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phyrestartr · 11 months ago

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Vampire | Miguel x M!Reader

Vampire!Miguel x Reader W/C: 5.9k

#NSFW, vampires, blood, gore, violence, bottom!reader, top!Miguel, mentions of sex work, mentions of assault, it's kinda cute idk, posessive behaviour, questionable relationship, reader is morally grey, reader is lowkey a criminal though lol, Johnny Blaze = Nic Cage 5ever sorry not sorry

Note: I FINISHED IT! Lost steam with editing so some bits may be kinda weird and word-y, but I really enjoyed writing this honestly :clap: ty guys for voting for me to finish this o(--( I actually finished it so quickly wtf--

Vampires. Blood-sucking, man-killing, devil-calling creatures. Many feared them, even now, even after the legends of Dracula faded into obscurity and out of the minds of mortal men. But there were some who kept weary watch on the old castle looming before your meager town: older folks, the ones with bleached scars and haunted voices, with quivering hands and a phobia of the dark.

You thought they all spun tales, convinced themselves of a time that never happened thanks to whatever their parents hushedly told them come the waning of the sun. “Don't leave the house after dark,” “be wary of the man you know not,” “pray to God for his protection,” is what you figured they'd been told. You couldn't blame them. Not really. Mass hysteria, mass lies told to the young had a penchant for warping their minds, destroying their futures.

But still, you'd listen. Face alight with a smile, one ear turned their way as you poured drinks for whatever patron came bumbling your way that night. There was one man, one who claimed to have been touched by the devil himself, momentarily transformed into something wicked and unholy, who frequented the establishment.

“Come on now, Johnny,” you chided with a laugh, “you don't really believe all that rubbish. Touched by the devil? You Americans really are the dramatic sort, aren't you?”

“You don't need to believe all of it,” Johnny said mildly. “You just need to believe a sliver of it. It'll do you some good. Keep you safe.”

You smiled to yourself as you busily made a drink for a new customer. “Yeah? Keep me safe from what, exactly?” Your eyes met his, then, and you found your blood stood in place for a moment.

“You know what.” The devil. He'd said it too many times to count without uttering his name. “Just be smart.”

“I'm always smart,” you said with a phony laugh, the sort you used to lull women and men into some cheap sense of comfort.

“Smart people do dumb things, too.” He took a swig of his drink before peering down at the amber pooling against crystal. “Like sneaking around old, unhallowed castles.”

You pursed your lips. “I'm just curious, old man, you don't need to worry. I've not been inside, yeah? Just looked ‘round the outside of the old place.” That's probably filled with loads of goods.

But Johnny only stared at you, calculating, thinking. It almost unnerved you.

“Just be careful.”

And in that moment, a man whose name you didn’t know, but whose body you knew too well, walked into the bar. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his frame unnaturally tall, and from the glimpses you were allowed of his face hidden away under the brim of that hat, you remembered strong lines and proud cheekbones. His eyes, a bizarre colour, always glimmered ruby in the firelight thanks to some strange disease you never quite remembered the name of, and his hair, a dark oaken hue, wisped like tendrils of shadow rolling off his strong neck.

He didn’t look at you, but you couldn’t look away. Your gaze followed him to where he found a quiet seat off to the side by a small table. He wouldn’t order anything. He never did. He only ever waited for your shift to end.

“Kid?” Johnny prodded, freeing you from your momentary curse.

You blinked and sputtered, nodding in earnest to whatever Johnny had said. “I–right. Careful. I’m always careful.”

–

Just be careful.

But that was impossible with this otherworldly spirit around you, waiting for you every other night just for the sake of bedding you, and leaving before morning with nothing but a stack of bills (or sometimes some jewelry, if you were lucky) to remember him by. Your favourite client by far. Your only client, per his request.

Your fists twisted into the bedsheets as you gasped with every brutal crashing of the man’s hips against yours as he took you from behind. He was in a bad mood tonight, it seemed. Normally, he liked to take it slow, he liked to savour his meal, but for some reason–

His hand clasped over your mouth when his teeth tore into your neck again. The cry that left you was hoarse and tired, but not so surprised, no; the man had his kinks, and one just so happened to be biting. He did quite the number on you, too, always breaking skin and leaving scars and scabs in his wake. But it felt good. It felt right to be claimed. The greedy, ugly little part of your heart wanted people to know you were taken and owned by this strange, captivating man.

“Fuck, I–” You buried your face into the mattress as another orgasm hit, striking your dull nerves like hammer on hot iron thrust after thrust. Soon enough, you felt his body stutter against yours just before an uncanny, liquid gold filled your guts and seeped into your core–he was finally done. Finally. Though part of you wished it didn’t have to end.

His teeth, the pointed, feral things, dislodged from your neck before he ran the flat of his tongue against the weeping wound. Somehow, that always staunched the bleeding. You didn’t quite understand it, but you weren’t exactly well-versed in medicine.

“Tired already?” He mocked in that smokey, American accent. “Thought the young had more than that to offer.” The purr of his voice soothed the pulsing start of a headache as you came down from your high. Yet another strange effect he had on you.

You took a good handful of moments to catch your breath before you tried to hazard an answer. “I’m–you’re in some kind of mood, darling; can’t blame me for your brutality.” You turned your head to rest your cheek against the scratchy sheets, and the beast took the opportunity to leave nips and kisses along your jaw.

“Tch. I’m just reminding you who you belong to. Where you belong.” Sharp teeth grazed your skin again, and you shuddered. “No one likes to see theirs fawning over another man.”

You strained to look back at him. “You–you mean Johnny? He’s not–I wouldn’t let him bed me, are you mad?” A rough push of his hips against yours reprimanded you. “H-He’s a mate, love, that’s all.”

The man twitched. “A mate?”

“A friend, you bloody idiot.”

He relaxed, but still sought confirmation. “A friend.”

“A friend, indeed. Father-figure, maybe.” With a bit of effort, you managed to wriggle free from the strength of the man pinning you in place, and laid on your back to gaze up at him. “I’m not interested in him, he’s not interested in men, so you needn’t worry a thing.” One of your worn hands reached up and smoothed over the curve of his sharp cheekbone, drawing a pleased hum from the chamber of the beast’s chest.

“Fine.” He rested his weight on you, and you sighed, content and warmed. But that bony chin digging into your chest was a tad bit fucking irritating. “Then if he’s not trying to fuck you, what makes you listen to him for hours on end, hm?” Hah. Annoyed. Jealous. Quite endearing.

“He has stories to tell,” you offered. “Words about the devil and the curse of the undead. About Dracula and that old castle.”

The man’s brows raised in interest. “Oh? And you like ghost stories, is that it? Here I figured I'd be enough to keep your mind entertained,” he said with a taunting smirk, like he thought your suggested belief in those spooky tales was laughable.

Heat washed over your face. “I–you–shut up, I just like me a good story, is that so wrong? Tch, stupid American.”

He laughed, a sound you adored to hell and back. “I’ll keep it in mind. Might have a few good stories up my sleeve, too.” His head tilted the slightest bit. “Maybe then your eyes won’t wander.”

“Terribly jealous one, aren’t you? I never would’ve guessed it.” You raked your hands through his hair and he sighed, deep and ancient. But your words were true–this man, your mysterious client-turned-lover, he captivated all wherever he traveled. With so many eyes on him, why did he want you to look nowhere else but to him?

Greedy man. That’s what you decided. He wanted everything and more.

“Other men don't get to look at what's mine,” he mumbled after a time of you pampering him with pets and scritches. “And you're mine, for the record.”

“Hm. I quite like the sound of that.”

“Then marry me.”

“I'm not sure I can,” you lamented. “I find myself in trouble too often. It puts me on the run, jumping from town to city and back again.”

“You'd never have to run again if you let me have you.” He picked himself up and loomed over you, brushing his nose against yours as he spoke against your lips. “You'd be safe, cared for, never want for anything. None of those sacks of shit would would lay a finger on you again.” His lips trailed down, brushing against the thick vein in your neck. “I think it's for the best if you agree.”

You almost argued back, but the large hand engulfing your throat gave you pause. He didn't hurt you, no, but gave you a silent warning. The power that man held over you contradicted his weakness to your wants and desires, and twisted your thoughts into unorganized knots.

“I'll think on it,” you breathed, not wanting to say yes but unwilling to say no. You didn't want marriage, but commitment was a tantalizing idea. You'd just never thought it'd happen to you.

