Hello! If Your Requests Are Open, Could I Please Have Something Soft And Sweet With Tamlin I Want To

Hello! If your requests are open, could I please have something soft and sweet with Tamlin 🥺 I want to see him happy so bad. Literally anything you write with him smiling would make my day.

A/N: Thank you for the request! I've wanted to write more of Tamlin since my first ACOTAR post! I hope you enjoy!

Also, this is post-ACOSF Tamlin!

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Ship: Tamlin x Reader

Type: Fluff

Words: 1,358

Stolen | Tamlin x Reader

The roses were mesmerising. Once she looked at them she couldn't take her eyes off of them. There were flowers and plants back at her own court, but none of them were like these she saw now in the Spring Court. Everything she saw in front of her was beautiful and yet ruined. There were flowers she would never find in another court. But they were messy, coming out of nowhere. There was no path which indicated that this was no place for a fae to traspass.

(Y/n) didn't care. The last time she visited the Spring Court was a hundred years old. Even then it has enhanced it with its beauty. Now, was no different. Only this time, was even more melancholic than the last one.

The one thing that made it impossible to turn back were the roses. Roses of every color, all with their thorns. She leaned over and carefully cut a rose from the ground. As soon as the tiny chop sounded, a sound unable to be heard by human hearing, she heard growling coming from behind her before she felt the movement.

She turned around and stepped back as the beast approached her. It was growling and she knew it was a fae, and a powerful one at that. "I don't know what I did wrong but I am sorry." (Y/n) spoke quickly.

The beast kept growling, staring at her hand. The fae looked at the direction of its eyesight. He was looking at the rose. "Was I not supposed to take that?"

The growling stopped a bit, proving she got it right.

"Well, pardon me, but you don't owe the land. Nature is for everyone, I have every right to take it."

That only seemed the anger the beast. "Land belongs to me. Rose belongs to me." It said angrily, its ability to speak distant. "Leave." It ordered. (Y/n) could tell there was something melancholic in the beast's voice.

"No. You don't owe me. I decide what I'm going to do and unfortunately for you that's not leaving."

The beast growled louder, ready to attack but then it stopped suddenly as if changing its opinion. (Y/n) started to feel dizzy and slowly her vision blurred.

The bastard had made her fall unconscious.

----------------------------------------------------------

When she woke up, she could sense the presence of someone in the room before she opened her eyes. She chose to keep them close and pretend she was asleep. Her head was on a pillow and she could feel light rays of sunlight on her face. As everything was so quiet she decided to open her eyes.

She was laying on a couch, in an oddly lovely living room. Everything around her was teared up, in ruins. A part of the wall was broken down allowing the sun inside and grass had started to grow within the room.

And on a chair beside that hole, slept the most gorgeous creature she has ever layed her eyes upon.

She didn't know who the man was, but he was husband. His long golden hair flew messily on his shoulders. She was certain they hadn't been brushed in forever. She felt the urge to brush them. Before her hand touched his head, forest green eyes snapped open and a clawed hand grabbed her own. "What are you doing?" Asked a hoarse voice.

"I was just going to brush your hair... Sorry for waking you and scaring you, I suppose."

He shook his head. "Not scared." He said quietly, as if to talk was an effort. More relaxed he let go of her hand.

The voice was familiar. "Are you... Are you the beast from earlier?" The man gave no answer to her question. But she had heard stories before... About how the High Lord of the Spring Court roamed in his beast form around the ruins of his once beautiful court.

She thought it was still beautiful.

She thought he was still beautiful.

"You're Tamlin aren't you?" She asked him, and Tamlin without giving her any confirmation spoke in return. "You stole my rose." An accusation.

If these were the problems that concerned this high lord, then yes, the spring court was most definitely ruined. But that didn't mean he had to he too. And she could see it in his eyes, this man was damaged and lost and lonely. He was hopeless with no destination in his life.

"It was a beautiful rose. Your court is beautiful, my lord."

She saw how surprised he was to hear that by the snap in his eyes. "What's your name?" He finally asked.

"(Y/n) (L/n). I'm from the (insert your court) court." She offered kindly with a smile on her face.

"and what are you doing in my lands?" He asked again, coldly.

