I will never understand why this fandom abhors crackships. Like this is a series about faerie smut. You’d think crackships and multishipping would be the standard but nooo. That’s SACRILEGE and PROBLEMATIC and anyone who partakes in crackships is an ABUSE SYMPATHIZER. (That sounds fucking stupid, doesn’t it? That’s what some of you deadass sound like.)
We got people writing essays and attacking other people and sending DEATH THREATS for liking Rhysta and Neslin and Tamsand and Nyxlin (and bffr, nobody is genuinely shipping Tamlin with a literal baby ffs).
This fandom is so fucking vanilla and boring with how obsessed everyone is with canon and how so many people praise purity culture. Y’all are weird, sorry not sorry 🫶🏼
FIC 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.
CHAPTER SUMMARY: Old man yells at clouds.
In honour of @polysjmweek, I've updated my Tamlin x Beron x Elain fic. This chapter fit so perfectly for Who's Court is it Anyway?
TWs: Depression, suicide, threats of violence and Beron being a misogynist.
TAGS: @olenvasynyt guess who's back!!
READ ON AO3 OR BELOW THE CUT.
“Go away.”
“I will not.”
Elain shuffles away, increasing the sounds of her sweeping in hopes of drowning out the irritating shade looming behind her. The Faerie is loud and obnoxious. He has complaints for every single step of the way.
“I will throw you out if you refuse to go peacefully.”
Another minute, another threat. She wonders how long he can go for, and what variety of promised danger he can come up with. Surely, he’ll give up eventually. Then again, Elain ponders the quite tangible possibility that he could complain forever and simply wait out her mortal lifetime. That won’t do.
At the very least, her furry fellows have come to her aid. They give her the tools she needs to begin her mission to clean up, and they are more than happy to help her accomplish it. The fox holds the sweeping tray, and the bushy-tailed squirrel wiggles its but to push the dust into it. The owl with eyes made of light pulls ribbons of curtain back on their rods, and straightens frames hung high for no other creatures can reach these heights. The raccoon is the only one who hasn’t taken up arms to rebuild its home. Instead, it contemplates the merits of biting this angry fae’s ankles. In its own way, Elain still considers this leagues more helpful than the incessant complaining.
The male opens his mouth and Elain turns on her heel. She clutches the broom to her chest and manages her best impression of her elder sister before he can say anything.
“Who is the head of this household?” Her voice is closer to a chirp, but she keeps her brow furrowed in a disapproving scowl. “Is this your manor?”
The Lord of Sunlight, as she has named him in her mind, looks aghast. For a moment, he seems to reject the idea of ruling over this rubble, but thinks better of it. “I am the current regent until its proper owner has time to… gather himself.”
“Look at this mess! Are you not ashamed to leave this home in shambles?” Elain shoves the broom into his chest, half bracing herself of fiery retaliation that does not come. “Even the animals are helping.”
“Are you saying that I am no better than an animal?” He bares his teeth.
“No! You’re worse! Now, if you want to prove that you’re better, help.”
Her heart hammers in her chest, and her cheeks flush. Elain has never been so demanding in her life, much less towards someone of seemingly higher status. The Archeron family has lost everything, but the one thing her sisters taught her is that no one can take away their dignity. They care for their worn down shack with pride, and wear their hand-me-downs with their heads high. This manor may not be hers, but it belongs to someone, and if her assumptions are right, that someone is in pain and deserves dignity as well. She is nervous about retaliation, but she holds his amber gaze in hers. Feyre and Nesta would be proud—after the initial shock, of course.
“I don’t have to prove anything to you, mortal. You do not belong here.”
“Perhaps not,” she says, finding a wicker basket and picking up larger pieces of shattered ceramic. She places them on the towel inside her basket. It’ll be easier to toss out this way. “But I will not leave until we have restored some sense into this place. Ouch!”
A hiss between fangs, and the broom clatters to the floor. “Idiot woman,” the Lord of Sunshine snaps, kneeling by her side. “Do you humans forget how fragile you are? Picking up shards with your flimsy fingers.” He takes her hand in hers, staring at the blood beading on her fingertip from the small cut there. With a single motion, the pieces on the floor burn to ash and he motions to the creatures to clean up.
“I’m fine,” Elain snatches her fingers back. “You care a lot for someone who wishes to throw me out forcefully.”
