I BET ON LOSING DOGS | GETO SUGURU X READER & SASHISU X READER ♥︎
♡ CHAPTER ONE: i always want you when I'm finally fine
♡ SYNOPSIS: It's been a decade or so since you've last seen Suguru, when out of the blue, and when your other partners are away, he decides to visit you.
♡ A.N: This is, indeed, a repost so if it looks familiar, that's why! I decided I'd rather have a xreader-focused sideblog <3
AO3 ♡ M.LIST/TAGLIST ♡ NEXT
“I’m home,” you announce to an empty apartment as you slip off your boots and put on your slippers.
You flick the lights on, highlighting white walls and sparse furniture, and make your way towards the kitchen, to where your bar cart is. It is the only fully furnished thing you own, diligent to keep everything you could possibly want or need in stock. You don’t smoke anymore, not since the pact you swore with Shoko four years ago, but you’ve simply replaced one vice for another. At least you don’t pop pills or do lines anymore. Your suppliers went their different ways, one going rogue and murdering an entire village of non-sorcerers and the other throwing himself in missions and avoiding you like the plague after a bout of shared teenage angst that only two lovesick fools could share.
Quitting cold turkey had been an interesting experience, but Shoko had been there for you. She had seen you at your worst and had nursed you back to health a few times after some extremely idiotic decisions. She hadn’t judged you, even though you wished she had. She was so gentle with you in the aftermath of each attempt, forgiving you every time, and you hadn’t deserved it, so you swore to yourself that you’d stop being so foolish and had sworn to her that you’d do your best to take as long as you possibly could before joining the endless parade of corpses that eventually ended up in her morgue.
“Idiot,” Shoko had said, unbearably fond, before she whispered a quiet thank you into the crown of your head and laid a kiss there. You would break her heart one day, you’re sure of it. However, it’d only be because of a curse or curse-user and not by your own hand.
The next week after that, Satoru had slid up right next to you, wrapped his arm around your shoulders, and complained about his latest mission like nothing had changed since your school days and not like he hadn’t ignored you for an entire year.
To say that it had been a disastrous confrontation would be an understatement; an entire section of the mountains that hid the school had been blown to pieces, decimated by your bottled-up emotions and Satoru’s deflection. It took another year before the two of you could stand to be near each other and civil, and then one more until your friendship had repaired to a status similar enough to the one you both shared during your school years. It was different, of course, because there was a missing piece in your dynamic, a black hole that could never be filled, but that was fine.
You’re used to it now, a whole ten years after the fact.
How pathetic.
Going through your inventory, you deliberate on your choice for the night. A quiet night in dictates a few glasses of wine, but you’re feeling nostalgic tonight. You don’t go for something achingly sweet like something Satoru drank in his youth, or a whiskey cocktail like Shoko has stayed true to since her teen years, but rather you choose warmed kimoto sake. An interesting choice considering the warmth you’ve had to deal with during this month.
As you begin to heat it up, you think about your friends.
Shoko and Satoru are off in Kyoto for the Goodwill Event, and while you were invited to join them, it didn't feel right. You weren’t a part of the faculty and though you helped some of Satoru’s students a few times, it wasn’t enough to warrant a reason to come. Still, you would have liked to see the four of them in action, specifically Yuuta-kun. Kento hadn’t gone either, but then, he wouldn’t, seeing as he preferred to keep his personal and professional life as separate as possible. He’s stubborn, but you admire that about him. You’ll never admit it, but he is more brave than you’ll ever be, leaving so easily, even if he had returned in the end.
Sometimes, you wish you had turned your back on this society too. Only, you would have stayed gone.
Taking a sip from your now perfectly heated sake, you close your eyes and think of better times. Before you know it, the bottle is finished, and you decide it may be best to shower before forgetting to and getting into bed dirty. It was an entirely too humid day, and you’re still slick with sweat. You turn the lights and burner off. An alarm rings, but you swipe it away. Thirty minutes later, you’re slightly buzzed but clean, dressed in only an oversized band-tee that you’re certain you stole from one of your friends and a pair of panties. It’s a nice feeling, and you’ve had so few of those as of late since the approach of a certain ten year anniversary.
Maybe you should watch one of Tsumiki’s favorite dramas that you used to always indulge her in. No one else would catch her up on them, and it’s been a while since you visited her anyway. Now, you would have something to share with her that wasn’t anything curse related. If you were her, you’d hate hearing only of tragedy and misery. Surely, the main couple finally got their act together and became official.
Some more sake sounds like a better idea though. However, as you move further into your apartment, you realize there is a second presence with you, no longer hidden. You flick the lights on, and there on your couch is a splash of color in your otherwise dreary residence.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Suguru is just about the same as he was all those years ago. Only now, he’s grown into his looks. He’s no longer so awkward in his body, apparent in the way he sprawls so confidently in his monk attire as he stares up at you with that familiar fox-like smile. His hair is so much longer now, free from the bun he used to prefer. His gauges have grown in size. He’s wearing Satoru’s house slippers. It’s odd to reconcile the image you have of him in your mind with the man he now is. Your only thought as you take in all of him is that he’s grown up without you and has become a stranger when once he used to be your everything.
You blink, unable or perhaps unwilling to believe what you’re seeing, yet the vision of the man in front of you doesn’t change. It seems unlikely that after all this time, he would choose to visit you like this, so maybe this is just another dream. It’s been a while since the last one. Walking past him to light the burner once more, you wonder if you’ve had too much to drink even as you pour for a second cup.
As you make your way back to your living room, he’s still there, looking at you with that stupid smile still plastered on his face. You place your cup down first before handing him his own, his hands easily enveloping your own as you do.
He feels warm.
Real.
Oh.
Suguru is really here.
“Of course, I’m here. Did you believe otherwise?”
Ah, you spoke aloud. You may be more than slightly buzzed if you’re this bad already. You sit beside him, your thigh touching his own, and look him straight in the eye as you say, “I never know what to believe when it comes to you.”
