#alpha phainon

[manicsho]

i've always like your works! Since youre opening a request Can i perhaps request yandere phainon as a college friend x female reader, well he technically not that close to reader just know each other, they even attending different major, but he always kept himself close to reader which is make reader annoyed, somethings like welcoming himself to study with reader whenever reader try to study alone in library and it turns reader uncomfortable with his presence, the rest plot is up to you! ^_^

Tempest - pt. 1

College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Dark!Alpha!Pahinon x Beta!Reader

wordcount: ~5600

tws: MNDI, College!AU, a/b/o!AU, darkfic, yandere, obsessive/possessive behaviour, heat/rut cycles, overall psychological pressure, stalking, scenting, kidnapping, Phainon is kinda ooc here, he knocks you out with a hit on your head, so violence.

(If you find some more, please let me know.)

As usual, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!

NOT SUITED FOR MINORS. Not proofread. Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Not proofread. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes. Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.

Ethel Cain - Tempest

The Grove of Epiphany University, nestled within the sprawling, ancient architecture of Okhema City, was a whispered promise. Here, knowledge was currency, traded in hushed murmurs between students hungry for understanding and professors who stood as unwavering beacons, ready to illuminate the winding paths to greater discoveries.

You were one of the unique students.

To be a beta in this era was to be an anomaly. In a society dominated by the primal, often volatile, dynamics of alphas and omegas, your species was a fading echo, a rarity. You were a quiet island in a tumultuous sea of overwhelming scents and unspoken urges, untouched by the searing heats that plagued omegas and the brutal ruts that consumed alphas. 

This immunity was your quiet triumph, a shield against the relentless biological tides that dictated so many lives. And your scent, a faint whisper of black tea, was barely discernible to most. It was a quiet counterpoint to the vibrant, often cloying, aromas that saturated the university halls. You’ve been enjoying your quiet life, hanging out with your friends during breaks, and studying under the famous professors.

It was so peaceful.

Up until recently.

He appeared in Professor Anaxagoras’s advanced philosophy seminar, a course you’d taken out of a genuine interest in the elusive nature of truth. You chose your usual sanctuary: a seat near the back, a familiar spot that offered both a clear view of the lecture and a comfortable distance from the bustling symphony of scents that permeated the room. Your own sense of smell, while present, was mercifully weaker than that of alphas and omegas, a small blessing that allowed you to revel in the quiet calamity of your studies. You truly cherished your solace.

Then, a discordant note tore through that everlasting calm.

His scent hit you first, not as a mere intrusion but as a violent seizure of the air itself, tearing through the fragile harmony of the classroom. Bitter bergamot lashed like acid against your tongue, pepper stung sharp as ground glass in your throat, each note striking with deliberate cruelty. The undertone of something burning was a final, merciless blow to your guts. The sweetness that lingered before was obliterated, replaced by a suffocating fog that pressed down on your chest and filled every fragile breath. It clung to your skin, seeped into your clothes, buried itself in your hair, until you could no longer tell where you ended and it began. Heavy as lead, it smothered every thought, dulling your awareness even as it pried open your nerves, sharpening panic to a fever pitch.

This was Phainon. The enigmatic head of the student council, a figure of almost unnerving intelligence and composure. His reputation preceded him like a shimmering halo: brilliant, ambitious, a mind like a steel trap, capable of dissecting any argument with chilling precision. He was the university’s golden boy, practically a living legend. He was a brilliant student, all the tests marked with no less than A. He volunteered at every single event, his presence a magnet for admiration. He aced swimming, cutting through the water like a predator, and had single-handedly brought the coveted gold cup to the university, his triumphs celebrated with almost religious fervor.

So why did Phainon smell of destruction so strongly that even you, a beta, could sense it?

And this golden boy, this paragon of academic and athletic prowess, chose the seat directly beside you. The disgusting stench of his signature scent, that dry heaviness, clung to him like a second skin, a dark aura that pulsed with an unsettling energy, a subtle vibration in the air around him that made your teeth ache and your skin prickle. It was a scent that whispered of hidden depths, of something beautiful gone completely burned out.

So unfitting for someone like him.

By the end of the lecture, your head throbbed with a severe headache that felt like a dull ache behind your eyes. You could barely hold yourself from the urge to cover your nose with your hand, to somehow block out the suffocating stench that had permeated every breath you took. The air felt thick, and it was hard to breathe as if you were sitting in the very middle of a roaring fire. So as soon as Professor Anaxagoras’s voice finally echoed through the haze of your discomfort with a “Class dismissed,” you bolted out of the classroom and into the sanctuary of the nearest bathroom. The cold tiles were a permanent saviour, and you leaned against them, needing to catch your breath, to purge the cloying smoke from your lungs, to reclaim even a sliver of your own air.

But in your panicked hurry, you didn’t notice the way his nostrils flared.

Phainon inhaled you like a drowning man breaching water, chest shuddering with the force of it, his throat working in a slow, deliberate swallow. A tremor coursed down his frame, predatory and obscene, the kind of shiver a beast gives when it finally scents blood. In an instinct too raw, his pupils blew wide, then rolled back into milky whites, a grotesque flash of rapture that left him swaying with restrained hunger. His fingers clawed at the fabric of his perfectly ironed trousers, nails biting through the weave until the seams strained. The tendons in his hand stood out like cords, stark with the effort of holding himself together. His hips twitched in an involuntary motion, a rutting impulse he strangled into stillness by sheer force of will.

You smelled like home.

Throughout the rest of the semester, Phainon’s presence pressed against you like a damp weight you could never quite shake off. He did not speak to you in class, not even once, yet the scrape of his gaze found you all the same, sliding across your skin as though he meant to peel it back and see what lay underneath. In those moments, when the room grew heavy with the scent of roaring fire, you felt it – the awful certainty that you had been singled out, that you were no longer invisible, that something starving pursued.

However, the true terror lurked outside the lecture halls. What used to be yours – your quiet habits, your solitary refuges – became infested with ash scent. The library, once a sanctuary of dust and silence, soured under Phainon's intrusion. You would tuck yourself into a dim corner, paper and ink your only companions, when suddenly the faint bitterness of something aflame would bleed into your lungs. You never heard his approach, not even once. He simply appeared, folding himself into the chair beside you as if he belonged there, his books spread wide, his posture careful, his nearness deliberate. You could swear that every fiber of him strained toward you under the guise of the still water of his appearance.

What could he possibly want from a person like you?

Your stomach knotted tighter each time. You told yourself that he was studying. You told yourself that it was just a coincidence. But the air around the persistent alpha thrummed with a predator’s patience. It felt like a quiet hum that pinned you down no matter how deeply you tried to bury yourself in your pages.

You started noticing the fractures in his mask. The way his eyes, blue as a summer sky gone too wide, tracked not your face but the movements of your hand, lingering on the twitch of your wrist, on the pulsing veins under the skin. The faint flare of his nostrils whenever you shifted, however slightly, as if he could siphon the ghost of your scent from the very air. And it dawned on you, blooming like a bruise you could not press without wincing: he was smelling you.

Why me?

The question became a constant, echoing refrain in the hollow chambers of your mind, a silent plea against the rising tide of paranoia. You were truly unremarkable, content to blend into the background. You had no ambitions that shone like flares, no intoxicating pheromones that drove alphas insane, no omega softness that demanded protection or desire. Nothing that could possibly lure the attention of someone like Phainon

It wasn’t because of your beta nature, was it? Betas were rare, yes, but not that rare. You had seen them scattered through the university, at least eight of your own kind, ordinary and overlooked, blending into classrooms and lecture halls just like you.

So why?

You tried to hide. You changed your study spots daily, sought out new, obscure corners of the university’s sprawling grounds, and even resorted to studying in your cramped dorm room. But like a phantom limb, his presence would always find you. You’d step out of a lecture hall, and he’d be leaning against the wall, seemingly waiting for nobody in particular, yet his eyes, sharp and stormy, would lock onto yours, following your every movement with an unnerving precision that suggested he knew your exact schedule. 

You’d grab a quick meal at the campus cafeteria, and Phainon’d materialize at the same table, apart from his usual friend group of star students, his fork scraping against ceramic with an almost rhythmic precision, his gaze fixed on you like an invisible thread that pulled at your very soul.

And then, the ultimate violation, a detail that screamed of trespass: a faint, undeniable whisper of that cloying burning scent clinging to your dorm room. A phantom presence on the wood that was your shield against the world.

You cried yourself to sleep that night. Your dorm room, your last bastion of safety, your private world, was utterly violated, its boundaries dissolved. The thought was a venomous seed, growing with every shadow cast by the moonlight, every whisper of the wind against the glass, every creak of the flooring in the hallway. Your once-comforting room had become a stage for an unseen observer, a silent witness to your most private moments. You started checking the lock on your door multiple times before bed in a desperate ritual. You jammed a chair under the handle, a futile barricade against an invisible threat. These measures brought no true comfort, only a fleeting illusion of safety before the terror crept back in. You swore you could still smell him even in your sleep. Even when he wasn't physically there, the ghost of his sickening scent clung to your door, to your clothes, to your bed sheets, to your very bones. 

