Chapter Text
Satoru didn't like the idea of getting mated.
Capital H, capital A, capital fuck off with that whole ancient tradition bullshit.
He wiped his fingers on the edge of his hoodie and shoved another cupcake into his mouth.
It wasn’t like he didn't get it. Society thrived on the bond system, blah blah blah. Pheromanal regulation, pair-bonded combat advantage, reduced heat-cycle violence, whatever. He’d skimmed the research. He’d had enough conversation with Yaga and Ichiji and the old bats of the council to recite all the bullshit bullet points in his sleep. But he still didn’t want it. He didn't want the ritual, the mark, the scent mingling that would follow him. He didn't want the inevitable script that would follow: when are you nesting, when will you claim each other, when will you pop out your blessed little combat baby?
He could kill them.
He could literally kill them.
One snap, and he’d have every self-important fossil in the higher-up circle splattered across the tatami like overripe persimmons. All that political red tape? Gone. All those cursed traditions about Alphas needing to “ground the instability of modern jujutsu society through Omega companionship”? Vaporized. Poof. Problem solved.
He licked frosting off his thumb and tilted his head back.
But…society might collapse if he did that. Like, totally collapse. Fully. Absolutely. Without a trace.
…Well. Maybe not totally.
He was the strongest. He could re-build it. Better. Sexier. Without all the weird hierarchical nonsense and mandatory bond evaluations and ugly-ass marriage certificates. His new world order would have uniforms with cooler coats, and no one would be required to mate unless they really, really wanted to.
But still.
“Ughhhhhhh, ” he groaned dramatically, cramming another cupcake into his mouth.
The chair creaked beneath him as he leaned back further, dangerously, a toe hooked under the edge of the table for balance. He chewed with his mouth open, sweet crumbs at the corners of his lips, frosting on his knuckles, his whole brain sticky with heat and sugar and indignation. He wasn’t built for this. He wasn’t cut out for pack life, for rut calendars and compatibility reports and spending the rest of his life scented like someone else’s heat cycle .
He didn’t want a mate. He didn’t want a nesting box. He didn’t want to settle down and build a life.
He already had a life. One that he liked just fine. One with sweets and students and power and freedom, and—
His thoughts cut off mid-chew.
The door creaked open behind him.
“ Mgh ,” he grunted through frosting, barely bothering to swallow.
“— Satoru ,” Yaga’s voice said flatly.
Satoru groaned, rolled his eyes back into his skull, and flung the cupcake wrapper over his shoulder in a slow, overdramatic arc. It fluttered through the air and landed squarely on Yaga’s chest, frosting side down.
There was a pause.
Satoru peeled another wrapper off with his teeth.
Yaga stared at him with the kind of dead-eyed intensity only a man who’d been forced to deal with Gojo Satoru for more than a decade could conjure. One eyebrow raised. No amusement. No patience. No signs of life. Just raw, undiluted disappointment.
Satoru grinned.
He loved annoying people.
It was his favorite part of the day. Annoy someone. Eat something sweet. Keep reality at arm’s length. Repeat.
“Aw, don’t look at me like that,” he chirped, voice muffled by cake. “You’re gonna get a wrinkle. Oh wait—too late.”
“I’m here to talk about the mating order,” Yaga said flatly, already bracing himself.
“Ehh, I’m here to avoid talking about it,” Satoru said, sitting up slowly, stretching his arms above his head.
He smiled wider.
Yaga didn’t.
This was gonna be fun.
“Satoru, this is serious—”
“ Blah blah blah, I know, ‘a sacred bond,’ ‘cultural cornerstone,’ ‘duty of every Alpha,’” Satoru interrupted, fluttering his eyelashes like he was starring in a play called Gojo Satoru Is Innocent and Beautiful and Totally Not a Problem. “You forgot the part where society crumbles without my knot.”
Yaga exhaled slowly through his nose. It wasn’t a sigh yet— not quite —but it was threatening to evolve into one. He took a step forward, placed the crumpled cupcake wrapper on Satoru’s desk and leaned forward just enough to prove he was, technically, still in charge.
