im so happy your requests are open!your writing is so good 🥹‼️ i eat it up everytime you post!
Can i request a more subtle Yandere Halovian (<- if you want it you can leave it out!) reader with Anaxa, Phainon, and Aventurine?
Reader who is not obvious about it but in ways where is manipulative, decitful, and obsessive?
🥹💕thank you so much if you do write it!
Halo of Obsession, Wings of Deceit
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Subtle Yandere, Manipulative Reader, Obsession, Psychological Tension, Telepathy, Halovian!Reader, Dark Romance, Slow Burn.
Warnings: Mild Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Psychological Abuse, Obsessive Behavior, Dark Themes, References To Trauma, Death Of Loved Ones, Intense Emotional Situations, Mild Blood, Ethical Ambiguity.
A/N: Thank you for your kind words!! <33
You first met him in the ashes. The Deliverer of Okhema—Phainon. To the world, he was a symbol. To you, he was prey.
Halovians were born to entrance: your halo shimmered faintly behind your head, feathers faintly rustling as your voice carried a resonance that soothed or unsettled depending on your intent. You cloaked your obsession well, weaving it into warmth, into companionship. Phainon never saw the strings you wound around him, because he was too busy binding himself with guilt.
“Sometimes,” he confessed one night by the campfire, “I wonder if my flame is meant to burn the world, not save it.” His cyan eyes dimmed, reflecting the coals.
You leaned closer, brushing his arm lightly with your fingers. The gesture was simple, almost accidental—but through your soft telepathy, you planted reassurance deep in his chest. No one else sees you like I do. No one else knows the truth of your burden.
His breath hitched, as though the thought were his own.
Phainon was kind, almost unbearably so. His laughter came easily, his compassion boundless—but every smile carried sorrow beneath it. And you loved him for it. Loved it so much that you began steering his path, gently, carefully. You whispered doubt into his ear about comrades who questioned his resolve. You magnified his reliance on you, until your presence was as vital as his Coreflame.
And he thanked you for it.
When battles ended, his hand would linger on yours, gratitude in his gaze. When the others cheered his victories, he searched only for your nod. Your manipulations wove a reality where you were the sole anchor keeping him afloat.
But obsession is a dangerous fire.
The night he almost broke was the night you nearly lost him. The Strife Titan had driven him to his knees, his sword cracked, his armor scorched. You wove your telepathy like a net around him, amplifying every ounce of his will, feeding it with your own. Rise. Rise for me.
He rose. He burned. He survived.
Later, when the others slept, he cornered you. His voice was ragged. “I heard you. In the battlefield. You were there—in my head.” His eyes searched yours, torn between awe and fear.
You tilted your head, halo glimmering faintly. “I was only reminding you of what you already knew, Phainon. You’re not allowed to fall. Not yet.”
Silence stretched. Then, slowly, he pressed his forehead to yours. His Coreflame mark burned faintly against his throat, and for a moment, you felt his soul’s warmth flicker against your own.
You smiled. He thought it was affection. He never realized it was triumph.
Because now, his survival was no longer his choice. It was yours.
Anaxa was dangerous, but so were you. That was why you adored him.
The Demised Scholar carried the weight of heresies and broken dreams in every word he spoke. His sharp tongue lashed at prophets and tyrants alike, but when you came near, his voice softened. Not by choice—Halovians could tune minds as easily as harps—but because you made it so.
“You’re too quiet,” he said once, aqua eyes narrowing, magenta pupils burning like coals. “Most who linger near me can’t resist arguing. You just…listen.”
You tilted your head, halo flickering in a delicate pulse. “I hear the music in your words. Why would I interrupt?”
That earned a rare laugh, dry and bitter.
You knew what he didn’t: you weren’t listening, you were memorizing. Cataloguing every wound, every vulnerability. You wrapped your obsession in silk, presenting it as admiration. When he raged against the gods, you whispered agreement, fueling his fire. When grief pulled him under, you cloaked his thoughts with your own, feeding him resolve.