His eyes came back to yours again. Your heart fluttered at the glints of carmine shimmering in candle-lit eyes. God, he was beautiful.

“I better like your answer.”

–

You left. You hated doing it, you hated running from your problems and whatever seemed to haunt you day to day, but too much happened in too short a time.

For one, the landlord demanded more and more rent money from you when he noticed your gifted jewelry and newly tailored coat, and then, when you didn't give it to him, he took to trying to get payment another way. You shot him, obviously.

Which led to your second reason for leaving–you'd shot a man and fled the scene, unknowing if he was alive or not, and uncaring of the outcome, quite frankly. You figured the lowlife would be more pressed about the money than dying, anyway.

And third, the bar you worked at found out you'd been swindling and stealing on the job, pocketing tips and taking home near-empty bottles to refill with something of your own design to sell on the streets. Admittedly, it was fine work, but you'd long abandoned that method of money-making once that stranger wandered into your life and offered you more cash than you could imagine.

But you liked that bar. You liked those patrons. No strings attached.

And that's why you were back. Not with the intention to stay, no; you were back to scout out the castle after getting confirmation from some university lads about how valuable the old place was. You figured you could find enough in there with the scoundrels you'd come with, and maybe you could pay the old owner back before leaving for good.

You'd never have to run again if you'd let me have you.

Maybe you should've just said yes.

–

The castle stood beautifully, even with the screams of the slaughtered ringing through the halls. It was big, too, eagerly letting you get lost in its enchanting halls and inviting rooms as you tried in vain to remember the way out.

That's when you crashed into one of the uni snobs you'd come with, Harry. He was a mess, clothes and hair out of place for once, with a spray of sticky blood coating his face and white shirt. Osborn must've seen their tormentor.

He grabbed your shoulders as you grabbed his arms. “We have to go, we have to go–” he chanted, pulling and pushing you in undecided directions.

“Osborn, where did you see it? Where–” Another scream gave you a hint. Your eyes snapped down the hallway, staring deep into the torchlit halls and finding nothing but the unknown staring back.

Then, there were footsteps. Slow, methodical things that rung to a tune hidden in your memories.

“We have to go,” you whispered, like that'd help. “Osborn, we have to–” a splitting pain electrocuted your senses and sent you stumbling backwards. The world spun. Your head ached. Funeral bells shrieked. Worst of all, that dress shirt and that fancy jacket you loved so much were stained suddenly, a foul colour of darkness that reeked of pennies and iron. It took you too long to look back to the student, and to see the smoking pistol held out in his shaky hand.

“I had to,” Osborn whispered, so, so haunted. “I had to. You understand.” And quite frankly, you did understand; wounding a lamb to leave behind for a wolf to indulge in was a sure way to let a farmer escape.

Harry took off. You grasped your stomach and leaned hard against the wall, trying to pull yourself together to make some kind of run for it before those languid steps found you and cut your story short. But you felt so tired, so dizzy. The red weeping under your hand and the bewildered pants leaving you left you colder and colder. You wondered if Osborn had shot himself in the foot with this one (hah), killing the sacrificial lamb, rendering it useless to what was believed to be a vampire of all things. They devoured the living, not the dead.

Clack, clack, clack. The haunting echo of fine shoes on wooden slats passed you by, then vanished all together. You collapsed to your knees and heaved in the burning air just as a deafening screech ricocheted through the halls with the echo of frantic gunfire, and the slosh of viscera. You fought back the burn of bile in your throat when you braved a look; there laid a body on the floor, and a corpse standing above it, illuminated just barely by torchlight.

His shoulders were impossibly broad, his frame unnaturally tall–

“We could have avoided all of this,” the creature growled.

–from the glimpses you were allowed of his face hidden in the swath of darkness around him, you remembered strong lines and proud cheekbones–

“But you didn’t listen.”

–his eyes, a bizarre colour, glimmered ruby in the firelight thanks to some strange disease you never quite remembered the name of–

“Why couldn’t you just listen?”

–and his hair, a dark oaken hue, wisped like tendrils of shadows rolling off his strong neck.

He appeared beside you so suddenly, so soundlessly, you wouldn’t have known he approached if it weren’t for the strength of your fluttering eyelids seeking the truth. You stared hard at the tips of his leather shoes. Perhaps you should’ve known it was him all along. Perhaps you had known.

He knelt before you and forced your chin up, making your eyes meet his as he stared down through you. Blood marred his face, matching the wine-red hue of his furious, gem-cut eyes; even like this, teeth bared, about to kill you, he was beautiful.

“Look what you’ve done. This is your fault–”

But that beauty was wasted on such a foul-mouthed monster.

“My fault?” You spat. “Fuck you.” You tore your chin from his grip, but his hand sought out your throat instead. “Don’t fucking touch me–”

He smiled, bitter but so wholly and infuriatingly amused before he chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll do whatever I want with you.” And before you could lash out, before you could throw a fist at his stupid face, he yanked you in and bit.

A winter breeze rippled through you. Cold. Piercing. And you gradually froze like water dripping from the gutters, no longer able to fight back, too sluggishly slow to do anything about your fate. You breathed hard, feeling the hole in your stomach and ache of your heart weep and worsen with every shattering breath you took. Your hands, gentle in their weakness, pawed at his chest and sought a spot to dig in and hold on to for dear life as the waking world turned its back to you.

But despite the bitterness, and despite words exchanged, he held the side of your face as you faded in and out of consciousness. He called something, and a flurry of orange wisps appeared above you.

–

You awoke to the echoes of a dream, one you hadn’t had for a while. A cloudless night where you’d been caught in bed by a taken woman’s man and beaten half to death; in return, you shredded through the man's chest with a knife from the kitchen while the wife watched on in silence. You'd been ready to kill her, too, slit her throat in one easy motion, but she never screamed, never looked at the wild animal with fear.

Tell the police he attacked you, miss.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time.

You fumbled through the alleys after leaving the scene, but others, foul things that roamed the streets where not even rats lingered, found you, threatened to use up the last of what you had to offer this pitiful world. It seemed as though they disappeared in the time it took you to blink, though, and a man was left, standing in their wake. He looked somewhat disheveled, like he’d just finished some grand task, but he was just so put together, too. You struggled to make sense of it, but you didn’t really care to.

“Well, isn't that impressive,” you said with a breathless laugh. “Not a shred of blood on you. Are you the ripper the paper’s gone on and on about?”

The being glanced over his shoulder, eyes alight in curious mirth. He turned your way and stepped closer. You saw it then, the slightest bit of dark smears on his face.

“Is that what they're calling me?” He adjusted his cuffs, and rolled his shoulders. “Huh.”

Adrenaline poured into your heart. “You're quite the dangerous man, aren't you, sir?” you swallowed thickly as you looked him over: fine shoes, expensive coat, luxurious rings. “And, ah, well-off. You wouldn't happen to be interested in spreading the wealth, hm?”

His hand cupped your jaw, sticky with freezing blood, and he leaned in. The pungent scent of iron curled your gut as he breathed you in, making up his mind with what to do with you. Then, with the dry, warm back of his gloved hand, he caressed the side of your face and watched your eyelids flutter, devouring the simple gesture.

“Let's see if you can convince me to.”

“I know you’re awake,” he mumbled.

Curiosity willed your eyes open, and you gazed down at the hollow tube connecting you to the walking corpse. You fought to ease the jump of your heart, but it became impossible when a dark red raced from the vampire's arm down into yours.

“Is that going to make me like you?” You whispered, nerves twitching and burning with the bite of restless fire ants.

Crimson eyes found yours and looked deep. “It won't. You can relax.” But you weren't convinced, and your lover could tell. “You'd have to drink my blood.”

“Why're you giving me your blood, then?”

“You'll die without it.” He pumped something, you now noticed, and realized it was what drew the blood from his veins and drained it into yours.

Curious. “Were you a man of medicine?”

He scoffed. “Still am.” He threw you a wary look, one brow raised. “How many more questions are you–”

“Your name?” That was something you'd requested before, but always through a veil of uncertainty. You didn't like to ask much of him. He didn't ask much of you. But you didn't know him, yet he knew you.

Your vampire frowned, unapproving. “What difference will it make?”

“You asked me to fucking marry you,” you bit out. “And yet you keep so many secrets from me, still. I've given you more than I have, and you can't even–”

“Miguel.” You both paused–him to gauge your reaction, and you out of shock. “Miguel O'hara.”