“You’ve put this off long enough.”
“I put everything off. That’s literally my job.” Satoru stuck out his tongue and grabbed another cupcake from the box, licking the frosting.
“This isn’t optional anymore.”
“It was never optional, Yaga-sensei.” His tone dropped just a touch too low. Still joking, still smug, but with a sliver of bitterness “That’s what makes it so fun .”
Yaga crossed his arms. His mouth tightened. He waited.
Satoru grinned. He bit the top off the cupcake in one go and chewed obnoxiously loud, eyes trained on the ceiling.
“They’re matching you this week,” Yaga said.
The chewing stopped.
“They’ve already pulled names from the eligible Omega pool. It’s a closed process. We don’t get a say in the candidates.”
Satoru swallowed.
“Some of them are from outside the jujutsu world,” Yaga went on. “Influentials. Government, military, old bloodlines.”
Satoru stared at the desk now.
“They’re assuming you’ll push back,” Yaga said, softer. “But they also know you won’t do anything… irreversible. Not unless they really force your hand. And they’re betting you won’t.”
It made sense, he hated that it made sense. Rationally, he knew he’d lose this fight. Eventually. He knew the odds. The higher-ups weren’t afraid of him, not really, not in the way they should be. They feared what he represented more than what he actually was. He was a symbol to them. A tool. A walking doomsday machine that had been successfully leashed through bureaucracy and tradition.They weren’t scared of Gojo Satoru the person—they were scared of the paperwork that would follow if they lost control of him. And as long as he was predictable—irritating, rebellious, insubordinate, but predictable—they’d keep pushing him. Keep testing him. Keep holding the same match over the same gas leak and assuming he wouldn’t ever strike.
And maybe they were right.
Maybe he wouldn’t.
Because as much as Satoru wanted to snap, to obliterate the entire structure they’d built around him, to scream and tear his file into a thousand pieces and watch the matchmaker’s office burn, he wasn’t the kind of man who made moves without collateral. And he didn’t like hurting people who didn’t deserve it. And goddammit, even if he didn’t believe in the bond system, even if he thought most Alpha-Omega crap was nothing but socially regulated pheromone cosplay, he didn’t want to take that out on someone just trying to live their life. He didn’t want to get forcibly bonded to some docile, marriage-track Omega who thought he was going to be their protector and provider.
It was happening. It was finally happening. The moment he’d spent a decade dodging and deflecting and shoving under the rug, pretending it would never come. Every year, they’d pressured him. Every year, he’d thrown them off the trail with a joke or a tantrum or a power play or a massive enough show of force that they remembered why they left him alone in the first place. But the trick didn’t work anymore. He was too old now. Too stable. Too composed. They thought they could force it, that if they backed him into a corner with no way out, he’d cave like everyone else. Pick a mate. Fill a role. Be a “functional Alpha.”
There were already cracks in the walls. Already fractures in the facade. His last rut had not been pretty. He’d torn through a reinforced holding room and almost dragged Ijichi out of a supply closet, not even because he wanted him but because the smell of someone alive and near and willing to listen was enough to tip the scale.
“Fineeeee,” Satoru drawled, putting the full weight of his six-foot-something frame into the pout on his face, chin tilted, lip stuck out. “I’ll get a stupid mate.”
Yaga didn’t move.
“But—” Satoru pointed a cupcake at him. “I get to pick. If I gotta get stuck with some Omega who’s gonna spend the next decade asking me if I wiped my boots before I came in, I at least get to decide what kind of hell I’m signing up for.”
“You’re not supposed to think of it as hell,” Yaga said.
“Well,” Satoru licked a smear of frosting off his knuckle, “I also wasn’t supposed to lose control during my last rut and almost fuck the filing clerk, but here we are.”
A beat.
Yaga’s expression didn’t change, but his left eye twitched. Barely. Satoru saw it. He logged it for later.
