won't you help me get through these illyrian nights @outside-the-mountains-trembled - Tumblr Blog

Sep 7, 2025

SUMMARY:

Rhysand is the coolest kid in high school. He can't care less about anything, and he looks so good doing it, except when it comes to one blonde football captain. This is a fluffy High School Tamsand AU.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: #GO TEAM TAMSAND!! The HIMBRO agenda is back in this one... can you tell I have a favourite AU?

divider by @olenvasynyt

READ ON AO3 OR UNDER THE CUT

The rules of high school are simple: be cool. The best way to survive is to become one singular thing for the rest of your stay, lest the swarm of teenagers and peer pressure devour you whole. There’s the goths, the science nerds, the tech geeks (who are rumoured to change grades for a hefty price), cheerleaders, “nepo babies”, jocks and so much more. Belonging to these groups promise a minimum of safety that is the wilderness of pubescent years; belonging to one of these groups makes it less likely to become prey to gossip and terrible, life-altering judgement. The members of these groups exist in a delicate ecosystem and nobody ever crosses those lines.

Nobody ever survives it.

Or so they say.

Every day is more or less the same. Classes run on a fixed schedule, and each semester is more or less the same. Learn a handful of subjects for four months, get tested on it and move onto the next until summer comes, and everyone tries to live the most eventful two months of their lives. Rinse and repeat. It’s why the students cling to events—periodic breaks in their monotonous lives and the greatest things that will ever happen to them for the rest of their lives. (Or so they say.)

Rhysand walks the halls of Prythian High, revelling in the fact that it’s his last year. His brothers stand at his side, an exceptional alliance among the school politics. The borders of different cliques can only be breached by family. It doesn’t take long before Azriel breaks off to find the computer lab and Cassian smacks Rhysand’s back a little too hard by way of farewell before heading off to join the lacrosse team. He’s far too cool to carry a bag or do homework for that matter. His grades are at the top of his class, having spent most of his youth homeschooled by the best tutors money can buy and taking additional classes on the weekend to make sure he’s ahead. Public school is nothing more than a measuring stick for him (and his father) to make sure that the distance between himself and everyone else is felt.

Posters for homecoming litter the walls and a banner hangs above his head making sure that he doesn’t miss this. It happens every year, but if the rumours are true, it’s supposed to be his year… whatever that means. Rhysand is a shoe in for homecoming king, but it doesn’t feel like an accomplishment, not when he has every advantage on his side. Nesta will likely be homecoming queen, if only she can contain her prickly behaviour for five minutes. Still, the fantasy of her and Rhysand becoming a couple after their barbed interactions over three years persists. It’s what the people want. He doesn’t hate her; they’re cut from the same cloth, they just annoy each other, and the prying eyes of bored students have come to see it as flirting. Gross.

He makes his way to his locker, plucking his books from within. They’re still in brand new condition.

“Well, aren’t you looking melancholic this morning, your Highness?”

Rhysand closes the door to reveal a grinning, auburn haired teen. Veto Vanserra is a different kind of royalty, hailing from a very long line of brothers, the ones who have come through this school have all left their marks on Prythian. His friend smiles smugly at him, taking the time to wink at girls clearly whispering about them.

“You’re welcome to the title, V. Didn’t your brother win it a couple of years back?”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve won it every year there’s been a Vanserra.”

“We? Are you counting your siblings accomplishments as your own?” Rhysand starts walking. “My condolences. Your brothers didn’t have a Hewn to go up against. Like I said, I’m more than happy to give you the crown,” he smirks, nudging his friend. It really doesn’t matter to him.

There’s a commotion at the end of the hall. A group of brawny boys are cheering, shoving each other with little regard for those around them. They’re large. They take space and then some. Rhysand glances at them, recognizing the faces that matter: Tamlin, the football team captain, and Lucien, Veto’s little brother who isn’t on the team but happens to be Tamlin’s best friend.

“Ugh, I don’t know why Lucien insists on hanging out with those apes.”

Rhysand’s gaze lingers on the blonde, half-listening to one of Veto’s many complaints. He has so many of them. Tamlin laughs, listening to the musing of his friends, and he must sense Rhysand’s attention because his emerald gaze lifts to look back at him. Their eyes meet briefly before Rhysand glances away.

“What’s he looking at?”

“Fuck if I know,” Rhysand answers.

“You still tutoring that dumbass?”

Sometime last year, their English teacher had announced to the entirety of the class that their beloved football Captain in the making is failing and if he doesn’t fix his grades, Tamlin won’t be able to play in his senior year. Naturally, at the top of their year in nearly every subject, Rhysand had been assigned to rectifying this problem. The only reason his father had allowed it was because ‘it’s about time he started indulging in philanthropy’.

“Unfortunately,” Rhysand sighs. “Some people can’t be helped and yet.”

“And yet,” Veto echoes, shaking his head in disappointment. “My condolences. At least you don’t have to watch your efforts go to waste live in 4K. He’s not in our class this year, is he?”

“Nah, not for English.”

“Oh, thank god.”

