#*emile

oh ho ho

eris – ass man ass man ass man. said it b4 i'll say it again—eris enjoys anal with females because it is inherently uncomfortable and exclusively pleasurable for him which makes him horny bc it shows their willingness to endure discomfort to please him. notably though if a female is willing to do that, he's willing to play a little dirty dj to make her feel good during. and if you were wondering . yes beron feels the same way. yes this is directly informed by beron

emile – also an ass man! also informed by beron! but he does not care at all to ease the discomfort when he indulges in anal sex. relishes in it guiltlessly in fact. somehow both thinks favorably upon a female who endures it from him and less of her at the same time. look how eager she is to please me but also females are beneath me

carmine – this one was confounding as all get out. i like . honestly don't think he cares very much either way? he cares that a female makes him feel wanted->seen->an approximation of loved. as long as she doesn't have any visible unsightliness he's down, and even then ... i mean this is Thee brother who'd absolutely fuck a human or a lesser fae no hesitation just for the adoration they'd look at him with ykwim. maybe maybe maybe i'll loosely say tit man just cuz i think we could get to a mommy kink with him

silas – just got the most divine strike from god that he's a tit man. yeah he'll linger on cleavage. even get a little bit distractable if it's a non-political situation. they're the first thing he goes for on a female. notably he of all the brothers is the one to have this preference be a make or break deal for him. if she ain't got yitties he ain't sprung. all the other brothers it's just like casual preference

marius – for purely horny threesome reasons i'm making marius an ass man pre-silas' death—but because silas likes a gal w tiddies so much, marius keeps an eye out for them foremost. silas goes straight for the tiddies while marius is palming her ass and grabbing her thighs and then kneeling to tongue between them while silas uhhhhhhh cancel twit

ronan – ass man specifically because he's looking for the development and definition of the glute and hamstring muscles and if it's there he's going boioioioioing ! baby want a muscle mommy so bad but autumn fae aesthetic standards keep him from achieving his dream :(

i think ronan laughs pretty openly and has like a really rich, genuine, infectious laugh. trading stories around a fire type laugh. folks always chuckle or smile along despite themselves. carmine laughs freely too but it’s warmer and more inviting and a little sensuous. folks lean in when they hear it just to be closer to it. a sound like fingers grazing the thigh. in writing marius post-silas, i’ve found he tends to laugh at really inopportune times over fucked up things he thinks. the type to suddenly chuckle to himself in the middle of someone saying something not even slightly funny. bless him my little cocoa puff

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.

oh this is such a lovely thought-invoking question. let me map post-eris ascension out a little … i think amalia probably waits on helion to seek her out because—if after all this time he does not want her, if after all this time his affections have waned, if after all this time he has found another, for she has of course heard of his dalliances, if after all this time he turns her away, then what does that leave her? but of course it doesn’t take very long for him to seek her out. probably at eris’s ceremony. which is time enough for eris to spin it as a calculated move on both of their parts. to make him a shrewd heir to the throne rather than an abandoned son; to make her into a wily and cunning politician to have leveraged herself as lady of another court so readily, that way the betrayed hearts of the people won’t bring any lords to prompt eris to seek vengeance against her and helion.

there’s never any hope for her and emile, and she knows it. he is her biggest disappointment, biggest failure. he immediately ingratiates himself with the beron loyalists and begins an intense downward spiral; he died without his father’s acceptance, the one thing he wanted above all, and so he mythologizes beron—is the most potent threat to all of his family. emile, by necessity, has to die soon after beron dies. she and carmine have a cordial but distant relationship, the way you might have with a friend you once loved dearly but fell out with and things can now never be the same but neither of you can address the rift because that would be to acknowledge a problem at all. she would favor marius most of all the non-lucien sons she has left, if only because his grief is the most potent and least generally violent—but he makes it very clear that he would kill lucien in less than a heartbeat and she can’t countenance that. he’s also most loyal to eris, if only because of complacency, which strains them further. so left to her after emile dies are eris, carmine and kirsi, and marius and adonia.

i think carmine and kirsi would probably bring her the biggest sense of indignation; they have three children together and carmine, despite still being charming and silver-tongued, is unlike amalia has ever known him to be now that he’s married to kirsi. proof to her of how different her sons could have been if they ever even just got free of beron, which means proof to her of how she failed her sons in letting beron sire them at all. kirsi is very hypervigilant of her kids and doesn’t let any vanserra close knowing How They Are, so i could see a lot of strain between kirsi and amalia at social gatherings, especially because kirsi doesn’t have time for autumn pleasantries and that would offend amalia. they are kin of my kin; i have a right to know them, amalia might say if sufficiently offended. you know not even your own kin; you may claim no right to mine, kirsi might say back. and carmine who has never (and will never) acknowledge that his deep-rooted sense of unlovability comes from his mother feels a keen satisfaction at hearing kirsi do so, which strains everything even more.

i’d say marius and adonia are most gracious with her in the aftermath, once adonia heals enough from losing her mate to regain her sense of self and her sense of propriety. but i think amalia disdains adonia for all she sees of herself in adonia—adonia who was in love with a male who was not her husband yet stayed with her husband until his end at the expense of herself and those around her, then immediately found solace in the arms of her love once her husband died. the parallels are Very Much There. so if adonia eventually gives birth to any of marius’ children, i think amalia might try to overstep with them. maybe try to make amends for her own failings as a mother by criticizing adonia. gently, of course. they are both autumn ladies. but marius wouldn’t stand for it, not after so long of adonia doubting herself with emile. he’s a bit more of his old self now, which is to say he takes on the silas role in his relationship with adonia—happy to be bark and bite on both of their behalves because she is him as he is her. this fills in the loss of a mating bond well for adonia; she basks in it.

