Thank you to @the-lonelybarricade for the canva template and @chaol-apologist for the tag!
I realized making this how varied my fics were this year and I absolutely love that. I didn't focus on ships, I didn't focus on fandoms, I just wrote what I wanted to write. Some of my fics were romantic, some were tragic, and several were pure character explorations. It was so fascinating counting up my fandom events and total ships because I didn't fall into any particular category and experimented with a lot this year. From different pairings, to no romantic pairings, to X reader, to multiple original characters I was all over the place and I wouldn't change a thing.
This has been a very hard year and I'm so happy to have had fandom friends who chose to stick by me through it all. Here's to another year of fandom, fanfic, and writing whatever the hell we want.
a/n: I actually haven’t really written anything new (idea-wise) since late November/early December so I’m very much out of practice here. Hopefully this isn’t awful because this piece is written for the @thehouseofvanserra collaboration that was very kindly managed by @readychilledwine who has been an absolute wonder in putting this together, so thank you Liz for making it such a lovely experience 🧡💛
summary: Every year, you take the linens tinted with blood and soak them in tepid water. Each night of the week you bleed, you take the water to the foot of a great oak tree, and give back to the earth. But on the last night, when you’re due to say goodbye for another year, the King of the woodland sprites seeks you out to borrow a power he believes to be the product of your ‘enchantments’.
warnings: oral (f receiving), fingering, themes of discomfort but the actual sexuality is mutually agreed upon, Beron has three tongues and uses all of them
word count: 4,292
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Night has long since fallen, but the pathway is clear, illuminated from the silver glow of the full moon.
You cradle the glass jar in your arms, swathed in pure cotton, held within the bandages of fabric. Beneath the moon’s pale blue shine the bloody water instead appears simply cloudy, like mead with residual fruit swirling inside. The golden lid’s gleam is dulled as you enter the forest, bare feet stepping through the mossy underbrush, the pale, tattered linen edges of your dress trailing behind, occasionally fluttering in the breeze whenever the woodland decides it needs to breath again.
The pathway you take is long and winding, but you’ve been taking this pathways for centuries do, and could navigate your way in and out solely off the texture of the ground beneath your feet. Passing by the cluster of pebbles to the right of the path; a gnarled, ragged root brushing against your calf; the particular whisper of wind that’s funnelled through the stream that passes by just north of the path you’re taking.
A bough groans in the wind, heavy and aching, and a raven’s crow creeks through the air.
Before you is the Great Oak.
She’s tremendous.
Her roots stretch far out beneath the forest floor, roiling like thick waves that have been turned to wood above ground. Her trunk alone is triple the size of your cottage that’s situated at the forest’s edge. A dark hollow looms far above your head, her mouth opened wide to absorb the woodland’s delights; to keep track of everything that happens in her territory; tasting it on the wind.
You come to a pause just shy of the red-capped mushrooms that spill in a circle around her, spotted with white patches that blister from their heads.
Taking in a shallow breath, you hold it for a few moments, eyes gliding shut to bask in the presence of the forest. Fresh, pine air; chilled brushes of the wind’s fingers tracing down your shoulders, spooling beneath your skirts.
You exhale, slowly. Consciously breathing out, squeezing out the old air in your lungs, keeping them as empty as possible as you cross the boundary.
Magic crackles in the air, zapping softly through your body, the remnants tingling in your mouth and ears. A shiver runs up your mostly bare spine.
Looking at her now, from within her enchantments, she’s breathtaking. Tiny glow bugs skitter around her branches like they’re bracelets, fireflies swimming through the air and darting behind broad, widely-scalloped leaves.
A mindless smile curls the edges of your mouth, lips parted in awe even after all these decades.
If only she would cradle you within her embrace. Allow you to huddle in her lap.
But only once before have you dared to seek her space, and undoubtedly she would only ever allow it on an equally dark night.
A night that is not this one.
Swallowing, you unscrew the jar’s lid, swirling the bloody water around to stir the sediment up from the depths.
Now you’re getting older, this practice is limited to once a year. Soaking your sanguine linens in a wooden tub of tepid water, leaving them to soak before filtering the water into seven different jars. Tonight is the seventh night, and the last time you’ll see her, until the next year rolls around and your cycle returns again.
Settling upon the mossy cushion of the forest floor, you loft the jar in your hands, beginning to tilt the glass until the nourished water brims at the lip. The next second the water is flowing, streaming down into the dirt and sinking low to find her roots. Liquid gathers in the moss, pooling on the floor and spreading rapidly before percolating her mossy bed. Occasionally you pause, only to swirl the jar once more, and finally you’re tipping out the last of your watered-down cycle.
The last, gleaming droplets vanish into the earth, and you’ve given her all you can.
With a heavy sigh, you turn the jar upside down, allowing whatever liquid is left on the sides of the glass to trickle down over night. You’ll fetch it again next year.
As painful as your cycle is, you miss it now it’s passed. Miss the feminine magic that courses through your body over those past seven days. Now you’re healed and finished, there is nothing left to give.
You get to your feet, dirt having dampened the linen covering you knees, but you don’t mind.
A flash catches your attention, coming from within her hollow.
You pause, feet having half-turned to leave, but then the glow brightens, filling the mouth with a flaming orange glow, and you can’t look away.
The light builds, gathering force, power concentrating as the orange shifts from burnt umber, to the purest sunlight, folding in on itself time and time again until your eyes are burning, lashes singed, heat beginning to warm your skin even from this distance.
That glow shoots down from the hollow, but you can do nothing as it snares your limbs, curling like snakes around your calves, slinking up over your hips, threading through your hair until your encased in that bright, glittering light.
What on earth is happening?
All at once the light dissipates, and you’re left trapped in darkness. Warm, soft darkness, but rendered blind nonetheless.
You struggle, startled as a cool breeze wraps around your bare hips.
Your clothes—where are your clothes?
A frenzied flutter, not unlike that of a bee or dragonfly, drawn near, and spots of turquoise and chartreuse pulse in your vision. Then a hand, rough but warm, captures your wrist, and you jolt as you’re pulled from the warmth you had been swathed in. Fingers settle gently atop your eyelids, guiding them closed, and before you know it, the pounding colours are being healed from your vision. The darkness dissipates, and those finger pads remove themselves.
With a tentative flutter, your lids slide open.
Now stood before you, is a male you’ve never seen before. His lips are long and narrow, and his eyes simmer beneath thick, furrowed brows that seem to be made of displeasure. Cropped, auburn hair spikes from his head like the miniature spines of a horse chestnut, though they are at their tallest on the crown of his head, shortening in length down the sides. A hollowed cap adorns his skull, and you realised it’s one belonging to an acorn, carved and crafted into what seems to be some kind of crown. Small, furred roots weave through the main structure, a single peace of moss-green sea glass inset at the crown’s peak.
“Who…are you?” The words somehow part from your lips, though you can’t manage to convince yourself you’d managed to speak through your confusion.
The dismal displeasure eases in his features, crows feet losing their rigidity, though doesn’t entirely disappear. “I am the King under the Oak,” the male answers, and his palm finds the side of your ribcage, thumb tracing the smooth arc of the bone beneath your skin. “But to you,” he pauses, amber eyes like the rich syrup that leaks from tree bark as they study you with an intensity. His free hand lowers, grasping your palm and raising it between you. “I am Beron,” he answers, lips grazing the skin of your knuckles.
You can’t place it, but there’s something strange about the way he speaks. As if the very structure of his vocal cords differ to yours in some way.
Though the gesture is one of respect, his eyes seem hostile, and your brows narrow in wary confusion.
“The King under the Oak,” you repeat, suspicion clenching your vocal cords. His brow twitches, and he lowers your hand from his mouth. “I am the ruler of this forest,” the King claims, taking a step back as if taking him in whole will soothe your qualms.
