tamlinweek

[tamlinweek]

Artists: @ pocamo  | @veltama |  @bookknowsnoage

[tamlinweek]

My late contribution to the current drama

Art by Dominique Wesson

[tamlinweek]

Has this been done yet

[tamlinweek]

That scene in frost and starlight if Rhys was 3% more of an asshole and had like 67% less self control

I've been practicing this new shading style for a little while now but I'm always looking to improve, so if anyone has any tips or constructive criticism feel free to sound off in the comments!

[tamlinweek]

Now taking submissions for Tamlin Creator Appreciation 2025!

Greetings, lovely Tamlin fans! The dates and prompts for Tamlin Week 2025 are posted (Click here), and now it's time for one of our favorite Tamlin Week traditions: creator appreciation!

Fill out the form above to submit your favorite creators that make Tamlin content. They can be artists, authors, poets, meme-ers, essay writers, etc. You may submit as many people as you want, just fill out the form multiple times. It is fully anonymous, and we encourage you to submit yourselves and your friends!

This form will remain open up until Tamlin Week, but in a week or so we'll start posting some of the creators to spread some love an excitement for Tamlin stans. Fandom is a community, and none of us would be here without the love and support of our fellow Tamlin-istas.

Have fun, and love Tamlin!

[tamlinweek]

the bridges we mend, a tamlin x beron x elain fanfiction

You can read on AO3 or below the cut.

@praetorqueenreyna, this is your fault. Now, I'm committed.

SUMMARY: An alternate universe fic that takes place after Tamlin's family is murdered by another High Lord. Beron Vanserra has always kept an eye out for Tamlin; he has always been useful and entertaining. While he helps to rebuild the Spring Court, they welcome an unwelcome refugee from the human realm: Elain Archeron.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: There will be multiple chapters. There will be multiple variations of smut. It is a bit #yolo compared to my usual works. ENJOY!!

The rain hisses against his skin, wafts of smoke drifting into the air as it evaporates. Each step sears into the mud, fuels his rage, and it brings him closer to the culprit.

Idiot princeling. Stubborn beast, he thinks to himself.

His aura of anger grows until he is nothing than a storm of fire and steam.

No sentry bars his way. No magic repels him.

Beron whisps past the disfigured golden gates of the grand manor. It seems to droop under the weight of the rain—or is it under the weight of expectation? Of agony? With wave of his hand, he repairs it. His fire reshapes the metal and teaches it to burn bright, even in this darkness.

The front door is splintered; he finds problem after problem, but what he is looking for is not a problem. What is he looking for is—

A bottle clatter into the hall, its glass alerting him with its sharp sound. Behind it, a small creature pauses its efforts of rolling it away. It gives Beron a wide and slow blink before putting its hand-like paws on the bottle and going about its merry way.

"You," he orders the animal, as if he could communicate with a lesser creature. That was never his gift. "Halt."

The creature looks back over its shoulder and redoubles its efforts to escape.

It cannot—will not—get away with thievery in his presence. He has told the Spring son time and time againt that he is too soft to run this court. Even the wild things have free reign in his home.

Unacceptable.

Beron winnows towards the damned thing, cutting off its path into another room down the hall. It chirps, clutching onto the bottle and vanishes in a puff of pink smoke only to reappear further away. It gives the High Lord of the Autumn Court chase, all the way to its destination.

Blood stains the floor, and the bodies have been covered by a crimson-soaked bedsheet and half of the curtains. The new High Lord sits in the centre of the room, cradling a cold body to his chest. The tiny furry criminal hops over to Tamlin and offers him the bottle of water, but he does not take it.

Beron's heart catches in his chest. Mother, he loathes the discomfort of caring. He feels the bile of emotion roil in the pit of his belly, something more that allyship and a quick fuck. There is no time to address it. Another problem for another day.

"Fuck," Beron sighs, scrubbing his face and his auburn beard. "I told you to come to me."