"Visiting. Your court is very beautiful. I love flowers and I've wanted to visit again for a long while now." She explained, not loosing the smile on her face.

Tamlin nodded without saying a word. "May I stay, my lord? I apologize for stealing your rose. Next time, I will ask."

It took the High Lord some time before he decided. "Take whatever you want and stay as long as you want. You can stay here, there are many bedrooms... There's no one here other than me." He added bitterly.

(Y/n) boldly wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. "Thank you so much! I promise you won't regret it!"

----------------------------------------------------------

Tamlin has been lost. He was a compass, without a north. A painting, without ink. Feyre had been those things to him, but then Feyre was gone. And now Feyre was happy, and he wanted her to be happy. It was only unfair to him, that her happiness meant his misery.

But he knew he deserved it. His fear caused him to make mistakes, which he was no paying. No one gave a flying shit what he was up to. And he didn't care. He had befriended the idea he would just one day disappear along with his court.

And then she came along. That peculiar girl from the (court) court. She had lived with him in the court for only a month and things already had seemed more lively for Tamlin. Instead of roaming around his fields, he found himself staying in his fae form more often. He stayed in his bedroom, watching the girl enjoy the flowers and stay in the sun.

He wanted to join her. And after many days of debating, he decided to do just that. He had always loved staying outside, away from the suffocating walls of a building. "Hello, (Y/n)." He managed to tell her. Speaking was still difficult for him.

The girl turned around and gave him a smile. "Greetings, my lord. I'm making flower crowns. Will you join me? Pleaaaase? I need someone to hold the woods!!" She pled. And somehow, for some odd reason, he found it impossible to say no to those eyes.

And so they spend the afternoon making a flower crown. Tamlin hadn't felt this at ease in so long. He felt redeemed, forgiven. As if the Mother had decided he was punished enough for his crimes and he could finally be a little happy.

"done!" (Y/n) said excitedly, picking up the crown. Tamlin didn't know why, but he couldn't wait to see her with the crown on her head. A crown made of flowers, whose thorns he had removed for her for there was no way he would allow her to hurt. He knew how hurting felt, and a soul as pure as hers deserved no such thing.

What he did not except, though, was what she did next. She picked up the crown and placed it on top of his head. He was so surprise he wasn't sure if he was breathing any more.

The girl smiled brightly, the sun falling right behind her and suddenly it seemed as if the light was coming out of her. And he knew that the light he experienced did.

And so, Tamlin did something he was certain he had forgotten how it's done.

Tamlin smiled, seeing the world a bit brighter and roses with fewer thorns. Thorns still existed, but could not prick him as deeply.

Tamlin smiled, because this girl had stolen the darkness and thorns from his heart and replaced it with light and love.

Kimura Tatsuya

•When you met him he looked Nervous but was very charming to say the least

•Ok so no one will believe him in the gym as soon as he says he has a S/o like NO ONE

•He keeps saying that he does but Takamura keeps saying he doesn’t and saying “Well how come we haven’t seen em’?”

•So in turn he practically drags you to the gym and yells “THIS IS MY S/O! LOOK AT THEM! I WASN’T LYING!”

•He may get smacked by Kamogawa

• But besides that Takamura and Aoki can’t believe he wasn’t lying they probs cried a bit

• Ippo would just introduce himself to you while they get over their shock

• Takamura would be holding Kimura in a choking hold while Aoki would be punching him in the gut as they introduce themselves to you

•ANYWAYS

•He likes taking you to his fights

even if you don’t like fighting please PLEASE GO like he looks

supper happy to see you there cheering him on!

•Even though he doesn’t have a lot of money from his fights he like to spoil you in his own way

•he also likes it when you take care of him after fights, it doesn’t matter if you don’t know how he’ll tell you, he just likes feeling domestic!

•Speaking of feeling domestic he likes to come home to see you doing normal things don’t get me started if you cook for him! And you say “ Welcome home sweetheart!”

•Or just any pet name with welcome home while you are doing something normal, it just makes his heart go ‘✨Doki Doki!✨’

•He likes when you hold him when you sleep

• And if you give him a little kiss so he can wake up he will marry you

•All an all just take care of him and act domestic with him an he’ll be happy!