A cape is pinned to his broad shoulders, made from what looks like preserved, autumnal leaves with spongey moss stitched to the underside. His tunic is a chalky red that shimmers as you tilt your head, tiny glimmers of blue and purple held within the fibres. The buttons look to be made of smoothed bark pebbles, while his trousers are a warm chestnut colour, made from a material you can’t discern.
You incline your head, “I was unaware this forest had a ruler.”
A muscle in the King’s jaw flickers, and satisfaction twines down your spine, refusing to be intimidated despite his dominating stature. “Do you claim sole ownership of my woodland then, my Lady?”
“This wood doesn’t belong to anyone, as far as I’m aware,” you retort, shifting in his hold, trying to hold yourself high while wishing to angle your starkly naked body away from him. His hold seems to tighten, as if sensing your sturdy resistance.
“No?” He questions, subtly stepping closer so you must tilt your head to hold his gaze. “If not the ruler, then this land’s protector?”
Your brows furrow. “Protector?”
“It’s you who nourishes my stronghold. Who year after year performs rituals to keep our enchantments impenetrable. Though recently you’ve been visiting less.” The King peers down upon you, practically looming over the crown of your head, and your throat begins to ache. “Why?”
It’s the first time hostility has bled so blatantly into his voice, and shivers dart up your spine, hands beginning to shift in preparation to push him away.
You fight to keep your expression forcefully neutral. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“You deny you’re the being who visits for seven nights every year?” He drawls, then offers a derisive scoff. “Don’t lie to me.”
“What is this ritual to you anyway?” You divert, pushing strength into your gaze as your fingers collect in the crook his elbow, thumb parting ways from the rest of your fingers in order to be able to firmly shove him away if needed. “You seem awfully fixated on it.”
“It nourishes the Great Oak; aids with the enchantments and keeps out fortress impregnable.” His hold strengthens, and your spine steels. “I want to know why. If that magic is dwindling I need to keep as much of its power now before it is gone forever.”
“I perform no rituals,” you snap at him. “They’re merely habits. There’s no magic involved.”
“But it is you, isn’t it?”
You blink, and a hint of a smile crooks his narrow lips. “It was foolish to lie to me. You’re the only one who visits.”
Your lip curls. “Then why bother asking in the first place?” His head tilts, but he holds your gaze, amber blazing fierce in the dark. “To get a feel for the kind of creature you are.”
“And what kind of creature do you think I am?”
The King huffs a soft laugh though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It doesn’t really matter what kind of creature you are. I will take your magic one way or the other. It’s simply a matter of gauging what method would best suit you.”
“I have no magic for you to steal,” you hiss, pushing back against him, but he’s deceptively powerful. His hands must be forged from iron.
“We’ll see,” he murmurs, then bright, iridescent wings have unfolded from his back, and you’re stunned into silence as he hoists you into his arms and those long, narrow dragonfly wings shoot you up into the air, soaring into the Great Oak’s hollow, swallowed whole.
Your arms fly over his shoulders, clinging so as not to plummet far to the ground—everything is so much larger now, and once you’re in the air, you can make out your pooled robe on the floor, the pale linen now empty and drained of warmth.
When the King lowers to land, you’re startled as flame wraps itself around your body, though there’s no burn. Just a mellow heat.
Soldiers line the inner hollow of the Oak, and you wonder if this is the only entrance and exit there is. Wonder how strictly it’s monitored.
“What are you doing?” You manage to grit out, legs crossing to conceal yourself as he carries you through the hollow into a far off archway that couldn’t have been any larger than your wrist had once been. Now you’re likely barely the height of your former pinky finger.
“I’m taking you to my chambers,” comes his clipped answer.
As he’s carrying you, you catch a glimpse of an image carved into the ceiling of the hollow. A figure dressed in white, crowned in white, holding a golden goblet in her hands, stood before the Great Oak.
You frown.
The double doors give way, magic crackling in the air before they are once again resealed, not even a crack to peek out of.
“You don’t even know how my so-called magic works. What on earth could you possibly hope to achieve?” You snap, nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders.
“I will secure power to rule my territory no matter what,” he replies, aggression seemingly faded now you’re so deep in his lands. “Do not think you will be a noteworthy obstacle in my endeavours.”
He puts you down beside a long, stretching banquet table, but it’s plain. Not even a dish in sight.
You turn, glancing back towards the door. “What right do you-”
His fingers glide up your throat, clasping your chin to direct your gaze to his. “Don’t look away from me.”
Something shivers up your spine, though it’s hard to figure it out.
“Is this how you plan to take my magic from me,” you force out, “by beating me in a staring contest?”
“You seem pretty confident I will be unable to take it,” the King muses, still angling your jaw. “What makes you so convinced?”
Again, the way of speaking—perfectly understandable, but so strangely shaped. As if his voice is coming from multiple angles.
It’s your turn to hold something over him, and a devious smile curls your lip, vicious triumph surely shining in your eyes. “The ritual you’re speaking of—there’s no magic to it. It’s little more that tipping bloodied water upon the roots of your Great Oak.” The King stiffens, his touch freezing, and your smile sharpens. “So if you have some magical way to start my cycle once more, then feel free to attempt to extract its nourishment.”
“Your cycle?” The King repeats.
You nod, holding firm.
“Your blood?” He asks again.
You blink, awful tension beginning to creep into your bones.
What if he tries to cut you up? What if he tries to take the blood of your veins instead? What if-
His grip loosens, and you shive him away, running for the doors.
To your surprise, they give way with no effort, but before you can so much as cross the threshold, a swarm of roots gather, thoroughly blocking your path.
“What!” You exclaim beneath your breath. You try digging your fingers in, but it’s useless. She won’t budge.
“Please,” you whisper. “You’re her, aren’t you? You’re the tree who harboured me in her roots all those years ago.” Your hands flatten over the roots, strength sapped from your fingers. “Please, let me go.”
You turn on your feet, staring him down from across the room. “Take down these roots.” You demand. “Take them down right now, or I’ll-”
But the King’s brow is furrowed, a look of confusion on his face. “I did not command those roots to block your passage,” he speaks, eyes dropping to the side to glare at the doors. “Neither did I command the doors to part for you.”
Before you have chance to think for yourself, the King is pinning you with an accusatory look. “You were speaking, just now. Talking to someone.” He takes a step forward, and you bristle, feeling the roots begin to move at your back, their furred ends feathering across your back. “Were you… You were speaking to my House.”
“I was speaking to the Tree,” you hiss, bristling further as he takes another step towards you. “I trust her. I know her.”
“My House is not a she,” the King sneers, but as soon as the words leave his mouth a root shoots down from the ceiling, thwacking the crown from his head, both of you staring as it rolls away, turns in a few circles, then promptly falls to the floor.
The disruption renews your faith. She’s on your side. Though you can’t discern her motives for constraining you like this. Why confine you to a room with him?
The King turns blazing eyes to you, though they’re no longer accusatory. “We had thought you divine, but you must be a witch,” he speaks in a low, ragged voice.
“I am no witch,” you return. “I am an elf.”
“Is that what you call yourself?” The King retorts, cocking a brow, folding powerful arms across his broad chest.
You’re about to answer, when you his words repeat in your head. “Divine?”
The image carved into the hollow’s ceiling rushes back to you, suddenly deciphered. And somehow, after such a bizarre night, you have now found yourself at the centre of a religion. A religion of a people you hadn’t even known existed until now.
You quirk a brow, folding your arms across your chest as you incline you chin, resting your weight to one hip. “If I’m supposedly divine, you should be worshipping me, not stealing from me.” Your upper lip curls. “So you’re a liar and a hypocrite.”