Time ticks away. Rhysand already covered the contents of this semester’s math class, so he lets his mind wander as he stares out the window. He’s only here to pass the time and say that he’s gone through the milestones of Americana. He could have gone to school abroad, but he’s already surrounded by enough pretentiousness. The Archerons, the Vanserras, the Hewns and even Tamlin’s family all come from wealth. Their mere presence here elevates the status of the school, and Rhysand likes not having to compete with other insecure assholes about whose father’s jet is most luxurious. Maybe that makes him an even bigger jerk, finding relief in the class disparity on top of the already tricky politics of high school.

He leans on his hand, staring outside the window at the horizon or the flutter of birds across distant trees. Movement below catches his attention, one of the other groups is having gym class outside. Rhysand picks out Cassian, his energy a hundred times bigger than his short and stalky body, and him. Everywhere he turns, Rhysand swears that he finds that muscular blonde. He doesn’t mean to be aware of him, but ever since that one summer—fuck, Rhysand didn’t even know who Tamlin was before that. He was just an abnormally large blonde that would pick fights with his brother every now and then.

Tamlin walks out onto the field, glancing around and then finding Rhysand’s gaze. Rhysand doesn’t know why he does it, but he ducks back behind the wall, out of sight. What does he care if Tamlin sees him? He wasn’t even looking at him for the most part. He’s allowed to enjoy nature or whatever the fuck is out the window. Hell, what if he was staring? It’s nobody’s business. He waits until he hears the whistle before letting himself sit more comfortably again. Veto mouths ‘what the fuck’ and Rhysand rolls his eyes, discreetly flipping him off.

The group playing outside splinters, playing dodgeball on the soccer field. It’s way more interesting than whatever’s going in his classroom, and he smirks in amusement as Cassian and Tamlin are inevitably nominated as team captains. Their rivalry is palpable; they pick strategically, but Tamlin is a lot softer in his selection, feeling guilty for the students with less physical prowess. He probably thinks he can make up for whatever they’re lacking. Stupid. It’s just not strategic, and yet, Tamlin puts himself in the front line to block or catch balls launched at dizzying speeds towards the smallest members of his team.

He gets distracted by group work, finishing up his activity sheet first and waiting for his classmates to finish up and ask him questions if need be.

“You’re a fuckin’ nerd, you know that?” Veto complains, his attention span waning.

“Less talking, more math-ing,” Rhysand taps his sheet with the back of his mechanical pencil. It’s one of those fancy ones from Japan, the kind that gets nominated for ergonomic awards.

He gets invested in the commotion outside. Cassian is waving his hands and getting into Tamlin’s face. Tamlin crosses his arms, cocking his brow and tilting his head at the shorter boy yelling at him. Cassian tries to shove him, but Tamlin doesn’t move. A soft huff of amusement escapes Rhysand. He catches himself, clearing his throat and focusing on his work. Serves Cassian right, though. His brother can be stubbornly pig-headed.

At lunch, Rhysand’s cousin joins them. Morrigan is a leggy blonde who started wearing lipstick far too young and makes a habit of breaking hearts because she’s bored.

“Who are you taking to the pep rally?”

“Why? Trying to steal them out from under me, Mor?”

“Well, yes.”

“I don’t know why anyone bothers with you anymore. You have to be carrying at least three venereal diseases,” Veto snipes.

“I’m surprised you even know that word,” Nesta Archeron chimes in, slamming her textbooks down on the table and taking a seat despite not being invited. “Didn’t Eris drop you on your head as a baby?”

“What the fuck do you know about my brother? Why is he hanging out with a teenager?”

“Some of us are looking towards the future. Your brother has a summer internship at his firm.”

“What? Since when?”

“Stupid,” Nesta hisses and turns to Rhysand. “Are you actually campaigning for homecoming King?”

Rhysand’s brows raise in surprise, and he laughs. “Campaigning? Me? Nesta, please. It’s what the people want.”

As if he would want a stupid crown and have to sit on an embarrassing float across town. Honestly, the title should go to someone who would actually care about it. This is nothing but a drop in his life that is a sea of opportunity. He’s aware of how easily things come to him, and it’s just not fair. He wants to spread the social wealth.

Nesta regards him with open disgust. “You know, you’re not nearly as charming as they fantasize you to be, especially once people get to know you. You know that right?”

“And yet, I stay winning.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes. “Whatever. If we win, you better act right. Don’t touch me. Don’t even look at me. I’ve had enough of the,” she waves her hand vaguely at the cafeteria. Nesta doesn’t know what to call it, but she’s tired of the idea of them dating being pushed. It’s gross. Rhysand sits so far at the bottom of her desirable bachelor’s list and they both know it.

“I can drop out. Suggest another candidate. You and Veto would make such a cute couple.”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Veto grins and leans in to invade her personal space.

“Ugh!” Nesta groans, using a book to shove him away.

Cassian comes barrelling into the cafeteria and Rhysand holds up a folded twenty. It’s the same thing every Monday. Cassian gets up late and forgets to pick up their lunch allowance. Azriel is nowhere to be seen, likely gaming in the computer lab and stealing other students’ lunch money.

“Thanks, bro!” Cassian says, snatching the cash and running towards the line.

“No running!” One of the teachers calls. “And you,” she motions at Morrigan. “Tables are for food. Get down.”

