Aug 11, 2024
My brother or my enemy… tfa version
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My brother or my enemy… tfa version
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Of all places, Megat had chosen one of the mansion's decorative guest room to read. It wasn't a room meant much for anything beyond impressing visitors.
The room was one his parents insisted remain immaculate, every cushion must be in place, every surface cleared of any decorations or utensils, every corner untouched by dust. It wasn't meant for reading, but that's precisely why it was so peaceful.
Somewhere between flipping through one page and the next, he had fallen asleep in an awkward position.
(This took way too long because I couldn't decide what the fuck I was gonna do with the background, but I think a mural suits it nicely in the end) (╥﹏╥), ❤️❤️❤️
Hope it's OK and not too much of an eyesore)
i’m your man.
tag: @angstsumu @vamp-ish @kerhsfa @fallenkaplas @gempaksiakap @dmtky @yourpersonalstash @skycroquette @damattokeyo
parallelism of the kp and their bestfriend in phc + kkhc đźŽ
anak tunggal megat. thats the whole plot. thx
Megat was used to silence. It followed him like a shadow, trailing behind him through the long hallways of his house, settling in the corners of his room like an uninvited guest. He used to think of it as something natural, something that came with being the only child in a house far too big for three people.
He remembered, once, standing at the top of the stairs when he was nine, his small hands gripping the railing as he watched his parents leave for another work trip. His mother had kissed his forehead, pressing her lips against his skin, while his father ruffled his hair gently.
“Shah anak kuat, kan? Mama dan papa tinggalkan Shah sekejap for work. Tapi kamu tahu kan we love you so much?” his mother said, smiling as if it could erase the weight of her absence.
He nodded, not because he is strong, but because he knew that was what they wanted to hear.
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PHC/KKHC- Jealousy, Jealousy ❤️‍🩹
Do the KUDRAT guys get jealous?
Warnings: None, SFW
A/N: did i promise a fic? Maaaybe but look over here, ANOTHER IMAGINE *runs away*
REZA đź’™
- he doesnt really get jealous. Hes quite secure of his position in your life.
"Megat The Hornet"
//Megat's handsome tho ngl but his haircut pissed me off
Time passed.
Murad’s days filled with travel, speeches, and the kind of endless correspondence that blurred one obligation into the next. Whatever connection he’d started to build with Fakhri dissolved into the background hum of his life. Kudrat became a distant shore—until the news reached him.
First, in passing: a small tropical storm had swept through the academy grounds.
Then, in quick succession, from various sources—but never from his own family—came worse.
A coup d’état.
The fracture between Reza and Megat Shah, a rift wide enough to swallow the academy whole. Kahar’s name, unexpectedly, was in the mix—not as a casualty, but as the one who’d managed to topple both Megat and Reza from their high horses.
The words of his soulmate came back to him then, unbidden and heavy: Even a parent who has nurtured their children from the very beginning, giving them every ounce of care, cannot stop the world from ripping them from their roots.
Remember the fear. Remember the pain. Remember that you are powerless—that control is nothing but a mirage. Your sons, and your sons’ sons, will bleed.
Murad clenched his jaw. That truth still stood; no matter how fiercely he tried, he could not safeguard his brothers from themselves, nor from the knives of others. But that didn’t mean he had to stand idle while they tore each other apart.
He returned to Kudrat under a sky swollen with rain. The corridors felt too quiet, emptied of their usual thrum.
The sick bay door stood half-closed, a thin gap spilling a sliver of light into the hall. Murad approached, every step slow, silent. Through the narrow opening, he caught sight of Megat Shah, bent over a bed—over Reza, lying horizontal, battered.
Megat’s voice was low, his tone almost tender, murmuring a steady stream of soft nonsense, the sort of words meant to soothe a frightened child.
Murad’s hands curled into fists.
“Tarik warna kuning ikat tengkuk tali anjing,” Megat commented lightly, “Kucing lawan kucing hanya mahu satu loceng”
“Amende kau merepek ni, sial?” Reza muttered, his voice thinner, weaker, than Murad had ever heard it.
"Lah, nak dodoikan kau tidur pun salah." Megat’s hand brushes sweat-matted, blood-darkened hair from Reza’s forehead before he bends and presses a kiss just above his left eyebrow.
It isn’t simply that Murad shouldn’t be here to see this—no one should. Even without the laws of man and nature conspiring against it, the scene is too raw, too intimate for witnesses. Fresh kill isn’t served at the table while it’s still steaming. There is savagery here, as there is in all love that burns without restraint.
"Kejar kuasa sampai sanggup menunggu tahun," Reza croaks, "kejar nama sampai sanggupnya anak dihukum."
Murad stands utterly still in the doorway, eyes unblinking. It hits him that Reza and Megat speak in their own closed loop—a cryptid language, layered and elliptical—and he wonders why he never noticed this intimacy before.
The way Megat looks at Reza is unfiltered and consuming, like finding a dim light amidst glittering gold. And in the harsh flicker of the old fluorescent, Murad sees it: encircling Megat’s throat like a choker is a string of writing—Abdul Reza bin Abu Yamin.
He’s too far to make out whether Reza bears the same mark, but he doesn’t need to. The evidence is glaring; They’re soulmates.
Megat hasn’t even bothered to hide it with soulpatches, which is lunacy in its purest form. He and Reza are a red-hot inferno colliding with a raging typhoon—destructive, magnificent, and impossible to contain—so consumed by how good it feels that when it’s suddenly, viciously attacked, they’re caught completely off guard.
Reza shifts, trying to sit up, a grimace twisting his face.
“Kau baring je laa…” Megat’s tone is sharp, almost scolding, “apa degil sangat—dah kena bantai ni tak reti nak diam lak.”
“Kau punca aku kena bantai,” Reza rasps back, his breath hitching in pain.
Megat’s fingers tangle roughly in Reza’s hair, not quite pulling, not quite letting go. “Aku benci kau,” he says, with perfect sincerity and perfect dishonesty, voice thickened with the weight of tears. “Aku benci kau sebab paksa aku buat ni. Sebab kau pijak aku, pastu tak reti mintak maaf—tapi aku tak nak kau mati laa, gila.”
“Mu cayo cakap aku,” Reza slurs, drunk on pain and exhaustion, “takdo sampe tahap mati laa, hamla.” His head lolls slightly. “Shah… aku ade benda nak bagitau kau.”
Megat starts to protest, “Dah, tak payah—”
But Reza talks over him, and Murad—against all reason—is glad for it. Glad to know that no amount of love will ever stop Abdul Reza from trampling someone flat.
“Aku…” Reza’s hand lifts, slow and unsteady, fingers brushing the side of Megat’s face. “Aku minta maaf sebab cantas kau.”
“Aku tak terima maaf kau,” Megat says immediately, the words landing like a stone in still water.
Murad doesn’t know what sound he makes that draws Megat’s gaze—maybe it’s nothing, maybe Megat is only looking out of instinct, scanning for intruders.
But suddenly, Megat’s eyes are on him.
There’s blood on Megat’s face where Reza’s fingers had been.
They just look at each other, across the gap between them.
Reza should be the center, Murad thinks, the line between them—but he is not. He is on Megat’s side of the room. And maybe that’s right. Maybe that’s what Murad should have seen all along.