The King pauses again, watching you as though you’ve grown a second head. You would think he might be floored by your argument, only he doesn’t seem the type to waver so easily. He seems stubborn, and endlessly set in his ways. But then he takes a step forward, and another, and another, until they’ve become paces. And he’s pacing towards you.
You step back into the roots, but they curl at your back, resisting. Until one prods at your spine.
It’s gentle, and another strokes across your shoulder, as if coaxing you into a state of calm.
The King comes to a stop a short distance away, seemingly studying the root’s favouritism.
“This is my House,” he mutters. “I should be the one to rule over you.”
Your gaze whips to his. “She’s probably lived longer than you can even comprehend. You have no right to rule over her.”
“And yet she favours you.”
You frown. “I would hardly call trapping me in here with you, her favouring me.” Even if the suggestion has warmth blossoming in your chest.
The root pushes a little harder at your lower back, nudging you a step forward—one step less between you and him.
The King’s eyes narrow, and you could swear you can almost see the schemes flitting and forming in his mind. “You…love…my House,” he says slowly.
“I love the Oak,” you retort, still wary of the male though he doesn’t seem like he’s going to attempt to dismember you. His brow furrows in disagreement, but moves on, “you trust the Oak.”
“I do,” you confirm, observing him with heavy skepticism.
“And…she,” the word seems to come out with some difficulty, “seems to be encouraging you to me.”
A retort is on your tongue, but the root pushes you forward again, this time with enough strength to have you almost stepping into him. Instead his hands settle on your upper arms, rough, but his hold isn’t strong. Not as it was before.
“If your Great Oak wishes it,” the King murmurs, peering down at you with that intensity of his, “who are you to deny her, even if you are divine?”
For some reason, his words send a flock of wings fluttering away in your abdomen. “You have no way of proving your own wishes align with hers,” you manage to argue back.
Once again roots curl at your back, but this time they’re more firm in their proximity, slinking beneath the fiery cover and wrapping around your waist, gliding over your hips. A shiver runs down your spine, but you startle as one navigates your rib cage, sliding higher to cup your right breast. A wild heat flushes your cheeks, one that has nothing to do with the flames still concealing your body.
The King’s throat rolls, and his hands trail lower, thumbs settling in the soft dips of your inner elbow. “I believe that’s confirmation,” he murmurs.
He steps forward, angling you so you’re pushed back against the empty banquet table.
“My wish is to rejuvenate the power that is beginning to wane in my stronghold,” the King tells you, “and it seems my House—your Oak—knows of a way to do so.” One hand drops a little lower, settling on your hip, though the roots have now given way, sinking back into the walls of the wooden chamber.
Your legs weaken, and you end up leaning your weight onto the banquet table, losing a few inches in height but the King steps forward again, pressing himself carefully into your body. Monitoring your expression. “Earlier you called me a liar and a hypocrite,” he murmurs, and you realise the flames concealing your body are beginning to subside. “Now you might be right to call me a liar, but you also told me I should be worshipping you rather than stealing from you.”
“I did,” you breathe.
“And wouldn’t it make you the hypocrite, if you were to go back on what you said?”
You pulse spikes. “I don’t think I follow.”
One of his hands shifts, and the flames part to allow the pads of his fingers to settle atop your sternum, slowly trailing down between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach, until they’re light as a feather atop your abdomen.
“You claimed it was your cycle that gave nourishment to my fortress,” the King murmurs, and you doubt you could look away from him even if you wanted to. “That it was your blood my House desires. Or so you thought.”
You’re silent, overwhelmed by such a slight touch, the barest graze of his fingers atop your abdomen.
“If the power came from your cycle,” he says, free hand dipping between your legs to guide them further open, and you find yourself more than willing to rest a little more of your weight on the banquet table to make room for him as he lowers himself to the chestnut coloured floor. “Then it is clear what part of you I should worship.”
The breath filters from your lungs as warm flame parts between your legs, only to be replaced by a hotter, wetter warmth.
Your arms turn weak as his tongue glides up your centre, arousal pooling between your thighs, heat coming to a gentle simmer as your legs are guided further apart. His tongue presses to the apex of your thighs, and presses against your entrance, and-
You inhale sharply as you peer down at yourself—at the male between your thighs, the three tongues warping in his mouth. Feral heat flushes your body, buzzing beneath your skin as those amber eyes fixate on you, upper tongue swirling around your clit while the other two stroke and lick up your centre, beginning to prod at your entrance. You bring a hand to your mouth in attempts to conceal how flustered he’s made you.
A root winds down from the ceiling, coiling over your shoulder as it applies a light pressure, encouraging you to recline onto the empty banquet table.
“Lie down,” the King goads, that strange, warping voice of his all of a sudden making sense, fitting for the three tongues hidden in his mouth.
You swallow, “But- the table.”
His eyes flash. “You belong to my table.” His hands guide your legs from the ground, forcing you to lean the rest of your weight on the wooden surface. “You belong amongst my banquet.”
Your back settles atop the wood, and you pull a deep inhale into your lungs as his fingers slip between your thighs, bathing themselves in the hot slick that has gathered there, before slowly working their way inside—to make the entrance for his tongues easier, no doubt.
The thought shouldn’t be as arousing as you find it, but tingling pleasure is gathering in your lower stomach regardless.
Those two, dexterous fingers push inside, inclining ever so gently upward, rubbing against a sweet, spongey spot that has your legs shaking, as if he’s beckoning you towards that ledge. One you’re swiftly approaching.
His digits retract, and a moan slips from your lips as those two tongues push inside—so hot, and wet, and malleable. The King’s upper tongue circles your clit, timed with the rhythmic pulsing inside of you, and there’s no space left between you and that ledge.
Pleasure brims within your body, magic crackling just beneath your skin as that tingling weightlessness overtakes you. Your eyes slide shut, spine arching as your feet push at the tops of his shoulders, knees hinging further apart to offer him more space, as the pleasure rushes through your bloodstream and this time you can actually see it. The sparks of colour glittering in the air as power filters from your skin, absorbed in the House, the Great Oak. The one who had so patiently guided you closer and closer, until you were firmly within her grasp, at last absorbing what she needs from you.
And she will take everything she can, though it seems neither you, nor the King kneeling between your legs minds much.
Despite such an abrupt meeting, the two of you seem inseparable.
Way to go Tato!!! Unhinged bingo request: before he became a total jerk, or maybe an au where he’s decent: beron x reader for free use or knotting…please?! 😬
This was sooo fun to write 🤭 I didn't put this in (cause Y/N was lost in the sauce) but I'm imagining Beron smirking at his brothers the entire time like "ha I got the fresh omega, you can fuck off" 😂 I hope you like it!! Unhinged requests are so fun
The Heir's Omega
Beron x Reader, Freeuse
ACOTAR x Reader Masterlist | 1k Bingo Rules + Masterlist
Warnings: smut, freeuse, public sex, knotting, omegaverse
Words: 890
18+ only pls
🤎🤍❤️🔥🤍🤎
Your skin prickled from all the eyes on you, or it could have been from the chilled autumn air in the ballroom.
While most citizens of the Autumn Court were allowed clothing during the weekly festivities, omegas were required to be naked, excepting a collar around their neck if they were claimed.
If you had a collar, at least you would be saved from anyone being able to have you, if they wished. You’d much prefer choosing your own partners, or having someone you trusted at least turning away the cruelest of them.
It was your first Saturday night as one of the omegas up for free use, and you were nervous. Your presentation heat had only ended yesterday, and you’d seen all of the High Lord’s sons eyeing you hungrily when you’d walked into the room, most heads turned by your fresh-out-of-heat scent.