The cracks in your chest mended, just slightly. Miguel O'hara. What a name that was. Formidable and wholly suiting the beast of a man you'd known and craved for far too many years.

“Miguel O'hara,” you whispered, staring tiredly at the red thread connecting the two of you. The name felt good on your tongue.

Nothing more was said, then. He must've still felt the tension in the air, or maybe the coil of apprehension in your body, for he worked on in silence, quietly saving your life for no reason.

It was when he pulled free the needle that you found the will to break the silence on your own.

“Why didn't you tell me?” It came out a pathetic whisper, sounding as broken as your mind felt.

He paused before pulling the needle from his own arm. “Tell you what?”

It was a good question. You didn't know what to ask him to elaborate on. You didn't know if you wanted him to elaborate on anything, actually, because it'd make it too real, too tangible.

“Everything.” And when he stayed silent, you narrowed it down to just, “all of…you.”

Miguel licked his thumb and stroked it soothingly against the pinprick of a wound while his brows furrowed and his lips twisted into something of a frown. “How could I?” You both watched the tiny dot of red cease weeping. “If you'd moved on and you knew, it could put everything at risk.”

If I'd moved on. It felt wrong. It felt uncomfortable to know he felt that somewhere between his ribs and his heart. And for how long? How long had he not trusted you? Did he even trust you in that moment, knowing what and who he truly was? Or were you now doomed to this castle just as he was?

“I'll let you rest,” Miguel said as he clasped his medical case shut and stood. “Lyla'll bring you food.”

Thump, thump, thump, echoed his footsteps, those fine shoes muffled by old carpet; but the sharp clack, clack, clack in the hollow echoes of your memories, just before the truth revealed itself to you, swallowed up your thoughts.

“(Name),” Miguel said, and your eyes opened to find the tall, proud back of his silhouette stood at the door, one hand clutching the knob. “Don’t leave this room.”

And he left you there, heart aching, mind melting, soul shattering.

–

Solitude reminded you of what else happened. The lads you'd come here with, nothing more than acquaintances, were missing, or perhaps dead. It ate at your mind. Could you have done something different? Could you have convinced him to let them go?

More importantly, would Miguel let you leave? He claimed he wanted to marry you, but words were just words if not put to use with actions. Staying by his side would mean stomaching the fact he'd consume countless other people, wouldn't it? How were you expected to watch your partner(?), your groom-to-be(?), hold and pierce others the way he promised to you and only you?

But could you let him stay here alone, hunted and hated by believers, laughed at by the average skeptic? If you were not here, how many more would walk in on a dare, and meet a terrible end? They didn’t matter, no, but the legend of a vampire would turn more and more true, summoning devil-hunters to his doorstep, stake and flames in-hand.

The thoughts plagued you, filling your head with the terrible buzzing of bees. You couldn't fathom why you cared so much; most of your life you'd lived for your own sake, doing what needed to be done to get by, to have a better tomorrow. You hated other people. A few of them you'd personally buried six feet under, whether they were dead or lived still, and you never batted an eye. You had no patience for those who'd oppose you.

You would have killed Osborn yourself if O’hara hadn't. And that was the truth. That'd been the truth the whole time, ever since you saw just how expensively he and the others lived; gold dripped from their tongues, silver ran through their veins, diamonds fell from their eyes. You wanted to claim a bit of that for yourself.

And Miguel had shared his wealth with you, just in exchange for a bit of blood and your body for the night. Surely you could look past what he did to survive, even if it put your heart into a spiral.

Lost in thought, you found your way to his chambers, freely disobeying his orders

He lounged in a clawfoot bath. Stuffy heat lulled you into a daze, something like a carefree summer evening wherein the sun took too long to vanish. Though when he noticed you approach, shedding clothes the entire way, the heat grew near unbearable.

Miguel's claws creaked against the enamel in anticipation when you stepped into the water. You watched him with the same delicate intrigue as prey investigating something that could be a threat as you found your place between his spread legs, getting close enough to feel the pounding of his undead heart. You'd only seen his body in dim candlelight or withering rays of the moon, never truly illuminated by the glow of floating chandeliers nor the collection of sconces arching from the wall.

Slowly, your fingertips dragged along muscle, warm and firm under your calloused touch. The scars littering your hands and knuckles shone so stark against his perfect complexion. He really did seem too perfect. It would have sparked jealousy in your gut if he didn't apparently belong to you, and you to him. No one else got to touch. No one else got to see.

Now, you were built finely yourself, but the man before you was something entirely different. You didn't know if it was thanks to his supernatural existence, but his body was built in a near-animalistic way that screamed power and speed, not similar enough to a human. Though, looking back, you did always think his manners in bed were more beast than man. The growling, the clawing, the marks of claim on the nape of your neck, it all clicked and made sense in the whirlwind of your mind.

“I think a werewolf would suit you better,” you admitted. “What with the claws and biting and general uncouth behaviour.”

Miguel huffed. “You must be talking about yourself.” His voice rang low and quiet, too aware he might scare off his prized hare if he put too much into his words. “You're the one acting like a rabid animal.”

“No, you.”

“Don't think so.”

“You're difficult.”

“You're one to talk.”

“How long have you been like this?” Your fingers combed through his hair, and his eyes fluttered shut. “A vampire. Or whatever you are.”

“Lost track,” he said, sounding too honest. “I have records. Notes. From experiments. The dates on those are close to when it happened.” Experiments? Colour you intrigued.

“So you weren't exactly practicing white medicine?” You tilted your head in thought. “You were doing something more–”

“It wasn't black magic,” Miguel scoffed. “It was science. Genetics. Studying how other organisms function, learning about them.” His expression darkened just the slightest bit. “Trying to…recreate them.”

Your head spun a little trying to fill in the blanks. It wasn’t too hard, but it was hard to accept as reality. But if anyone were to unlock the damned secrets of immortality, of course it'd be this man. This cocky, genius, charming man. God really did have favourites, though they always did seem to disappoint him.

“I see. So you're telling me you're a genius who rebirthed vampires,” you summed up, letting your hands melt down his body, below the water's surface. “How is it you only get more and more impressive, Mr.O'hara?”

A smug smirk bloomed across his lips. “It's just in my nature.” His head tilted back with a pleased sigh when your touch finally landed on that annoying thing prodding your thigh. “I have no choice but to succeed.”

“Tch. Americans are so arrogant.” You hummed and leaned in, ghosting kisses along his vulnerable neck while your hand pleased him slowly, teasingly. His talons screeched against the tub again. “But maybe you have reason to be, hm? Given how accomplished you are.”

A dark, scarlet haze like the sky of the blood moon illuminated Miguel's eyes in the few moments they slipped open to catch a glimpse of you. You wondered if he needed a reality check. Maybe he thought he was hallucinating, maybe he thought that you weren't really there despite being pressed up against him and murmuring useless quips into his skin. You'd be sure to leave an impression on him; your hand quickened, gripping tighter and pulling the way he directed you to far too many years ago, but his barbed hand caught your wrist.

“Stop,” he gasped. His chest rose and fell with his light panting as he stared you down. Want radiated off of him like an animal starved. You knew what was rattling around in his mind before he even spoke.

“You want to fuck me, is that it?”

Miguel's breath hitched.

–

You made him ravenous. You were the only thing he wanted to feast on, delicacies and sanguine temptations be damned.

One of his large hands held your waist in a death grip while his other hand held your head down, forcing your incoherent ramblings into the soft, silken sheets as he rammed you from behind like a beast in heat. You took it well, too, not that you hadn't before–he always held back, appeared to you as human when he fucked you previously. But now that you knew the truth, now that you knew what lay hidden in the dark nooks of his bones’ marrow, he felt complete. And that meant he could completely lay claim to you, too.

He matched the curve of your back with his chest when he leaned over you, burying his nose into your neck and shoulder to indulge in your scent. Your vampire's desire to breed slowed and steadied into deep, thoughtful rolls of his hips. Perhaps his mind had caught up with him and ushered him to slow down, to abandon some of that reckless excitement.

Miguel heard the slightest mumble of his name on your lips and leaned down further to touch his own to your cheekbone. One arm looped underneath your throat in a benign chokehold of sorts, while his other hand threaded through your hair–if he wasn't fucking you like an animal before, this makeshift mating lock he had on you sealed the deal.