Morrigan rolls her eyes and gets down on the bench. “Some people would say my ass is a snack.”

“You’re just as bad as these two,” Nesta complains.

Tamlin isn’t far behind Cassian, and Rhysand hates that he noticed that. His long hair is damp, leaving dark spots on his white t-shirt, making patches of fabric nearly translucent on his chest. He didn’t think that one through, did he? Rhysand finds himself fascinated by the way Tamlin’s shirt hugs his body. At only eighteen, his height and build are the epitome of masculinity.

“Here’s an idea, why don’t you nominate Tamlin?” Nesta’s voice shatters his spell. “He's a football captain, largely unproblematic and a little dumb. It’s a great look and I don’t have to be stuck with you again.” Last year, no one asked her to Junior prom because everyone assumed she would be going with Rhysand. The only one who was thoughtful enough to ask (and who had the balls to approach her) was Cassian.

“I thought he’d have his own following,” Rhysand says, surprised.

“He does, but if you drop out and support him, all the votes that would have been yours go to him.”

Rhysand looks back over at Tamlin who’s holding the last mini-custard pie out of Cassian’s reach, a likely vengeance for whatever happened out on the field. Cassian starts mounting Tamlin like a tree, and Rhysand snorts. He definitely sees the charm more and more, and it makes sense. He’s the typical American Dream, at least for most high school girls, and he’s nice. Rhysand pictures Tamlin standing beside Nesta on that stupid float—or maybe a nice convertible, if they’re lucky—and being a perfect gentleman. He’d help her up the stairs for her acceptance speech, and framing her with a polite arm hovering around her waist.

Rhysand scowls.

“Nah, if he wants it, he’ll have to win fair and square.”

“I thought you didn’t want the win, you hypocrite!” Nesta sighs.

“I didn’t, but you just made things interesting.”

The rest of the day proceeds as normal. Rhysand rarely pays attention to petty gossip. He hears it, but none of it changes his life or affects him. Why does he care that Feyre Archeron shot Andras Wolfe in the shoulder during archery club? It’ll heal. Also, who are those people anyway? Yeah, yeah, he knows one of them is Nesta’s little sister, but they’re freshmen and Rhysand is socially contracted not to care about freshmen.

He has half the mind to escape the confines of the school during his free period, but he has somewhere to be. The bell rings and everyone darts into their classrooms, but Rhysand makes his way to the school library. It’s in a separate wing, an older building that looks like it belongs in some prestigious university instead of a no-name high school. The school itself looks like an extension of the library. He waves at the librarian, skipping down the stairs to one of the study rooms. He finds one of the rooms in the far back of the basement, hidden behind shelves of books. Anyone walking in front of the door needs to be looking for him.

Rhysand pushes the door open, and it creaks heavily. Inside, a handsome, broad-shouldered blonde looks up from his textbooks. The furrow in Tamlin’s brows ease at the sight of Rhysand and he smiles. The weight of Rhysand’s boredom vanishes, and he immediately feels light. He’s been waiting all day for their tutoring session, and he shuts the door behind him.

“Hey,” Tamlin grins. “Saw you looking at me today. Is something wrong?”

Rhysand bridges the distance between them and without missing a beat, he climbs into Tamlin’s lap, tipping the other boy’s head up to look at him and kisses him deeply. He can feel the heat rising to Tamlin’s cheeks underneath his palm, but that doesn’t stop him from drinking in the sweet taste of him. He can taste the faint tastes of his chocolate protein shake, the one he drinks after his lunchtime workout.

“No, I just missed you.”

“Rhys,” Tamlin glances at the small window in the wooden door. “What if someone sees?”

“Everyone’s in class. No one’s going to see.”

Tamlin still looks nervous, hands resting on Rhysand’s waist, but he says nothing more. He just leans in, hugging Rhysand and burying his face (and his embarrassment) in Rhysand’s chest. He holds him for a long moment; Tamlin’s most favourite activity is sprawling on Rhysand and just feeling his warmth or listening to his heart. It made up the better part of their summer, going to the same outings—nearby lakehouses or even the same ones, using studying as an excuse. Rhysand remembers how it started, one evening when Tamlin was late for their tutoring sessions and he showed up with a black eye. They’d got no studying done. Rhysand just hugged him for as long as he needed.

“I missed you too,” Tamlin mumbles.

They spent nearly the entire summer together and it still isn’t enough.

Rhysand doesn’t move from his perch, twisting around to look at what Tamlin is working on, but he doesn’t get very far with Tamlin holding onto him so tightly. He manages to grab one of the papers.

“What are you working on?”

“Getting ahead on one of the book reports this semester.”

He doesn’t ask if Tamlin needs it reviewed. The truth is—Tamlin never needed the help. It was a shock when Rhysand realized that Tamlin is perfectly capable of achieving excellent grades, he just got caught up in stupid stereotypes. Tamlin didn’t like being teased by the other guys on the team for being a nerd, so he let his academic achievements slip so badly, Rhysand was roped in against his will. Tamlin’s actually good at writing. Rhysand has seen his musing in the corner of his notebooks, dirty limericks written in his name. Something about playing with balls.

“Your team would have a heart attack if they knew you were such a nerd.”