He moves calmly across the room, kneeling before Tamlin and his lost ones. His touch is gentle, a rare offering, as he caresses Tamlin's cheek. This is what happens when power is thrust into the hands of someone too young and who does not want it.

I could have protected you, he yearns to say.

I have protected you, he nearly reprimands.

"I'll fix this. All of it."

***

The night keeps her secrets.

The rain hollows out her betrayal and masks the sounds of her feet pitter-pattering out the gates of her prison. A home where she is kept guarded, isolated and protected for her own good. Elain the kind. Elain the pure.

She is so unlike her sisters, they say.

So unlike Feyre, the adventurer who weaves fairytales out of nothing. So unlike Nesta, whose grace is as sharp as her mind. If one sister is brave, and the other is elegantly bold, then where does she fit? Where does she belong, the sister who is cursed to live in the middle?

Elain has been what her father needed, and what her sisters needed, never jostling any of them. Her part was to help where she could, and bottle her feelings deep inside where it was convenient. Her part was to marry into a household that would have her do nothing and be nothing for her safety.

The world is dangerous out there, they swore.

Stay within our eyesight, or you'll get hurt, they promised.

She doesn't know what to believe anymore, but one thing she knows is that she must see the world for herself. She dreams of a great odyssey, and even if there is pain along the way, she hopes that she will return—if she returns at all—with her heart full of wonder.

Elain clutches her dark cloak tightly and disappears into the forest. Broken branches and upturned rocks bite at her feet; her slippers are too thin, not made for a wanderer, but she pushes on. The ache is freeing and it reminds her that she has felt pain—

She has lost her mother, her father, her comfort, her peace—

She has lost enough, and yet she is here.

Once she gets far enough from the village that never quite felt like home, Elain pulls her hood back. The rain slips through the dark canopy of trees, dripping onto the curls of her hair and she laughs. It is a terrible idea to wander through the wilderness at night, but there is nothing more Elain wants than to do something terrible.

There is only one way to go: forward.

***

Beron leans against the side of the manor, huddled under one of the balconies to hide from the rain.

He has discarded his death-touched coat for one of Tamlin's. The shoulders droop; the younger Faerie had always been that much larger than him, much to his pleasure. The weight of his clothes, and its scent, is comforting no matter how much he loathes to admit it.

A cigarette burns between his fingers, also stolen from the Spring Lord. Its smoke fills his lungs with an easy focus; it helps him manage the anger until he can find a better way to expel the fury from his veins. He raises it to his lips, inhaling deeply, then releasing dark green wisps through his nose. It should burn, probably, but he is made of fire and there is not much that hurts him.

Lightning fractures the sky. No. Magic fractures the sky, its jagged slither diving towards where the Wall—the Wall separates the human and Faerie realms.

"Fuck," he laments, tossing the butt to the ground for it to return whence it came. He extinguishes it with a flick of his wrist.

Problem after problem. This is his own damned fault for caring.

[tamlinweek]

beast🥀

[tamlinweek]

Here is the fifth chapter of my next generation ACOTAR fanfiction A Witch A Warrior And A Reckoning: ACT 1- The Witch (Link at bottom of the post)

Protagonists:

Dahlia Fairburn, General and Heir of Spring

Aisling Sapphirus, Healer of the Hewn City

Nyx Archeron, Son of the Witch

Relationships:

Dahlia Fairburn x Aisling Sapphirus

Nyx Archeron x Tamlin Fairburn

Azriel Shadowsinger x Eris Vanserra

Nuan x Lucien Vanserra

Original Azris Child(ren) x Tarquin

Summary

Life is peaceful for Dahlia Fairburn, running with her War Band, and commanding the Spring Court armies. Since the day she could wield a sword, she’s been helping her father, along with her younger brother, to restore Spring to its former glory. Trying to ignore the festering magic in her body, that threatens to consume her.