His expression falters, and for a moment, he’s the boy you loved, before it’s paved over by that false congeniality you hate. He would have made it big as an actor if he hadn’t gone down the path of murderous cult leader, or maybe a politician. Those are certainly more likely to betray you than an actor would. Then again, that profession isn’t too far from a cult leader in all actuality.
He takes a sip from his cup, surprise and delight flitting over his features the moment it reaches his tongue. It feels good to break his facade because he’s already breaking all the walls you’ve built around your heart by simply being beside you like this; some reciprocity would be nice. You wonder how long it’s been since he’s had this particular drink and brand. It was his favorite once upon time, and you figured that if he threw just about everything else out from his previous life, he must have done the same to this too. It’s nice to know you still know the core of him even if you don’t know the exact happenings of his life.
“How have you been? You and Satoru have made up now, yes?”
Of course, he would bring that up. It doesn’t surprise you that he does, though. For a while, your fight with Satoru had been all anyone could talk about. A destructive fight between the last two loyal Special Grades shortly after the third went rogue? It was a scandal that didn’t abate until you and Satoru finally made up, until you’d shown up with him draped all over you, looking very obviously freshly-fucked, at a council meeting.
However, Suguru very well knows that you and Satoru had long made up. You may be foolish but you’re not an idiot. Not anymore. It’s not hard to determine where your not-quite boyfriend goes once a month like clockwork and why he comes back to you tasting of smoke and misery. Once, very early on, he had asked if you wanted to join him, and you had simply given him a scathing look before leaving his apartment to go to Shoko’s. He never asked again, but you knew that the offer was always open.
Confronting you like this, in your apartment and with no one near, Suguru leaves you no choice but to face him. Maybe he got tired of waiting for you to come to him. For once, you're not the desperate one. It’s a nice change of pace. Yet, there's always the possibility that he’s here to kill you.
If you’re going to die like this, so be it, but you’d like another drink before you go. A civil conversation would be nice too. You find that you’ve missed him dearly, ready to fall back into old habits with an old friend. Shoko will be disappointed in you for not putting up a fight, but if you hadn’t had the strength to do it while you helped him with the twins, you definitely couldn’t do it now. Satoru will understand though. You only hope he’s kind; you’ve had enough of his cruelty.
“Yes. We’re doing well now. As for myself, I’m the same as always. I don’t get up to much these days.” You pause to take a sip to wet your dry mouth. “Oh, I’m almost done with my teaching certificate, but don’t tell Satoru. He’ll be a nuisance if he finds out through you. I plan on joining him at Jujutsu Tech next year.”
Satoru hadn’t been wrong when he said you’d enjoy it. It’s fulfilling in a way that exorcising curses isn’t, and though you’ve always supported him in his endeavor to allow the children of your society to hold onto their youth for as long as possible, it’s different when you’re the one cultivating said youth.
“Oho, is that so? I’m happy for you,” Suguru says, and the thing is, he really does sound genuine. “Of the two of you, I always thought you’d be the one to teach there. You were always so diligent with our kouhai, Haibara-kun specifically.”
Hearing him speak so blatantly about Yuu-kun sends a stab straight through your heart. He had been a good boy, an average sorcerer at the time, but there had been potential for him to grow into a First Grade had he lived. You remember sitting beside his corpse, debating whether you should kill the window who miscalculated the curse’s grade and the elder who let it accumulate power for years before it became a so-called problem and reported it.
It had been Suguru who had convinced you otherwise. Hypocritical of him, considering he went on a murder spree not too long after for the sake of two little girls and his own twisted philosophy.
You had changed after that, even more after the short time you helped Suguru settle with Nanako-chan and Mimiko-chan before essentially being turned away from his new home and the bender you and Satoru went on. After that, you fell into a depressive episode so severe that it almost killed you. Only Shoko knows the extent of how close you were to giving up completely, and it will stay like that. During that time, Satoru had stayed far away from you, Suguru had been busy with handling his newly seized cult and raising the twins, Kento had pulled away from everyone, and Yuu-kun was dead.
You had lost your spark, unwilling to become attached to anyone else who could break your heart so thoroughly. Teaching, which had always been your secret passion, had lost all its luster after everything that took place during that nebulous time period, but children have a way of sneaking into your heart, regardless of any desire to avoid them. It had been Megumi first, the little boy who shadowed Satoru during a few of his easier missions, and later, Tsumiki, his non-sorcerer step-sister who admired your grace and poise when dealing with someone as troublesome as Satoru. Then, it had been sweet Yuuta-kun, who you had personally vouched for after Satoru brought you to meet him for the first time. Now, it was the rest of his classmates who have managed to worm their way right alongside the others.
You can’t say you’re fully healed from the heartache of your teenage years, yet you’d like to believe you can move past it enough to live the way you want and have been too cowardly to allow.
“It simply wasn’t in my cards, not until recently. It’s been nice to help the first years with Satoru, and I want a more active role in their education. Enough about me, though. How have you and the girls been?”
He’s been watching you with rapt eyes, and you wonder what it is he sees, what you’re giving away to him. He was always the best at reading you, but now that particular gift belongs to Shoko, who knows every dirty little secret that your lovers don’t… lover and ex-lover.
“The girls still ask about you, their beloved onee-sama, but they’re well without you. Speaking of which, I never managed to break them from the habit of calling me Getou-sama. They’re stubborn like that, but I like that shared facet of their personalities. Just the other day, they convinced me to abandon a meeting to go to the opening of a highly anticipated bakery. Perhaps I’ve spoiled them too much,” Suguru muses, taking a sip, and you, unconsciously, mirror the movement. He looks back up into your eyes, tilting his head as he asks, “As for myself, do you really want to know?”
Do you really want to know?
Do you really wish to hear of the people he slaughtered to further his inane goal? To hear about his new family, the cult he’s grown for himself? To hear just how far his insanity has spread?
Not particularly.
You shake your head, and instead, you ask, “Is this how it goes with Satoru each time he goes to you? Talking about nothing but the children before falling into each other?”
