Pheromones are the invisible strings that pull us around like puppets. They're the language our bodies learned long before we thought ourselves clever enough for words. Don't look so offended—your scent is already telling me more about you than your mouth ever could.
Let's begin with the basics.
Omegas, Alphas, Betas — oh, what a circus.
When we're children, we're all the same. Loud, obnoxious, sticky with melted candy and dirt from playground scrapes. Our second gender hasn't yet revealed itself, so we pretend the world is fair. But somewhere between the awkward tail end of elementary and the terrifying jungle of adolescence—our bodies change. Not just the obvious way. No, we awaken.
Some discover they are Alphas. Natural-born rulers, or so they like to think. Their pheromones are sharp, heavy things. The kind that announce themselves before the body even enters a room. Stand too close to an Alpha in full swing, and you'll swear the air is dripping with iron and fire. They reek of challenge and inevitability. They bend crowds without lifting a finger.
Others—rarer, sweeter, trickier—awaken as Omegas. Our pheromones are rich, intoxicating, impossible to ignore. Where Alphas strike like lightning, we lure like honey. Our bodies carry a strange gift, or curse, depending on how you frame it: the ability to conceive, no matter if we were born male or female. Don't look so scandalized—yes, even men like me can bear children. The stars have strange humor, haven't you noticed?
And then there are the Betas. Poor creatures. They wake up to find they're neither Alpha nor Omega, simply… human, if you will. They have pheromones, yes, but so subtle, so unremarkable, that Alphas and Omegas rarely notice. Worse still, Betas cannot smell us. They live blind to the symphonies we carry in our blood. Some say it's a blessing, to be free of the madness. Others call it loneliness. I call it boring.
The Symphony of Scent
Pheromones are fingerprints of the soul. No two scents are the same. One Alpha might smell like storm-soaked cedar; another, like smoke and steel. One Omega might exude honeyed peaches, another velvet dusk. They betray us—reveal moods, betray desire, scream fear. They weave the world in invisible threads.
Alphas scent Omegas the way wolves scent prey, though it is not always hunger—it is recognition. Omegas scent Alphas as danger, temptation, gravity. We can't help it. Our instincts are ancient. And when two scents fit, when they lock together like constellations in the night sky… well. That's where bonds are born.
Marking: the Sacred Bite
Now listen carefully. This is important.
When an Alpha marks an Omega—or, rarely, the other way around—it is more than teeth in flesh. It is eternity sealed in blood. The mark forms a bond so sacred, so absolute, that it rewrites desire itself. Once claimed, the body remembers. The soul remembers. You may glance at others, laugh with others, even spar with others—but the thought of intimacy? Impossible. It's like trying to breathe underwater.
The only escape is death. Morbid, isn't it? But sacred things usually are. The stars don't hand out toys; they hand out shackles dressed as destiny. And still, we crave it. Still, we seek it.
The Dominants
Ah, but here's where it gets interesting. Not all Alphas are equal. Not all Omegas are the same. Among us rise the Dominants.
A Dominant Alpha is not merely commanding—he is oppressive, inescapable. His pheromones don't just fill a room; they suffocate it. Lesser Alphas bow without meaning to. Omegas tremble without consent. His presence is iron bars around the heart. People call them tyrants, monsters, gods. All of it is true.
A Dominant Omega, though? Now that is a rarer jewel. The world expects Omegas to be soft, pliant, delicate things. Dominant Omegas are anything but. Our pheromones don't just attract; they ensnare. We are not lambs for slaughter—we are sirens, wolves dressed in silk. Alphas may command the world, but we? We command the Alphas. And isn't that far more amusing?
Dominant Omegas are beautiful in the way poisonous flowers are beautiful—petals that lure you close, fragrance that makes you dizzy, thorns that draw blood when you dare to touch. We don't yield. We don't cower. We don't play the roles written for us.
The difference between normal and Dominant is not power alone—it is presence. A Dominant Alpha enters a room, and silence follows. A Dominant Omega enters, and chaos does. Both are dangerous. Both are unforgettable.
The Truth Beneath the Rules
So here we are: three genders, one world, bound by scents and instincts, dancing to music most Betas can never hear. Some call it unfair, this chain of pheromones and bonds. I call it entertaining.
Because when the air itself tells lies, when desire is shackled by fate, when rivalry tastes like honey and devotion smells like fire—well, how could anyone resist stirring the pot?
I should know. My name is Altair, and if the stars gave me anything, it was mischief. Mischief, and a scent no Alpha forgets.
The story begins long before I understood any of this. Back when Cassian and I were children—back when we thought rivalry was just a game, and friendship was just laughter. Before the bonds, before the pheromones, before the sacred bite. Before the world reminded us that even stars can burn.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Sit back. Inhale. Let me tell you what it means to live in a world where the air itself decides who you are—and who you belong to.