Ichiro Miyata

•He was a bit, more like a lot, cold to you when you first met him

•You’d have to be real persistent with him and being shy won’t get you anywhere

•He for the most part won’t notice that much signals you give him

•His dad won’t think that his son would like a relationship for the most part, I feel like he’ll think that since Miyata is focused on boxing

•He’s surprised to say the least, as long as you don’t get in the way of his boxing and are a nice person he wouldn’t mind you at all

•He would try to manage his time he would use to spend time with you and what time he would use to practice boxing

• but he would fail miserably

• so most of your dates end up being in the gym

•He wouldn’t mind if you’d wander off to the side and read a book or do some homework just as long as you’re there with him

• I feel like he wouldn’t admit it but he’d love to be pampered

• like after he’s done boxing or doing his workout routine in the gym, just feed him his lunch and he’ll feel so pampered and so special

•I feel like he’ll especially like you feeding him, Though not with anyone else around just the two of you it feels romantic to him, well not romantic he doesn’t know how to feel, all he knows is he likes it

•Most of your dates will probably consist of you guys eating in

•All he wants to do is to pamper him for the rest of his life

| @whisperwastes |

Don’t think about Tamlin in a Hades/Persephone AU…Don’t think about Tamlin in a Hades/Persephone AU…Don’t think about Tamlin in a Hades/Persephone AU…DONT THINK ABOUT TAMLIN IN A HADES/PERSEPHONE AU!!!

a vernal love, part i of iii

• a tamlin x f!reader love story •

rating; eventually mature

tags; mentions of injuries, mating bond

summary; as a healer from Dawn, you’re brought to tend to almost fatal wounds inflicted on the high lord of Spring, whose manor and life is in ruins. a journey of burgeoning love and respect blooms.

a/n; sorry i just love him and i’m here to clean up the post-character assassination mess sjm left us with. thank you @gooddaykate for the constant encouragement and brainstorming.

It had been too long since you winnowed more than a few hundred meters, and the distanced effort left you weak-kneed and nauseated.

Lord Rhyand walked a few paces before you, your footsteps crunching beneath tiny pebbles, patches of crabgrass encroaching on what was once likely a tidy path. The wrought iron gates choked in ivy and roses stood erect and unattended; no one, not even statues to flank its entrance.

“Are there truly no guards?” you whispered loudly, gathering your skirts and hurrying closer to the shadowy figure who graciously slowed their stride to a more leisurely pace.

“Brace yourself,” the Lord of the Night Court warned, though not unkindly. “That’s not the worst of it.”

The manor stood proudly within the large patch of a clearing, grassy knolls rolling and sloping gracefully before skirting into the forest you and Rhysand had emerged from. Nothing about it appeared suspect except for a sense, a feeling. Something that told you that it was empty, hollowed out and devoid of any hint of home.

There were too many similarities between Dawn and Spring; burgeoning moments in time, waiting to be awoken, brimming with new life. It made accepting the assignment from Thesan all the easier. Tamlin’s fall from grace was no secret, but you’d heard other, more gallant, more tragic tales of his sacrifices, of his losses. It had been a request made by Lord Rhysand himself that a skilled healer from Dawn be sent to look over the badly-wounded Lord of Spring, and you had been chosen for your experience and prestige.

Yet there was a stillness in the air surrounding Lord Tamlin’s lands that you felt in your bones. New life rustled and misted, it seductively and quietly demanded attention from all the senses, Spring even more so than subtle Dawn. This was eerily calm, and you’d be lying to yourself to deny that it troubled you.

“No servants?” you asked incredulously, your attempt at a whisper a sorry one at that; there didn’t seem to be anyone around to intrude upon.

Rhysand’s steps curled through the carriage house and past the front entrance, the proper route to greeting formal guests. The High Lord stuck his hands in his pockets lazily, offering a similar smile over his shoulder, almost amused at your exasperation.

“I haven’t been bothering with doors at all, most visits,” he said through an apologetic sigh, leading you along a narrow corridor of stone somewhere in the outer western wing of the manor.

