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.
College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Alpha!Phainon x Beta!Reader x Yandere!Alpha!Mydei
wordcount: ~4400
tws: MNDI, DARKFIC, NON-CON/DUB-CON, yandere, obsessive /possessive behaviour, POLY-REALATIONSHIP, gaslighting, angst, cruelty, loss of bodily autonomy, forced & sexualized pregnancy, SMUT-HEAVY: oral (m->f, m->m), breeding, babytrapping, period sex, scent kink, ngl Mydei is disgusting in this one, this is highly disturbing.
(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.
Dom/sub dynamics and forced compliance
You see, Tempest!Mydei is a traditional Alpha at his core, and nothing can change that. Everything he does is rooted in the belief that your, Omega’s, place is in his arms, under his weight, within the space of his breath.
I hope that by this moment, you’ve already understood that in the PhaiDei route, resistance is simply impossible. Always postpartum soft, always cycling, constantly swollen with the results of their devotion, you are a fragile creature in their care, and Mydei treats that fragility like a sacred treasure of your little dysfunctional family. The moment a doctor confirms your body is healed enough to be bred again, he is already on you, coaxing your legs open again, filling the empty space, claiming it in the only language he trusts: heat, weight, seed. You’re never truly recovered, never unclaimed long enough to even try to rise against them.
Tonight, the heavy atmosphere of the bedroom had already choked the oxygen from your lungs. Eos, your second-born son, was asleep in his sound-dampened bassinet in a nearby room. You just hoped the sound of your wailing won't wake your little miracle up.
For your own sake, today Mydei required the soothing position that offered maximum skin-to-skin contact and minimum escape. That's how you ended up lying on your side, completely nude, every curve of your body exposed.
Your face was buried deep in a pillow, the material muffling the inevitable tears and choked whimpers that had become your almost silent protest. The intense heat radiating from his massive form made your head spin, made the pastry scent of your hair mix with the heavy sandalwood of his musk.
The skin-to-skin contact was non-negotiable. Mydei needed the absolute sensory confirmation of your presence, your slickness, your immediate compliance, so his corded chest was pressed flush against your back like an unmoving wall. One powerful arm snaked beneath you, his enormous hand resting with unsettling tenderness on your vulnerable abdomen in a gesture of adoration for the life you had just delivered and the many more he actively sought to create. His fingers occasionally slipped lower, tracing the pearl of your clit, rubbing it, and pinching it until it was beautifully engorged. Such a gentle massage that was less for your climax and more for the constant reassurance that you were wet for what was your intention (in his eyes, mind you).
The other hand held your top leg high, bent at the knee, leveraging you open to grant him the perfect angle to drill into your stretched pussy. Mydei was already sheathed inside, and his pierced cock, pressed against the raw tenderness of your inner walls, demanded acceptance, thrust after thrust. The metal beads in his shaft felt like abrasive rocks dragging against the still-sensitive channel bruised by your previous delivery. Mydei seemed to intentionally utilize this small but constant ache of trauma, never quite pressing too hard, but never letting you forget the price of his pleasure.
He always began with this agonizingly slow, deep, maddening rhythm.
“Agape mou,” he rasped hoarsely, burying his face in your temple. “Don’t hide from me. Need to hear you. Let your Mydei hear these precious sounds, yeah?”
When you didn't respond, his hips pounded in the fat of your ass, his rigid tip slamming against your still-too-tender cervix, sending a sharp jolt through your form. The sudden action elicited a desperate cry from you, and Mydei purred at the sound, tightening his hold on your leg, forcing a new angle that made your inner walls clench around him.
“Such a good girl, my darling, such a good mate…” he whispered, his movements never faltering. His voice held a request for your compliance, for the love you couldn't give. “You take me so deep. Look at how good your pussy is around me, swallowing so well. No one else has a cunt like this. You were made for this, agapetos. Sing for me.”
Mydei paused again and pulled back almost entirely, the head of his cock, with the sharp feel of the piercing, grazed the very entrance before plunging back in with punishing force, mashing the head of his cock deep into your tender cervix, sending a shockwave of sensation through your pussy. You arched backwards, trying to get away, but he was unmoving like a giant rock.
“I said, sing for me,” he commanded, the low growl intensifying to a dominant snarl. His massive palm glided down from your belly to the place where you took him in so good. Calloused fingers stroked your labia as if to coax you into compliance, running a thumb across your clit, fingertips stroking your stretched hole that swallowed his fat length.
“N-no,” you choked out, the word barely a gasp against the damp cotton, a pathetic stand against the tidal wave of hormones he pressed on you. And the scariest part of it all – your body was already betraying you, arching slightly, hips trying to meet his relentless rhythm.
“My mate. Don’t deny the truth that runs in your slick,” Mydei murmured, his voice thick with sincere affection. “That's what family is. That's what love is.”
You couldn’t answer anymore. The rhythmic insistence of his fingers, the damned feeling from his deep pounding, and the hormonal wash of his sandalwood musk – all of it broke down the last of your resistance. Your sobs finally gave way to a series of involuntary whimpers that Kremnoan’d been waiting for. Your slick, already profuse, gushed, turning the bedding beneath your hips into a wet mess.
“There it is,” Mydei purred, the sound vibrating through his chest and into the hollowness between your ribs. He shifted behind you, bringing your top leg higher and tucking it flush against your side, opening you wider, rawer, absolutely obscene, "good girl, so perfect f'me…"
With these words, Mydei drove in with the reckless energy of a man possessed, finally aiming his force at the deepest part of your womb, where he had been meticulously depositing his seed for month.
His fingers pressed into your clit, his thumb grinding down relentlessly while his hips hammered against your rear. The friction of the pierced cock, the pressure on your womb, the overwhelming hormonal bath, and the merciless stimulation of your channel became too much. It was a humiliating and violent affair; a wave of convulsions that had nothing to do with joy and everything to do with a body finally giving up the fight. Your inner walls weakly spasmed around his shaft, clenching and squeezing in an involuntary reflex that felt as if your entire core was being wrung dry.
“Good girl,” Mydei cooed, and your vision fractured, the burning throb inside you escalating into a white-hot storm. A heartfelt cry tore from your throat, no longer muffled, but a clear and loud shriek of shattering desperation. Your entire body convulsed in his arms, and your hips bucked in a final spasm, sending another torrent of hot slick gushing down his thighs. Just like this, you were done for, momentarily deaf and blind to everything but the all-consuming release that sent a sharp pain through your belly.
“Good girl!” Mydei roared, his voice a sound of primal triumph, the scent of his iron and sandalwood now exploding into a choking scent of ruined battlefield.
"Taking such good care of our kids, agapētos!" The sensation was unbearable to him, the forceful pounding almost reopening the internal wounds you were fighting to heal. Deep in your cunt, his cock throbbed desperately.
"Now give me another one!" Your mate roared over your head as his knot swelled, his piercings grating violently against your walls one last time before the thick tissue of flesh locked him inside you with a heavy throb.
His cock emptied itself into you. Wave after wave of thick seed gushed against your cervix, entering your womb, hopefully starting the next cycle.
"Such a good little momma you are... Gonna give us many more, yeah? Bet 'Cander, Eos, and Thalla would love to have lots of playmates…"
Biting/Marking Kink (giving/receiving)
There is no denial that almost every yandere is possessive of their darling, and of course, Mydei isn't an exception. What I would like to talk about here is where this side of him takes root and how he expresses it.
In Tempest!Mydei’s culture, ownership is displayed not by rings or deeds, but by the visible testament of the bite. This tradition stems directly from the culture of Castrum Kremnos, an archaic, militaristic, Spartan-like society within the greater realm of Amorpheus. A marked neck is seen as a declaration of allegiance, of belonging to a specific lineage, a specific Alpha. The history of his culture states that the stronger the bite, the stronger the connection to the lineages, and the higher the expected output of heirs. Such scars are badges of honor, proving a connection to a powerful line.
For Mydei himself, the tradition is too powerful to resist. His biting kink is the respect for the culture of his homeland, the tribute to his ancestors, the visceral expression of his territoriality. Each new bruise, each fresh break in the skin, is a testament to his renewed claim, his victory over any lingering doubt that you might one day escape their control.
This evening, when Mydei finally bullied another creamy load right into your awaiting womb, he collapsed between you and Phainon, and his heavy head fell to the exposed side of your throat, his jaw stretching in a predatory yawn. The tiny beads of sweat on your skin felt like salt in an open wound as his canines scraped against the overused flesh near your scent gland.
Your neck was already a grotesque tapestry, a geography of ownership – layered bruises of mottled red scars from Phainon’s frantic bites, and the softer ones – a dedicated presses of Mydei’s canines.
His teeth never hesitated, even if his mind did sometimes. His fangs sank in hard enough to break the surface, sending a sting of hot pain that was so intense it tore a desperate whimper from your throat. The raw pain, however, was quickly washed over by the immense relief of his pleased pheromones flooding your senses, dulling your reality into a black nothingness.
Mine. Safe. Ours.
Beads of deep crimson blood welled up, mixing with the sweat and your own slick scent. Mydei licked them clean with a swipe of his tongue before he settled down for the night. His cock, creamy with Phainon’s previous load that he fucked deeper into you, his own thick cum, and your natural slick, rested on his meaty thigh, tiny beads of his Jacob's ladder glimmering on the softening shaft.
Mydeimos, still panting, bared his own neck, the flesh thick and muscled, waiting for the familiar sting. And it always came, because Phainon had taught you with terrifying efficacy what would happen if you disobeyed. Obedient as usual, you weakly sank your teeth into Mydei’s neck to prove your subjugation and secure a momentary peace. Phainon, eyes never leaving your marked throat, joined you, sinking his own fangs deep into Mydei’s skin on the other side, completing the pack bond.
“Good mates, so good…” the blond purred through his paling lips, bleeding on the pillow contentedly.
Bodyhair Fetish
Now then, by this paragraph, you should understand that Tempest!Mydeimos is a man consumed by nature's laws. For him, body hair is the ultimate signal of this primal state, a visible flag of your inherent animalism. So, no razors, no waxes, no creams (for you, at least. They need razors to shave their facial hair like the two faced bastards they are).
The clean, pre-packaged aesthetic of modern life holds no appeal for him. Instead, he loves the musky aroma that clings to the soft pubes between your legs, as it’s a visible extension of your scent gland, a flag of your reshaped nature. The soft, wiry chaos of the unkempt strands meant that your body is fully surrendering to its purpose.
What do you mean it's scratchy and uncomfortable? His ancestors have been living like this for centuries! Stop trying to deny your own biology and comply, as a good Omega must.
Buckle up (and say goodbye to the last bits of your bodily autonomy), because your opinion doesn't matter. This is the disgusting truth of your new existence, where your own flesh betrays you simply by growing hairs that Mydei find so appealing.
The morning after a particularly rough night was his favorite time for the ritual. Your opening was still raw and tender from the harsh double filling, swollen folds still holding the mingled musk of his and Phainon’s seed. Mydei, delighted by yet another successful mating, licked and kissed your filthy pussy, his mouth working its way down the swollen folds, occasionally darting deep into the slick entrance of your cunt, tasting the remnants of last night’s filling. The disorder, the smell, the sensation of your pubes tickling his cheeks, lips, and tongue, the necessity of working through the mess, heightened his own arousal to an almost unbearable degree. It was messy, it was dirty, it was beautifully uncivilized, and it was yours, which made it undeniably his.
"You still taste of us," he mumbled against your clit, his tongue working around the swollen pearl, the praise low and continuous. "I love it."
The rhythmic pressure quickly pushed you past the point of intellectual resistance. You were whimpering and arching against his face, wailing like a trapped animal.
"Perfect, love," he sighed, his chest rumbling against your thigh. "You smell like a good Omega should. You smell like a pack."
Even Phainon, red as a tomato, submitted to this primal routine as a show of shared allegiance to Mydei's primal demand. Our Golden Boy’s light-colored body hair was coarse and plentiful, and Mydei occasionally required the same ritual of burying his face in his pale curls, seeking the same confirmation of primal biology.
This often happened late at night, after you had finally succumbed to exhaustion and passed out after another too-harsh round of lovemaking. After pleasuring you, Mydei slid over to Phainon, cupping the other Alpha's flaccid cock. Phainon, ever the horny one, was instantly hard, his knotted shaft springing up like a weapon, weeping on his abs and demanding attention again. Mydei dropped his head, taking the demanding length into his mouth. The air in the room grew thick with two competing scents, Mydei’s aged leather battling Phainon’s obsessive ash.
"You’re just delaying the inevitable," Phainon rasped, his voice tight with lust, clutching Mydei’s hair. "She’ll be screaming for my knot again in an hour. You know she needs it."
Mydei paused his rhythmic sucking, pulling back only far enough to speak, his eyes dark, lips brushing the weeping tip of his mate. "She is already full of us both, Phai. Be content with this for now and let me enjoy you."
With these words, he gulped down the rigid shaft, making the other choke on his lustful pleas.
Pregnancy Fetish
Okay, now it is time to talk a little bit more about the Castrum Kremnos traditions, which influenced Mydei’s world views greatly. The core of Mydei’s being, rooted in the traditionalist culture of Castrum Kremnos, is the family structure. The society that he was born into is the backbone of Amorpheus’s military. In the past, it actively prized strength and required constant and mass-scale reproduction to replace the fallen soldiers.
So yeah, it's only natural that the Cult of War and Battle is as sacred as the Cult of Motherhood and Fertility. A pregnant body is not merely admired; it is revered as the ideal form, a living blessing from the gods, the most potent state one could achieve. The emphasis on fitness and procreation elevated the fertile Kremnoans to a semi-divine status. And nowadays, even in a peaceful world, his people still preserve this side of the Kremnoan culture.
Mydei had grown up in the shadow of this ideal. His own parents, two Betas who miraculously birthed an Alpha, were anomalies whose single-child family had left him yearning. Experiencing the uncanny loneliness of childhood, Mydei had vowed that his own family would be vast, a minimum of six children, a fortress of his lineage. He was genuinely overjoyed that both he and Phainon contributed to your pregnancies, seeing it as the ultimate expression of the reverent feeling they harboured for you.
Therefore, this Kremnoan here is obsessed with your evolving body: the way your skin stretches taut and then softly collapses into the aftermath, the tired curve of your aching back, and, most of all, your full breasts, heavy and engorged with milk for your pups. You glow, a Juno of their own design, the living embodiment of Kremnoan strength.
The moment the very first pregnancy test showed two lines, confirming Alcander's conception, Mydei’s libido became a continuous need, sustained even after your first was born. Blonde’s hands were a constant presence, either resting on the baby bump or cupping your leaking breasts.