When he smiles, it’s a sinister, dangerous thing; his smile elicits the urge to run within her, like a predator looking down on easy, easy prey.
“Of course, I should be the one to break you into little pieces and scatter you at the Wall as a cautionary tale to your kin. I would not let some inanimate object rob me of that pleasure.”
“You are vile!”
“And you are nothing but a human breeding bitch.”
In the entirety of her life, all twenty-two years, Elain has never heard something so horrible uttered to her. She has heard of the punishment of criminals in the village square or the death of hunters when they wander too close to the North, but all of those tales were second hand and filtered for her delicate ears. Still, she will not balk in the face of danger. Instead, she tears a piece of her already ruined nightgown and ties it around her finger without the help of this villain. She has done it many times before for her little sister’s cuts and bruises, and she can bear the small prick of pain. Elain has pricked her fingers countless times while sewing her family’s clothes back together.
He laughs at her bravery, but Archerons are nothing if not steadfast. Elain huffs, and tips her chin up.
“You are tasked with cleaning this hall, and I will make sure the kitchen is in order.”
“You do not order me around, mortal.”
“Then perhaps this house deserves to have a more reliable regent!” She turns on her heel, stealing the last word in this conversation. She prays that he will not follow.
***
Humans are strange. Insane. They lack self-preservation and there is a chance that they do not live in this reality. In what world does a High Lord , much less one of Beron’s lineage, bend down to a mortal? She does not know their ways; her methods are eternally slow and so… menial. He can barely remember a time when he had human servants. His were tasked with staying out of sight, they made no sound and were perfectly absent from his world. Perhaps Beron was simply too high in rank to ever need to cross paths with a filthy mortal, or perhaps humans have nurtured too much foolish pride without the threat of something bigger, better and stronger to keep them in line.
He glares at her back, pondering the merits of setting her aflame with a mere thought. Her white nightgown would spark at the hem, flaring up to where it hugs her hips and where the rain has not-quite dried, revealing to him the similarities between human women and faeries. The shape is the same, though more curvaceous than lithe. Would it take longer for fire to devour the soft lines of her body? Would it swallow her thick curls of hair in an instant? With a mouth like hers, oh, he thinks he could make her sing.
The broom snaps in his hands. “She is stupid,” he laments to the crowd of vermin that were… just here? Did they all follow her? “Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.”
Beron considers summoning his staff here for a moment, but he cannot—he will not—allow anyone to witness the weakness displayed here. His generals will mount a takeover, insisting that the Autumn Count can only benefit from the expansion of their borders. They will see Tamlin’s pain and swarm like vultures, just the way he trained them to. Stupid, stupid , he berates himself while pinching the bridge of his nose.
Now, if only he could recall the spellweaving lessons he’d had when he was nothing more than a fireling. A simple cleaning enchantment, anyone can do that, can’t they?
“Rain, rain, before you go away, come and wash away this decay,” Beron drones, moving with barely-remembered rune signs to bid the magic of this Court to obey him.
Nothing happens.
For a long moment.
A small rumble picks up and windows begin to tremble. Lightning booms and shatters the windows, flooding the hall with rain and storm. It soaks him to the bone, and he can barely see clearly, no matter how many times he wipes his eyes.
“I didn’t mean that fucking literally! ” Beron shouts at the clouds. He hates this court. He really does.
***
The chaos from downstairs reaches him. His ears twitch involuntarily, listening to life bloom within the walls of his manor. It hurts, like a sharp knife twisted in his heart and his gut, to see how the world continues without them : without his mother who curated this home with precious things of joy and luxury, each one containing a memory within them—each one shattering audibly the night his heart was broken without him—, without his brother who lived in controlled chaos of healing and research, leaving books lining every surface of the manor without a care and without his other brother who loved him in quiet ways that only he could understand beneath that warrior’s exterior. As for his father… For all the things that his father was, Tamlin misses him too.
Their bodies are beginning to show signs of death. Perfumes fade, and the blood dries, giving way to other odours. He should bury them, but he cannot bring himself to. He cannot bring himself to move or to care about what happens next; he just wants to be left alone. Maybe if he closes his eyes, the chaos in the basement will go away.
Boom , and a crash of glass raining on the ground.
Tamlin yearns to rot with his family, but whatever is going on downstairs is ruining the precious tomb that his father built. He cannot let the desecration go, but this will be the last thing he does. He will cast them out, preserve his family’s final memory and die with them.