“I know,” Tamlin groans, and his breath is warm on Rhysand’s belly through the fabric. It sends a shiver down Rhysand’s spine. He tips his head up and rests his chin on Rhysand’s chest. “That’s what I’m oh-so-very grateful to you for occupying the valedictorian’s seat. Do people know you’re a nerd?”

“Me? A nerd? No.” Rhysand shakes his head. “I’m too hot to be a nerd. They’ll have to rebrand.”

“Does your neck hurt?”

“Huh? No, why?”

“Really? It’s not tired of carrying that massive ego of yours?”

Rhysand snorts, an unsexy sound but one he allows Tamlin to hear because Tamlin doesn’t care. Tamlin trusts him with the truth of those yellowing marks on his skin and the sadness behind those green eyes. The least Rhysand can do is let Tamlin hear him laugh, no matter how improper and imperfect. In the privacy of their study room, they can shed their labels and abandon all expectations and just be. Rhysand can eat his favourite messy foods and Tamlin can read his favourite passages of Jane Eyre without feeling judged. They can do anything—be anything they want to be between themselves.

“I thought you liked my massive,” Rhysand pauses for effect, grinning. “Ego.”

“Gross. Get off,” Tamlin lets him go, shooing him. “You got any work to do?”

“Nah, but I can scroll or something.” Rhysand slides off of Tamlin’s lap into the chair right beside him. He pulls his knee to his chest, getting his phone out and hunching over.

Tamlin taps him with his pencil without looking up. “Posture.”

“Oh, right.” Rhysand straightens himself, and opens the photo app. He doesn’t care about social media, allowing Morrigan to tag him on anything relevant and gracing his followers with the occasional badly framed photo of a sunset or a drink. He likes pretending not to care or being too cool to put effort in his social appearances, but the truth is that he’s too tired to keep up. His father’s demands drain him; he doesn’t have room to be anything else for anyone. Tamlin asks nothing of him. With Tamlin, he can just sit here and be.

It’s a lie to say that Rhysand doesn’t have any good photos—he has no good photos of himself. Most of them are candids with his brothers or his cousin. He even has one of Nesta giving him the double middle fingers at a party while looking great despite being exceptionally sloshed. He scrolls through them, smiling to himself. He can look at pictures of his favourite people over and over again, and never get tired. The latest ones, though, are buried beneath folders within folders, just in case someone happens to borrow his phone. Rhysand leans into his hand, hiding his smile as he looks at the only selfies he has of himself, sitting in Tamlin’s lap and kissing his cheek. They’re the typical couple photos, but they’re everything to Rhysand. He wants to print them and stick them on the inside of his locker door like one of those girls. Fuck, he used to roll his eyes at them, but he gets it. The problem is… no one can know.

He glances at Tamlin’s free hand, resting there on the table as Tamlin focuses on finishing his schoolwork. Rhysand chews on his lip, too used to being cool and aloof. He keeps staring, and nearly reaches out, but the moment he gathers up the courage, Tamlin takes his hand back to tie his hair into a messy bun. Tamlin catches his eye, openly grinning in a way that he can’t when they’re in public. Tamlin puts his hand back, flipping it over in a quiet invitation for Rhysand to hold it.

This time, Rhysand is the one who flushes and shyly takes it. He can’t even pretend to be annoyed or bothered; he wants the attention and the affection. Tamlin brings his hand to his lips and presses a kiss to Rhysand’s knuckles, all while maintaining eye contact and it makes Rhysand want to burst from the inside out. Rhysand spent all summer trying to figure out where Tamlin hides all this charm, and where he learned to wield it like a weapon to cleave down the walls of snarky aloofness Rhysand built. He still doesn’t have the answer, but what he does know is that he really, really likes Tamlin. He glances away, sheepish, still leaning on his hand and squeezing Tamlin’s with his other one.

Butterflies flutter in his chest, and Rhysand is more than happy to bask in the feeling. He’s happy to openly gaze at Tamlin while he works without worrying about getting caught or judged. He waits until Tamlin is done to lean over and kiss his cheek.

“Good job.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Tamlin turns his head and kisses his back.

“You were very responsible. You’ve changed your slacking ways. That deserves to be rewarded.”

“If you say so,” Tamlin beams.

Rhysand chews the inside of his lip, pondering a weighted question. Tamlin catches on quickly, far too observant than his himbo reputation would allow.

“What’s up? You wanna sit on me again?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not it.” Rhysand can’t seem to get the words out. He doesn’t want to because his question carries a rift with it, all depending on Tamlin’s answer. “What are you doing for homecoming?”

“Probably prepping for the game, honestly.”

“I mean… the dance.”

The dance doesn’t matter. Rhysand wouldn’t go if it didn’t mean missing out on key memories of being a teenager and the fomo that comes with knowing all his friends are going. It’s just a dance, and it’s not like it’s prom which is another discussion they need to have. Fuck. Anxiety squeezes in his chest, but he knows better than to let that show. Is this the beginning of the end? All this could be nothing more than a summer fling. Yeah, that would be fair on Tamlin’s part.

“Oh, I dunno. I’ll probably go with the rest of the guys. I haven’t thought that much about it, honestly.”