He constantly spoke to the babies, his baritone rumbling against your stretched skin.
“Alcander, my little pup,” he whispered, kneeling in front of you in the dim lights of the dining room, his lips pressed to your navel. “Your fathers are waiting. Your mother is taking such good care of you. We love you. Grow beautiful and strong for us, okay?”
Mydei was meticulous in performing his duties as the caring partner. It was a rigorous ritual of self-justification, his way of proving he was a good Alpha, a devoted family man, even as he kept you imprisoned.
However, Mydei was still an empathetic man, even after what he’s done to you.
That’s why, maybe, juuust maybe, somewhere in the back of his mind, some alarm was going off.
The look of distress on your face appeared too often, and the sounds that you made sounded too much like suppressed grief.
Well, too bad that Mydei was not only empathetic, but dedicated as well. That actually helped him convince himself and silence the inner sirens.
Not paying attention to your distressed, bitter smell, he would kneel to tie your shoes, his massive hands carefully lacing the fabric. After the short walk in the garden (only in his or Phainon’s presence, not more than 30 minutes a day), he would sit for hours, kneading your swollen feet, massaging the cramps and aches from your body. Mydei would even help you with the painful ritual of milk expression, his large warm hands gently massaging your full breasts, squeezing the viscous liquid into the small pump, ensuring the continuity of the Omega function.
And for you, my dear, that cognitive dissonance would be agonizing.
One late night, you lay in the massive nest, sandwiched between Phainon’s restless heat and Mydei’s solid presence. Your rounded belly, unbelievably heavy and swollen with ‘Candder, pressed into Mydei’s taut abs. In his sleep, your mate arched his back, curling protectively over your front, with his hand splayed over your belly.
As Mydei’s thumb sleepily rubbed a soothing circles over your skin, your mind betrayed you.
Maybe…
In another life, in another world, without the madness, the possessiveness, the compulsion…
Mydei could have been a perfect partner.
He could have been a wonderful husband and a truly marvelous father.
He could have been so lovable…
The thought was instantly followed by a fresh flood of tears. It was the crushing weight of what could have been colliding with the brutal reality of what is.
The deep bruises on your hips, the layered bite marks on your neck, the memory of turning – all of it reminded you of your gilded cage. You quickly bit the edge of the pillow, muffling your sobs, terrified that your tears might wake the two monsters on either side of you. The last thing you needed was for them to mistake your grief for a need for "comfort," which always ended in another agonizing session.
Period Sex
The menstrual cycle, when it arrives (rarely, as you can probably guess), brings with it a sense of failure for Mydeimos. He doesn’t see the blood as a simple biological process, a natural rhythm of the body. He sees it as a stark confirmation that they both failed. He and Phainon failed to seize the opportunity, failed to place another child in your womb, failed to fulfill their sacred duty. He, the Alpha of the house, failed his beloved mates.
This sense of crushing guilt manifests as a strange sense of bloodlust, rooted deep in his core. It is a primal arousal Mydei can’t explain, yet rationalizes instantly. He justifies it as an apology, a necessary treatment, a form of personal penance. He firmly believes that the physical pleasure of intense sex helps to alleviate period cramps. So, if he failed in breeding you, he can at least try to help you live through these vulnerable times. It is his duty, his perverse act of care for his suffering mate.
Mydeimos would find you curled up in your massive nest, pale and aching, the metallic scent of fresh blood reaching his keen nose even from the doorway. He paused there, letting the copper odor seep into him, inhaling deeply, like a starved animal finding its fill. He wasn’t disgusted, not in the slightest. He was content like a satiated lion in the sun, because you smelled like a pack and a prey all at once – like the poisoning addition stripped bare just of him.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he murmured, his voice deep and heavy with misplaced responsibility, even as his eyes glittered with an unsettling excitement. “We will fix this. Let me help you, yeah?”
Your resistance, your soft tears, shy protests of embarrassment and pain, meant nothing. Mydei had long ago convinced himself that his actions were for your benefit, that his care and touch were curative. Your quiet pleas were merely the confused sounds of a pet refusing medicine.
He moved to the bed. His large hands immediately pressed down onto your aching abdomen, firm and unrelenting, as if trying to massage your womb into compliance. The pressure was intense and jarring against your cramps. The sight of the fresh blood soaking the makeshift cloth between your legs, the scent of the coppery mess, sent a jolt of something dark and ancient through his core, a memory of the hunt, of the feast, of dominance.
Mydei was on you in a second, a blur of motion, lowering his head between your trembling thighs. You cried out in pain and terror, the sound muffled by the pillow. He didn’t stop. He buried his face in the bloody folds, his breath hot and humid against your sticky flesh. His tongue immediately went to work, lapping at the crimson mess, consuming it with an obscene pleasure.
You, poor, desperate thing, tried to object, whimpering and sobbing, threading your fingers through his blond hair to push his head away. The feeling of his mouth there, the hot, wet suction on your bleeding flesh, the metallic tang filling the air above you, made bile rise in your throat. You wanted to vomit when he feasted on you.
“P-please stop,” you begged desperately, the words barely a whisper, your voice choked with tears. “It hurts, Mydei, I feel sick.”
Driven by his singular arousal and the potent taste of your life fluid, Mydeimos only deepened the pressure of his mouth. He sucked your clit into the hot cavern of his mouth, trying to elicit a needed response, a gush of more taste.
“This will help, my love,” he grunted, his voice thick with pleasure and his twisted self-justification. “You’ll feel better in a moment, I promise.”
“N-no, no, stop,” you buckled your hips instinctively, trying to escape the pain and the sheer revulsion. Tears now flowed freely down your temples, pooling on the pillow. It was too painful, too disgusting, too violating. And when you tried to buck away, he answered with two thick fingers plunging deep into your hurting core. Mydei used the blood and the natural slick as lubrication, pulling them out nice and glistening. He was focused solely on the taste and the texture: the iron tang of the blood, the thicker, sweeter slick of your arousal, the soft, fleshy folds of your lips against his mouth.
“Stop this,” he growled when you bucked again, trying to save the last bits of your tarnished dignity. As a measure of punishment, his teeth scraped against your clit. Mydei worked his tongue deep inside your hole, tasting the concentrated mess in your channel, pushing past the clot and mucus until his chin was damp with the runoff.
This was one of the few moments when he did not care about your pleasure at all, only for his own overwhelming need. The blood from the womb was the only blood that wasn't forged by violence, and maybe that's why it was the tastiest.
Or maybe just because it was yours.
Mydei kept you trapped, forcing you to grind and buckle against his face until your body betrayed you. You finally stopped thrashing, arching, and exploding with a nauseous orgasm against his lips, too exhausted and disgusted to continue the fight.
Finally, when Mydei licked the obscene remains, he pulled back. He hovered above you, his massive, muscled body taut, his face stained crimson in your blood. He looked like a primordial predator who had just finished his kill. The sight was terrifying, but the hollowness in your chest cavity suggested nothing at the sight. He licked his lips clean, slowly, deliberately, a low, satisfied snarl rumbling in his chest, his eyes fixed not on the bloody mess below, but on your miserable face.
And God forbid Mydeimos looked down between your legs and saw the rawness of your folds, the deep red stain on the bedding, the swelling of your flesh. He would see the raw tenderness of your flesh and told himself with a renewed surge of delusion that his fingers and tongue hadn’t gone deep enough.
“Do not worry, love. Phainon and I will work harder. We will ensure this never happens again. All these problems, all this pain, are solvable,” he whispered, brushing your hair back from your forehead with a blondied finger. His touch left a smear of crimson on your skin, a horrifying alpha mark.
And then, with a final, obscene justification, he settled his rock-hard cock over your bleeding cunt, using the slickness to guide his way. The mix of warm blood and spit was the perfect lubricant for him. One rough, thrust, and Mydei bried himself in your bleeding womb.
“Now,” he whispered, his voice soft, almost devotional, “Let me give your womb a couple of soothing kisses. Just to make sure those cramps are truly gone, yeah?
Hello, my loves!
It's been quite a while, isnt it?
To be honest, November hit my mental health incredibly hard, and my physical health suffered as a result. I realized I had to step back and take a break. Trying to balance 3 jobs, uni, and writing a couple of fics at once completely overwhelmed me. I was always tired, easily irritated, and had zero focus. So, any attempt to write in that state ended up being la garbage~.
(The one exception is that Ratio/Reader/Aventurine piece from the Tempestverse. It's dark because it was written during a low point, but I'm still proud of it haha)
Regarding this piece, I hope you enjoy it. It's still a little rough around the edges and maybe not my best, but please be patient with me. Shaking off this unexpected state of mine is much harder than I anticipated.
You are free to send me any thoughts on this verse any time (yes, even tho my requests are closed, this series is an exception). Tumblr or AO3. However, I kindly request that you check my rules first.
I also have several other ideas and I wanted to hear your opinions on what i should post next in this verse:
What to post next (Tempestverse)?
Ratio/Reader/Aventurine (1st part).
What if our reader was more bold and stubborn? (Bratty!Beta!Reader route)
Phainon's kinks
Stellaron hunters…
Gallagher
Other suggestions (send a request or just comment this post c: )
an ask for the tempest au in phadei route. What if Darling was infertile or had her tubes tied before any of them met? I can see if mydei is frustrated about this but I think that he would try to adopt a child. I don't see him liking surrogate thing (forgot what its called) but would he turn to that option if he's really desperate? (If he wants the child to have his kremnoan blood)I don't know about phainon though ;-;
I have so many questions about the possibilities
TempestVerse: Ask
Darling can't bear children
College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Alpha!Phainon x Beta!Reader x Yandere!Alpha!Mydei
wordcount: ~2000
tws: MNDI, DARKFIC, NON-CON/DUB-CON (nothing graphic), yandere, obsessive/possessive behaviour, POLY-REALATIONSHIP, infertility, domestic violence, mind break, body dysphoria, drugging, gaslighting, pregnancy, lactation, this is highly disturbing.
(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.
Hello, darling!
Thank you for your ideas and your ask, let's dig into it!
Im sorry to say that, but both options are impossible in the Phaidei route. Both of them just don't want to bring a stranger’s creation into their perfect world. It would be an impurity, a weak link, a living reminder that they failed to fully claim you.
But!
But.
I do think their reactions would differ depending on why you can’t bear a child… even if the outcome, in the end, remains the same.
So, lets break it down!
Option 1: Tubes tied
The words leave your lips in the fragile quiet of the living room, a final gambit. The last attempt to persuade them to let you go. You’ve rehearsed it in the hollow of your skull for weeks.
“I can’t give you children. I had my tubes tied.”
The silence that follows is a physical thing, thick as the ash-scent that suddenly clogs the air. Mydei, who had been wiping the pan in the kitchen doorway, goes utterly still. The cloth in his hand stops its rhythmic circle. His eyes, usually warm like aged whiskey, freeze over into chips of amber ice.
Phainon, who had been smiling at you as he watched you fold a blanket, is stunned. His smile shatters. His head cocks, bird-like, unnervingly slow.
“…What?”
“It’s irreversible,” you whisper, your voice a dry leaf. “S-so you should… you should let me go.”
“Let you go?” Phainon repeats the words as if they’re in a foreign tongue. Then he laughs. It’s a short sound, sharp like a knife. He stands up from the sofa. The movement is fluid, too controlled.
“Phainon,” Mydei’s voice is a low warning, but it’s distant, underwater.
Phainon doesn’t hear him. He’s walking toward you, and the air curdles.
“It was my choice–” you try, scrambling back until your spine hits the wall, “I did it before the university–”
“Phainon!” Mydei shifts somewhere in the background.
“Right. Your choice.”
His hand rises.
Then, a blur of motion and a heavier thud. Mydei is on him. The sound of fists on flesh is sickening – a rhythmic pounding. Mydei's growling, each word punctuated by a hit.
“Don't. You. Dare!”
Phainon doesn’t fight back. He sobs into the rug, choking on ash and misery, his own vision clouding from the impact. “She killed our kids!”
You crumble on the floor, tasting grief, all senses screaming at you to run. Yet, you just sit there and watch the man who kidnapped you get beaten to a pulp by the man who helped him, all for trying to hit you.
The irony is so black it sucks the light from the room.
Option 2: Infertile
The silence in therapists office is loud. The words hang, clinical and final:
"Infertile."
For a moment, nothing. Then, the world fractures along two very different fault lines.
Phainon doesn't move. His oh so golden-boy smile is still technically on his face, but it's a fossil. His eyes, fixed on the doctor, go flat and dead, like the surface of a frozen lake. You are so sure you can hear the ice cracking beneath. His scent, usually with masked bergamot, bleeds through – pure, acrid smoke, the smell of something precious burning to nothing.
Mydei is the one who speaks, his voice is a low but desperate rumble.
"There are procedures. Transplants. Hormonal reconstructions. We have resources."
He's already calculating, mapping a campaign against biology itself. But his hand, resting on your thigh, has clenched so tight the tendons stand like cables, his knuckles white against his tattooed skin. He is hurting you with his grip, but you make no move.
"With all due respect," poor beta doctor whispers, shrinking back, "The chances are almost at zero."
Next, they declare war, clinging to that soft and scared ‘almost’.
Mydei leads the charge with grim pragmatism. He commissions researches, bribes specialists from Amphoreus and beyond, turns a wing of the house into a sterile clinic, learns ancient Kremnoan remedies, uses cutting-edge IPC biotechnology that borders on the grotesque. He forces hope down Phainon's throat like bitter medicine.
"We will fix this. If there is a will, there is a way."
He needs the physical proof so desperately – the swollen belly, the child with his lion’s-mane hair or Phainon’s summer-sky eyes. His frustration is a cold thing that bleeds through his stoic appearance. He’d stop letting you wear anything but loose shifts, unable to bear the sight of your flat stomach. He’d cook rich, heavy meals meant to “build you up,” and watch, jaw tight, as you picked at them, your own body rejecting the role it’s meant to play.
Phainon's strategy is different. If Mydei’s approach is a charge, then his is a siege. If your body won't accept life, he will pound it into submission. The nest becomes a battleground. Sex loses any pretense of pleasure, even the twisted kind. It's him pinning you down, his movements frantic, sobbing into your neck.
"Take it. Please, please, just take it. Why won't you just work?" His knot locks in place, swelling relentlessly.
But the truth burns through his composure, leaving behind the raw, ash-stained creature from Aedes Elysia. He rages. He weeps. He spends himself inside you until he’s shaking and empty, begging your body to change its mind. He would spend every last credit, burn every bridge, sell his own organs to buy you a new womb if he could.