You scrubbed your skin until it bled. You washed your clothes almost every day. You changed sheets regularly. You opened the windows in the evening.

But nothing, nothing, could erase Phainon’s scent. 

The psychological toll was immense. Sleep became a fractured landscape of shadows and cloying dreams morphing into waking nightmares where his unnerving gaze pierced through the darkness. You were constantly on edge, your senses hyper-aware, perpetually scanning for the tell-tale sign of his approach, for the first whisper of that dreadful scent, for the subtle shift in the air that announced his presence.

The world, once a place of quiet comfort, had become a hostile entity.

So, in a frantic gesture, you decided to ask the principal, Director Aglaea, to transfer you, to shield you, to do something to protect you from Phainon. Her office breathed deeply with old dust and immense knowledge around you when you told her your fears. The golden light glistened beautifully on her hair, but you found no solace in this enchanting sight.

“I think you are overreacting,” was the thing Aglaea said with a breaking certainty when you stood before her, shaking, on the edge of crying.

“What?...” was the only thing that you managed to utter. 

“You know, Phainon speaks highly of you,” she continued with an unwavering gaze and a subtle note of surprise in her tone, “It's quite unusual, you know, for an alpha of his caliber to show such intense interest in a beta. Not common at all.” Her words rang out like a warning, a subtle reminder of your place, a veiled command not to upset the delicate balance of power. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage, desperate to escape, desperate to scream the truth.

But the words died in your throat when she continued:

“Still, it’s quite alright to be wanted by an alpha, isn’t it? Especially by one as influential as Phainon. He's been invaluable to the student council, truly. A remarkable young man...” Her gaze drifted over your shoulder, a clear dismissal as if you were a minor distraction, a fly to be swatted.

“Moreover, the relationships between betas and alphas are not unheard of. Rare, for sure, but possible,” the director ended her speech with a nod that felt more like a guillotine fall, severing any last thread of hope.

“Director Aglaea, I-” you finally found your voice, a desperate, thin thread, “-he... he smells like something burning. It’s sickening. I-I just can't-” You blurted it out, the secret a desperate weight on your tongue, praying for a flicker of understanding, a hint of concern.

Aglaea blinked, her thin smile faltering for a fraction of a second, a ripple in her carefully constructed composure. Her brow furrowed, not with sympathy, but with mild confusion, swiftly replaced by a dismissive wave of her hand, a gesture that swept away your hopes as if they were dust motes, insignificant and easily brushed aside. 

“Huh? Burning? My dear, that’s highly unlikely. Everyone, and I mean everyone, finds his aroma quite invigorating, very savoury. Bergamot and black pepper…” Her eyes, cold and assessing, swept over you.

“I think you should see Hyacine. She knows her ways around betas. Some sort of sensitivity deviation, perhaps. Something must be wrong with you.” The casual cruelty of her suggestion, the immediate invalidation of your horrifying reality, felt like a physical blow. 

Is something wrong…

Tears pricked your eyes.

…with me?

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend.” She finally dismissed you, her words a sterile validation of your torment, her focus entirely on Phainon’s brilliance, not your burgeoning fear. Aglaea’s indifference hurted like a fresh wound, a stark reminder of your insignificance in the grand scheme of the universe’s power dynamics, a chilling confirmation that no one would help you.

Only Anaxagoras, your professor, seemed to see the truth, the insidious cracks beneath Phainon’s gleaming facade. You caught his gaze across the quad one day, his crimson eye, usually so full of intellectual fire, now clouded with a weary sadness that bent his shoulders. He was a beta himself, and perhaps that allowed him a clearer vision of the insidious nature of Phainon’s desires. 

Anaxagoras had seen the darkness blooming in Phainon. 

But your professor was powerless, bound by unspoken rules, by the sheer force of alpha’s intellect and influence, by a system that protected its rising stars at any cost. Phainon, the golden boy, the intellectual prodigy, the future of the Grove of Epiphany, was untouchable. Anaxagoras merely offered a small, almost imperceptible nod after you exited Aglaea's office – a silent acknowledgment of your shared understanding, a quiet apology for his helplessness, before turning away.

You were alone in your own misery.

The library was quiet as usual, a cathedral of dust and paper, each footstep muted against the worn floors. You had claimed your usual corner, the nook between two overflowing shelves, a place where the dying evening sunlight barely reached and silence wrapped around you like a soft cloak. For once, you believed yourself unobserved.

Until the smell and liquid shattered that illusion.

You were halfway through highlighting a passage when a warm, sticky spill coated the back of your sweater. Pomegranate juice mixed with milk, a cloying pink against the pale fabric. You yelped, recoiling, and looked up only to see Phainon, hands frozen mid-motion, eyes wide in apology, looking like a soggy puppy caught in a mess he couldn’t comprehend.

“Shit! I- I’m so sorry!” His voice cracked slightly, uneven, “I didn’t mean- I tripped!” His words tumbled out, fast and clumsy, but there was something else beneath them, something you couldn’t place at first. His gaze lingered not on the sports bottle rolling on the floor, but on you who were peeling off the wet cloth from your figure.

“… It’s fine,” you muttered, voice brittle. 

“I promise, that wasn’t intentional! I stumbled! I'm so sorry! I- I wash it. You shouldn’t even- here, give it to me,” he said, reaching out with hands that were too insistent, the pressure of his grip a warning wrapped in civility. You hesitated, then handed him the sweater, shivering immediately as the thin fabric of your plain white tee did nothing to shield you from the chill of the library.

“Damn, you’re shivering!” he said,immediately tugging a bomber jacket from his own form. Phainon draped it over your shoulders before you could protest. The weight of it settled like a claim, his scent seeping through the fibers, a quiet declaration you could not avoid. It was thick, warm, and carried the faintest scent of him but you had no choice.

It almost made you gag.

“Th-thank you,” you muttered, your voice trembling, partly from cold, partly from the pressure of his musk on the fabric. His lips twitched in a satisfied smile, eyes darting to your face, then back to the bomber almost as if he were savoring the sight of it on you.

“I’ll wash your sweater and give it back next week,” he said with voice unnerving in its intensity. He folded your sweater into and put it into the backpack with painstaking care. But you’ve noticed how his fingers lingered longer than necessary, curling slightly around the fabric as though memorizing it.

You watched him, trapped by the weight of the bomber, shivering, wrapped in a warmth that was too much, too close, too deliberate. The library’s silence pressed against the edges of the scene, the sound of distant voices from the outside doing nothing to break the oppressive atmosphere that wrapped around the two of you.

“So um… Wanna grab a drink? As an apology.”

Phainon leaned closer, his disgusting scent now tinged with something more sweet, something truly foul, something that you could not identify yet, brushing against your face, a breath that felt like a curse.

“Oh, um… I’m sorry, I… need to go already,” you mumbled out a desperate excuse. You clutched his bomber, your knuckles white, willing him to simply walk away, to leave you to the silence you now craved.

“Oh, I see,” His smile didn’t falter, but something in his eyes darkened, a subtle shift that sent a fresh wave of dread through you. 

“Then let me escort you to your room at least!”

Phainon took a step closer, and the smokey scent intensified.

“The campus can be... unpredictable after dark. It would be irresponsible of me, as head of the student council, to allow you to walk home alone… and wet.”

His hand, warm and unsettling, briefly brushed your upper back. A fleeting touch that meant to be soothing felt like a lava on your skin. 

“I'm sorry but-”

“I insist.”

Your thoughts would race against each other: what could he possibly do when you two are on the student grounds? Even if he tries something, you should be safe, there are other people around. He already knows where you live anyway, what more can he achieve? Maybe you can persuade him to stay away? Maybe he’ll lose interest in you after this small walk-and-talk? Maybe there is a chance to fix it? Maybe you can talk it out? And you can give him his awfully smelly bomber back. 

…

Maybe there is something wrong with you.

And at the same very moment that thought hit, you nodded absentmindedly.

The walk to your dormitory was an agonizing descent into a deeper layer of your personal hell. Phainion walked beside you, close enough that his arm occasionally brushed yours, close enough that the cloying bitterness of something burnt out made your stomach churn. 

You wanted to ask him about his antics but he just spoke…

“Phainon, I wa-“

“Right now we are planning the student clubs fair!”

...about the university…

“Please, can we-“

“Being the president is cool, but a little bit tiring!”

…about the student council…

“I wanted to a-”

“Look at this statue! Oh how lucky we are to study in such a university!”

…about the beauty of the old architecture…

“...“

“Oh, and by the way, I got a gold medal from that one swimming competition!”