You allowed yourself to close your eyes for five seconds, breathing deeply to calm yourself. When you opened your eyes again, you were shocked to see the High Lord’s eldest, Beron, approaching you. His cinnamon and clove scent overtook you, and you felt a twinge of embarrassment when a bit of slick dripped down your thigh before he’d even said anything to you.
“My lord,” you said softly, dipping into a curtsy, though you felt awkward without having skirts of a dress to grasp.
“Hello, omega,” he purred, a hand coming to cup your cheek. “You smell delicious, you pretty thing. How would you like to come with me?” Beron didn’t wait for your answer, tugging you by the hand to the couch he’d just vacated. He pulled you down to straddle his thighs, a noticeable bulge pressing against your center.
You were sensitive enough and still uninhibited from the end of your heat that you didn’t think as you began to rock your hips over his clothed length, soft sighs leaving your lips.
"Such a pretty 'mega. Have you been knotted yet?” You shook your head, eyes fluttering shut when his hands gripped your hips, rocking them for you. “Good. I’d like my omega to only have me,” he growled, letting one hip go in favor of pulling you to his chest, teeth teasing the skin of your neck. “Would you like it if I claimed you, here and now? In front of all these people?” He whispered in your ear, voice sending heat to your core.
Him only…? He seems… Nice enough, so far, you thought to yourself, hormones having you nodding in agreement before you’d thought the concept completely through.
“Very good,” he purred, a hand reaching between the two of you to unlace his trousers, his large cock springing free a moment later. Your eyes widened slightly at the sight of it before Beron was lining himself up with your entrance, pushing you down on his cock, splitting you open.
You let out a slightly pained moan at the feeling, stretched without having been prepared properly. But that was quickly overtaken by the overwhelming feeling of fullness he gave you as he forged his path, pressing you down without waiting for you to adjust until you were flush with his hips. He held you there for a moment, and you could feel his cock twitch inside of you. It didn’t last long, his hands urging you to start moving, guiding you at the pace he wanted.
You felt delightful, cunt clenching with each thrust of his cock, the eyes that were surely watching the pair of you forgotten entirely. Your thighs burned pleasantly as you bounced on his cock, head thrown back as you lost yourself in your coupling. After all, that’s what these nights were for, right?
“That’s right, omega, take what you need,” Beron groaned, hips thrusting to meet yours, driving his cock even deeper inside of you and you moaned, cheeks reddening as you did. “And such a pretty moan, too,” he teased, hands pulling you down on him harder. “I’m sure you’ll make pretty little babies, too,” he murmured, a jolt going through you at the thought.
The hormones of your heat were still running through you, spurring your hips to satiate your omega’s new need for a babe, and this alpha seemed perfectly willing to provide. You shuddered over him when the head of his cock hit just right, pleasure bursting through you while he continued moving your hips, chasing his own completion now as his knot began to swell. He pulled you down, grip firm on your hips as your cunt swallowed his knot, a fullness you’ve never known overtaking you, leaving you breathless as you shattered again, the alpha beneath you sinking his teeth into the skin of your neck. Your hands clutched at him as you came down, minutes passing in his arms.
There were no hands carding through your hair, no soothing promises of love. But at least he wanted to keep you just for him, even if you coupled in public. When his knot deflated, he pulled you off of his cock but kept you spread over his lap, your face tucked into his neck. His scent was even more soothing now that he’d claimed you, and it didn’t take long for you to fall asleep in his arms, even with an entire court watching their heir-apparent and his new omega.
"Are people born wicked, or do they have wickedness cast upon them?" -Wicked the Musical
Summary - Beron had known love once in his life, and even that was ripped from him
Warnings- This fic has some heavy topics. A whole species of fae is hunted for their wings until extinction. While it is not done in great detail, if that will potentially trigger you, please consider skipping this.
Other warnings- reader Death, spousal abuse, domestic, and child abuse inferred, loss of a spouse, death of a mate, in summary, just not my normal happy love story. Edited and formated on my cellphone, long story, if you see errors, you definitely didn't 👀
A/n - Happy @sjmvillainweek day one. I was sent a request about Beron losing the love of his life being his villain Origin story. I bounced between doing this as a mini series or as a one shot, but landed on the one shot due to mini series that end with reader Death not being a personal favorite of mine, plus, writing reader's death after writing 3 parts of her and Beron falling in love was rough. If you all want it, though, let me know I guess? Today is very out of my box, as you all will see with my Maeve fic queued for later, so to those of you who frequently write reader/oc deaths, I truly admire you. This was hard.
🪽Peep the Wings of Prythian headcanons Here 🪽
🗡Villains Week Masterlist🗡Master Masterlist🗡
The stake set in the middle of the grounds was the seal on the impact of Beron's actions. 100 years, 100 happy years of keeping her safe, and now he was locked in his own room, trapped as her execution was set up.
He should have known better, should have hid her better. Her kind was already rare and in the last 100 years, she was finally the last one. One last trophy to hunt and he had led his father right to her.
Lifeless wings hung high on his wall, still fresh with the scent of her blood. The luster they carried was fading, the vibrant burnt orange now a muted tone of its former glory.
Beron put his head in his hands, the faebane chains around his wrists clanging with laughter as he did. He forced his mind back to a happier time.
Fire Festival had you running around the small market near where the Leaf Folk lived. Mother needed flour. Father needed wine. Your sisters wanted candy. The first of October was special to you all. To your whole race. It was the start of a 31 day process where the females of your race were courted, married, and the hopes of young offspring came. .
Fire Festival was for lovers. It was for passion. It would be your first year to partake, and while you knew it took some females 3 attempts to meet their match, your wings couldn't help but flutter in hope you would meet yours this year.
As you day dreamed, supplies in a basket, you were blind to the male watching you. An outsider that had vendors closing their doors and windows with customer's inside, mamas rushing their children into their homes.
A voice cleared behind you, pulling you from your daze, “My lady.” It was instant, that snap of the mating bond tugging and tying you two together into a cursed string. ..
The dark-haired male put his hand to his heart, blindly stepping closer to you. Dark hair sat on top of his head, styled and brushed into perfection despite the evidence he had arrived on horseback. His slender face was handsome. Sharper cheekbones, full lips, a nose reminding you of a hawk beak. His clothing was high end, hugging his body as if he was poured into the material. “Beron,” he spoke to you, ripping you from your study of his figure.
“Y/n,” you whispered back, wings moving slightly to be out of sight.
“I have no interest in those,” he motioned towards them. “Only in the rumors of elder flowers in this area.”
You blinked at him, the olive branch you were about to offer him was dangerous, “I can show you if you vow to never speak of this place.”
Beron fought against his father as he was pulled to the temple. He knew the female he was being forced to marry was nice enough, beautiful, wealthy. He was forced to stand at the altar, a knife held to his little sister's back as he did. Aurelia entered either her normal grace, her own face solemn as the fae stood and she was escorted to him by her own proud father.
Her dress reminded him of a princess from tales of old. Far too large, puffy, and in a shade of white that did not compliment her porcelain skin and hair like fire.
They were both silent as they took their vows and the count down to your execution began. 2 hours. 2 hours he'd be forced to spend drinking and all that did was encourage more memories of you.
The pull of the bond became too much the following October, and the letters written on oak leaves could no longer be enough for either of you.
You were taking a huge risk, using the first feast and bonfires to sneak to his hunting cabin just a few miles away from the hidden edge village you'd spent your life in.
Beron was waiting on the porch, eyes coming alive as he heard the sound of your leaf-like wings crinkling as you flew over to him. ..
He caught you quickly, arms going around your waist, pulling your head to his chest. .
The first hug of many.
The first night filled with laughter and stolen kisses that'd come with the next 99 years.