Because for PhaiDei!Phainon, a child is the proof. The proof that his future, the one he carved out of fire and blood and stole you for, is real. Without it, he is hollow. It feels like losing his home all over again.
Meanwhile, you are poked, prodded, injected with experimental hormones that make you sick and dizzy. The house stinks of clinical alcohol, bitter herbs, and the desperate musk of two Alphas trying to defy a death sentence.
And it fails. Every test, every procedure, ends the same. The final scan shows the same barren landscape.
Either way, they won't let you go.
Adoption/Surrogate
Mydei, ever the strategist, tries to pivot. He brings home dossiers. Pictures of orphaned children.
Phainon takes one look and…
"Get that out of my sight," he snarls, voice trembling with revulsion. "You want to bring a stranger into our nest? That is not our family."
Mydei is quieter in his rejection, but no less absolute. He flicks through the files with a disdainful curl of his lip. He tries-tries-tries to convince himself, but It is not the same. The blood does not sing. It would be a pet, at best. He needs a child that is a fusion—of your potential, of his lineage, of Phainon's desperate need. A child of shared blood. Anything else is a hollow prop.
Surrogacy is worse. The idea of another Omega carrying a child with his blood, Phainon’s seed… The night it’s discussed, Phainon almost gags over the kitchen sink, dry-heaving. “I can’t,” he rasps, tears of humiliation mixing with bile in his throat. “It’s a betrayal. It’s filthy.” He looks at you, sat on the Mydei’s lap at the table, his expression one of utter agony. And the Kremnoan can't help but agree with him.
So when every option turns to ash in their mouths, the solution presents itself from within the family.
How?
If you were turned into an Omega, then, there is a possibility…
“If she cannot carry it… then one of us must.”
The implication hangs between them. Mydei, the pillar, cannot bend. His role is fixed. But Phainon… Phainon is already broken. He was broken from the very beggining, he thinks.
What’s one more fracture?
They don't tell you what is going on, but Phainon leaves the house for one month, and when he returns, he is paler, thinner, trembling. His scent is wrong. The burning ash is still there, but now it’s buried under a sickly-sweet overlay, like flowers on a funeral pyre. He smells of ruin and submission. He can’t meet your eyes.
And when Phainon’s first, artificially induced heat hits, it’s a nightmare of need and self-loathing. He’ll beg for Mydei, cling to him, present for him, all while screaming inside. He’ll glare at you with tears in his eyes, begging a silent accusation: This is your fault. You made me into this. The least you could do is hold me through it!
The first time Mydei touches him after the change, it’s different. It’s not the fierce, competitive fucking of rivals that it used to be. It lacks passion, desire, any twisted thing that they tried to call love. Mydei pins him down on you, and Phainon shakes with a shame so deep it’s atomic. When Mydei’s knot locks inside him, Phainon sobs in humiliation. This is his sacrifice.
And one day…
“Darling! Congratulations!” the Phainon’s voice singsongs as he holds up the pregrancy test in his hand, hugging you and rubbing your belly with another.
“You are pregnant!”
When Phainon’s abdomen finally swells, the uncanny wrongness of it is breathtaking. There's alien mound distorting his once athletic form. He is ill, constantly nauseated, his emotions a storm. But he endures, hiding the obscene swell under the big shapeless hoodies.
And they treat you like the pregnant one.
You are put on a regime of hormones so potent they make you dizzy. Your breasts, heavy with milk, are sore. Your body, softer, fatter, more tender, feels wrong. Mydei forces you into loose, flowing dresses – maternity wear that they just adore on you. He rubs oil on your legs, and talks to your belly.
“Is our little brat giving you trouble today?” he asks, his voice tender as he kisses your forehead and places hand on the patch of fat under your navel.
“A b-bit,” is all that you manage, small and horrified, trying to ignore the sounds of gagging coming from the bathroom, feeling yet another bit of your sanity sinking.
“The baby is moving so much today,” Phainon will sometimes whisper, his hand on his own stomach, before catching himself. His eyes dart to you, wide with panic and a desperate, shared complicity. He takes your hand and presses it to your stomach. “Can you feel it? Your baby?”
If you try to speak the truth – "It’s in him!" – the punishment is swift. Not a beating (they’d never induce any sort of violence on they pregnant wife, mind you), but a withdrawal. Mydei will look at you with dark disappointment. Phainon will weep as if you’ve stabbed him. They will leave you alone in the dark nursery, whispering to each other outside about how the pregnancy hormones are affecting your mind, making you confused.
When Phainon’s labor begins, it is a horrific event. He is laid in the nest, with a couple of shady doctors that his cousins have found circling around him. You are laid next to him and given a heavy sedative. The last thing you hear is Phainon’s muffled scream, a sound of unimaginable rupture.
You wake up with a baby – a beautiful boy with Phainon's blue eyes and Mydei's fierce mane of a hair – placed on your bare chest. Phainon is beside you, exhausted, hollow-eyed, but radiant with a mad joy. His stomach is flat, and wrapped in numerous bandages.
"Look," Phainon breathes, pressing the infant to your chest. The baby roots instinctively, latching onto your swollen nipple. A shock of unnatural sensation jolts through you. “He has your nose,” Phainon murmurs, hollow, but his gaze is fixed on you with a same demanding love.
"You gave us such a gift, my love," Mydei murmurs to you from the edge of the nest, kissing your temple as you nurse.
The lie becomes the truth. Phainon, as soon as he’s able, submitts to another brutal process to revert, to burn the Omega out of him. To survive the cognitive dissonance, he kills the truth. He makes himself believe, with every fiber of his broken being, that you carried this child. That the nightmare in the clinic, the degradation, the heat, the birth – all that was all a fever dream.
Mydei, ever the the strategist, will support this lie forever. It’s the only way the equation balances. It’s the only way his family is whole. He destroyes all evidence. The doctors are paid obscenely to shut their mouths and give your family the right papers.
You are the mother in these.
You have always been the mother.
Say it until you believe it.
Say it.
.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!
Taglist is closed for this one. (sorry~)
According to the poll, the next full-blown chap will be Phainon's kinks!
Meanwhile, I will be answering some asks c;
Main fiction (Amphoreus):
Tempest pt.1 (yandere!alpha!Phainon x beta!reader)
Tempest pt.2 - only on AO3
Tempest pt.3
Anaxagoras route (yandere!beta!Anaxa x beta!reader)
Phaidei route (yandere!alpha!Phainon x beta!reader x yandere!alpha!Mydei)
Mydei's kinks
Tempest-verse asks (Amphoreus):
Children's future and the "Golden Boy" yanderes.
Graduation?
Logistics and how ABO bonds work in this AU.
Making the Tempest-verse bigger and ooc Phainon.
Phainon's + Phaidei's yandere!kids
Reader dies/becomes unresponsive - only on AO3
PhaiNaxa thoughts
PhaiDei: Darling can't bear children - you are here
Main fiction pt. 2 (Penacony):
Penacony intro 1.1. (yandere!Omega!Robin x Beta!reader)
Penacony intro 1.2. (yandere!OakSibilings x Beta!reader)
Oh... that bit where Beta!Reader's own parents would have happily handed her to a 'proper' Alpha like Phainon, because it fits what their perspective of success, hurts. Yikes. And here I thought Reader's parents would have worried about her. Like, I asked about the logistics, but the answers were a punch in the gut.
Mating Bite Rules are awful. She doesn't even have the pheromone/bonding/biological impulses that make them acceptable. So she must have been the exceedingly rare Beta born from non-Beta parents.
Tempest-verse expanding into a possible yandere stand-off, however, is an Idea. Imagine being Reader, getting stalked by Golden Boy Phainon only for other Golden Boy/Old Money kid Mydei to stick his head into the building because wtf is his rival doing.
I'd throw in the towel and transfer out of that Uni myself. This ABO Alphas competing over a mate ain't something I'd have signed for, literally. Imagining Beta!Reader living out many an Omega's Wildest Dream of being the protagonist of a Campus AU Romance K-drama, but it being her personal worst nightmare. Reader living in a Psychological thriller/horror genre.
She was just here for her degree and then off to the workforce, probably expecting to be an office lady renting a tiny apartment somewhere and paying bills on her own! Was that too much to ask for?
TempestVerse: PhaiDei route
College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Alpha!Phainon x Beta!Reader x Yandere!Alpha!Mydei
wordcount: ~4700
tws: MNDI, DARKFIC, NON-CON/DUB-CON, yandere, obsessive/possessive behaviour, POLY-REALATIONSHIP, threesome, drugging, gaslighting, bitching, forced & sexualized pregnancy, they are nasty, this is highly 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, darlings!
Such interesting ideas you give me, hehe!
I'd say that Phai himself would not see a need to bitch you into Omega. I mean, It could happen but he doesn’t have this goal.
However, some things are destined to happen, and all it takes is a little push: a little more 'Alpha' in the air. See that cooking club president? The one with red tattoos all over his body? He is staring for a bit too long. You just might be his next favourite dish.
I'd avoid his cooking, though.
Not unless you like your food with a side of special Alpha sauce.
Yandere team-up?
All in all, I believe Mydei and Phainon wouldn't fight over you. They would team up instead.
It is a yandere union that is not only possible – it is terrifyingly likely to happen. You have seen their canon dynamic, haven’t you? (They kiss dirty when the screen goes black, trust me). Frenemies. Rivals-lovers. Something that couldn't become one but desperately yearns for it.
So, unless Phainon deliberately hides his hunger in the presence of Mydei, like he did in the Main Story, you are fated to be caught between them. And might even enjoy it to some degree (given you are not afraid of what's written in "what's next" part, heh).
A strange mercy, perhaps, within the storm of the Tempest-verse. For they do not cancel each other out, but fuse into something whole:
To Mydei, you are the gentle gravity that drags tenderness out of his heart, soothing the violence stitched into his bones and giving him a reason to shield. To Phainon, you are the future to pursue, the fragile flame he longs to carry forward in his smoke-stained hands. Between them, you are the balance, the missing piece that allowed their instincts to align instead of clash.
How it would happen:
Mydei towers above the crowd, impossible to ignore, his gaze lingering with slow hunger as his white-haired rival slips into Anaxagoras' class. Crimson tattoos, raw as if inked in blood, coil and snarl across the swell of his bronzed muscles. When he folds his thick arms, the fabric of his tight white tee strains, flesh shifting beneath in a display of brute strength. A soft hum escapes him, low and knowing, his twin snake-bite piercings flashing like teeth as his lips curve in amusement. His hair, wild and reddish like a lion’s mane after the kill, falls forward when he tilts his head to go. The scent of iron, sandalwood, and aged leather wraps him in an aura that makes other students stay away in the crowded hallways.
A rebellious son in exile, Mydeimos is descended from Castrum Kremnos' old nobility. By his parents' will, he was enrolled at the University far away from home to tame his rebellious spirit. But this Alpha thrives in every arena, and the university grounds are no exception. He is leading the cooking club with effortless precision, captaining star-level athletics as though born to it, and excelling in linguistics with finesse. Awards, trophies, accolades – they hang off him like a leather jacket he tosses over one shoulder in passing.
At first, his interest is little more than a counter-move. Phainon circles you like a wolf, and Mydei is really curious what his rival is up to. Thus, the Kremnoan circles you too, just from an instinct. He inserts himself into your life slowly, asks you about classes, about languages that you know, about the words you like best in your mouth. He laughs when you answer and pretends it’s only the game that he plays to irritate Phainon.
But that game becomes a habit, and habit becomes an obsession.
Unlike Phainon, Mydeimos is knowledgeable. In the Tempest-verse, his parents would be betas (Or at least his mother. I don't really know how to explain this, but it seems so fitting for some reason). Therefore, he is familiar with the customs of your kind, and he knows how to court you properly.
Join his club and you'll find him in the kitchen after meetings, wiping the same cutting board thrice while you wash your hands. He'll teach you to knead dough just so, to taste sauces with the gentlest touch, and every movement carries a weight, a pulse of something feral you have yet to see. He lingers on your movements, and the heavy scent of him is a presence that seeps into your senses without you noticing.
Mydei finds you during lunch as well. He leaves his usual table and sits across from you, shoulders broad, eyes narrowing in concentration as he studies the smallest twitch of your mouth or hand. When he notices how small your meals are, he begins to prepare food just for you, claiming practice. But the meals are richer, each bite carrying the subtle imprint of his desire.
Sometimes he spills something special into your portion. A slick, hidden warmth in the sauce, a secret meant for no one but him. You eat, savoring his dishes happily, while he watches, taut with need, enjoying the sight of your body relaxing, curled into his hoodie (What? Betas’ bodies are weaker than Alphas’ and Omegas’, and you are trembling. Take it, Beta).
In the library, it becomes quieter, more intimate. Kremnoan finds excuses to brush past your chair, to lean close over the same book, to catch your fingers in a shared page, the proximity a slow tightening of a coil. His hands hover just longer than necessary, his gaze tracing your lips as you whisper, “Hi, Mydei,” almost every morning now.
Outside the university, too. Walks in the evening sun, lingering in alleys half-hidden from the bustle, sharing a drink (Literally. Mydei is almost deepthroating your straw, but you are too consumed by the dessert to notice) – every moment carefully carved to be yours alone.
And Phainon, with his furnace-heart and wildfire mind, truly sees what is unfolding.
His fury is a volcano, molten and seething, ready to consume everything in its path. Yet Mydei, pragmatic where Phainon is tempestuous, does not clash against that rage. He smirks instead, folding meaty hands over his broad chest.
“Why fight each other,” he suggests, voice calm but sharp, “when we could keep her together? Yours, mine. Ours. It would be easier for both.”
These words silence Phainon, and shock flashes across his face because before you, they had been brothers-in-arms of sorts, rivals bound by fate, not blood. And to spill each other would mean losing the only person who had ever matched another. And for that reason alone, Phainon hesitates. For that reason alone, he agrees.
Hands are shaken in silence.
Under the guise of protection, Mydei takes the lead. He calls you with a familiar voice, the same one that laughs beside you in the cooking club, saying he needs help. With economics, of all things. A simple excuse, ridiculous enough to be believable, because he is bad at math, and you have always been soft-hearted enough to agree.
And so you come to him, unaware that this is no study session. His house swallows you whole, the walls thick with promises. He smiles, leading you into the kitchen first, pulling out the juice box and a cup as if this were truly about just studying.
Of course, it is not.
Beneath the pretense, Alpha watches you accept the cup full of pomegranate juice, grateful to his parents for buying the whole cottage for him, as nobody would bother you three here.
You take the first sip.
Mydei smiles.
