Slay the Princess
♡ Pairing: Flame Reaver x F!Reader
Synopsis: On a bright, sunny day, the hero of Amphoreus and the most beautilul princess of the east were meant to become each other's in holy matrimony. Petals piled high on the streets, trumpets roared and the crowols waited in anticipation for the words “I do” to unite two pure hearts. That is, until, the monster arrived.
Tags and Warnings: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Yandere Themes, Abduction, Isolation, Coercion, Unhealthy Relationships, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Heavy NSFW, Dubcon → Consensual Sex, Corruption Kink, Size Difference, Age Gap Relationships (Older Male x Younger Female), Flame Reaver's Shadows, Dubious Morality, Mentions of Blood, Infidelity, Fluff (Kind Of), Slight Knight!Phainon x Reader, Mentions of Human Experimentations, Unreliable Narrators. MDNI.
Words: 13,528 (I am so sorry)
♡ Note: I usually write Flame Reaver as that burnt out exhausted Phailing so, I wanted to write sinister Flame Reaver out of sheer personal indulgence for once — did I mention that this fic is very self-indulgent? I do apologize.
「 Artwork Credits 」 「 Read On AO3 」
That lone Cecilia at the dip of the cliff has wilted.
Or at least, you think it has, given the distance. The winds and the clouds have relentlessly tested the limits of your vision, just as they tested that flower’s strength.
But you have scant sympathy for its ending. The flower may be no more, but it was free, it shed its last petal on the soil of its home.
Home. Has it been a week since you have been away from yours? Two weeks? A month? A daunting task to measure the time from a cloud-kissed fortress, but you try anyway. It's either that, counting the ridges in the bricks under your nails, or pacing like an ant at the cusp of death ; which, you’d rather not tease after just narrowly escaping it.
So, you sigh as though the world were hurled upon your shoulders, even though it was far, far away from the peak of the tower.
There are only apparitions of stars up here, crescent moon shining at the cusp of twilight twice a day, and boredom. Boredom that has coated your being like a tipped inkwell upon a paper, and no matter how anxiously you attempt to remove it, it sticks, it bleeds into the ivory of your wedding dress, plunging it in ruin like your fate—
“Thinking about escape plans again, princess?”
Ah, and there's him, too. The monster.
You don't like how your entire body seizes at the way his voice curls around that title, and you despise even more that you can't hide it.
If you had any clue that he’d entered the room somewhere in the midst of your reverie, you sure have no recollection of it. The coarse surface of the railing scrapes against the tips of your fingers when you curl them.
You can hear the way the ends of his cape kisses the floor, it's not difficult to in the vacuum of the uppermost chamber.
What is difficult is mustering the courage to turn and face him, which, much unfortunately for you, is exactly what he wants.
You can't resist shifting under the pressure of his presence, one needs no vision to perceive the way he oppresses the air in the room.
Before you could get lost in it though, a sharp tap-tap-tap pierces through, those dreadful claws stirring a reminder that you cannot ignore.
You almost hate it more than when he grips unto silence and forces you to squirm in it — almost, because when he indicates like this instead, at least you know that he's been tiptoeing impatience.
It's not a victory though, because still, you must turn.
That aggravating noise comes to a halt when you twist your body, slowly, not because you know how to torture, but because you fear being scorched under his attention should you shift too quickly.
“If I am?” you risk a direct glance at that masked being, before letting your gaze glaze over to look nowhere in particular.
It takes everything in you to not clutch at your skirt and shrink further into the shadow which he casts over your seated form.
Heavens, you don't know where that sudden surge of audacity came from, and the Flame Reaver notices. Of course he does, though he validates it by no more than a faint tilt of his head.
He does that a lot, as you’ve observed.
What he does not do often is crouching on the floor before the chaise. You trace the sheen of light on his pauldron with an askance stare, heartbeat rudely interrupted when he taps the floor again.
Typically, he’d deign instead to tower over everything that crosses his path. So this behavior… you can say for certain, if this is his way of seeming more approachable, it is not working.
“Well,” human hearts are wild things, that is why they're caged — you feel this sentence to your atoms at the first prick of that sharp talon.
The monster leans into his previous head-tilt in tandem with your flinch, “We both know how that ends, don't we?” unwilling tingles travel to your marrow as he circles over the swell on your ankle with the tip of one nail.
As if on cue, a sting of pain shoots up your leg and suddenly, you're paralyzed in place. The blacks and streaks of gold of his mask blend and swirl, swirl, swirl ; like a spiraling staircase. Shadows reach up and attach to your legs like tar, yank you down and down the infinite stairway—
“Y-you came back early today…!” you heave, almost choking on a gasp, the Flame Reaver’s nail hinges precariously on the lifted hem of your skirt and on the jut of your now bared knee.
You do not want to reminisce about your failed escape attempts, and luckily, the Flame Reaver recognizes it.
“Are you upset?” your relief doesn't even last a millisecond, because he keeps on inching up your dress.
If you could take your eyes off that motion, you would've thrown a much justified tantrum.
This— this monster in the shell of a man who loves to pretend like he understands nothing of human customs, but knows every trick in the book to keep you in his choke-hold, just with his words.
It infuriates you.
You want scream and break a few things.
For with what audacity does he question if you're upset or not? Upset that he keeps you locked in the sky? Upset that he didn't kill you? Upset that he stole you from your wedding altar?
(But you don't yank your leg away like you very much could, and perhaps that says more than your increasingly aggravated look.)
Against all your instincts, you force yourself to take a deep breath, twisting the worn fabric of the cushions under your nails.
It's hard to pinpoint the monster’s expression due to that mask — if he even has one, but you can feel that he's staring right at that motion.
“You are.” he answers his own question, clothes rustle as he shifts slightly in his crouch.
You cross your arms across your chest, “Am not.” your attempt at averting your gaze is thwarted when you feel a long scratch being drawn up your thigh, forcing you to inhale.
And when you look back, you find the Flame Reaver an inch away from stealing your next breath.
Gravity slips from your grasp. You have to plant a firm hand on the chaise to hold yourself up when his proximity forces you lean back.
Whatever light there was in the chamber is swallowed by his presence, a wisp of the afternoon sunbeam glints over the metal tip of his mask.
“Why…” you have to force yourself to swallow the way your heart twists in tandem with the circle he draws on your thigh, “Why does it matter to you…?”
The Flame Reaver dares you to push him off by leaning even closer, “Can it not matter to me?” the timbre of his voice buzzes against your ear.
Trick question. He's a master at those and in reducing your two decades worth of education to mere stutters.
How do you even begin to respond to that? When those wicked fingers rest alarmingly close to your core and your brain is electrocuted by how easily his claws engulf your entire thigh?
“I—I’m cold!!!”
If the Flame Reaver had a face, you could imagine him blinking dumbfoundedly at this exclamation. Your chest heaves alongside your breaths and you can't find the courage to open your squeezed eyes.
It's not exactly a lie, a poor excuse borne of a frayed brain, maybe, but it's the truth.
You feel hot, feverish to the point where chills have begun to crawl up your toes, and you're so, so afraid of what that will prompt you to do.
A few moments pass in awkward silence, in which you try to calm yourself and the Flame Reaver just watches.
Titans, you hate it when he watches. Like he knows your skin better than you do.
The next events occur a bit too fast: the claws retract, you're freed from the impromptu captivity of his arms and at last, wrapped in his cloak.
You blink once at the way the fabric settles over your shoulders, and again as he retreats, standing to his full height this time.
The first thing you notice is the faint smell of charr now enveloping you, next is that its warm, far warmer than what you’d expected from a being who always looks so cold ; the ends of the cloak reach all the way to floor.
The Flame Reaver meets your befuddled gaze with another one of his tilts, difference this time being the strands of silver that shift with the motion now that the hood no longer hides them.
He stands still like that, and you're taken aback by how much it resembles an obedient hound awaiting praise.
You can only hope that you read that cue right when you let out in hesitance, “Thank you…?”
You really wonder if half of the things you see in this tower are real or not, because the Flame Reaver’s shoulders seem to loosen.
The Flame Reaver traces your form again, lingering a second longer on the way your fingers subconsciously clutch at his cloak.
Perhaps he finds the sight of how it seems to swallow you ridiculous, or humorous how you cling to the clothes of your captor.