To Anaxa, you were the one soul who understood him.
The truth was darker. You wanted to be the only one.
It wasn’t difficult. His peers already despised him, wary of his experiments and defiance. You nudged his paranoia with gentle suggestions: that colleagues mocked him in secret, that students whispered betrayal. He grew more isolated, but leaned closer to you, relying on your presence as his single tether.
One night, deep in his laboratory, surrounded by failed constructs of soul and flame, he confessed. “I think I killed her.” His voice cracked. “My sister. I wasn’t there when the Black Tide came. If I hadn’t chased knowledge, she would’ve lived.”
You touched his hand, letting your feathers brush his ear in a gesture that was half comfort, half claim. “She lives through you. Through your work. Through what you will become.”
His gaze snapped to yours. For the first time, he didn’t see a student, an admirer, a companion. He saw salvation.
And you smiled, because you had rewritten his grief into devotion.
When he attempted his final, forbidden transformation—seeking to merge soul with divinity—you were there, whispering steady guidance through your telepathy. Others might call it manipulation. You called it love.
If he survived, he would belong to you.
If he died, his legacy would still be yours to carry.
Either way, Anaxa could never escape you.
Aventurine was a gambler. And you? You never played fair.
He noticed you the way he noticed all things—calculating odds, weighing risks. A Halovian in Penacony was already a spectacle: your halo shimmered faint gold, your voice carrying an undertone that bent hearts without them realizing. To him, you were a curiosity. To you, he was obsession incarnate.
You played the long game. He thrived on risk, on chaos, but you fed his addiction subtly. A word here, a nudge there—telepathic pulses that made him crave your company the way he craved the roll of dice.
“You’ve got tells, you know,” he teased one evening, lounging across a velvet couch. His eyes gleamed under his glasses. “Every time you want something, your halo flickers. Just a little.”
You feigned a laugh, masking the deliberate pulse you’d trained into your gestures. “And what is it I want, Aventurine?”
His grin widened. “Me, obviously.”
He thought it was a joke. He didn’t realize how true it was.
Unlike others, Aventurine was hard to corner. He thrived on unpredictability, making every relationship a gamble. But you loved that. You mirrored his moves, reflecting charm with charm, danger with danger. Where he bluffed, you called. Where he tested, you raised. It became a dance of risk, except the odds were always yours—because your voice, your halo, your obsession tilted the balance.
He started seeking you out. At games, negotiations, walks under Penacony’s neon sky—he wanted your presence, your perspective. He thought it was fascination. It was dependency.
One night, when a gamble went sour and enemies cornered him, you intervened. Not openly—you whispered fear into their minds, subtle threads of Halovian telepathy that made them doubt, hesitate, retreat. Aventurine never saw it, only the aftermath.
“You’re lucky,” you told him, smiling.
But he shook his head, staring at you with unsettling intensity. “No. That wasn’t luck. That was you.”
The air thickened. For a heartbeat, you feared he’d uncovered everything. Then, his smile curved again, softer this time. “Guess I’ve found my greatest gamble.”
And he meant it.
You’d become his risk, his thrill, his obsession—and he never realized it was the other way around. Every choice he made now bent toward you, every calculation included your presence.
He was a gambler. But you had already stacked the deck.
And when the game ended, it would be you collecting all the winnings.
╰┈➤ Mako comes home late after a long gruelling shift, sluggish and desperate to crawl into bed he forced himself to push forward knowing that his home is just right there.
Tags: tired Mako, Slow hungry kiss, needy Mako if you squint your eyes, fluff, inspo from a song, computa! Search up Mako x reader 😣
︶ ⏝ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ⏝ ︶︶ ⏝ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ⏝ ︶︶ ⏝ ୨୧︶
The front door clicked open at exactly 2:14 AM, letting a draft of crisp autumn air into the silent apartment. Mako stepped inside, his broad shoulders slumped under the weight of a twelve-hour shift that had dragged him through the worst parts of the city. He moved with a practiced, heavy quietness, unbuckling his utility belt and setting it on the entryway table with a metallic thud. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he kicked off his boots. He expected the apartment to be pitch black, but a soft, golden sliver of light cut across the hardwood floor from the living room.