Your eyes watered with every failed attempt.

As you reached the familiar facade of your dormitory, the relief was a sharp sensation. You fumbled for your keycard with the trembling hands. Phainon stopped beside you, blocking the last sliver of fading light from the street lamps.

You opened the door.

Then, a sudden, brutal shove to your back. The sheer force of it sent you stumbling forward with a yelp, your worn sneakers scrabbling uselessly on the polished linoleum before your knees slammed against the cold floor. A searing pain erupted as skin broke against the unyielding surface, a sharp sting that momentarily eclipsed the terror. Your body seized in panic, every nerve screaming, when the heavy door behind you clicked shut with an ominous finality.

“You know,” Phainon murmured in low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very bones of the building, echoing in the hollow space of your chest, “It’s taking too long.”

Your breath hitched, caught in a suffocating knot in your throat. The implication was an undeniable truth that slammed into you with the force of a physical blow, rooting you to the spot, blood roaring in your ears.

“Honestly, I tried my best,” he continued, his voice barely audible, a secret shared between predator and prey, the ultimate confession delivered with chilling calm, “but you didn’t even tried to notice.”

With those words, you managed to twist your torso and sit on your ass amidst the growing puddle of your own terror, your blood screaming in your veins upon the sight in front of you.

Phainon stood there, shielding a door with his broad shoulders, perfectly still like some menacing monolith. A sick, toothy smile stretched his lips in an unnatural way, pulling them too wide, revealing too much, like a predator displaying its fangs. Alpha’s face was flushed, forehead slick with an unholy sheen, as if he had a fever, or was consumed by some internal inferno. His gaze was fixed on you, unblinking, pupils dilated, two black pools reflecting your stunned figure. He tugged at his own choker as if it were a noose, or a leash he was about to throw away. 

“And my rut is nearing.”

He stilled. The whole room seemed to breathe around you, inhaling and exhaling with the rhythm of your pounding heart, the dormitory room transforming into a claustrophobic cage. 

But then you made an irreversible mistake. Your body, screaming for escape, instinctively tried to scramble backward, dragging itself against the floor. 

That provoked him.

First, you saw Phainon move, his swift form bolting towards you in sudden shift too fast to follow in the dark of your room. Then, sharp pain of something hitting the side of your head. Then, a suffocating abyss that swallowed you whole, accompanied by the last agonizing whisper of something being burnt alive filled your lungs, your mouth, your very being.

There was nothing wrong with you.

Your weight was barely there in his arms, cuddled up to him like a precious gift. Your scent, that delicate whisper of black tea, was an intoxicating current, pulling him under every time. Phainon buried his face in your bloodied hair first, inhaling deeply, letting the calming aroma fill his lungs, settle in his bones. It was a stark contrast to the cloying smell that clung to his own skin, a scent only you seemed to truly register, a shared secret that thrilled him to the core.

Truth be told, Phainon was almost pathologically self-conscious of his own scent, as though every breath he exhaled condemned him. It clung to him like guilt, like memory, like past that never dispersed no matter how many windows he threw open.

Where other alphas carried the steady pulse of cedar, earth, or leather – anchors that drew others near – his was a suffocating noose of burnt charcoal and bitter ash. It was not an aura but a pyre, a funeral that refused to end. By the age of 16, he had learned to hide it with scent blockers, to disguise it in layers of bergamot and pepper. A masquerade of normalcy, though every drop only reminded him that he was unclean with tragedy.

Phainon remembered the first time they named him Alpha.

It happened after the flames, after the sky lit crimson over Aedes Elysia, after his home became nothing but a charred wound on the earth. His glands had bloomed open in that very fire, thick smoke in his throat, skin sticky with ash and soot, the stench of lives ending etched into him forever. His nature declared itself at the precise moment his world was annihilated. 

A cruel joke of biology – what use is dominance, when everything you might have protected lies in ashes?

Phainon lived like a pretender, masking his own scent, clawing at the smelly spots on his body like it was possible to tear them out along with the bitter past that tortured him countless nights. They pulsed and ached under all the scent-blocking balm that he applied every day, always painfully swollen, but never used properly. His rut became a shallow memory from when he just presented. It never happened again, not with the amount of hormonal pills that he was taking. Not with all the masking that he did.

Not until you happened.

The first time Phainon caught your scent in the hallway, his knees nearly buckled. It was not even strong – no commanding alpha flare, no omega sweetness. 

Just… you? 

This fragile, ordinary miracle – a simple exhale of black tea, soft herbs, wool warmed by skin. Familiar, ordinary, unbearably tender. It smelled like the sweaters you wore, like mornings unbroken by tragedy, like a kitchen light left on for someone expected home. It smelled like the future, his future, that had been denied him once, and perhaps would be again, if he did not cling fast enough.

His chest tightened, his eyes watered before he even understood why. His lungs burned with the need to drag you deeper inside, to memorize that fragile note that cut through the smoke choking him.

For the first time since the fire claimed everything, Phainon felt something stir beneath the wreckage.

You were a beta, he understood later. A rare kin, but utterly unremarkable in the brutal taxonomy of scent and dominance. And yet you smelled like salvation. Like the promise of a life that could have been. And he hated the way his heart leapt, the way it broke inside his ribcage with every inhale he managed to take near you. Because it wasn’t fair. Because you did not know what you carried. Because the more he breathed you in, the more the ruined parts of him stitched themselves to you, thread by trembling thread.

You were not just someone. You were a reprieve, a reprieve he could not, would not, let slip away.

In his desperation he began to dream that if he could only press you close enough, inject himself deep enough, perhaps your calamity might overwrite his ruin. Phainon craved to let his body be consumed by you, to be buried deep among the dark, curled tea leaves at the very bottom of the cup, gently dissolving into the soothing liquid, becoming irrevocably one with your essence.

“Ack-!”

He shivered as the flames licked his loins, a faintly familiar tremor intensified like a visceral hum beneath his skin. His rut was nearing and your scent, so close now, so accessible, was a potent accelerant, fanning the fire of his escalating desire. It provoked him, pushing him closer to the edge, to the glorious precipice of instinct. His canines ached with a phantom bite, an unfamiliar urge to share the future with someone.

Phainon needed to move, or else he would claim you right here, in your unprepared dorm room.

He shifted your weight slightly in his arms, securing his grip. His flat was close, a safe haven near the university, meticulously prepared for you to become one. Every soft blanket, every muted light, every food you enjoyed, curated not for himself, but for this very moment. 

Your door clicked shut behind him.

The transition from the sterile lobby to the dim twilight was seamless. His senses, already heightened by the approaching rut, flared. A solitary student, an omega who was heading to a late study session, glanced up, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of Phainon. But then, the boy’s gaze flicked to your form in alpha’s arms, quickly dismissing the unusual scene after a faint smile and a curt nod. 

He was Phainon, after all. 

He lulled you in his arms during the walk towards his flat, shushing your unconscious form like a great partner, frowning at the sight of blood in your hair. He knew that his method of collecting you was a little bit harsh. A touch unrefined. But how else was he to proceed? He simply didn’t know how to court you properly.

He’d tried to educate himself. He’d spent hours, days even, burrowing into the internet’s obscure corners, collecting dusty, forgotten books on the anatomy and social behaviors of betas. Phainon dissected scientific papers, searching for a tangible manual, a definitive guide to acquiring a beta. But none of it described anything he needed.

Like, seriously, was he supposed to just talk with you? Exchange pleasantries over lukewarm coffee? To just be around you? What about scenting, marking, claiming, utterly possessing?

He’d doubted that those advises would work, but he tried nevertheless. The book had been very clear: betas valued consistency, cherished shared time. Not flashy gestures, not the overwhelming dominance alphas were taught to flaunt, but presence.

So he gave you presence.

Phainon'd lingered nearby in the lecture hall, angled his body so you would catch him in your periphery, brushed past you in the corridors as if by accident. He sat across from you in the cafeteria, quiet and careful, certain you would recognize his patience as a gift.

But you didn’t. You ate faster, shoulders tight, head ducked as if retreat could save you. The sight made his chest ache with something between confusion and desperation. Perhaps, he thought, it was not you but him. Perhaps you simply weren’t accustomed to the strength of alpha pheromones. That would explain the tremors, the watery eyes, the way your breath caught as if the air itself betrayed you.

Another book insisted that familiarity softened resistance. Phainon decided you needed to become accustomed to his scent. He pressed his hands against the glands at his neck after long runs, when his pulse was strong and the musk heavy, then smeared it discreetly along the frame of your front door. It was meant to calm you, to prepare you. You were a beta, and betas were not as sensitive as others, so he reasoned you would need more. He thought you would sleep more peacefully surrounded by his protective musk, even if it smelled of ash.

But instead, Phainon heard you cry.