One day, all that peace is threatened to be shaken, as a certain prince of Night asks for her to join the rebellion of the Hewn City and Illyria. From beneath the great mountains, an ancient song calls for her. She meets a woman with death in her eyes, and power in her veins, who makes Dahlia’s blood boil while something clicks into place between them.

This new generation of Prythian was thought to be one of peace and prosperity. But the mask of the reigning High Lords begin to crumble, as secrets older than Prythian itself are uncovered, and darkness is unleashed.

An ACOTAR next generation fanfiction

Tags: Leave a comment or DM me if you wanna be added or removed from the tag list! <3

@sonics-atelier

@sadisticdevile

@shi-daisy

@skyesayshi

@praetorqueenreyna

@futurehunt

@unanswered-stars

@mathiwrites

@honeysuckle-daydreams13

[tamlinweek]

withered // an ACOFAS 'fix it' one shot

Tamlin x Rhysand

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I was minding my own business on this Tuesday afternoon, pretending to work when @thrumugnyr decided to send me the Tamlin scenes of A Court of Frost and Starlight. 

Well, this is what you get for making me cry at work. FIGHT ME.

SUMMARY: The events of Under the Mountain have left Tamlin shattered; he shuts down, and shuts everyone out. The only person who understands his pain is Rhysand.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3.

The manor haunts him.

In the darkness, bright memories flicker past of busy bees, glimmering pixies and helpful urisks who turned this place into a home. He recalls a fine lady who greeted him with the utmost grace, calling him son long before this family had begun to welcome him.

There, a spot where a little sprout used to hide to scare his older brothers. He knows because Tamlin told him so. The once-broken vase has been repaired again, glued together by hands that know not of craft, but of perfectly weaved words and diplomacy.

"Downstairs," Lucien's voice is nothing more than a whisper. The apple of his throat bobs with shame, surely, for the state of his home. "He won't see anyone." He hides his hands, sporting bandages from cuts and splinters of all the things he's tried to fix.

The staff must have been dispatched. The Court has begin to wither, the source of the rot rooted in. this house of horrors. This place has seen too much. He has seen to much.

Rhysand thanks Lucien, descending the wooden steps that bleed into cold stone. He waves his fingers, igniting a star at the tip of each unlit torch. His eyes can adjust to the dark, and so can Tamlin's, but they need the light.

"Tam—" He chokes on the word, unsure what to call him anymore. "Tamlin?"

A faint trickle of liquid makes his ears twitch, and his heart kicks up in a furious panic. The kitchens are steeped with the scent of him, and Rhysand does not know what to make of it. He commands the darkness to report to him, they sense life, and they sense death.

Fear gets the better of him, and he thrusts a burst of power into every shadow in the room. They bloom with starlight and galaxy, illuminating this tomb with the wonders of the night. Through its beauty, it brings forth the horrors of the Moutain.

There, in the centre of the room, sitting in front of an elk's corpse across the dining table, is his wildflower. Withered, fading and dying.

The stars highlight the hollow of his eyes and the dull, brittle, dulness of his once-golden hair. His strong jaw and high cheeks are nothing more than bone, and his spine bends as if it can never straighten again.

He is so small.

Blood stains Tamlin's hands, and his clothes—dried, old blood and fresh stains, too. Where the clothes have torn, Rhysand can see wounds over scabs, as if something had attacked him.

As if he'd turned his anger on himself.

Tamlin had never liked violence. Tamlin was only ever taught violence by those he wanted to be loved by. It makes sense that he would try to fight himself, except… This battle—

He's losing.

It is a unique feeling, witnessing a friend, a brother-in-arms and a lover die. The sight of the slow wane of light in Tamlin's eyes suffocates Rhysand, and his chest feels locked in a vice-grip. He can't breathe. There are nails prickling at his throat, and needles behind his eyes—the tell-tale signs of overwhelming sorrow. Rhysand has spent his life training to guard his emotions, but as with all things, there are limits.

