but Briar didn’t think she wanted to.

When they reached the edge of the forest, the man beside her offered her a calloused, broad hand. “We’ll winnow,” he murmured. “So you don’t have to stay the night in the woods.” Brian sucked in a breath. Viviane had done this, too. She nodded, sliding her hand against his own while bracing herself for the crushing wind and the darkness that accompanied that shift through time. Viviane had explained it to be like stepping through the world and Briar supposed it was.

Tamlin’s magic was warmer, softer than the princess of winter. Maybe Viviane would let Briar return, seek refuge in her icy palace. Briar hated the cold and yet a friendly face felt like a gift in the midst of her panicking uncertainty.

Tamlin squeezed her hand as they reappeared just inside the treeline where no one would see. Nervously, Briar unbraided the rest of her hair, carefully arranging it against her ears while Tamlin pretended he wasn’t watching. Forest green eyes surveyed their surroundings with a mix of interest and disdain.

“They all look the same,” he murmured, catching her watching him. “Nothing changes.”

She didn’t agree. It looked to her as if everything had changed. Roads, once little more than dirt, had been repaved with concrete. Houses had been remade with nice brick and stone. It was autumn now, evidenced by falling leaves and little candles and pumpkins on the front porch, carved with scary faces in hopes they would ward off trickster spirits. Tamlin had been right—she’d been gone nine months.

“I’m coming with you,” he said when she didn’t respond. He straightened out his spine, standing his full height. She felt small beside him, the top of her head coming to the swell of his shoulder.

“You’ll scare them,” she whispered. He glanced at her again, lips pressed into a thin line. She knew what he was thinking and was grateful when he didn’t say it.

She’d scare them, too.

That was evidenced when she stepped onto the road. No amount of clever hair could hide what she was now. The once bustling streets died as the people she’d once known scrambled out of her way. Men held swords though they didn’t dare point them. She supposed she ought to thank Tamlin for that. His broad, muscular frame was a threat all on its own. Any man untrained in the art of battle might think twice before going up against the faerie.

Her parents' home had not been spared the remodel of the village. It had always been nice—her father was a blacksmith and their life, while small, had been comfortable. Two stories, three bedrooms and running water had always been a feature of Briar’s life. Everything looked nicer, she thought. The door had been replaced and repainted navy. Yellow shutters hung cheerfully against clear windows and a plot of marigolds lined the path from the street to the door.

Briar knocked, pretending Tamlin wasn’t standing at the edge of the yard watching. Would he let her go inside?

The door opened and too late, Briar realized it had been more than nine months since she left. Her father’s face was aged and lined. His once dark hair was silvered at the edges and his whole body seemed to sag. He halted at the sight of her, sighing heavily.

“Two years, Briar,” he said by way of greeting. That stunned her.

“I…two years?”

“Just like before,” he added, his gaze hard. “You’re missing from your bed. We searched the woods for you, but I knew. You went back and now look at you.”

His eyes found Tamlin just behind her.

“She’s your problem now. I don’t want to ever see her again.”

“Where is mother—”

“Dead.” His voice was hard, unforgiving. “You sent her to an early grave. She was so sure you were hurt. Begged me to keep looking long after it was clear you crossed the wall. How disappointed she’d be, to see you like this.”

Tamlin snarled softly behind her. Briar wiped the tears sliding down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she told him.

It wasn’t my fault, she wanted to add as he slammed that door in her face. “Where is she buried!” she screamed at the wood, lunging forward and slamming her palm against the solid mass.

“Tell me where she’s buried!”

The door groaned and cracked at the force of her hand. Briar didn’t care. She’d break it down, destroy the whole thing.

“Tell me—”

Hands on her shoulders pulled her backwards. “Briar,” Tamlins voice whispered. She yanked, even as that crushing warmth swept around her. He deposited her on the lawn just in time for Briar to swing, catching him upside his chiseled jaw. He stumbled backwards, caught off guard, and Briar, horrified she’d hit him, pressed her palm against her mouth.

“It’s fine,” he told her. It wasn’t, though. Shaking her head, Briar meant to apologize but the words came out as an anguished scream. He caught her again, arm sliding around her middle so she didn’t face plant into the ground.

“Two years,” she sobbed as the two gently tumbled to the ground. “I was gone for two years.”