“Right,” Rhysand says cautiously.

“I was thinking, though, that if you didn’t have plans, we could leave the dance early and uh…” Tamlin shrugs, glancing away sheepishly. “We would go make out on the bleachers or something.”

“Make out? I was thinking we could do something a little classier than that.” Rhysand hums, teasing Tamlin.

“I know! I have a plan, alright? I just don’t want to say it.”

“Alright, alright.” The grin on Rhysand’s face is so wide it hurts. “So, rules on taking dates?”

“Uh, don’t kiss her?” Tamlin says without thinking. He clearly really didn’t think that far ahead.

“Serious answer. We’ll have to think about prom, too.”

If there’s one thing they agree on, unequivocally, it’s that they don’t want anyone to know about each other. It can’t get back to either of their families, so they haven’t told their friends either. Their relationship is a secret, but even between them, it remains unlabeled and unchartered territory.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter to me, I can go without a date. It’s more for you, you’re like… the dream?” Tamlin shrugs. He struggles to find the right words to explain the difference between them.

“I’d argue the same for you.”

“You don’t get it. You’re mysterious and unattainable. People want to be chosen by you.”

“Is it worth it?”

“Huh?”

“Being chosen by me. Is it worth it?”

The question catches Tamlin off guard. That’s clearly not what he meant, but Rhysand challenges him anyway. The other students have built up such an idea of him and even though most of it is true, he doesn’t see a single reason why anyone would dream of him or worse, hold out for him. Money and good looks, none of these are eternal and they can be traded off. For all anyone knows, he can be hot shit for now and then nothing after graduation. (He won’t, obviously, but that’s besides the point.)

“Yeah, it is,” Tamlin says without missing a beat.

“Good, ‘cause that’s for you and you alone. I don’t care about anyone else. I’m not choosing anyone else.”

Rhysand knows he’s made the right choice when he sees the joy in Tamlin’s face

The date conundrum is easily solved. Tamlin tells all potential dates that he’s far too busy with the game to give his date a good homecoming experience, and he thinks that would be unfair to rob any girl of the joys of being picked up, taking photos and any other milestones of the homecoming experience. He doesn’t diminish it by acting like homecoming doesn’t happen every year. It does, and each time should be as beautiful as the last. He is impossibly kind in his rejections, and Rhysand nearly sighed in jealousy when he happened to be within earshot of one instance.

Rhysand’s plan is a lot more impersonal. He gets detention, every day up until homecoming. Missing out on homecoming is the detention, but he sweet talks his way out of missing his boyf—Tamlin’s important week. Oh, and Cassian, too. There’s a pep rally at the beginning of the week, followed by Cassian’s home (lacrosse) game first, then the day after is Tamlin’s (football) game. On Friday, everyone’s excited to find out who will emerge victorious as Homecoming King and Queen. No one has time to hunt Rhysand down, and those who are brushed off because Rhysand’s too much of a bad boy and must repent for spray painting butt cheeks on the principal’s car.

Alright, it was less sweet talking and more paying for a new car. Details.

What he won’t do is fall for the propaganda that is wearing their school colours to ‘show support’ for their teams. He’s done more than his share by being Cassian’s morning workout accountability buddy, even going so far as chugging raw eggs out of ‘solidarity’ for his idiot brother. He’s also given Tamlin scalp massages as he ran through the different plays in preparation for the game. Some would say that Rhysand’s contributions have been critical for the statistically easiest—he means most important game of the year, barring the playoffs. He’s not wearing a stupid jersey. Unless…

Unless.

Rhysand buries his face in his pillow, groaning in embarrassment. Nobody cool imagines themselves wearing their boyfriend’s jersey. He thinks of their size difference, and how Tamlin’s uniform would hang off his shoulders. He pictures the way it would smell—like Irish Spring because Tamlin is basic like that and off-the-shelf cologne. The cringe is too much to bear. Who knew caring about something would make him feel so out of sorts? He kicks his feet, as if that would make the fluttering in his belly disappear. It doesn’t. God, he needs to get it together and be cool by tomorrow.

Between tutoring, detention and Other Shit™ his father asks him to do, Rhysand doesn’t see the weeks fly by. Suddenly, it’s already homecoming week and both Cassian and Tamlin are winning their games. Rhysand offers to drive Tamlin home after his win, but Cassian and Azriel interject themselves like losers who don’t have licenses or cars. They do have both, they’re just the worst. He doesn’t even get to kiss Tamlin congratulations because Cassian shoves him out of the front passenger seat because ‘Tamlin’s getting off, anyway’ and Rhysand has never hated his brother more than that moment. At least, Azriel has the decency to be nice to Tamlin, no matter how awkward, before popping on his headset and playing on his Steam Deck.

Next, it’s the day of the homecoming dance and Rhysand isn’t ready.

“What do you mean Mr. ‘I have a room for my clothes instead of a closet’ doesn’t have anything to wear?” Cassian snorts, sitting in the armchair inside Rhysand’s clothes room. He has his feet up on a pouf and dribbles Pocky crumbs all over the place. They’re chocolate which means they stain. “It’s all black. No one can tell what you’re wearing ever. Just pick one and be done with it.”