When he rounded the corner, he found you curled up on the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket with a book resting open against your lap. His chest tightened with a familiar, magnetic pull. No matter how chaotic, dark, or fractured the world outside felt, this room and your presence was the anchor that kept him grounded. He stood in the archway for a moment, just watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, letting the lingering adrenaline of the streets finally drain out of his system.
"You're still up," Mako said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that cut through the midnight stillness. He walked over, the hardened exterior of a city police officer completely melting away with every step he took toward you. He ran a hand through his messy black hair, leaving it completely disheveled as he looked down at you with heavy, tired eyes. "I told you not to wait up for me. The precinct was a mess tonight."
You looked up, closing the book and offering a soft, knowing smile. "You know I can't sleep properly until you're back anyway. Come here."
He didn't need to be told twice. Mako sank into the couch beside you, the cushions shifting under his weight. He didn't care that his black undershirt still smelled faintly of coffee and cold asphalt; he just needed to be close. He leaned forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the comforting, warm scent of your skin. His large, calloused hands found your waist, gripping you tightly through the blanket as if ensuring you were actually there and not just a dream he conjured up after too many hours on patrol.
"The city was a mess tonight," he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and uneven. Outside, he had to be the law, the enforcer, the man completely in control of every dangerous situation. But here, in the dark, under the quiet watch of the moon, he willingly surrendered all of that power to you. "Too many problems. Too many people running. I just wanted to get back home to you."
You ran your fingers through his hair, gently massaging the knots of tension at the base of his skull. You felt him shudder slightly, his grip tightening just a fraction more as he let out a long, ragged exhale. "You're safe now," you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "The shift is over, Mako. Let it go."
Mako pulled back just enough to look at you, his amber eyes reflecting the dim glow of the single lamp. There was a fierce, loyalty burning in his gaze, a look that told you he belonged entirely to you in these late night hours, completely removed from the badge he wore during his shifts. He reached up, his rough thumb gently tracing your jawline, his touch incredibly tender despite his size.
"I mean it," he said softly, his eyes locking onto yours with absolute sincerity. "I mean it when I say I only want to go back home—to you."
He leaned in, and when his lips finally met yours, the last remaining walls of his composure crumbled entirely. The kiss began with the heavy, desperate exhaustion of his work, a breathless collision of cold night air and the sudden, burning heat of your mouth. Mako let out a strained groan softly against your lips, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he shifted his weight, crowding your space and tilting his head to deepen the angle. His calloused hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling firmly into your hair to hold you exactly where he wanted you.
It wasn't a gentle kiss, but it was profoundly reverent. It was the way a starved man holds onto something his been waiting for. He parted your lips with a quiet, demanding intensity, tasting of faint coffee and the bitter chill of the streets, but everything about the way he moved against you was pure fire. His other hand gripped your waist through the blanket, pulling your hips flush against his until there was absolutely no space left between you. He drank in your warmth greedily, his breaths coming faster, matching the sudden, erratic thumping of his heart against your ribs. Every touch communicated what he couldn't put into words, that the world outside was a chaotic mess, but you were his absolute truth.
When he finally broke the kiss, he didn't pull away far. He rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily in the quiet room. His eyes were still closed, a soft, content smile finally tugging at the corners of his lips as his thumb gently stroked the flushed skin of your cheek. For Mako, the world outside these walls could spin entirely out of control, but as long as the moon brought him back to this room, he had everything he ever needed.
Author's Note
Hey guys😋 whoa Mako content !!!
This guy did stuff in the show I did not like but goodness brochacho is majestic looking 😣 I've been seeing a lot of Tiktok videos with "My Moon My Man" song playing in the back and I had an idea of a lil scenario for all my Mako freaks out there🙏 I hope you guys enjoy this one cuz I enjoyed making this 🤤
Don't forget to check out my master list for more content ^^