He released her, sitting close enough she could feel his warmth while she sobbed viciously into her hands. Briar dug her fingers into the earth, furious Prythain had played this little trick on her. Hadn’t she been through enough? Hadn’t her body suffered enough?

All her hatred, her anger and pain and anguish seemed to slide like viscous liquid, tangible to her somehow. The world itself drank it down like an elixir…and then pushed something back. A daisy. White and bright and swaying in the breeze. Another popped from the ground, and then another, until there was a blanket of them stretched between her and Tamlin.

“I want to go to winter,” she said breathlessly, knowing full well he was going to tell her no. Already, Tamlin, his eyes round and wide, was shaking his head. He merely sighed, skimming his hands over the delicate petals with obvious wonder. Briar had stopped crying, at least. Small mercies, she supposed, wiping her face on her shoulder .

“This is all Spring,” he told her, those grassy colored eyes finding hers.

“I didn’t ask for it,” she replied softly. Tamlin nodded, biting his bottom lip.

“No, but…we haven’t had magic like this in centuries. It was bred out of my family line in favor of strength.”

She yanked her fingers out of the dirt and dropped them in her lap. “I suppose the world has a sense of humor, then.”

“You could say that again,” Tamlim mumbled.

“I know Viviane,” Briar tried again. “She was nice, I…”

He sighed, all his wonder shifting into some new emotion she didn’t recognize. “I’ll write to her. Will you come back with me in the meantime?”

“What happened?” she asked, pushing off the ground to rise to her feet. His expression tightened, that same, unreadable look still ghosting his face. Tamlin merely shrugged his shoulders.

“Too much to say.”

She didn’t understand it.

But Briar knew exactly what he meant.

TAMLIN:

She asked to keep the room she’d woken in. Who was Tamlin to tell her no? Could he have mentioned it just so happened to be his bed? Sure. Did he? Absolutely not. It was, perhaps, selfish and yet Tamlin rather liked the thought of his mate in his bed. It was certainly the nicest chamber in the entire estate, at any rate, and after her ordeal, Tamlin thought Briar deserved it.

There were other, more pressing problems outside of his mate lying beneath his sheets though everything seemed to go back to that. The estate was ruined, the grounds in disarray. Autumn was pushing on his border, his people were scattered and impoverished and Tamlin had no idea where to start. He had no friends he could call on anymore, no support or allies. Just a terrified mate—asleep in his bed—and himself.

Grinding his teeth, Tamlin was forced to make a choice.

Fucking Lucien Vanserra.

Writing his once best friend felt like being kicked in the face repeatedly. Lucien, the traitor. Lucien, who’d hung him out to dry and joined Rhysand. Lucien, who’d taken Feyre’s side on everything despite the centuries of friendship between them. Lucien, who had abandoned him to lick Rhysands boots all so he might one day be allowed to speak to the female Tamlin heard was kept far, far away from him.

Did he prefer it, Tamlin wondered? Did it feel like freedom to his old friend? They’d once rode all over the countryside, had dreamed of a better way of running things. They’d tried, briefly, before Amarantha, even. What had Rhysand done, other than reinforce the same tired system that kept too many broken and impoverished?

Tamlin did it anyway, knowing Lucien would tell Rhysand he was requesting help. That anything Lucien learned here would be handed over to the Night Court for their perusal. And that Rhysand would eventually come, playacting as High King, to see if he approved of Tamlin’s attempts to rebuild.

The letter vanished with a whisper, leaving Tamlin to sit in the ruined study. It was easy to blame everything on Rhysand—and he did, for a lot of it. Rhysand was determined to punish Tamlin for the rest of his life for that mistake. The problem, at least in Tamlin’s estimation, was how much better Rhysand had always been at playing politics. Tamlin have been particularly eloquent or well versed in being a courtier. That had always been Lucien’s job, perhaps to Tamlin’s detriment. When it all fell apart, he didn’t know where to start.

Didn’t want to even try.

He wasn’t supposed to be High Lord. It had been drilled in his head his whole life. His brothers had been courtly and Tamlin had been the warrior, for all the good it did him. Everyone was dead or gone and he was what was left. His father was likely spinning in his grave.

Tamlin fell asleep in his chair and woke to the sound of boots echoing on the marble in the foyer. He heard a familiar sigh and then felt the shimmering wards sliding over the estate again.

Lucien.