He carried your one bag, frowning at your lack of possessions.
"Is this all you have, my love?”
”All I need,” Your tone was confused. “Did you expect more?”
He had. He had expected more than just the 7 dresses he pulled out. More than the one necklace he had given you. More than one more pair of leather shoes.
Beron glanced at you, chocolate eyes slightly sad, “I'm going to give you the world.”
Beron and Aurelia watched in silence as people drank and danced. “You said you were running,” he whispered under his breath to her. “You said you were leaving to prevent this.”
Aurelia looked at him, her whiskey colored eyes narrowing, “Do you think I didn't try to get him to come grab me? Do you think I sat and did nothing despite our deal?”
He rolled his own eyes, “Careful with your tone, wife,” the word felt like ash.
“Am I your wife? Or is she locked in the fox holes waiting to be the final show for our wedding? Who else has their marriage start with the burning of their husband's who-”
The slap that came before she could finish that sentence made the room fall into silence. Another beginning. Another drastic change. Beron knew Aurelia had sold out the location he kept you in. Her father had been the one to drag you in, bleeding and crying, dress torn.
Beron's father motioned for the night to continue like nothing had happened, as if he was beaming with pride at his son striking his wife.
“Just because he didn't want you after you willingly handed him your cunt, doesn't mean I didn't want y/n. I hope you enjoy both of us being as miserable as you clearly are.”
She sat wordlessly next to him, holding her cheek. She'd been warning of the heavy hands the Vanserra males carried, but Beron had never been aggressive. He'd always been kind to her. But she knew she was you and clearly Aurelia had gotten herself into dangerous territory.
Beron watched the clock as it ticked an hour. An hour to day dreamed about you.
The wedding of the Leaf Folk were not performed in a temple, an odd thing for Beron as he stood under the oldest apple tree in the groove. Its twisted trunk and tangled branches were almost menacing as you followed his eye.
You took his hands, whispering in the old tongue and making the tree light up with runes and stories of lovers wed under its branches. You were the last of your kind. The village somehow found and pillaged in one night. The groove of apples around you both was struggling, dying off slowly as its caretakers became a lost memory. “What do we do now?”
"We close our eyes and feel. We will know if the land blesses our union,” you smiled as you answered, closing your eyes. Fireflies began to fill the area, a slight breeze carrying the sounds of gentle music. You both opened your eyes to the deer to the fireflies.
“What the hell,” he paused. “What is this?”
"Approval from the Mother. She has blessed and signed off on our union,” Your hand went to the new rune in the tree, eyes watering as you followed the curves and slopes. “We're married.”
Beron was forced to stand, shackled again as guards made him and Aurelia walk to where he'd be forced to watch you burn. His family and Aurelia's father too spots near them, the other High fae in attendance whispering as they also took places. Public execution in Autumn was a favorite pastime for the rich high fae. They loved watching the poor, the criminals, the low fae burn or be gifts to the trees, consumed root by root.
His father had known that wasn't an option with you. Had he given you to the trees, the trees would free you. No true crime was committed, and on top of that, your kind was so closely linked to the trees, your life forces depending on each other.
Beron had tried to warn his father what killing you would do, how his family would lose control of the trees and the forest, how that was a magic given to his family by the Leaf Folks elders hundreds of years ago. A promise not to hunt them, yet every Nobel here had a pair of those wings on their walls. Fresh ones.
Beron pulled against his chains as he heard you fighting and screaming in the tongue of your people. He watched as you spit on the male dragging you, watched as you spit on his father.
You had, in many ways, made Beron's life easier. You had killed two of his brothers during your capture, making him the clear heir. You had stabbed his father with something rumors from the healers say wasn't closing, festering in his skin and muscles like an infection. The look of pride as you looked down from your nose towards his father made Beron smirk. You'd die a warrior. Die with not an ounce of fear but instead a river of rage.
His wife. His powerful fearless wife.
That sneer didn't change as you were tied to the stake. It didn't change as your so-called charges were read. It didn't change as you waited to be given the ability to speak one last time.
“The last of your kind, yet you won't beg for your life?”
“No,” you answered his father plainly.
The High Lord seemed surprised as he spoke again, “So you will curse my son to a life of madness?”
“I've cursed your son and court to so much more than that already,” you glared
It was then that Beron noticed the runes carved into your body in captivity. He held his breath as he read each one. As he read the fate your death would seal for this court and for him.
You had been lied to, told he gave away your location, that he handed you away willingly in exchange for the bride sitting next to him. All lies he would never be able to change.
It looked as if you were praying, but Beron knew the signs of Leaf Folk magic now. He knew what was happening as the wind picked up and lightning struck as your pyre was lit.
Beron shot out of bed, shaking his head as the nightmare replaying her death was fresh in his mind. He still blamed himself, still blamed Aurelia. 700 years later and he wasn't over her.
But how could he have been? Her curse was a plague on Autumn. A deep rot that settled into the remaining signs of her village first. Then that grove he had married her in. Then the surrounding forest and villages. It was choking off life in his court. Illness, famine, and death followed in its path.
Her curse had not just taken the forest, though, it had taken him. The lifeless mating bond was doubled by what she had down. Beron lost all sense of emotion and Humanity once she was gone. He lost himself. That much was clear by the scars littering his wife and children. By what he had done to Lucien.
He had no one to blame but himself.
He knew she was forbidden. A female considered low fae with wings like the rustling leaves of this very court, but Beron couldn't stop himself. He couldn't resist the feel of her soft skin, her scent of spun sugar and apples, her soft hair. Her eyes were his favorite thing, so light and bright. Full of life.
As he held his chest in bed, his sleeping wife was next to him. It was those eyes that haunted him. Those last words whispered before an execution.
“A plague on your houses, a plague on your court, until a son brave enough to kill for what's right comes forth.”
Summary: an elite member of the society and a poor girl from the lower part of the town are destined to never be.
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A/n: this is a beron fic. i do not in any way support abuse irl, but i wanted to write for him. if you dont like beron, please dont read 😭
also. BIRTHDAY GIFT FIC FOR MY BELOVED @fell-in-luvs 🥹❣️
(dividers by @tsunami-of-tears <3)
anywho. enjoy!!
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Y/n paused midstep, curious eyes peering over the railing, trying to find where the sound was coming from. Hands tightened on the wooden bannister of the stairway, eyebrows furrowing. Maybe she should have brought a candle with her. The room was too dark for her to make out anything but the window in the far wall, lit up with the moonlight that spilled in, liquid and shimmery under the cover of night.
Breath escaping her lungs, Y/n descended the rest of the stairs, carefully tiptoeing so as not to wake her father sleeping on the floor above. By this point, she could recall the creaky steps from memory, and it was easy to avoid them. What she was more concerned about was bones lying around. Those sharp bones that flew around as her father butchered animals was the only thing Y/n was concerned about, really, considering she was barefoot.
Quietly, she made her way towards the window, slowly pulling open the drawer where she kept the candles. By the time her fingers wrapped around the waxy stick, her eyes had started drooping already. It hurt to keep them open, to the point she considered just returning to her room and ignoring the dripping liquid. But the area she lived in was poor, and the people here could not afford to waste resources. Water was precious, most of it being used up by the elites of the society, whatever little was left flowing down to the lower suburbs where Y/n resided with her father.
She brought out the candle, shutting her eyes tight before blinking them open again in hopes it would help her shake the fatigue that began weighing down her shoulders. Lifting her fingers to the wick was a task that seemed impossible, but she somehow managed to light the candle up. With that, she hurried towards the faucets in the kitchen, squinting. Sure enough, water dripped from the tap. A breath escaped Y/n as she reached her hand out, grabbing the handle and twisting until the water stopped dripping.
