#carmasi

I was recently reminded of a fun fact that no one ever acknowledge.

I have a controversial comment.

like my comments aren't already controversial.

Anyway.

at the garden under the mountain. I re read that, and saw Tamlin leading Feyre somewhere before he kissed her. Now, TAMLIN SHOULD'VE STOP WHATEVER WAS HAPPENING, but let me look at this.

"I torn up his shirt", "I torn up the buckle and removed the leather" " I wrapped a leg around his middle"

Uhm... this was all Feyre's, and I REALLY don't want to be that person who says male's are carnal creatures.. but; They are. We don't know If Tamlin was indeed going to find a way to have her scape, because that's not explain, he could've really just being looking for a quickie, and I WON'T say we will never know, because that's what we're made to believe and what is shown, cause, again he did kissed her.. but kiss isn't inheritan sensual... Rather it was the actions that followed after the kiss that made things sexual, actions taken by Feyre.

Tamlin isn't even growling at Rhys when he found them, Rhys even called him "sensible" FOR NOT making a scene, and simply walking away.

Because ACOTAR book 1 was less exciting and was originally listed as a YA novel, a lot of people gravitate more toward Book 2 and on.

Book 1 had the classic retelling feel and vibe, where there is a curse, which needs to be cure, the broody man who's never known love or has no idea how to flirt but suddenly he has to flirt with the Heroine who slowly learn about his softer side through his actions. which is all well and done and good but it lack the spice that laters books gave the audience, the stake, the badassery that Feyre displays.

We see Feyre kill a wolf and then we don't see anymore until the last 3 chapters, and they all feel rush. Its good but it doesn't evoke all these emotions in the audience that later books did.

Then come book 2, and we start with a discourse, we start talking about Her not being well and her partner not paying attention to her, immediately we have an emotion - rage, indignation— Then we move to the kidnapping, where we are introduce with yet another emotions — desperation and relief - from none other than Feyre, and she found these with someone other than her current partner

Not even halfway through the book and we're already been filled with angst, we as readers are made to forget about what happened less than 3 month in the pass, and the repercussions of those events, we're made to forget the male we love on book one is now dealing with a full plate he's struggling to balance, but we are not told or shown this property. We're only being guided into a tunnel were only the Heroine struggles exist.

then we're introduce to something we haven't seen before, something we only saw with Lucien and Feyre however brief. The banter, the comedic relief, The flirtatious jokes, the tension we never had during book one becaused remember, Book one male character isn't suppose to know how to do those things. But now we're hooked because we're presented with a man that is both attractive and will make us laugh.

Suddenly we forget about what this new male hero true purpose is, forget about the wrong doings he's done to the female heroine because we're being lead into a tunnel where all we see is one trait, and forget about the rest. To the point where we're okay with him forcing things onto the heroine because "Is good for her" and studently he know what's best for her. Yet he is still forcing her. (most of you all would flip if a man told you what to do)

This banter, now goes on for 4 books, it got you now, it won't leave so so slowly we let this man do things that we would never accept from anyone else. Thing that we're condemning Hero no 1 for doing.

Hero 1 never S.A. anyone - Hero 2 did; you could say hero one bit her on the hall, last I remember she told him to do it. where as she refuse hero 2 until she was coarse into a deal of incidence.

Hero 2 never locked her up against her will - Hero 1 did ; he locked her up to "protect her" and that was wrong and while it is different hero 2 did put her on a bubble. to protect her.

Hero 1 lie to her to make a bargain and take her away and break his curse - Hero 2 did too but his bargain was one of lust but is portray as a act of kindness to help her escape torture (like wtf?)

Hero 2 lie to her multiple times, about her safety - Hero 1 didn't hide things from her other than the curse.

Hero 2 put her in danger to retrieve a ring - hero 1 gave her a emerald ring.

Hero 2 throw her to the lions dent and had her do all sort of dangerous thing for the sake of the land - Hero 1 said - go back home I will rather you be safe than break this curse.

A series of short Stories to heal the beast beneath the face of the high lord. Soo to be follow by an illustration. While I draw I like to think about what the story behind this drawing is. Sometimes the illustrations don’t pan out like I want them but the stories always help paint the  full picture.

TamlinxOc

I was told he was happy once, filled with joy and life. I was told he played and danced, his face lighting up with the firelights. I yearned to see that if only once. I was his now, and he was mine. Yet pain still lurked in the shadows, inside the corner of his eyes. I hear it sometimes; I hear his fiddle cry. Night when he thinks no one's watching, but I do. I watch him through the threshold of his study. I listen to the melancholy sound of the strings under the moonlight. Those green, emerald eyes filled a longing I am afraid I am still too afraid of describe, but still here I am.