“Hmph.” he makes sure to express that loudly enough that you hear it, and then, just as silently as he came, he vanishes.
You pull your legs up to your chest when the smoke of indigo fades. His is of a power unrivaled in this world, hands that can command the Black Tide itself to their whims, and leave behind nothing but ashes.
It's a miracle that you're still alive in his den, you think.
Though why you are is still a mystery to even yourself ; a futile one to dwell in, as you've discovered, since the source of the mystery is ever elusive where it is concerned.
So, you can do nothing but curl up in yourself — in the cloak of your captor, no less.
The fact that there are blankets at arm’s reach teases you, and you're disturbed from your sinking mind when you realize how uninterested you are in reaching for one.
It chills you more when the events that’d preceded this silence resurface, and you remember, how not even once, had you pushed the Flame Reaver off.
Spine straight, shoulders relaxed, eyes so soft they melt someone's heart like wax, always smile with your lips pursed — those were only a few of the things that were drilled into your head since you learned to walk.
Your life was as eventful as that of any princess in Amphoreus. Learn by the books, master the arts, do not peek into political matters and be a lady befitting of your husband ; you're certain even your comb remembers how many times it’s heard this dialogue from the lips of your mother.
Life was not harsh by any means for you, so you remained a good child and were grateful for every comfort you’d received. Even when chatters of the most anticipated event of your life stirred, you had no leeway to complain.
Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. The Hero whose name is sure to be sung in paeans of the future.
Kephale's chosen, the Goldweaver's protege, the Sage Anaxagoras’ most exceptional disciple, the Slayer of the Flame Reaver — how could anyone ever seek fault in a man like that?
He's a warm, valiant, kind and courteous soul, despite the depth of horror he’d endeavored ; you verified this much quickly in just the first glance.
The priests passed solemn vows that you were his most perfect match, and the rest was a mix of hurried dress fittings, gossip filled with excitement in every corner of the city, and trysts sneaked between the chaos of the century’s most anticipated wedding.
You do not dislike Sir Phainon by any means. Even before your engagement, you distinctly recall him being present in the front rows during your harp recitals, smiling so proud that it left you wondering if he’d been the personification of Aquila's joy instead.
Sir Phainon always bowed first with the utmost humility to you, he never spoke harshly or disrespectfully, and he always had half his wits fixed in looking after your clumsy self.
Perfection. If there exists anything close to it in this world, it is lord Phainon, you think.
And perhaps, that is the … problem.
“See that round white bird on that branch? The one with the grey stripes?” you recall him pointing once in one ‘date’, and you’d followed his eager finger with all your trust.
“That is called a Sousourada.” the smile he sports is the picture of pure childlike glee, so unlike the serious image he usually paints.
Your mouth forms an ‘O’ upon the way the songbird flits to and fro across the trees of the palace garden, “It’s so cute.” you clasp your hands atop your lap, afternoon sunbeams glinting off of the jewels in your hair.
If possible, Phainon's smile widens. “Right?” he tilts his head to better catch the shine in your eyes.
“Back in… Aedes Elysiae, I'd see these little guys in hoards during harvest season.” he leans back against the bench, smile softening.
“The new wheat was so good that they couldn't resist having a taste I suppose…!” his chuckle this time is noticeably forced.
“They’d keep the air alive with their songs all day long,” his voice quietens and his shoulders macerate with an unexpected slump.
“And I'd fall asleep in the middle of the wheat fields listening to their chirps… though Snowy would always sniff me ou— ah! I'm extremely sorry, my lady— I shouldn't have began monologuing like that.”
A crease forms between your brows as the hero busies with apologies, rubbing the nape of his neck. You know why the memories of his homeland make him solemn.
After all, the Black Tide left nothing but the weight of them for him to carry — not the wheat fields, not Snowy, not the Sousouradas of Aedes Elysiae.
You shake your head, stopping him from spiraling with a raised hand. An idea strikes you, making you lean closer towards the hero.
“What do say, my lord, we visit Aedes Elysiae after the ceremony?” your lips twitch in a hopeful smile, “I’d like to formally mourn the departed with you.”
Phainon's hand drops from the nook of his neck, those cyan eyes widen and his lips part in shock.
Was that a rude proposal to make? It's now your turn to be anxious. “Uhm…” you raise a hand, palming the air in uncertainty.
Before you could retreat or spell the apology on the tip of your tongue though, the hero snatches that hand, prompting your breath to hitch.
“Are you certain that you… want to do that with me, my lady?” Phainon looks at you with so much hope it breaks your heart, clasping your hand in his gloved ones with all his fragile might.
There's no way you could say no to that look, “Mhm, I am.” you can only hope your smile is reassuring enough.
A trembling breath leaves the hero’s lips and brushes against your cheek, the heat of which makes the scarcity in proximity between you and him sink, and jolts you into realizing the quickened pace with which the hero's lips inch closer to yours.
Phainon blinks as your palm covers his mouth, you chuckle coyly, though it's more nerves than anything.
“Patience, my lord?” you loosen the press of your hand.
The gold in Phainon’s eyes glint as they widen, before glazing in fluster when he realizes his mistake.
“Of course —! I apologize again, I—” he grips your hand before it could slip away, “I don't know what came over me there, it's just that…” he sneaks a glance at your puzzled face before attempting to hide his expression in your hand.
“Ugh… excuse me, I was just being an idiot.” he clears his throat and presses a kiss on the back of your hand.
When you try to pull back your hand though, he clings to it. “I’ll be as patient as you order me to be,” his lips slide to your vacant ring finger next, “— For as long as you want me to be.” he seals the vow with the softest kiss there yet.
Yes, you are the lucky woman who’ll walk down the aisle with this perfect man, bind your body, heart and soul with his. Petals will rain down from the people's hands at the wedding parade, trumpets will resound the victory of Phainon again.
Or at least, that's how it was meant to go.
There's that falcon circling the parameters of the tower again, round and round, unflinching under the heat of the midday sun.
“Are you planning on luring it to you with that bread?” the Flame Reaver's voice echoes from behind you, something like mockery and amusement mixed in his words.
You don't turn to face him this time, attention fixed on tearing pieces of the bread and tossing the crumbs whenever the falcon passes by your window as if to say — what if I am?
The Flame Reaver huffs, “Are you aware that they're carnivores?”
That irks you enough to shoot him a glare over your shoulder, “I know that. But what if I can interest it in coming closer with bread? I’ll give it meat after!”
The Flame Reaver taps a talon against one of his folded arms, body leaned against the doorframe of your chamber.
“Foolish princess. Do you not know that half of a predator’s meal is the thrill of the hunt?”
You don't listen and hold your stubborn pout, tossing another bread crumb in the air, which merely drops to the ground with a sad plop.
“Ahh, or perhaps,” your shoulders tense as he takes that tone, “You’re leaving breadcrumbs for that hero to follow? Your confidence in that brat’s skills is rather pathetic, princess. Impressive in a way, but pathetic nonetheless.”
“Don’t speak of my fiance like that.” this time, you hold your glare for a second longer than the last.
Strands of silver, bared still as a result of him lending his cloak to you yesterday (though now neatly folded on the table), shift as he tilts his head. “… Or else?”
“Or… or else I—” you clutch at the loaf of bread, scrambling for a riposte that never surfaces. “I’ll…!”
Your verbal struggle, and consequent fluster greatly pleases the monster. And you wonder if it's normal to be able to catch that when you can't even see a smidgen of his expression.
“Hm. Can you stop wasting food and eat your lunch now, princess?”
You hate hate hate how much that sentence reminds you of the condescending remarks of your mother, and it snaps whatever was left of your frayed composure.
“I don't know, can you take off your mask and face me like a man?”
Your fists tremble as you realize what you just did, breath lodged in your throat as the Flame Reaver goes utterly still.
You stutter again, mind backpedaling in fear, but it's too late to take it back.
A gasp is forced out of you, the world tilts as gravity is swept from under your feet, the greys of the ceiling mesh and mix before settling again.
You take a sharp gulp of breath as the world calms ; as you look around, you realize that you're seated on the wooden chair before the table and five of the Flame Reaver's Shadows surround you like hounds.
One takes the half wasted loaf of bread from your hands, one grips your jaw, one scoops up a spoonful of stew and the other two glower at you enough that you open your mouth to take the food without a thought.