You knew Lord Tamlin must be worse for wear if a proper healer was being beckoned; he was one of the most powerful males in Prythian. The utter lack of a household was like a dousing of ice water over you. Tamlin was not simply heartbroken and defeated, but seemed to have lost Spring almost entirely, save for shelter.

“The rumor mill is fully functional,” you assured your guide, giving him an informal little curtsy as he held open a large door for you, “but I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

“Like I said,” Rhysand replied, his voice dropping to a respectful whisper, “whatever you expected; it’s worse.”

After hardly paying attention to the passages Lord Rhysand had ushered you through, you took in your surroundings within the Spring Court manor and had to clasp your hand over your mouth.

A dimly-lit main room laid before you, a single beam of light cutting through a sliver of the velvet drapes hanging on the second story window illuminating layers of dust and debris. It was in total disrepair; slashed canvases tilted and dangling from their mounts along the walls, broken shards of furniture littering the floors like fire kindling. Crumbling marble from toppled statues left piles of dust in their wake, chipped tiles creating the effect of a post-war ruin.

“By the cauldron,” you breathed, any semblance of outrage replaced by shock. “What happened?”

Rhysand turned to face you, his expression downcast. “Do you have a Mate, if you don’t mind me being so forward?”

He huffed out a small laugh as your brows contorted in confusion. “No, my Lord. I mean, if I do, I don’t know them, or rather, I’m not aware -“

“I happened,” he said firmly, interrupting your sputtering. “Those rumors are at least truthful.”

There wasn’t guilt in his tone, it was more like regret. You nodded back in understanding; indeed you knew of the mortal girl turned Fae, the Cursebreaker and now High Lady of Night.

“She’s your mate,” you offered simply, idly knocking a stay cobble of marble away from your path with your boot.

“And she wanted to leave,” he replied. “Lord Tamlin has a bit of a temper.”

That was very plain. It did not align with the stories you heard, but you had all the evidence necessary right at your feet.

“That won’t scare me away,” you said brusquely, squaring your shoulders and Rhysand gestured for you to follow him once more. “I’ve seen far worse.”

And you had. War was nothing compared to a disgruntled, rejected High Lord brat, beast or no beast.

“I know you have,” Lord Rhysand confirmed with a polite smile and a bend at the waist, a small but respectful bow. “Your High Lord has all the faith of the Mother in you.”

“I suppose you should take me to him, then,” you said.

“I suppose so.”

Only a few paces away were double doors of a richly-stained oak, and Rhysand stopped to speak one last time.

“Let me do the talking, just at first,” he suggested carefully. The thin line he made with his lips begged you not to contradict him.

A creak sounded as he opened one of the doors, and from behind Lord Rhysand’s extended arm you saw him.

Mid length blonde hair hung like a curtain over his shoulder, concealing his profile from view. Hunched over himself in a wingback chair, you noticed the stained tunic, once an obvious white but now a brownish red, crusted over with dried blood, had slashes in the back. Lord Tamlin didn’t do more than glance towards the two of you before fixing his gaze back on the smoldering coals in the fireplace before him.

He was torn to bits, his arms and back likely no longer bleeding because of the way his tunic had been absorbed by the cuts. The ends of his hair were stained too, and you thought of the wolves you’d seen in the flood plains of Dawn, their coats and muzzles drenched in the blood of their kill. Yet no hunter’s pride lived within Lord Tamlin.

“You’ve brought spectators,” he growled, the bitterness of his voice sending chills over you. “I thought you were above gloating, Rhysand, though I suppose even the most gracious of us have their weaknesses.”

You bit your tongue.

“Prythian is in no condition to lose its Lord of Spring,” Rhysand remarked coolly, letting himself into the room and holding open the door for you to follow. “Thesan has sent one of his best healers.”

Tamlin scoffed, a rather undignified, unamused sound. “Thesan would spit on my grave if he had the chance -“

“Forgive me, my Lord,” you interjected, fully aware you hadn’t lasted more than a few measures before disobeying Lord Rhysand. “But if I may correct you? Unless he believed his saliva contained beneficial organisms to better aid in your recovery, Lord Thesan would never do anything so crude.”

That earned you a glare; and Tamlin spun his head around to find the source of the facetious rebuke.

