#*tamgenia

when you show up to the oral fixation competition but your opponents r these 2 :/

what can be said in defense of the rabbit who does not flee, who does not even freeze—but instead forces her way between the jaws of the wolf and prays he will eat gently of her brazenness? [ . . . ] in defense of the rabbit: the wolf, with its thick fur and generous tongue, eats always more tenderly than the viper.

meanwhile tamlin is sweating because obviously the magic is going to make him act on his clamant and undeniable want for iphigenia, much the same as it tried to with feyre. obviously she knows this of him because like lucien she is incredibly perceptive and when he’s around her his every muscle and every tendon strains with the effort it takes not to touch her and know her and have her. obviously this is why she’s been acting so weird around him since she found out and not really meeting his eye and being snippy with him in that airy autumn fae way where they think they’re being so subtle and so clever and so double-spoken but their meaning is completely plain to him. the magic of the land is going to choose, and he knows it is going to choose iphigenia, and she is uncomfortable with it.

tamlin who is right. tamlin who is out of his mind with the power of spring flooding his psyche and alights on her the moment he enters the cave. tamlin who cannot think of anything other than her, than her touch on his neck and her legs around his waist and her thighs in his palms, than her skin beneath the dress he’s tearing to shreds, than the heat of her pressed against his navel and the scent of her in his nose, hope and renewal, the clouds parting over the horizon. tamlin who sees her eyes shining and stops dead in his tracks even though it hurts, even though his muscles scream, even though the land howls and he cannot form words beyond its noise.

i am no maiden, she whispers, tearful, shaken.

and tamlin could split the land in two and cast all of autumn between to hear her say it. he clutches her tightly to him, his claws out but unpiercing, his fangs long, his pupils blown. he has never been good with his words, never known the right thing to say or the right way to say it, and it is even worse now, now that the magic knows there is nothing to stop him, no reason for him not to take what is—

mine, he growls at her.

oh baby baby this comes up in renascence! i’m going to be so brave and write canon characters i have no voice for but i will be safe in the limited pov of iphigenia so i will not crash out<3

but generally speaking—not well! as azriel’s spies report spring’s borders being better defended, towns rebuilding, intercourt trade picking back up, feysand are both like 🤨 it isn’t long after that word of the autumn female comes, then that they arrange to get more information about her/even arrange to see her. because they don’t trust her, of course! she must be a spy, a ploy, a honeypot. they don’t trust tamlin either. is he mistreating her? is he suffocating her like he suffocated feyre? but then … nope! they just love each other. they’re just mindful with each other; they just move forward informed by regrets of the past so they don’t repeat old cycles but instead navigate new ones together. their journeys just came at the perfect time to heal one another—and with themselves, the spring court as well.

feyre especially has feelings of like—why was i not worth trying for in that way? why could he not have been that for me? tough thing to share with your mate who you’re happy with, so i think it goes largely unspoken between feysand, but they share a brain so rhys obviously Knows. they naturally have sex about it. for rhys i think it’s more the homoerotic resentment that comes of tamlin moving on finding happiness after what was done to feyre + to his family. it makes rhys feel good when tamlin is suffering—it makes him feel like the better male. it’s hard to maintain a better-than posturing when your opp is a golden adonis with flowers sighing his name and his new female is 1) so otherworldly beautiful she caught the eye of not one but two high lords 2) a match for any verbal/intellectual sparring thrown her way 3) just as ready to post up on behalf of her mans as he is for her

i also feel like most of the courts are willing to accept tamlin back into the fold far easier than they were with rhysand. not autumn or night obviously but definitely summer (tarquin is pragmatic with a good heart) and winter (if nothing else, kallias hates night so much as to treat with tamlin just to spite rhysand)—a little tougher in dawn (Neutral Court™ might look down on tamlin going undercover with hybern?) and day (secret ally with night) but not impossible by any means. they know tamlin was put into an impossible situation by amarantha and there are still resentments, especially about his subsequent crashout, but they also know tamlin is a good male—was a fair ruler—could be both again. genia being of autumn raises some brows and some suspicions (lying with the enemy again, tamlin? kallias drawls. tamlin would have foregone the entire meeting had iphigenia not surreptitiously touched his forearm and said, those are more the dealings of the solar courts, are they not, high lord?) but with this DIME PIECE at his side things go much more smoothly. so there’s definitely resentment there as well from rhys. how quickly everyone forgets what he’s done, he murmurs to feyre. she says, we haven’t. we won’t. meanwhile they’re still facing opposition and suspicion and even outright hostility for his 500 years worth of Evil Guy masking + utm activities.