“You feel good,” Miguel murmured, voice tickling the shell of your ear.

“Hah. I, ah, always feel good,” you tried to quip back, but your expression betrayed the fraying threads of whatever self-control you still desperately clung to. “You’re, uh…unhinged, hey?” Miguel scoffed. “Like a…a wild beast.”

“Oh?” A purr hummed through his chest, piercing your body and rattling through your own lungs in seismic pulses. “A wild beast? Flattering.”

“Really, darling, you don't have to be such a sarcastic asshole when you're–” a hard snap of his hips sent you spiraling for a moment, “--in my ass.”

“Maybe you should watch your mouth,” he suggested.

“Maybe you could watch it for me,” you countered.

The warmth of his laugh sent chills scattering across your skin. He pulled out of you and turned you over, dragging your hips back against him before his powerful body engulfed yours again. Miguel liked this more. He liked the feeling of your hands grabbing and clawing at him, the way your thighs attached to his waist, how you bit your bottom lip while your eyes screwed shut from the overwhelming feeling of your partner destroying you.

And of course, his lips could meet yours like this. The sweet tang of copper and berries, a taste so familiar and so you, was shared between tongues, kept secret in the crevices of teeth. It amazed Miguel how much one little kiss could push him over the edge and make the bed creak and groan with you as he loved on you and made sure to send the message straight to your core.

Your hands fisted in his hair when you came undone. That lovely voice of yours poured into Miguel's eager mouth, and you tightened, pulling him to the edge and pushing him over with the might of a wild stampede. Claws nipped your skin, fangs pierced deeper, yet his rutting hit deepest, and burned you alive with unbearable, liquid heat.

–

“Why me?” You asked into the stillness of the room.

Calm silence answered you for a long moment. The sun bloomed beyond the thick curtains, you noticed in your wait, and you wondered if you would ever miss the sight. England never truly had bright, sunny days from what you recalled; stretches of smokey, grey overcast clouded the skies and your memories more often than not. Could your vampire walk amongst the living like this?

Miguel sighed, leaning into the hand carding through his hair. “Figured you’d understand.”

“I’d understand what?”

“Killing to survive.”

“How long have you known?” You wondered, unsurprised.

“Blood tells stories,” he whispered. Long, dark eyelashes fluttered a moment before crimson eyes peered open the slightest bit. “Your story’s long. Complicated. You’re too young for it.”

A smile twitched onto your face. You adjusted in the bed, getting more comfortable on your side in those pooling, satin sheets. “So you thought I’d be an easy target for sex, then? Desperate and young as I was.”

He found your eyes, his gaze earnest and bleeding. “I–you–fine, at first it was like you said. Maybe. But after enough time, I decided you weren’t like the rest. You’re as supernatural as I am.”

“Supernaturally handsome? I agree.”

“Stop.”

“You didn’t think I’d be afraid of you.”

“I’d hoped as much.”

“And you still didn’t tell me.” Your fingertips danced along the arch of his cheekbone, leaving pleasant sparks against his skin in their wake, unbeknownst to you. “Were you scared?”

“I’d rather have you as a man for whatever time we had together than to lose you to a beast,” he explained, cryptic as one would expect an old legend to be. “I’ve lost too much already because of…this. Because of me. I didn’t want to lose more.” Miguel’s dark brows furrowed. “If you ended up fearing me to, I–”

You silenced him with a hand over his mouth. “Enough. I understand.” You palm smoothed back up to cup his face. “You needn’t be afraid of me–well, being afraid, I suppose. I’ll stay.” You took a deep breath and leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “This bed’s too comfortable to give up, after all.”

His breath fanned against your skin as he chuckled, tired and perhaps tinted with disbelief. “Well, you can stay here as long as you want.”

“Brilliant. Would you even let me drink your blood?”

The rumble of a growl, or perhaps a purr, rolled through his chest into yours. You searched his eyes, wondering, hoping, and found mere slices of ruby peeking out from behind eclipsing pupils.

“We’ll see.”

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader #atsv imagine #atsv reader insert #male reader insert #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x male reader #miguel x male reader #male!reader #atsv male!reader insert #atsv x reader #atsv x you #miguel x you #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara x y/n #phyrestartr #vampire miguel #vampire!miguel #Vampire Miguel O'hara

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mommyofkittens · 1 year ago

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A Court of Fallen Heroes: Chapter 7 - A Tale of Time

" Thousands of years ago, before there was Prythian with its faes or the humans with their concept of time, even before the original death creatures who haunted our legends ever existed. Before the veil between the worlds fell in place and the universes started to build on top of each other, there were only two brothers, two geminis, two separate faces of the same coin, two sharp ends of the same blade. They were made by a Higher Power, an androginous specter of dust floating alone into the void, overlooking his kingdom of nothing. They were treated as his children. The two of them played together, ate at the same table, wore clothes made by the same hand, but they grew bored of the emptyness surrounding them. Always icy and friendless. So they asked their parent figure to make new beings around them.

Because this High Deity loved his children so much, he indulged them and made several other creatures. But before he began his creation, he asked each one of them what kind of friends they'd like to have around them. That's when he realised the dramatic difference between his kids and the terrible mistake he'd made.

The boy was the first one to be molded out of clay, but because his parent was in a negative state of mind, stroke by sadness, loneliness and surrounded by darkness, the child came out... hollow. His skin was olive and his hair and eyes were made with the most abysal black, so black that sometimes smoke seemed to dance around them. His beauty was ravishing, poisoning, unforgettable, like a dark temptation creeping inside your mind. That's one of the reasons he had many wives after he grew older. But his personality was sour, his gaze was ominous and his mouth was mean. A hyena in disguise.

Because he missed his son's love and warmth, he sculpted out of marble a daughter. His pride. His power. She came out at the opposite end of her brother. The Deity just came out of his depression, so the girl was carved with love, hapiness and light. She was as beautiful as her brother, but she held a golden crown of blonde locks around her heart-shaped face and her eyes were full of patience and kindness. A smile was always decorating her full mouth. The Joy of the Void, her parent used to call her.

No doubt who was the favorite child.

To the Deity's luck, he made them powerless. Immortal, but no magic to pass through their veins. So, when they asked to have their own pantheons, their preferences came through.

The son wanted a black castle, shielded by obsidian mountains and surrounded by bottomless rivers, so no one could disturb him. He wanted the power to make his own servants and people, shaped to match his wicked soul. So his parent, aware of his mistake and willing to make things right, gave him a tiny bit of magic.

Big fucking mistake. Those were the first deities ever created to rule over the underworld, Hel, as the boy liked to call his new home.

The daughter didn't need any magic to change things in her favour, but wanted her parent close as she made her choices. She learned the art of spellcraft throught plants and books and incantations from the Deity's whispers. She learned how to properly draw a sigil and how to infuse it with her intentions. She showed her friends what she learned and teached them how to use this magic for good.

Those were the first Gods to rule over the kingdom in the sky, Elysium.

But one particular night, after the son grew power hungry, he asked to have a meeting with his sister and told her his plans: to murder the Higher Deity, their parent and steal his power for themselves.

The woman was shocked and denied giving him any support on his idea, trying to convince him it was the wrong path to choose. She even wanted to show him how to gain his own power through his own work, through their own beings. They were a direct bloodline to this Primordial Deity, the magic was in them, they just needed to know how to access it.

Good thing she didn't get to.

They argued and fought each other and by mistake, with the minuscule power his Father gave him, the man blinded his sister.

With their brotherly relationship wasted, they both went to their palaces.

The woman tried to regain her vision with her spells. The other deities tried to help her, but that was raw magic, her Father's magic. It couldn't be broken. Knowing what her brother wanted to do next and knowing there was no way she could stop him, she created a protection spell for her father and drew the mark under his bed.

She never had the chance to alert him of what his son wanted to do. As he came back from his latest creation, a poisoned arrow, imprinted with that tiny specle of power he gave his son, pierced his heart.

With a last beat, his heart exploded, shattering into an infinite of pieces who grew and created universes.

He knew what his son's plans were. He had eyes and ears everywhere, so before the man came and collected his powers, he transfered as much as he could into his crying daughter, then urged her to hide. Before she left, he handled her his latent creation: humankind.

After this, the battle over this artwork started. The dark forces wanted manking as their slaves, another conquest to his territory, while the daughter tried to save and protect them.

