Quasar

SWEET • BOY

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you think you may have cracked the code. you spent months trying to figure it out and you finally, finally understand the reason behind the petnames sylus calls you regularly.

kitten is for when he's amused by your antics, usually accompanied by a smile that lights up his eyes. like when you swear that you can get 3 plushies at the claw machine, he only laughs in that smooth, deep voice of his and says, "well, i look forward to seeing you add to your collection then, kitten."

now sweetie is for when he's feeling comfortable, relaxing at the onychinus base and it's just the two of you blanketed in the dark of night. "sweetie," he calls as he watches you emerge from the bathroom. "come here. let me dry your hair, lest you catch a cold. i'll be the one who'll have to look after you if you do, after all."

when he wants to tease you, and this tends to be in front of your fellow hunters, my partner is what he likes to use to refer to you, as he smiles like nothing's wrong and you panic on the inside, the double entendre not lost on you, hoping none of them catch on to the fact that he's the infamous sylus. "how i know them? of course it's because they're my partner. we often do... business together. i supply them with fresh fruits regularly."

your majesty is what he likes to use when he's being bossed around by you (voluntarily of course, because who would dare order him around other than you). "i see this time's mission was pretty draining," he intones as he hovers beside the bed where you lie exhausted after another gruelling mission. "would you perhaps like some food, since i'm sure you haven't eaten properly? or would you like a massage to relax those stiff muscles of yours? whatever you ask for, i'm at your service, your majesty."

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sylus doesn’t posture like most alphas do. he doesn’t need to. there’s something in the way he watches you from the corner of a room—silent, calculating, hungry—that reminds everyone he’s top of the chain without him saying a word.

he doesn’t like people getting close to you when you’re in heat. he tries to act rational. logical. but you feel it, that flicker of tension in his scent, how he holds your wrist a little too tight, his pupils dilated like he’s trying not to lose it.

“you smell like you need me,” he murmurs once, voice a low rasp in your ear. “don’t you?”

ultra possessive in private. in public, he’s your quiet protector. in private, he’s pulling you into his lap, scent-marking your throat with slow, open-mouthed kisses. whispering how sweet you smell, how good you are when you let him take care of you.

surprisingly gentle. even in rut. his instincts scream at him to claim, to leave marks, to breed you full and watch your belly swell, but he holds back. every time. “you’re mine,” he says, “but only when you want to be.”

likes to scent you before bed. sometimes it’s soft, nuzzling your neck with sleepy kisses. other times? it’s messy, intense. rutting against you, growling as he rubs his slicked-up scent glands all over your chest and inner thighs.

he calls it safety. you call it obsession.

he doesn’t purr, but his chest rumbles when he’s close. like distant thunder. especially when he knots you.

“you make me lose control,” he admits, teeth grazing your mating gland. “i don’t know what i’d do if someone took you from me.”

that’s not a threat. that’s a warning.

his first rut with you

he knew it was coming. the signs were there. his scent sharpening, his muscles aching with tension, his thoughts growing foggy with need, but he didn’t expect it to hit this hard. not with you here. not with you smelling so sweet.

“go,” he warned you. “leave now.”

you didn’t. of course you didn’t. you just blinked up at him, scent shy and soft and so heartbreakingly omega, “i want to help you.”

that’s what broke him.

the moment you touched him, it was over. sylus snapped.

his mouth found your scent gland before he even realized what he was doing. open-mouthed, hot, almost frantic. like he could breathe you in and calm the storm in his blood.

“omega,” he growled ruined. “mine. you’re mine.”

he was so careful at first. trembling hands, soft apologies, like he was scared he’d hurt you. but then you whined and it triggered something primal.

his restraint shattered.

the bed creaked. your thighs were pinned wide. he was everywhere—mouth, hands, scent—leaving you gasping and soaked with slick and sweat and desperate for more.

“you smell like heaven,” he said, knot already swelling. “don’t move. i need to—fuck, i need to breed you.”

it wasn’t rough. it was consuming.

he knotted you with a low groan, burying his face in your neck, and whispered the kind of promises only an alpha in rut could make,

“i’ll keep you full for days.”

“gonna take care of you forever.”

“no one else will ever touch you again.”

and then he kissed your forehead like he hadn’t just ruined you with instinct and obsession.

“you’re too good to me,” he murmured. “even now.”