None of the Hewn boys attend class. Barely anyone shows up for class the day of the homecoming dance, and it’s the same for prom. All the hair and nail salons are booked for the day, and idiots like Rhysand are trying to piece together an outfit at the last minute.

“What about the Tom Ford?” Azriel stands in the doorway, slurping his drink through a straw extremely loudly. He would come inside and help, but Rhysand had shrieked ‘no drinks near the clothes’ so loudly, he figures it’s better not to test his brother when he’s already stressed enough. “You could just switch out the accessories.”

“It’s from last season!” Rhysand throws his hands up in the hair.

Cassian mocks his brother, mouthing his words and making Azriel laugh.

“I can see you in the mirror, dumbass!”

“Yeah? Weren’t you the one saying homecoming isn’t a big deal all week and now you’re pitching a fit?’

“Oh, yeah? What are you wearing, know-it-all?”

Cassian shrugs. “My uniform.”

Rhysand looks aghast, and he meets Azriel’s eyes, looking for confirmation that Cassian is insane, right? That’s a horrible idea and Cassian actually said that out loud? Azriel shrugs, too used to being trapped in between them.

“What? We wouldn’t have a homecoming dance without me!”

“I’m sick of you, I hope you know that.” Rhysand breezes out of the room. “Mom! Help!”

“Ma!” Azriel chirps after him, mocking.

“Mommy! Wah, wah!” Cassian cackles, chasing after him.

“You are both adopted!”

“Rhysand!” Their mother gasps.

The baby in her arms grins at her brothers, flapping her little arms and repeats after them. “Dopted! Dopted!”

“Rhysand!” Their mother gasps again.

The Hewn boys go their separate ways for the actual event. Azriel goes with Nesta’s sophomore sister; Rhysand would have never guessed they were in the same gaming club and she was better than him at video games. The more you know. Cassian goes with his team, valuing his broships more than an actual date. It reminds him of Tamlin, a little too much for his liking. Tamlin is a thousand times less irritating than Cassian, but the thought does cross his mind as to whether or not Tamlin will show up in his jersey.

Rhysand is fashionably late, mostly because he was tasked with one last thing as part of his penance for his behaviour. It takes up most of his time, which is perfect because that means everyone will be too distracted with the ongoing event instead of lingering in the awkward stages before the party starts. He can’t ogle freely when everyone else is ogling.

He shows up in a suit his mother had commissioned for prom with every intention of giving it to him then, but his panic wore her down and she ended up giving it to him now. He’d suffered with his brothers and baby sister chanting ‘momma’s boy’ for the next couple of hours, but it was worth it. Rhysand has never looked so good. The suit is back, naturally, with silver embroidery on the left side of his waist and over the right hip of his jacket. It looks like a jeweled galaxy in motion whenever the light hits it. The pants are kept minimal with no design, but the cut is wide leg to give Rhysand the silhouette of an even slimmer waist. His shirt, of course, is sheer to show off the tattoos he’d gotten at sixteen (with his mom’s permission). It’s a look that no one would dare try. Not at this age and certainly not at this average income bracket. They need someone more famous to tell them it’s cool, but not Rhysand. He expects wide-legged trousers to be the rage by prom.

Yet, for all his efforts, Rhysand finds himself upstaged by Tamlin time and time again. He doesn’t notice the way everyone stares at him in awe because he’s too busy watching Tamlin who has discarded his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt to showcase his muscular forearms as he helps Cassian switch out the massive orange drink dispenser with another (spiked) one. He thought his brother and Tamlin hated each other ever since that one time they double-booked the field for their practices. The school likely thought a closed container, especially one full of punch, would deter students from sneaking alcohol into it. What they didn’t count on was the two students with the highest PRs to team up in the name of getting shit-faced. In the corner of his eye, Nesta and her sister distract the different chaperones. (Oh, and Azriel is there.)

He watches with open fascination as Tamlin flexes, hauling the cooler onto the table and scrambling out of the room with Cassian, surely to add alcohol into that one too. They eventually come back, looking as innocent as ever and telling their physics teacher they were asked to come bring a spare cooler in case the punch runs out. Tamlin catches Rhysand’s eye, mouthing ‘gimme a minute’ and Rhysand nods.

He finally takes the time to admire the dance. It’s beautifully decorated with the school colours without being tacky. Rhysand might dare to call it tasteful, but he has no one to point that out to. Not until Tamlin finishes what he’s doing.

“Look who bothered to show up.” Nesta slides next to him. “I thought you had better plans.”

“I did,” he lies. “But I didn’t want people thinking Prythian High’s dances are flops. Had to show up and give it my seal of approval.” Rhysand buries his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Who planned this, anyway? It’s not half bad.”

“Me.”

“You planned this? You’re on the events committee? I thought you didn’t care about nonsense like this.”

Nesta scoffs. “You don’t, which doesn’t make you cooler, by the way. Some of us give a shit and that matters.”

Without people like Nesta who are studious and vocal about the things they hold dear to their heart, regardless of what anyone thinks, they wouldn’t have nice things. People like Nesta are the reason they have unions, and rights, and why people fight back. Rhysand can respect that. She may be irritating and shrewd, but Rhysand knows how to give credit when it’s due.