“They’ll give you a list,” Yaga said eventually. “Limited pool. You pick from there.”
“No, no, no,” Satoru sang, kicking his feet up onto the desk and nearly knocking over a stack of mission reports. “I want the full buffet. Not some curated, council-approved selection of ‘safe’ choices. You think I’m gonna bond with one of the twelve Omegas they bribed into being the Strongest’s scent match? Come on, Sensei. You know me.”
“That’s the problem,” Yaga muttered.
Satoru grinned.
That’s how Satoru found himself on a Friday morning—
A very slow Friday morning. A boring Friday morning. A stupid Friday morning, actually.
He should’ve gotten another snack.
The sun was barely up, the air thick and cold in that miserable in-between where you’re not quite awake but the day’s already started without you, and all he’d had was a daifuku. Just one. One stupid little daifuku that he’d eaten on the train because he thought he wasn’t hungry, and now his stomach was making small tragic noises as he sulked in the back seat of the government-issued car sent to escort him to the Omega Matching Center.
Satoru Gojo, apex Alpha, public threat level S, full-time brat, part-time sugar addict, was going to the OMC on an empty stomach.
An absolute disgrace.
He leaned his forehead against the window, exhaled dramatically, and drew a little fog-heart on the glass with his finger. It was crooked. It looked like a spleen. He wiped it off and drew a dick instead.
The car turned left.
He scowled at the seat in front of him.
“You should’ve stopped for mochi,” he mumbled to no one in particular. “Or melonpan. Or dorayaki. Or literally anything.”
He could still taste the faint ghost of red bean paste on his tongue and it was making him irrationally upset.
Sugar cravings always made him cranky. So did bureaucracy. So did being told what to do. So did being watched —which he definitely was, right now, because there was a little camera blinking in the corner of the car, and somewhere, someone on the Council’s marital assignment board was probably watching this footage and sighing into their third cup of green tea like why is he like this.
Because he could be, that’s why.
Because if they weren’t going to let him not have a mate, then he was going to make the whole process as painful and unorthodox and ungovernable as possible.
They couldn’t tell him who to choose.
They could present a list. They could wheel out vetted, balanced, pre-scented, council-approved Omegas with the proper genetics and temperaments and nesting compatibility reports.
But they couldn’t make him pick from it.
So, out of pure spite—and also hunger, which often made him feral—he’d decided to do the opposite.
He was going to pick the weakest Omega there. The runt. The reject. The boring one in the corner with nothing on their file but “submissive personality” and “low scent response” and “please do not mate this person with anyone important.”
He was going to pick that one. Out of pettiness. Out of rage. Out of the last brittle strands of autonomy he had left.
Let the Council try and stop him.
The car slowed.
The Omega Matching Center didn’t look like a place where people found soulmates.There were polished tiles, and pale wood floors, and automatic glass doors that whispered open with an unsettling hiss as he stepped out of the car. There were clerks in pastel uniforms. There were scent diffusers in every corner.
He wanted to blow it up.
Instead, he adjusted his sunglasses, popped a lollipop in his mouth (emergency stash, thank god), and slouched inside
“I’m here for the tour,” he announced lazily to the clerk at the front desk. “Or the inspection. Or the parade. Whatever.”
The clerk blinked up at him.
“Yes, Gojo-sama. You’re scheduled for Candidate Session 4A,” she said calmly, bowing. “We’ll escort you to the observation lounge.”
Satoru licked his lollipop and sighed.
“God, don’t call it a lounge,” he muttered. “Makes it sound like a strip club for depressed Alphas.”
He was ushered down a hallway anyway.
“Do you have any preferences?” the clerk asked, her tone chipper. “Female? Male? Big? Small? Specific scent families you respond to? We have profiles for everything—emotional compatibility, pheromonal balance, nesting habits—”
Satoru sighed, licking the last of his lollipop and stuck the plastic stick in the clerk’s breast pocket as she opened the final door.
She blinked.
