#feel free to unperceive me

[yaralulu]

Am I making you feel sick?

Summary: Lucien wasn’t a fool. He'd seen the hatred in Tamlin’s eyes, the confusion and disgust vast as he looked him up and down. And yet after the treaty meeting, he seeked him out in his tent anyways.

He wasn’t foolish enough to beg for forgiveness.

Words: 9265

Rating: E

A/N: my fav tamcien moment in acowar explored x100

Read on AO3

Snippet below:

Am echo of footsteps and rustling fabric spurred Tamlin’s attention, instincts flaring like an ignited flame in his chest. His hand jumped to his sword. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Woodsmoke and a faint hint of cinnamon, the cusp of Autumn approaching. He knew that scent well, used to be his favorite at some point in time. He knew the range of that smell, the potency of it near the pulse of his golden neck. That scent signaled home and warmth. And for a split second, it spread through him and nuzzled in his chest, almost soothing the loneliness rotting inside him. But Tamlin caught himself, stilled his breathing as his mind remembered, with a sudden rush, all that happened and where they were. The betrayal and the embarrassment. The scent ignited none of these comforting feelings anymore. If anything his instincts flared brighter as that too familiar scent permeated the air, staining it with its sweetness, and assaulted Tamlin’s senses. He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter and turned around, cup still in his hands. The world seemed to tilt as their eyes met, russet and gold on emerald green. Suddenly, they were back at the meeting, that same moment where their gazes had locked and everything and everyone ceased to exist repeating itself. Tamlin could hardly look at Lucien then and he could hardly look at him now. His anger seemed to swell in the short time since then and now. It threatened to overwhelm him as he stared at Lucien, every inch of him so deceivingly familiar. The wine red of his hair, the soft upturn of his eyes, the smooth plump of his lips. Except he was still clad in Illyrian leather from head to toe. Except he’d stood by the Night Court at the meeting with his hands behind his back and his face solemn, the picture of grace and elegancy. Except he’d left Tamlin and ran into the arms of their enemy. It was Lucien and it wasn’t. It was a stranger wearing Lucien’s skin. “What are you doing here?” Tamlin’s voice was grave and it echoed his disgust. He settled the cup back onto the table but didn’t shift his fingers off the hilt of his sword. He wasn’t going to use it but the familiar touch of it was comforting. It was the only thing ,he now knew for certain, he could rely on. Lucien had proven that.