There's no way you could've protested against that, you huff as another spoonful is pushed to your mouth, doesn't make it any less humiliating though.
Thumps against the floor make you glance back to see the Flame Reaver's advance.
“What?” he jabs upon noticing your puffed cheeks squished in his Shadow’s grasp, “Shall I get you a bib as well?”
Heat rushes to your face, an indignant protest dies at the tip of your tongue upon the approach of the Flame Reaver's claws.
“Don’t touch me!” you recoil in the Shadows’ grasp, brows pinching together in a frown, deepening more and more when the monster doesn't stop.
The edge of one metallic nail brushes past your hair, “I’m warning you I—” you watch in terror as his thumb grazes your cheek and then moves past towards the folded cloak which sat upon the table.
Fabric rustles as the Flame Reaver shakes the cloak open, you blink dumbfoundedly once, before embarrassment seizes your psyche.
The Shadow pushes another spoonful to your lips, which you accept this time with much humility.
No one even mentions the mishap, and that makes it worse.
Unable to stand the silence of your humiliation, “Uh, Flame Rea—”
“Khaslana.”
Right. You’d nearly forgotten that, the monster's strange insistence on you using that name instead of the title he’s known by, one which you’ll pretend like you can't hear for as long as you can.
“Ahem, uhm, I was wondering —! Are these… do these clones of yours have free will?” you see from the edge of your vision as he halts mid-motion, cloak hung on his shoulder.
“… Why do you ask?” you know he's looking down at the sight of you getting fed like an ignorant newborn, his tendency of answering your questions with one of his own isn't surprising either.
Because I want to dig a hole and crawl in there? You swallow another mouthful of stew, a bead of the dish escapes from the corner of your lips.
You have half a mind to blow a raspberry at him and a quarter to keep your mouth shut in offense. But the logical part of you supplies, “I’m bored.”
“What?” the Flame Reaver sounds genuinely baffled.
It gives you the modicum of courage to glance up, “Boreeeeeed! I’m so bored I want to jump from that window sometimes!” you clench your fists, dodging the Shadow’s attempt at pushing another bite to your lips.
A faint sag overtakes the Flame Reaver's shoulders, “You’re eating, bathing, sleeping. Is that not entertainment enough?” there's so much exasperation in his rugged voice it would've convinced a lesser man.
“What do you mean entertainment?! Those are basics of—mmph!” the Shadow holding your jaw swings you back to accept the rejected spoonful.
You push through to make your point anyway, “Leevewing! Baysics of leevinh!”
The Flame Reaver watches as stew smears across your lips and chin, the sudden heat of defense in your eyes completely at odds with how you look more like a stuffed hamster than an elegant princess.
He forces out an annoyed sigh, “Alright then, princess.” crossing his arms over his chest, the Shadows stop shoving food to your mouth upon catching the faint command. “What is ‘entertainment’?”
The heat in your eyes morphs to sparkles, “Like! Reading! Books!”
A glint of light reflects off of the metal of his mask as he tips his head back, “While eating?”
“Yes!”
“That’s childish.”
“Whoa—” you lean back as though scandalized, “Have you ever tried reading a good book while eating?”
The Flame Reaver's response comes flat, “I don't need to eat.”
He watches with some fascination as all the offense drains from your body at that single line.
You blink a couple of times, as though recalibrating everything you've thought about the monster.
“That’s… quite sad.” your gaze flits from his masked face to the hooves of his boots.
Silence parades the chamber once again, the air humid with pity. You fiddle with the fabric of your skirt, pale pink paint from your wedding day fading from your nails, you shift in your seat in uncertainty.
All the indignation that’d lit your pride on fire before suddenly nowhere in sight.
You're jolted from the deluge of reverie at the press of a familiar thumb, though unlike before, it refrains from scratching at your skin and instead, wipes away the mess of stew from your lips. The residue at your chin is swiped away by his knuckles.
You blink up just as the Flame Reaver retreats, pulling his hood up.
“Come down after you’ve finished eating. Five floors down from this one, the door with a bronze infinity symbol.”
—
You were raised a child of the books ; from moulding your inner world to shaping you posture, books were present in every step of the way.
It was considered integral to the image of ladies of the upper class to be able to hold conversations on historical and contemporary texts, hence, the popularity of reading in this era.
Not to mention, it was one of the only ways to pass the obdurate days for noblewomen.
Legend of the Dawn Hero, The Chimera's Patronage, The Sun and the Morning Glory — were some of the most popular titles you grew up with.
It was easy as well, to get lost in the vibrant worlds where brave heroes heralded pilgrimages to save the world, in the folds of drama and thrill and adventure.
When you were nine, you were handed a copy of Legend of the Dawn Hero by your governess, a popular romance featuring the ‘Deliverer’ who saves the world from an opprobrious monster.
“Which part moved you the most?” she’d asked in that terse tone of hers.
You distinctly recall hesitating, your little hands fumbling with the book (which earned you a glare from the woman). “The part where… the monster's past was revealed.”
“Oh? Do elaborate.”
“Uhm,” it takes everything in you to not stutter more under her curiosity, ”It was simply unexpected to me. I never thought villains could have bad starts as well. It made me rather sad.”
The woman graciously ignored your last sentence, “And what did you think about the Deliverer?”
You stared at the painted sun on the book’s cover for a second, and then shrugged. “He was okay.”
That took her visibly by surprise.
“Huh. What an odd child.”
The books that filled the ‘library’ the Flame Reaver opened for you were far from the shiny books you’d read back at home.
Since your arrival — or should you say, manhandling by the Shadows to this place — you’ve become increasingly hesitant to even call it a library.
The rows upon rows of dusty tomes and unkempt pages, tall cabinets storing who knows what give this chamber more the impression of a mad scholar’s secret study.
And you would've been charmed by the vellichor of it all, had this been a different circumstance.
The one saving grace of this labyrinthian library is the chaise by the window, illuminated by the rays of the sun as it dips to the west horizon. Everything else is graced by scattered candlelight, a small mercy by him, is what you conclude.
It's not like you're in the position to complain, and honestly, it's a much better experience than counting clouds from your chamber.
You pause, eyes stuck on the spine of a book labeled ‘basics of meteorology’ in Styxian script. The coincidence prompts you to fish it out of the row.
A Shadow flickers in your periphery just as your turn the front page, almost making you flinch.
You can't even begin to describe your aggravation with those things. They appear to be as — if not more — emotionless than their master, but if there was something in this world synonymous with being hellspawns, you think it’d be them.
It's just that you have no way to actually prove that, so all you can do is ignore them.
Unlike the books you'd browsed in this chamber before, you find the one in your hands to be actually readable, with small illustrations accompanying the rules.
With a newfound spark in your gait, you turn with the intention of reaching the chaise — the jump in your step halted upon the collision with something hard.
A yelp escapes you, hand reaching on instinct to rub your nose. When you crane your neck to look up in irritation, you see the candlelight glinting off of the metal of the Flame Reaver's mask.
He, just watches the flow of emotions on your face, as he usually does.
You’ve discovered interrogating him on this habit to be futile, so you take a step back and another to your left to pass him by.
Which he meets.
You throw him a furtive glance and then step to the right the next second.
He copies it.
You go back towards the left and he meets you there, resulting in your temple colliding with his chest again.
And then, he huffs in irritation like you are the hindrance.
“Hey, can you—” your request is catapulted midair, you gasp, hands seeking to clutch at something, anything for balance as the Flame Reaver hauls you up his shoulder.
The first thing you register, is how far the floor suddenly is from your reach, and the next is the uncomfortable sensation of your chest being squished against his shoulder blades.
The dark lines of the floor swirl and twirl with his steps, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut lest the motion makes you sick.
When your hand finally manages to clutch onto his cloak for some semblance of balance, they're removed from it just as fast.
You blink, hair ruffled and breaths erratic as the Flame Reaver's hands grasp your waist, the chaise bounces from the force of your drop.
His retreating step is loud in the library, an intentional move to snap you back to reality.
Instead of vanishing like he usually would've done though, he lingers for a moment longer on how this simple thing disheveled you from top to bottom.
When you catch his stare, he turns away with a click of his tongue. A snap echoes, and the book you had in your hands drops to your lap — you didn’t even realize it’d fallen from your hands.
