#*beron

eris who hears autumn and who listens from birth. he can only intuit at first, for the land tries for so very long and with such intent focus to snag the attentions of its high lord. he catches at fleeting echoes between the branches and plucks mutters from between the fallen leaves until it finally notices him. but once it does—words take tentative form. the more he listens, the more tangible they become. whispers, then murmurs, then outright guidance. he hears the canopy laugh with delight for the first time over something he does and nearly unseats his horse. the court speaks to him constantly: the wind and the trees and the brooks and the vines and the roots and the seeds and the crops and the soil. never alone with autumn around.

whatever you do, do not think about how dazed eris would be by the lightness of his father’s dead body. not frail, mind you; beron is by no means weak—but surely a male who loomed so large over his life, who enacted such violence to his person should not be this easy for him to carry. do not think about how tenderly eris would carry him, head tucked in against his chest so that it does not loll undignified over his elbow, limbs arranged as though only in sleep, eyes shut by his hand because his father could not do it himself. do not think about how kindly eris would set the flame to his father’s pyre, how his fire would lick up the body graciously, almost apologetically, a hand smoothing hair back, knuckles grazing a cheekbone. do not think about how this would be one of the biggest things to differentiate them from each other—that even after death, when his father was finally his most vulnerable, eris treated beron with a love and a gentleness he was never himself afforded, even though he hates his father, hates what his father has done, hates how his father has ruined everything he has touched. because to do anything else would be unthinkable. he never considers leaving the body to rot. he never considers disrespecting the corpse. he never considers making a mockery of the death. the son is more unlike the father than he knows, and he will not be able to see it because it is something innate to him. something that could not be extinguished.

i love to think beron's father was indeed a ruthless but highly pragmatic sumbitch and that beron thinks himself to be walking in the same shoes—just more polished, more perfected, more tried and true. he learned from his father and so he can only ascend from the path his father wore into the land. not as a father, which i don't think he cares about as much as he cares about having successors, but as a ruler. those are one and the same to him. however, because (my own personal hc) beron was 1) not the chosen heir; 2) had to hew his way up his family tree to become it; and 3) was largely disregarded by his own father, he has this ancient, largely smoothed away chip on his shoulder when it comes to not being innately chosen, innately best, innately strong—and that gets huuugely exacerbated by loa cheating on him, which in turn makes him a much worse father. not that he was a good one to begin with.

i popped this little paragraph in umbrage re: beron and his father

His father would have done so in the very moment that her betrayal was made known, before the indignation had chance to rekindle in him, tucked away there where not even he was permitted to feel the wafting shame of it. That death would have been unkindlier than the one he bestowed would be, and it would not have preserved this dignity she clings to. His father would have borne his shame onto her sevenfold.

in it, beron's thinking about how he wants to kill loa for cheating on him and that his father would have done so immediately upon finding out, regardless of personal feelings. he's kind of got this interesting like ... he tacitly regards himself as weaker than his father for not being able to kill loa outright for the disrespect, but he also has that little slip of his true feelings being the unchosen, uncared for son: he thinks of his father's potential reaction as unkind—kindness being something beron has not cared about in centuries probably. just an itsy bitsy peek of beron the child, who once knew the emotions of indignation and jealousy and unworthiness but who bloodied his hands and became a kinslayer so as never to know them again—only to be cheated on and feel them like a brand renewed.

tangent but i also love him not being heir and having to kill his way to the throne as being an added element to the impossibility of eris being a perfect son and heir to him. because eris was born heir, there's always this though in beron's mind that eris simply had things handed to him, no matter how much eris tries and tries and tries and— because beron is jealous. in eris, his sees, perhaps, his older brother, who he loved, who he hated, who he killed. perfect eris. flawless eris. the better eris is, the more beron resents him. beron wants another son to kill eris. wants another son to be him. kinslayer. one who triumphs above adversity and takes what he deserves. what wasn't just handed to him by virtue of his birth. one who forces the hand of the mother, of the land, of fate itself. one who demands his own destiny. and because that all ties back to beron's father in a convoluted way—a father who just didn't really care for him because he wasn't heir, which made him feel unworthy—when loa cheats on him and exacerbates that mortal wound, he takes it out all the more on eris. chosen eris. worthy eris. perfect eris.

huuuuuge big huge massive agree. he was so fundamentally alone for so very long. he had only beron to inform pretty much … everything he did—and that’s why there was no opportunity for him to just Wear A Mask. he had to become what beron wanted him; he had to be the one to deprogram himself from it as it happened. there was never rest for him. never any quarter, not really. his mother was there, but she saw him as her first shackle, and so really he was beron’s to mold. even his attempts at scheming would have played into beron’s hand in a way. what sort of heir of mine wouldn’t seek more power? and who is the only one my heir can seek power from?

indulgence

characters: beron vanserra, iphigenia belrose (female oc)

pairing: vanrose

rating: explicit

word count: 3.5k

warnings: dubcon, sex slavery, drugged sex, rough handling, age difference, beron being a freak

summary: beron gets his favored bed slave high.

a/n: good for fans of breeding kink, daddy kink, and slight monsterfucking vibes. big kisses to @buffy-vanserra and @jon-snows-man-bun for beta reading this<3 also belatedly tagging @acotar-kinktober :•) just a snippet for tunglr, but you can find the full one shot on ao3 if☝🏻ur nasty. enjoy!

tag list: @nocasdatsgay @hybernian @olenvasynyt (if u want on / off pls lmk!)