A strikingly beautiful face stared back, but it appeared gaunt and worn. Stark green eyes burned into you, a strong jaw and brow line grating beneath the weight of gnashed teeth. You noticed deep grooves in the wood of the desk he sat behind; claw marks.

“This is insulting,” Lord Tamlin warned, now looking at his Night Court equivalent. “Send her back, or I’ll -“

“Or you’ll what? Slight a good gesture from a neighboring court?” Rhysand countered, his bearing still relaxed despite the tension. “You’re also not in any position to refuse.”

“If I wanted any help from you -“

“You’d get none,” you cut in once more, already bored by their pettiness and realizing Lord Rhysand’s involvement in your work was more of a hindrance than anything. “You’ll be accepting assistance from me.”

Turning to Lord Rhysand, you searched his eyes with a pleading sort of look, fully aware of his abilities. You would never dare to ask him to leave, especially in front of a harassed Tamlin, but you feared this would only grow more hostile and you would be turned away.

He nodded, frowning a bit.

“Be happy, Tamlin,” Rhysand murmured, and you didn’t understand why the Lord of Spring looked so mutinous as shadows engulfed him before he vanished.

There was ringing silence in his wake, and a snarling Tamlin refused to break eye contact. After a few moments, he seemed to deflate, and sunk back into his chair, his eyes losing their fire but never tearing away from yours.

“Get up, my Lord,” you bit out. “Please retreat to your rooms and draw a warm bath. I’ll provide you with an herbal sachet to put in the water. You need to clean those wounds before they fester. Keep your shirt on until you’ve soaked a while; trying to peel it off will only reopen them.”

“An herbal sachet? Am I a fussy child in need of chamomile tea?” he snarled.

“Yes,” you answered, your tone almost sweet. “But these contain antibacterial and anti-inflammatory compounds. I want your cuts somewhat decontaminated before I begin my work.”

Tucking into a little satchel on your hip, you fished out three sheer bags stuffed with little roots and dried leaves and flowers, holding them out in your steady palm.

You were surprised at the way a painful little tug pulled in your chest as he began to rise from his chair, his anger having ebbed away only to be replaced by despair.

With an air of resignation and defeat, he did not look at you again when he shouldered past you after snatching the satchels  and limping out the door, the distinct sound of footsteps trailing up a staircase ricocheting off the dark walls.

You loosened a breath once you knew you were alone, proud, albeit slightly shaken by your ability to stand up to him.

-

The rest of the manor hadn’t suffered the same damage as the main room and the study, save for a lack of dusting and sweeping. You inspected each room on the second floor except the ones behind the largest door at the end - surely Tamlin’s. The only bedroom that was destroyed had shredded chiffon of various pinks and greens everywhere, a wardrobe ransacked and turned on its side. You knew exactly who once resided there, and the thought made something sad and ugly flare inside of your belly.

You chose a room far enough away from Tamlin’s not to be neighbors but close enough to hear if anything troubling sounded, their walls a hushed pink, containing a large four-poster bed, a bureau, a small balcony, and its own bathing room. After scrounging the various closets you found a duster and a broom and set to work, tidying them to your standards before shaking out the stiff sheets and bedding over the railing. Just because the High Lord insisted on such conditions didn’t mean you had to subject yourself to the same.

As the sun began to kiss the hems of the distant hills of the west, you found your way to the kitchens, performing an inventory of what was left. There was plenty of flour, salt, and yeast for bread, plenty of well-kept apples that kept their firmness in large wooden barrels, stored cheeses, and root vegetables. You were also surprised to see smoked meats still hung in a dark pantry, their quality preserved. You wouldn’t have to rely on the Dawn Court to bring provisions after all.

Despite what you found, you also noted the pristine condition of the kitchens, like they hadn’t been touched in quite some time. Given the lack of color and the hollowness of Lord Tamlin’s cheeks, you suspected that they were also in a state of disuse. Rhysand had confided to you that Tamlin often existed as the beast he could shapeshift into, hunting for sustenance. You were certain that was how he earned his injuries.

You had been thoroughly convinced he certainly could have sealed his wounds shut just as neatly and deftly as you could; what he lacked was will.