The bedroom is too rich, too heavy, too much for you – floor-to-ceiling drapery in wine-red and sapphire, gold-thread tassels swaying gently in the air, a room with the weight of wealthy lineage in each detail.
You were in this house before.
Mydei told you no one could trespass these grounds, that Phainon’s shadow would not reach you in this place. You believed him. You let him press the hoodie into your hands, let him lean in and scent your jawline, let yourself sit too close to him in the library, grateful that the stench of smoke and ruin seemed to withdraw whenever Mydei was near. You thought he offered protection out of sheer generosity.
You never knew it was an act.
The nest in his bedroom had been prepared long before you slipped into unconsciousness. Layer after layer of velvet, silk, thick cotton, sheets embroidered in the colors of Kremnoan nobility, everything perfumed with sandalwood and smoke until breathing itself feels like drowning in them. And when you open your eyes, it is not the walls or the drapery that suffocate you.
It is them.
Your body is pinned – back pressed into Mydei’s heaving chest, his arms slung across your stomach with a scorching weight, his fingers already between your thighs, wet from working you open while you were unconscious. His lips trace your ear, whispering in that calm, low tone he always used to coax answers in study sessions.
“It’s alright… just trust me, little one. You’ve trusted me before-” his voice breaks on a groan when your body clenches unwillingly around his fingers.
And then the second weight on you, heavier still: Phainon above, mouth latched to your breast, teeth grazing and tongue working until the nub aches and your chest arches helplessly. His voice spills out in delirious murmurs between kisses:
“Finally… finally, you see? Sweet beta… going to make you ours, piece by piece…” His hand cages your wrist flat into the bedding.
Your legs are spread wide around Pahinon’s hovering figure. They brush against Mydei’s thighs, and even in your dizzy state, you realize what is going on.
They are fucking. With you sandwiched between.
Phainon has Mydei’s knees hooked in his strong arms, spreading the linguist open, rutting with a brutality you can feel through Mydei’s trembling frame. Every thrust rocks you against Kremnoan’s chest, his cock rutting up between your thighs from underneath, pierced thrice, slick with cum, hot and waiting. Phainon groans into your chest, hips slamming forward, while Mydei roars and hisses against your throat, teeth sinking lightly into your skin like he wants to bite but knows he mustn’t.
Not yet.
It should be unthinkable – the golden athlete, the strategist, the linguist, the rebel, spread open and gasping under his white-haired rival. But the truth is, rivalry had always had a taste of heat, a secret hunger they buried in swimming pools and cooking clubs, in long stares they pretended not to notice.
Phainon's gaze had always lingered on the sight of the linguist's sculpted body, water still clinging in rivulets as it slid down tattooed muscles, the thin fabric of Kremnoan's swim shorts clinging just a little too tight around the outline of something thick beneath. Mydei had stared longer than he should at the swell of his rival’s plump ass straining the grey slacks, when Phainon bent over the counter, reaching lazily for the sugar.
However, they never acted on it because two alphas like them would destroy each other, locked in an endless struggle for dominance. Pride would never bend, hunger would never soften. Each of them was too primal, too fierce, too unyielding to allow the other to reign. What should have been desire turned always into tension, their rivalry a fire that could only consume.
And then you appeared.
Not an omega because that would have fanned the flames into violence immediately, acting as a spark in dry fields, igniting rage rather than peace.
You were different.
You were a beta, gentle and unthreatening, soft where they were sharp, quiet where they were thunder. You weren't a challenge, not a rival. You were a space they could both fill without tearing each other apart. The beta that would bond them together, that would become that narrow bridge to understanding, the fragile ground destined to carry scars of violence and be altered by them forever.
In that shift, there’d be beauty.
But now, your body is still the battlefield where both their desires collide. Mydei groans into your neck, fingers buried inside your cunt, curling sweetly, feeling up your walls, while Phainon grunts above you, slamming into his rival harder, sucking your tits until his jaw glistens with spit. Their scents mingle until the air is unbearable – ash and sandalwood, smoke and leather, thick as poison.
“G-gentle,” Mydei groans, “you will crush her.”
You can’t move. You can’t breathe. Your consciousness is dulled. Every thrust of Phainon’s hips into Mydei reverberates through you, every groan Mydei breathes into your ear is echoed by the mad praise spilling from Phainon’s lips.
“You were made for this,” Phainon moans, pulling back just enough to lick the spit-shined swell of your breast before biting hard, leaving teethmarks as Kremnoan shudders beneath you, “made for us.”
Mydei only tightens his grip on you, angling your hips down so the thick, leaking tip enters at last, swelling up inside your pussy. Kremnoan doesn't thrust, not yet. He understands that you are not ready, so he just grinds shallowly, one hand caressing your clit and the other slipping fingers, smeared with your slick, into the Phainon’s waiting mouth.
You are trapped, sandwiched between the alphas whose rivalry has turned to a delirious, shared obsession. Every part of you is theirs – your throat, your chest, your holes – and the air itself groans beneath the weight of their ruts. The silks shimmer with every violent motion, and the nest becomes a cage of obsession and madness, a place where love is indistinguishable from ruin.
Normally, the rut continues for 3-4 days, but not theirs. Not when two Alphas are included, not with a Beta they adore pressed between them.
A week.
The only thing you do is sleep, eat, drink, cry, and mate. No one's knot is shoved inside you yet, because Mydei notices every time that the white-haired alpha turns too lust-driven, curling around your limp form, growling at Phainon when his tempo grows inconsistent inside your too-tight cunt. He even throws hands when Phainon tries to snap back.
You are always with them; their hands don’t leave you, too protective, too feral to leave your vulnerable form alone. The things that they feed you are poisoned with aphrodisiacs and some special thing that will make your body yield sooner.
Don’t think that they leave you unattended. They never do. You weep into the soaked sheets, trembling with shame as slick pools beneath you, evidence of every unwilling peak wrung out of your body. Mydei kneels between your thighs, so patient, so precise in his cruelty. The pink toy glistens as it is thrusted in and out of your cunt, stretching you, preparing you, every drag a reminder of what is coming. Phainon's mouth works around the Mydei's shaft, throat bulging, eyes glassy, moaning into the thick cock he worships: “It's unfair that we don't get to claim each other," "I want to knot her," “She tastes so nice on you...”
And Mydei's only answer is shoving Phainon's head down on the thick, pierced cock with, “Careful. Soon we’ll claim her properly”.
The Kremnoan’s other hand never rests – circling your clit, pressing against your tight rim, dragging the slick bullet vibrator over every swollen nerve until pleasure becomes punishment. Clamps bite into your nipples, cruel fingers twist, slap, roll until your chest aches, and the overstimulation bleeds into madness. Your body convulses, traitorously obedient to every command of sensation.
Mydei bends low, voice gentle as the lash of a whip, “This will make it faster, little bird.”
His mate-to-be hums, "uh-huh", mouth still full, agreeing through spit and choked devotion. Together, they reduce you to nothing but a trembling flash.
Somewhere near the end of this madness, Phainon shifts against you while Mydei sleeps, desperation dripping off him like sweat. He pulls your limp leg over his hip, rut-slick cock pressing clumsily into your raw folds, your body too wrung out to resist.
“I’ll be fast, okay? It’s so fucking cold outside you, I-I can't anymore...” His lip splits between his teeth as he ruts against you, face flushed, eyes glazed, kisses smearing across your wet cheeks. “I need to knot you… just a little, just once…”
You cannot even twitch away.
“I’ll be gen-”
The air rips open with a feral growl. Behind him, golden eyes burn molten-red, lightless with rage. Mydei rises onto his knees like a beast torn from a nightmare, hand locking around Phainon’s nape with crushing force. The sound of his voice rattles your bones.
“I told you,” he snarls against the silence, “she’s not ready for us.”
Phainon’s face is shoved into the sheets near your temple as Mydei drives himself into the other Alpha’s hole with sheer violence. You’re trapped beneath them, fevered, too hot, too scared to think, body trembling from overstimulation. White-haired Alpha roars, teeth gritted, but curls around you instead of fighting, cock dangling above, slick fluids glistening on your lower belly.
Mydei’s hand descends from above and finds your face, cradling you, whispering something in his mother tongue, raw and possessive. Phainon’s desperation meets Mydei’s wrath through your body, each movement of their hips and hands sending fire through every nerve ending. They whisper between themselves, voices low and feral, as you lie there, utterly spent, silent.
The only mercy: no knots or bites yet. They push, stretch, violate, but carefully – shallow enough to leave you intact for what's to come. Their teeth hover, their jaws clench, but never sink into skin. Instead, they bite the sheets, they bite their own lips, they bite down on growls when the frenzy gets too wild. They tear with thrusts, with nails, with hands, but not fangs. And Mydei is acting like a shield and a weapon against Phainon’s lust-crazed mind, even throwing hands when the latter grows too manic.
But the worst thing is, you cannot even try to leave, like in Phainon’s route. Two alphas in rut are worse than chains: you are pinned in their luscious nest, drowning in heat and scent, every blanket reeking of them, every fabric marked with scent, sweat, and seed. Their weight, their breath, their hands are cages in motion, keeping you pressed, folded, trembling, unable to wriggle free.
So far, it seems pretty good, right? You are not bleeding out, your bones are intact, and there are no alchemy symbols on your skin...
Well, that's only the start.
They lock you in, and the after-rut week is pure agony.
You are not allowed to bathe. Not allowed to rinse the filth out of your pulsing holes. Not allowed to scrub the crusted stains from your thighs or wipe their seed from your breasts. They want your body to steep in it, to marinate until the inevitable change claws its way through your weak flesh under the constant pressure of their hormones.
Even in the bathroom, there is no reprieve. You sit on the toilet, thighs trembling, and very naked Phainon sits between your legs like a worshiper at an altar. He breathes, chin on your knee, shuddering in lust as he inhales the sour stench of you. He waits for it, listens for it, desperate for the first sweet curl to blossom in the rot. Next to you, the sound of water slapping tile, Mydei washing the filth from his lower body, Phainon's cum trailing down his thighs.
The air in the house is suffocating, filled with the smell of iron, smoke, and leather. Not even a trace of black tea.
Sex is permanent. At least once per day with each alpha, often more if they are feeling competitive. They take you in the nest, on the floor, against the walls, often one after the other, until you lose track of whose fluids run down your legs. Always sweaty. Always dirty. Their hands leave prints like bruises, their teeth graze but never claim, their voices blur into guttural chants of hunger.
And under the prolonged pressure of hormones, the change comes.
The Change:
Ethel Cain - Etienne
The first trace of sweetness comes when Phainon is gone to his lectures and Mydei is humming downstairs, stirring something over the stove. You lie in the nest, rotting in yourself, skin sticky and numb, drowning in the reek of sweat and sex. Phainon’s hoodie hangs off your frame, his scent stale and sour in the fabric, and Mydei has forced thigh-highs onto your legs so the shackles won’t bite your skin raw. Your hair is greasy, plastered to your face, and a film of exhaustion drapes your eyes like a veil.
Everything aches. Heat festers between your thighs, sick and wrong. The air reeks of iron, and when you finally glance down, you see the dark bloom of blood seeping between your legs, staining the gold fabric beneath you. Panic claws its way through your chest because the pain is sudden and unbearable, as if your womb itself is twisting, tearing, re-shaping into something alien. You fold in on yourself, clutching your belly as if you could hold it together with your hands, but the white-hot agony cuts through you.
You don't even notice that you are screaming, not until Mydei’s form appears in front of you, looming above, his presence a shadow over your suffering. His voice pierces your haze, shouting something back, an echo of your own agony. Without hesitation, he spreads your legs, exposing the mess, eyes sharp and calculating.
At first, Mydei assumes a period, common and painful for female betas. But the strange note in your scent stills him. The metallic tang of blood lingers sharp in the air, yet beneath it coils something warped and sweet, a bloom like spring breaking through frost, fragile and awaited. Mydei presses his face against the soft hair at your mound, smearing his face with your blood, inhaling, delight clear in his expression. He looks like a lion feasting on its prey.
When his eyes find yours, you pass out, crushed under the weight of agony.
The next days pass in a haze of torment. Phainon and Mydei do not leave you. They hold you tight, pinning you with their warmth and weight, completely forgetting the outside world. They lean in, tongues sliding over your folds, tasting everything you leak, gulping, sucking, licking hungrily as if your dripping, ruined cunt is the most exquisite delicacy. Your body shakes, drenched in sweat, weary from fever and pain. Every motion sets fire racing through your hyper-sensitive, inflamed flesh. They do not pause even when your body collapses into unconsciousness, shaking and drenched in sweat. Every groan, every quiver of your trembling body, every shuddering gasp only fuels their feral excitement. They want it all, your scent, your heat, your helplessness, drinking it down greedily as they mold you into theirs.
After a week, the black-tea edge of you is gone. Something else clings to your skin now – warm milk and honey, the soft sugar of pastries – a scent laid over you like a new name. Your insides feel altered, like a room rearranged while you slept; places that were private and yours are swollen and rounded, tuned to a pattern you do not remember choosing. Some nights, you wake between them, feeling luminous and hungry in ways that terrify you.
Both Alphas watch your form, fingers and eyes tracing new contours with a quiet, ravenous joy. And when Hyacine’s voice, small and terrified, says it is safe to mate with you, the house contracts around that sentence.
They are on you as soon as the front door closes.
What's next:
The future stretches before you like a cage with no exit, iron bars made not of steel but of flesh, blood, and milk. Mydeimos’s homeland expects omegas to bear at least five children, but that law is only the starting point. Phainon’s competitiveness drives the number higher, until your body is reduced to a calendar of pregnancies, one after another, a battlefield they both claim victory over. Five children, seven, ten, then even more. Each one a proof of conquest, a proof that your womb can be filled, stretched, reshaped again and again.
You are tired to the bone and numb as winter. When someone calls your name in the streets, you do not answer; the syllables seem to belong to someone from a life you cannot prove. You smile, your body moving without thought, numb to your own pain, as your limbs ache from carrying, birthing, and nursing beyond all measure. Your mind feels frayed, and your identity dissolves into milk, flesh, and obedience. Even when your mind tears from the veil of numbness and screams for silence, for space, for a moment to remember yourself, there is none.
You are their lover first, a vessel second, a shadow of the person you were third.
Mydei adores you. He forces you to wear only clothes that leave you half-exposed, garments cut to frame your belly and breasts, soft silks that cling to the swell of motherhood and glisten when wet with milk. He kisses the curve of you in the kitchen, eyes half-closed in ecstasy, whispering how radiant you look, how he will give you more. He rubs oil into the stretch marks on your post-partum belly to admire how your skin yields to him. He delights in showing you off to visitors from Kremnos, positioning you in the light so they can see the fullness of you, the proof that his house thrives.