That first night he lay beneath your bed with his heart in his throat as the sound of your sobs pounded through him harder than any rut. You curled on top of the sheets in your street clothes, trembling like a small kitten in the rain. Every gasp, every hitch of your breath tore him apart, and yet he bit down on his lip until the iron taste of blood filled his mouth. He wanted to purr, to soothe, to let you know that your alpha was there, guarding you against everything else. But he stayed frozen in the shadows under your bed, hand clutching at his trousers as if that could hold him together, chest convulsing with the effort not to crawl out and wrap you in his arms.

What had gone wrong?

Phainon did not understand.

But it didn't matter anymore.

You were here. In his flat. In his nest.

The sight of you there broke him open, left his chest hollowed and trembling with something rawer than hunger. He had arranged the pile with the clumsy desperation of a starving man trying to cook for a banquet, typing “how to make a nest for your omega” into search bar with shaking hands. It had felt strange for an alpha, humiliating even, but betas weren’t supposed to know. Betas weren’t supposed to feel this need clawing through their marrow, this ache to soften space, to prepare, to build warmth until it was enough for two. So, in a desperate attempt to be a good mate, Phainon had done it himself. He had torn through stores, rejected cushion after cushion that didn’t hold his scent correctly, layered his own shirts, his blankets, everything until the air was thick with him. He hoped it was to your liking.

And there you were, unconscious and folded against the worn fabric of his t-shirt, already sinking into him, already marked by proximity.

Phainon’s breath fractured.

For the first time after the destruction of his home, he felt truly complete. His rut was beginning to truly bloom at the feeling, a roaring fire, consuming him slowly. Your black tea scent was a delicious provocation, igniting the final spark.

Soon, you would understand. Soon, you would belong. Soon, your futures would intervene, creating a new, promising destiny.

His hands reached for your clothes. 

.

To mate...

Warning: the second part will be much darker.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! Taglist is closed for this one. (sorry~)

So… a little heads-up, my darlings! Things are about to get a lot darker in the second part. I'm using these requests as a chance to practice for my other fic, Gebo, so be prepared. Still, I'm writing it so you can skip ahead to the ending. To make sure everyone stays safe, I'm thinking of posting just the epilogue here on Tumblr and putting the more intense parts on my AO3. That way, everyone will have a safer option.

P.S. Second part of kiss Headcanons coming soon!

[shippitnow]

I dunno why I'm onboard with this idea so much but I'm gonna let it loose:

Omegaverse Phaidei, Aventio AU

Note: This is gonna be messy but trust the process

Phainon, Aventurine, Dr. Ratio were all classmates in highschool with Topaz a year younger and Jade a year older.

Aventurine, Topaz, and Jade had a business already ongoing that made them rich to the point that they caught the attention of IPC Inc.'s Diamond then getting absorbed into the Stratagems.

Dr. Ratio's a scholar who got scouted by the Intelligentsia Guild.

Phainon was the school's superstar turned antique appraiser and cafe barista as his jobs.

Everyone loves him, basically dotes on him cause even though he's an alpha he's pretty chill with everyone, never aggressive towards other alphas, never looked down on betas and omegas.

So Jade a fellow Alpha sees him as an interesting specimen, everyone else feels her treat him more like a puppy. Omega Ratio also shares this sentiment and tends to be comfortable to loop him into testing Alpha based products whenever his own Alpha Aventurine is not available to do it. Topaz as a Beta tends to seek Phainon out since his control on his scent tends to calm her down.

Phainon's fine with this but he knows his highschool friends tend to be pretty obsessive when doting on him, so when he becomes obsessed with his alpha cafe coworker at Flame Chase Cafe Mydeimos he makes sure his pathetic pining doesn't reach their ears. He's already having problems with the teasing by his boss Aglaea and co-barista Castorice.

And Mydei while weirded out that Phainon likes him even though they're both Alphas, he wrestles with his growing feelings and doesn't reject him.

There's a part 2 of this with Alpha Sugilite being a whore for Phainon even though he rejected him already and comes to the café to checkout the Alpha rumoured to finally crack Phainon.

TLDR: Basically everyone loves Phainon and are basically happy he gets to experience falling in love for the first time.

[manicsho]

Hi hi! If its alright with you can I request a omegaverse with alpha!phainon×beta!reader. Please make him as yander as possible the darker the better perhaps.... sorry if it's uncomfortable...

-💙🪽☀️

Tempest - (epilogue)

Previous part

College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Dark!Alpha!Pahinon x Beta!Reader

wordcount: ~1050 (only the epilogue on Tumblr, full - my AO3)

tws: MNDI, College!AU, a/b/o!AU, Darkfic, yandere, obsessive/possessive behaviour, emotional and psychological distress, non-con aftermath, PTSD, bodily marks, forced impregnation, reader is broken.

(If you find some more, please let me know.)

As usual, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!

NOT SUITED FOR MINORS. Not proofread. Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Not proofread. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes. Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.

ADDITIONAL WARNING:

Here on Tumblr, I will only be posting the epilogue.

If you want to read the full thing, it’s on my AO3 account.

But please, please read the tags at the beginning of the chapter to stay safe.

If you want to read the previous chapter, you can find it here. I warn you the third and the last time that it is very dark, so please, read the tw's carefully (they are stated at the very beginning). If you are not okay with them, you can just skip it and read the epilogue (this part). Stay safe.

Ethel Cain - Vacillator

The stage gleams under the sunlight, banners rippling in the summer wind, gold and white streaking across the open plaza, the university seal bold in the center of each. Graduates sit in meticulous rows, their caps sharp and square, faces full of hope and anticipation, their breaths rising in small clouds of collective excitement. Cameras tilt and pan, lenses catching the glint of sunlight as the crowd murmurs, anticipation rising to fever pitch. 

Phainon stands at the podium, his posture impeccable, the embodiment of everything a golden boy should be. He does not need to project, not really; even without amplification, his presence demands attention, a gravitational pull that draws the eyes of the hopeful and the ambitious. His suit clings perfectly to his frame, each crease and seam a testament to careful preparation, to control, to perfection. His smile stretches wide, luminous under the bright sky, teeth white and even, an image of triumph framed in daylight.

…

You lift your hand toward the bookshelf. Dust coats the spines of old novels and journals, a grey haze settling over titles. The motion pulls at your sleeve, and your eyes fall to the pale lines etched across your wrists, slashes long healed. You brush the dust again, moving the rag over the surface, feeling the coarse texture under your fingertips. You let your arm fall back to your side when the washing machine beeps in another room.

…

Phainon’s voice echoes over the plaza, amplified but not needed. He gestures, broad and deliberate, his hands cutting the air as he addresses the sea of graduates. 

“Today,” he starts, and the words roll out with slow majesty, “we stand on the precipice of a future that is ours to define. We have endured nights without rest, tests that threatened our resolve, and doubts that gnawed at the edges of our confidence. Yet here we are, triumphant and unbroken, ready to carve our mark upon the world.” 

…

You drag the tall basket of laundry across the floorboards of the hallway, heavy with the weight of damp cloth. With a tired puff, you decide to rest for a bit, leaning on the plastic. The basket digs into your hip as you lean on it, forcing a wince from you. The bruised flesh there burns, the marks still tender under the layers of clothing. You glance at the locks on the entrance door only briefly as you limp past.

…

Phainon’s voice rises again, words sculpted with precision, perfect for the ceremonial broadcast. 

“We are not merely students. We are visionaries. We are pioneers who have wrestled knowledge from obscurity, who have crafted it into tools to shape our destiny. The path before us is uncharted, yes, but we have the courage, the insight, the audacity to walk it. We will not falter. We will not hesitate. Our names will echo in history as those who dared to embrace the world, to bend it to our vision.” 

The applause swells. He leans into the microphone slightly, savoring the resonance of his own voice, a predator at the apex of his triumph, utterly delirious with achievement.

…

You bend down to pick up a small dinosaur toy from the carpet, part of a small collection of toys scattered around. A train, a rattle, a puzzle piece with a missing corner. As you bend, your ankle brushes the pyramid toy, catching on the tender circle of bruised flesh on your ankle. The marks from chains pulse, and you pause only long enough to think, “ I need to put some bruise ointment on this .” 

The silver bracelet on the other leg catches the dim light, glittering faintly against the darkness of the bruise. You close the toy basket.

….

Phainon’s hand sweeps through the air, turning to address the parents and dignitaries. 

“Our generation will carry the torch. We will innovate, we will lead, we will challenge the old paradigms and build new ones in their place. Nothing can stop us, for our preparation is complete, our vision unwavering. We will claim the future, and it will belong to us.” 

His eyes glint with manic certainty as he surveys the crowd. Cameras focus on him, on his fingers, on the small quiver in the corners of his mouth as he smiles for them, radiant as ever.