He wiped his palms on his trousers, swallowing the mix of hatred and nerves mixing in his chest. Their relationship was fraught now, tangled in the emotions of people who had once known everything about each other that no longer cared. Only, Tamlin did care. Not caring about Lucien would have made hating him all the easier.

Tamlin met him in the hall. Lucien looked well enough—dressed as he always had been in his fine clothes, not a hair out of place—and yet exhausted and worn down at the same time. Their eyes met, the tension between them so taut Tamlin could have played it like a fiddle.

“I got your letter,” Lucien said, breaking the silence between them. He pressed his lips in a thin line, clearly irritated that Tamlin hadn’t said something first.

“You came faster than I thought,” Tamlin replied, still getting used to the sound of his own voice. Lucien considered that. Tamlin could see the gears grinding in his old friend's head.

“I came straight here,” Lucien said, letting Tamlin fill in the gaps.

I didn’t tell anyone I was coming.

I’ve decided to see for myself before asking permission

I want to give Rhysand and his court a full update when I return

Tamlin clenched his jaw. “How fortunate for me your schedule allowed it.”

Lucien’s mouth twitched, as though he might smile at Tamlin’s irritation. Lucien looked around, drinking in the little repairs Tamlin’s magic had made. He could fix the whole estate if he wanted—though if he fell apart again, the estate would crumble in the wake of the lost magic. He wanted Briar to have somewhere safe to live even if he wasn’t in it.

He couldn’t tell Lucien that. In fact, Tamlin didn’t think he wanted Lucien to know about her at all.

“So,” Lucien, smug and stupid all at once, turned his gaze back to Tamlin. “You wanted my help?”

Ask for my help.

He swallowed all his pride. “Rebuilding my court.”

Lucien’s surprise skittered over his face for only a moment before his friend hid that and any other emotion he felt. And Tamlin, irritated and embarrassed, added, “Not you, of course. I know how important it is to remain emissary to the Night Court.” Lucien scoffed. “Half your court defected to Autumn and has been feeding their High Lord information for months?”

“And the rest?”

Lucien shrugged. “Holed up in their own estates playing lord. Taxing the populace far beyond their means, staging their own Calanmai rituals…at least one of them will likely try and stage a coup when they realize you plan to actually return?”

Fuck fuck fuck.

“So is that it, then? Spring is just lost?”

Lucien’s face was impassive. “You were the warlord, not me. I can go around and make my little threats but perhaps, first, you might stroll to the summer border and see what your former soldiers are up to.”

Gods damn him, Tamlin was certain he didn’t want to know. He was going to have to go on an apology tour around Prythian, apologizing to the High Lords.

“That will take weeks,” Tamlin grumbled, thinking of his mate still in his bed. Lucien raised a brow.

“Do you have something better to do?”

“I need someone I can trust to watch the estate while I’m gone,” Tamlin said in response. His meaning was clear.

Not you.

Lucien ran a hand down his mouth. “I have a thought–”

“No one from Night Court,” Tamlin interrupted flatly. Lucien was undeterred.

“Elain Archeron–”

“Absolutely not,” Tamlin growled. He didn’t want another fucking Archeron sister stepping foot in Spring. He couldn’t tolerate another female with Feyre’s features giving him a hard time. He’d saved Feyre’s mates life. When would it be enough?

“She’s not like Feyre,” Lucien murmured softly. “And she’s a gardener.”

“She’s an Archeron.”

Tamlin understood Lucien’s desire to bring Elain to Spring. Get his mate out of Night under the guise of rebuilding and unity. Tamlin and Lucien were at an impasse and Tamlin, distrustful and angry, made an impulsive decision Lucien would have once berated him for.

“Come back and you can bring her.”

Lucien stared.

“Excuse me?”

Tamlin forced himself to hold Lucien’s stare. “Come back to Spring and you can bring your Archeron mate.”

Lucien’s anger was too much to hide. He strode forward and without warning, slammed his fist in Tamlin’s stomach. Tamlin doubled over, taken aback by both the action itself and the force with which Lucien had hit him.

“You fucked me over with Hybern,” Lucien snarled. “You fucked over all of Spring. Why wouldn’t you tell me? We were friends. I would have helped you, you dumb motherfucker.”

“I know,” Tamlin wheezed. “I’m sorry.”

Lucien shook his head. “If you think I’ve been having fun over there, I hate you even more than before. You could have told me and I would have stopped Feyre. You chose to trust Ianthe, Tam.