You spent the evening preparing several loaves of simple white bread, letting them rise before starting a fire in the cook stove and keeping yourself occupied with cutting out portions of cured ham while they baked. You were not above a bit of meal preparation in order to be well-prepared and fed.

After a satisfying dinner of warm bread, apple, cheese, and ham, you cleaned your workspace and made for your rooms. You’d brought with you a waxed canvas rucksack, packed with simple gowns, stockings, a cloak, and your healer supplies, just in case. You were confident you could rely on your powers alone to mend the High Lord.

Carrying nothing but a stack of neatly-folded fresh strips of gauze, you briskly walked down the long corridor of the second floor and knocked three times on the door. After several long moments, you were met with nothing but silence in return.

Very well, you thought curtly, and without any further warning you opened the door, somewhat astonished that they were unlocked.

You felt his presence in the bathing rooms, and you made sure the heels of your boots clicked loudly against the tiles of the floor, hoping he could hear your arrival.

If he heard them, he made no motion or gesture to acknowledge you.

You rounded the corner into the bath, noticing him right away. His back was facing away from the door, his shirt thoroughly soaked, you could better see the severity of his wounds.

Surely his magic alone is what kept him from dying. Deep, angry gashes began at his shoulders and seemed to continue down to the small of his back and curving onto his arms. You watched as he moved stiffly, his breath short and shallow as he attempted to reach for a large bottle of what you assumed was either shampoo or soap.

The water was obscured completely by bubbles, which meant he’d used the satchels. A few little spells of your own created a foaming effect, which made tending to new patients that valued their privacy all the easier.

You cleared your throat and still the High Lord didn’t startle.

“Allow me to help,” you said in such a way that suggested that this was not up for debate.

His shoulders slumped at the command, his arms dropping to the lips of the tub as he gripped them. You approached the edge, a tiled ledge built around it to house toiletries and such, and perched close, depositing your gauze on a nearby towel that appeared dry.

Healer robes were naturally cut at the elbows for efficiency and hygienic purposes, so there was no need to roll up your sleeves.

“Please breathe slowly and deeply,” you asked in a gentle tone, placing your palm where his arm met his shoulder, and dunk the other beneath the warm surface of the water, seeking the hem of his ruined shirt.

Gingerly you peeled it away, pleased that it no longer stuck to his ribboned skin, and you felt another brief shudder of pain in your chest as he grunted in pain, drawing his arms up so that the shirt could come off of him completely.

Gathering the fabric in another towel rather than wring it out in the bath water, you flung it onto the stone floor and immediately returned your attention to his back.

“When did this happen?” you asked.

After a pause, he said, “There were multiple occasions. I’m sure you can tell which are the most recent.”

“Do you know what sort of creature attacked? Did they have a weapon?” What you silently meant was, why didn’t you heal them on your own?

He tensed, inhaling sharply as he did so.

“I don’t recall,” he said through gritted teeth, his words dripping with disdain.

Nothing malicious seemed to taint them, you noted no hints of magic or even poison. Your suspicions were confirmed: Tamlin could have healed himself and chose not to.

No wonder Rhysand had decided to interfere.

“These are clean enough,” you decided, disappointed you allowed your voice to contain so much emotion. “I’ll let you get out; if you’d like, I can start to mend these tonight.”

“I don’t -“ Tamlin began, and he cut himself short, huffing out an impatient breath through his nose like a provoked dragon. “I don’t know if I can stand. On my own.”

“Right,” you replied obtusely, struck by this. “I won’t look.”

“I don’t care,” he snapped, but you averted your gaze as you gripped both of his hands, pulling him upright.

Once he could stand, you turned away quickly, listening to him select a towel and wrap it around his waist.

“I’ll wait outside,” you said, gathering your things and searching for a suitable workspace in his neglected room.

Soon he was settled into another parlor chair in the sitting area, you in its twin with a small table made of the wood of a walnut tree at your side. You could feel acutely that Tamlin was in a great deal of pain; you knew he hadn’t wrung out his wet hair out of ambivalence or rudeness. The movement just to gather his hair from the nape of his neck alone would have caused agonizing pain.