She turned, wondering if she should take the candle back to her room.
Whack.
Y/n blinked, wincing. What was that? She made her way back towards the window, peering out. As her gaze wandered out towards the street between the crowded homes, her eyes narrowed. A group of what looked like… higher up males messing around.
Scoffing, she turned away, ready to just go back to bed.
Alas, the males had other plans for her as the moment her attention flitted away, the sounds of howling and loud, obnoxious cheers reached her ears.
Pompous snobs. Rolling her eyes, Y/n decided that her father waking up because these boys who lived on their daddy’s money thought it’d be funny to be loud in the night, when everyone was sleeping, was not worth it. Her father was always so tired, and the few hours of rest he got were precious.
She yanked open the window, leaning her head out. "Hey! Shut it!"
The four males turned to look at her, their eyebrows raised. They all looked young, maybe around four hundred years old. They had expensive looking embroidered jackets on, their hair either slicked back or pulled into a ponytail.
"Oh? And what will you do if we don’t shut it?"
Jaw clenched, she studied the males. Two of them had dark hair, blue eyes, and the build of a teenage mortal. Possibly more into studying arts and literature than being a warrior. One had long, flowy blond hair, his eyes hooded and green like the skin of a toad.
That thought brought satisfaction to Y/n.
The one who looked the oldest among the fae, the one with short length auburn hair, stared straight at Y/n, no emotion on his face. The others had sneers and taunting smirks plastered on their faces, but not this one. He stood stoic, his eyes fixated.
She stared back at him for a few moments, unable to look away. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she somehow knew him. That she was supposed to know him.
But then he turned away, dismissing her. She stared at his back in bewilderment, her temper rising, sleep long forgotten.
Who did he think he was?
She wanted to call him, demanding an explanation. But that would have consequences, and neither she nor her father could afford it. Not to mention that if any of these males were a part of the high lord’s court, it would mean a death sentence or banishment.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Y/n retreated, blowing out the candle and shoving it back in its drawer before she stomped her way back to her room.
Y/n was mad because of the males behaviour, but more than that, she was mad at the fact that she was so bothered by the red headed male turning away from her, like she meant nothing. Like she was less than the dirt on the bottom of his boots.
Fuck him.
Sleep evaded Y/n for the rest of the night, her mind too busy trying to dissect her reaction to the male.
It was unusual for her. She never really cared for what people thought of her, having learned long ago not everyone would be nice to her all the time. But this male. He stayed on her mind, refusing to leave.
Morning came earlier than it should have. And with the first rays of the sun came her father’s booming voice, yelling at her to stop sleeping and to get her ass moving.
It grated on her nerves, and she had half the mind to yell back at him. But she pulled herself together, donning a simple dress. She did not help with the butchering, not really, but she did have to go out every morning to get some extra water from the creek nearby.
"Father! I am leaving!" She called out as she slid on her boots. A grunt was the only answer she got in return.
Early mornings were a precious time, for most of the people only started to leave their houses once the sun was higher in the sky. That meant that Y/n was all by herself at the creek.
Silence, cherished and peaceful, surrounded Y/n, only occasionally broken by the chirps of birds flying overhead in search of food for their younglings. The sun peeking out from behind the distant hills bathed Y/n in a soft warmth, warding off the early autumn chill. She was grateful for the sun’s loving embrace and its company as she settled down at the riverbed, the wet soil under her legs soft as she started to fill up her bucket.
Water gushed around her hand as she broke the water's current, filling up the vessel in her hand.
Crunch.
Y/n’s body locked up, her heart rising into her throat at the sound. No one should have been here. Not at this time. It was too early. Her instincts roared at her to get up, to flee. But she did neither.
She turned her head, glancing over her tensed shoulders to look for the predator that had decided to make her their prey. Because this was a predator, Y/n knew in her bones. Be it fae or animal, it was a predator.
Her eyes wandered, cautiously landing on the immaculately dressed male.
Amber eyes met her own.
Auburn hair. Amber eyes. Embroidered, expensive jacket over a silk tunic and tailored pants.
The male from the previous night stared back at Y/n, a sadistic glint in his eyes.
"Think I lost my way." He called.
Y/n narrowed her eyes. There was no way he didn’t follow her.
"What do you want?" Y/n questioned, getting her feet under herself, trying her best to not have her back facing him.
A corner of his mouth lifted. "Nothing, really." At her skeptical expression, he chuckled. "Did you have a good night of sleep last night?"
Y/n narrowed her eyes. "Is that all you came here for?"
He took a step forward, grass bending under his boots. Y/n took a step back instinctively, a lump rising in her throat. Muscles rolled and moved to try and accommodate it, but swallowing did not help as he continued to come closer.
"No. That is not all." Y/n glanced behind her, realising she stood at the very edge of the bank. One step was all it would take for her to tumble back into the water, and she’d rather be yelled at than drown in front of him.
"I wanted to make it up to you."
Y/n blinked. "I… what?"
He smirked, barely inches between them when he next spoke. "Did you not hear me the first time?"
Blood rushed to Y/n’s face. Now that he was so close, she could make out the shadow of a beard on his face, like he hadn’t shaved in days.
"I don’t understand how you are going to get me back my sleep."
His head tilted to the side, animal like. "How old are you, little fawn?"
Her chin lifted, refusing to budge under the intense gaze of the predator. "Twenty three."
The corner of his lips lifted higher, and for a moment, Y/n could not help but stare.
Eyes flitted away after a moment, realising she had been staring. "Twenty three? You’re basically a child."
Muscles rolled in her neck, then she met his eyes. "And?"
He shook his head, leaning back. "Let me make it up to you, beautiful. Meet me at the town square at sunset."
She blinked. "Why would I do that?"
He smirked. Shrugged, his jacket moving with the movement of his wide shoulders.
Then he turned, and stalked away, leaving her gaping at his back.
What just happened?
She did not have the answer to that question, but she did know she was not going.
Quickly, she composed her thoughts and set to filling up her bucket again, already dreading the scolding she would receive from her father because she took too much time to return home.
"Was he at least rich?"
Y/n froze, her fingers curling tighter into the sponge she had been rubbing against the pot. "What?"
"The male who wasted your time this morning. Was he one of the elites?"
Cold eyes turned to look at the weathered butcher, his eyes fixed on the meat he continued to whack with his knife. But Y/n knew his attention was fixed solely on Y/n and her answer.
Blowing a collected breath out of her nose, Y/n turned back to the pot she’d been scrubbing. "Maybe. How would I know?"
He scoffed. "Don’t play coy with me, girl. Do you want to keep all his riches for yourself?"
Eyes wide, she turned back to stare at him. "What do you mean by that?"
"You cannot expect me to believe your lies. A male just approached you out of nowhere, talked a little, then walked away, with no ulterior motives in mind?" Y/n simply stared at his back, and he finally dropped his knife, meeting his daughters eyes. "He obviously wanted to do something with you. He either wants to marry you, or he wants to use you for one night. Surely you can’t be that naive?"
Huffing, Y/n placed the pot back in the sink, throwing the sponge next to it and washed off her hands, trying to calm down her rising temper as she watched the soap suds vanish slowly.
"I’ll be outside."
"Go wherever you want, girl, as long as I get my share of money!"
Her eyes closed, a frustrated sigh puffing out from between her lips. Deciding that she needed more than the fresh air outside her walk, she began walking towards the town square mindlessly.
Not realising that it was almost sunset.
The square was busy, filled with males returning home from work and people who just wanted to have an early start to their nightly activities. The area was so crowded that Y/n debated turning around, but the thought vanished when she remembered why she was here in the first place.
To get away from her father. Maybe sit with some older ladies and have a chat.