…

You move to the kitchen, pulling your hair back with one hand, twisting it into a knot as you reach for a spoon with the other. Hickeys bloom in mottled purples and reds, teeth marks pressed into soft flesh, bruises layered atop one another in a grotesque tapestry. 

The television flickers in the corner of the kitchen, broadcasting the ceremony. Phainon’s words creep through the silence, rich and resonant, filling every corner of the space. You stir the pot slowly, lips pulling upward from the familiar voice. 

A single tear slides down, falling into the thick broth. 

A sudden cry pierces the air, sharp and high, slicing through the lull of mechanical motions. The sound pulls you from your trance, and you move down the hall, limping slightly as you go. The nursery door is painted in soft pastels. Inside, the small boy, barely two, lies in the crib and sobs, visibly distressed. You bend over, fingers gentle as you lift your son, cradling him against your chest. His small hands clutch at your shirt, seeking promised safety. You hum, voice soft and almost foreign, and the tears on his cheeks dampen against your chest. He relaxes slowly, breathing evening into your arms, a fragile bond against the crushing weight of your numbness.

When his body goes heavy with a charm of sleep, you lay him in the crib, smoothing the blanket, watching until his breathing steadies fully. The toys are scattered around the room, a kingdom of soft pastel colors and wood, a world you protect with silent vigilance, the last crumb of happiness in your life.

You continue to watch Eosphoros with a faint smile, eyes red and tear-streaked, one hand clutching your swollen belly.

“Two more months and your beautiful Thalassa will be ready to welcome the world,” Hyacine told you five days ago.

Or was it six? 

The locks on the front door rattle.

Click. 

Click. 

Click. 

Click.  

Click. 

Click. 

Click. 

Click. 

Click.  

Click. 

“Ten ”, you count absentmindedly.

“Honey, I’m home!”

.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

TempestVerse Masterlist

Ok yeah it’s dark. Really dark. I know. But listen… the idea of the golden boy absolutely losing his mind? Snapping in the most fucked up way possible? Irresistible, heh. i caved. i folded. i sold my soul for the bit. im pretty sure im going to hell now. Also, anon specifically said “make it as dark as possible” soooooo... yeah.

[manicsho]

I’m curious about your take on Yandere Phainon and Anaxa with a depressed, nihilistic darling but with a big heart? Maybe even self-destructive, family issues, a loner, sensitive but masks it, a big case of imposter syndrome too yknow? Perhaps the Darling was like this before they gained interest/kidnapped/etc. Add insult to injury and maybe darling tries to get close and touch Cas for that final resting place of peace.

I love exploring darker themes and aus with characters just as much as I love also exploring readers too! I love happy darlings just as equally as I love the opposite darlings!! I think diving deep into the intricacies of human psyches is just fascinating to me idk lol

Sorry for the word vomit too 😭 I just find your writing so engaging and fascinating! It touches all the right places so keep it up, and thank you for sharing! 🥰😊

TempestVerse: Anaxagoras route

College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Dark!Beta!Anaxa x Beta!Reader (with a side of Yandere!Dark!Alpha!Phainon)

wordcount: ~4300

tws: MNDI, College!AU, a/b/o!AU, Darkfic, yandere, obsessive/possessive behaviour, some smut, student/teacher, power imbalance, manipulation, gaslighting, loss of identity, non-con drugging, body-horror, bodily marks, child neglect, this is disturbing.

NOT SUITED FOR MINORS. Not proofread. Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Not proofread. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes. Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.

Hello, my dear darlings!

Haha, I actually waited for some Anaxagoras asks to kinda dive into his personality in a Tempest-verse!

So, let's imagine Anaxa also becomes a yandere for you. How could it happen?

Halsey - Arsonist

The way to approach him:

The thing about Anaxagoras is that he would never move toward you first. He isn’t Phainon – he doesn’t chase. He doesn’t linger like a shadow. If anything, he actively ignores most students (including you) because they are beneath his time. His obsession has to be sparked, and the only one who could strike that match pretty easily is you, a beta, an anomaly, just like him.

Picture this: instead of going to Aglaea’s office, you take the terrifying step of walking up to Anaxa after class. He’s still shuffling his notes, his office empty, and you stop in front of him.

At first, he files it away clinically – why is this trembling beta here? Why don't you go to the Director? Finally gained some courage to speak up? The scholar won’t dismiss you outright. He’ll listen, frowning, as you talk. And you should be aware, he already knows. He can smell the ash trailing after you. He noticed how one of the best students always seeks the nearest chair to you. He can see that alpha doesn’t focus on his lectures because blue eyes trail your face too often to be a coincidence. Anaxagoras can see the cracks forming in Phainon’s mask and in your shield thinning.

He is not a fool after all. 

That’s why Anaxa partially understands you coming to him. He has the brilliance to fight the system itself. He is not afraid to go against the current. He could bend biology around you. Mask your scent from everyone. Poison Phainon’s mind so he no longer perceives you. Develop concoctions to blur your existence, to erase you from the predator’s map. And all the while, you’ll be drawn deeper into his orbit.

However, I think it could go in 3 different direction from here, each depending on how much of his interest you managed to get and how you‘d talk to him during this conversation:

Three ways the obsession blooms: 

Eradication

Requires: Gentle but scared darling. Someone big-hearted but pressured with endless fears and expectations. Someone soft, who is unable to harm another living creature. 

This path begins with failure. Phainon is not a gentle stalker, not in the Tempest-verse at least. His pursuit affects every aspect of life: your grades, the neat routines you kept to stay afloat, the little social debts that kept you tethered. You miss a seminar because your sleep schedule is broken, you fail an exam because your notebook is gone, and you don’t know what other pupils are talking about during seminars.

Anaxagoras notices your collapse and, when you approach him, he sees catastrophe as an experiment in pressure dynamics. He is fascinated by how a soul breaks, so he agrees to help you. And pure-hearted, mentally-destroyed, you agree to the suggestions that may sound sketchy to others. He is your professor; you trust him! And it’s not like he could want something grand from you, right?

Wrong.

See, you were that way before the University, before Phainon got interested, before Anaxa ever looked at you – a careful, collapsing center with an enormous but fragile heart. Where other people despair and then rebuild, you have a taste for the absolute unmaking. This paradoxical serenity about self-annihilation, a quiet acceptance that sometimes the best mercy is to let it ache. 

So, when Anaxagoras offers help, it is not the seduction of other paths. He offers you a dim laboratory in his flat that looks like a crypt, long nights of conversations about science ethics (which only slows down the research in his opinion), heavy and suspicious drinks that erase any shame. 

In the end, when your black tea scent disappears completely, he presents you with the offer that is both practical and poisonous: “Stay with me and become the subject of a study into the limits of agency under despair. Then, I will help you to escape Phainon completely.” 

If you hesitate even for a second, he adds, “Or we could stop here, but in such a case, I do not guarantee any safety.”

You agree because you cannot imagine remaining without his protection anymore. The idea of being consumed by the Alpha’s mania is much more terrifying than this.

After getting this timid agreement, Anaxa strips away any choice and replaces it with practicalities: Phainon is suddenly too busy to continue his stalking courting, and your stomach is full of pills that are framed as stabilization but are, in practice, an unmaking.

The first stage is the same for this and the next paths: small erasures. You suddenly don’t remember your parents’ faces, your favourite dish, or the name of the university that you used to attend. When you ask Anaxa to stop, scared by sudden amnesia, he demonstrates in lectures why halting the program would risk Phainon finding you. He is reasonable, scholarly, terrifyingly calm, and you believe him.

The problem is, you don’t remember who that Phainon guy is, but it sounds terrifying enough.

In this route, Anaxa enjoys the idea of a rare subject willing to sacrifice herself so that he can understand Beta's nature better. If you try to confront, it is fruitless. The more you try to resist, the crueler the scholar’s methods become – not because he wants to hurt, but because the experiment requires a full range of inputs. He pushes you to the limit of recognition, and sometimes – beyond. 

You find that in the quiet hours, you are less a person and more a receptacle for curated sorrow. Your empathy, once your anchor, now makes you a poor assistant. Unlike in the other two paths, you cannot bear to be cruel in the name of science. You balk at the razor experiments meant to make your pain finite, you refuse to cut what wasn’t created to be measured.  So, instead of becoming his research partner, you become the experiment yourself. 

There is a day when some faint memories store in you, faint shards of stripped past glimmering in the faint light of your mind. Some scenes and things in his apartment bring back the shallow memories. 

You remember you liked your coffee warm. You enjoyed reading. Someone was chasing you. Your master helped you greatly in the past. You are not sure how, but he did.

Your head pulses and hurts. This is not a good feeling, and you try to touch Anaxagoras – not to solicit sex or the usual warm intimacies you two occasionally share. You reach, with the quiet desperation of someone who has learned that no sleep is deep enough, and place your hand on his forearm in a silent question. He looks at you with a scientist’s astonishment. He accepts it, catalogues this inquiry, and in his acceptance, you feel something horrific.