Phainon is different but no less suffocating. His lust is tangled with an obsession for the image of family. He parades you and the children like trophies through the parks and streets, smiling with feral pride when strangers stare in admiration. Yet the moment another gaze lingers too long, his hand tightens on your hand, and he growls low, a reminder that no one else may look too closely. He subtly presses his need against your hip in full daylight while the children play only a few meters away, because for him, the sight of you with their brood is enough to drive Phainon mad with arousal.
Still, their rivalry never dies. It just changes shape. Mydeimos kisses the child born with his golden hair and your eyes, pride swelling in his chest, while Phainon frowns and pushes forward the pale infant with white lashes, demanding you cradle it too. They pretend to laugh at the tension, trading sharp jests, but you feel their eyes burning across each other’s shoulders, always measuring, always counting. Every child you deliver becomes another tally mark in their endless contest, another reminder that your body is not yours.
And through it all, they love you. That is the worst part.
Mydei smiles as he teaches you to cook while your belly scrapes against the counter, whispering endearments in your ear, cupping the soft fullness of your breast when you bend to stir a pot. Phainon blooms when children cling to your skirts, and he drags you into his lap the moment they let go. At night, when you lie in bed, their mouths that find your leaking tits, their hands massage your aching hips, their voices whisper delirious love as they promise you more children, more proof, more future.
This is not freedom. This is a life built on cycles of breeding, on the milk dripping down your chest, on the softness of your body stretched, ruined, made into what they desired most. You are never alone. Not in the garden, where they march beside you with the children in tow. Not in the kitchen, where Mydeimos’s hands curl around your waist under the pretense of teaching. Not in the nest, where Phainon pins you down as soon as you finish nursing the blue-eyed infant.
Your scent of black tea is long gone. What clings to your skin now is sweetness so heavy it curdles in the air – pastry rotting in the sun, milk souring on the sheets. They inhale it as if it is heaven, faces buried against your neck, murmuring ownership into your claimed glands.
To them, the sweetness is love, eternity, victory.
To you, it is suffocation.
You float through days like a ghost in your own body, hollowed and watched, each child another seal on the door that keeps you from ever belonging to yourself again. Even with a belly full, you are hollow. Every heartbeat echoes someone else’s claim. Every breath tastes of theirs. Every movement feels plastic.
You are gone.
Other possibilities?
Sure, you can try to transfer! Actually, there are plenty of universities in the Tempest-verse!
Belobog Academy for Applied Studies in Jarilo, The Luofu Institute of Trade & Economic Studies in Xianzhou Alliance, The Penacony University of Art and Culture + IPC Business College in Penacony.
It's tempting, right? No blue-eyed maniacs, no tattooed rich boys, no insane professors. All those new places to learn, with grants, new rooms, and new mentors waiting for you! The second you step onto a new campus, the door behind you closes for good.
But for every closed door, there's an open one.
So, my question for you is this:
Why are you so sure you'll be safe there?
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Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!
Taglist is closed for this one. (sorry~)
Yada-yada, it took me too long to answer, sorry for that. And yeah, I Mydei has piercings in this one c;
And now I’m curious about you, my darling readers.
Hi. So I was wondering what TempestMydei x reader would be like where he doesn’t team up with Phainon.
I feel that out of all the scenarios it would be the most subtle in a way when compared with Anaxa’s mad scientist stuff and Phanion’s increasingly unhinged desperation.
Mydei is levelheaded, knows about betas and was courting the reader so she trusts him (possibly even falling for him), is aware of Phainon's interest and that reader is scared of him. Phainon’s desperation for reader might actually work in Mydei’s favour as, if he can keep Phanion at bay and stop him from getting to reader, it would help to keep reader reliant on Mydei for safety.
I can see Phanion increasing his efforts being a catalyst, like a day where Phainon is aggressively pursuing reader and she seeks out Mydei to protect her and he thinks to himself that he needs to act to keep what’s his. Which would lead to reader being trapped in the cottage none the wiser about what’s about to happen.
In the last ask you mentioned that he’d be aware that the situation is messed up so it feels like he would gaslight himself by justifying trapping reader as a last resort to ensure that reader is safe and right where he wants them, which is with him. I could see him also trying to convince reader that it is the best option.
That’s the vibe I’ve been getting which admittedly is kinda similar to how it is in the Phaidei route but the dynamic of Phainon being an opponent rather than a partner, potential persuasion from Mydei etc might be enough of a difference but what do you think would happen with just TempestMydei and reader? (Also hope this isn’t too simple or boring).
TempestVerse: Mydei route
College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Alpha!Mydei x Beta!Reader x Yandere!Alpha!Phainon
wordcount: ~8100
tws: MNDI, DARKFIC, yandere, obsessive/possessive behaviour, unhealthy hurt/comfort, stockholm syndrome elements, violence (off-page), manipulation, gaslighting, predatory "caretaking", stalking, isolation, panic attack, unhealthy codependency, this is highly disturbing.
NSFW: Very dub-con -> non-con (coercion, fear-based consent), size difference, genital piercings, marking, breeding kink, tampering with condoms, implied babytrapping.
(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.
Hello, love! Thank you for this ask. And no, I don't think that it's simple or boring. If anything, Tempest!Mydei without Phainon as a second partner is one of the darkest routes, specifically because he is more subtle and thus harder to avoid. (Also, I'm sorry that it took me so much time to answer.)
Okay, so, I do think Mydei’s route is hard to get, because, similar to Anaxa’s route, you have to initiate the contact first. Thus, maybe it starts with you joining the cooking club. Maybe you drift there because it is easier to be around knives and bread and simmering pots than around lecture halls full of mixed AO scent. You’re a beta, which in itself piques his interest (given the only betas he knows are his parents), and since you often attend club meetings, he simply can’t help but notice you. Kremnoan notices how quiet and shy you are, how soothing and modest your scent is, and how sweetly you smile when a dish turns out just the way you wanted it to.
So, very soon he begins to listen intently for the sound of footsteps in the hallway, straightening his back before sniffing the air, trying to catch the familiar scent of tea.
And because Mydei is levelheaded, his interest would become structured long before it becomes obvious. This Kremnoan would know your schedule because he asked the right questions, then remembered every answer. He would know when you skip lunch because he keeps track of you in the uni canteen. He would know when you slept badly because your eyes give you away before your mouth does. He would know when your pulse is wrong, when your smile is false, when your hands are too cold. He would start adjusting things around you with such subtle precision that it would feel almost supernatural. A chair is already pulled out for you near the warmest part of the room. A drink appears before you realize you’re thirsty. An extra container is packed because he noticed you have another late seminar and will otherwise miss dinner.
So, the question that arises: how could you not desire his closeness and presence? He just feels so safe… Moving away to Amphoreus was a hurried decision, so you didn’t have anyone to rely on here, but Mydei slowly starts to feel like something good from the past. This mountain of a man with a steady scent and gentle hands clearly cares about you. So you start to wait for the club meetings, for his deep voice, for his strong hands to guide yours.
Then Phainon enters the equation, and suddenly Mydei’s patience becomes something else entirely. Because if Phainon arrives after Mydei already has a place in your life, then every frightening thing Phainon does becomes useful. Every too-long stare, every suffocating hallway encounter, every ash-laced moment that leaves your stomach rolling becomes another reason for you to instinctively turn toward Mydei.
And Mydei would become protective of the beta he was slowly nursing back to life. You’ve just started smiling freely, without looking behind your shoulder every other moment and hiding the precious curl of your lips. And seeing you like this, tense again, would make his heart ache. Mydei would hate how much fear tightens your throat. He would hate seeing your shoulders lock. He would hate, genuinely, that someone else laid hands on the fragile routine he had started building around you. But alongside that hatred, there would be another feeling, uglier and quieter and harder to admit.
Gratitude.
Because fear drives creatures toward safety, right?
Mydei would not limit Phainon dramatically, because, well, I believe he is too smart for that. A public confrontation would only make you aware that there are forces moving around you that you don’t understand. So, he starts small, with walking you home more often. He saves you meals in the kitchen’s back room, so you stop needing the crowded cafeteria at all. He suggests quieter places to study, better places, safer places. In the hallways, he starts placing himself at your side so naturally that you stop noticing how rarely you are alone anymore. He never says “Don’t go there.” Instead, he says, “Stay here, please.” And oh, you would.
Phainon, in all his desperation, would try to claim his intentions are harmless and innocent and misunderstood. Mydei would reduce the situation to something humiliatingly simple.
You are upsetting her.
You are making her sick.
She is stressed out.
No theatrics, no threats anyone can repeat later, just the kind of grounded dominance that forces another alpha to realize how much blood could end up on the floor if he miscalculates by even a bit. And when there is violence (because there would always be violence between Phai and Dei in the TempestVerse), it would happen where nobody important is looking. Behind the gym. By the service roads. Near the kitchens, after the hallways are silent. Phainon would go home with a split lip, and you would see Mydei’s knuckles a little redder than usual when he passes you a bowl and tells you to eat while it is still hot, limping away to grab the second fork.
Feeling safe around tattoed male, it's kinda inevitable that you start seeking him out. Your body, exhausted by fear, begins to register him as the one place it can unclench.
And Mydei, being exactly the kind of man he is in TempestVerse, wouldn’t miss that for a second. He would become gentler in proportion to how frightened you are. He would touch you less often, but when he does, it would always be exactly where your body needs grounding most: a hand at the back of your neck when you cannot breathe properly, his palm broad and warm between your shoulder blades, his knuckles brushing your wrist when he hands you a cup, his coat settling over your shoulders before you can argue. He'd start letting intimacy happen in increments your nervous system can survive. A brief embrace when you are shaking too badly to stand still. His thumb wipes tears from your cheek with tenderness. His hand cupping your jaw just long enough to make eye contact unavoidable when he quietly tells you that you are safe with him.
His scent would become what cuts through your panic. His clothes would become what warms you when you are freezing. His lap, eventually, would become the place he settles you without asking too many questions when the day has carved you hollow. He would put a blanket over both of you and keep talking in that low voice until your pulse slows down enough to match his. He would tuck a strand of hair behind your ear while discussing something mundane. He would rest his hand at your waist when guiding you past him through a narrow doorway and let it stay there just a fraction too long. Nothing overt enough to confront. Everything deliberate enough to matter.
Overton's window in action, baby.
So when the cottage (yup, the one from the PhaiDei route) enters the story, it feels like the logical endpoint of everything Mydei has been building. A quiet place outside the city. No student council. No accidental sightings. No hallways where ash can find you. Kremnoan offers it as a temporary refuge, and of course, you say yes, because by then he has spent so long turning himself into your safest habit that the idea of being alone anywhere else feels almost obscene.
Your first feeling upon crossing the threshold is relief. The blankets are already there. The tea you like is already in the cupboard. The guest room looks as though it has been waiting for you longer than you can comfortably explain. Spare clothes appear when you realize you forgot to pack enough, and Mydei shrugs it off with that blunt manner of his, as if having anticipated your needs in embarrassing detail is the most natural thing in the world.
And the physical changes are almost laughably easy to excuse. The cottage is warm. The radiators are aggressive, and the rooms hold heat strangely once the evening settles in. So one afternoon, Mydei comes downstairs without a shirt, drying his hair with a towel slung over one broad shoulder. He pours tea with his chest still damp from the shower and says, when he catches you looking for a fraction too long, “It’s hot in here,” in the same tone someone might use to comment on the weather. Nothing flirtatious on the surface, but after that, he becomes looser with himself. A shirt less often. Sweatpants hanging low at the hips on slow evenings. One day, he shamelessly tugs them off while you two watch some crappy TV show about cooking that Mydei enjoys. You try your best not to stare at the prominent bulge in his boxers, while he exhales, “That’s better.”
Skin. Skin. Skin.
Too much skin, not because Kremnoan is crude, but because he is teaching your body to stop startling at the sight of him. He wants you accustomed to him in ways that bypass thought altogether. He wants the line between private and shared space to wear thin before you even think to mark where it used to be. Mydei would create an environment in which undressing feels shy, then reasonable, then inevitable.
One evening, he notices you tugging irritably at the waistband of your trousers and asks, with that unbothered practicality that makes him so difficult to resist, why you are still wearing them if you are hot.
“You are home,” he says, glancing up from the kitchen counter. “Feel comfortable undressing if you are hot.” When you hesitate, he only shrugs and turns back to the stove, making the freedom seem like yours to take or leave.
And eventually you give in. First, the trousers, discarded in embarrassment and relief, leaving you in your underwear beneath one of your longer and bigger T-shirts while your face burns from the mere fact of being seen. When you come down to the kitchen, Mydei passes you a bowl, asks you to taste the sauce, and talks to you the same way he did an hour earlier. His eyes don't wander, even if he wants to jump you the second he sees the delicate arch of your hips and the gusset of your panties hugging your delicate mound under that piece of fabric that you're still wearing.
After that, the rest comes more easily. One of his shirts ends up on your shoulders when you spill tea on your own. Another appears when the laundry hasn't finished drying yet. Eventually, you begin sleeping in them because they are softer than what you packed, and the cottage is full of his safe scent anyway.
The sleeping arrangement itself would shift slowly as well. The first nights are proper. Separate rooms. Separate doors. Distance preserved. Then one night you wake shaking from a dream in which you are back on campus, and the corridor smells like it’s burning, and no door will open. When you come into the hallway half-asleep and panicked, Mydei is there almost immediately, hair mussed, voice rough with sleep, but calm in that way of his that makes panic feel childish the moment he hugs you.
He sits with you until dawn and says nothing dramatic. The next night, he suggests leaving your door open in case it happens again. The night after that, when you wake and can't breathe through the memory of ash lodged in your throat, you find him already outside the room, having heard the change in your breathing through the wall. Then comes the floor. He says it makes sense, drags in a blanket, and lies by your bed like a guard dog.
The step from the floor to the bed is easy. Another nightmare. This time, when Mydei sits on the edge of the mattress and asks whether you want him closer, you are too wrecked to hear the trap closing in the question. He lies stiffly at first, above the covers, facing the far wall, giving you every visual signal that this is for you, not him. But his body heat is there. His breathing is there. The breadth of his turning the bed into something enclosed and unbreachable is there. You sleep better than you have in weeks.
Then the nights begin to blur. His arm around your waist once, when you woke shaking too hard to settle. His hand on the back of your neck when you couldn’t come down from a panic spike. A murmur into your hair that you are safe, that he is right here. It’s all so carefully paced that by the time he says, one evening, that the guest bed is too narrow for two and you should both just move into the master bedroom, where there is space enough to sleep properly, you no longer hear the enormity of what he is asking.