At least Rhysand doesn’t pretend to be my friend when he’s fucking me over.”

Tamlin stood again, still panting against the assault. Nothing Lucien said was untrue and yet— “You left with her.”

Lucien’s face slackened for a moment. “My loyalty is to my mate.”

“Yeah? How’s that working out?”

Lucien clenched his fists but didn’t dare come any closer. Hitting Tamlin once was a matter between old friends and once brothers. Hitting him twice invited letting the High Lord exact justice.

Lucien couldn’t withstand that kind of onslaught.

“Fuck you, Tam,” Lucien snapped.

“No go say that to Rhysand,” Tamlin taunted, having clearly touched a nerve. This was how they solved arguments in the past. Before Amarantha, before the mountain, when the stressors between them were smaller and more manageable. An ocean lay between them now, unnavigable and still Tamlin, ever stupid, wanted to try. “Go hit Rhysand in the gut.”

“I never said he was my friend—”

“Then why is he your fucking High Lord?” Tamlin snapped.

“He has my mate!” Lucien snarled furiously, unleashing his rage. Chest heaving, Tamlin watched all Lucien’s careful restraint snap against that rising tide of fury.

“Invite her,” Tamlin said dismissively.

“If you think either of them will allow Elain into this court—”

“Is she a prisoner, then?” Tamlin asked, referring back to a very old conversation he and Lucien had regarding Feyre. High Lords couldn’t just kidnap females that had no ties to them. Especially another males mate. Tamlin had once thought Feyre to be that very thing, though there was no snapping bond between them.

Lucien’s rage smoothed back into that unnerving nothingness. Tamlin hated how easily he managed that.

“Stealing her from her family will hardly engender any good will.”

Tamlin didn’t bother mentioning it was working perfectly well for him. His mate was in his bed. “Of course. I’m sure your way is better. Let me know what you decide.”

Lucien hesitated as Tamlin turned. He took a half-step, stopping Tamlin in his tracks. “I want to come back,” Lucien admitted softly. “I just…”

“I know,” Tamlin replied. It didn’t make him any less resentful, but he knew what kept Lucien all the same.”

“I’ll be back with an answer,” Lucien said, sweeping one last look around. “I’ll meet you at the border.”

Tamlin huffed a sigh. Briar would be fine.

Briar was in his bed.

He turned abruptly, leaving his former friend still standing in the foyer.

He wanted to see his mate.

In his bed.

BRIAR:

Briar woke to the High Lord offering breakfast. She knew, from years of experience, that acts of kindness didn’t come without strings.

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking in the strange state of him. He looked as if he needed a good bath, sleep, and a new tailor. She wasn’t sure if she could just tell him to go wash his hair—if she’d told the lord of the village his hair looked stringy, he’d have her flogged.

Tamlin ducked his head appreciatively at her thanks. Breakfast, like everything in Spring, was spartan and yet eggs and toast and juice were all perfectly good in comparison to enchanted sleep.

Besides, while she waited on Viviane, maybe she could try her hands at growing. She’d never tried before, though.

She’d never had magic before.

“I am going to be at the border this evening,” he told her by way of greeting, standing at the very edge of the bed. “I uh…do you want to come?”

“And do what?” she asked. He winced. Nothing fun, then.

“I need to rally some of my former soldiers.”

Oh. “Can I stay?” Briar was perfectly content to be alone. She was used to it, besides. Her parents hadn’t paid her a ton of attention growing up which was how Briar had ended up with the Children of the Blessed to begin with. She’d wanted anyone to look at her longer than a few minutes.

To love her.

Not that she needed the faerie before her to know that. He’d think she was desperate and pathetic if he didn’t already, given how often she broke down sobbing in front of him. Not today, she vowed. Today she would make herself useful, would show him that it hadn’t been a mistake rescuing her from that curse and that as long as she was in his court, she could both be of use to him and not embarrass him.

“Stay?” he asked, as if he couldn’t make sense of the word. Briar nodded, dropping her fork to the tray to come closer.

“I could try my hand at gardening, if you don’t have one—”

“You want a garden?” he breathed, his eyes glazing over. Briar blinked.

“Are you alright? Did you sleep well?”

He nodded, though it seemed to be dawning on him that he was filthy. He glanced down at his clothes before examining his skin. “I could…I should bathe.”