Sometimes I want to walk in, want to be the person he plays his song for, but deep down I know I am not.  He plays for himself, for the pain, and for the loss, for whom he was before, and who he wishes to be once more. So, I stand here behind these doors, listening to the music within his soul, until morning comes and the music is no more.

The strings stop their crying, and I open the double doors. My eyes search for his own. He looks surprised but his surprise only meets my smile.  I reached out to him to the fiddle he hold close to his heart. The wood smooth and worn, an instrument well loved.  “play” I asked “play as much as you want” thought he seemed surprised, I wish he could see what was in my heart.  To me he wasn’t the high lord, he was just Tam.  He needn’t hide who he truly was from my eyes, becaused I loved every part.

A series of short Stories to heal the beast beneath the face of the high lord. Soon to be followed by an illustration.

Disclaimer : While I draw I like to think about what the story behind this drawing is. Sometimes the illustrations don’t pan out like I want them but the stories always help paint the  full picture. ps: day 1,2 and 3 drawing will drop tuesday (hopefully) @tamlinweek

Tamlin x Oc - Curse of a broken heart

He was a recurring ghost on my path, a shadow keeping beat with my stride. I had seen him before, folded into himself, nursing a private lament that tasted of old salt and rot. He sat like a wounded creature waiting for a mercy blow; a tragic sight for a man who had once loved so fiercely he wore blinders to the world, seeing only what he cherished and what he wished to keep close.

They say if you treat a soul like a beast, it will eventually grow the claws to match. Yet, he was no monster. He was a High Lord masquerading animal, or perhaps a High Lord terrified he was nothing more than another beast  fear within these words. It pulled at me, this strange, silent alchemy of how a male could fall from the grace of his people’s hearts into the cold dirt of their distruth.

I have begun to haunt the forest as often as he does, my basket heavy with the scent of warm freestyle bake bread. To an outsider, the scene is unremarkable. There is no Great Prophecy left to fulfill, no ancient curse to shatter, yet a persistent gloom chokes the Spring Court like hemlock; ask the villagers, and they wouldn’t dare deny it.  They dare not speak of it either.

Sometimes, I think we were better off when we were truly cursed. At least then, our High Lord was a sentinel, a dutiful watcher. Now, as I leave my bread behind and retreat into the trees, I realize he is still under a spell.

It is not a blight upon the soil or a plague upon the blood. It is a slow, debilitating erosion that my remedies cannot touch and my loaves cannot nourish. It is a curse that devours from the marrow outward, for it is not born of magic, but of a heart that simply stopped knowing how to beat for itself.

For as many times as I was reminded his heart had turned to stone, for each time I was told he could no longer feel love. I told myself;  even stones gave up, even stones washed off if the river was washed them enough, even stone broke when treated poorly,  even stone can be turned to glass and shattered with enough time.  

A series of short Stories to heal the beast beneath the face of the high lord. Soon to be followed by an illustration. Boy these keep longer every time.

Disclaimer : While I draw I like to think about what the story behind this drawing is. Sometimes the illustrations don’t pan out like I want them but the stories always help paint the full picture. @tamlinweek

Illustrations are now delay until saturday my drawing tablet die (hopefully)

Tamlin x Oc - The Scent of Spring

It hadn’t been long since he stopped roaming the woods like a ghost, finally finding the strength to shed the skin of the beast. He liked to tell himself it was his own willpower that brought him back, but he knew better. After Rhysand’s words left him a hollow husk, and after finding Eris trespassing in his court, he had been ready to surrender to the dirt. Only a few threads held him to this world. There was Lucien, who continued to check on him despite the weight of his own new roles, a friendship that was the last standing pillar of his old life. He thought of this as he strode through the trees: a Lord whose people mistrusted him, whose court was stained by resentment. But then, there was her.

The female who had haunted the Spring woods these last years. She didn’t smell of the court’s decay; she smelled of cinnamon, clove, and sweet vanilla. She had looked upon him without the flinch of fear or the curl of disgust. She was patient. She was kind. She brought baskets filled with delights and healing salves, wandering through the brambles with bare feet as if she were a part of the earth itself.

He found himself walking toward a small village to the south, bordering the Autumn line. He was drawing a blank on his destination, his feet simply following a pull in his soul until he stood before a modest tea shop. As he pushed inside, he was enveloped by the scent of freshly baked bread and the sharp, clean tang of medicine. Behind the counter stood a woman with a crown of dark brown curls. The intoxicating scent of vanilla and spice thickened in the air. As she turned, he recognized the warmth of her tan skin and the soft red of her lips.

