Hi hi! If its alright with you can I request a omegaverse with alpha!phainon×beta!reader. Please make him as yander as possible the darker the better perhaps.... sorry if it's uncomfortable...
-💙🪽☀️
Tempest - (epilogue)
Previous part
College!AU, A/B/O!AU: Yandere!Dark!Alpha!Pahinon x Beta!Reader
wordcount: ~1050 (only the epilogue on Tumblr, full - my AO3)
tws: MNDI, College!AU, a/b/o!AU, Darkfic, yandere, obsessive/possessive behaviour, emotional and psychological distress, non-con aftermath, PTSD, bodily marks, forced impregnation, reader is broken.
(If you find some more, please let me know.)
As usual, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!
NOT SUITED FOR MINORS. Not proofread. Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Not proofread. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes. Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.
ADDITIONAL WARNING:
Here on Tumblr, I will only be posting the epilogue.
If you want to read the full thing, it’s on my AO3 account.
But please, please read the tags at the beginning of the chapter to stay safe.
If you want to read the previous chapter, you can find it here. I warn you the third and the last time that it is very dark, so please, read the tw's carefully (they are stated at the very beginning). If you are not okay with them, you can just skip it and read the epilogue (this part). Stay safe.
Ethel Cain - Vacillator
The stage gleams under the sunlight, banners rippling in the summer wind, gold and white streaking across the open plaza, the university seal bold in the center of each. Graduates sit in meticulous rows, their caps sharp and square, faces full of hope and anticipation, their breaths rising in small clouds of collective excitement. Cameras tilt and pan, lenses catching the glint of sunlight as the crowd murmurs, anticipation rising to fever pitch.
Phainon stands at the podium, his posture impeccable, the embodiment of everything a golden boy should be. He does not need to project, not really; even without amplification, his presence demands attention, a gravitational pull that draws the eyes of the hopeful and the ambitious. His suit clings perfectly to his frame, each crease and seam a testament to careful preparation, to control, to perfection. His smile stretches wide, luminous under the bright sky, teeth white and even, an image of triumph framed in daylight.
…
You lift your hand toward the bookshelf. Dust coats the spines of old novels and journals, a grey haze settling over titles. The motion pulls at your sleeve, and your eyes fall to the pale lines etched across your wrists, slashes long healed. You brush the dust again, moving the rag over the surface, feeling the coarse texture under your fingertips. You let your arm fall back to your side when the washing machine beeps in another room.
…
Phainon’s voice echoes over the plaza, amplified but not needed. He gestures, broad and deliberate, his hands cutting the air as he addresses the sea of graduates.
“Today,” he starts, and the words roll out with slow majesty, “we stand on the precipice of a future that is ours to define. We have endured nights without rest, tests that threatened our resolve, and doubts that gnawed at the edges of our confidence. Yet here we are, triumphant and unbroken, ready to carve our mark upon the world.”
…
You drag the tall basket of laundry across the floorboards of the hallway, heavy with the weight of damp cloth. With a tired puff, you decide to rest for a bit, leaning on the plastic. The basket digs into your hip as you lean on it, forcing a wince from you. The bruised flesh there burns, the marks still tender under the layers of clothing. You glance at the locks on the entrance door only briefly as you limp past.
…
Phainon’s voice rises again, words sculpted with precision, perfect for the ceremonial broadcast.
“We are not merely students. We are visionaries. We are pioneers who have wrestled knowledge from obscurity, who have crafted it into tools to shape our destiny. The path before us is uncharted, yes, but we have the courage, the insight, the audacity to walk it. We will not falter. We will not hesitate. Our names will echo in history as those who dared to embrace the world, to bend it to our vision.”
The applause swells. He leans into the microphone slightly, savoring the resonance of his own voice, a predator at the apex of his triumph, utterly delirious with achievement.
…
You bend down to pick up a small dinosaur toy from the carpet, part of a small collection of toys scattered around. A train, a rattle, a puzzle piece with a missing corner. As you bend, your ankle brushes the pyramid toy, catching on the tender circle of bruised flesh on your ankle. The marks from chains pulse, and you pause only long enough to think, “ I need to put some bruise ointment on this .”
The silver bracelet on the other leg catches the dim light, glittering faintly against the darkness of the bruise. You close the toy basket.
….
Phainon’s hand sweeps through the air, turning to address the parents and dignitaries.
“Our generation will carry the torch. We will innovate, we will lead, we will challenge the old paradigms and build new ones in their place. Nothing can stop us, for our preparation is complete, our vision unwavering. We will claim the future, and it will belong to us.”
His eyes glint with manic certainty as he surveys the crowd. Cameras focus on him, on his fingers, on the small quiver in the corners of his mouth as he smiles for them, radiant as ever.
…
You move to the kitchen, pulling your hair back with one hand, twisting it into a knot as you reach for a spoon with the other. Hickeys bloom in mottled purples and reds, teeth marks pressed into soft flesh, bruises layered atop one another in a grotesque tapestry.
The television flickers in the corner of the kitchen, broadcasting the ceremony. Phainon’s words creep through the silence, rich and resonant, filling every corner of the space. You stir the pot slowly, lips pulling upward from the familiar voice.
A single tear slides down, falling into the thick broth.
A sudden cry pierces the air, sharp and high, slicing through the lull of mechanical motions. The sound pulls you from your trance, and you move down the hall, limping slightly as you go. The nursery door is painted in soft pastels. Inside, the small boy, barely two, lies in the crib and sobs, visibly distressed. You bend over, fingers gentle as you lift your son, cradling him against your chest. His small hands clutch at your shirt, seeking promised safety. You hum, voice soft and almost foreign, and the tears on his cheeks dampen against your chest. He relaxes slowly, breathing evening into your arms, a fragile bond against the crushing weight of your numbness.
When his body goes heavy with a charm of sleep, you lay him in the crib, smoothing the blanket, watching until his breathing steadies fully. The toys are scattered around the room, a kingdom of soft pastel colors and wood, a world you protect with silent vigilance, the last crumb of happiness in your life.