When you look up next, the Flame Reaver is no longer there ; only you, the sibilant Shadows, and the weight of this fluster you have no control over.
“There lives an evil monster at the far north of Amphoreus — we call it the Flame Reaver. He brought with him this wretched Black Tide. It corrupts and mutilates everything that it touches beyond saving.”
“And the Chrysos Heirs are our heroes, they work tirelessly every day to fight the Black Tide and slay that monster.”
“Lady Goldweaver of Okhema, Lady Tribios of Janusopolis, Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos, Castorice the Hand of Shadow, Hycinthia of the Twilight Courtyard, Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany, Imperator Cerydra, Hysilens of Styxia… and lord Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, the Blazing Sun who’ll bring dawn to this world one day.”
You remember the edge of pride on your governess’ face as she’d introduced them, fourteen years ago. It was only the beginning of her long history lessons.
Fourteen years later, on the year 4931 of the Light Calendar, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae would defeat the notorious Flame Reaver.
On the year 4931 of the Light Calendar, you would become the lady of his house…
Steam cloak’s the room, even a whisper sounds as though it were an exclamation. Somewhere, there's an ictus of falling water.
A sigh escapes you as your back meets the marble of the bathtub, the waterline caresses your clavicle, where damp strands of hair brush past.
The temperature is just a bit on the hotter side, but it's bearable, a small reprieve in your prison. You think life to be so strange, things you had never thought twice about back home are luxuries beyond its gates.
Things are prepared without even a trace of another life in the tower ; food, clothes and even this bath — you can only conclude it to be the result of magic.
For the past weeks, you’ve had scarce sleep. Your eyes only close when your mind is tired out from worrying all day, and even then, the rest you get is sporadic.
But the warmth of the bath numbs your restless mind, the fragrance of wild herbs lulls it further.
In this lapse of time, even an enclosure feels like a sanctuary, makes you feel as though you've brushed past freedom once more, and before long, your breaths have slowed.
Though it doesn't last long.
You feel tingles spreading from the backs of your knees first, then tickles at your nape as though your hair was being swept aside.
Probably just the water, you reassure yourself in your half waking state.
The edge of the bathtub grazes against your head, you think you hear a faint splash, ghosts of touches gliding over your chest, weighing your breasts and sliding down your belly.
A sting shakes you awake.
The gulp of breath you're forced to take is pulled taut by the firm press of something against your lips, it takes you more than a few frantic blinks to look over the veil of the fog and at last, you see it.
At least a dozen of those Shadows, all sporting the form of that Dark Swordmaster, their edges flickering like flames ; two palm your breasts, one holds your head in place, another parts your dew soaked legs and the rest fight for even an inch of your skin.
Your gasp is smothered by the hand on your lips and you nearly choke when it covers your whole face for a moment, before planting one thumb to keep your sounds from echoing.
Your flailing arms are seized next, you can't even see what's going on there past the curtains of those shadows that allow not even scant light to touch your skin.
The sounds of splashing water rattle the walls, everything is too hot, too hot, too hot — from the wisps of choked breaths they mercy upon you in betwixt the unkind twists of their fingers across your core, to the burn of their claws digging and drawing indents of their hunger on your body.
Tears prickle the corners of your eyes, another sound that you dread to be a whine is muffled as the shadows coil tighter around you.
By some cruelty, the thumb on your lips shifts just enough to let the next cry echo.
On top of the water that laps at your skin, there's something else too, parting the petals of your clitoris and plunging deep with one rough swipe.
Their talons attach like barnacles, holding you in place, and in obedience by your hips.
You do not know how to explain the sensation, it's like a knot is being crafted in your belly with every swipe and twist, every squeeze and pinch, stretched taut til your breaths are no more than broken whimpers.
You catch one Shadow looking directly at you from your peripheral, it betrays no emotion, just floats quietly behind the crowd.
Your head tips back further when the shadows part your legs to scavenge for more room and from the small crack in between them, you see more apparitions through your blurry vision.
It clicks suddenly, there's another wave of them, awaiting their turn patiently.
A line of drool slips past your lips and smears your chin, the Shadow which was covering your mouth wipes with one swipe of its thumb ; your toes curl midair as the knot in your lower stomach snaps.
Steam cloak’s the room, even a whisper sounds as though it were an exclamation. Somewhere, there's an ictus of falling water.
A groan escapes your lips as you stir, vision shrouded with enervation, your joints complain when you shift in the bathtub.
The water’s heat is now faint, but every candle is lit as you recall.
Slowly, you come to, gripping the edge of the bathtub for support. You’ve never felt more disoriented in your life, not even when the Flame Reaver pointed his blade at your throat and then let you off from tasting its sharpness.
Right. The Flame Reaver. The captivity.
… His Shadows.
You sit up straight, glancing frantically at your hands and body as the memories resurface.
There isn't a single scratch on your skin, but you can still recall the feel of their greedy touches, the way they moulded you to their liking.
The bath water is now completely cold, sending chills down your spine but you could not care at all.
Your teeth work at your bottom lip as the scenes flash through your mind again, a droplet of water slides down your cleavage.
A faint tremble seizes your body.
What was that? Was that real? Was that a dream? Why was it so vivid if it were one? And why does your body feel so heavy if it weren't one?
And most importantly, why can you not stop replaying it in your mind?
Sharp thunks echo as pages flutter to the ground, in your frenzy (for what exactly, you can hardly pin down), you bump against shelves and cabinets more times than you have the mind to count.
You just know that you need a distraction, and in pursuit of it, your feet have led you to the only other place you're (somewhat) allowed entry to in the tower ; the ‘library’ — without any intervention of the sentinel Shadows.
Those cursed Shadows, you heave, leaning against a cabinet.
If breaking your ankle the last time you’d tried to escape wasn't bad enough, they’d decided to shift to toying with your sanity next.
Every night, without fail, you're certain those hellspawns have been doing something to you. But for some, some reason, by dawn you only have blurry memories to recount.
As such, the Flame Reaver never takes your complaints seriously — he doesn't even answer any questions you might have about his powers, let alone those cryptic clones.
But does his dismissive scoffs help you at all? No! With every moment alone with those Shadows, you feel as though you're being pushed closer and closer to the edge of an abyss ; one that dulls your inhibitions, and makes you desire for things you’ve been taught your whole life to loathe.
The Shadows cease reaching with their grabby hands in the presence of their master, but he only makes that pinching feeling in your heart worse.
You're scared to even observe it for long — and you absolutely, absolutely can't afford to linger on it, not when your family is still waiting for you, not when your fiance has foregone half of his sanity in search of you (you're sure he has).
Your confidence in that brat’s skills is rather pathetic, princess. You flinch as that monster's words resurface in your mind.
Rust coats the voice in your recollections, that easy condescension which pulls at the steady strings of your heart, Impressive in a way, but pathetic nonetheless.
You bite your lip, hands gripping the handle of the wooden cabinet ; all at once every instance where he’d reached too close cluster forth in your mind, every time the edge of his mask brushed against your cheek, everytime you were a breath away from feeling those silver strands of his hair.
The edge of the handle bites into your hands, you wonder, as the recollections of the Shadows’ whispers mesh with the cadence of his tone in your mind, how would it feel if it was him whispering those filthy things in your ear while coaxing tears out of your eyes?
Just as quickly as the flood of thoughts came, they wane.
You blink, the first thing you notice when you come to reality is that your cheeks feel hot, the next is that the cabinet’s door has somehow come loose from its hinges in your hands.
The door clutters to the ground when you drop it. For a second, you palm at the air in uncertainty, and then, you decide to duck and peek inside the thing almost mindlessly.
A cough escapes you as a deluge of dust emerges from the stack of worn notebooks in the cabinet.
You wave away as much of it as you can, squinting in the dim candlelight to get a better look.
Something in your gut tugs at you, tells you that you probably shouldn't go farther than this.
You did come down without permission here, and the logical thing to do would be to not test the Flame Reaver's graces more.
… But the prospect of finding out how he’d react to this act of rebellion is undoubtedly tempting.
Dust smudges your fingertips as you pull out (what seems to be) a notebook. You blow on the cover, perhaps it was just the faint light from the candles’ fault, but you remain unsuccessful in deciphering the cover page.
The contents within the notebook though, were a different story.