“Okay. So we have a plan. I’ll stay and you’ll take a bath, take a nap, and—”

“The only working tub is in this room,” he informed her. Briar, still sitting on the bed, hadn’t bothered to ask whose room she was actually in. Now, though, she looked at the massive chamber and wondered why she hadn’t guessed. It was masculine enough, despite the cream and gold sheets. She ought to have guessed when she found multiple daggers hidden under the mountain of pillows, that the High Lord was sleeping there.

“Oh. Of course. I apolog—”

“No need,” he headed her off with a wave of his hand. “I will bathe and then we can discuss remaining behind.”

Briar nodded, practically tripping over the edge of a sage colored rug on her way out. The High Lord had given her his bedroom. She didn’t know what to make of that and so Briar, like she did so many other things, merely stuffed it deep down. Still, there was something fascinating about the knowledge that the thing she’d always wanted the most—living among the fae as one of them—was literally playing out before her very eyes. Had she met him prior to the war, Briar thought she’d be more excited, more thrilled to be around him.

Hybern had taught her that the fae were just like humans with their taste for cruelty and far more powerful and sadistic than the humans could ever dream to be. This man–male, she reminded herself. She used to be so good at speaking like they did. This male wasn’t a regular faerie but a High Lord. If he thought it might amuse him, he could tie her to a wall, too. He could torture her, too.

What could she do about it?

Heal, she thought happily as she stepped into the early morning sunlight. A cheerful breeze ruffled her hair, practically pushing her over the grounds. They looked better than the day before but only marginally. Anything was an improvement, she supposed. Even the estate seemed a little better, though whatever had destroyed it was hardly undone.

And just to the west of the estate, ruined and ugly, was the biggest garden Briar had ever seen. Clearly, better days had once been had here. She could relate to that. She, too, had seem better days. The High Lord, too, if she had to guess. Maybe this whole place was made of broken people just trying to piece themselves back together.

The thought offered her a small measure of peace, if nothing else. Her chest still ached from the knowledge her mother had gone to the grave worried about her and her father blamed her. Her father never had loved much. He’d always loved her mother, though.

Briar dropped to the cracked, dry ground, likely ruining the pretty lavender dress she’d pilfered. She’d take care when she washed it later but if it always had dirt stains, well…who expected her to look like a great lady in this place? Besides, Briar thought she could be forgiven as she’d only just become faerie and wanted to see how the magic worked.

Weeds were the predominant greenery in the garden. She could see, from the crumbling stone path, that there had once been a hedged path that centered around a now defunct fountain. A half-cracked bench beneath a rather sad looking oak tree made everything feel a little more pathetic.

She cracked a nail sliding it into the earth. She could feel, just like before, everything wiggling and moving. Life, as it was, shifting and churning, poking through the rough, unwatered soil as it shoved something with softer roots out of the way. Grass gripping the ground, swaying merrily as it soaked up sun and little earth words inching their way towards her fingers without even knowing she was there.

It would take time to master it entirely. Briar had the sense she could make things bloom if she wanted. Killing things was much easier, a metaphor hardly lost on her. By the time Tamlin rejoined her, freshly bathed and dressed and looking like a High Lord, she had killed a whole patch of weeds by coaxing them back into the ground.

He hadn’t come alone. Briar barely had time to admire just how handsome Tamlin was in his fitted green tunic and his nice, black pants that fit perfectly against his muscular legs. Another male had joined him, just as handsome as Tamlin despite his scarred face and missing eye.

“Tam,” he breathed as she stood up, his nostrils flaring. Tamlin held out his hand, silencing his friend.

“Briar, this is Lucien. He’s going to stay for the day while I’m gone.”

Her eyes flicked back to Lucien. Tamlin was dressed well but Lucien was well-dressed. It wasn’t just his well-fitting clothes but they specific colors he’d chosen—silver and blue and white—and the way in which he’d draped them over his form. He chuckled when she realized she’d been staring just a moment too long.

Cheeks flushing, Briars eyes dropped back to the ground. “Just for the day.”

“Just the day,” Tamlin agreed, his voice more grumble than anything.

“We’ll have a nice time,” Lucien added with his rich, deep voice. “I heard you were human once. I happen to know a little about that.”

Hope bounced around her chest like a ball. “Really?”

“Not a lot. And Tam knows more, I’m sure,” he replied, both gold and russet eye sliding towards his friend. Tamlin was utterly rigid beside him and despite their easy going words, the tension between them was palpable.