"Going somewhere?"
Y/n glanced over her shoulder.
The male from the river side.
Her eyes widened, realising what time it was. He simply smirked and stalked forward, the crowd automatically parting for him. He didn’t even seem to realise that there were people around him.
"You look surprised." He mused.
Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe because I am?"
He chuckled. "You look like you’re in need of a distraction."
Y/n turned away. "Do I?"
He hummed. "I can provide a distraction."
She shot him an incredulous look. "No thank you."
She turned away, beginning to make her way through the crowd again. But…
Maybe it would be a good idea to indulge him. At least for some time. Maybe she could even figure out why his nonchalant attitude bothered her so much.
"You know what? Humour me…"
A smirk spread across his lips, the first genuine expression Y/n had seen on him. "Beron."
Her brows furrowed. She knew she had heard that name somewhere.
There could be so many more males named Beron, She tried to reason with herself.
"Hmm. Let's see what you can do, Beron."
Being a four hundred year old heir was a hard job, one Beron excelled at. His father was a fucking monster, but at least Beron could forget about the asshole when he snuck out with the bastards who kissed his ass every chance they got. Beron knew that they did not really care for him. No, they just wanted a shiny title once Beron became high lord.
Beron never really considered himself a nice male. He knew he was going to turn out just like his father, and if he was being honest, he was fine with that fact. He had no interest in becoming a better person.
But then Y/n pushed her way into his life. Or maybe he simply dragged her in. All that mattered was her, and nothing more.
She was a shiny gem.
Beron was a dragon.
And he wanted her in his collection, no matter what it took. Beron would gladly take all the torture his father made him go through if it meant at the end of the day he would get to see her. Maybe fuck her. But she made him come alive. And for the first time in all his four hundred years of existence, Beron wondered.
Wondered what a family with her would look like. Maybe he would become a better man.
But if there was one thing Beron wasn’t, it was delusional. He knew it was all wishful thinking. She was a nobody, a poor butcher’s daughter from the lower clans of autumn court. He was destined to take over ruling the whole court. They were never meant to be.
But in the cover of night, within the safety of the four walls of his room and under his blanket, Beron let his thoughts run wild, letting himself imagine a world where his father was a better man.
Of course, his hope was dwindling down day by day.
Particularly after his run in with his father that morning.
"You summoned me?" Beron muttered, his eyes lowered in deference.
The high lord hummed. "Come in." Lungs expanding, Beron made his way to stand in front of his father. "I will save us both time and get to the point."
Beron blinked.
"The peasant girl you’re fucking. I don’t want anyone finding out."
His blood chilled, eyes flying to fix on the relaxed figure of his father. "What?"
The high lord snorted. "You think I am naive? dumb? Listen closely, Beron. You are most likely going to be chosen by the magic to be the next high lord. I don’t want you marrying a good for nothing peasant. Fuck around, sure. But if I were you, I would make sure she did not fall pregnant." He finally looked at his son. "Oh and, start preparing. I have set up a marriage for you which will be beneficial for everyone."
Nothing ever surprised Y/n. And if it did, she was good at hiding it.
It was a surprise to Y/n when Beron showed up at her house every day since then, but he was one of the elite families in the autumn court. So that meant he was never denied anything in his life, so it came as no surprise when he thought he was entitled to her time.
But what did surprise Y/n when she actually wanted to spend time with him. So she just went along with his plans, often spending time together sitting at the cliff sides, watching the sunset.
He just… pulled her in. He enchanted her, and she was grateful he did. He had bewitched her, body, mind, soul. And she never wanted to go back to what she was before he came along.
She was aware that their union was improbable. Maybe impossible. But no one could fault her for being hopeful.
The crisp autumn air swirled around Y/n as she made her way to the hut outside of the town's borders, invisible to the fae passing because of the cover of trees around it. Shivers wound up her spine, leaves crunching under her boots. She pulled the scarf around her neck tighter, already anticipating wrapping herself around her lover when she got to his secret home.
He had revealed the place to her late one evening, handing her the keys to it. Later Y/n found out he had brought the place specifically so the two of them could meet in peace.
Moments passed in silence, only broken by her steps and the movement of the trees, animals and spirits around her in the forest. She hurried on, eager to tell Beron about the kitten that had started following Y/n around the previous day, only slowing down when the wooden structure came into view.
Along with it came dread.
Why, she did not know.
The surroundings were eerily quiet, like even the wind was holding its breath.
Confusion dug its claws in, along with doubt and fear. Was Beron home?
The door creaked open, and she tiptoed inside, a resounding click echoing behind her. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, she stopped breathing.
What happened here?
The whole interior of the house looked like a storm had been inside. Shards of glass, cutlery, plants, wood pieces littered the ground, a dark stain covering a small area on the opposite wall. Hell, even the dining table was upended.
Her heart slowed, then resumed its hard pace. "Beron?" The sound of the name was shrill, panic evident as she discarded the basket in her hand next to the door, running deeper. "Beron? Are you home?"
Crash.
And then silence.
The door to the bedroom was cracked open, and the closer Y/n got, she could hear heavy breathing from the other side of the wood. Steps slowed, air rushing in despite the barrier in her throat as she peeked inside.
The first thing she noticed was the blood.
A lot of blood.
Dripping from his fist as he stood there, staring at the shattered glass at his feet.
"B- Beron?"
Wild, primal eyes met hers, mad intent in them. Fear started to seep into her blood the longer she stared back at him. And if she hadn’t been watching him so intently, she would have missed his whispered words.
"I’m getting married."
Ice. So cold, so numbing, took over any other emotion in her body, overriding her senses.
"Oh," deep breath, "well. Congratulations then."
And with that, Y/n turned away, ignoring his incredulous laugh echoing through the hollow walls that surrounded her.
"Go on, run away! Everyone does."
His words followed Y/n all the way to her home, haunted her all night. That laugh, the crack in his voice, the emotions that ran rampant in his eyes. All of it kept her up. Pained her, dug its claws into her heart and ripped her apart from the inside.
It felt like someone had cut open her body and lit a fire to her organs.
And she deserved it.
She hurt all night long, the tears running down the sides of her face and back into her hair burned too, like acid. But growing up in the lower parts, she was used to ignoring all pains. That's what people did when there were things to be done.
Ignore the pains during the day, cry about it at night. But keep it all inside, don’t let anyone find out.
So when the sun’s rays broke in through her windows, she made herself get up. Got changed. Stared at herself in the mirror until she was sure there were no cracks.
And then she went about her day, ignoring the shards of her broken heart that poked at her flesh.
Just like she had ignored the shiny, golden string that tied her to Beron.
The females had been whispering. Everyone around Y/n seemed to know what was going on. She could not be quite sure what they were talking about, but from an overheard conversation between two housewives at the town square, Y/n drew the conclusion that the high lord had passed.
And the heir was going to take over soon. He was also getting married in a few hours in the sacred temple in the middle of the town, and anyone was free to come see and give their blessings. As Y/n had expected, her father jumped at the opportunity to even be breathing the same air as the elites.
Y/n knew he also wanted to go and see if he could find a male willing to pay in exchange for Y/n’s hand.
"Y/n! We will miss the wedding! Can you be any slower?"
Deep breaths. She reminded herself as she fixed her skirts, eyes fixed on the mirror. When she deemed herself fit to be presented, she turned.
Her father looked livid as he stood outside the house, and Y/n knew a tantrum was on its way. But to Y/n’s surprise, he turned and walked away, leaving her to run after him to catch up.
The air was unusually humid the closer they got to the clearing in the forest where every high lord had held important events.
It seemed like everyone had come to see the new high lord get married. Every few moments, an elbow would hit Y/n in the back, in her ribs. Anywhere, really.