He arranges the final operation to precipitate the last, merciful dissolution of self, within a clinical frame. It is an ending that is technically humane: you are absorbed into a pattern, your consciousness allowed to dissipate into a construct he calls the Beta’s Archives. He promises that you will not feel pain when the membranes of your memory peel. You want to believe him because believing is easier than fighting.

Nihility is not poetic in this path. It is a flat plane of absence you step into willingly because living feels like a slow, everyday violence, and you are too small and too fragile to fight the whole world. The Archive holds your moments in amber and feeds them to his research; you are both immortalized and erased. You are safer from Phainon in this boundless silence; you are also less you than you were that morning when you still considered failing a test a catastrophe. 

In the end, you are both saved and crucified: saved from a stalker, crucified by a man who loved the knowledge of you more than the reality of your heart.

Everlasting nightmare

Requires: Slightly (?) mentally unwell darling. Someone who is smart and bold and nihilistic but in an angry way. Someone who is scandalous enough to ask her older professor out, not even because she needs protection, but because the scholarly mania in Anaxa’s eyes makes her hot all over.

You walk up to him because you have nothing to lose. The wood drinks your footsteps; the ash in your hair tastes like old ruin. Anaxagoras is already where he belongs, crammed into the office that resembles a tomb for ideas, shelves like exposed ribs, books with paper-skin peeled back, margins furred with chalk on the desk. Light bleeds through the high window and gilds the dust motes where he sits, slightly slouched. You close the door behind you. The click is small and final in the room’s great hush. He eyes you up questioningly.

“You look tired, professor.” you say, sarcasm corroding the words. He turns his body in your direction, hands coming to stop on the armrests, slow as a predator preparing his fangs. His crimson eye narrows into a slit of flame. 

“What do you want?” he asks, voice hollowed by an echo, “aren’t you supposed to attend another lecture?” You don't question how he knows your schedule. 

“I won’t go,” you say. Your smile is wet and bitter. “Phainon waits in the hallway, so I’d prefer to stay here,” you let the silence sit between you, heavy and deliberate. Then you slide the last thing you have into the bargain, because his mouth opens and you are too stubborn to accept rejection. 

“Ge-”

“You know, professor… there’s something about older men with knowledge that makes me… hot. And oh, what rare luck – discovering that my brilliant, infuriating beta professor happens to br the type. Want me to show you exactly how dangerous I can be, right here, under your desk?”

There is a thin, surgical stillness. Anaxa does not lunge or shout at you (though truth be told, you never expected him to; he seems far too composed for that). He folds into his chair like a raven settling on a branch and spreads his legs invitingly. It is a different kind of game now, and stepping back would mean willingly giving yourself to the white-haired golden boy.

So you step closer. The scholar’s irritation turns into hunger, a predatory calculation that thrills and terrifies you at once. You see the stain forming at the fly of his trousers; you feel the ancient barter – body for safety – settle into place.

You miss just one thing. Anaxagoras’ interest spreads much further than mundane hunger for a warm body in his bed.

But you, oblivious, drop to your knees. The wood boards are cold and you taste iron at the back of your tongue, excitement braided with rebelliousness. Your hands fumble at the belt, clumsy with inexperience. When his cock is free, you still for a second. The smell of chalk is more… prominent. Somewhat comforting after the stench of ash, so you don't feel any repulsion when you taste him on your tongue. You take what you offered, and it is awkward and messy and necessary, as every first-time blowjob is. It’s not the way of losing your oral virginity that you’ve ever imagined, but the way he pets your hair, and groans, and twitches, makes you feel the searing flames between your thighs. 

“Is that what happens when two betas are compatible?” You muse, mouth full of his cock.

Suddenly, Anaxa moans and grips your hair like he is gripping a lifeline, every sound a small animal dying. When he spills, it is obscene and immediate. Heat slams into your mouth. You swallow the proof of the exchange and the world narrows to breath and the bitter salt of his release. He breathes through the aftershocks, hauls you up on his lap and pins you to his chest. The wood of his chair creaks.

“That was unnecessary and audacious-” he heaves, eye gleaming over you, “-and I liked it,” he says, voice rough with something tender and terrible. 

“You are like me, fascinating little beta,” he laughs with that echoing, terrifying sound that does not belong to a sane person.

“Answer me, do you wish to mate with me? In a betas’ ways?” 

You answer with a kiss because you are relieved to finally have someone who will understand you. His hands wrap tightly around you for the exact same reason. 

You leave the Grove’s brittle theology for a different religion, one built from experiments and contempt. Anaxagoras’ flat is a laboratory of ruin: beakers and scriptures are scattered everywhere, diagrams pinned messily to walls, shelves that cough dust leave no room for breathing. 

You become his mirror, a reflection turned obscene. You study the most poisonous theorems with his mouth on your neck, his hands holding you close. Insomnia becomes your tutor; delirium, your classroom. You carve alchemic sigils into one another’s flesh. Flesh curls at the edges like paper left in flame, and the smell of scorched skin mixes with the old-book stench until the room tastes of funeral pyres. Blood beads along the thin, deliberate lines; it pools, dark and inky, and you smear it into the ink of your notes. The incisions are a pact. The symbols fuse to your skin and to your nerve endings. Some of the marks mirror his own.

Nights crack open into sessions of chemical cheer and surgical hunger. A sterile needle finds a vein, and you press it in, watching the lines bloom purple. Your pupils pinprick; your thoughts rearrange like your genome did under the magnifying glass. 

Anaxa watches you with a fever in his single crimson eye that is a terrifying worship. You watch him too, eyes clouded with the same devotion, caressing the scarred skin around the empty eye socket. More often than not, it leads to you bending over the flasks and vials, stuffed full, until his physique, fragile after the numerous re-arrangements, makes him tremble and lean onto you in post-coital bliss.

And, unlike in the other two paths, you are bound to have kids. Not because you want a family, but because monsters are conservative in one thing: legacy. Those children are not raised so much as arranged. You sometimes forget their names, and they learn obedience like a second language. Some you leave wild, letting them gnaw the edges of the world until they are sharp enough to be useful. Some you sculpt, patient and brutal, until their faces are blank as pages waiting for your ink. 

“You are not afraid anymore,” Anaxa says one day, fingers traveling over the red-scarred sigil on your sternum, “beautiful.”

You smile because you have learned the strange arithmetic of survival. You have refused the cage and become the rescuer of your own ruin. You tell the world to go to hell using a language it cannot parse. 

Phainon still prowls at the borders of your life, a wounded animal gnawing at its own flesh, failing classes in despair, muttering your name until the day he staggers into graduation. You conceal what must be concealed, and when the golden boy comes to the house you share with Anaxa, begging him to carve the scent gland from his throat because he refuses to bear a trace of anyone who is not you, you watch from the backroom with the calm of one who has already descended far deeper than he could ever follow.

You are no one’s prey.

His face freezes when the oldest child steps out of the kitchen. It wears Anaxa’s bone structure but your eyes, the unmistakable weight of inheritance. Anaxa shields the boy with a scholar’s stillness, his frame an iron door barring Phainon’s obsession. The alpha does not speak. He just bursts into the back room like a beast cornered, but he does not find you. He finds a girl, uncanny in her resemblance, bearing your hair, your features, but a body too young to be yours. And worst of all, she carries none of your warmth. Her scent is sharp, sterile, chemical. No trace of black tea clings to her. 

Yet through the gaze of your most perfected homunculus, it is you who stare back at him, unblinking.

Phainon leaves empty-handed, and emptier still.

Together, as one

Requires: Smart and mentally strong, but gentle darling. One who could function well despite the pressure of stress that Phainon’s courting puts on you. 

In this route, you have to ace his class, even if it seems impossible. You should sink your teeth into the facts like predators sink their canines into the flesh. During his seminar, you should answer with ideas everyone else overlooks, you should correct the jagged absences in his lectures until his attention, irritated at first by your precision, softens into something like hunger. That hunger evolves into a scholar’s desire – for new data, for someone as insightful as himself, for the fusion of two genius Betas that will make a theory sing.

Mind you, it’s not love. It's an obsession.

Anaxagoras is an anomaly. You are an anomaly. You are running from a storm that smells like ash, and he sometimes wishes for the companion who is also lonely and could share his passion.  

So when you come up to him, the professor agrees and begins the slow architecture of preparation for the shared future while he tests your behaviour. At first, it is flattering: private notes tucked into your bag, an extra copy of an obscure paper on beta nature, an invitation to his private reading group where the candles cast the faces of his colleagues into soft ruin. He starts inserting himself in your life.