The said master bedroom would be the true center of the cottage. Bigger bed. Heavier furniture. Clothes draped over the chair, books stacked at the bedside, the scent of him embedded in the curtains, the sheets, the wood itself.
Sleeping there would feel, at first, almost indecent, like stepping across the final line between guest and something else. But Mydei would make even that transition feel practical. He would change the sheets while you stand in the doorway, feeling stupidly shy. He would set one of your books on the nightstand. He would clear half a drawer without comment. The room would rearrange itself around your presence.
The last step would happen at the exact point where fear, exhaustion, gratitude, physical acclimation, and buried desire have all been kneaded together until neither of you can pretend they are separate anymore.
You don't remember the nightmare when you wake from it. Your heart is a fist pounding against the cage of your ribs, and for one long moment, you don’t know where you are.
The silence that greets you is heavy. It is warm in a way that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the body beside you, the furnace heat of an alpha who sleeps with his arm thrown over your waist as though you are something he might lose in the dark of the night.
The nightmare slides off your skin like oil, leaving only the residue: ash in your throat, a hand reaching from a corridor that stretched too long, the click of a lock you couldn’t find, the smile stretching too wide in the dark of your dorm room while his fingers worked your belt loose.
The sheets are tangled around your legs, twisted so tight they've left red lines on your thighs. Silk and cotton, expensive, smelling of sandalwood and the faint copper of old sweat and something muskier. You try to grip the fabric, but your hands shake so badly that it slips through your fingers. Your breath comes in short gasps that don't seem to fill your lungs. There is sweat cooling on your back and chest, between your thighs.
Beside you, the mattress shifts.
Mydei is already turned toward you. He is watching you with that unblinking steadiness that used to make your stomach clench. In the low light, his eyes look almost black, like two bottomless pools that reflect your own terrified face at you. The sclera is faintly bloodshot, you notice.
There is no confusion in his eyes, no groggy blink, no hesitation. These burning coals have been watching you claw your way back from a nightmare Kremnoan will never ask about, because he already knows. That exact nightmare is the reason you are here, in this cottage, in this bed, instead of in Phainon's flat with that cloying scent seeping into your bones.
His nostrils flare once, twice, drinking in the air between you. His lips part slightly, tongue wetting the lower one as though he is tasting something. His pupils somehow dilate further when he assesses your smell. You know this now because you have learned the ways of alphas by now, living with one for… how long exactly?
"Come here," he says.
You crawl across the inches between you like an animal seeking warmth, with your knees pressing into the mattress, the borrowed shirt riding up your thighs. The fabric is thin from washing, soft from being worn to bed night after night, and it does nothing to hide the fact that you are wearing nothing beneath it. His eyes drop to the exposed skin, just for a moment, and you see his throat work as Mydei swallows, forcing himself not to look lower, not to let his gaze linger where the shirt gapes open at your chest.
Your movements are clumsy, desperate. You are still half-caught in the nightmare, and every shadow in the room looks like that broad-shouldered shape, that too-wide smile, that cloying scent of smoke that clings to your memories like tar. You whimper, and your hands reach out blindly. When Mydei drags you against the broad wall of his chest, the sob that leaves you is ugly and wet and utterly beyond your control.
"That's it," Mydei murmurs into your hair. His voice is low, rumbling through his chest and into yours, vibrating in your bones. His hand spreads across your back, heavy and warm, fingers splaying wide to cover as much of you as possible. He presses you closer, closer, closer, until there is no air between your body and his, until you can feel every ridge of muscle, every beat of his heart, every place where his skin is hot enough to burn. "I've got you. Nothing's getting through that door."
You believe him because the cottage walls have held and the locks have held and Phainon's smoke-scent has not touched you since the first morning you woke to the sound of Mydei cracking eggs in the kitchen, the tattoos on his arms flexing as he whisked something in a bowl, his voice soft when he said, “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
Do you sleep well?
You never do, but you lie, and Mydei pretends to believe you, and the eggs are always perfect, and there is always a fresh glass of pomegranate juice waiting for you on the table.
With a soft sigh, you press your face into the curve of his neck and shake apart in his arms. Kremnoan holds you through all of it, patient as stone, warm as a hearth. Your tears slide down his skin, leaving glistening trails that catch the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains.
His thumb traces slow circles between your shoulder blades, pressing into the knots of tension there. His thumb digs in, finding the spots that make you gasp, working them until the tension begins, slowly, to unravel. His other hand slides from your back to your ribs, counting each one through the thin fabric, then back, thumb brushing the side of your breast through the shirt.
Accidentally, you tell yourself. Because he wouldn't. Because he's been nothing but good to you. Because he's your protector, and protectors don't–
His thumb brushes again. The edge of his nail catches on the fabric where your nipple has hardened beneath the thin cotton, and you feel the ghost of contact like a spark.
"You're alright," he says. "You're safe. Just breathe."
You really try, but the tears keep coming, hot and stupid, and every time you close your eyes, you see the way the light bent around Phainon's shoulders. So you keep them open and stare at the dark shape of Mydei's throat, at the pulse ticking there, and try to do a small breathing exercise.
When you breathe in, his scent is everywhere in this bedroom. Iron and sandalwood and something that makes your mouth water even as your stomach clenches with fear. It is nothing like Phainon's smoke and ash. This is the smell of a fire that warms instead of burns, of leather that has molded to someone's shape, of a body that has slept beside you for weeks without asking for anything in return.
Without asking.
The lie sits heavy in your chest. Mydei asks every day and night, with his hands and his eyes and the way he positions himself so that you feel the heat of him against your back, the press of his hips against your ass, the thick line of his shaft through his boxers. He asks when he says, “You look cold,” and pulls you into his lap on the couch. He asks when you two make dinner, and he stands behind you at the counter, his chest against your back, his chin on your shoulder, his hands covering yours as he shows you how to chop vegetables. He asks without words, and you answer without speaking, and the two of you have been having this conversation for weeks without ever acknowledging it.
And now, because your body is a traitor, you lift your face to look at his. You don’t think I am going to kiss him. You only know that you are drowning and his mouth is the only warm thing in reach, that he’s been good to you, that he’s fed you and sheltered you and never once made you feel like a burden, even when you woke him with your screams, even when you cried into his chest for hours, even when you flinched at every sound.
Even if you know, somewhere beneath the terror, that he isn’t doing this for free.
But when you press your lips to his, it feels logical. The next step on a path that was laid out for you the moment you agreed to stay. His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and you taste salt on them. The kiss is clumsy, too soft, your mouth trembling against his because you’re still half-caught in the nightmare that sent you crawling into his arms.
And Mydei…
For one moment, Mydei is frozen, holding himself in check. The next, he is everywhere, his mouth hot and hungry and consuming, his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips until you let him inside. He opens your mouth wider with the press of his tongue, sliding deeper, exploring you with a thoroughness that leaves no corner untouched. He tastes the inside of your cheeks, the roof of your mouth, the back of your teeth. He licks along your tongue, swirling around it, sucking gently until you moan into his mouth. And when he groans in response, you whimper against his lips.
He kisses you with that edge of dominance that seeps into everything he does, the quiet certainty that he is in control, that he is supposed to be in control, that your surrender is an expectation. His hand tangles in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands, pulling just enough to expose the line of your throat. The pain sends a shiver down your spine. It’s not entirely unpleasant, not entirely welcome either, but your body responds before your mind can catch up. Your head tips back, offering more of you to him, and the growl that rumbles up from his chest is so low you feel it more than hear it.
His other hand slides from your back to your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, pulling you closer until you are straddling his thigh. The position leaves you vulnerable, the thin shirt riding up to your waist, and your clothed cunt pressing against his thigh. You can feel the heat of him through the cotton, the thick muscle of his thigh flexing beneath you, and when he rocks his hips just slightly, you feel the hard line of his cock pressing against your inner thigh.
Mydei has been hard this whole time, you realize. While you cried in his arms, while you shook and sobbed and pressed your face into his neck, he has been lying here waiting, his body primed and ready, his arousal soaking through the front of his boxers.
While you try to soothe your screaming mind, he pulls back just far enough to look at you and shifts his hand to cup your face.
"Tell me to stop," he says. His thumb traces your lower lip, pressing just slightly, feeling the wetness there, "right now."
His voice cracks on the last word. His hand trembles against your face. Every line of his body screams want, screams need, screams take, but he’s holding himself back, teetering on the edge of something he is barely containing.
"Don't," you whisper.
You mean don't stop. You mean don't leave me. You mean don't make me face this alone. You mean all of it and none of it, and the word comes out broken, desperate, the plea of someone who has run out of options. You’re just so tired of being afraid. Of jumping at every shadow, of flinching at every sound, of sleeping with one eye open and waking with your heart in your throat. You are tired of being alone in a room full of people, of knowing that Phainon is out there somewhere, waiting, and that the only thing standing between you and that smoke-scent is the alpha under you.
His answer is another moist kiss to your jaw, then your throat, then the hollow where your pulse jumps frantically beneath your skin. His hips roll against yours, and you feel him again, hard and thick against your hip.
Suddenly, Mydei is above you, braced on his forearms, the broad cage of his body blocking out the rest of the room. His thighs bracket yours, thick and heavy. His shoulders block out the moonlight. His chest is a wall of heat and flesh. His hair falls forward, brushing your forehead, and you can see every detail of his face in the low light: the sharp line of his jaw, the eyes gone fully feral, the way his lips are already red and swollen from kissing you. Sweat gleams on his temples, on his chest, in the hollow of his throat.
One of his knees spreads your thighs apart, pushing them up and open until you are spread beneath him like an offering. The position leaves you vulnerable, the thin shirt riding up to your ribs and the damp spot on your panties visible in the dim light. Your body has betrayed you, responding to his scent, his heat, his presence, even as your mind screams that this is wrong, that you are only here because you have nowhere else to go.
"Can I?" his voice is barely a whisper now, rough and strained. His forehead presses against yours, his breath hot on your lips. His hips are still, but you can feel him trembling, every muscle in his body locked, holding himself back, giving you one last chance to flee.
You nod because the word is stuck somewhere behind the terror and the need and the shameful heat pooling between your thighs.
But it is not enough for him. Mydei waits, patient and gloating, his eyes never leaving yours. He needs you to say the word, to give him permission, so that later, he can tell himself that you wanted this. So, teary-eyed and scared, you whisper:
"Yes."
His smile is a flicker, there and gone. His hands slide up your thighs, pushing the hem of the shirt higher, baring more of you to the cool air and the heat of his gaze. He stops when the fabric bunches just below your breasts, leaving your nipples covered but your stomach and hips exposed. His thumbs trace the lines of your hip bones, pressing into the soft flesh there, and his eyes roam over your body like he’s memorizing every curve, every dip, every place where your skin flushes with heat.
And then, his mouth descends on you. It’s hot and wet, leaving a glistening trail of spit everywhere it touches. Your sternum. Your belly. His tongue dips into your navel, lapping at the fine sheen of sweat, and you feel another groan of his vibrate against your skin.
"You're shaking," he observes.
"Cold," you murmur.
His teeth scrape gently over the jut of your pelvis, and your hips jerk involuntarily. A wet gasp escapes your throat, and Mydei murmurs against your skin, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. Kremnonan looks up at you, asking without words, and when you lift your hips instinctively, something in his expression shifts. The patience frays at the edges, tears like an old cloth.
"You have no idea," he says quietly, "what you do to me, little beta."
The fabric peels away from your skin, sticky with the slick that has been soaking through. He pulls them down your legs slowly, watching your face the whole time. The cotton drags over your thighs, your knees, your calves, and when he finally tosses them aside, you exhale shakily. Your labia glisten in the low light, wet and wanting, the soft hair at your mound matted with slick. When he sees and finally smells it, a smug smile graces his features before he lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue makes your whole body jolt. His mouth is hot, and the flat of his tongue drags through your folds in one long stroke that leaves you gasping. Mydei moans against you, the vibration shooting through your clit, and your hands fly to his hair before you can stop yourself. The blond strands are soft between your fingers, softer than you expected, and when you tug, Mydei groans against your cunt, the sound muffled and filthy and desperate.
"Mydei–"
"Shh." His voice is muffled, wrecked, his lips brushing your lower lips as he speaks. His breath is hot and damp, and you feel every syllable against your slick flesh. "You've been so brave, little one. Let me take care of you now."
Take care of you.
You cannot afford to see the pattern, to recognize that you have simply chosen another cage. Mydei's cage is larger. Mydei's cage has soft silk sheets, home-cooked meals, and hands that hold you when you cry. Mydei's cage is so-so-so different because you've stepped in willingly, too afraid of the outside world and monsters who circle behind the gilded bars.
Still, it is a cage.
He laps at your clit in deliberate circles, with his tongue dragging over the swollen bud again and again until you are whimpering and writhing beneath him, until your hips are rocking against his face of their own accord. He dips lower, tracing your entrance with the tip of his tongue, dipping inside just barely before pulling back. He sucks gently at your inner lips, drawing them into his mouth, rolling them against his tongue. He moans like you're the best fucking thing he has ever tasted, and the sound of it makes your thighs tremble on either side of his head.
Every time he pulls back, a string of spit and your own arousal stretches from his lips to your cunt, and he licks it away slowly, watching your face as he does it. His Roman nose presses against your clit when he buries his face deeper, eager to kiss every part of you, and the pressure makes your back arch off the bed.
Seizing the moment, one of his arms hooks under your leg, putting it on his broad shoulder, holding you open for him. His hand splays across your lower belly, pressing down just slightly, and the pressure makes you feel full even though nothing is inside you yet. His other hand finds yours, fingers threading together, pressing your joined palms into the sheets beside your hip.
"You taste like heaven," he groans against your cunt before diving in again. His tongue circles your clit, slower this time, pushing up the hood to love on the sensitive bundle of nerves directly. You shiver and feel his smile against your flesh, and he does it again, harder, until you are gasping. "Could eat you for hours."
Your voice has dissolved into moans, each one punched out of you by the relentless movement of his tongue. Your chest heaves with every breath, the thin shirt clinging to your sweat-slick skin, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you register that you are making sounds you have never made before, sounds that belong to some “poor omega gets their needy hole filled” type of porn and not this bedroom. But Mydei seems to relish those sounds, face getting redder and eyes getting more hazy with every passing second.
"That's it," he murmurs against your clit, "that's it, sweetheart. Give it to me."
With that, Mydei slides two fingers inside you.
The stretch makes you cry out because his fingers alone are thick, long, and they curl inside you, pressing against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. The coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter, your slick gushing out around his knuckles with every thrust of his hand. It’s so wet now, so messy, dripping down onto the sheets, soaking his chin and neck, running down his wrist and onto the mattress.