They fought long and bloody battles, they created several armies with different powers, they crushed the ballance in the human world. Until the daughter sigilled the dark forces below, in their dark terittory, using her own blood. Everything with a cost: she sealed herself as well, in the skyes. This was the only way the humans were never to be touched by their evil power.

To thank her, the people called her " The Mother of us all ", the protector of their kind, " The Joy of the Void " , " The Banisher of Ghosts " .

But years passed, the veil started to crumple and with a mistake, Prythian came to life. The Cauldron was spilled and with its spilling, negative energy floated like mist inside the world and people and faes began to be corrupted by the dark forces. Peace was gone. As humans were slaughtered and brought to slavery, they gave the King of the Hel a name, " The Destroyer of Peace ", " The Butcher of Life " , but only one remained sealed into our minds, burned with fear inside our very core. " The Devourer of Worlds ".

Because her powers couldn't have a direct effect on our race, she tried to help them and gave them the knowledge of The Wall and how to be created and a promise. She prayed for them and that prayer was sent. You are that prayer, Cyan, " Prayer of the Lost " , " The Vespertus " , the tale of salvation, the sword of revenge.

She promised that she'll send her first daughter to bring peace to our world. To kill the evil. To restore balance. A Vespertus, a Mother's Sacrifice for her mistakes.

So she sent several families to wait for your coming. A burning star across the skyes. But The Devourer found out and sent creatures to kill them. We are one of those families, Cyan, one of The Benefactors. We've been waiting for you for thousands of years. Many like you came through the dessert where I found you, but none of them were you: The prayer.

This is why Shum kept saying all of those hateful things. He lost his hope. I'm afraid the darkness might got to his head, but he made peace with you.

You are our hope, girl. And I am here to guide you to the next point. We need to find you your next guardians. "

Standing there, listening to their story, I felt overwhelmed with contempt. I wasn't used to the idea of being the one. My whole life I was a second choice, a side character in someone else's story. I felt displaced and unsure, despite of my dreams of finally being chosen for something great. These people threw a handfull of great compliments: the saviour, the prayer, the first daughter of the Mother.

Silently, I denied each and every one of these titles. I wasn't worthy of them. At least not right now when the only thing I did was cry myself to sleep and attempt to kill myself in the process of hopelessly trying to find a way back home.

Cynthia mentioned that I was some sort of legend long forgotten, deleted even from the oldest of oracles, erased from scriptures and sculptures. " The Benefactors ", as they were called, had gone great lenghts to hide me from prying eyes and evil spirits that might seek me out to kill me. Cynthia also stated that her mental health started to diminish after the Mother herself sent her dreams and premonitions of me. That's how Niven found me in that deserted field. That's why Cynthia never left the safety of the farm.

The stove didn't produce as much heat as I felt in the air around. Maybe the news turned my hypothalamus all the way up, messing with my thermoregulation. My cheeks were burning so hard that I could feel them with my tongue from the inside. They were probably as red as they were hot.

A part of my fervent refusal was also the fact that I didn't recall such plotlines in the conflict of the other books. I was aware of the Mother being real, so was the Cauldron and its spilling and the formation of Prythian, but a daughter was never mentioned, The Devourer of Worlds was also new. How much did everything change with my coming?

Suddenly, that ominous voice that haunts my dreams chants again in the back of my head, his only condition before he pushed me here: ' you'll change the course of events '. Although I tried my best to not interfere with anything in what was going to unfold, maybe my mere landing here was itself an interference. Or maybe the fact that Eris saw me in Thaibar. That's why things had changed so drastically.

I open my mouth to tell them about that creature, the unsummoned one, but the words feel heavy in my throat, burning like hot coal between my vocal cords. I swallow them, feeling every letter like a bunch of unchewed food forced down my esophagus. I tried again. Every word I thought about was blurry, the vocals kept mixing, like I suffered from dyslexia. My mouth felt smeread with pitch, impossible to get it to open and form the sentence.

That son of a bitch bewitched me so I couldn't expose him.

That's why only Nimue's potion had managed to bring up some of my memories.

After their speech was over, eight pair of eyes followed me with expectation. Not once had I moved my body from that wooden chair. The cotton robe hanged heavily over my shoulders, black as a raven's feathers. I looked like I was taking part in a funeral, not a family gathering.

Honestly, I didn't know how to react. If I smiled, it would seemed sadistic and distasteful for the context, I was running out of tears and depression. I used them all in the beginning, while grieving my old life which, apparently, wasn't any better than this. I couldn't even be completely shocked, I would be a hypocrite. I always hoped to be more than a secondary character, even if it suited me quite well to be a healer. I was good at it. After all, that's what I was preparing to do for several years now, in my previous life. I was confident in my abilities and the classes with Nimue only helped me develop further on the practical side.

But to hear that I, a mortal doctor, can save them from a so-called '' Devourer of Wolds '', well, excuse me if I want the chance to refuse or to rethink my life decisions or if I need a second to properly shit my pants. I wasn't able to put myself in opposition with a damned God, not when he could snap my neck with a flick of his fingers.

There were two major aspects to consider. First of all, I was human, my life spawn was of maximum seventy years, I had fragile bones, my hearing was not as developed and I was not fast. I bruised easily, I was sensitive and the only weapon I truly owned was my sarcasm, which could also be used against me. The only formidable thing I did was fell from the sky and somehow manage to not fracture my pelvis. Very weird, I must admit, but even this made me question a lot of aspects. Starting with the fact that every time I tried to end my line of life here and hoped to restart back in my other universe, something, someone, seemed to hold my head over the water, forcing me to stay alive. Mockingly enough, every time I tried to swallow Nimue's death poisons, I seemed immune. Other than a terrible stomach ache and dizziness, I felt numb. Every time I tried to slit my veins near the river where I was washing clothes with Cynthia, the knife got blunt on the way, magically. Not even the dagger I stole in my dreams didn't do the job, my skin growing thicker every time I put the cold blade on my wrist.

However, if I ever cut myself by mistake with something sharp while preparing our dinner, I would bleed. If I ever hit myself by mistake, it hurt like hell and the next day I would have a pretty nasty bruise.

Secondly, as I mentioned, I was just a doctor. My skills went as far as my mind could process the information in books. I couldn't fight in the front lines in any form. I had to master the art of healing before going further and starting combat lessons. And I needed a master. I didn't know how to use swords, I didn't know anything about close combat, I didn't know how to use a bow and I lacked strategic logic. I didn't feel magic running through my veins, neither electricity pinching my fingertips. I couldn't cast spells like Nimue did with me and Aoife while we ran from the town, I wasn't telepathic or a necromancer.

The only time something had reacted to me was between those black diamond mountains, when a bolt of electricity shocked my muscles, charging my core. But that could very easily be from the oasis itself and not from me. That place seemed spiritualy loaded, full of religious symbolism, sacre to the animals that live in that place. I remembered the stag: glorious and tenacious, trying to guide me out.

In my previous life, I read tarot cards and loved to use crystals. My intuition was fairly developed and everyone for whom I did a reading for said that my facts about them were true and that what I predicted happened in the next days. Could this classify me as a witch? Doubtfully. Was I a fraud? It depended on how you wanted to look at the matter. I also liked to curse the shit out of people and situations when they pissed me off.

The weekend after our ' family ' talk, I remained as silent as a tomb stone. Kallus and the rest didn't push me either, leaving the decision to be made only by myself: would I step in the game or would I choose to step out of it. The only problem here was that eventually, even if I was passive, everything would come after me. Destiny doesn't forgive anyone, after all. If I was pulled here to achieve something, things would start to happen in that favour, forcing me to go with that flow. So this decision makind bullshit was just a facade, a placebo, to make me feel less burdened. I very much knew what the outcome would be.

I remained locked in my head, turning the situation upside down, thinking at every possible end. I didn't get the courage to ask if I would die in the process. I wanted that, after all. Might as well have a saying in my life, fight a little. I already changed the course of events.

I received sympathetic looks from everyone those few days of silence, shy smiles, encouraging touches. Maybe I was getting them before too and only now I was aware of them. It was clear they knew more than they told me.

I went outside several nights, when I was sure everyone slept soundly. I had only one companion, Misty, who now was my cat, following me nearly anywhere, admiring me throughout the day exactly as my Icarus used to do. She wasn't a cat that liked physical love. I wasn't a touch starved person either. But I appreciated her omnipresence, the way I felt a little more protected with her near me. Misty made my loneliness more bearable. There was no pity and expectation in her yellow eyes, only patience and adoration.