Suguru barks a laugh, like you’ve told a particularly funny joke, and you jolt at the sound of it. He sounds the same, and it’s breaking your heart. He sets his cup on the table, his hand warm on your cheek as he cradles your face tenderly. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend you’re two teens falling in love for the first time. Your eyes stay open, mapping the constellation of dying stars found in his own.
“Always straight to the point with you, huh? I always liked that about you, you know?”
You nod. He had told you as such one time, and you remember everything from back then in startling crystal clear vision. His other hand takes your cup and places it beside his own. It’s a couple’s set, once belonging to your parents. No one else has used it alongside you because your friends would never drink sake if given the choice, none but Suguru.
“And you’ve always danced around it. Why are you here, Suguru?”
He closes his eyes then, perhaps relishing the sound of his name falling from your lips. Your voice almost broke when saying it, unused to saying it when once it was all that could escape you.
“I’ve missed you. Isn’t that enough of a reason?” He leans his forehead against your own, his breath intermingling with your own. Every one of your senses are filled with him. It’s a heady combination, the proximity, the intimacy, the familiar musk of decay with an added hint of incense, and it makes you dizzy with desire.
“You’ve had all this time to visit me. Why now?” You couldn’t sound more pathetic if you tried, but Suguru was the one to break ten years of contact. Surely, that must make him worse than you.
You know where this is heading, and it’s a bad idea, but you’ll just blame it all on Suguru. He’s the one who came to you, not the other way around. It’d be rude to turn him away, although you’d be well within your right to do so after what he did last time, but you can’t. He is your biggest weak spot, besides Shoko, and everyone knows it, Suguru most of all.
As if knowing he was losing you, he smiles at you, eyes open, with all of his teeth showing. It’s a distracting sight.
He finally answers, “I was feeling nostalgic.” He must deem that enough of an answer because he breaches the small gap between you and kisses you. You melt into him, allowing him to push you down on the couch as his thighs box you in beneath him. The secondhand taste of him you get from Satoru doesn’t compare to the real thing, and neither do your dreams or memories.
“You must be too, if you’re wearing this old thing,” he says as he takes your shirt off—and oh, it’s one that used to belong to him. He had left everything behind when he defected, and during your worst nights, you wanted something of his, so you snuck into his old dorm room and stole a few items of his clothing. His scent hadn’t lingered for long, but you kept everything you stole anyway.
Pushing past the twinge of pain those times illicit, you begin to undress him too. It’s not enough to simply be this close to him. You need to be skin to skin, mouth to mouth, body to body, until you’re both so tangled up in one another that you become one.
Sometime during stripping him to his underwear and kissing him senseless, he had picked you up because the next thing you know, he’s thrown you on your bed. You imbibed too much, but by now, you’re certain he isn’t going to kill you tonight.
Not much, you think deliriously when Suguru pulls your panties down, his nose digging into your clit as he licks a stripe up your folds, but he’ll give me plenty of little deaths. Satoru would have liked that joke since he’s the one who told you about that term originally, too bad he’s not here to appreciate it. You’ll just have to save it for later.
You don’t attempt to keep quiet, couldn’t even if you tried, because you know Suguru likes his partners noisy and filthy. He’s as talented with his tongue as he was when you last saw him, more even, and you don’t want to think about why that is. Like this, you can stay in your favorite fantasy, where he stayed yours and Satoru’s and Shoko’s.
Pleasure swells in your belly, slick pooling between your thighs and right into Suguru’s eager mouth. He’s only playing with you, staying away from your clit as he laps up your arousal. Teases you until you’re molten beneath him. His tongue slides inside of you, and your back arches into his mouth.
“You taste the way I remember,” he remarks, his breath tickling your clit. You thread your fingers into his hair, forcing him to look into your eyes. His face shines with your slick in the low light, and his eyes are dark as he stares back at you, the black of his pupils eclipsing his pretty irises.
“Suguru, please. I need more.” A moan slips from you unbidden when he slips two thick fingers inside of your aching hole. He curls them upwards, massaging that soft spot that makes the coil in your belly snap and makes you tremble as your orgasm crashes over you. You’re not there yet, but you will be soon with the way Suguru decides to stop toying with you.
His tongue swirls around your clit before he takes it into his mouth and sucks.
Suguru’s already prepared for the way your hips buck. His grip is bruising as he forces your thrashing body further down onto your bedding, He hasn’t let up with his fingers, and he seems content to keep your clit warm and wet in his mouth.
It’s too much at once, especially since it’s Suguru bringing you to the edge like this. He’s nothing like your other lovers, and you’ve missed this. You’ve missed him. He adds a third finger, and the stretch stings pleasantly. He continues his assault on your clit, alternating between sucking it and using his tongue to play with it.
Tears prick your eyes, and you fist his hair tightly in your palms, pushing his face deeper into your cunt. You’re so close, yet you want him to stop because working you from the inside and out is enough to cause your mind to want to stop working.
“Suguru, Suguru, Suguru,” you whine, a litany solely for him on your tongue. He hums happily against you, and it’s enough to cause your body to still for a moment. “Suguru, I’m gonna—gonna cum,” you begin to warn him before you shudder all over, thighs trembling, vision narrowing, and cunt spasming around Suguru’s fingers.
He continues to fuck you with his fingers, but his mouth finally leaves your poor, abused clit as he maneuvers himself between your thighs and move your legs to wrap around his midsection. Only now are you aware of the raging hard-on he’s sporting. He leans down to kiss your lips, sharing the taste of your slick with you and breathing your name and sweet nothings into your skin once he’s had his fill of your needy kisses and left enough marks that there won't be a mistake of just exactly who left them there.
Reclining back up, he looks down at your debauched body. His mouth quirks up into a mean grin that makes your cunt flutter around his fingers. “There’s nothing but thoughts of me in that silly little brain of yours, hm?”
“Uh huh. Just Suguru.” He’s the only thing that matters, all you’ve longed for since he kicked you to the curb. It’s actually pathetic how much he still affects you, how much you continue to let him affect you like this. You’ll get over him one day, but one day isn’t tonight. You aren’t like Satoru, willing to debase yourself on a monthly basis. There’s only so much self-harm you can engage in before spiraling nowadays.