He smiled.
“Put me down for weak,” he said, as she opened the final door and motioned him forward. “Real bottom of the barrel. Bonus points if they can’t make eye contact or pronounce their r’s.”
“…Excuse me?” she asked, still in customer service mode.
He stretched his arms overhead. His spine cracked. The lights overhead buzzed.
“Gender’s whatever,” he added. “Male, female, doesn’t matter. Anyone’s fine.”
The clerk tapped something into her tablet, nodding carefully. “And for aesthetic preference?”
Satoru snorted. “Okay, well. Let’s not get crazy.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I mean, c’mon,” he said, flashing a grin. “Look at me. I’m hot.”
He gestured broadly to himself, running one hand through his snow-white hair “I’m not gonna bond with someone ugly. That’d be, like, ungrateful. To the world.”
“Of course,” the clerk murmured quietly, tapping the note in. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t argue, either.
“Also,” Satoru added as the final door opened, “no scent nerds. None of those ones who wear those gross little scent-matching kits”
“I’ll… make a note.”
“Oh, and no one who wants kids in the next ten years.”
“…Okay.”
“Or talks about nesting like it’s a lifestyle. Or says ‘the bond chose us.’ Or has a tattoo of their previous Alpha’s coordinates on their ribs.”
The clerk paused. “That’s… specific.”
Satoru shrugged. “I’ve seen some shit.”
She hummed, noncommittal, and opened the door to the main hallway. The scent diffusers kicked up as they walked—faint eucalyptus, generic floral, something citrusy. Satoru bounced a little as they went down another hall, hands in his pockets.
"As you can see," the clerk began, gesturing gracefully with one hand, "we have a wide range of Omegas in residence this week."
She motioned to a nearby viewing window. Inside, a few female Omegas smiled and waved sweetly—too sweetly, like they’d practiced in front of mirrors and been told this was the performance of their life. One of them fluttered her eyelashes so hard Satoru thought she might take off. Their files were probably perfect. Warm nesting instincts. Soft-spoken. Genetically balanced. Low-maintenance and heat-suppressed. One even held a thermos like she was auditioning for Wife of the Year.
He blinked once. Gave a mock little two-finger salute.
“Sweet,” he said. “If I ever decide to open a bakery, I’ll know who to call.”
The clerk didn’t respond.
They moved on. The next room was full of male Omegas—two leaned against opposite walls, one was reading something on a tablet, the last stood too straight. One of them glanced up at Satoru, gave a lazy once-over, and looked away again.
Satoru yawned.
“Next,” he said under his breath.
Then—just before they turned the next corner—something caught his eye. A door. Nondescript. Heavy. Solid. Frosted glass. No room number. No smiley Omegas waving through the glass. Just a keycard scanner and a warning sign at chest height: RESTRICTED ACCESS – CANDIDATE ISOLATION SUITE 7C.
Satoru tilted his head.
“Hmmm,” he said, slowing his step. “What about that door?”
The clerk’s shoes made a soft click as she stopped.
“That Omega is off-limits,” she said.
Satoru turned, raised an eyebrow, and grinned wide. “Oooooh. Intrigue.”
She didn’t smile back. In fact, she looked… irritated. Just for a second. Then composed again.
“They’re a special case,” she said. “Private contract. They’re not part of the selection pool.”
Satoru tilted his head, sunglasses sliding slightly down his nose.
“What kind of ‘special case’ needs to be locked behind frosted glass in a bonding facility?” he asked, mock-casual. “Come on. I’m curious. You know me. Curiosity killed the—” He paused. “Well, not me. But you know. Someone.”
“It’s not open for discussion,” the clerk said, firmer now. “We have twenty-seven available matches with full council clearance. There’s no reason to—”
“D’awww,” Satoru interrupted, voice too sweet to be sincere. “Pretty please?”
“No.”
“I won’t tell.” His grin sharpened.
“Satoru-sama—”
“I really won’t tell.”
