I'd Rather Die On My Feet ,

i'd rather die on my feet ,

then live on my knees .

May I request 22 for Tamcien?

In a Rush of Adrenaline (Send me a 💋 prompt) (ft. Tamcien)

Tamlin didn’t mean to do it, but sometimes his day long exploits into the wild became week long excursions. He found solace in the woods and being separated from the rest of the population for a while relieved some of the burden which he carried from being their High Lord. Often, he left on these journeys on a whim.

He took with him nothing but the clothes on his back and the knives in his belt. He could hunt for food, find a cave for shelter, and trade with other travelers for anything else he needed. If the worst came to the worst, he could use his conjuration magic to create small things. Amarantha hadn’t taken this power from him. She didn’t know it existed.

Tamlin rarely left a note at the manor, or even word of mouth. Why should he? He nearly always planned to be back by the following morning.

His latest retreat into solitude led him far into the wilderness of Spring on paths that only he knew. Seven days passed before he sat up lazily in a cave by a creek, transforming himself from a house cat and back to a High Fae. A nap in the sun had been lovely. The pack of wild felines around were nonchalant over his presence.

Suddenly, he wondered what day it was — time passed by slowly to fae unless they kept careful track.

Three days — at most. He grumbled under his breath. It was going to take the rest of this one to get back to the manor. Lucien was going to be pissed off. The last time he’d disappeared for forty-eight hours without telling the fox, Lucien hadn’t spoken to him for an entire nine days afterwards. Sulking was Tamlin’s thing. What was with that? Tamlin shrugged and continued following his own footsteps home.

It was dusk by the time he reached the manicured grounds of spring court. He snapped his fingers, using his magic to run a brush through his hair and change into clean clothes. He may hate the formality, but it wasn’t right to return to court looking like a wild man.

He spied Lucien pacing the checkered tile from the corner of his eye. He did not look happy. Tamlin rolled his eyes. It appeared someone else had taken up the job of relentlessly pacing while he was gone. Although he could have easily walked up, the High Lord found some mischief in winnowing to Lucien’s back. When the redhead turned around — he stopped short.

Anger flitted through his familiar eyes. His lips were forced into a stubborn line. His pointy ears pointed backwards.

Tamlin sighed. I’m either about to get punched or hugged. I’d rather take the punch.

“You. Bastard.” Lucien jabbed his finger into Tamlin’s chest. “Six days? Are you insane?”

Six days? Tamlin swallowed. Oof —

He was about to mumble an apology when Lucien’s long arms swallowed him in the tightest hug that he’d ever gotten.

Tamlin froze, but the realization came over him slowly. He thought I was dead. He cares that I’m not.

He slowly lifted his arms and returned the hug. He would never be fond of them; but he owed one this time. If Lucien had disappeared for six days straight, Tamlin had no idea what he’d do, but he wouldn’t have stayed calm.

“Sorry…” Tamlin muttered. He wasn’t good at words, but the way he looked at the ground when Lucien released him was proof enough that he understood what he’d done.

Lucien placed his hand on Tamlin’s shoulder and looked firmly into his eyes. “If you ever do that again, I am going to use that time to paint this entire manor in foxes and the words ‘Lucien rules, Tamlin sucks.’ You got it?”

Tamlin’s eyes brightened and genuine laughter peeled from his lungs. He bent over, genuinely tickled. Lucien was one of the only ones who could make him truly laugh. “You’ll be scrubbing it off when I get back!”

“Your manor, your scrubbing!” Lucien shot back.

Tamlin growled and punched the redhead in his shoulder sort-of gently.

Lucien rubbed his shoulder and wrapped his arm around Tamlin’s neck, giving him a tighter-than-necessary squeeze.

They sat on the giant steps watching the sunrise, until Lucien finally spoke again. “Hey, Tam?”

Tamlin looked up.

“I’m really glad you’re home.” Lucien pressed a kiss to his temple and rested his head on his muscular shoulder.

Tamlin sighed quietly. “Me too.”

Welcome! This is an independent roleplay (written & visual narration) blog of Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court, from the ACOTAR series. | This character was created and then slaughtered by Sarah J. Maas. The writing will be a mix of canon and non-canon compliant. All original writing here is penned by CeCe. My main blog is @positivelyruined and my original writing blog is @ruinedruminations.

I am a pro-Tamlin writer. I will not tolerate character bashing. As most pro-Tamlin fans are, I am anti-feysand.

My accepted ships include: Feylin, Tamcien, Brilin, Feytamcien, Tamgwyn, Tamlin x OC.

Pairing possibilities that I will be picky about: Tamsand. (I write Rhysand as a primary villain and his love for Tamlin as largely unrequited. Tamlin saw Rhysand as his first true friend. Keep that in mind when requesting.)

I am willing to work with any of these; however, please don’t force a ship or romance on me as a writer.

The Fae Code & Roleplay Guidelines | Please respect my boundaries

• Character abuse will lead to a swift block. As will anonymous threats, or bullying.

• I rarely write smut. I prefer not to. If I choose to, I will only write 18+ with someone who can prove they are 18+. This is a firm boundary for legal reasons.

• Please be patient. Being a good writer takes time.

• Please don’t repost my writing — it’s incredibly precious to me. Reblogs and likes are more than welcome!

• Be original in your own writing. Don’t plagiarize off myself or others.

• Don’t godmod. In roleplay, write only your chosen character’s perspective and dialogue. I will contribute all that Tamlin has to offer.

• Take your time.

• Ask questions if you need help.

• Send, but don’t spam.

If you have read and acknowledged this, please comment with a Spring Themed emoji below.

I hope you find time to be happy. not just strong

the tortured poets department