“You’re right,” he says.

“I’m—what?”

Tamlin’s timing is impeccable. “You ready? Hey, Nesta.”

She cocks a brow at them. “Where are you two off to?”

They’ve never been seen together, and Tamlin is careful not to reach for Rhysand. Rhysand doesn’t even lean towards him. He’s being exceptionally controlled. He smiles, and says, without missing a beat: “We’re going to buy weed.”

“Since when do you smoke?” Nesta asks Tamlin.

“Oh, I’m just the escort. Cassian’s busy,” Tamlin lies along with Rhysand seamlessly. He nods towards the dancefloor where Cassian is embarrassing himself on all their behalf. It’s hard to tell if he’s twerking, thrusting or looking for something that fell on the floor and neither Tamlin nor Rhysand want to stay and find out. To think, the alcohol can’t have possibly kicked in yet.

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you get me some.”

“Sure,” Rhysand says before Tamlin can interject and takes the money. “Come on, big guy.”

“Hurry back, they’re going to announce the homecoming king soon!” Nesta calls after them.

As soon as they’re out of the school gym, they dart through the parking lot towards the football field. The further they are from people, the more daring they become. Tamlin takes Rhysand’s hand, holding it the rest of the way until they’re in the middle of the perfectly trimmed grass. It’s late enough that most of the lights have been turned off, so it takes their eyes time to adjust, but it doesn’t matter because if they can’t see, then no one else can.

Tamlin pulls Rhysand to his chest, still grasping his hand in his. Rhysand has no choice but to trust him, half-worried that he’ll step on Tamlin’s feet. He feels Tamlin nuzzle his temple, and Rhysand tips his head up to accept the kiss. It’s slow and tender, an easygoing ‘hello’. Rhysand melts into his tenderness, trusting Tamlin to hold him up.

“Hey,” Tamlin whispers, like he’s still trying to keep their secret.

“Hey,” Rhysand sighs wistfully.

“You look good.”

“You look better.”

“You’re biased.”

“So are you.” Rhysand revels in Tamlin’s soft laughter and the way he’s still holding onto him, pressing Rhysand’s hand over his heart like he’s something precious.

“Hey, wanna gimme a second?”

“Sure?”

It takes a lot for Rhysand not to pout when Tamlin lets go of him. He watches as the light of Tamlin’s phone blasts them both and burns their retinas, but he has to be important if Tamlin is pausing their moment to send a text. He tries not to peer over the angle of the phone to get a better look at who’s to blame for the interrupting. Tamlin locks his phone before Rhysand can decide what he wants to do. He also noticed Tamlin’s jacket tossed over his arm, which he removes now to reveal a bottle of champagne.

“I don’t know if you want to open this. It got shaken up when we were running and your clothes are really, really nice.”

Rhysand smiles. “We can let it rest.”

Music starts to filter in over the field’s speakers, and surprise colours Rhysand’s expression. It’s the same music that’s playing inside, a slow dance that invites all couples to dance together. This… is so beyond sweet.

“Was this your plan all along?”

“Yeah, I wanna dance with you, Rhys.”

Rhysand stands on his toes, kissing Tamlin again and leaning his full body weight against him. “Me too. Wanna lead?”

It’s still too dark to see, but Rhysand knows Tamlin well enough to imagine the flush on his cheeks.

“I’m not super good.”

“I’ve seen you do ladders, you’ll be fine.”

Rhysand places his hands in Tamlin’s and lets his boyfriend lead him in a gentle sway. He rests his head against Tamlin’s chest, closing his eyes and committing the dream to memory. It doesn’t stop after one song, not even when the tempo changes to something more upbeat and fun. It doesn’t matter that it’s just the two of them ‘shaking it off’ in the middle of a dark football field, all that matters is each other. They’ve had enough of prying eyes in the daytime. They dance until they’re hot and sweaty, and the DJ says ‘one last dance’ over the microphone.

Their night is cut short by the approaching sound of laughter. Tamlin grabs his jacket and Rhysand’s hand, bolting towards the bleachers to hide. Rhysand’s eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and even if they didn’t, he would recognize those voices anywhere. Nesta, Cassian with her crown and Veto (with his crown?) run into the field. Cassian trips over himself right in front of the champagne bottle.

“Hey, free champagne!” Cassian cheers.

“Do you always drink random bottles you find on the ground?” Nesta’s voice carries the hint of a slur, but her movements are the real tells of her inebriation.

“Where did Rhysand’s parents find you? The trash?” Veto snorts.

The two of them burst into laughter along with the pop of champagne as it sprays Cassian. Nesta snatches the bottle from him, downing more alcohol. She keeps the bottle out of Veto’s reach, kissing him instead and straddling Cassian to pour champagne into his mouth. Cassian swallows every drop.

“Hey, do you guys think I’ll get grass stains on my ass if we do it here?”

“No,” Nesta says, exasperated.

“Yes,” Veto says with the utmost confidence.

“You are both idiots. Now, kiss.” She says, guiding their heads together.

Under the bleachers, Tamlin is hiding his face beneath his jacket. There are some things he doesn't need to see. Rhysand takes his hand, sneaking off with him.