“You’re in good hands,” Tamlin agreed tightly. He was such an unbelievable liar. Still, what else was Briar supposed to say? No? Tamlin turned to leave and she, terrified, darted after him faster than she meant. Grabbing at the corded muscle of his bicep, she stopped him in his tracks.

The scent of whatever soap he wore slammed against her senses. Deeply masculine and yet somehow reminiscent of freshly tilled earth and cut grass set against a moody spring rain.

Salty, too, she thought, wrinkling her nose while Lucien actively laughed behind her. As if he knew exactly what she was thinking and it deeply amused him. Tamlin was too busy staring at her hand on his arm to say anything.

“Is he…he won’t…” she swallowed hard. All at once the laughter stopped. Tamlins gaze pinned her in place, rooting her to the spot.

“No one will harm you here.” He spoke the words like an oath.

She nodded. “I—okay.”

“I swear it,” he added for good measure. And from the look on his face and the sword hanging casually from his hip, Briar believed him. Nodding, Briar dropped the hand he was still watching. Maybe he didn’t like being touched. She should have asked.

Tamlin shot Lucien a pointed look, one Briar didn’t know but understood was a silent warning of some kind. Lucien stepped beside her.

“She’s in good hands. We’ll be old friends by the time you return”

“Keep him away from her,” Tamlin barked before vanishing in a floral scented wind. Briar looked up at Lucien, noting the scowl gracing his easy features. He tucked a windblown strand of red hair behind his ear.

“Who is he?”

“No one of importance. Now,” Lucien added, heading off her argument. “My mate likes to garden. Maybe you could show me just enough to talk to her about it?”

Briar looked up at the golden skinned man looking back so earnestly. “Only if you tell me everything there is to know about Spring Court.”

His face warmed with a wicked smile. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

#spring daddy #tamlin x briar #brilin #this is for ladynesta and ladynesta ONLY #HAPPY EARLY BDAY

82 notes · View notes

vivictory-draws · 10 months

Text

For @tamlinweek2023 Day 6: Second Chances, I choose to focus on the possibility of Tamlin having a "second chance" at love, with Briar. Also shadows don't matter, actually

Art by me/vivictory_draws on ig

Please do not repost my art, or use it in any AI program

#tamlinweek2023 #tamlin #brilin #briar acotar #tamlin acotar #acotar fanart #acotar art #acotar fan art #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosf art

58 notes · View notes

tamlinweek · 6 months

Text

That's right! @goforth-ladymidnight and @praetorqueenreyna are already planning Tamlin Week 2024, which will run from April 14 - April 20.

We know there's still lots of time before the event week, but we wanted to give everyone plenty of time to prepare their content. Keep an eye out for the poll to submit prompts, which should be posted sometime this week. The prompts will be posted, along with rules and FAQ, in late November/early December.

Can't wait to see you all in Spring!

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #tamlin #pro tamlin #tamlin week #tamlin week 2024 #tamlinweek2024 #tamcien #tamsand #feylin #brilin #neslin #tamlain

76 notes · View notes

praetorqueenreyna · 10 months

Text

You will never be unloved by me. You are too well tangled in my soul.

For Tamlin Week Day 6: Second Chance. This Brilin edit is a gift for my Tamlin Week cohost @goforth-ladymidnight, to celebrate how both Briar and Tamlin are able to be the second chance at happiness for each other.

@tamlinweek2023

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #brilin #tamlin #briar #pro tamlin #tamlin week #tamlin week 2023 #tamlinweek2023

51 notes · View notes

goforth-ladymidnight · 1 year

Note

38 for brilin if you are up for it?

38. Trailing kisses from your lover's lips to their neck

From this prompt: a hundred different kisses.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Title: Love Bite

Pairing: Tamlin x Briar

Rating: Mature themes. Some spice, nothing explicit

Wordcount: 1876

Summary: Tamlin comes home late from patrolling the border to find Briar waiting for him in his study.

Note: I’m not sure how this fits into my currently on hiatus I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to it Brilin fic A Garden of Thorns, so this work may or may not end up on AO3. Still, it was kind of fun to explore what their first time might have been like. I hope you enjoy :)

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

It was well after midnight by the time Tamlin trudged into his study. He had been spending less and less time as a beast these days, but the shift between forms still took its toll, especially when keeping an eye on the gaps in the border Wall. Especially now when he had someone else to protect.