If you’re being honest, it’d probably kill you to leave Suguru or be left behind by him so often. Satoru is regarded as the Strongest for a reason while you, decidedly, aren’t.
“So good. That’s how it should always be,” he croons, and you can’t help but preen at the compliment. You deserve a reward for being so good. You tell Suguru as such and he laughs, agreeing, and asks what it is you want.
“Inside,” you answer immediately. “I want you inside me.” You feel like that statement is missing something, so you tack on a please at the end of the sentence.
“Anything for you,” he murmurs, like a liar. You let him get away with it, just like you do with everything else.
He strokes himself a few times, smearing your slick along his length, and slaps the tip of it against your sensitive clit before lazily rutting against your folds. He’s thicker than you remember, thicker than Satoru and most of Shoko’s slim fingers combined. You will strain to take him in, but what’s pleasure without a little pain.
When he finally enters you, your name falls from his lips weakly, mirroring the way you gasp his own as the head of his cock slips in. Your entire body goes taut at the intrusion, your nails digging into the hard planes of his back as he sinks deeper inside you, inch by inch. This time, you don’t stop the tears from falling from your eyes, your whining and his ragged breaths filling the room.
“You’re taking me so well,” Suguru sighs when he's halfway inside of you. “But it hurts, doesn’t it?” You nod weepily. “It’s a good thing I know you can take it.”
Without warning, he shoves the rest in with a single thrust. It burns; you’re stuffed to the brim with him, spine stiff with unexpected pain as your cunt pulses around him. Your chest heaves with each irregular inhale you take. He’s kind enough to give you a few moments to collect yourself before he begins to rock into you.
Somehow, he doesn’t sound winded, even as his thrusts become deeper and harder and your walls cling tighter around him, as he says, “It takes me back seeing you like this. Do you remember how we used to be? Before you got your act together with Shoko and I got mine with Satoru? We used to fuck, just like this, but you tried to keep quiet while I encouraged you to be loud so they could hear.”
Of course, you remember. It’s all you ever do. “You used to—fuck me in Satoru’s room and leave—behind the evidence or—or shamelessly finger me during our study sessions with— with Sho—ko.”
The headboard bangs against the wall rhythmically in time with the way Suguru slams his way inside you with each thrust of his hips, the bed creaking on beat.
“It was good while it lasted. Wasn’t it?” His voice breaks.
You unclench your eyes to look up at him with cloudy eyes. His own have the slightest sheen to them, so you cradle the back of his neck, fingers finding purchase in the long silky strands you used to braid every night as you bring his face near yours.
Bodies connected, breathing the same air, sharing the same space, reminiscing the same memories, this is as close as you’re ever going to get with him. It’s not enough. He’s going to leave again, and it’ll kill you.
All these little deaths you bring me, you wish to say, and still, I crave you. An addict through and through.
Instead, you tell him through tears, “It was the best.”
And it was—but you need to stop living in the past.
He makes it impossible to do that, though, and really, you’d have it no other way. You’re unsure what you’d do if he became a definitive thing to move past, rather than just pretending to. Death comes for everyone, but you hope it comes for you before it does for Suguru. Same for Satoru and Shoko.
In an ideal world, the four of you would live until you were all grey and wrinkly, but it’s not. You all will never again see eye to eye and live happily together, even the thing you have going on with Satoru and Shoko is shaky. Everything fell apart when Suguru fell apart, but the cracks in the relationship had started forming during the direct aftermath of the Star Plasma Vessel mission.
You kiss him before you say something stupid, something you’ll regret, something he’ll hold over you like he did the last time you saw him. It starts gentle, but he deepens it, threatening to swallow you whole like you’re just another curse for him to consume. To be with him forever sounds nice; you hope he curses you, so you’re with him always.
He lifts your legs to his shoulders, bending you in half, and his strokes lessen but are no less bruising. He reaches deeper inside you in this position, making a home for himself. If you can’t live within him, he can live within you, at least for this short amount of time.
Warmth curls in your belly when he starts kissing, sucking, and biting his way down your jaw to your neck to your decolletage to your chest, proof that he was really here. It’s not enough. You want something more permanent.
When your body goes taut again, Suguru coos mockingly, “There we go. You’re almost there. Come for me, You can do that for me, can’t you, sweetheart?”
It's the endearment that does you in, completely throwing you back to another time.
Your vision goes spotty, clenching around him tighter than before and whimpering SuguruSuguruSuguru as he fills your every sense. You continue to clamp down on him even as his pace falters and he cries your name in your ear.
Body going slack, your legs fall back to wrap weakly around his waist as he slides home one last time before he cums inside you. It’s warm and wet, filling your insides up. He slumps against you, resting his head on your shoulder as you both catch your breath.
When he pulls out, a gush of cum and slick oozes out of you and onto your sheets. You’ll clean it in the morning. He pulls you into his arms, laying you on his chest; your heartbeats are one.
After a beat of silence, you tell him, “I—I missed you too. So much, Suguru.”
He presses his lips against your temple as he hums “I know.”
Your eyelids grow heavy as sleep threatens to consume you, but you keep them open, gazing up at the man you still love despite everything he’s done. He looks so handsome like this, in your bed and staring at you with adoration in his eyes. The only thing that could make this better is if Satoru were here. You would have joined them in their trysts if you knew it would have given you soft moments like this.
Softly, hesitantly, you make a single request. “Please stay,”
“Of course,” Suguru agrees.
You rest your head on his chest, fingers trailing over his x-marked scar. They’re so faint now, but you remember a time when they were fresh and gushing red with blood. His heart beats steadily in tune with yours, a familiar melody to lull you to sleep.
You’d like one untainted memory of him, but there’s something you’ve been thinking about since the moment you saw him. It’s been bothering you this whole time, and you need to know. You recognize the look of someone who knew death was in their future. Except, he seemed to accept that potential outcome wholeheartedly while you had only begrudgingly accepted it. This is where you differ. He’s willing to die to achieve his goals, but you wish to live to see yours though.