How would Genia react to this though is a bit hard to conceptualize. Would you tell me about your beloved?

every time i’m reminded she Exists for other people i literally turn into this emoji 🥺 i’m not even kidding that’s a real life actual picture taken of me after reading this ask

let me seeee—i think ultimately a very big part of her character once she’s a mother is ensuring her children grow up with the agency and autonomy that was taken from her. (her son doesn’t want to hug you right now. no you may not hug him anyway, nor make him feel bad for not wanting to hug you. no she will not encourage him to hug you to spare your feelings.) i think she’s very much the type of parent who explains things in full to her children and does her best to teach them how to make good choices for themselves, then allows them to use those tools to make their own choices as adolescents -> adults.

i’m imagining this almost like ana and elsa in frozen lfmfksndfj older son is coming into his powers and is wanting to play or show off to younger child. tamlin has warned him not to but not really explained why, maybe too busy—but as a crunchier alternative, maybe his son’s powers involve shifting into a beast or smth that he fosters some deep shame about (beast lord, anger issues, etc.) which activates that wound in him like it hasn’t been in a long long time (s/o genia<333) so he’s pretty terse about just being like: don’t practice without me. but younger sibling is so excited! so interested! he shifts too close and— blood blood there’s so much blood mama papa help

probably i’d say genia is the one to say it to tamlin: he didn’t understand. he didn’t understand. tamlin is blaming himself, but genia is blaming nobody. (not even herself. she doesn’t really have that brand of trauma.) she knows why tamlin was putting off training this magic in their son; she knows their son was only excited and new to his magic; she knows their younger child was only excited, too. i think for her the crashout is more the unfairness of it all. she has worked so hard to be unlike her parents—to keep her children informed—to make sure they know how to make good and smart choices. it isn’t fair; it isn’t fair that her child with the male she loves might be lost anyway; it isn’t fair that their son will have to suffer the burden of it. she has lost so much of herself and rebuilt herself anew from that—must she lose her baby now, too?

There is little to be heard inside these chambers. Though the hearthflame whispers and rustles in the unheard language of its ancient tongue, it is needless of wood to sustain it: no snapping, no hissing. Any servants who might be scurrying through the walls are busied tending guests of import and too well-trained to impose their presence besides. Hosted at such a distance in the sprawling keep, the noise of the banquet carries not.

Iphigenia despises being left alone like this, trapped in the unbroken quiet that breeds a clamorous mind. She reaches beyond her keening thoughts, into a long-forgotten dream, into the hazy memories of a life once known.

This late in the eve, the tables will have been cleared of fare and wetted through with spilled drink. Candlewax will have splattered onto the silken table runners, themselves red like overripe pomes, skin split and leaking out, or else the deep purple of fading injury. Back when she could attend such an event, fae would not have been so bold as to steal away with one another even in private, but here, in this rancorous keep, the alcoves will already be writhing with sweat-slick bodies and stinking of the pleasure taken from them with hand and teeth.

Her eyes begin to prickle, then blur over with tears. She blinks these away before they can spill—but the burning remains, spreading further down her throat and into her lungs.

Smoke, Iphigenia realizes belatedly. There is smoke filling the room.

She frowns through the accumulating haze and over to the hearth, but the fire there flickers pure. It is as she toes into her slippers to locate the source that the smoke gathers thicker to itself. The tall silhouette of a male is unmistakable in its cloying depths.

Her stomach drops.