“You…” he breathed, the word catching in his throat.

She met his eyes and did not waver. She didn’t scream or flee; instead, her gaze swept over him with a quiet recognition that felt like a homecoming. She stepped from behind the counter, her movements fluid and sure, and guided him to a small, empty table. In that quiet shop, as the steam rose from the tea she served and her scent overwhelmed his senses, the truth finally broke through the ice. He realized then that she was his, and he had been hers long before he knew her name. A smile, rare and true, tugged at his lips.

"My Rose," he whispered.

A series of short Stories to heal the beast beneath the face of the high lord. Soon to be followed by an illustration. Boy these keep longer every time.

Disclaimer : While I draw I like to think about what the story behind this drawing is. Sometimes the illustrations don’t pan out like I want them but the stories always help paint the  full picture.

ps1 : Someone said that the ring was his mother's but I couldn't find any references of the emerald ring being his mother's. So I went with "Lady of this court ring"

ps 2: Illustrations are now delay my drawing tablet die (hopefully) @tamlinweek

Tamlin x Oc - The Loom of New Memories

I have been his for the better half of this year. In that time, I’ve marveled at the slow resurrection of his smile and the way he rediscovered how to love and trust. There are days when the air feels heavy; shadows of the past do not make our path easy. Yet, he is here, and he is still mine.

It was mid-afternoon when the sound reached me—a fractured cry that stole the breath from my lungs. With wide eyes, I strode down the manor hall, my heart hammering against my ribs in fear of what I might find. He had to be okay. I prayed to the Mother, to the Cauldron, and to any power in this world that might be listening.

I stopped at the threshold, the air caught in my throat. He wasn't crying, but if not a cry, what was that sound? I knocked softly to announce myself. He looked up, sprawled on the floor of his study, surrounded by chests of overflowing gold and tangled jewelry. His hair was ruffled, just a little, and the sight of his disarray made a small giggle escape me. He was his best self when he let the mask slip—when he tore those high walls down and let the world in. I was simply grateful he had let me in.

I knelt beside him, my gaze searching his. “Tam?” I murmured, reaching for his hand. The contact was grounding, a silent language we had learned together. My face must have betrayed my worry, for his expression shifted the moment our fingers interlaced.

“What are you doing?” I managed a breathless laugh. He squeezed my hand, pressing his cheek into my palm with a heavy sigh.

“It is not enough,” he whispered, his voice a broken breath. I nodded, silent, waiting for the rest. His bottom lip quivered as his thumb traced the line of my knuckle, as if he were terrified to give voice to his thoughts.

“Tell me,” I encouraged, settling onto the floor at his side.

“You are mine,” he began, his voice dropping an octave. “My lady, my love —my light, my spring.” The words were sweet, as they always are, but now, there seems to be  a bitterness to them. “And yet, I cannot give you the one thing I truly want to.”

I rested my head on his shoulder, watching his thumb play across my skin. “What is that? You’ve already given me everything I could possibly want.”

He shook his head, a shadow of grief fogging his emerald eyes. He bit his lip and brushed his hair back with a restless hand. “It’s gone… taken… destroyed.”

There it was—the source of that hollow sound. I shifted, cupping his face in both my hands to draw his focus back. “Whatever it is, I’ll help you find it. We’ll restore it, fix it. It can’t be so broken that we can't try.”

His gaze met mine, filled with a crushing appreciation, yet the sadness remained. “My Rose… you can’t.” He moved his hands to my waist, pulling me closer until I was straddling his lap. “My family’s heirloom—the symbol of Spring’s love. It went with her. The ring meant for the Lady of this court is gone.”

I let out a soft chuckle, but when I saw his brow furrow, I realized he didn't find it funny. I softened my voice. “Heirlooms can be anything you want them to be, Tam. As long as they are tended with care and given with love. You and I? We can make our own heirlooms. New memories. Special things meant only for you and I.”

I looked around the scattered treasure, my eyes landing on a delicate gold locket. “This,” I said, picking it up, “this could become an heirloom right now!”

He looked skeptical, his eyes searching mine as if he didn't quite understand the idea of starting over. I didn't say another word; instead, I took a small lock of my dark brown curls and tucked it carefully inside the golden casing.

“Here,” I whispered, holding it out between us. “How about we start here?”

Understanding finally broke across his features, and he bloomed into that smile I love so deeply. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pressing his forehead into the curve of my shoulder.