“You’re planning something stupid, aren’t you?”
He chuckles. “You know me so well.”
It may as well be a confession. You don’t want to say goodbye to him. Not ever, but you don’t ever get what you want.
Everything becomes hazy.
“Don’t cry. Everything will work out one way or another,” Suguru consoles you, and since he’s found his way home inside your ribcage, the knife slips easily into your heart. He kisses your lips softly, swallowing your quiet cries until they’ve all run out.
“S—Suguru,” you whisper, your voice suddenly failing you as it breaks on the name you’ve avoided saying for years. You clear your throat, making another request. “Kill me if you must, but leave those two out of it. Especially Shoko. She’s innocent.”
He looks so sad once you’ve said your peace. It’d be nice if you could read minds. Maybe if you could, you would have noticed he was lying about the deteriorating state of his mind in your third year. Maybe if you cracked his skull open and placed his brain beneath a microscope, all his secrets and thoughts would spill out. It’s a silly thought. You’re not a scientist or doctor like Shoko, after all.
“Why would I kill you? Or Shoko for that matter.” You notice how he deliberately leaves out Satoru. He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “I’m doing this for you, all of you. You deserve to live in a curse-free world where you don’t need to be strong. Wouldn’t it be nice to settle down without the fear that settles in your gut every time you think about starting a family?”
So cruel to mention your best kept secret, a future you will never have—can never allow yourself to have. So gentle it makes you want to curl up and die. Maybe you could take him with you, stop him before he attempts to pull off whatever plan he has brewing. Satoru always says that sorcerers die alone in the end, but you wouldn’t be alone. Not when Suguru is right here, and all you’d have to do is drain him dry of his cursed energy and then life vitality. You would be kind, like how you hoped he would be in return. It would be romantic, in a way, to die side by side, arm in arm, body to body, together forever.
“It would,” you admit, “but it’s impossible, and you know it.”
He merely hums in response.
A stalemate, but he doesn’t leave you.
You’ll take it. You’ll take anything he gives you. Even if it’s heartbreak.
Sleep takes you in its cold embrace after a few minutes of silence, but before it does, you swear you hear Suguru say, “I was foolish to turn you away, but it was for the best. You’d have died a slow death with me.”
Not like it would have made a difference, you’ve been dying a slow death since the moment Yaga-sensei scouted you.
Such is the life of a sorcerer.
-
He’s gone by morning; you’d almost believe it was a dream.
There'd be no trace that he was even with you if it weren’t for the marks he left behind and the mess he made between your thighs.
You’re undoubtedly a fool for how easily you let him back in, but Suguru has always had a particular knack for making you pliant to his every whim. He managed to knock down every wall you’ve built up in the past decade in a single encounter.
Shoko is going to be so disappointed.
You wonder if Satoru feels this used after their hookups. You hope he’s always the one to leave first, so he doesn’t ever feel like this. It’s a terrible feeling that you wouldn’t wish on anybody, especially not on Satoru. He deserves good things even if he chases after what many consider to be the most twisted man in recent jujutsu history.
Entering your living room, you find one of the sake cups shattered on the ground. Another broken thing he’s left in his wake.
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 🗿
He's so quiet, but it's cute. He just stands there staring off into the blank distance as you're yapping away. He pays attention to every detail and just keeps nodding after every sentence, and for some reason, you're happy at this small gesture. So you keep going!
Soundwave is the eyes and ears of everything, so he's constantly listening to different conversations at once, while also keeping up with a one-sided conversation with you. He's got to admit, your guy's conversations are more "interesting."
He doesn't communicate much but when he does, trust that it's the cutest thing ever. He's interested in what you're doing? He'll cock his head to the side. He wants a hug? He'll nudge a tentacle onto you. Oh, he wants a smooch? I got you! He'll lean down and nudge his visor towards you. You said something he likes? A cute "💗" appears on his visor. If you're in another room, just know you'll probably get a random text of an emoji signaling what he wants.
He probably installed some dumb protection software onto your laptop and electronics to make sure nobody is hacking you or spying on you. It's one of his ways of showing you his love.
If you ever need something, don't worry about sighing about it multiple times.
"Sighhhhhhh, the new iphone looks so-"
Would you look at that! The new iPhone is on the table in front of you!
If a Decepticon walked in on you guys or discovered you, he wouldn't hesitate to defend you. He couldn't let anything happen to you. If Megatron threatens to squish you, trust that Soundwave will get you somewhere as far as possible and out of reach from him. He knows Megatron shouldn't be taken lightly. Soundwave will get you a personal device to communicate with him though!
He makes Laserbeak watch you when he can't. Laserbeak definitely grows to like you because Soundwave likes you! How cute! I love you Soundwave!
hii! (this is my 1st time doing this so idk how it goes-) but can i ask for anything with g1 soundwave? could be a lil kiss, a huggie, sitting on his hand/shoulder, or even chilling inside his cassette player. thanks and happy birthday again!
Ravage the best to cuddle with! But unfortunately that make’s frenzy and rumble jealous, luckily soundwave is there to calm things down
(Sorry this took so long thank u for the bday wishes!)
𐂅 — [TFP] Various! With A Carthetyia! S/O Who Had An Alternate Form Like Fleurdelys From Wuthering Waves.
— Reader: Carthetyia! Reader, GN.
— Warnings: A little few suggestive stuff that isn't obvious Nsfw! Reader is a Cybertronian that had a similar alternate form like Carthetyia! Reader, My bad at cybertronian anatomy 😭
#TAGS: Headcanons, Fluff, Romantic but can be interpreted as platonic, Potential OOC, Potential Subject would be changed in the future.
— Important Note: I had intentionally changed the original work into this because I've lost interest to Castorice so I rolled with this idea because it's more relatable to write, 😭 Due to the incomplete official canon of Carthetyia's backstory, I didn't put it all fully because the patch is still incomplete so I had to wait for more and cut the headcanons a little bit in half. (Special shoutout to my goat @soundwavesconjunx for giving me ideas 🙏)
— Megatron
— Finding out you have an alternate form? Oh, it'll definitely take a toll on him. Why didn’t you tell him earlier, right at the start of your relationship? And once he realizes how powerful you really are—expect some interesting changes.