He flashed his badge. Not the Council-mandated Alpha ID card — his badge. The one with the seal that meant “he outranks everyone in this building by several miles of flaming political wreckage.” The one people called in favors to avoid seeing. The one that said I do what I want and no one can stop me.
The clerk looked at it.
Then at him.
Then at the door.
She sighed. “You get five minutes.”
“I only need three,” Satoru winked, already halfway to the door. “—That’s a joke, don’t report me.”
She tapped something on her tablet with a sharp flick and the magnetic lock disengaged.
“This person better be super pretty,” Satoru muttered to himself, rolling his neck, rubbing a hand over his face. “Because if they’re weird or—”
He stopped talking.
Because sitting on the bed in Suite 7C was the prettiest goddamn Omega he’d ever seen.
.
..
…
Okay.
(1) He wasn’t a simp.
(2) This was ideal.
(3) Purple eyes.
Unreal. Unfair. Unacceptable, even. This was not what he asked for. This was not “bottom of the barrel.” This was not “low scent response.” This was not “please don’t bond this person to anyone important.” This was bait . Council trap shit. Glossy-mouthed, violet-eyed, fox-in-a-cage Omega bait.
“Suguru,” the clerk said flatly, stepping up behind him, tone clipped and dry like she regretted unlocking the door, “this is Satoru-sama. Do you remember your greeting?”
Satoru-sama. Gross.
The Omega— Suguru, apparently, god help him—scrunched his nose in a way that could only be described as cute , if you liked your cuteness with a razor blade tucked behind the lip.
Then, with the fakest polite voice Satoru had ever heard in his life, he dipped his chin low and said, through gritted teeth, “Nice to meet you, Satoru-sama.”
Satoru blinked.
There was a pause.
The clerk looked mildly horrified.
Suguru smiled sweetly, showing all his teeth.
Oh, oh.
Oh, he was definitely not a typical Omega.
And—oh god, was that—
Cat ears?
Actual, real, indisputably biological cat ears. Soft black triangles perched on top of his head, flicking sideways in irritation.
“This is a joke,” Satoru said flatly, eyes still locked on Suguru. “You locked him in the building behind a reinforced door with no file and no access, a kemonomimi Omega in heat?”
“He’s not in heat,” the clerk deadpanned.
“He’s something.”
“He’s restricted.”
“He’s perfect,” Satoru said, blinking slowly.
Suguru rolled his eyes. It was somehow the hottest eye-roll Satoru had ever seen.
The clerk exhaled sharply through her nose, pen tapping harder against her tablet. “Suguru,” she snapped, “if you roll your eyes one more time, I will input a behavioral flag on your profile—noncompliance, posturing, and Alpha antagonism—do you understand?”
That wiped the smirk off him. The flick of his tail stilled. His hands clenched behind his back.
“I apologize, Satoru-sama,” he said stiffly, bowing lower than necessary.
Satoru ran his tongue along his teeth.
Ah. The sweet, sweet taste of a strawberry lollipop and undisguised contempt. Delicious. Divine. Almost good enough to get him through the rest of this freak show.
His gaze drifted—Suguru’s back was straight, posture tense, arms at his sides like he wasn’t quite sure whether to hide them or use them. His hair had come loose around his shoulders during the bow, black strands spilling down in clean lines across the pale fabric of his shirt. One ear flicked again, as if shaking off the apology.
He was absolutely, 100%, beyond-a-doubt, going to a dessert shop after this.
Waffles. Mochi. Ice cream. Sugared yakimochi so hot it burned the roof of his mouth and made his eyes water.
This Omega was going to ruin his life.
And all he could think about was strawberries and cream and syrup and how the bow of Suguru’s mouth might taste if he licked the irritation off it slowly.
No. No. Stop. Focus.
“I want this one,” Satoru said out loud.
The clerk blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said I want this one.” He pointed at Suguru with the bare stick of his lollipop. “Put him on my list.”