It was by the time that she was sure that her skin was going to bruise that the high lord came into view.
And Y/n’s lungs turned into rock, refusing to expand to let air in.
Amber eyes surveyed the crowd, landing on hers with unnatural precision.
Eyes prickling, Y/n watched him glance at his bride, who nodded along to the priestess, before returning to her.
A silent, long moment passed. And then his eyes widened, shining with so much emotion. She had never seen him this bothered.
And finally, the empty, cold void that had been on the other side of the golden string that had laid dormant in her chest filled, light and fire filling her chest.
But Y/n turned her head away.
She was not someone he should have even talked to in the first place. She was far beneath his level. He would not forfeit his throne for her. And she could not forfeit the simplicity of her life for him.
They were simply not meant to be.
And the light that had just reached her slowly diminished, the life going eerily quiet. She knew she hurt him, but she could do nothing to fix him, even as her chest started filling with numbness, anger and resentment pouring in from the other side.
With one last glance, Y/n sprinted away, back to the little hut she shared with her father.
She would never be able to forget that look on his face. The hrd angels that seemed accentuated by the weeks worth of stubble on his jaw, the fury that seemed to age him another century.
omg. I’ve gone down a crackfic hole. can you do a beron x reader on calanmai??? (pls no noncon) can’t get him outta my head. thhhhaaanks!
The sound of drums filled the air, beating in time with your heart as you turn and turn around the bonfire, lost to the music and the dance. Its heat washes over your skin, banishing the night chill, beckoning you closer. As it always has. Tonight, however, is particularly intense. It pulls you, a tug between your ribs, reeling you into its orbit.
And does not let you go.
Around and around, you spin and sway, lost in the magic of Calanmai until strong, weathered hands catch you by the waist, pulling you from the flames. Breaking its spell. Your fingers catch on a fine, velvet jacket the color of bloodwine. That string between your ribs pulls taught, and you look up, peering into the dark, wicked eyes of the High Lord of Autumn.
"What are you?" He asks, more growl than question. You know, you know the you're lost in belong to your mate. Your mate. "Answer me."
"Yours," you answer simply because it's the only thing that feels true. What is a name in the face of a mating bond? The night spins around you, a blur of flame and darkness and rapidly beating hearts, but you've never been more still. More certain. Something torn between horror and delight flickers in the depths of the High Lord's brown eyes, something twisted. Something vile.
But you can't pull away, wouldn't if you could. He's wicked and cruel, but he's yours. He's yours. The bond pulled taught between you is just as much of a leash for him as it is for you. A vicious smile lights your features the moment you decide to wield it.
if you hate beron, do not engage with this, do not pass go. do not collect $200...
and for CAULDRON'S SAKE ⚠️ DO NOT ⚠️ READ MORE
beron x reader less than 600 words. I was tipsy when writing this and never had any intention of publishing until SOME PEOPLE (who will remain unnamed) asked to read. Congrats. Hope the prize was worth the pain of reading this LOL.
You had worked in the Forest House your whole life, having been born into a family that had served the Vanserras’ for generations. At first, you were nothing but one of the household servants, but you slowly worked your way up to one of the Lady of Autumn’s maids. That is until her husband took note of you. You hadn’t meant to capture Beron’s attention. But you started noticing how his eyes followed you across the room, how they roamed over your figure as you served his meals, and how his mouth would barely curl into a predatory smile when you finally met his gaze. Without fail, a shiver would run down your spine.
And now, thrashing against the silken sheets of his bed, you felt that same shiver down your spine as he moaned against your wet cunt, tongue licking the swollen bud between your legs.
“I told you to stay still,” he said, slipping a finger inside you, pumping it gently before adding a second. You whimpered at the sensation. His fingers were enough to make you feel too full. Turning your head away, you closed your eyes to imagine anyone else between your legs- one of his beautiful sons, perhaps. But with the heady scent of your combined arousals, it was impossible to mistake Beron for anyone else.
“Eyes on me,” his voice rumbled, and you quickly returned your gaze to the high lord crouched between your thighs. His amber eyes met your own, and you nearly came from that alone. His fingers moved faster now, the sounds of your arousal obscene as he thrust them into your core. Without warning, he curled his fingers, rubbing that spot inside you.
“Fuck,” you whined, back arching off the bed. The feeling was unbearable now, his fingers relentlessly pressing against you until he had you nearly sobbing. “Please,” you begged him. “Please let me come.”
At your words, he pulled his hand from you entirely. His fingers glistened, and strings of your arousal stretched between them.
“Please, what?”
“Please let me come, sir,” you said.
“Not yet.”
With this, he turned you over, shoving your face into the pillows. You could hear him unbuckling his belt and the linen of his pants drop to the floor.
Soon, you felt the head of his cock press against your entrance. Without warning, he pushed in, gripping your ass so you couldn’t move away. In moments, he was sheathed inside and began thrusting, hitting the deepest parts of you. He was relentless, the size of him stretching you perfectly, bringing you closer to release. Every time you felt yourself about to fall apart under him, Beron would change his cadence, robbing you of that pleasure.
After what felt like an eternity, the High Lord came, the feeling of his seed warm within your cunt. Leaving you at the precipice of your orgasm, he pulled out and gave your ass a tap to let you know he was finished with you.
“I expect to see you here tomorrow,” He said. The High Lord finished dressing and turned to look at you, his stare freezing you in place.
“Yes, sir,” you said. And despite trembling under his gaze, you couldn’t help but savor this secret between you.
You were getting old. So old, in fact, that recalling your own birthday and age had become difficult and draining, often leaving you deeply disturbed.
There were mornings when you awoke with a mind utterly blank, save for one persistent, disquieting thought: you were merely an ancient vessel for an ageless power. Whether it was the power itself or perhaps both you and it, you couldn't quite remember. Yet the weight of this burden was inescapable, a relentless chain binding you to the Autumn Court, the passage of time blurring the lines between your identity and the enigmatic force that anchored you there.
And so you surrendered. You gave up trying to recall your age in years. Instead, looking back, you realized you could measure the stretches of your life by Beron Vanserra's growing heartlessness.
Beron Vanserra had not always been heartless. Your fateful encounter with him took place on his twenty-fifth birthday, during the reign of his grandfather, Pyris Vanserra, as the esteemed High Lord. The grand celebration unfolded in an open field beneath a mesmerizing canopy of twinkling stars, where the night air was refreshingly crisp, carrying the delightful mingling scents of smoke, cloves, and cider, creating an enchanting and truly unforgettable atmosphere. It was a night where the very essence of magic seemed to dance in the air, weaving its spell around all present.
The lords and ladies from every corner of Autumn were immersed in a whirlwind of festivities. Laughter and music filled the air as they reveled in the abundance of food and drink. Graceful and natural movements guided them in and out of colorful tents, and their plates were piled high with savory delicacies. Their goblets overflowed with rich wine, and with each step, they painted the open field with spilled food and scattered drops of wine, leaving behind a tapestry of joyous chaos wherever the night carried them.
But as the night unfolded, Beron Vanserra was nowhere to be found.
Far from the heart of the festivities, within the confines of a tent belonging to a lesser lord, Beron's presence was felt in an entirely different manner. His labored breaths mingled with low, guttural growls as his fingers dug into the tender flesh of his companion's hips, leaving behind angry bruises as a testament to his fervor. Momentarily regaining his composure, he relaxed his grip.
Ignoring the faint whimpers of his partner, he slowed his movements, pressing his body against hers, melding them together amidst the chaotic tangle of bedding and grass. With possessive intent, he anchored her to him, one arm snaking possessively between her breasts while the other deftly sought out her pleasure, his fingers encountering nothing but the undeniable evidence of her arousal.