— At first, he’s a little intimidated. What the frag do you mean you can slice the ocean with your blade? Potentially continents too?? AND SPACE? (Yes, Megatron. The ult had the longest range, and it aligns perfectly with the lore.)
— The more he processes it, the more it clicks. Yep—you’re the partner he deserves. He sees the resemblance: strong, commanding, powerful. Though… you might just be way taller than him, especially in your full chassis height.
— Suggestive part — Since you're potentially taller than him, he'll try to act like he isn’t constantly staring at your Fleurdelys form… but he absolutely is. You’ve definitely caught him more than once. He looks away and denies it every time.
— You wanna know why his optics don’t always sit straight? Because one’s tracking your movement, and the other is locked square on your chest like the down bad mech he is. 😭
— He would love to spar with you in your alternate form. A proper 1v1—Dark Star Saber versus your divine blade. (You both would have aura moments type shi) and going head-to-head until the match ends in a stalemate… until you activate all three Swords of Divinity. Then? He’s cooked. (But he’d enjoy it, not gonna lie.)
— Optimus Prime
— If you want to include where you like playing puppets the same way carthetyia does, He finds that adorable. He’d absolutely melt if you made a puppeteer version of him for your story scenarios. <3
— Even though your servos are larger and more structured than his, he loves holding them. He loved the feeling of holding yours when you let him, like pressing your palms together during quiet times whenever you are both alone, appreciating the different textures of your gloves that wielded your divine blade with might, Somehow, his gentle grip always finds a way to intertwine with yours.
— Intimate pressing helms together even though it may be awkward because of your horn so he goes a little under it and make it work by tilting his helm against yours so you can resonate with him, your tacet mark glows without any trouble and then closing your optics together as your resonance intertwined with his EM field, that is your language of "Forever." <3
— You two have definitely tried dancing before. At first, it was awkward—missteps here and there—but eventually, you both got the hang of it. Now it’s become a regular thing whenever you’re both free. Moments like these are considered dates in their own right.
— He’d absolutely want to learn more about you and your lore. Being isolated for 20 years before meeting him? That means you’ve got stories— a lot of them. He’d sit and listen without complaint, always attentive. Your world fascinates him, especially its cultural diversity. Rinascita, your homeland, would capture his interest the most—particularly the 'Echoes' that surround Whisperin Haven. :D
— Starscream
— Oh, this backstabbing little slabber. At first, he just thought you were small... until you proved him completely wrong. 💀
— He was definitely intimidated at first—but slowly, it started to turn him on.
— Like Megatron, he stares. A lot. Especially if you’re towering over him in your alternate form. He tries not to stare down your chassis, but you always catch him doing it.
— He’ll never admit it, but he likes it when you hold him like that. It bruises his pride, sure—but he never resists. Let him rest his helm against your chest when he’s tired; he won’t say it, but that’s his safe place.
— He can somehow relate to your appearance in terms of your horn, in which you sometimes would bump it into his red one as a gentle nudge during times whenever you both tease each other.
— He’d lose his shit when he finds out you can walk on water. But even with all that shock, he never looks away. And when you try to dance? He’ll act like he’s going to laugh—but secretly, he finds it endearing as hell.
— Soundwave
— Soundwave had your frame recorded in 100x detail the first time you transformed. You may not have noticed, but he absolutely stored that footage in his processor. He won't admit it, but he is interested in every detail of your framework and how it functions.
— Same goes for holding servos—except with his datacables. They wrap gently around your wrist and pull you just a little closer. Just enough for him to feel the texture of your hold, syncing with your energy through physical touch.
— Laserbeak? Obsessed with your thorned crown. It's basically his favorite nesting spot now. Wherever you go, he’s chilling up there. You’re basically wearing a living hat.
— He’s relentlessly protective. Even though you can handle yourself, he needs to make sure you're safe. That means monitoring you when you're outside—or discreetly sending Laserbeak to keep an eye from above.
— He's fiercely defensive of your space and your image. If someone insults you—or questions your divinity—expect that person (or bot) to mysteriously disappear the next day. (Starscream is sweating oil by now.)
— Much like Optimus, Soundwave would quietly research your origins—if you permit him. He’s deeply curious about how you came to be the "Blessed Maiden," and your ties to the Imperator and the Leviathan. This is his way of loving: silent, observant, devoted. He stores it all in his private database—never sharing a single detail. Your story belongs to him and him alone.
— And you can't tell me that Optimus, Megatron, Soundwave, would definitely carry you like this if you are Fleurdelys! Reader lmao
AHHHH I LOVE UR YANDERE TRANSFORMERS ART ITS SOOO YUMMYYY could i plz ask for soundwave but tfp soundwave? I love him dearly.... 🩷🩷 AHHH IF REQUESTS ARENT OPEN YOU CAN IGNORE THIS u probably get tons of requests anyways ^^; (IF THIS HAS ALREADY BEEN DONE FORGET THIS 😭)
Hii anon!! Sure, no dialogue for this one to fit in with his character lol. Because of his quiet nature, one moment you can watch him staring almost motionless at the screen while his digits steadily move across the keyboard.. maybe you became sleepy due to the boredom and next thing you know when you open your eyes, his blank faceplate is staring at you now. And in a very close distance.. hm i don't think he'd emote with his face either most of the time, only times like when he's feeling particulary very infatuated. He will get touchy with his tendrils, petting your head and just prod you gently to feel you </3 he's just so immersed.
(Psspsppsps i have a ko-fi now!! Nothing too important but might mention it here ( ˶°ᗜ°))
"you can have my heart if you have the stomach to take it."
᯽ flame reaver x finality! reader
᯽ or: in one desperate bid to keep you alive, khaslana does the unthinkable.