You tilt the pages toward the candles, eyes squinting, shifting, widening with every word.
ENTRY - - -: Attempt #28,371,274
• LIGHT CALANDER — 4894, MONTH OF JOY •
The Black Tide field test in the frontier village, Code: AE6 was a success. Two survivors emerged from the rubbles. One’s location is still unidentified. The other remembers himself to be called “Khaslana“. … Aged approximately eight. Some minor injuries but otherwise in good health.
…
ENTRY 001: NEW EXPERIMENT. In Juncture With Attempt Count #28,371,275
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4894, MONTH OF EVERDAY •
Admittance of subject “Neikos496”. Age : 8, Male. Shows signs of being resistant to the corrosive properties of the Black Tide. Further observation required.
..
ENTRY 003: Attempt #28,371,276
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4894, MONTH OF - - - - - - •
Subject Neikos496 shows intense impulses. Has been refusing meals.. Consistently asks for the whereabouts of “brother Phainon“. Further observation required.
…
ENTRY 034: Attempt #28,371,- - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4896, MONTH OF FREEDOM •
Subject Neikos496 shows extreme tolerance towards the Black Tide. Procedures for Experiment: Imbibition are in order.
..
ENTRY 035: Attempt #28,372,- - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4896, MONTH OF WEAVING •
Subject Neikos496 has lost his sense of taste. Note: The Black Tide has not yet hindered his growth in any way.
..
ENTRY 050: Attempt #28,500,- - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4899, MONTH OF MOURNING •
Subject Neikos496 can fully harness the destructive properties of the Black Tide. A revolutionary breakthrough in - - - -..
ENTRY 051: Attempt #29,- - -, - - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4899, MONTH OF FORTUNE •
Subject Neikos496 shows signs of rapid physical growth… Form growing distant from that of… umans… Further observation required.
..
ENTRY 101: Attempt #33,- - -,- - -
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4909, MONTH OF EVERNIGHT •
Subject Neikos496 can fully control the Destructive properties of the Black Tide phenomena. Procedures to unleash… Heavy observation required. Subject shows tendencies of rebellion.
Overseer : --.. .- -. -.. .- .-.
ENTRY - - -: Attempt #33,550,36
• LIGHT CALENDER — 4910, M- -TH O- - - - - •
Subject Neikos496 is suspected to rebel. The tower’s defences have been set. Operation: Irontomb will soon lau..nch.. do not panic. Everything will b.. —
“I thought princesses knew.. how to maintain curfews?”
Your heart kicks against your ribcage violently as it registers that voice. The old, worn paper in your grasp is soaked from your sweaty palms, your desperate grip on its words.
You open your mouth to respond by instinct, but nothing tangible comes out.
The edge of the Flame Reaver's hood brushes against your hair as he leans down to catch a peek — not at the notebook that you shouldn't be holding, but at the abject horror painted on your face.
His hands hover by your skirt, and with every breath you're forced to take, you get more and more acutely aware of the fact that his chest is flush against your back.
“Answer me, princess.” you’re yanked back before you could spiral in your thoughts, but you can hardly make your mind cooperate with his demand.
The Flame Reaver, graciously decides to assist you.
You jolt as his hand comes up to grasp your chin, “What’s wrong?“ condescension drips from his words and into your ear, “You weren't so scared when you waltzed into the obituary of a madman.“
“I…” you scramble your mind for something, anything to respond with amidst the sillage of bulrush and smoke that encroaches in your space. “I’m—”
Your treacherous heart jumps again as the Flame Reaver clicks his tongue, not because it's loud in the narrow space, but because it sounds indulgent.
“Are you about to apologize, princess?” he moans against your cheek. “Save me the charade. I have no interest in the fact that you found this.”
That makes you blink as some clarity returns.
Just as you're about to urge him to elaborate though, the Flame Reaver squeezes your cheeks together with enough force to make you yelp, the nails of his thumb and forefinger dig into the meat, hard.
“I’m sure you know where my interest is in.” you could've never, in the twenty years of your existence, ever expected the Flame Reaver to sound so coy, so elated — at mushing your cheeks to oblivion or to the underbreath of the unfolding events, you can hardly care.
“But the question is,“ his left hand finally makes its presence known in the shape of grasping your waist, “Are you brave enough to indulge me?” he cranes your neck up to meet his heated breaths, face to masked-face.
You don't dare to open your eyes and stare into that nothingness, but you don't do anything to break out of his grip either, not even as he threatens to paint your cheeks red in your own blood, or how his claws tear into your dress.
You know what he's pushing you towards.
Phainon — you saw Phainon's name with absolute clarity in the notebook now crumpling in your hands, and you’d wished, with every re-read that those words morph into something else or vanish altogether.
“You…” you shudder as he parts your ankles with the tip of his boots, squeezing the words out through the death-grip he has on your face. “You should stop touching me like this. I— I'm betrothed to someone else!”
In the end, you're not brave enough to take his bait.
But the Flame Reaver doesn't appear discouraged, in fact, he seems even more pleased, if possible.
“Oh? Betrothed you say…“ he loosens his grip just before his claws could puncture your cheeks, shifting to rub at the abused flesh with the pads of his fingers.
“But did you remember that the past few months?“ something in your stomach flips as his knee nudges between your legs, “Or, do you only like using that excuse when I confront you about your flighty little morals?“
You would've never guessed air could feel this heavy, nay, it bends to the monster's every breath, threatening to take you with it under, as well.
You can hardly think through the jolts coaxed by the way he strokes your heat with his knee, but of course, the monster wouldn't allow you the reprieve of sinking completely — so he uses the grip he has on your hip and yanks you to crash against his chest, sending a sharp jolt through your core against his knee.
The Flame Reaver chuckles, it's rough and rugged like the edge of a cliff, “I’m curious, princess,”
He trails his left hand up from your waist, letting the claw of his pointer finger drag up your heaving chest, “Would your ever chivalrous hero even take you back if he knew about how much of yourself you’ve given to me already?” he circles around where your heart has concocted a crazed prance, humming in pleasure when it answers with a loud kick against his hand.
“Even now,” he twirls a strand of your hair on the tips of his claws, “You don't tell me no, not even once.”
That, that snaps you out of the maddening trance he’d illustrated so far. The realization sweeps away half of the heat from your gut, settling like an anvil on your conscience.
No, not at all. You don't want Flame Reaver to stop. You would've kicked, flailed and fought your way out of his hold by now like the first day, the day he stole you in the dress of a bride — if you wanted out of this suffocating embrace.
So, how dare you still speak of a fiance?
The Flame Reaver hums at your stunned silence, letting your hair fall from his hand. “I have a proposal, princess.”
“Instead of living like a prize on that brat’s shelf,” he tests the jolts of your pulse with the tip of his thumbnail, “Why don't you become mine instead?”
Your shoulders macerate with a slump as that singular sentence steals all the fight from your bones.
Guilt begins to crawl up your conscience, just like how those Shadows did on your body, and how you allowed it — enjoyed it even.
And now, even as the weight of your hypocrisy presses down on your heart, you find yourself wishing that the Flame Reaver — Khaslana, would do something, anything to make you forget that, forget your past and transgressions and let you to sink into the abyss he’s only been teasing you with touches and words.
Princess, oh dearest princess, what have you become?
There was once a time in the 'Flame Reaver's' life where he loved the shade of blue.
It was in the midday sky of Aedes Elysiae, in the waves of the sea — in his eyes.
His innocence stretches as far as he can recall that color, the days spent chasing fairies, napping in the wheat fields and drifting wish-in-a-bottles in the ocean.
And then, one day, red swallowed that lovely blue, burned everything that ached to hold that color to ashes.
When Lycurgus found him, wounded and bruised, stranded all alone in the middle of nowhere, he promised the boy a home.
Though the tall, dark tower at the edge of the north didn't seem to be anywhere near as warm as the roads of Aedes Elysiae, it was shelter, it was protection, and for a while, that was enough.
Until, the mad researcher asked, “Don’t you want revenge?”
Revenge. A word too lofty for a little boy of his age to fathom. He only vaguely recalled reading it in those fairy tales of Cyrene, the ones about heroes and villains and magic.
At his silence, the scholar urged, “For your ruined hometown? For your family?”
That, that’d struck him.