***
Beron is wet, and he bristles like a cat who abhors being wet. Rather than fur standing on end, warmth bursts from him, drying his borrowed clothes and setting things right again. His auburn hair puffs up from the humidity, turning neat, cropped curls into a rounded tuft of hair. While the enchantment backfired (horribly), the Hall is pristine. The water swept away all the debris and carried it right out the broken front doors. All that is left is to do is to dry the curtains and the rugs—
“Get out.”
He knows that voice anywhere, except the roughness that lines his tone is different than the one he’s used to. Beron turns on his heel, and tries to smile. (It turns into a baring of teeth, he knows no delicate ways.) He spreads his hands out to welcome him.
“Good, you’re up. We have much to do.”
“Get out.”
Tamlin’s voice rises, and it trembles with pain? Anger? Grief? All unimportant feelings to the task at hand, which is strengthening his Court before the other lords catch wind of this or worse, the Night Court returns.
“You need help, Tamlin. I understand something terrible has happened to you.” Beron knows that feeling. He truly does. The ways of the Autumn Court decree that he kill all other potential heirs, or competitors to the seat of the High Lord if he wanted to ascend. Beron killed his father, his sister and her husband. Something snapped within him when he broke them, but he moved on. Tamlin will too. The Spring Lord is not worth losing.
He’s a good ally , Beron insists to himself.
A strong Lord, he is forced to admit.
It’s the sex. Yes, that must be it.
Those are the only reasons why he is trying so hard, so he stretches his patience as far as it can go.
“Let me get rid of the human, and if you need time, I will watch over your court until you are better. Do not let yourself waste away for too long, you’ll get in the habit of,” Beron chooses his words carefully and waves his hand. “Rotting.”
“Get out!” Tamlin roars with barely contained power, rattling the entire manor. “Get out of my lands! Get away from me! Leave and never come back.”
“Hmm, no.”
Rage spills freely from Tamlin, and Beron shifts from petulant to high alert. He didn’t think—he didn’t realize the inheritance the Spring Son was left with. Celyddon had always spoken of his youngest as a weakling, lacking the drive of his eldest and the clear brilliance of his second son. Tamlin was a baby in his eyes that needed coddling and constant direction. He belittled him time and time again. Beron knew he was wrong. He knew that Tamlin was the best of the three, but he simply lacked the motivation to display his prowess.
Goddess , he swears, barely dodging the swipe of Tamlin’s claws, already shifting towards his beastly form. His aura is oppressive, making it hard for Beron to breathe in his presence. That power needs to be leashed.
To think, Tamlin’s predecessor was one of the fiercest warmongers in Prythian—the reason why Hybern lasted so long against the droves of the Night Court—and yet, Beron sees how clearly Tamlin surpasses him. Tamlin’s father hadn’t been dismissive, he’d been afraid , just like every High Lord in the face of their own sons.
Another attempt to strike him, and Beron is forced to winnow across the room, a blazing ball of fire.
“If I leave, you will be alone. No one will protect you. They will come and take your Court!”
“I don’t care!”
One day, Beron will understand why he is surrounded by stupidity, but until then, he will have to counter Tamlin’s stubbornness with his own reasonable determination.
“Then, give me your Court!”
Tamlin pauses, looking at Beron for an eternal moment. He seems to weigh the option. “Alright.”
“Alright?”
“The Spring Court is yours. I don’t care. Just leave me alone.”
Beron stills, and feels the way his heart picks up. Will he have to kill his ally? Right here? Right now? Worse, will Tamlin kill himself and hope that the transfer of power obeys his wishes? Beron isn’t… ready for that. He doesn’t want that.
“Wait,” he chokes out. “Just give me time. Temporary regency while I figure out what should be done here.”
Tamlin waves his hand, wanting to be left out of it. “Leave me alone. Leave my mother’s things the way she left them.” He is tired, and his words weigh heavy on all those who hear it, even the little mortal mouse who’s suddenly made her way back from the kitchens.
The ACOTAR fandom PISSED ME OFF ENOUGH that I'm writing Tamberlain because fuck you guys I'm gonna make Tamlin and Elain and Beron THE HAPPIEST MOST TOXIC THRUPLE EVER AND YOU KNOW WHAT IT HAS NO REFLECTION ON MY MORAL COMPASS FUCK YOU-