At this point I wasn't even mourning my fate anymore. I needed guidance. Find the guardians, this was the next step on their list. I looked at the moon for a long time, waiting for an advice from her, a call, anything to enlighten my mind. It is easy to imagine that I received nothing, only dead silence. Maybe that was what I needed after all.

I started my next day with a little more energy. I made notes from the books collected from Nimue during my aprenticeship. I found something interesting: a potion able to make you imperceptible to faes. They couldn't sense your intentions, nor smell you emotions or read your thoughts. You were somehow immune, indetectable. As a spark bloomed inside my chest, I felt like I was going to use this piece of information. I took it as a sign.

After feeding the animals around the farm, I went to the stables. The mare I healed was waiting for me, hapilly snickering at me. She had grown beautifully, forming an impressive mass of muscles under her now shiny hair. Misty followed me, perching herself on the hay. I rested my head on the mare's muzzle and prayed for the same sign. That's when it truly hit me.

These people had been waiting for me for so many years to help them. They warmly welcomed me into the privacy of their home, fed me, disguised me, gave me a job, protected me and helped me learn their way of life. I would be selfish to not return the favor. Just the way I did with the horse in front of me. And although I didn't expect anything in return, they didn't either, they left me a chance to decide.

I gritted my teeth. I was wasting precious time if I didn't start working for what I came here to do. Instead of wasting my life as I unsuccessfully tried to do several times, might as well put it to good use. Fight and die, if that's what I wanted anyway. Maybe this is the only way to get back home, fulfilling my goal here.

Aoife had stayed with us. I secretly called Nimue to come and perform the curettage procedure without anyone in the family finding out. I paid. Nimue didn't refuse my money. After that, I announced my decision: I was going to do my best and help them.

Today was the fourth day we went to that castle, placed in the heart of Hybern's territory. Of course, Nimue refused to send me into the wolf's mouth, but there was no other way to find what we were looking for: the prison. Kallus mentioned that the person we must find is locked up in a cell.

When I asked more about this matter he explained that we were trying to find a woman, a fae, to be more specific, old enough to be present at the creation of Prythian and downfall of several kingdoms. She used to be a part of a long eradicated race of blood thirsty warriors, a beloved and respected leader amongst her kind. But all her titles have no use now that they're all gone and she's the only one standing.

I can't even imagine what lays inside her soul. If she has one anymore, now that she's been locked for hundreds of years in Hybern's prison, subjugated to God knows what treatment they gave her. I bet it wasn't lovely. We don't know what torment she had to endure, physical and mental, if there is still some fight in her left, some will to live on or if the woman is even breathing anymore. All we knew is that she was the next step.

Nimue instructed us about what behaviours we should have inside the palace, about the dress code and what should or shouldn't be done. She even made a map of the rooms she visited during her service for the King.

It was the only map of Hybern's castle to ever exist as well.

Aoife helped Niven and I to sneak inside and choose our work. She stole two pairs of servant clothes and wrote false names inside the ' Working Register of Slaves '. The book held a pretty name. It made my blood boil. Also, we couldn't be seen together, if one of us was ever caught. the other will be put in danger as well. So we separated: I was working as a general maid, cleaning, serving the meals, become a prostitute over night, made into a human chair for fae feet if there was necessary. It was one of the most shamefull jobs I have ever had in my entire life. It wiped out every ounce of my decency and ego. It was... pathetic to say the least. But we had to do what we had to do in order to get our hands on the map.

Now I started to see why mortals despised this creatures.

Niven became a chambermaid, cleaning the rooms after orgies, throwing their bed potty, ironing their clothes. It was disgusting as well. Lucky she never ran into one of their sex parties, otherwise she would have been forced to join.

They were so satisfied to put us in dangerous and embarrassing positions.

We were also surprised to hear Aoife's wish to join our cause. I wasn't. I felt her need for revenge, I saw that spark inside her eyes die the day she killed her child, how her youth has been stolen from her, how she needed to repay the struggle they put her through. Also, she worked in the kitchen. This way we had a large part of the castle covered.

After a few days of training with Niven to ride a horse, I started to get the basics. I still wasn't good at it, but I could manage if I ever needed that piece of information. However, she expressly requested that we both go on the same horse, considering I wasn't fully ready to do it on my own.

We travelled like this for the next few days: me behind Niven, Kallus on his own stallion and Nimue on her mare. On the bridge that separated the surrounding land from the center of Hybern's castle we were asked to present our entry tickets each time we passed the gates. We were noted on a book covered in leather by our names, our entry and exit data. I was in a state of anguish every time I crossed the stone bridge and looked down at the abyss waiting below. Not to mention the fresh smell of rotting corpses that rises like steam on warmer days. Even if we were separated by a bunch of meters from an imminent death, we could see what happened with the ones that had mean intentions. Mounds of lifeless bodies and bones laid on the ground beneath, shredded by starved animals.

All around the high stone walls marched entire troups of black knights, following every movement made both inside and outside. Archers, swordsmen and other types of regiments patrolled at well-established intervals of time. No delay. Even down here, guarding the huge, black iron gates there were at least ten of them watching vigilently. Some of them owned an unseen type of dogs, beasts as large as a horse, with cruel eyes and layeres and layeres of sharp fangs. Their fur was so black that not even the light didn't shine on it. They looked like they were dragged from Hell.

Good luck with the potion I found. I dosed it carefully, so that some part of our human perfume to still be smelled, so that our fear could still be distinguishable. But out thoughts were impenetrable,

The obsidian palace, with tall and sharp towers, held a sinister aura around. It was guarded by circular streets and wide town squares with many decorated stalls, rich in vegetable, fruits, silk or velvet. You could find so many things here. Fae kids played loudly outside their homes, adults chatted vigorously, dressed in so much gold, with perfectly tailored clothes. They seemed to have no worry in this world. They walked proudly, with their sharp features held high, pale as paper, as if they owned everything and everyone.

I felt a strange emotion every time I passed these places.

Behind this perfect portait, if you looked closely, you could see the blood of the mortal servants it was all built on. They were starved in a corner, waiting for the kids playtime to be over so they could take them back inside, they were following a few steps behind the fae couples, with their eyes glued on the ground and their head lowered. They were working their asses off for a few golden coins, sweeping the streets, watering the trees and flowers, wiping the windows of their shops, arranging merchandise on the shelves.

It disgusted me every time. Waves and waves of hate fueled my desire to help these people to be free from their slavery. I wanted the faes to suffer as much as the humans. Those creatures came out of their luxurious houses, built in the same gothic style as the castle: gray brick walls, beaten with black, shiny stones. Even the pointed roofs towered menacingly. Everywhere laid a blancket of numbness, of uncertainty and falsity.

Now I could clearly see why no one liked them in the books. They were thirsty for power, ready to crush and steal any shred of gold, every high position in the court. Despite their dazzling beauty, they had a dirty and poisoned soul.

Every morning I bit my tongue, refraining from any spiteful comment, averting my eyes from any suffering human that was asking for help. Niven was right to not interfere that day in Thaibar, when that old man was beaten to death by Hybern's knights. I needed to help them in another way.

Slowly, we parted our ways. Kallus walked towards the small church meant for humans. A barelly allowed luxury. Nimue followed us all the way to the palace, then she nodded her farewell with a glassy fear in her violet eyes. Between the cold and bare walls, covered with tapestries embed with jewels and silver thread, I felt a shiver run down my spine. I looked at Niven briefly, searching for a glimmer of hope or courage in her, but she was as deserted as I was. Her hostility towards the fae race was burning wilder than mine and this rage was sucking the life out of her. The massive chandelier hung like a dusty weapon of justice above our heads, ready to sever them if needed. We didn't even look at each other before leaving the main hall, joining the other servants.

It was the fourth day of listening behind closed doors, staring intently at paintings and letters, lingering longer when pouring tea, hoping that one of this dumb faes would spill some precious informations. It was in vain, I was looking in the wrong direction. My action were limited anyway. At every corner of the corridors was an armed sentry. They didn't allow you too much, not even to turn your head to stare at a gorgeous necklace on some lady's neck or a splendid tailored dress.

I knew these hallways as my own palm, looking at Nimue's sketches hours and hours, studying them in case anything bad happens. I knew the print on the carpets that covered the black and white marble, I knew when the corridors splited and how many doors were on each side of the wall. I also knew what type of mosaic was on the ceiling depending on the windows I passed. I was really damn motivated to do my job well.