His digits pump in and out of you, pressing against that spongy spot inside you until you are sobbing. His tongue works your clit in fast licks, alternating with gentle sucks that make your hips buck off the bed. He adds a third finger, stretching you further, and the burn makes you whimper, but your body clenches around him, welcomes him, because you are so wet that there is no resistance, only the sweet ache of being filled.
And when he scrapes your clit with one of his canines, your orgasm tears through you like a storm, leaving you shaking and sobbing and utterly undone. Your thighs clamp around his head. Your hands pull his hair so hard you are afraid you have hurt him, but he just groans and pushes his face deeper, his nose pressing against your clit, his tongue fucking into your hole to catch every last drop. Your walls clamp down around his fingers, fluttering, milking, and the snarl he lets out is animal.
When Mydei pulls away, his face is red and ruined. Your slick drips from his lips, from his jaw, down onto his chest. His nose is shiny. A string of spit and your own arousal stretches from his lower lip to your cunt, and his tongue drags across his lower lip, still savoring you on his tongue.
"Beautiful," he says. His voice is wrecked, raw, scraped clean by want. "You are so fucking beautiful when you fall apart."
With a kiss to your thigh, Mydei crawls up your body, letting you feel every inch of him as he goes. The heavy press of his chest against your breasts. The rough drag of his happy trail against your oversensitive clit, making you whimper and try to squirm away. The hard ridge of his cock pressing against your pelvis through his boxers, hot and thick and insistent.
"Okay?" he asks.
You nod, breathless.
"Words, little one."
"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, okay."
Mydei reaches for the nightstand drawer. The condom wrapper tears open with a sound that seems uncomfortably loud in the quiet room. You watch him roll it on, watch his jaw clench as he touches himself, watch the way his hand trembles slightly despite his careful composure. His hips buck into his own grip, and it makes him groan, and you see the way his eyes roll back for just a moment before he forces himself still.
And you see his cock for the first time in full light.
The head alone looks too large to fit inside you, and the shaft – thick and veined, curving slightly upward, bobbing – seems impossible. And there, along the underside, small barbells glint in the low light, evenly spaced, the metal catching the moonlight. At the base, his knot pulses, already half-inflated, the skin stretched taut over the swelling tissue. It is the size of a small plum, and you can see it growing even as you watch, the tissue engorging with blood.
He won't knot you, you tell yourself. He knows. He won't hurt you.
But the way his eyes trace down your body, lingering on the wet shine between your thighs, makes you doubt.
"Big," you whisper. Your voice is small, childlike, and afraid.
Mydei pauses. His eyes find yours, and for a moment, the hunger recedes. Something softer takes its place.
"We don't have to," he says.
The words are right. The tone is right. But his hands are still shaking, and his cock is still leaking, and his knot is still swelling, and you know, that if you said no, the bond between you would break. Something you can’t afford because that would leave you alone, unprotected, with no one to keep that smoke-scent away from your door.
"I want to."
The words feel like sandpaper on your tongue, but you mean it. Or, rather, you tell yourself you do. You mean it because the nightmare is still fresh in your bones, and the only thing keeping that smoke scent from your door is him. The alpha above you, the one who has been so patient, so gentle, so careful.
You can’t afford to refuse Mydei.
You can’t afford to disappoint him.
You can’t afford to lose your only protector.
So you mean it. You make yourself mean it. You open your legs wider, offering, and you watch his pupils dilate further, swallowing the last traces of gold.
"Just– go slow. Please. I've never..."
Mydei’s breath stutters. He leans down and cups your face in both palms, thumbs brushing the tears still wet on your cheeks, and kisses you so gently it makes your chest ache. His lips are soft now, almost tender, and he kisses you like you are something precious, something he has been waiting for. When he pulls back, his eyes are wet too, whether from tears or from the sheer effort of holding himself back, you can't tell.
"Thank you," he murmurs, "thank you for giving me the honor. I'll be so gentle. You're going to feel so good. Trust me."
Trust me.
The words that every predator speaks, just before the jaws close.
Mydei pushes your shirt up with one hand, watching your face the whole time. The fabric bunches around your collarbones, finally exposing your breasts to the cool air. Your nipples are hard, pebbled, sensitive, and when he sucks one into the heat of his mouth, you gasp.
His tongue flicks across the peak, circles it, presses down, and his huge hand helps him to massage the soft fat of your mound. He sucks gently at first, then harder when you arch into him. His teeth graze the sensitive flesh, not biting, just testing, and the shock of pleasure-pain shoots straight to your cunt. You feel yourself clench around nothing, feel more slick leak from your entrance, and you see his nostrils flare, see his eyes studying your face.
Mydei moves to the other breast, giving it the same attention. His mouth is insistent, sucking, licking, biting just hard enough to leave the faint imprint of teeth. You are whimpering now, completely out of control, and every whimper makes Kremnoan groan against your skin.
Impatient, he pulls himself up, and his palm travels from your cheek to your nape, tangling in your hair and pressing your face to the junction of his neck and shoulder.
Then he lines himself up.
"Ready?"
"Yes."
With that, he pushes in.
The stretch is everything. Too much and not enough, burning and perfect, and you feel every bit of him as he sinks inside you. The thick ridge of his shaft is dragging against your walls. The barbells rolling over your sensitive walls, each one a small shock of sensation that makes your toes curl.
Your body clenches around him, trying to adjust, trying to take what he is giving you. The pain is there at first, but it fades quickly, replaced by a fullness that borders on overwhelming. You feel stuffed, filled, like there is no space left inside you for anything but his girth.
"F-fuck," Mydei breathes, burying his face in the pillow beside your head. His voice is barely human now, thick and feral against the shell of your ear. "Fuck, sweetheart. You are so tight."
His hips finally press flush against yours, the coarse hair at his base grinding against your clit, and you can feel him in your belly. Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescents. A thin line of blood wells up where your nails break skin, and Kremnoan groans when he smells it, the copper tang mixing with your natural scent.
"Breathe," he reminds you and shifts so his forehead presses against yours, his breath hot on your lips, molten eyes watching your precious features. "Just breathe, little one. I've got you."
He starts to move. Slow at first, rocking into you with a gentleness that seems almost impossible given the size of him, the heat of him, the way his hands shake where they grip your cheeks. He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes back in, eyes zeroed in on your face the whole time.
One hand travels down your body, and his thumb finds your clit, circling in time with his thrusts, pressing down just hard enough to send sparks up your spine. Mydei adjusts his angle, tilting his hips, searching–
Your back arches off the bed with another thrust.
There.
A cry tears out of you, and Mydei smiles in triumph, his hips snapping forward just a little harder, just a little faster. He circles his arm around your waist, pressing you closer, changing the angle so that every stroke hits that sweet little spot inside you.
"Found it," he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction.
But his gentleness is fraying. You see it in the way his eyes roll back, the way his rhythm stutters and snaps, the way his hips start to move faster than before. Each thrust punches a small sound out of your chest, and he swallows each one with his mouth, kissing you, sloppy and desperate. His tongue thrusts into your mouth in time with his cock, and you are being filled everywhere, from every angle, and it is too much and not enough, and you can’t breathe.
Your cunt is so raw now, so slick, making obscene squelching sounds every time he pushes in. The piercings drag against your walls in a way that sends sparks shooting through your whole body, the metal catching on sensitive walls, rolling over your G-spot with each stroke. You can hear the wet noise of his cock moving inside you, the slap-slap-slap of his hips against your thighs, his ragged breathing, your own sobs.
"Mate," he growls, suckling under your jaw, sniffing your skin like an animal, "mine."
His hand presses harder on your clit, rubbing in tight, fast circles. The dual sensation of his cock inside you, his fingers on your clit, his mouth on your neck sends you hurtling toward the edge again.
"Come for me," he commands. "Come on my cock, mate."
The orgasm rips through you like a wildfire, leaving you shaking and sobbing. Your walls clamp down around him, fluttering, milking, and your vision blacks out for a second. You feel your own slick gushing out around his cock, soaking his thighs, dripping onto the sheets.
And, unfortunately, that’s what makes Mydei lose his composure.
One moment, he is holding himself above you, braced on his forearms, trying to maintain some semblance of control. Next, his arms wrap around you completely, crushing you against his chest, pinning your arms to your sides. His whole weight presses down on you. His chest flattens your breasts. His hips slam into yours with a force that drives the breath from your lungs. Mydei buries his face in your neck, his mouth latching onto the spot where a scent gland would be if you were anything other than a fragile beta.
You can’t move like this, can’t escape, can’t do anything but open your strained legs, trying to accommodate the beast atop of you and take-take-take his fat cock into your weeping pussy.
And it hurts.
His mouth is violent on you, teeth scraping, tongue pressing, sucking so hard you feel it in your spine. Mydei is trying to claim you, trying to mark you even though there is nothing there to mark. His jaw works against your skin, and you feel the wet heat of his saliva spreading across your throat, and still he doesn’t stop.
His hips are pistoning without any rhythm now, just need. Just the blind, animal drive to get deeper, to get more, to bury himself so far inside you that you could never be separated. His thighs slap against yours. His balls hit your perineum with every stroke, wet and sticky with your mixed fluids. His cock slams into your cervix with every thrust, and the pain is sharp and bright and somehow still not enough to push you over the edge into darkness. His knot bumps against your entrance with every thrust, and you can feel the way it catches on your rim.
But Mydei doesn't let it.
It costs him. You can see it in the way his eyes screw shut, in the way his whole body convulses with the effort, in the way he bites down on his own lip until blood wells up and drips down his chin. His hands are shaking around you, his fingertips digging into your ribs hard enough to leave bruises. He pulls back just enough, every time, wrenching his hips away before the swell can lock you. The motion is almost painful to watch – his whole body screaming for the two of you to be tied together in the most primal way.
Mydei is barely holding himself together.
"P-please," he gasps against your throat. The word is broken, desperate, torn from somewhere deep. "Please, dear– I need– I need–"
His arms tighten painfully around you, crushing, desperate, possessive. His face presses harder into your neck, his mouth still sucking at that spot, his teeth scraping the skin raw. His hips slam into you once, twice, three times, each thrust harder than the last, and you feel his cock jerk inside you.
When he cums, Mydei is foaming at the mouth. You’ve never seen rabid animals before, but with white and thick foam at the edges of his lips dripping down his chin, he looks like one. His eyes are rolled back, showing only white, and his whole body is trembling with the force of his release.
"Sweetheart– love– mate–"
You see him turn his head just enough to sink his teeth into the fabric of the pillow, sparing you, leaving your neck untouched. His hips keep moving, grinding his knot against your entrance even though he won't push it inside.
And you are trapped beneath him, pinned by his weight, your arms still pressed to your sides, your legs wrapped around his waist because you don’t have the strength to push him off.
Not that you would.
Not that you can.
So you lie there and take it.
Tears slide down your cheeks and onto the pillow, mixing with his. You are both crying. You are both shaking. You are both so far beyond words that there is nothing left but the sloppy sounds of his cock moving inside you, the ragged gasps of his breath, the broken whimpers that escape your throat.
After what feels like hours, his body goes limp against yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and for a moment, you think he has passed out.
But no, absolutely not. Mydei is just listening to all the blood pumping in his ears, your breath, and the sloshing sound of his cum inside you. The whole cacophony of sounds slowly morphs into the wedding march in his head.
His eyes drift to the torn square lying on his side of the bed and the small holes puncturing it.
Mydei knows that it’s fucked up, but he’d be damned if he let you go right now. After all, leaving a pregnant mate is one of the most hideous moral crimes in Castrum Kremnos.
He pushes up on his elbows and his hand spreads across your still-flat stomach, warm and possessive. His thumb traces slow circles over your belly button.
"Will you," he whispers breathlessly, "marry me?"
.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!
Taglist is closed for this one. (sorry~)
I’m finally back to this series! Tbh, I had to reread a few chapters myself so I wouldn’t miss any details, because I had neglected this fic for so long.
Um… yeah, Sorry for that...
Well, I hope I can make up for it a little with this chapter. Btw, I haven’t forgotten about Phai’s kinks. I’m working on them hehe c;
College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Sunday x Beta!Reader
(Previously: Yandere!Alpha!Phainon x Beta!Reader)
tws: MNDI, DARKFIC, yandere, obsessive/possessive behaviour, manipulation, PTSD, gaslighting, power imbalance, stalking, masturbation, implied religious trauma (Sundays inner thoughts), Sunday is creepy and reader is so tired, this is highly 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.
The Penacony University of Art and Culture, nestled within the impossible architecture of Dreamscape City, was a place of calculated risks wrapped in a colourful cacophony. Here, control was currency, traded in perfect smiles between students hungry for prestige and administrators who stood as unwavering engineers, ready to correct the winding paths to greater profit.
You were one of the unique students.
To be a Beta in this world, especially in a glittering illusion like Penacony, was to be a minor shadow hidden in the system's beautiful facade. Your faint whisper of black tea, once a shield against the primal dynamics of alphas and omegas, now felt like a dangerous beacon in this space saturated with artificial florals and heavy corporate auras.
You were transferring into the Ethics & Management Department, the very core of Penacony’s iron-clad order. Panic clawed at your chest as you chose it in haste, letting Robin guide the final decision. She’d told you it aligned with the fragments of knowledge you’d scraped together at the Grove, and so you filled in the application with trembling hands, silent tears streaking your face in the empty dorm room. You needed the credits, and IPC’s suffocating course load had been a pressure too sharp to bear. The Art & Culture school promised a quieter, more forgiving path, a fragile sanctuary for a Beta scarred by trauma, desperate to be invisible.
This choice was your gamble: to hide in plain sight beneath the largest, most elaborate mask of all.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm trying to stay quiet as you navigated the ornate hallways. The sheer scale of Penacony's architecture, all gold and impossible geometry, felt oppressive.
“Wanna have a sleepover again tonight?” Robin’s melodic voice pierced the anxious haze clouding your mind as you navigated Penacony’s gilded hallways. Her cheerful grin sent a shiver through your chest, fluttering in a way that was unfair, distracting, impossible to ignore. That morning, you had woken flushed and trembling, your sheets damp with the betrayal of your own dreams – dreams that had cast Robin’s likeness in impossibly intimate ways. Every detail had been searingly vivid, leaving your body hot, your panties damp, and your senses screaming in frustration. You shifted, cursing your own fragility, praying she hadn’t noticed.
“Yeah,” you murmured, cheeks heating. “It… helps.”