So, you did it for him. You’d brought a few little hand towels and you stood at his back, soaking the excess water from his blonde hair, braiding it loosely to keep it out of the way before letting it fall over his chest. He said nothing as you worked, but the incessant little tug on your ribs roused your attention each time you felt it, whenever he’d release an almost inaudible groan of discomfort or pain.

What was a proper healer without empathy? Surely the pity you felt for this broken male would stir such emotion.

For what felt like hours you kept your palms hovered over the gashes in his skin, waiting for them to begin sealing. Healer magic was tricky stuff; it was crucial to focus on healing from within before closing a wound, lest the scar tissue be weakened and open again. It took deep concentration and stillness of the mind. For that, Lord Tamlin made for an ideal patient.

“That should suffice for tonight,” you said at long last through a sigh.

After quite some time, the windows revealing complete darkness behind their drapes, you knew you’d need to recharge your stores of energy before continuing, and Tamlin looked as if he struggled to remain upright.

“I can give you something for the pain,” you offered.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said tartly, and your face twisted with outrage as he rose from his chair, past the bed and towards the door.

“And where are you going?” you asked shrilly.

“I don’t sleep here,” he answered, too weak to sound angered. “My study -“

“You will not undo my hard work,” you cursed, jumping to your feet. “Those sheets look perfectly clean. You’ll rest here.”

You pointed to the massive bed, eyes wide and wild.

You didn’t allow yourself to look pleased as he obeyed, trailing back towards the bed. You busied yourself by rummaging through the wardrobe, selecting a rather soft pair of linen trousers that seemed comfortable enough to sleep in. Tossing them on the bed, you avoided his eyes as you retrieved your supplies, tossing the bloodied bandages in the sorry excuse for the dying fire on the other side of the room. It pulsed with new life as it was fed, and you piled on a few additional pieces of ash kept in a tin bucket beside the poker. A large basket of birch bark told you just how he’d managed to have fires at all; paper birch lit even when wet, and the wretched ash was good for nothing to the Fae beyond burning. Ash burns green fit for a queen.

“Goodnight,” you said, making your way towards the door.

“Thank you.”

The words were so quiet, you wondered if he meant for them to be heard at all. You froze for a moment as your hand rested on the knob.

“You’re welcome,” you replied in a small voice before seeing yourself out.

-

It was another four days before you saw Tamlin again.

You spent your time occupying yourself with becoming acquainted with the Spring Manor. Fortunately, in your opinion, the library was unharmed, and the plethora of books and texts were almost distracting. You sought the gardens, not just for routine exercise and the pleasure of being surrounded by the immaculately-arranged flower beds, but to take note of the kitchen herbs.

You tucked into meals, making stews with the root vegetables. You were glad to see two horses still boarded in the stables that looked cared for and well-fed; Tamlin surely had to be the one caring for them, but you didn’t go out of your way to catch him doing it.

Each night you knocked on his doors and he did not answer, and each night you tried and failed to let yourself in as you had before and met a locked entry. Tamlin did not want help or company, and while you were concerned that his wounds might reopen, the distance between you was deeply unsettling, and your moods and emotions were completely out of control.

Any given moment would find you content and occupied when a sudden wave of heartache would clench in your chest, a hollowing pain crippling you. You thought the manor might be cursed.

Space and solitude was almost customary to you; you were no stranger to being alone. Yet Tamlin’s presence seemed to have its own energy and it pulsed through the manor, beckoning you.

On the fifth day, you were contemplating leaving. Rhysand’s warning had prepared you for this sort of behavior, but you had begun to feel useless until an idea sprang to your mind.

After sweeping the worst of the debris and mess from the main hall into one big pile - for your sake, rather than Tamlin’s - you made your way to the kitchens and found stored sugars and spices.

Perhaps it was a bit self-involved; the tea supply in the manor was rather low, and the lack of caffeine called for a sugar rush to satiate both your mild addiction to the substance and your sweet tooth. After a couple of hours' work, you’d prepared a half-dozen cinnamon buns.

You ate yours in the kitchen, reveling in your work and earned reward. Satisfied and full, it wasn’t enough; a fleeting moment of melancholy emptiness ran through you like a cold wind. You cleaned up your mess beneath a fog of despair that you couldn’t name.