Tears glisten in his eyes, bright beneath the light of nebulas. They roll down his cheeks, and Rhysand wipes them away.

He moves because all he knows is to do. Rhysand does not trust himself to find the words Tamlin needs; they've done this dance before, and he wasn't the one who freed Tamlin of his pain. Perhaps he should have left this to someone else, someone better, someone who has more goodness than him and his machinations.

Tamlin doesn't react when Rhysand approaches him, he doesn't move when his sunken cheeks are taken in gentle hands.

"Look at me," Rhysand asks.

Nothing.

"Tamlin, please," he urges softly, tipping that beloved face towards him. That beautiful face. Rhysand will love him in any shape or form. Though Tamlin is pliable, amenable, his eyes do not follow.

Rhysand kneels, still holding him, and tries to find a way to meet that gaze. Only then does Tamlin look away, purposely. He does not need to say the words, Rhysand can hear the shame—don't look at me.

"Tamlin, Tamlin." The more Tamlin avoids him, the more fear grows within Rhysand. How far gone is his wildflower? Is he too late? "Tamlin, dammit! Look at me!" His voice is too-loud in the space, echoing up the stairs. If Lucien hears them, he isn't saying anything.

Finally, those emerald eyes slide, unwillingly, to meet Rhysand's violet gaze.

Rhysand exhales, a shaky breath, as his eyes well up again. Agony makes its way o his face, there is just too much pain for him to hide. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against Tamlin's.

"There you are."

That's all he needed, just one small sign of hope.

***

Nothing comes between them, not even words. There is only a chasm of pain, but the very first thing Rhysand's mother taught him was to fly. Against all odds, just fly.

The sounds of the starlight river is of magic and chimes, diamonds reflecting from the riverbed. Rhysand guides Tamlin to a log by the water side, holding both hands in hopes of giving Tamlin all the support he needs.

There are baths inside the manor, but Tamlin has always loved nature, and the green has always loved him back. This is home to him. Rhysand knows this well.

He can already feel the shift in the forest beside them. Glinting eyes watch them carefully. A daring, chubby, little raccoon waddles out of its hidey-hole. It scoops up water in its dark little hands, but its eyes remain glued to its High Lord—a nosey, nosey little thing.

Rhysand takes it upon himself to ease the Court, to show these living, beloved creatures that everything is alright. They can approach. They should. He would ask them to surround Tamlin and give him all their kindness, if he knew how. He tries to smile, but the attention makes the raccoon bounce away back to its burrow.

He kneels by Tamlin, divesting of his jacket, then the browning shirt underneath. Tamlin lets him, terrifyingly amenable. Tamlin hadn't bothered with boots, so Rhysand goes straight to working on his muddy pants. Once upon a time, banter would have been exchanged in the face of Tamlin's nudity, or his propensity of rolling in the dirt. It's very cooling, he had told Rhysand, back when they shared everything, especially the innocuous and the mundane.

Now, only the slosh of the running river can be heard.

He rolls up the cuffs of his pants, just below the knee.

Rhysand helps him up, and though his better judgement rails against it, he drinks in the sight of Tamlin's starving body. He doesn't look away, nor does he stare. He sees, processes, and keeps moving. He fights against himself, and Tamlin's darkness, for the hope of healing.

He leads Tamlin into the water, encouraging him to wade just a little bit deeper, until the crystal waters pool around his waist. Tamlin shivers, too weak to regulate his own warmth. The river warms in response, the very earth of this Court still trying to save its cherished son. Rhysand is grateful for it.

With the help of one of great wings, Rhysand pours water gently over Tamlin. He moves his golden hair to the side, starting with his shoulders, and working his fingers over the muscle. He pauses to walk towards the bank, breaking off the thick stalk of a water reed to find the viscous liquid within. He uses it to lather Tamlin, skin and hair. He scratches at his scalp, the way he used to like, and runs his fingers through the long strands.