I watered flowers, I refrained myseld from spitting in their food, I carried trays and filled glasses with fae wine, I accepted every ' innocent ' indecent touch from the guests who got drunk at the courtyard celebrations and prayed everytime that things would not escalate. You couldn't say no. You kept you mouth shut and took it like a good slut. I was lucky enough to not be their type. But even my luck could run out at any moment.

We all knew where to find the map of Hybern, but none of us was ready to say it. I had to go in Draegan's chambers. In essence, anyone could go fetch it, but I was the one with a death wish. They had to live, my fate was unknown anyway.

Altough the most important thing now was finding the prison, something else was on my mind. Where was Eris? I hadn't seen him since I came inside the palace. Neither Draegan was to be found. This made me wonder if they knew something about me, if they saw me on the sky that night, if they were aware of any anomaly. Maybe they were on a hunting trip, just like all masculine fae liked to do in the books or in movies. Or maybe they were discovering new ways to torture humans. The most persistent question was still the same: What business did Eris have with Hybern? Were they trying to sign another treaty? Maybe his father forced him to come here... If the Autumn Court is planning to betray everyone from the inside, the odds are against Prythian and the Mortal Lands. Was I able to get in time to them and tell them about this matter? Would they believe me? It's not like they couldn't test me by getting inside my head.

I place my cotton veil over my nose and mentally prepare to another risk. Aoife explained to us that the uniform here was very misogynistic. We were not allowed to show our faces, so we wouldn't tempt anyone with our beauty. Our hair must be tied and hidden under a scarf and also, we were covered from our necks to our toes in a black dress, with a red apron attached to our waist. Even our palms were covered with thick, abrasive gloves. Just in case we were clumsy and dropped the silverware on the floor. So toughtful for them.

I don't look at the servants who pass by me and neither do they. We weren't allowed to make eye contact. I sneak into the servants corridors. In the few days we stayed here, three royal tasters died after it turned out that the food for the guests was poisoned. All of them were humans. Three wasted lives. The kitchen team continued to change and those who had left somehow disappeared without a trace. Everyone knew what happened to them.

The palace seemed to be charmed: every peeling painting followed you on the hallway, even the ones with a sunny meadow on it, every hole in the wall was like an ear thirsty for gossip, every creacking floor was a voice accusing you of something you didn't do. The knights who prowled every corner or lined the length of the main hall seemed an empty shell, no body underneath, only an evil spirit. No wonder you could never truly see their eyes: the mirror of the soul. I was afraid to even approach the gloriously exposed armor used by an old fae they worshipped, carved from glittering gold and rubies as red as the blood of fallen enemies. Even if it was empty, I expected it to move at any moment.

Shielded by the darkness of the servants passages, a wave of courage guided my feet towards what I knew was only doom: Draegan's north wing. I grab a set of fresh sheets from the laundry room. Although he didn't visit his rooms lately, the bed had to be changed daily. It was the perfect cover.

Even if I didn't know what was the path to his chambers, I followed the ' N ' carved in the stone walls. The entire North part of the castle was claimed by him after his father's death. I step as quietly as possible on the jagged slabs of the tiny corridors and get a candle on the way. The halls were not as luxurious as the ones Faes used. They had rounded and really low ceilings and in some regions you had to lean forward to pass. The torches were so rare, that most of the way you were spending it in total obscurity. There were no mice yet, but among the dusty stones appeared roots, mold and some herbs that thrived in humidity.

Someone coughs behind me and I turn, holding the candle like my life depended on it. There goes my crumb of barely gathered courage. I squint my eyes, cursing my bad vision, but I don't see anyone. The last light was more than twenty meters behind. The feeling that I was going to be caught was suffocating. I remember living with the very same sensation in my former relationship, with the fear that my parents would catch me and punish me. I let out a cold breath, still searching the hungry darkness. I turn and quicken my pace, following the carvings. I was alone in this area. Very few servants wanted to clean this wing. Nobody was crazy enough to find a workspace in the lion's den.

The doors line on both walls, some of them required me to go up a few stairs, others to go down. I listen, biting the dry skin of my lips. Nothing. I don't know if my torch was shaking so bad between my fingers because I was afraid or because the cold chilled my poorly protected soles. I clench the other fist, bracing myself on the ground. I move to another door, located lower than the previous one and listen again. Feminine voices gossiped on the other side. Someone pours tea, another one cuts something on his plate. I stick my cheek closer to the wet door. I couldn't decipher the topic of conversation, they were too careful of the ears in the walls. Clever.

Fuck me life decision.

I walk further and stop at another door: someone is clapping, lots of applause actually, pause, a moan, another woman moans louder. '' You liked that, you dirty whore? '' A harsh voice makes me startle and I take a few steps back, '' We should bring a servant. I'd be so horny to watch a human eat you out. '' .

That's my sign to get the fuck out. On my tiptoes, I run for a distance of a few doors without looking back. The candle was already extinguished from the suddem movement. I forgot that in the North wing Draegan allowed his escorts and his narrow circle to live. The only time luck hits me is when I notice a sign with a crown carved on several doors. I don't even think twice before sticking my head inside.

' Well done!... ' I whisper to myself.

I look back, noticing the superbly maintained tapestry. The door completely disappeared in the drawing, revealing a gorgeous tree with ruby and quartz flowers, woven on an azure background. All around, a crossed mosaic frames the tree. It was one of the most spectacular things seen in the palace.

I spin on my heels, facing the immensity of the room. Abandoned, the bedroom seemed deadly silent, like it was inquiring me of my presence here. There were no splashing sounds in the bathroom, the wide, arched balconies were open, leaving the orange curtains to flow in the cold wind. The huge, wooden carved bed had a canopy over it made of flowy, white veil. Above, there was a carefully painted portait of the last King: shoulder-length black hair framing a pale, rubber like skin, angry, black eyes. He seemed quite young, maybe around his forties. Next to it, almost sketched rather than painted, was a smaller drawing of Draegan: a faithful image of his father, but with gentler features.

I leave the sheets aside and take a few steps forwad. This chamber alone was as big as Kallus's entire house. High ceilings with different faces carved in white marble. Several thick wooden stools lay scattered, covered in red velvet.

I move towards the curved nightstands. Nothing, just a few letters from his mistresses, a ruby ring that I slip inside my bra, a letter knife and a golden comb. I crawl on my knees on the balcony, trying to not make my head visible from the outside yard. I quickly flip through the religious books on the short table. In none of them did he mention any shooting star, not the two brothers: the Devourer or the Mother and neither was the Prayer of the Lost. There were mentioned reforms of the human lands, of the farthest continent, Pryrhian and Hybern. How the oceans were created, on the next page was a chart with several deities and what they brought to the world as gifts. The Benefactors really eradicated any notion of a fallen star. If that was true, in the end.

In my world, there was this saying: Believe and don't search.

I move to the bathroom from which I steal a platinum hairpin with jade and agate flowers. I always loved to collect semi-precious crystals, charging them, cleaning them with smoke and fire, then use them in my tarot readings.

After I finish, I move to the last door in the room. Here, my luck ran out: it was locked. I turn the brass globe left and right, hoping to hear a click, but I spent my energy in vain.

'' Shit. " I mutter, cursing in my mother language and refrain myself from hitting the door with my leg.

The key might as well be with him, around his neck or in his pockets, or maybe he hid it in this room, in this fucking huge room. I put my fingers on my temples and concentrate on the dust particles swirling in the setting sun. A gorgeous orange pours through the thin curtains, bringing an air of melancholy.

I turn my back on the scene. A familiar pain settles in my lungs and I breathe through my mouth, forcing the stress out of my system. I focus my attention on the lock, carefully drawing the key in my head, my salvation, made of shiny metal as precious as the items I stole from the room. I visualize the gesture, how Draegan turns the key in the lock, opening the door and revealing the antechamber, an office. I feel filled with peace and hope. I try my best to manifest, everything is going the way I want. I open my eyes and swear again. The door was just as closed as it was a few minutes ago.

'' I'm losing my mind. ''

I raise my palms and wipe them on my skirt, then point them on the lock. I keep my muscles contracted, then twist my hands, imagining how waves of magic come out of my fingers and open the door. Nothing happens.

Maybe the gloves were the problem.