The clerk hesitated. “Gojo-sama, that Omega is—”
“Restricted, yeah, I know,” Satoru interrupted, stepping closer to Suguru now, not enough to touch, but enough to make him look up. “But I’m unrestricted.”
The clerk bit her lip.
“I’ll get the paperwork—”
“—No fucking way,” Suguru snapped.
“Language, Suguru Geto,” she hissed.
Suguru scrunched his nose up, one hand curling in the hem of his sleeve, tail flicking behind him in sharp little twitches.
Satoru tilted his head, smile spreading.
Daww.
Bitch face.
Cute.
“I am not going with him,” Suguru said flatly, arms crossing over his chest, mouth pulling tight. “You can’t make me.”
The clerk opened her mouth. Closed it. “Suguru,” she said, voice tipping toward that half-soothing, half-threatening tone bureaucrats liked to use with unstable subjects, “you’ll follow Center protocol.”
“I have followed protocol,” Suguru hissed, tail twitching once, violently, behind him. “I followed it for two years in this concrete box and three interviews a week and twelve bonding simulations and I am not doing it again. Especially not with him. ”
The clerk cleared her throat. Loudly. “Geto-san, Gojo-sama is a high-priority match candidate. You will be respectful—”
Satoru’s thoughts started drifting. Again.
This time, to cream puffs.
He hadn’t had one in weeks. Maybe months. There was this one place downtown—little hole-in-the-wall shop with wallpaper and an old woman behind the counter who knew him by name (well, not his real name, but she called him “Blue Eyes” and that was fine). They filled them extra heavy there. Custard that dripped down your chin. He always ordered six. Maybe he’d get eight today. Or a whole box. Or one box for now, one for the train, one for Suguru—
His gaze flicked sideways again.
Would Suguru want something sweet? Probably. Who didn’t like sweet shit? Except Utahime. But she was boring. She liked saltines and black coffee and books that made you feel bad about colonialism.
Suguru didn’t look like that. He looked like he’d eat strawberry parfaits. Maybe pocky, too. Cherry blossom-flavored, the kind you could only get in March. Or mochi, that sticky-soft kind that got on your fingers and made you lick it off slow. Yeah. That one.
“—I said I’m not going with him!”
Satoru blinked.
Still going. They were still going. Suguru had gone red in the face now, which was unfair, because most people looked ugly when they got angry, but he just looked… vivid. Satoru sighed.
He rocked back on his heels, popped his jaw, made a face like god, this is exhausting —which it was, but not for the reason anyone thought. Not because Suguru was being difficult. Not because the clerk was on the verge of another bureaucratic meltdown. Not even because he had five Council members waiting for an update on his “mate acquisition process.” No.
It was because Suguru was really, really cute when he was mad, and it made it impossible to focus.
“Are we still doing this?” he muttered. “Really?”
Suguru’s ears flicked sharply, “Doing what ?” he snapped.
The clerk stepped in before Satoru could answer, “Suguru, I told you to respect Alphas . Did you learn nothing in this program? You are supposed to submit —”
Satoru grinned.
Oh, fuck .
This was fun.
Suguru’s jaw clenched like he was about to break his own teeth, and the clerk was halfway through a lecture Satoru had no intention of listening to, all about protocol and posture and correct tone and mate viability. But he didn’t hear it. All he could hear was the sound of Suguru not submitting.
He was a brat. Satoru’s favorite kind.
He reached out and snatched the clipboard from the clerk’s hands mid-sentence.
“Hey—!” she started.
“It’s fine,” Satoru said, already pulling the pen from the side. “You’re dismissed.”
“I’m not authorized to—”
“I am .” He smiled without teeth. “Congratulations. I’m making your job easier.”
She looked from the clipboard to Suguru, to Satoru, back again. Her tablet buzzed in her hands. Probably a warning. Probably a violation alert.
He ignored it.
“Don’t you dare sign that,” Suguru snapped, “I didn’t agree to this.”
“No,” Satoru said easily. “But I did.”
And he signed.