“Come on, let’s get out of here before I throw up.” He stops, turning to kiss Tamlin again. “Thank you for tonight.”

“It’s nothing.”

“No,” Rhysand counters, refusing to diminish Tamlin’s efforts. “It’s everything.”

#tamsand #i wanted to read a tamsand high school AU so badly #and this is better than anything i imagined

outside-the-mountains-trembled

Sep 7, 2025

fourteentrout

Shower Your Demons With Roses

A Tamsand Pollen Fic for @highlordofkrypton’s Tamsand vs. Tamcien Weekend

Pairing: Rhysand/Tamlin (go team Tamsand!)

Rating: E

Word Count: 12k words

Summary:

Rhysand, not for the first time, shows up to the Spring Court uninvited. Not realizing that Tamlin had started to get himself and his Court stabilized, the Night Lord gets more than he bargained for, and Tamlin is the one saddled with the consequences.

Read on AO3 or check out the short snippet below!

Tamlin could practically feel it like a depression on his own body. The distant press of a thumb at the base of his skull, into the cords of his neck, the center of his chest. A familiar hand, at that. Tamlin didn't have to go to his wards to know that it was Rhysand breaching them.

They'd been strengthened, finally. But they were still a mere approximation of what they had been before Amarantha's magic had cleaved through the heart of Prythian without mercy, before Hybern had feasted on her leftovers like an insatiable vulture. Tamlin himself was not yet at full strength, and so his borders still had their weak spots. Pieces of his heart still felt like they burned the way Mitheria and Arborach had. He had felt the fleshy walls of his body crumble alongside the tree-grown structures of the Western Hills, dryads whose lineage preceded his own cut down like wheat stalks by King Nuelen's ruthless forces. Tamlin still woke up thinking he was riddled with the arrows that had taken nearly half his soldiers, that had caught in his fur as he fought by the other High Lord's sides. But he wasn't. He had lived, while so much of his Court had faced the slaughter head-on without him there to protect it.

It had taken months, but he had eventually regrown the strength to vow that he would never let his people be so vulnerable again.

So when he felt Rhysand's dark magic prod at the Southern Gate, he almost moved to summon his sentries immediately. His sentries. Not Summer's loaned soldiers, gone for three months now. But a quick glance at the Laughing Lilies outside, who snickered as if they knew something he didn't, told Tamlin that Rhys had either been very lucky or very precise with his timing. The midday shift change normally did not take long, but a High Lord as crafty and unwavering as him didn't need long. If he was on a mission to see Tamlin, he was likely already halfway through the gardens.

Tamlin had to secure the manor.

Rhysand had once come to him when he was ready to welcome any talon that searched for skin to break. He had already felt like his own was raw and bleeding, anyway, echoes of the war staying trapped in his mind and body. Rhysand's quiet wrath had nowhere to land but him, and Tamlin was glad for it, lost to the empty halls of bitter hopelessness that Feyre had left behind. But even after Solstice, his skin remained unbroken, and Rhys left nothing behind but a tar-like guilt and a soft command to eat.

Now, the Lord of Spring had residents and staff to look out for once more, and he refused to leave them as unprotected as he once had.

He swept out of his new study, cracking his neck as he stalked down the hall. Though the manor was still only populated by about three-quarters of what it used to be, he visited each wing as he made his way towards the front doors, so that not one servant, advisor, courtier, or guard was left without orders to retreat to their chambers or homes. Tamlin speared his magic into the earth, as well, feeling it run through the root systems as if they were city streets, sending a message along the subterranean network. The lilies would spread word to any gardeners or sprites that remained in the floral courtyard. While he couldn't—or perhaps didn't want to—imagine Rhysand killing innocent citizens on sight, Tamlin simply couldn't risk it. If the Night Lord was on a mission, it was Tamlin's duty to ensure that nobody got in his way.

Except for himself. He was tired of fighting, just as he had been then, when Rhysand had come and stuck no talons but verbal ones into Tamlin's weakened form. But unlike then, he now had other people to consider—members of his hired Court both new and returning, who joined him despite the low valley of malaise he'd barely slogged out of in one piece. He would stand in Rhysand's way if it meant keeping them safe. He would fight if he had to.

He made it to the massive front doors right as he heard the locks click open, magic forcing the pins into place, heavy and dark and familiar.

Before Rhys could open the door, Tamlin declared, "You are not welcome here, High Lord."

An audible pause. Rhys had stopped trying to open the door.

"That's not what you said last time," came a husky, low voice.

Taglist (let me know if you want on or off!):

@baileybird71 @pippsmcgee @molcat07 @amalhe-koffee @secret-third-thing @jules-writes-stories @the-darkestminds @iftheshoef1tz @talibunny30 @g00seg1rl @queercontrarian @buffy-vanserra @vanserraoxygen @ejkreader @wovendreamscapes @chunkypossum @brunetterebel010 @disney-acotar-hp @wrraccountant @makinglongwordsslutty @irithiadourden @bloodyplunder @shadowsandlint @thesourcabbage @futurehunt @nus4y @donnadiddadog

#tamsand #so good so hot and then it made me cry #which is everything i want from smut tbh

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