᯽ Tags: Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Cannibalism, it as a metaphor for eternal love, khaslana is acting a little delusional, shshsh he's mourning and in love and losing his mental function, MDNI, please mind the cannibalism tag hearts are literally being eaten
I know the White Day art just dropped but @meltedcoco and @elysiumae reminded me of the classic 'cannibalism as a metaphor of love' idea and well. Here we are!! Also tagging @gingerbreadmonsters because you are the original cannibalism love in my heart.
Please mind the tags and do not read if you are sensitive to this and/or a minor.
To love is a fickle thing. To lose is devastating.
Khaslana – with his mind too far gone – held your dying body in his arms. It was another cycle where he failed once again, another iteration of this loop where nothing changed.
The Black Tide (or Destruction if Lygus was to believe) infected your body, your skin cracked and orange light bleeding through. Despite how many times he had seen this scene, it hurt his heart all the same to see you like this. Once so full of life and fire, now dulled by a curse that wasn't yours to bear. One day, he would be strong enough to take this burden away from you. Today is not that day.
Out of sentimentality, or maybe it was guilt, he took his mask off. Khaslana wanted to make sure that he didn't miss a single detail of your face, already feeling the memory degradation because of the coreflames inside of him. It was a shame, they gave him as much power as they were killing him.
Maybe that's what he deserved. To die and be forgotten and have someone else take the Deliverer title from him.
In your scuffle, your clothes were ripped, exposing parts of your body that he once showered in love. His eyes continue to mourn the virus forcibly implanted into you, until he notices something peculiar.
The Destruction hadn't reached your heart yet, but it was getting close.
There was something left untouched it seemed like, and it was your source of strength. Your heart so full of love that it helped you persevere through the darkest night. The coreflames inside him burned inside of him, an idea sprouting in his head. He wondered if maybe he could have some of that strength for himself…
Khaslana's claws brushed over your chest, where your still heart lay. He felt dirty– a monster for even thinking about doing this. But he remembered something that you once told him, many cycles ago.
"Sweet boy, you're free to use any part of me if it means that you won't give up in this long fight."
(Were those even his memories? So many cycles and iterations of him have lived drastically different lives that he couldn't discern what was his and what wasn't. It didn't help that your memories were spilling into his as well, the more time he spent within the memoria of this world. Perhaps he was just looking for some flimsy excuse to act on his darker thoughts, mind looking for some justification to truly become the monster he knew she should be.)
In theory, if he absorbed your heart the way that he absorbed the coreflames, maybe that would help him keep his sanity for a little while longer.
Khaslana dug his golden claws in your chest, as gently as he would. He tried to make this moment of sacrilege go as quickly as possible. He knew that you couldn't feel plain anymore, but that didn't stop him from wanting to make sure you weren't in pain.
His hands wrapped around your heart and pulled it out in all of its bloody glory. Your golden ichor dripped from his hands and over his arms. He held up the still organ to his lips, tongue gently flicking to lap up the blood that fell. It was sweet and comforting, exactly what your love felt to him.
Khaslana took a deep breath and said a prayer, before digging his teeth into your heart. He chewed on it for a little while, getting used to the odd texture of it. But it was delightful he realized, before devouring it all like a man starved. In some ways he was, desperate to keep your love alive, even if it was inside him.
He swallowed the last remaining bits of your love, feeling your strength wash over him. For a minute, the unbearable weight and burn of the coreflames inside of him felt lighter and cooler. It was exhilarating, like he could reach beyond the false sky of Amphoreus and take on the God that sent him on this long road.
With a kiss to your forehead, he carried your body to your shared home. Or at least it was in the first cycle. Khaslana laid you in bed, pulling the blanket over your mutilated body. If he squinted and listened to his delusions, maybe he could imagine you sleeping in bed.
"I will come back for you, Starlight," his raspy voice spoke up, leaving the house and ready to prevent the prophecy being fulfilled again.
You had once claimed that your love was too much, that no one would be able to handle the solar flares that you give off. But he would– he can. He will prove to you that he was worthy of carrying your weight, even if that meant carrying you in a more physical sense than he thought.
Being trapped between two big men with nowhere to get out... Their strong arms caging around your form securely while their scarred hands roam around your trembling body.....
Silently watching you in amusement as you try and fail to wiggle out of their embrace...........
Ok ik this is definitely going to ruffle a few feathers but..I am so tired of seeing "MDNI" but your writing about a God DANM minor💀 even if you do age them them up it's weird as helllll.
how are you going to say Minor to don't interact or Minors imma block you and this and that but you repeatedly write about smuts with minors.
for example Miles is only 16 which isn't really far for 18 but it's still weird since everyone knows he a minor along with Gwen I've seen to much sexual stuff with them.
along with Seth from twilight he's only 14 YEARS OLD so if your on my block list that's mostly likely why😮💨
(Edited)Ik y'all like to tussle but Lo'ak ..and Neteyam💀Neteyam is only 15 and Lo'ak 14 yes from avatar
And a whole bunch of characters from jjk are also underage yet I still see smut of them
Hey! Out of pure curiosity does the reader in your self aware au has a particular mark that kinda identify them? When I mean by this is that they have this particular mark (tattoo with a strange symbol or something) that let's the other know they are the one or a particular scent or feeling? (Like maybe they feel this warm aura or a particular feeling they have when the reader is around, that kindalet's them know they are the good one)
In terms of appearance, Reader don't have any particular marks. They look like a normal ordinary human. When they become stronger and start using their powers, they will gain wings, flowing hair and glowing markings, but they will disappear at Reader's will.
The aura, on the other hand, are always here. It felt, like there is a field around them. Very warm, welcoming. Aura, that makes everyone think, that Reader are ready to listen and accept.
Because of the aura hilichurls, Antimatter Legion and ethereals soon will stop trying to attack Reader.
There are also a few small things. People (beings), who saw Tyrant and Aeon of Aeons before (Aeons, Shades, Nicole, Lord of the Night Kingdom, Carole Arna, Reader's mentors...) note, that Reader have small things in appearance that are similar to Tyrant's and Aeon of Aeon's. A similar tilt of the head, a similar position of fingers, when Reader rub their chin, a simular positions, when they are too tired of standing up. Reader don't really like to hear about it (Tyrant and Aeon of Aeons aren't the best beings to be related to or to be compared in any context). They just ignore that comments.
