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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!

#miha.request

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