You think you are being helped for your wit. You are. He recognises your outstanding understanding of his subject. But what Anaxa also notices is your resilience: you keep functioning despite the horrors Phainon inflicts on you. Slowly but surely, the scholar starts to see you not in the cold way a scientist sees a useful discrepancy, but how a man yearning to be interpreted sees the spark of understanding in one’s eyes. 

But there is a certain thing that somewhat bothers Anaxa: he is older and is your professor and physically less attractive, missing one eye due to an experiment. Thus, the ways to charm you as a potential mate are… lacking. So he frames his courtship as a rescue when you come to his office again after three weeks or so. Anaxagoras makes conclusions; he will change your scent, he will alter your biochemistry, and he will seal you from Phainon’s ability to find you.

You just need to stay with him so he can observe the process.

And you, exhausted and bleak but still holding on somehow, accept because the price seems small compared to the alternative.

Anaxa is generous with explanations at first. He speaks in metaphors about Beta’s nature being understudied, about lineage, and the possibility of a more stable form. He says he also wants to study the boundaries between what you are and what you could be. Genius doesn’t say that the last “you” is plural. He is kind and precise, and the gentleness is what disarms you: the soft hands that inspect a bruise, the measured voice that calls your name with a fascination that feels like warmth. He slips you into a world where consent is layered under gratitude and debt. You owe him for pulling you from the orbit of Phainon; you owe him for the cleanliness of his rooms; you owe him for the nights when the wind outside whispers of ash and destruction, and he hugs you closer under the fluffy sheets. 

And debt is a cunning binder.

Medication becomes routine. Pills meant to steady your sleep, tonics for imbalance. Anaxa charts you, maps you, reduces you on paper into a series of markers he can manipulate: smells, hormone analogues, enzymatic pathways. In private, he gives you tasks that look like help but are intimacy disguised as favors: hold this vessel while I titrate; memorize this sequence that I’ve created and recite it until the sound of the words erases other memories.

You are his assistant, his partner in research, the pretty adjunct to a growing theory.

Under the guise of stabilization he begins insertion – nonconsensual in effect though clothed in consent’s language of devices and subtle implants that change how you feel hunger, how you feel attachment, how much pain you can register. They are mechanical, clinical: a small lattice here that dulls panic, a filament there that brightens dullness into a focused ache for only certain stimuli (a quirk of the chemistry – necessary, he insists as your naked body shivers from his touch in a state that’s suspiciously close to omega’s heat).

The people around you see the glossy surface: you are happier, you attend classes again, you laugh sometimes. The only strange thing is that you go to the professor Anaxagoras’ office too often and come out in a somewhat messy state; your lips are swollen, your hair is ruffled, and your legs tremble a bit. 

When Phainon smells the faint chalk scent on you during one of the classes, he grabs you by the hand and tugs you closer to his towering form. He presses his nose into your neck and rages, trying to forcefully lead you somewhere, but your Anaxagoras is swift to act. He seizes the initiative by coming up to you two and telling the furious alpha that such animalistic behaviour is unacceptable in this classroom. The Golden Boy sulks, but lets go of you, not willing to destroy his public facade.

The same evening, Anaxagoras shows you the surgery plan on parchment.

What began as a program to stabilize becomes a program to ensure permanence: to bind a mind to a life that cannot be shredded by obsession. Beta becomes, in his long nights, less a scholar and more an artisan of fusion. He speaks of merging: if he can isolate the neural patterns that define you and graft them to an architecture that will not be preyed upon, you will be beyond any harm. 

You believe him because the only alternative is being taken by Phainon. You sign papers you do not read because the signature is easier than the argument. You think that being measured and mapped is safety. When you sit on his lap, your mind is too dizzy, and neatly printed letters are no more than strange curvy things dancing across the paper. Your hand trembles when you move it across the paper. He steadies your palm with his, heavy head on your shoulder, another hand wrapped around your waist.

…

Where did that gold band with an aquamarine stone on your ring finger come from? And why does your professor have the same one on his finger?

…

Ah... What were you just thinking about?

…

The procedure’s language is clinical, but the aftermath is anything but. Anaxagoras melts something in a crucible and binds it to your neurons with a chemical that hums with the wrong music. Your dreams are the first casualty: the quiet soft places where you housed your childhood grief are replaced by a tapestry interleaved with his cognitive echo. You find yourself thinking in footnotes. You start to echo his laughter in sterile moments. 

When one of the experiments operations goes wrong, Anaxagoras doesn’t flinch. He does not shiver when you start spitting blood on the cold tiles. Instead, he quickly fills two small vials with something thick and viscous, black-brown with streaks of copper and strange green fragments, and hands you the first of the two. You drink without asking. Tastes like nothing. He gulps the second himself.

The liquid burns and coats your throat, slick and heavy, and then it begins to crawl, thick tendrils of sensation writhing beneath your skin. Something seeps from your eyes, nose, ears, mouth, oozing in rivulets down your face. You look up. Anaxagoras mirrors you exactly, a grotesque reflection, eyes wide, mouth slack in a wide smile, bleeding the same impossible fluids.

Your body shudders, bones rattling, flesh quivering as if it’s suddenly too large for the skeleton that holds it. Limbs lose shape, fingers merge, your torso quivers and drips, a slow, undulating collapse. Pain flashes like fire, then nothing. Just the strange, liminal numbness that is not relief, not death, not quite life. 

Anaxa doesn’t hesitate when you turn into a gush. His own melting hands plunge into what was you, scooping, smearing, kneading. The sensation is sickeningly intimate and comforting. Heat and cold, pressure and nothing, all at once.

…

When you wake up, you cant really feel your body. It moves, but it feels strange. Everything hurts.

And then you hear our whisper, quiet, not really around us, but rather inside us:

“Wake up”. 

We open our eyes, stand up on shaky legs, and come up to the mirror, tucked away in the corner. Our reflection is both us and not us. Two faces fused into one. Two hearts beating in the same chest.

…

We are perfect.

…

Why the silence? We are safe now, bonded forever. How do we feel?

Fine… we guess. Just dizzy. Are we safe from him?

...yes. We promised protection.

We remember.

Now no one can touch us now. Do not worry about anything anymore. We love us.

…We want to sleep.

Then let’s lay down. Our body needs rest.

...

We fall into the black pitch of unconsciousness.

Final note:

Honestly, I dont see any other ways that it could turn out in this verse.

So, are you sure you’d pick Anaxa over Phainon?

Phainon will drown you in fire and worship, turn you into ash and appetite. Anaxagoras will lay you on his table, cut and graft you back into a perfect echo of his madness. 

In the Tempest-verse, once a yandere fixes on you, there is no good or even neutral ending. Or maybe there is. Depends on how you look at it.

.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! No taglist for this one, I'm sorry!

[manicsho]

Horrifically messed up the fate Alpha!Phainon inflicted on Beta!Reader is, having basically destroyed all possibility of her autonomy and independence (via ABO Bite Rules + babytrapping); the epilogue does make me (morbidly) wonder: how did he pull it off?

The logistics of it, I mean. Weren't they both still University students when he locked/knocked her up? Was he really just graduating in the epilogue? And if so, how is he affording all of that, *gesturing at owning his own flat, redecorating it to Reader's assumed taste, providing for a wife, a toddler, AND upcoming baby*.

Sure, I could easily take it as just the narrative, but I thought he lost everything with his hometown. How the fuck is affording this arrangement as a student. It would be just Reader's luck that he was also a rich kid to add onto the Golden Boy package.

(Also ngl I'd be pissed if I was Reader and paid up tuition for that semester AND dorm, only to get pulled out midway because ABOverse marriage/mating customs dictate that this dude that bit me on the neck is now considered my spouse and now makes decisions for me.

Also, the implication of his words to her, telling Reader that he'd take care of her needs; Phainon refusing to engage with her on a Beta's terms + basically pursuing her like an Omega. Was that the normal expectation for an Alpha-Omega couple in Tempest-verse?)

TempestVerse: Ask

(College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Dark!Alpha!Pahinon x Beta!Reader)

Hello, honey!

Honestly speaking, when I wrote this piece, I didn't put too much thought into the worldbuilding and logistics (and I'm flabbergasted with how much love it is getting). I just wanted this series to be a practice for my other fics – Strawberries and Jasmine (yandere!Gojo), Of Fallow Grounds and Feral Hearts (yandere!hybrid!JJK), and Gebō (yandere!König).

But!

Your questions really cracked my brain open, and now I can't stop thinking about how this AU would actually work, haha

So let me elaborate:

About Age and Graduation:

I've answered this question here (see the previous post).

To be short: the reader dropped out, and Phainon graduated from the master's course in the epilogue.

About the finances:

Phainon is basically the nightmare blend of "tragic orphan", "wealthy heir", and "golden boy".

By that I mean:

In the Tempest-verse, Phainon most likely comes from a family that was on the richer side. Maybe his parents had some kind of successful business and just decided to stay in the Aedes Elysia while Phai was young. So, the destruction of the village + death of his family = tragic and traumatising backstory, but also insurance, inheritance, etc.