Only the court’s spymaster is known to possess such abilities and have permission to use them within the confines of the Forest House. She has never met the male, but she knows the displeasure he elicits in his father as a forceful thrust past her tongue, as a grip tight in her hair. She has seen the throat-bobbing fear of the females he selects for a night, then witnessed the aftermath of him on their naked bodies: handprint bruises and bloodied teethmarks, blackened eyes and swollen mouths.

It takes force to leave such lasting marks on a fae. It takes rage. It takes hate.

Iphigenia lowers at once into a curtsy, her head bowed, her eyes downcast. She fixes her gaze on the point of his shoes as they materialize, a spot which she has found to be safe on any male. Firelight flickers balefully back at her in the shine of them.

Emile Vanserra does not speak in his approach, so neither does she. Nor is she foolish enough to rise until he has given her leave.

Even in her periphery, he cuts an imposing figure. The fineness of his dress is austere and understated. He does not embellish himself with anything more than gilded embroidery along the trim of his doublet, a fashion plucked from the frame of Lord Eris. On his hand of flesh, he bears only his signet ring and his marriage ring. She does not let her attention drift to his hand of metal, though neither does she make her avoidance apparent.

The acrid bite of smoke threatens to seize her chest.

At length, he says, “Let me see your face.” Hours spent deep in a cup muddle his words through. He must have been in attendance at the feast.

Iphigenia straightens up and lifts her chin, dutifully ignoring the unsteady of her pulse.

His mouth is the High Lord’s when she lifts her eyes to it, and it curls with disdain in just the same way. He snorts. “Father always has preferred his whores to look like his lady wife. Funny, that.”

So Iphigenia has often heard whispered in her wake, though she has never laid eyes on the Lady of Autumn herself.

Emile steps closer, close enough that Iphigenia can smell the brimstone and ash of him, close enough that his body heat gropes at the thin, sheer fabric of her peignoir. If only it were the corseting of a lady, holding her tight, keeping her safe; if only she might scold his impropriety and storm for the door at the intrusion of him in her chambers.

She stands, and she waits.

“Are you without a tongue?” he rebukes. “I cannot imagine you maintain father’s favor absent one.”

“Beg pardon, Lord Emile,” Iphigenia replies. She gestures behind her, where an ornate flagon rests atop a small table near the bedside. “May I pour you a glass of wine?”

Perhaps he will drink of it and swoon, long enough that his father will seek her out and rebuke him upon being found in the same room as her—though it is just as likely she will suffer these consequences in kind and will have to soothe the High Lord of his anger.

It would be worth it.

Emile considers a moment, then waves a dismissive hand. The metal one, heavy and punishing in its arc through the air. “It would only go to waste,” he says. “Father has need of you.”

Odd that a son would then be sent, seeing as only females are permitted to prepare her for his use, and even that is done under his watchful eye, for his pleasure.

All the same, Iphigenia lilts, “Of course.” She takes a step towards the door, eager to overlook the strangeness of his arrival if it only means she can be free of his presence. “Shall I go to him now?”

Emile eats up the space she won between them. “Tonight, it would please him for you to entertain one of our esteemed guests.”

Iphigenia’s brow dips.

The others, she has heard, are enlisted to these tasks by any with the coin to sway them, especially those without the security of a well-positioned lord or lady. They set pleasure herbs in the hanging braziers and fill goblets so that they never empty. Long accustomed to such vices themselves, the lush of their bodies distracts easily from the threat of their minds. Information is drawn out as simply as a moan, then echoed back to whoever requested it.

But this is only what she has heard, for the High Lord does not share that which belongs to him.

Earlier this night, while the others were perfumed and rouged and ornamented for presentation to those attending the banquet, she was instructed to keep to her chambers so that there could be no doubt to him that she would remain untouched. All of his immediate cortege in Autumn know who she belongs to, but it would insult his lady greatly if he were to claim Iphigenia as his own before visitors beyond their court. So here she has waited, his pretty petal, perfectly preserved for his plucking—and his alone.

“The High Lord requested me by name, highness?”

Emile’s smile does not reach his eyes. “The whore is plenty clear, don’t you think?”

Shame reddens her cheeks as would the back of a hand.