Hello! Could you please write Yandere TFP Soundwave with an autobot reader who had just recently arrived on Earth?
HELL YEA ANOTHER ONE- i mean…… thank you for the request!
Yandere TFP Soundwave who recently got to earth x reader
When he first got to earth, he was AMAZED by all the different flora and fauna growing on this planet
He was also amazed by how primitive human technology was!
He decided to use what the humans called “the interwebs” in order to figure out how the humans thought and worked
And on the “interwebs”, he met you
You were a very interesting little human, fun to chat with, great personality, and cute too
He made up a fake human name and an account on the line so that he could chat with you more easily, using photos he stole borrowed from some human lowlife (he’s a catfish fr fr)
What that name is, you might ask? It’s Sunny Consons
He made sure to learn every little thing about you, what you liked, where you worked, where you lived, the full names and background checks of everyone you know and love, blackmail, favourite colour, etc etc, he even learned some stuff from chatting with you on the interwebs!! :D
And after a while, you two started on the line dating
Eventually, you asked to meet up in real life, and reluctantly, he agreed, deciding that it was finally time to bring you back to the Nemisis, where you belonged
You two decided to meet in a forest that was shockingly close to your hometown
And made you promise one thing
Not to freak out
You were waiting for him in the area you two agreed on, he was running ten minutes late, and you were slowly starting to wonder if meeting him in the middle of a giant forest was the smartest idea
Suddenly, you saw what looked like an aircraft flying towards you, it looked like it was going on a crash course, and you were gonna be one of the things it hits
Before you could get off the rock you were sitting on to run out of the way, Soundwave de-transformed and landed safely on the ground, crouching down right in front of you so that he could be closer to your level
You were frozen in fear, too absolutely flabbergasted to scream
He leaned down and handed you… a bouquet of flowers? Now you were even more confused
You shakily took the flowers, not wanting to upset the giant alien robot who could crush you with ease (he would never ever hurt you, but you don’t need to know that)
A smiley face emoji appeared on his visor before he carefully picked you up with a tentacle, gently patting your head with another one
After you calmed down, he carefully put you into his hands before transforming and flying back to the Nemisis, he luckily already has everything you need set up
Now, it’s time to bring you back to where you belong, with him on the Nemisis
And who knows, maybe you’ll meet the other cons too AND DEFINITELY WON’T MAKE THEM YANDERE TOO
Summary: the decepticons start talking about who’s the hottest one, and agree that an alien could break the tie (aka reader) and without a hesitation they say soundwave, not knowing this guy can hear everything lol
Pt.1. Pt.2.
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It had been just a regular day on the nemesis. Cleaning Shockwaves and Knockouts tools, updating some data pads, reporting to Megatron, and hanging out with the minicons.
You started this routine since the day they brought you here.
Apparently Megatron had heard that the autobots had more moral thanks to the human habitants. Thus he decided to do the same.
And that’s basically how you ended up there.
Thankfully, you got along with a lot of decepticons, especially those in the higher ranks. Mainly since you were a great escape from gruesome responsibilities of the war. that’s why it’s not surprising that you’ve experienced many interesting conversations with your giant comrades.
Especially after explaining common human entertainment would often lead to a lot of chaos.
Like today, some cons had started discussing about human attraction standards.
They found it strange how inconsistent the standards were all over the world.
Yet somehow this conversation shifted into who was the most attractive decepticon.
It went from being a simple small conversation to a whole blow out debate. You hadn’t even realized how out of control the whole thing had gotten.
At some point knockout had joined claiming that he was the most eye captivating cybertronian even to the humans. But of course, the lanky drama queen known as Starscream was not letting him have all the glory.
All their squabbling was really starting to get on your nerves. Especially since all the commotion kept shaking the platform you were currently resting on.
And clearly you weren’t the only one annoyed with their antics, since Megatron decided to see what all the ruckus was about.
Though he clearly wasn’t expecting to have his second in command and the medic start stating the reasons why they were more attractive than the other, then forgetting he was even their in the first place and currently occupy themselves in a fully out cat fight.
He was honestly tired of this whole situation. The way it had escalated was too far out of control and he needed to end this at once.
Without hesitation he vented a bit before speaking to make sure to convey his anger.
“enough with this nonsense.”
Oh scarp, they forgot he was there.
“If you truly want to know who’s the most attractive, why don’t you just ask the human in question?”
Now all attention was on you.
Before you could even plan an escape Megatron was quick to reach his servers towards you. And Lifted you up to where everyone could see and hear you.
“So tell us, as the only human aboard our ship,” he pulls you closer, “who is the most attractive decepticon?”
Honestly it felt like he was taunting you. Maybe the whole thing was a trap. Did he want you to say his name, somebody else, or no one at all?
I mean, you clearly couldn’t choose any without causing a ruckus.
But before you could stop your mouth and think your answer through, your default brain was let loose.
“Well there’s only one correct answer to that,”
All of them quietly waiting in anticipation for your response.
“It’s obviously Soundwave, have you even seen the guy? He definitely the hottest.”
What?— the whole place blew up with different reactions.
Megatron was partially amused but also partially uncomfortable with your response towards his most loyal companion.
Knockout feels completely cheated off and starts claiming the whole thing was rigged. And you don’t even have to look at Starscream to hear his complaints and tantrum saying how soundwave doesn’t even have a sexy voice.
And at that you started defending why you had chosen your crush without letting on that he was your crush and still admiring all his qualities.
But unbeknownst to you, the calm alien was having a hard time keeping his composure.
He could hear everyone’s thoughts and emotions about the whole ordeal. And even though he couldn’t feel your emotions the same way with cybertronians.
Your emotions were very clear to him. Big enough for him to understand how you felt about him.
Honestly he was flattered at how he could feel you defending your choice and the whole things was starting to fluster him when you started praising his physique and voice.
Even his own cassettes were starting to wonder what was making their boss aka dad so stiff.
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