“Yay!” Robin leaned closer, brushing a hand against your arm. “I like having you close!” She smiled, eyes sparkling with some mischievous, impossible warmth. “And besides… it gives us both something to look forward to.”
As you two walked, the air thickened with the smells of wealth and ambition. You passed the bigger hallway, and your senses, sharpened by trauma, scanned for threats.
By a big window, a figure leaned, observing the flow of students. It was a tall woman, her long, violet hair falling like a dark curtain, framing a profile of severe beauty. Her hands, partially covered with the red-inked tattoos of blooming flowers, were lazily seeking something on a black smartphone. She carried the intense, solitary focus of an Alpha, though her scent was confusingly neutral. She gave nothing away, but as you passed, her sharp eyes lifted and swept over you for a fleeting moment. The glance made you shiver deep down, tensing your muscles just the same.
Then, a blur of unnecessary flash passed by: a student in a green silken shirt that probably cost more than your tuition. His heavy chain caught the light, and a ridiculous fedora cocked at a challenging angle when he talked to someone beside him. He was radiating an arrogance, loud and predatory, that made you frown. The smell of his corporate-grade cologne was a chemical assault, too much even for you. You looked down immediately, trying to vanish against the wall. Robin looked at you, clearly confused by your sudden withdrawal.
Just as you tried to compose yourself, a new figure stepped into the corridor from a lecture hall. He was tall, dressed in a strange, multi-layered outfit, and carried himself with an almost comically pompous air. His gaze, even when directed casually at Robin, was strict and scrutinizing. He smelled faintly of chalk dust and white musk – clearly an Alpha.
"Miss Oak," he stated, his voice a crisp baritone that seemed to analyze Robin as he spoke.
Robin's cheerful grin brightened. "Doctor, good morning! Are your freshmen still struggling with the concept of truth tables?"
He sighed almost dramatically. "A lamentable display, as ever. But I shall guide them from incompetence.” His eyes, a unique color of orange fading into yellow, fell on you. “And who is this quiet one?"
"This is my dear friend, moving to Penacony finally!" Robin replied, a protective hand settling on your waist. "And now one of yours, Doctor. She's taking 'Language, Proof and Logic' for her requirements."
Your cheeks burned under the man's judging gaze. You managed a tiny, almost inaudible squeak of a greeting. "Good morning, Professor… um..."
“Ratio. And I prefer to be called ‘doctor'." He nodded to himself, dismissing you with an indifferent wave of his hand. "See that you apply yourself, then. Logic is unforgiving of sentiment." With these words, he swept past you two, not sparing a glance.
Robin only giggled, rubbing smooth circles into your waist with the “Don't worry! He is not that strict!" and led you further down, where, near a service elevator that seemed perpetually stalled, stood another unsettling sight: a gruff, gloomy man in an ill-fitted shirt and white vest. He was leaning heavily against the wall, looking perpetually annoyed at the existence of the world. His scent was an overwhelming punch of tobacco and something alcoholic. He didn't look up, but his energy alone made the hairs on your arms stand up.
You clutched the strap of your bag, trying to match Robin's gentle pace. These halls were quieter than the Grove, yes, but the figures inhabiting them felt even more potent, more dangerous. It's better to keep a low profile. Today, you just needed to sign some papers, live through Sunday's interrogation, and disappear into the car, which was waiting for you and Robin outside. You desperately needed the safety you hadn't found since you were in high school.
And you were one breath apart from meeting the strict Oak sibling, stepping into the Student Council President's room nervously.
"Come inside."
The vast space of his office was immaculate. The walls were panelled in white and gold, and the light filtered through windows depicting scenes of the serene city of Dreamscape. The air was cool, sterile, and almost offensively clean, smelling only of incense and ozone – the perfect, unscented environment Sunday demanded. On a pristine table, near the edge of his desk, sat a fragile glass vase of white lilies, their pristine perfection mirroring the room’s sterile beauty. You quietly wondered since when the Student Council was given such a large office, but the feeling of a gravely stare instantly silenced your musings.
You stiffly sat on the edge of a white chair, nervous in front of the intimidating Alpha, who seemed unbothered by your nervousness.
Sunday was a sight to behold. He wore a suit of sharp grey and white, tailored to inhuman perfection. His movements were precise, his hair immaculate. He projected the unwavering authority of a confident Alpha, even while studying your application file, turning the crisp pages with hands that you noticed were clad in white gloves.
“It's good to see you again,” he said your name, his voice a rich baritone harmony that made the air vibrate. After a few more seconds, he finally lifted his head, and his golden eyes swept over your face. There was a faint flicker of something intensely knowing beneath the calm that made your spine straighten. “I remember you. Robin's school friend.” He shifted, straightening his posture as well. “Is that why you chose this university? Because of Robin?”
“Partially yes, President,” you replied automatically, keeping your voice low, respectful, and Beta-neutral. “But my focus is on international management. The IPC's curriculum was too heavily weighted toward financial derivatives. I sought a more stable environment.”
Sunday features softened a little in a curated expression of approval. "A commendable focus." He leaned back slightly, his expression remaining serene, yet somehow more probing. "Your transcripts show a previous enrollment at a highly competitive institution – the Grove of Epiphany University. A fine Alpha-dominant school. Why transfer?"
This question, simple and factual, hit you like a blast of cold air.
The stares. Thick and heavy, like hands pressing you down, pinning you to the wall of a darkened hallway. The perfect, blue, smiling eyes that saw nothing but their own consuming desire, a radiant facade that made every complaint about his behavior sound like delusional madness. The other one, standing too close, his breath hot and stale on your neck, the air thick with the smell of sweet food. The mad one, his single, reddish eye staring right into your soul as you begged for help in an empty lecture hall. The profound indifference of others echoing louder than your own pleas.
...
Focus. Beta-neutral.
"It... the atmosphere was too heavy," you managed, the lie catching dryly in your throat. You gripped the edge of the chair, forcing a faint, academic frown. "I sought more... stable environment for focused study. Penacony's commitment to order seemed the perfect contrast to that kind of competitive volatility."
Sunday subtly stiffened. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk.
He was a powerful, high-ranking figure who had spent his entire life suppressing his secondary gender with drugs and relentless willpower to maintain his image as the iron-fisted leader.
Don’t move. Don’t shift. Don’t react.
"You understand," Sunday continued, his jaw clenching to keep his voice steady, his eyes now narrowed to golden slits, "that the Ethics and Management Department is one of absolute discipline. I personally oversee the progress of every student. There is no room for sentimentality here.” His voice dropped in register, becoming a controlled thrum that vibrated in your chest, “Control is the highest virtue."
His whole posture was a demand for obedience, and it sent a cold shiver through you. The very word ‘control’ felt like a chain snapping around your ankle. You desperately wanted to shrink, to disappear, to make yourself less there.
"I understand," you confirmed calmly, the small victory of keeping your voice steady feeling immense. "Discipline yields predictability. I find predictability... appealing."
Sunday drew a faint breath. His eyes locked onto a section of your collarbone visible above your sweater, a vulnerable patch of soft skin. His teeth ached to sink into it.
You felt your blood pressure spike. He was serious. He was not the kind of man who played games. He was the kind of authority that could erase you if you slipped up. You fought the urge to pull your hand over your throat at his gaze – an instinct from the past that never happened.
"Indeed," he rasped, the word tasting like sand, and you were sure he could smell the fear coiling in your stomach. "Predictability... is a gift. A gift that requires stringent oversight. Particularly for... for rare students like yourself."
Sunday slammed the file shut with an unnecessary thud that made you flinch internally.
"From this moment," he stated, his voice now dangerously low, "I will personally be your Academic Mentor. I will oversee your progress to ensure your integration. All reports, all queries, all concerns will be routed exclusively through me. You will meet with me every week."
Sunday stood up, towering over you, the dominating persona fully engaged, radiating a cold feeling that was completely at odds with the hidden scent of need clinging to his tailored trousers.
"Welcome to Penacony. Do not fail me. My standards are absolute."
You stood, nodding quickly, and gathered your bag, feeling the desperate heat radiating off him, the aggressive energy of his "guidance" already suffocating you. Every movement felt clumsy and loud compared to his immaculate posture.
"Understood, Sunday. Thank you for your time."
As you turned to leave, a small object tumbled out of your bag. Your worn, black hair tie. It landed silently on the plush carpet beside his chair. You didn't notice. You were already focused on the door, intent on escaping the pressurized environment.
The moment you disappeared behind the damned door, Sunday moved.
He kicked the door shut with a violent thwack that rattled the decorative glass of the windows. He was on his knees before the sound died, his golden eyes wide, fixed on the forgotten hair tie.
The mask shattered, revealing the desperate man beneath.
Little did you know, Sunday had been watching you. Meticulously tracking, endlessly scrolling through your socials, hovering just behind the screen during your rare calls with Robin, and imagining yourself pressed into him when the days were too busy and the nights too lonely.
All these months of agonizing starvation, just to finally see your beautiful figure and smell your intoxicating scent.
This night, the sight was a catastrophic shock: he almost lost control the moment he saw you. In the lamplight, your silhouette lifted the t-shirt over your head, revealing the soft skin of your breasts. The wait was worth it. Every frantic breath and every moment of burning adoration was a dizzying reward.
Sunday snatched up the cheap fabric from the floor. It was thin but carried the concentrated dose of your harmonious scent. He jammed the hair tie against his mouth and nose, breathing you in like a drowning man finding air. A low wail ripped from his throat – a sound the perfect Sunday had never allowed himself to make.
Immediately, he tore at the expensive belt, the leather protesting, and wrenched the zipper down with a harsh, grating sound. His hand plunged inside, bypassing fabric, gripping the swollen length of himself with a punishing intensity. He thrusted his hips forward with his head thrown back against the wooden door. His elegant features contorted into a silent scream of pure lust.
"So long," he choked out, the words a raw whisper against the air, "you still smell so, so… nice-"
He worked himself with a kind of panicked violence, fist sawing up and down his slick cock like he meant to tear it off at the root. Every frantic tug was fueled by the same rabid fear: that your scent would dissolve from his memory before he could brand himself with it. Before he could immortalize it in the only way he knew how.
Sunday bit down on a curse, breath stuttering as his spine arched. The image struck him – you, straddling him like a starving animal, you, kissing him until his mind goes blank, you, baring your teeth and biting down on his scent gland, claiming him like a mate. The wet squelch of skin, the imagined sting of your teeth sinking into the tender swell of his neck – gods, he sobbed at the thought. The shame of it scalded him, searing hot beneath his skin. He wanted that. He wanted you to tear into him, to leave him marked, leaking, utterly owned.
“Fuck,” he gasped, humping into his gloved palm with humiliating need, rutting like some low beast. His elegant face had twisted into something monstrous – lashes wet, lips curled, cheeks blotched red with arousal and disgust at himself. He muttered slurred apologies into the air, apologies to no one, to you, to the phantom version of you he was rutting into. “Bite me- please-please, take it-”
The pressure snapped. His entire body seized, a strangled cry strangled between his teeth as his cock spasmed, spilling hot ropes over his knuckles, over the floor, over everything. He jerked through it, milking himself dry, trembling like a beaten thing.
The second it was over, he crumpled. Collapsed face-down into the expensive carpet, gasping in the reek of his own musk, sweet and obscene in the air. His trousers were soaked. His gloves were drenched. His pulse thundered wildly at his neck—the same neck he now hid in the crook of his arm, as if he could shield the tender gland that still throbbed beneath it.
Because even now, in the afterglow, he could still feel your imagined teeth closing around it.
He brought your forgotten hair tie to his lips and kissed it like a rosary. Once. Twice. Again. Pressing it hard enough to hurt, as if pain could make it sacred. As if reverence could disguise what he truly was.
I loved you quietly for so long. Reverently. Patiently. Like a fool, feeding of scraps that Robin allowed. Tell me — am I not worthy of one single guilty glance?
Enough.
Let me be obscene. Let me be ruined. Let biology scream and burn and rearrange itself to make us compatible. Let evolution choke on its own rules.
Strip me past dignity. Past logic. Past every trembling instinct telling me to run.
There is no restraint left. No decency. No higher thought. No altar I won’t desecrate for this.
Once, I had faith. I had morals. I had fear.
Now, I have you.
.
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Yep, it's a pre-Astral Express Sunday. Fasten your seatbelts, gang, he is completely insane.
I want to make him completely insane, so maybe you should've stayed in Okhema.
Also, if the first three paragraphs seem familiar, well... glad you've noticed :D
You, a humble beta, pretend the Grove of Epithany university is a neutral zone free of territorial markings and performance art.
Phainon is the school's golden boy: picture-perfect hair, a body to die for, a shirt that refuses to wrinkle...
And an obsession that will shatter your autonomy.
And don't mind his strange behaviour, please! He's just so-so-so in love with you!
Ah? It scares you?...
Well, you surely have some other options. There are plenty other universities and thus, possibilities.
It's just...
Are you sure they are better than staying with this psychotic Alpha?
THIS SERIES ARE NOT SUITED FOR MINORS.
Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. 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.
General trigger warnings: Dark!AU, omegaverse!AU, college(or uni)!AU, manipulation, coercion, kidnapping, non-con, this fic explores really dark topics that may be disturbing to some.
Separate trigger warnings are listed at the beginning of each chapter. Before reading, please make sure to check them.
Playlist:
Ethel Cain - Tempest
Flower Face - Biblical Love
Deftones (original: The Smiths) - Please, please, please let me get what I want
Halsey - Arsonist
Mitski - Abbey
...
Amphoreus arc (where it all started):
Tempest pt.1 (yandere!alpha!Phainon x beta!reader)
Tempest pt.2 - only on AO3
Tempest pt.3 (epilogue)
Anaxagoras route (yandere!beta!Anaxa x beta!reader)
Mydei's route (yandere!Alpha!Mydei x Beta!reader)
Phaidei route (yandere!alpha!Phainon x beta!reader x yandere!alpha!Mydei)
PhaiNaxa route
Headcanons:
Mydei's kinks
...
Penacony arc (where it all continues):
Penacony intro 1.1. (yandere!Omega!Robin x Beta!reader)
Penacony intro 1.2. (yandere!OakSibilings x Beta!reader)
Penacony intro 1.3 - only on AO3
...
Asks:
Children's future and the "Golden Boy" yanderes.
Graduation?
Logistics and how ABO bonds work in this AU.
Making the Tempest-verse bigger and ooc Phainon.
Phainon's + Phaidei's yandere!kids
Reader dies/becomes unresponsive - only on AO3
PhaiDei: Darling can't bear children
PhaiDei: Phainon vs Mydei
...
Now WIP: Phainon's kinks, Asks (3), Penacony continuation...
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.
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