With rapt attention, he watches the color bloom in the wake of his blow, a youngling marveling at a fireworm macerated and luminescent underfoot, just before he seeks out the next to see if its spectacular death will entertain him the same.

Floundering: “And—he was asking after me? A task such as this might s—”

“Father is not the only lord you answer to,” Emile snaps.

The words splatter Iphigenia like bile, acidic and foul. She startles first at the force of them, then the sting as they settle into her skin.

But she knew from the moment of his arrival, did she not? The wrongness of it, the strangeness. The High Lord did not send him for her.

This wayward son is here of his own accord.

Without preamble, Emile reaches for the gauzy overlap of her peignoir, splaying it open and exposing the flesh of her breasts. The dark gems inlaid into his marriage band scrape against their inner curves as his knuckles brush against her. It is so casual a caress as to freeze her in place—and then he drifts it up to the collar the High Lord welded about her throat, skimming his fingertips along the base of golden setting. His nostrils flare as he regards it, and she knows from his father that this portends anger, or desire, or both.

Alone.

Iphigenia is alone with a male who displeases his father and beats his females, and he is touching her as no other has dared since she caught the eye of the High Lord upon her arrival at the Forest House.

The sylvan walls of the room begin to press in against her. She can taste her pulse around her tongue, metallic and throbbing. She meets his eyeline as though the sickening beat of her heart does not thud, thud, thud into her teeth, quick as that of a rabbit lamed in a trap.

His satisfaction with her rising panic finally glints at the flat of his stare.

“What pleases me,” Emile drawls, the alcohol on his breath souring her stomach, “pleases father in turn. So long as I am kept happy, he need not know who brought me the information I seek, nor how it was obtained. There are many in my employ.”

Then why must it be me? Iphigenia wants to demand. If you know what it will do to me should he hear tell, why must it be me, as it has never been before?

But Emile's heavy hand is still on her neck, overlayed atop the collar, and there is only a parted robe between her and his discontent. She thinks, too, looking now into his eyes, that he might hope for her to object—that her obedience in this is all that will keep him from ruining her himself. She does not understand it, but she does not need to in order to heed the threat of it.

The fingers on his hand of metal twitch.

Her eyes burn.

“Who am I to attend, lord?”

Emile tightens his hold on her for a moment, then drops his hand away. “The cuckold of Spring has emerged from his dereliction," he says. "His attendance was not anticipated tonight. You are to ascertain what recalled to him his duties and whether it shall last.”

Iphigenia resituates the drape of her peignoir as she listens. Once it is in place, she holds it closed just beneath her clavicles, her other arm held tight against her navel.

The High Lord of the Spring Court.

His clawed spectre has accompanied her throughout her short life. His role in the savage murder of the High Lord’s two sons is the stuff of lore, of cautionary tales and childhood admonitions. Do as I say, lest the beast of Spring come sate his appetite with you, too. She knows that long ago, he spurned an evil witch and doomed all of Prythian for it—and after, he sat idle and free for fifty long years, all the while the rest of their lands suffered in her gnarled hands. It was not until a young human, of all things, came along that their people were championed, and she had been so repulsed by him that she rejected his advances in favor of the High Lord of the Night Court, a land rumored to be darkling and hostile and barren, to say nothing of its master.

On the night Iphigenia was taken from the safety of her estate and carted off to the Forest House in the back of a lord's opulent carriage, she thought the terror in her belly would never find its match. Even catching the eye of her own High Lord did not give rise to this, for he, at least, was familiar to her, the way any god can be known to its followers in glimpses; she knew what obeisance he would expect of her in the very moment his gaze swallowed her up. Yet this simply, she is back in that carriage, her face pressed to the curtained window, her eyes screwed up tight against the world, the motion of the wheels thudding rhythmically into her skull.

The unknown leers at her with black-chip eyes and an acetic grin.

Her silence begins to stir Emile's impatience. It is something she feels between them more than anything he does, a tautness taking shape no differently from that of his father.

A plea for aid, Iphigenia hears herself ask, “What does he enjoy?”