After taking too long selecting a little plate, you took one of the confections up each staircase and down the corridor to Tamlin’s rooms.

After three harsh rapts, you spoke loudly against the wood. “Lord Tamlin, I’d like to inspect my work, if you’re not indisposed.”

You had your fist positioned to pound on the door again before he opened it.

He still looked sunken and ghoulish, but could not conceal the slightest, almost undetectable trace of a smile when he noticed your hand, poised to strike the door.  He eyed the plate with narrowed eyes.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was sent here to -“

He waved an impatient hand in front of him. “Yes, I know. Come in.”

You noticed you were nearly clutching the plate to your chest as he led you into his rooms, and your heart filled with relief when you realized they were better lit than before; he’d opened the curtains and drapes, allowing a steady stream of sunlight in, revealing an impressive view of the gardens. Everything smelled like lilac - you wondered if he favored them - and with the traces of cinnamon and vanilla, and something else that reminded you of the fields of Dawn in the early morning -

“Well?”

You’d been lost in a reverie and Tamlin broke it, a weary edge to his expression boring into you.

Shaking your head shallowly, you placed the plate on a small table and cleared your throat, gesturing for Tamlin to remove his tunic and turn his back to you; he did so by tucking his arm into his sleeves and bowing his head, dragging it off.

His wounds had improved a bit, and you loosened a sigh. No swelling or extreme redness, no heat, no fever. He likely still could not raise his arms more than chest height and could not sleep on his back, but they were better. You could touch them now and you did, your fingers like gossamer as you focused your energy on strengthening the tissue.

What would cause such a powerful Fae to scar so badly?

“You aren’t raising your arms above your head? No heavy lifting?” you asked, a hint of authority in your tone.

A strange expression plastered over his face. Bored. “The horses need to be fed,” he replied mechanically.

“I’ll bring the bales down from the loft, then,” you said.

A flash of annoyance washed over him, and something like shame flickered in your chest. Strange.

“I can -“

“No, you can’t,” you interrupted. “You can write to your staff or call for them, beg their forgiveness, and request they return to their post with hearty raises to their salaries. And in the meantime, you can let me help. I’m perfectly capable of shoving around a bale of hay or two.”

His nose curled in outrage. “I don’t know who you think you are -“

“I know precisely who I am, Lord Tamlin,” you said, tone almost threatening. “Do you know who you are?”

You anticipated claws, you almost thought he might strike you, given how enraged he looked. Nearly panting, he remained where he stood, likely too weak and in too much pain to even bother to clench his fists.

“Get. Out.”

Each word was staccatoed, his voice so deep you were certain he’d shapeshifter any moment.

“Not before I see you eat something, my Lord. My work is useless if you starve yourself, and I know you cannot hunt in this state.”

He snarled, a low, terrible sound reverberating from his chest, and you kept your features emotionless; war had taught you such skills. Retrieving the plate, you held it up in front of him.

“If you want me to leave, then eat it. You will not see me again tonight if you can handle that. Most toddlers have some difficulty with it, as well, but -“

Snatching the plate from your grip, Tamlin plucked up the treat and bit into the pastry.

“By the damn Cauldron, if you’re finished treating me like a child, you can see yourself out,” he muttered around the mouthful of food, swallowing thickly. “I think you’re aware of - what is it?”

Tamlin stopped eating, holding the plate at waist level, staring at you with a mixture of confusion and maybe concern.

Your body locked up, like every fiber of your being snapped into place and kept you momentarily frozen. It was like a haze had lifted from your vision as well, and Tamlin now glowed.

Touch him. Touch him. Smell, taste, hold, embrace. You had to fight back the urge to run to him, to do...you didn’t know what. You were drowning in his scent, his gaze. Even in such a poor state, he was the most beautiful thing you’d ever beheld, and suddenly, so many things made sense.

A mating bond had just clicked into place, Tamlin seemingly unaware, and you’d just unknowingly accepted it by offering him nourishment.

“I’m fine,” you breathed. “Thank you. I’ll go.”

“I thought you’d be a little more pleased after your nagging -“

“I’m fine,” you insisted, and before he could reach for your arm, before you allowed yourself to be caught in his grip, you dashed from the room.

Oh Choal, you bumbling fool