#miha.asks

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;

This strategy, executed patiently in that fragile time window, could escalate tensions to a breaking point. Mydei, believing he is managing a volatile partner for the good of the pack, will increase pressure. Phainon, believing he is fighting to reclaim his very reason for being, will become more desperate.

The breaking point wouldn’t be something big, by the way. It will happen over something like Mydei physically blocking Phainon from entering the nest when you are having a nightmare, saying that you need to calm down first.

The following fight would be different from their previous brawls. There would be no competitive thrill, no underlying current of rough affection. This would be a fight without rules. And while Mydei is stronger and rational, trying not to damage his mate too badly, Phainon, especially in this state, is capable of amoral ruthlessness. 

In other words, Phainon would fight to kill.

Aftermath

The scent of copper and primal fear hung thick in the house. It was a smell that buried itself in the back of the throat, a stench that would never leave you. Mydei lay on the kitchen tiles, a dark, still pool haloing his blond hair where Phainon’s violent blows had found their target. The cheerful print of his apron was now a canvas of crimson.

Phainon stood over the body, chest heaving, knuckles raw. His pheromones spiked the air with a violent scent of ash, mixed with copper tang, and made you gag. But when his eyes, wide with dawning horror, glimmering gold in the kitchen light, found you curled in the corner, the aggression bled into something worse: desperation.

“I had to,” Phainon rasped, the words a broken record meant for himself. “He was… He was taking you away!” His gaze was fixed on you, and the body at his feet was merely an obstacle.

But even obstacles left evidence.

With a shuddering breath, Phainon pulled out his phone. His fingers, stained, left smudges on the screen. He called the only two people whose loyalty was as unquestioning. The only family he had left. 

Thirty minutes later, two tall men stood over what was Mydei. 

The one in the neatly tailored suit, with golden hair and amber eyes, tsked:   

“Messy.”

The other one, dressed in a black sweatshirt with the hood up, nodded:

“Indeed.”

...

So, can you play them against each other? 

You can. 

But will it be better for you? 

*Turns around to look at the two guys he called.*

I doubt that.

.

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

Many of you were interested in Phainon's cousins. So here they are! This is one of the few ways to meet them in Tempestverse. Hint on how to do that: You need to drive Phai to utter despair or meet some shady people!

Btw, go chek out this post (Mydei x reader)! If a lot of you like it, I might expand it hehe

TempestVerse Masterlist

"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)

Penacony intro 1.3 (Only on AO3)

...

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:

TRIGGER WARNINGS:

MNDI, THIS IS A FULL-BLOWN DARKFIC, so HIGHLY DISTURBING CONTENT, NON-CON, (EXPLICIT somnophilia, rutting, masturbation, voyeurism), yandere behavior, obsessive and possessive behavior, manipulation, gaslighting, stalking, broken social hierarchy, insanity, anxiety-inducing situations, emotional manipulation, slow-burn entrapment, power imbalance in sexual and ABO dynamics, marking and scent-based dominance, sexualized religious (?Its Ena?) imagery, coercion through pheromones.

Sunday: religious trauma and mania (cultist-like behaviour from Sunday), vommiting, he tries to forse himself to go through studding, crying during non-conning you, religious horror, delusion, self-harm, self-corruption, control disguised as care. He is absolutely insane. I tried to create a sort of homage to the terrifying reality that some of us, unfortunately, experience, intertwined with Sunday’s religious trauma (if you know what I mean).

Robin: drugging, emotional dependency, she uses your sex toy without your consent. She is less insane than Sunday, but that's even worse.

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Oak siblings are intensely creepy, psychological trauma affecting all characters (including readers and author).

Do not like - do not read.

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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 you wont lose anything from the Tempest-verse experience, i promise you.

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If you still want to read the full thing, here it is.

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Okay, that was mentally taxing to write. Honestly, whenever I write something like this, it feels like I'm purging a corner of my mind of thoughts that sometimes torment me. It’s genuinely hard, but seeing how much you all enjoy it definitely motivates me, hahah Anyway, that was the last intro chapter. I already have a couple of interesting asks, but I'm waiting for even more so I can keep expanding the Tempest-Verse! Send me your wildest ideas and theories!

Main fiction:

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)

Tempest-verse 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

PhaiNaxa thoughts

Mydei's kinks

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Main fiction (Penacony):

Penacony intro 1.1. (yandere!Omega!Robin x Beta!reader)

Penacony intro 1.2. (yandere!OakSibilings x Beta!reader)

Penacony intro (Only on AO3) - you are here

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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. 

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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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Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! Taglist is closed for this one.

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