I put them away and try again. I imitate the movements I saw in movies like Marvel and several other series. Nothing. I curse once more, a string of unorthodox words swirling in my mouth. I take another breath in my lungs and raise my hands, close my eyes, feel the warmth on the surface of my skin. I picture the type of power the author used to describe for Rhysand and his brothers. I imagine it working in my favour, not against me, then contort my forearms and let the energy flow.

'' For fuck's sake, I'm going to punch someone. ''

I had no powers. Not even the smallest shred of energy, of magic to come and spark like a firecracker on my fingertips. I didn't feel any ancient whispers cursing through my veins. I actually felt dumb. I came this far, worked up the small amount of courage to reach this wing. Maybe I really wasn't the person these people were looking for. Maybe it was a mistake. I hadn't even asked what happened with the ones before me. Is not like I didn't knew, if they survived, I wouldn't be here.

I swear again and hit the door. Goosebumps rose on my skin as I watch the floor. The key, a rusty contorted metal, laying in front of my eyes.

'' So my powers have a delayed effect or it needed a little kick to start showing? '' I ask myself and grab the cold metal.

The door opens with a heavy sound, as if it had been closed and opened too many times. I put the gloves back on my fingers and erase any prints from the key. I was finally inside Draegan's office. Or the dead King's office.

Three out of four walls were covered with shelves upon shelves of perfectly maintained books. It smelled like leather and ink inside. As much as I hated Draegan, he kept his scripts in impeccable condition: leather spines, exceptional handwork, fresh strings, not eaten by moths. In the middle of the room was a big desk, full of paperwork and a majestic chair, made of black wood covered in red and maroon velvet. On the empty wall was an extinguished fireplace, cleaned of embers, with two elegant red armchairs placed in front of it.

I rush to the office and search through all the drawers: documents about inheritance, letters from allies from another courts and continets I have never heard of, maps of oceans and lands, registers with numbers and series of soldiers in the army, who died, who was injured and who was still alive, able to fight. I look at the amount of people at the end, where they had summed up all the resources: more than half of their force was destroyed and most of the kingdom's treasury was empty. I look deeper, but all I can find are a few notebooks full of sketches and papers stamped with the initials A.F.. It came from Prythian. I couldn't calculate the beautifully outlined dates at the bottom of the page, because I had no idea of the time I fell in.

This story must've happened over a long period of time given the stacks of sheets stamped with those initials. I twist my mind in all directions, hoping that some clue would appear out of nowhere. I had a vague idea, but the ' F ' initial was making me feel unsure: Amarantha. There's details of her status in the court of Hybern, about her work as a general, about her sister Clythia and her relationship with Jurian. She talks about her suspicions and about the revenge. There is a list of ships and the routes they followed to reach Prythian, what they transported and to whom, the payments form each High Lord. A detailed description of a treaty, how she searched for a mistake inside it to cancel it. Then, at the end, a terrifyingly large number: ' MORTALS '.

I wet my lips, feeling a drop of cold sweat falling on my neck. This woman killed almost two thousand slaves. The ones she refused to set free or tried to fight her.

Amarantha talks about her strong ties with the Spring Lord, Tamlin's father, and how they shared ' their honest opinions about what to do with the increasing numbers of the lesser creatures and their despise for the human race '.

My knees start to shake and I have to sit down on the carpet for a few moments to regain my balance. How can you hold such hate towards someone that didn't wrong you?

On other pages she writes in great details about a recipe stolen from the King and how she used it to take the powers of every High Lord, about how she managed to build her kingdom from Under the Mountain. Rhysand is mentioned as well, how she took him as punishment for his father's actions, the sexual abuse and how she gouged out the eye of the Spring Court emissary. On the last pages, there are payments for a ball and a list of guests. There was also written the fate expecting everyone.

The woman was totally out of her mind, power hungry, evil and bloodthirsty.

I close the registers. It's enough for me. There is so much death in this world, so much torture, so many irregularities, too much people with power. And nobody does anything to stop it, to prevent it from happening again. I had a strange feeling that the history was about to repeat itself. Another five hundred years of torture, of human genocide and slavery.

Was I here to stop this? How the fuck could I put up with faes, with whole courts and kingdoms?

My ears rang loudly. With trembling hands I arrange everything the way I found it. I pick up a scroll tied with a velvet ribbon and open it. My head was spinning and my hear was pumping fear in my body with each beat: fear of getting caught, fear of enduring torture, fear of punishment, fear of pain.

I hug the paper to my chest. A very detailed map of Hybern. I found it. I close the door behind me in a hurry and push the lock back in the space it felt out of.

Hot lava bubbles in my stomach when I hear heavy footsteps approaching. What were the odds for Draegan to come right fucking now?

I blink. Torture, torture, torture.

'' Oh... What is it that you're looking for here... human? '' A masculine voice rings from behind me, warm like a hot day of summer.

I feel my body temperature ranging from hot to cold in the spawn of seconds. I keep my back to the fae, curled up on top of the white sheets that I had to put on the bed. I count in my mind: one second, two, three... five... seven. My breathing doesn't calm down and droplets of sweat fall from my forehead on the ground beneath.

'' I'm not going to hurt you. '' His tone is cunning, hardening with a few octaves. He comes closer and I can smell fiery embers all around me.

'' I... I'm changing the sheets, sir. '' My voice sounds like I was strangled, held by my throat by invisible hands.

'' Where? Inside the office? '' I can feel the words leaving his smiling lips.

Fuck. Shit. '' No, I was also cleaning the dust. ''

'' If that's so, you're doing a poor job. There's some of it flying everywhere. '' He notices, a trace of humor laced between his sentence. '' Turn around. ''

I exhale and do as I am told, but keep my eyes on the ground.

A few moments pass before he speaks again, '' I remember you. We met in Thaibar, in the market. ''

Double fuck. I look at his perfectly polished black boots, then at his tailored emerald pants.

'' Look at me. ''

'' I'm not allowed to. '' I excuse myself, trying to find a way out of this conversation.

'' I allow it. Come on. ''

Slowly, I rise my head. Why was everyone so tall around this place?

A sense of calmness passes thourgh me as I finally see who I was talking to: Eris Vanserra, proudly staying right in front of me. I might have been a little overwhelmed by his beauty, because I don't hear the next few words that come out of his thin, pink mouth.

Now that I was getting a closer look at one of the most controversial characters from the series, I was a little bewitched. Eris had no equivalent in the human world. His face was royal, high cheekbones, strong nose, cold, amber eyes. He was well built as well, tall and rather thin, with graceful amount of muscles to stretch his gold and green tunic.

'' You might be wrong, sir. '' I defend myself, knowing damned well that we made eye contact in Thaibar.

He laughs, unamused, showing a pair of white teeth. '' I doubt my eyes deceive me so bad. What do you hide there? ''

I frown and turn my head to see the map on the floor, '' I have no idea. ''

'' Liar. '' Eris whispers, knowing that he caught me red handed. He inhales and I thank god for the potion, because he can't feel the mixture of emotions driving me crazy right now. '' What are you looking for in King's Draegan chambers? Sex? ''

I open my mouth, then close it. '' No. I was just about to leave. ''

'' Without your scroll? '' He give me a cheeky smile, then grabs the paper from the ground. '' A map. Feeling patriotic? ''

No, just a little chaotic.

Eris circles me like a lion would with it's prey. I straighten my back, following the map held by his long fingers.

'' I'll give it to you, don't worry. But only if you tell me why do you need it so badly that you put yourself in such danger. ''

'' I need it. '' I admit. '' Can you please give it back. ''

'' I thought it wasn't yours. Why do you need it? ''

'' I changed my mind. ''

His smile falters when he hears something I don't. His eyes catch mine and I see something pass behind them. '' Get under the bed. I'll conceal your scent. ''

'' I need the map. '' I press, coming closer to him.

'' Fuck the map. '' He rasps, catching my arm in his large palm, then guides me to the bed. '' I'm trying to save you mortal ass. Do as your told and I'll find you and return it after. ''

My eyes search his whole face for a sign of betrayal, but his features are serious and fairly worried. I know I was going to regret this, but I lay low and push myself under. Eris hides the map inside his jacket and winks at me before the door opens and he regains his composure.

'' Eris, I'm glad you arrived. '' Draegan steps in and pats the redhead's shoulder in greetings. '' I have news for you: tonight we're dining with one of our old friends: a winged emissary from the Night Court. ''

!! Chapter is not edited. !!

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