Emile laughs. It is a harsh, unpleasant sound. “What all males enjoy. A tight cunt and a wet mouth.”

Iphigenia flattens her palm against the beat of her heart. She knows her High Lord; she knows it is not so simple a thing. This new male will have his own preferences and expectations for her appearance, her demeanor, her technique. He will want her to preempt him, and if she cannot, she will be faced with his discontent.

She thinks of the other girls and their lasting marks.

She thinks of the carriage ride and its silken curtains.

She thinks of the High Lord buried within her.

She looks to Emile’s hand of metal and absently murmurs, “The handlers will know that I have not been summoned. They will have questions.”

“Are you so lofty a whore that you cannot prepare yourself?”

The anger in his tone yanks Iphigenia back to the now. She drops her gaze to his baleful shoes and bows her head. “No, lord."

“Then do so,” Emile rejoins. “And make haste. He retired to his chambers in the east wing some hour past." His edges begin to blur into smoke as a grin slashes across his face. "They should be simple to find. I'm told father summoned you there to mount often enough.”

In his wake, the room falls back into its wretched quietude.

Also please share more about the Tamlin rescuing Iphigenia idea. I mean it would even fit the myth if she was thought dead but was somehow transported away so I fully support it. Although I get it if you'd rather she stay dead.

trust me i'm with you on that one lmaooo — i think in bearing and physicality, he very much prefers females that remind him of what loa was like before he found out about her affair. (which plays out about as complicated mentally for him as you can imagine. which is taken out on the females who arouse him, as you can imagine.) he likes them with fire, with spark, with power, because he likes when that yields to him. like everything else, they are his dominion. part of why he was attracted to iphigenia specifically is because he could tell she had once been noble and still carried herself with that dignity, as if even for the fact that she was a bed slave just like the rest of them, she was better than it. i also think he is an ass man. like father like son :•)

my mind is a multiverse where all things are possible don't u worry. she's definitely (deeply unfortunately because i am enamored with her) dead in the main verse, but in an alternate universe, she is alive and healing! i'm still workshopping how they would actually meet, but i think it would be set around/post silver flames. tamlin gathers himself enough to attend some sort of autumn court function that necessitates him staying the night at the forest house. beron Does Not Share obviously, but emile has hatched another ploy to rise in beron's esteem. he knows beron wants to move in on the spring court, so he basically goes to iphigenia and says: bed tamlin and get information out of him that i can pass on, or i will tell my father that you whored yourself to tamlin intentionally. which would effectively ruin her to him and open her up to the unknown threats of other autumn nobility.

so iphigenia has no option. she arrives at tamlin's guest chambers just after he retires, fae wine in hand for her to serve him. emile instructed her to dress in spring court fashion. (it suits her. very much.) tamlin can obviously immediately guess at what's going on, but she's visibly distressed when he tries to turn her away. he knows she's a spy for someone, but he can also tell it's not of her free will. he figures he can at least let her stay long enough to make it seem like she put in an effort. they get to drinking; they get to chatting. she doesn't admit anything outright, but he knows enough about autumn to put some pieces together. tamlin is noble and fair and has nothing to lose. he asks, would you like to come to spring with me? and in asking, he feels something he has not felt for a long time stir in him. it flees so quickly he can't be sure it was there at all.

this is a gamble for iphigenia, obviously—and she has heard plenty about this high lord. she's too young to have lived through the disparagement of him and the youngest vanserra, but she's heard rumors passed down, and she's heard plenty about his siding with hybern. she ultimately figures at the very least, he's her best shot at ever leaving the forest house. she can figure out getting away from him later. so she says yes, but they have to leave right now, before lord emile can intercede, before the high lord notices her missing. tamlin is like not at all concerned about the threat of them, but it's not like he wants to be here for [insert whatever i come up with to get him to autumn overnight], so they dip out. emile notices. tries to stop him at the border. tamlin just flat out decks emile and keeps it pushin. iphigenia's like holy shit that was hot maybe i'll stick with him for now. hopefully emile is smart enough to fake her death to avoid beron's wrath at his spectacular failure—or smart enough to get drunk and go to eris so he can.