“You can’t just—” Suguru started, stepping forward now, every muscle tight with disbelief.
“I can,” Satoru said. “And I did.”
“You fucking —”
“Language,” Satoru sang.
Suguru’s hands balled into fists.
The clerk backed away slowly, tablet still clutched to her chest, mouthing something about escalation protocol and override codes. Satoru didn’t care. He watched her go, then turned back to Suguru—who was still standing there, chest heaving, tail twitching
It was gonna be a long week.
He couldn’t wait.
The walk out of the center is silent.
The car ride home is silent.
Exiting the vehicle, walking through the doors of the dessert shop, even standing in line—silent.
Satoru keeps sneaking glances.
And then full-on stares.
Not because he’s trying to be creepy, he swears. He’s just curious. He didn’t expect Suguru to agree. Didn’t expect him to get in the car. Didn’t expect him to actually walk inside the shop like they were…what? A couple? A matched pair? A slowly unraveling societal obligation dragging each other through civilian pastry establishments?
Whatever it was, it was weird.
And weird made Satoru stare.
He kept watching the line of Suguru’s nose, the slope of his cheekbones, the way his lashes cast little shadows when he looked down. It was unfair. People shouldn’t be that good-looking when they were actively hating you. His mouth looked like it was carved out of sugar-glass. His posture was excellent, annoyingly so, and his scent—diluted, suppressed, but still lingering—smelled faintly like something expensive and bitter, like oolong and summer storms.
Satoru leaned his head against the glass of the display case, looking sideways at him. “You sure you don’t want anything besides custard?”
No answer.
He smirked. “We could split one.”
Still nothing.
“We could split a table.”
Dead silence.
“We could split—”
“Can you stop staring —?”
The words hit sharp and sudden, but they didn’t get to land properly, because—
“Welcome to Sweet Root!” the girl at the counter chirped, “Sorry for the wait, what can I get started for you?”
Satoru snorted under his breath.
He stepped forward, still smirking, and leaned dramatically over the counter “Do you have the big cream puffs today? The really messy kind?”
The girl blinked at him. “Um—yes? We have matcha, custard, chocolate—”
“Two custard,” Satoru said, jerking his thumb at Suguru. “He’s a traditionalist.”
“I’m not—” Suguru started, but stopped when the girl gave him a too-bright customer service smile. He just sighed through his nose and turned his face away.
“Also,” Satoru added, “do you have any of those sakura mochi with the little gold leaf on top?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Make it four.”
The girl punched it in, gave the total, and Satoru paid in small change just to be annoying. Suguru was pretending not to watch, but Satoru could feel the judgment radiating off him.
They took a table in the back corner—Suguru didn’t sit so much as drop into the seat, arms crossed again, tail coiled tight behind him. Satoru slid in across from him and immediately unwrapped a cream puff, shoving it in his mouth in two messy bites.
Sugar hit his bloodstream. All was well with the world.
He licked a blob of custard off his thumb. “You know,” he said, “you’re making this way more awkward than it needs to be.”
Suguru didn’t respond.
“I mean, I get it,” Satoru said. “I’m hot. It’s overwhelming. But you don’t have to be all hostile about it.”
A slow, dangerous inhale from the other side of the table.
“Do you ever stop talking?”
Satoru grinned. “Nope.”
Another silence.
Then: “You weren’t supposed to pick me.”
Satoru raised an eyebrow, popped the second cream puff into his mouth whole.
“I didn’t ask for you,” Suguru muttered, looking at the window now. “I just wanted out.”
“Cool,” Satoru said through a mouthful of custard. “Same.”
He kicked his feet up onto the table like manners were optional (they were), leaned back in the creaky little dessert shop chair, and pulled out the thin, government-issued file he’d been handed on their way out of the Matching Center. Stapled. Confidential. Paper-clipped with a red tag that said MEDICAL EXCEPTIONS: LEVEL 2 .
He flipped the cover open.
Suguru didn’t look at him, but the way his ears twitched said he knew exactly what Satoru was doing.