Though he couldn't fathom the weight of the word, somewhere in his heart, there burned this little fire of fury.
That fire was fed slowly and steadily with every experiment, every failure and every subsequent success.
But no matter how much Khaslana resisted, how much he endured, the pain never dulled.
“The pain and the anger are your life forces.” he’d been told, “Nurture it, cling to it and wield it.”
But why should one live for pain and anger? No one would answer the shackled boy in the cold lab. No one would tell him why the Black Tide consumes and doesn't cease, no matter how much he’d asked.
Then, by chance or misfortune, Khaslana discovered the conductor of the threnody that haunts this world.
“For the utter destruction of Reason itself, this world must burn, it must end!” Lygus had exclaimed in delight, “And you— you… will make that fire roar! You will bear the Destruction itself!”
Even till his last breath, his last spasm on the floor, Lycurgus had laughed.
Khaslana had thought that killing that madman and his lackeys would've been enough to satiate his fury. He’d be content to bear all of the Black Tide in himself so that the world could drift on in peace, even.
But of course, why would it be so kind to him?
“Have you heard? There's a monster that lives in the north. They say that he's the reason for the Black Tide!”
“The Chrysos Heirs have rallied from all corners of Amphoreus to defeat him!”
“He must be defeated!”
“Off with his head!”
“Death to the monster!'”
“BURN HIM BURN HIM BURN HIM!”
Zandar, despite posing as a scholar of class, was one petty manchild.
As such, he’d used whatever was left of his consciousness, and had modeled the lie that Khas— Flame Reaver of the Deepest Dark, was the source of the Black Tide.
And the result of this propaganda was a thousand passionate ‘heroes’ sent at his door to bring glory back home. Pathetic, so pathetic he couldn't even care to give them a proper duel.
… That was until, he came.
Silver tresses and that cornflower blue still shining so bright in those sunlight eyes, a legendary sword in his hands and comrades at his sides — every bit the hero from those stories he’d read with him in childhood.
A mirror of himself, if he’d still retained anything of his former image.
Perhaps, that is why Phainon didn't recognized him.
Flame Reaver would've been fine with that much, to go the rest of his existence as a dead memory — but the stupid, stupid hero and his troop of fools just had to disturb his peace, had to shoot him down with that weapon.
And then, Phainon had the audacity to parade around the city in victory, bask in the cheers and salutations of everyone who now fell at his feet ; offering their homage, their lives and all their treasures for a smidgen of the hero's ‘favor’.
You were one such ‘treasure’, the beloved princess of Stygia who’d been hidden since childhood from the world.
Rose petals had begun to pile up on the baths of the Holy City as a result of the people's excitement. The century’s most anticipated union, a pair chosen by the gods themselves!
How could they not rejoice? For their icon looks at you like you're a piece of heaven itself, a piece he shall not lose or let go of.
It was supposed to be a perfect, sun-lit day. The lilies were in full bloom, thousands had gathered outside the chapel to witness the moment when the beautiful princess and the hero of legends would become each other's.
So easily? Just like that?
The panicked screams of the crowd as Flame Reaver's Shadows tore down the venue were music to his ears.
The skittering people, the chaos, the silken banners burning in flames — now that was pretty.
And amidst the ensuing ruin, there was you.
Stranded from the others in the commotion, clutching at the skirt of the pristine ivory dress as rubble rained down around you.
You’d looked so scared, so uncertain while trying to work your puny human brain for a way out.
So, he took you.
Was it a bit of an impulsive decision? Yes. But the look of absolute horror on Phainon's face as he whisked you away a breath from his arms was so, so worth it.
In the beginning, he’d been fully set on just giving you a swift, painless death.
But something had stopped him, something… yes, that ruffled look on your face, how you’d scrunched up your face and glared at him like letting your displeasure known would be of any help.
He thought it was amusing — and amusement, to a man so used to pain and obdurate days, is intoxicating.
So, he decided to let you scurry around in the cage instead.
The way you flinched at every little thing, stayed curled up in a ball by the corner of the uppermost chamber of the tower only made him more and more intrigued.
See, Khaslana had known scarce interaction with humans throughout the forty five years of his cursed existence. However much of it was real, happened far too long ago, and those cold exchanges with the researchers were no interaction at all.
So, everything that you brought with you was new to him, and he shamelessly, wanted to see more of it, all of it.
Every squeak, every frown, every down turned gaze, every tsk of annoyance and most surprising of all, every moment of fluster.
It took him a while to catch on, but you would get flustered around him whenever he got close to you or taunted you.
And that brewed a new plan in his mind.
He would tempt you slowly and agonizingly, fill that little head of yours with nothing but desire.
Until you’re so fed up with the push-and-pull that you reach for him yourself and give all of you to him.
And you will play right into his hands.
He’ll make sure of it.
Twilight is still yet to bleed into the east when you awake, the sporadic chirps of birds outside keep you tethered to the waking world.
When you turn to your other side, the first thing your eyes fall upon is the Flame Reaver brooding on the chaise, the faint light of the burgeoning morning illuminate his silhouette.
Mindlessly, you get up, rubbing your eyes as a yawn moistens their corners.
Your steps are groggy as a result of your restless slumber, and they click loudly in the quiet morning.
With each step, the heaviness of last night returns, slowly, and then all at once.
You’d tossed and turned enough times to rumple the bedsheets beyond saving, screamed into your pillow when the thoughts grew cacophonous, cried into the same pillow when the guilt got too monstrous.
Where are the Shadows when you actually need them? You’d even found yourself wishing at times, to your surprise.
But what can you do? You’ve vacillated between believing that you have not sinned, that you would be welcomed back into the arms of your fiance — and the heavy, bone-chilling realization that you won't, that you have no way to face that man anymore.
Do you even want to go back to Phainon? You halt in front of the Flame Reaver's legs. Would a man who never came looking for his own brother, never even recognized his twin, even recognize you?
Let alone cherish?
The Flame Reaver lifts his head with a jolt when you swing your leg over his, settling on his lap.
An exhale leaves his mouth, coarse and penetrating in the dead quiet. You can feel his gaze following your fingers as they glide up his arms and over the gaping sun on his chest.
“What are you doing?“ he asks rhetorically. You're not sure if it's just your sleep addled mind, but you could've sworn that the muscles of his thighs tightened under you when you pressed your palms flat on his chest, and trailed them up his throat.
Is this stupid? Most definitely, the smidgen of rationality in your mind supplies.
But you can't bring yourself care, you can't bring yourself to think amidst the roaring thoughts, the doubts, the guilt, the desire and the thirst to end this push-and-pull, to silence every voice echoing in your mind.
The pointy edge of the metal frame of his mask brushes against your fingertips, “You said,” your own voice is hoarse from sleep and bone-deep fatigue, “That you could make me forget it all.”
You press your forehead against his, knees planted on either side of his hips on the chaise. “But I don't know if I want that without even knowing the master of that magic.” warm breath mingling with his.
The Flame Reaver makes a sound that almost sounds like an intrigued hum, if it weren't for the faint tremble in it that you manage to catch thanks to the proximity.
“Correction, princess.” he doesn't move a breath, but he doesn't lean into the touch either. “I offered you to become mine.”
Your brows pinch slightly at that, your clouded mind struggling to care about semantics in the wake of him raising his hands, and just letting them hover above your back.
You lean back just enough to look at his masked face, chest heaving in irritation.
“Become yours without even seeing ‘you’?” you rest your right palm against where his cheek should be at and let the other trail over his shoulder.
Metal bumps against your wandering hands, the grooves and stiffened muscles stretched taut against the fabric of his clothes. You’d only gotten the sillage of it before, but you can feel the sheer rigidity of his body right under your hands, against yourself, now.
(You force yourself to swallow whatever tingle that’d brought to your mouth.)
His sigh makes you blink, “You’re an impulsive creature.” he admonishes, tapping a claw against the chaise.
“Does it never cross your mind that some boundaries are set for your own good?” his hood drops as he tilts his head in your hand.
You purse your lips in confusion, “Is your face radioactive?”
The taps pause, “Worse.” he says breezily.
“How worse?” you push closer.
“Enough to make a sheltered little princess recoil?” there's derision in his tone, at you, or himself — is uncertain.
You cup his face, drawing a circle on his cheek over the dark fabric. “Try me.”