He wearily unbuttoned his tunic and thought of Briar sleeping two floors up. How long had it been since she had arrived from the Winter Court? Mere months, and yet her arrival seemed more like a welcome home. With a smile that could melt snow and eyes as warm and brown as fresh-tilled earth, she had brought life back to the Spring manor.

He would do anything to keep her, anything to keep her safe.

Hence the reason he spent every evening roaming the forest and the border. There hadn’t been any dark faeries lurking about this time, but the gaps in the Wall still made him uneasy. As there was nothing he could do about it tonight, he shrugged off the worry as he shrugged off his tunic, then slung it across the desk to be picked up tomorrow. As he reached for the dark green bottle of wine sitting on the corner of his desk, he heard a soft, sleepy sigh on the other side of the study.

“Tam?”

The tension in his shoulders eased at once, and a smile touched his lips as he crossed the room. The dim embers revealed Briar curled up on the green velvet chaise lounge near the marble hearth. As she stretched her arms outside the warmth of the knit shawl covering her nightgown, he knelt beside her and murmured, “I thought you were in bed.”

Folding one arm beneath her head, she smiled sadly at him and said, “It’s lonely up there.”

He matched her smile and gently brushed the silky black hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her rounded ear. “It’s lonely in here, too.”

She leaned into his touch and gently shook her head. “It smells like you in here,” she murmured, then shifted onto her back and smiled shyly. “It helps me sleep.”

He breathed a laugh. “You like the smell of dusty, old books?” he teased, then bent his head to brush a kiss against her lips.

She draped her arms around his neck to keep him close and smiled against his mouth. “I like the smell of the forest after it rains,” she murmured.

“It could be mildew,” he suggested, then chuckled when she scrunched her nose at him.

“I mean it,” she said, gently running her fingers through his hair. “I… I like the way you smell.”

He couldn’t help but let out a low, rumbling purr as her fingers brushed down his scalp. It was tempting to stretch out on top of her and rest his head upon her chest, to wrap his arms around her slender waist and listen to her human heart beating beneath his ear as she stroked his hair… but he hesitated. They had never been more intimate than this. He had only been with a human once before, when—He dismissed the painful memory, thinking only of Briar. He didn’t want to hurt her.

When he stopped purring, her hands grew still, then came to rest at his neck. “Tam?” she whispered, then shifted beneath him. “What… what do I smell like?” she asked shyly.

He could feel warmth rise to his cheeks at her innocently flirtatious question, and he smiled. “Let me see,” he said softly, then leaned in to kiss her, long and slow.

“You taste like red wine,” he murmured, then closed his eyes and breathed her in; “but you smell like the rose garden.”

A contented sigh was her only answer before her lips found his and she kissed him back.

Her fingers curled into the back of his shirt as his lips drifted from her soft mouth to her jawline. Her breathing quickened and her head tilted back as his mouth traveled down her long, pale throat. Her dark hair was like silk between his fingers as he cupped the back of her neck and buried his nose in the hollow of her throat, inhaling her uniquely human scent, coupled with fresh green cuttings and dried rose petals.

He pressed one open-mouthed kiss after another onto her exposed skin, following the gathered neckline of her sun-bleached linen nightgown. It was only when his teeth found the sensitive place where her neck met her shoulder that she cried out, and he came back to himself.

He pulled away, breathing hard as she touched her exposed shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he panted. “I shouldn’t have, I… I’m sorry.”

Her cheeks were flushed in the golden glow of the dim embers. “You… you just surprised me, that’s all,” she said meekly, but even her half-hearted reassurance wasn’t enough to keep him from turning away in shame.

His first—and only—human lover had been Feyre, and they’d only been together for one night before her eventual transformation to High Fae. Even so, Briar wasn’t anything like Feyre. She was gentle. He should have been gentle with her.

The claws that he had worked so hard to control over these last months now pricked his fingertips, and he curled them into his palms as he quickly stood.

“Tam?” Briar sat up. “Where are you going?”

His palms stung. It was an effort not to winnow away, to shift into his beastly form somewhere in the forest, to give in to his monstrous side and rip something apart with his teeth. Something without lovely dark eyes and pale, delicate skin.

His jaw clenched, and he squeezed his eyes shut. All along he had been worried about the faeries prowling outside the manor when he should have been more concerned about the one who prowled inside it.