i am like so incredibly deeply obsessed with an eris wife who is just as willing to do what needs to be done for his (their ??!) family as he is, even if it’s at the expense of irreparably hurting him and harming their relationship. like in this scenario she’s trusted enough by him to be aware of maronia AND she cares enough about them to run emile interference. she’s perceptive and savvy enough to clock emile’s attraction—even if that’s just an attraction to taking something from perfect, has-it-all eris for him—and she’s ruthless and shrewd and bold enough to know she could pussywhip him into not being a threat to her husband/her/maronia. she’s perfectly willing to cheat on eris with his most hated brother if it means the threat of emile is neutralized. (alt: she does this because she cares about marius or adonia … but this is so much crunchier holy SHIT)

what would eris even ?? do???? because off rip once he finds out right it’s the whole: she doesn’t love me; she has betrayed me; no one can love me; she made me into my father; i have always been and always will be my father; she is as my mother except she would rather be with a crueller man than me just to be away from me, which must mean i am worse than i thought. but then she would clock him being cold and distant and cruel. she would know he knew. she would be like don’t be an idiot; i’m doing this for you—for us—for your family. and he would just be like 🫨🫨🫨

he’d get hypocritically pissed for sure but he wouldn’t know what to do with that. very like. that isn’t for you to decide. that isn’t for you to do. this isn’t for you to meddle in. you’re mine. you’re my wife. your loyalty and your body is mine alone. he’d be floored by the willingness of her to sacrifice on his behalf and on his family’s behalf because no one’s ever done that before—but he’d also feel so betrayed to be cheated on. all those awful clunky mother-wound and father-wound emotions. the destabilizing sensation of someone else Making Choices On His Behalf. the feeling of being cared for and also the fighting against losing that control. now he has to Really trust her. not only with his interests but also with emile. he has to ignore the rage that is emile’s smug fucking face thinking he’s pulling one over on him by fucking his wife. he has to swallow the thought of emile on her and in her. he has to hope that she really does love him—that she won’t turn on him and join ranks with emile instead

maronia + don't leave, hide

At some point, the sheets are pulled back. The fire in the hearth has long since burnt out, and the cold seeps in with a vengeance, as it always does. Never just a chill pebbling at his skin anymore, but the marrow-deep iciness known only in death.

Marius catches Adonia's wrist, and it is warm to the touch. “Don’t leave,” he rasps. “Not yet.”

Conflict writes itself across her face, tugging down at the corners of her mouth, flattening her brow. He knows it is an unfair thing he asks. Emile will kill him if they are found out, but his brother will do far, far worse to her.

Still, he cannot bring himself to retract the words.

Adonia glances to the balcony doors, where the light of false dawn is too bright behind their curtaining, then looks back to him.

“Alright,” she murmurs. Again, like she is reassuring herself, “Alright.” She tucks back in against his chest, and her heat presses into his flesh, far enough he can pretend it is all he knows. “But just for a little longer, hm?”

He might nod, but already drowsed by her comfort, sleep overtakes him before he can be sure.

Marius is jostled into waking with his heart already in his throat. It takes him a moment, first to realize that he is conscious, then to wince against the bright of late-morning, then to realize who is shoving at his chest.

"Adonia," he mumbles.

She gestures frantically at the door as he pushes up onto his palms.

Emile’s voice filters in through wood that seems suddenly insubstantial: “…ny my entry?”

Marius is on his feet before he makes the choice. He shakes his head, a paltry attempt to clear away the muzziness of sleep. He has no time to reckon with whether this buzzing in his body is fear or thrill.

His chamberlain, the blessed fool: “My sincerest apologies, Lord Emile. I would never—”

There is no hiding Adonia. Emile would sense another presence in the room and grow suspicious not to see it plainly. No doubt already does.

and i thank you for it 🙂‍↕️

god what a great question. i do love beron who just naturally runs extremely hot. like even amongst autumn fae, he’s the most hot-blooded. so i like to think his balls are big and and weighty and low-hanging from his internal body temperature, which is perfectly normal for him but a startle for those coming in contact with him. not scalding but … sort of like stepping into bath water that’s too hot. you can acclimate eventually but it’s going to be uncomfortable at first, potentially for a good long while, and it’s going to leave you pinked and short of breath. then yeah when he wants it to be punishing, i think his anger generally makes him run even hotter and he doesn’t care to control that. that’s when he burns enough to leave marks.

i’m cackling because i indeed think it would have to be emile who heard beron. i picture beron very mindful of his image to the public and his presence in his son’s lives, so i think he’s generally pretty discreet about bedding females other than loa. (he’s a male; he’s a high lord; he’s a vanserra—he can do as he pleases. but she is an extension of him as his wife. if it seems he doesn’t desire her, it calls her worth into question, thus his judgment in choosing her to sire his sons.) BUT emile functions as the court spymaster/intelligence keeper. and he is a fucking freak about his daddy. so yeah absolutely guaranteed he’s heard beron fucking a servant or a bed slave and gotten residually horny from it, then gone and fucked a whore of his own. tried to get her to make the same noises. tried to pace himself the way beron did. used the same force; said the same words. maybe not even consciously—but even if it were consciously, he wouldn’t think it strange to do.