A long beat passes, a bird announces the start of its day with an exclamation outside the premises of this scene, twigs snap under worried boots.
The Flame Reaver's shoulders slump in surrender, though the huff he exhales suggests (feigned) annoyance.
It's enough permission for you.
Carefully, so, so carefully you peel back the metal ornament ; its sharp corner scratches against your fingers when you're unable to control the tremble in them, but you can hardly care about that.
A breathy exhales escapes you, blending with his own as the mask clutters to the floor.
Porcelain. That's the first word that comes to your mind when you see him. Gold pulses from the cracks of his porcelain-like body, blue and violet swirl in the abyss of the left side of his face, beckoning you closer, far closer than you’ve ever dared to venture.
Khaslana turns his head away — in disappointment, not surprise, and suddenly his previous derision makes sense to you, why he always caved into himself when you brought it up, why he always avoided this.
It makes something in your heart pinch to the point of suffocation.
You shift your grip, tilting his turned head back to you in the cradle of your hands — and kiss him.
Khaslana's next breath is pulled taut by the abruptness of it, the cushion under his hands is teared as he swipes at it with his talons in surprise.
His lips are cool under yours, unlike the rest of his body which has set the air around you ablaze.
You chase the chill, keeping his lips locked against yours by holding onto his jaw and you're only encouraged to continue when his hands spring up to grasp you by the waist.
It's your turn to gasp as he yanks you close, the force of the pull makes your nose bump with his and your chest press against his clavicle.
You taste mint and heat in his breath as his mouth parts against yours, the tip of his tongue teases the corner of your lips —
“PRINCESS [NAME]!!!”
A sharp flinch jostles you both, labored breaths fogging the thin distance between your mouths.
“LADY [NAME]?!!”
Every nerve in your body tenses. You know that voice, you’ve heard it declaring promises of patience in your hands, wishes and hopes of a serene dream in your ears, sneaking whispers of how beautiful you look in your wedding dress before the altar—
Khaslana's chuckles breaks the daze, it's a rugged, intrigued thing against your ear.
“Ahh…” he noses in the little nook under your earlobe, “Looks like your hero— no, your fiance is here to pick you up.”
Your treacherous, treacherous heart kicks against its cage, and then churns at his lazy acknowledgment. You can see glimpses of soldiers flittering across the parameters of the tower down the drop and then— him.
A bead of sweat rolls down from your temples, Khaslana adjusts his hold on your hips, shifting you forward to aide you in seeing the scene better (cruelty).
“Well then? Princess?” your eyes crinkle as you feel something wet lave over your cheek, “What will you do now?” a thin sheen of drool smears on your cheek to your chin as Khaslana catches that bead of sweat on his long, serpentine tongue.
You would think that the monster would try to cling to you, but instead, he goads you on, like this is a game to him and all he cares about is feasting on your moves.
It wouldn't take much to alert the troops, a small item thrown, maybe one of the pillows — you could even scream, it wouldn't be unexpected of the Phainon to be able catch its pitch despite the distance.
…. However.
“I don't want to go.” your eyes dim as you see the rays of the early morning light playing catch with the hero’s armory, those silver strands — ones you now know so intimately, ruffled by worried hands.
It almost makes you not notice Khaslana's eerie silence.
“…What?”
You sneak a peek at him through your periphery, “I don't want to go ba— oof—!”
A wheeze is forced out of your lungs at the force of the push, your surprised blinks are shadowed by Khaslana's looming form.
“I don't believe you,” he fists at the chaise on either side of your head, it's difficult to see his expression despite the flickers of the blue flame.
You keep on searching for it though, “Tell me what will make you believe then.”
He sneers, “This is just a game to you.”
“It is not.” frustration creeps in betwixt your brows.
But he doesn't listen, “You don't even understand— you don't even understand what I feel for you! What I want to do to you—!” he tugs at his hair.
You open your mouth but his exclamations drown out your words, “You naive, stupid girl. You think you could know me?” his voice fades to a coarse whisper, and your patience snaps. “There is absolutely no way! Nothing! Nothing you could do that—”
You grab him by the collar and swallow the rest of his complaint with your mouth.
Something in Khaslana's brain sizzles, makes him forget that he can breathe as you pull him closer, closer than anything he’s dreamed, and all so willingly, eagerly.
His normal eye softens impossibly for a second, before flashing with a jolt of wicked blue.
Your exhale is pulled taut by his hand snaking up the back of your head, gripping at the roots of your hair to keep you locked in the kiss.
His free hand wanders down to your legs, and parts them by gripping one knee. Your hands reach out to clutch at his cape when he throws one of your legs over his shoulder, making room for himself — and when you're dizzy from the lack of breath and space, he rewards you by biting down your lower lip.
“You’ll leave me.” he gasps against your cheek, talons gripping restlessly at your pulled up skirt.
Despite your mind being in a swirl of nothing but heat, you find the strength to shake your head no, clinging to him.
Khaslana squeezes his eye close for a moment, as though pained. “You’ll abandon me at the first chance you get— like him, like everyone —”
Your nails dig into his shoulders, “Never. I won't ever abandon or betray you, Khaslana.”
A shudder quakes the monster's whole body. He drops his head to your shoulder, taking lungfuls of your scent, his claws threaten to draw blood at the dip of your waist.
“Tell me…” his nose traces a line from your jawbone to your clavicle, halting at the neckline of your dress to take the edge in between his teeth. “Tell me to stop, princess.” he begs, dragging the neckline down with his bite.
Your knees press around him as his scorching exhales brush against your now bared chest, “Don’t— don't stop, Khaslana.”
A long, heavy breath leaves his lips, littering your skin in gooseflesh. A squeeze seizes your heart as Khaslana nuzzles against it with his cheek.
“Could you… kiss me again?” you almost don't hear his request through the erratic march of your heart, “So that I know this isn't a dream?”
He doesn't dare to meet your gaze when he says, “… Please?”
If there was even a fraction of doubt in your mind before, it vanishes to oblivion with that one word.
This time, the beginning of the kiss is much gentler than all the previous ones. You tilt his head up with your hands and for a moment, just breathe against him, before pressing your pledge against his lips.
Khaslana loosens his vice grip on your hair to let it trail down your back, pushing you closer in time with his tongue parting your lips.
The hand that was on your hips comes up to hold your face — though, with its size, it has to settle on your throat instead.
The leg that was hoisted over his shoulder bends to squeeze around his back when his tongue pushes inside your mouth and licks at the cavern.
Tears prinkle the corners of your closed eyes as you choke, you’d caught a glimpse of it before, but the Flame Reaver's tongue is long, it takes up your whole mouth, rendering your feeble attempts at returning the kiss futile with one swoop — till stars burst behind your eyeleads from the lack of air.
Your toes curl against his back when he presses you closer into the kiss with a squeeze around your throat, your cry is broken when he sinks his fang into your lip again.
When he finally, finally pulls away, silver bursts color your vision and your heartbeat hammers against your ears — you feel lightheaded in the best way.
“Hah…“ he wipes the string of drool with the back of his hand, you can hear the vague smirk in his words. “Sick of me already?”
At that, your vision clears and you pout, shaking your head. You tug him closer, a plea smoldering in your eyes.
It makes him croon.
Your world is hurled to the side as he pushes you down on the chaise again.
“You’re one greedy princess, aren't you?” your jump when he takes your exposed nipple in his mouth, coaxing a whimper out of you with a hard suck.
You press the heel of your palm against your mouth as he continues his torturous ministrations, his hands slide down your sides, pushing up the hem of your dress again to part your thighs.
His tongue wraps around the taut bud for a second, before letting go to pinch it with his fang instead. He controls your spasming body effortlessly, bringing your ankles to lock around his neck with ease.
His eye flickers up to the sight of your desperate attempts at muffling your whimpers and he lets go of your nipple with a displeased pop.
“What’s wrong? Don't you want your hero to hear how mine you are?” he taunts, pulling back the elastic of your panties and letting it snap back against your thigh — but he doesn't just stop there, and hooks the pointed nail of his forefinger under it when he pulls it again, the sound of tearing fabric defeats your ragged breaths.
He sits up slightly to drink in the sight of your debauched state, the glint in his eye shifts in a way that makes you feel as though he's patting himself in the back for reducing you to a quivering, needy mess.