Being a Golden Boy, he almost certainly receives sponsorships, scholarships, and patronage. Grove of Epthany Uni is implied to be very prestigious, and higher-ups would pour money into their star student, both to retain his prestige (plus he is the face of the Uni and at this point, they couldn't afford him to fight for scraps) and because elites see him (and thus, the uni) as a good investment.

Connected with number 2, but slightly different. Phainon probably does "everything right" in public: wins competitions, organizes events, and speaks at ceremonies, which, as I mentioned, means endless stipends, awards, and networking opportunities. If you look at it through the ABO logic, this is even darker: society would be eager to help him settle down with a chosen mate and live as a model Alpha, even if his mate is a reluctant Beta whom he abducted.

Moreover, the reader's parents could also help Phainon, seeing him as a respectable mate. Errrrr, sounds strange, i know, but let me elaborate on this one. As I mentioned in the fic, betas are rare AND understudied. Also, in this verse, betas could be born from any type of mates, but are most likely to be born from couples where at least one of the parents is a beta. Plus, most certainly a beta would be born from two beta parents (like, if Anaxagoras were to put his meat inside the reader, it would be just like human sex. If the reader were to get pregnant from him, the child would be a beta with a 95% chance). Order of couples in this AU from common to most rare: A+O, O+O, A+A, B+B, B+O, and B+A. This is where the new detail about the reader's parents comes in. Since betas are so rare and understudied, her non-beta parents might see her as an anomaly. They may have been relieved to find out there is a prestigious alpha who is interested in their "strange" daughter. In their view, Phainon isn't kidnapping her; he's "fixing" her by giving her a structured, very traditional A+O life that they understand. So they would be eager help him to "tame" the poor reader.

About the mating rituals:

I hate to say it, but you're probably right. After the rut, Phainon would never let you live by yourself, because in his mind, you're mated now. Well, not really, because you're a beta, and your body functions just like a normal human's. You just can't form the kind of bond that A+O, O+O, or even A+A couples usually share after mating. But Phainon is delusional enough to ignore that distinction. He'd force you to bite his scent glands every month, just so he can parade the scars as "mating bites." That's why your neck is also covered in his teeth marks in the epilogue.

Plus:

The rarity of Betas makes them difficult for both Alphas and Omegas to court. Multiply that by Phainon's swiftly approaching rut, and you get the disaster: he had no time (and no willingness) to actually research how to handle a Beta properly. In the Tempest-verse, what he did would normally be done in A+O, O+O, and A+A couples with the verbal consent, because if the O/A is too tense, they can bleed out from penetration and/or the mating bite. Therefore, it wouldn't be done in O+B, A+B, B+B couples because the risk of biting the wrong spot is too high. But Phainon, being yandere and mentally unstable, simply didn't care.

Btw! I like the word "Tempest-verse". I hope you won't mind if I borrow this to address this AU in the future! Cause now I'm having thoughts hehe...

[manicsho]

broke my heart with the yan!alpha!phainon and beta!reader epiloge. I already feel bad for the reader obviously but there is a certain grief for their children having to be raised in such a environment and the potential horror of them realizing as they mature and develop in the future the reality of their upbringing.

If I could put my two cents in, the reader has a few years at most left in her before she passes. I do not say it to be cruel. It is just that Phainon's extreme choices are probably going to send her into an early grave just from the mental/bodily stress alone. At least, that's how I interpret the descriptions of the living conditions of the reader.

TempestVerse: Ask

(College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Dark!Alpha!Pahinon x Beta!Reader)

Hi love! Thanks for sharing this idea! I have a lot of similar thoughts about this fic and wanted to use your ask to share them – hope that’s okay! ♡

Truth to be told, I kind of intended this fic to be as dark and angsty as possible, heh...

About the Golden Boy yandere type:

You see, I believe, that the golden boy yandere type is one of the scariest. The one who shines so brightly that no one dares speak against them. The one too important to the world, too celebrated, too radiant, so your (readers) own suffering becomes invisible. Some might see the cracks but still refuse to touch them.

The only way to withstand that kind of yandere would be to make yourself more important than them before you ever meet them… which is practically impossible (?). That is why they terrify me most of all. Phainon (also Gepard) fits this type perfectly. 

In the "Tempest" fic, that’s exactly what destroys the reader: no one wants to believe you. Director Aglaea brushes you off, telling you that it is normal (even though she might understand that it is not normal at all). Anaxagoras alone understands, but he just cannot act. It is so bad that even you start to doubt yourself if there is something wrong with you. 

About the reader's/children's future:

I actually agree, but only to some extent. The human psyche is an interesting thing; it can endure the most horrific things for very long periods of time. So, I believe that in that fic, you could just give up, OR you could try to endure.

In the second case, there are two more paths:

If you won't put enough effort, the children would inherit Phainon’s obsession, turning into yanderes themselves, directing all that devotion toward their parents (You/Phainon or both) and/or their future spouse. This would probably completely destroy you. 

Or, in another cruel branch of fate, the children could grow into protectors instead. They would see your suffering and try to help you escape. But even then, it’s a fragile possibility, because Phainon’s shadow looms over every bond in the house, and he is still their father, no matter what.

And if you give up entirely? Then yes – death is almost inescapable. Phainon could try to keep you alive, which would be even a crueler fate because you will be in a state which is very close to vegetative.

Your children will be traumatised either way, just differently.

[manicsho]

We have Phainon...

We have Anaxa...

We have Mydei...

We have Phaidei...

What are your opinions on Phainaxa? 👀

TempestVerse: Ask

PhaiNaxa route (?)

(College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Dark!Alpha!Pahinon x Beta!Reader)

Hello, honey!

That's a fantastic question! Truth to be told, we can talk about Phainon and Anaxagoras separately but… I must state the absolute truth: Phainon x Reader x Anaxa would not work in this AU. Not at all. It is impossible for these two specific monsters.

Here is why:

Phainon's obsession is fire and possession. He wants you as you are, a beautiful, unique Beta vessel for his future, his perfect mate. He sees you as a sacred, fragile being to be guarded and filled.

Anaxagoras, conversely, views you as a biological anomaly that mirrors himself. He would seek to gut and craft you back into a perfect echo of his madness, fusing your existence with his own, carving away the elements that make you desirable to others (to protect you from the other of course!), including the scent Phainon finds so desirable. 

And here you might ask: but the reader did turn into omega in the PhaiDei route and Phainon wasn’t against it so… Why wouldn’t they share you?

Well…

First of all, in the PhaiDei route, there was an attraction between Mydei and Pahinon even before you came around. So you were the trigger for them to take action.

Secondly, Anaxa's desire is one of discovery, and Phainon's is one of preservation. Phainon doesn't want an experiment. He wants a home. To come back to his happy family (yes, he is delusional).

Anaxa wants a laboratory, an assistant. He wants a constant rush of dangerous experiments coursing through your veins (literally) and he is ready to give up his and your humanity in order to discover more about betas’ nature.

In this AU, the moment Anaxa even considers touching a scalpel to your skin, Phainon turns his consuming, terrifying fire outwards. The resulting conflict would not be a dance of co-obsession like in the PhaiDei route. It would be a vicious, winner-take-all war fought over your broken… body probably, because the impact of their clash is highly likely to kill you. 

The terrifying truth of the Tempest-verse is that any power-sharing agreement between yanderes is VERY unstable because, well, they are mentally ill. Your only choice, therefore, rema-

bzzt.

…

Oh, your phone! Who's texting you?

Oh, so you are transferring to another university, huh?

…

Are you sure this was a right decision?

Hey guys, sorry for the disappearance!! Lately, I've been going through a tough time in my life, and mentally I’m not in a good place, so I haven’t been posting much :с I actually have many chapters from different series almost ready, but I just don’t have the energy to edit them rn... Anyways, I’ll try my best to post more in october.

Also, just because our reader is transferring to a new university doesn’t mean I’m closing the Amorpheus chapter… There are still some interesting asks I’ll be answering, and… you don’t really think they’ll let you go that easily, do you?

Love,  Miha ♡

[manicsho]

Did the reader not graduate or did she drop out of school when she got pregnant?

TempestVerse: Ask

(College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Dark!Alpha!Pahinon x Beta!Reader)

Hi, sweethearts!

Yup, it's heavily implied that she did drop out and didn't graduate.

While writing, I pictured the reader as someone younger than Phainon. Like, he was in his final year of bachelor's when he fixated, and she was just a freshman. By the time of the epilogue, he's already finishing his master's degree (does it make sense? I hope it does), and that's why the graduation broadcast hurts poor reader so much.

It isn't just Phainon speaking during the ceremony; it's the ghost of the future reader could have, but it was torn from you.