Rhysand washes Tamlin with kind reverence. He knits their hands together, making sure not to miss any crease or crevasse. He cleans the blood out of Tamlin's nails, and even dares to bring that scarred, calloused hand to his fingers to press a kiss to them. It garners one of Tamlin's very few reactions; he pulls his hand away, but nothing else.

He scoops water with his wings once more, rinsing Tamlin of the perfumed bubbles, and then walks him back—always with both hands—to the shore. Soft towels appeared, likely by Lucien's magic, and Rhysand towels Tamlin down. He squeezes water from his long hair, making sure that it no longer drips. The towels are warm, and they dry Tamlin quickly. Bless Lucien. Rhysand had never given him the credit he deserves, and by the Cauldron, he deserves it.

Tamlin's long hair is separated into three sections as Rhysand braids it the way Cassian taught him long ago; the two of them had bonded over their war braids long ago. Rhysand debates asking if Tamlin were prefer to cut it, but instead, he pins the braid for a similar effect.

Later. We can figure the details out later.

Beside the stack of towels, a fur robe appears. Made from the white pelts of the Winter Court, it's Tamlin's favourite. It will keep him warm until he can grow strong again. Rhysand places it over Tamlin's shoulders. Even now, he would take Tamlin as his king—he would serve him forevermore.

Rhysand laces his fingers with Tamlin's and pulls him towards the forest. The last time Tamlin had shut down, he had fought to take him out of these woods, but he learned. These forests are abundant with life and a magic that is so much older than any of their Courts. If there is anyone who knows how to heal his wildflower, he'll find it here.

"Shift, if you want to," Rhysand finally says, but Tamlin keeps walking with him, the length of his robe dragging on the forest floor. He wouldn't blame Tamlin if he took another form and ran. He deserves to be anywhere than a place that makes him unhappy.

Many old trees reside in the forests of Spring Court, each of them as wise as the next. He cannot find the one with the wise willow, an ancestor of Tamlin's, but he's sure that if Cassian were here, she would make herself known. He sets Tamlin at the base of massive oak, half in the shade with slivers of sunlight dancing over him.

"You need to eat," he says, caressing Tamlin's cheek lovingly. Touch is how he reminds Tamlin he isn't alone.

Bushes rustle, an a familiar painted face pops out. The round raccoon reappears, hands full of something. He approaches, and launches two handfuls of nuts at Rhysand before running away. He makes it to the edge of the clearing, beneath the bush from whence he came. He chitters into the green, and holds up the branches.

One by one, the forest rallies to its prince. A beaver advances three steps with a squash it stole, struggling to balance it with the single carrot under its arm. A small family of squirrels unleash a tumble of grapes at Tamlin's feet. Birds bounce and flutter from branch to brand, bringing seeds from far and wide. Even an animal as large as a bear rumbles into the meadow, gentle depositing Faerie-grown tamelons and her cubs tussle with one another before gifting Tamlin and Rhysand with silver andrapples.

One of the cubs pounces on its sibling, and gets flipped over and onto Tamlin's lap. The cub freezes, crying out dramatically—it's not hurt, just startled. Mother bear groans her reprimand. She approaches, and Rhysand holds his breath, unused to such large wild animals approaching him. She pays no mind to the High Faerie, snapping up her child and making a sound that can only be an apology to the Lord of the Forest.

Tamlin lifts his head, watching the crowd around him and—

laughs.

It's a muted, huffed sound, but it is a laugh.

It cuts through the worry wrapped around Rhysand, so suddenly, he doesn't know what to do with his relief. It manifests as tears again, because he is so tired, overwhelmed, and he has put Tamlin's healing before all else, even his own rest.

He's okay. He's going to be okay.

Tamlin moves, reaching for the very first nut offered and eats it. Even in his pain, he tries. It has always been easier with animals, and Rhysand knows that he did the right thing.