“Well,” he smoothes over your right leg with one hand, the metal of his talons creating shivers on the skin. “It doesn't really matter to me either way. Because…”
He turns his head to press a kiss on the ankle hooked over his shoulder and before your could blink the next one — he dives in.
You're certain your soul had left your body there, only to be pulled right back by the Flame Reaver's death-grip.
Your hand offers no support in stopping the cry that's pulled out of you. First, he scares you halfway to death by swooping down like a vulture ; next, he parts your petals with his tongue with a slow lick, coming full circle by plunging it deep inside you the next second.
Now, you realize that he was holding back in the kiss. His tongue alone reaches crevices inside you that you weren't even aware of, his teeth brush against your clit sporadically with every harsh suck and twist.
Your body rebels against the assault by instinct (even as your mind craves it), but Khaslana keeps you close and obedient to take his starving mouth by holding your hips, his nails create bloody scratches on the sides of your thighs with every thrash and pull.
He's done this before, the realization passes by your your dazed mind between gasps and moans.
Though you're not allowed the leeway to ponder on it as the building pressure in your lower belly abruptly snaps, making your back arch from the force of the orgasm.
You blearily consider reaching for Khaslana's shoulders to anchor yourself as waves after waves are drawn out of you, but you can't even reach that far, forcing you to fist your hands against the chaise’s surface.
The Flame Reaver doesn't pause for a millisecond of reprieve — no, no, he feasts on the necter of your release, like this is what he's been starving himself of for all of his life.
The sounds are obscene, both of his sucks and of your tearful moans.
But you can hardly bring yourself to care about anything as the pain subsides and invites that pleasant cotton-like haze in your mind, smoothens your taut muscles until they grow numb.
Khaslana rubs his cheek against your inner thigh, rubbing circles on the other to bring you back. His breaths only send jolts through your oversensitive core.
He peeks from between your parted legs, tracing the rise and fall of your chest, your bruised and red lips and the absolutely blissed out blankness in your eyes.
“Beautiful.“ he says, though it sounds vague through the ringing in your ears.
The kind thing to do would be to stop his worship at this juncture, let you adjust to having his most intimate servitude slowly.
But Khaslana is nowhere near being done with you today.
It takes your ecstasy induced mind a while to register the fact that you're being moved around.
You blink through your tear-smeared vision as your back presses against something cold — and then all at once, the distance between you and the floor crashes down on you.
You cling to Khaslana by instinct as he adjusts your legs to rest on his hips ; over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of your toes hovering a good five feet above the ground, the tattered hem of your dress brushing against the asphalt.
“Princess,” he snatches your attention by turning your head to him with a finger, you're taken aback — mesmerized by the tenderness and desire swirling in his eye and in the void.
“You’ve given yourself to me so sweetly.” your heart thumps at the praise, “So,” he presses his forehead against yours, “Won’t you let me give myself to you, in return?”
You don't understand why, your mind is far too intoxicated in him to even think of saying no, but somehow, for some reason, the corners of your eyes moisten — perhaps at the unexpected vulnerability he’s offered.
You nod, “Y-yes,” wrapping your arms around his shoulders, “All of you— I want all of you, Khaslana.”
Khaslana's eye flashes at your demand, “Last chance, princess— if you don't push me away here, I'll never, ever let you go, not even if Thanatos themself came to take you away.”
Your eyes widen, and then crinkle in delight, “Good.”
This time, Khaslana kisses you first and oh, does he not hold back in making sure all you can breathe is him, him and him.
Your fingers slide into his silvery hair, you squeeze your legs around his waist when he dips his tongue inside your mouth again.
Your head tilts back against the wall as he shifts one hand to support you by the buttocks. Amidst the muffled sounds of your mewls, a sharp zip pierces through.
Your brows furrow at the sound, but you're far too distracted by the way Khaslana nibbles on your bottom lip to care.
One of your hands falls to grip his cape, you try to adjust your leg when it spasms at the feeling of something big entering your core.
Your gasp is loud and Khaslana doesn't have the coordination to muffle it in any way this time.
Tears prick the corners of your eyes again as a flash of pain sizzles up your spine — your mind goes utterly blank as the feeling of intrusion burns against your walls.
“Tsk…” Khaslana keeps you in place by gripping your hips, “I thought the Shadows had loosened you eno— ugh…”
Your jaw slackens as he maneuvers you to push you down on the appendage, the veins of it pulsing against your insides, slowly, painfully, carving itself a home within the innermost part of you.
Khaslana gasps with you when he bottoms out, his claws draw marks all over your hips as he struggles to not throw his control out of the window and take you in brutal sweeps.
And then, a chuckle escapes him — snapping you out of the numbing jolts.
You see through your blurry vision as he laughs against your cheek, it is a free, happy thing ; like the confession of a man who's tasted heaven so intimately he cares little about being banished to hell.
In all honesty? You feel the same.
“[Name], [Name], [Name]…” he chants wildly against your ear, dragging his fangs down your throat.
“Kha..as…—!” you attempt to reciprocate, but your vocal chords don't cooperate.
“Shhh…” Khaslana reassures you, catching a stray tear on his tongue. “I know, I know. Breathe with me, princess. No need for words.”
You try to follow his instructions, but it's easier said than done when each thrust of his rattles your bones, the cold wall scrapes against your back and it feels as though he's created a crater for him to crawl into inside of you.
With each push, pull and drag against your insides, you find yourself being distanced farther and farther from everything that you used to be.
In fact, he moves and moulds your body body like he's trying to remake you to his liking, like he will make you forget whoever you once were.
Khaslana pulls back slightly to look at where you're joined together — your body works overtime and is stretched to its ultimate limits to accommodate him.
If he died right here, he thinks, he’d die a very, very happy man.
The violent jolts of euphoria in your mind halt for a moment when you feel your hand being lifted.
Through the veil of your blurry vision, you see, just as you feel the familiar coil nearing its end in your belly.
Khaslana presses your hand against his cheek, holding you upright to him by his other.
Then he tilts his face in your palm and takes your ring finger in his mouth, letting his teeth sink into the skin and sucking until a crescent like hot mark has bloomed on your finger.
And you know then, at that sting and string of bloody drool stretching as his lips detach, that you are exactly where you’ve always yearned to be at.
—
Dawn has broken out into the east when you awake, the chirping of birds keep you tethered, keep you from succumbing to the sleep once again.
When you roll to your sides, you're immediately jolted awake by the sharp flashes of pain that erupt from various parts of your body, making you gasp and then groan.
It takes a few more minutes for you to be able to open your eyes, the early morning light bleeds in from the corners of your vision, and at the center of it, is him.
Khaslana kneels by your bedside, arms folded beside your body. You don't know why, but you get the vague feeling that he’s spent all night in that position.
For a moment, you do nothing but stare at him — at his unmasked face.
Tenderness dusts the porcelain edges like the brushworks on a beloved painting, the burgeoning dawn makes his silver hair sparkle.
He reaches to take your smaller hand in his, his thumb traces circles on the faint swells on your wrist, before he leans down to press his lips against the mark on your ring finger.
You don't flinch, or recoil, rather, you relax in his hold and it makes his whole soul preen in victory.
You chose him, you chose the monster instead of the hero.
You’ve decided to stay with him instead of his brother, you’ve become his and you’ve accepted him in return — all with a smile.
And really, what better revenge than this?
… So, you’ve made it this far, huh? Have this badge 📛 of the Freaklings™️
The base of this fic is taken from a very old brainrot I shared when Flame Reaver was first leaked and the “twist” is taken from a Phantom of the Opera au I had in my drafts (featuring Phainon and Flame Reaver as well). But I kind of lost interest in that project, so, I decided to use it here instead 😔
This is very, very different from my usual works, I knowww. The objective of this fic was really only to dump all of my Flame Reaver thirsts in one place because oh my god, they were driving me CRAZY every ovulation season and I just really really needed to get them out somewhere once and for all.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you for reading<3 I’ll now go reconnect with nature 🗿
P. S. SOUSOURADA SUPREMACY 🔥
TAG: @naraven @yandere-romanticaa @mewn1verse @demigod-of-finality @mochinon-yah
© harmonysanreads | do not cross-post, translate, plagiarise, copy on a different platform or use my works to train ai.