Briar stood beside him and gently wrapped her fingers around his arm. “Tam?”

Her touch made him suck in a sharp breath. That breath helped him uncurl his fists, and he flexed his fingers. With another breath, the claws vanished. Even so, his voice was little more than a rough whisper when he finally trusted himself to speak. “It’s late,” he said gruffly. “I’ll take you to your room.”

“But—”

In a heartbeat, he had winnowed them both to her bedchamber. As they appeared at her bedside, he chided himself for not thinking clearly enough to winnow them to the corridor instead, but it was too late now.

The moonlit room was filled with her unique, dried rose-petal scent, from the open wardrobe filled with the simple gowns she favored, to the rumpled bedsheets she had thrown aside before going downstairs… to be with him when he came home.

He turned away, trying to control his breathing. He’d been a fool to let himself get this close to someone else. He always ended up hurting them. Always.

“You didn’t hurt me, Tam,” Briar murmured.

He let out a tight breath and looked down at her, wondering if he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

The shawl slipped off one shoulder as she wrapped both hands around his arm, as if to hold him in place. “You didn’t hurt me,” she said again, lifting her head to meet his gaze.

Even by moonlight, he could see the red bite mark beginning to swell on her neck, and it made him wince.

“I should have been more careful,” he said quietly. “I don’t know my own strength, I—” He faltered as she bit her lip and dropped her gaze. “Let me heal it for you,” he offered, reaching out.

To his dismay, she turned her head. “I don’t want you to heal it,” she murmured.

He swallowed hard. “Forgive me,” he whispered, and when she didn’t speak, he turned for the door.

Her grip tightened around his arm and made him pause. “Tam…”

He turned back with a question on his lips, but she spoke before he could.

“I want you to do it again.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Do what again?”

She buried her face in his shoulder, her fingers curling into his sleeve. “Gods,” she mumbled.

He couldn’t help his bemused chuckle. “Briar,” he whispered, and when she didn’t answer, or even move, he reached out with his free hand to brush the waterfall of dark hair from her flushed cheek. “What is it?”

She kept her face buried in his sleeve and sniffed back tears, which turned his bemusement into concern.

“I did hurt you,” he began, but she shook her head.

“I liked it.”

He blinked. “You did?”

She lifted her head at last and nodded. “Will you do it again?” she whispered, then pulled on his arm and took a slow, careful step back.

Dazed, he let himself be led closer, until he realized she was leading him to her bed, and he stopped her. “Briar…”

Her hands slid down to his wrist as she paused at the edge of her bed. “You don’t want to?”

He hesitated, then admitted, “It’s not that I don’t want to…”

He heard her take a deep breath, then she lifted his hand to her mouth and let her petal-soft kiss linger. “I trust you, Tam,” she whispered, then moved closer and placed his hand on her neck as she looked into his eyes. “I love you.”

He let out a tight sigh, then slid his fingers into her hair. “I love you,” he echoed softly.

She tilted her head as he bent down to meet her mouth. Her arms slid around him as he breathed her in, then deepened his kiss. His senses were flooded with the taste of her, her scent: red wine and rose petals.

Her shawl slipped to the floor as he pressed his lips below her ear. She shuddered as his teeth scraped her throat, but she clung to him when he would have pulled away. Tentatively at first, he slid the collar of her nightgown off her shoulder, then when her head fell back, baring her throat to him, he tugged the linen further, then bent his head and bit down.

She gasped, and he nearly let go, until she breathed the sweetest laugh. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

His mouth traveled over her neck and her shoulder, nipping at her collarbone, biting here, licking there, kissing lower and lower until at last she pulled him into her bed. This time, he was more than willing to join her.

And when it was over, and they were both panting and sweat-slicked, she draped her arms around his neck so that his head was resting on her chest. She brushed a kiss against his hair and breathed, “I love you,” then sunk back against the pillows and gently ran her fingers through his damp strands.

He closed his eyes with a grateful sigh and pressed a slow, lingering kiss between her bare breasts. He turned his head to listen to her heartbeat, and as he slid his arms around her waist, he noticed her scent had changed. It still reminded him of the rose garden, but it was also sweet and damp, like the forest after it rained.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

#inbox asks #writing prompts #kiss prompt #tamlin x briar #brilin #acotar fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing #i tried to make this a drabble #but #i can't be trusted to write short answers #welp #it was fun though #:)

24 notes · View notes