Rhysand cuts the larger fruit, the melons and the apples, but he's unsure what to do with an entire squash. Some of the smaller animals get distracted, and he ends up feeding slices to them and Tamlin in alternance.

Food heals, and Rhysand swears he can see the effect of sustenance on Tamlin. He seems… present. It's a step in a better direction. Now, he needs to convince Tamlin to rest. Sleep forgives.

Gently, he tugs on the robe, a silent insistence that Tamlin lean on him. Tamlin is still as amenable as before, slowly shifting to rest his head against Rhysand's shoulder, and his forehead against the column of Rhysand's neck.

After a beat, Tamlin finally speaks.

"I can't keep doing this."

"I know," Rhysand answers, kissing Tamlin atop his head. "Me neither." He has no answers, and no comforting words. He just strokes Tamlin's shoulder over the furs of the robe. "Let's just stay and do nothing together. I think… I think that would be okay."

[tamlinweek]

Now taking submissions for Tamlin Creator Appreciation 2025!

Greetings, lovely Tamlin fans! The dates and prompts for Tamlin Week 2025 are posted (Click here), and now it's time for one of our favorite Tamlin Week traditions: creator appreciation!

Fill out the form above to submit your favorite creators that make Tamlin content. They can be artists, authors, poets, meme-ers, essay writers, etc. You may submit as many people as you want, just fill out the form multiple times. It is fully anonymous, and we encourage you to submit yourselves and your friends!

This form will remain open up until Tamlin Week, but in a week or so we'll start posting some of the creators to spread some love an excitement for Tamlin stans. Fandom is a community, and none of us would be here without the love and support of our fellow Tamlin-istas.

Have fun, and love Tamlin!

[tamlinweek]

This is the weirdest post I've ever written.

/heavy sigh/ A Court of Thorns and Roses. My kryptonite. I love and hate this series of books. I love it for the potential. I hate it for everything else. I love this for Tamlin. I hate it for what SJM did to Tamlin.

The worst part is that she didn't make Tamlin a villain, no. She said he was "evil" now, and all the characters in her book just… accepted it. And fans of the books embraced it too. So I just sat down, came up with some original characters, gave them to Tamlin and said "in my story you'll be happy" (I wish I could write my own fanfic about this, but I'm bad at writing (ಥ﹏ಥ).But if I wrote this fanfic, it would be a partial retelling of The Tempest by William Shakespeare. I'm just obsessed with the Ariel character. That's it, that's the whole reason (￢_￢))

[tamlinweek]

Fem Tamlin

Female Tamlin, part of my Genderbent High Lord series.

Other Genderbent High Lords: Rhysand, Helion, Thesan (WIP), Kallias (WIP), Tarquin, and Beron.

[tamlinweek]

Tamlin offering his heart to you🫀

[tamlinweek]

Tamsand shippers, take my little contribution 🤲🏻

[tamlinweek]

Welcome to our Tamlin Community game: Headcanons!

Every headcanons post, we'll drop a prompt asking you for your take on the prompt and our beloved Tamlin.

Fun fact: Did you know headcanons posts count as submissions during Tamlin Week? Headcanons are a great way to participate if you don't have time to create more time consuming submission and we love, love, love hearing all the different ways Tamlin is perceived!🤩

This is a space to share your adoration and your creativity, so don't be shy -- reblog or chat with fellow Tamlin enjoyers in the notes!

What are your MODERN AU Tamlin headcanons?

[tamlinweek]

Tamlin based off of this post

[tamlinweek]

“Don’t be afraid,” he spoke to her for the first time. “I won’t hurt you. I’m Tamlin. What’s your name?” Still wary, Feyre regarded him closely before answering, expecting a trap. “Feyre. Feyre Archeron.” “Welcome to the Spring Court, Feyre Archeron.”

from my Fairy Tale AU fic aged grey willows deceiving thy sight