"Fireglow," Beron murmurs. Already, he knows the answer, but still he asks: "Have you ever partaken?"

Iphigenia shakes her head against the heel of his hand. "No, High Lord." Like a melody—sweet and lilting and pleasing to the ear, those words off her tongue. "Though I have seen it used before."

A chuckle rumbles distantly, though its resonance settles in his breastbone. "Other pleasure herbs, perhaps," he says, amused. "This blooms only when the Mother blots the sun from the sky and casts the world in darkness." He holds the smoldering pipe aloft. "The efforts of my court to provide light by which to see."

Thoughtfully, "I had not known such a thing possible, High Lord."

The marvel seems only ever to split a millennia. One occurred near to his birth, then again around his fifth century. It will be a time before the next—and it has been long enough since the last that this floruit youth cradled in his palm would not have heard firsthand tell by her sires, themselves not of age enough to bear witness.

Beron hoards her to him, her legs crooking bestride his hips. Nestled at the apex of her thighs is an ambrosial heat that narrows his thoughts in the baring of itself against him, wet with his seed spilling from her, with her own arousal at his handling. He slides his hand down the nape of her neck and settles it atop his claim to her.

The collar purrs in recognition.

"No?"

"No," Iphigenia hums, slender arms winding about his neck. Pressed tight against his chest as they are, her breasts burgeon before him. The sight blackens his eyes and sets his mouth awater—round and full, her fair skin without flaw, save for here the impression of his teeth, there the roses and plums left behind by his tongue. "If its emergence is that precious, High Lord, why would they use it so?"

Beron answers not.

He draws again from his pipe, the bit eager between his teeth—but he does not inhale; rather, he holds the fireglow captive on his tongue, then slants his lips over hers and bestows it upon her. In the kiss, he tastes what it is to have power: an unhallowing of the sacred, a debasement of the exalted, a profanity of the immaculate.

The deflowering of a miracle.

i’ve talked abt it a bit in this ask but i didn’t really get into his Feelings about it. i think he would undergo just like ??? such insane mental gymnastics. genia was just his young pretty innocent little plaything to corrupt as he wanted—now she’s his mother-ordained equal who he never would have subjected to such depravities if he had known. he wouldn’t feel guilt or shame or anything like that, but i think he feels this weird blend of like . disgust/anger because my equal is nothing more than a whore -> crashout about how he’s deserving of more and this must all be because loa cheated on him; but then also intense horniness because my equal is MY whore, perfectly molded to me. no wonder she took me so well. no wonder she knew as second-nature how best to soothe me and serve me and please me. his brain is literally just so fried from being cheated on, i almost feel like i’m leaning towards him just keeping genia a secret and continuing to use her as he had been? except worse because now he’s reallllllllly trying to get her pregnant.

i do but i’ll warn you they are not at all happy :( he was kept pretty busy as a youngling — training, lessons, etc. not to mention isolated from his peer group. (unseemly for him to engage in play/lower himself in such a way and unsafe for what could have been beron’s only son.) so any childhood crushes he had were misappropriated on adult fae who showed him kindness: governesses, tutors, the like.

by the time eris came of age to be taught a lesson (way too young) beron had a female approach him at dinner or something. one of his own bed slaves. he had her show him attention and flirt with him and ply him with drink and really make him believe that she was interested in him. who he was. what he enjoyed. what he did with his time. eris believed her! why wouldn’t he? she was pretty, and she touched his arm, and she laughed and smiled and leaned in at all the right times. he was blushing and there was a flutter in his chest and — had anyone shown him attention like this before? no. it was easy to seduce him, easy to get him into bed. he woke up feeling sated and happy and that little flutter was still with him. maybe he could find her again tonight.

then beron called him to the throne room. that same female stood at the foot of his throne. at first eris was worried. perhaps his father found out and thought to punish her, then punish him. eris wasn’t sure for what, but his father had never needed much of a reason before. but what happened was worse. while she stood there with her eyes downcast, beron relayed every single moment of their night, everything eris said, everything eris did, every brutal, excruciating detail of his first time and all the pathetic things he said during. to teach eris that no one who shows him kindness or attention is to be trusted, that everyone can be bought, that there is no such thing as a private or intimate moment for someone like him.