Satoru licked custard off his thumb and turned the first page. “Y’know, you’d think for a facility that keeps everyone on a scent-repression schedule, they’d at least give you a better profile photo,” he muttered. “You look pissed off. Still hot, though.”
“Put that away,” Suguru said, sharp.
Satoru ignored him, eyes scanning the details. Geto, Suguru. Age 24. Height: 181cm. Omega Class: High-reactivity, high-resistance. Traits: Defiant-submissive type, atypical suppression response, semi-feral under rut-adjacent Alpha exposure—
Satoru paused. “ Semi-feral? That’s so rude. You don’t even foam at the mouth.”
Suguru’s jaw clenched. “Give me that.”
“Nope.” He turned the page, grinning now. “Ooooh, here we go. Allergy profile. Let’s see. Suppression patch resistance… hormone shot intolerance… capsule-triggered vertigo…” He looked up. “You allergic to literally everything or is that just a fun quirk?”
“Medical condition,” Suguru muttered.
“Sure,” Satoru nodded, flipping another page. “I mean, I get it. I hate taking pills too. I usually just rawdog my migraines.”
“You’re not funny.”
“You’re not denying it.”
Satoru tapped the last page. “Oh, here’s the good stuff,” he said, voice faux-cheerful. “‘Heat cycle notes: candidate presents with irregular duration and rare suppression efficacy. Medical staff note extended slick response under elevated emotional stimulus.’”
He looked up again, wide-eyed with false innocence.
“Suguru,” he said. “You have a slicking problem ?”
Suguru’s ears twitched.
He gave Satoru the kind of look usually reserved for people who insult your mother and double-dip in your sauce.
God, he was hot.
Satoru bit back a smile.
Suguru snatched the file out of his hands so fast it made the paper hiss. His grip was white-knuckled. His ears were burning red now, glowing against the black silk of his hair.
“I don’t—” he started, voice tight—
“—um, I brought your pancakes—” the waitress interrupted, stepping up to the table at the exact wrong time.
There was a full three seconds of silence as she looked from Suguru’s blazing face to the confidential file clutched in his hands to the empty pastry wrappers and back again.
She placed the plate of pancakes between them and took a full step back.
“They’re…uh…custard-stuffed?” she offered weakly, glancing at the file again. “Special request.”
Satoru nodded solemnly, as if he hadn’t just committed a Category Five privacy violation. “Thank you.”
“Would you like more napkins?” she asked, eyes now flicking between them.
“Yes,” Suguru said through gritted teeth, without looking at her.
“No,” Satoru said at the same time.
“Welcome to my homeeeee~” Satoru sing-songed, kicking his shoes off and flinging his sunglasses toward the coat rack. (They missed. Obviously. He didn’t care.)
The Omega hovered just inside the threshold, still barefoot, ears twitching tail shifting side to side in slow, slicing motions. He sniffed once. Twice. Crinkled his nose.
“…Why does your home smell like a school?”
“It’s temporary,” Satoru said grinning. “I mean, the apartment part. Not the school part. Jujutsu High owns a bunch of residential quarters. Technically this was supposed to be for ‘faculty emergencies’ or something, but—” he paused, gesturing vaguely at himself, “—I’m the emergency.”
Suguru didn’t laugh. Not even a smirk.
Tough crowd.
“I wasn’t about to let them stuff you into one of those Omega lodgings,” Satoru went on, flopping backward onto the couch “You’d hate it. Too many rules. Too many scent pads. Too many people asking how your nesting instincts are progressing.” He gagged. “Gross.”
Suguru didn’t answer.
He padded further in, his weight barely registering against the floorboards. Every movement was tentative, measured, cautious in the kind of way that made Satoru want to smash something just to see if he could get a reaction.
He didn’t, though.
Instead, he stared up at the ceiling and wondered if there was still syrup in the fridge. Or maybe honey. Honey sounded good. Honey and toast. Honey and tea. Honey drizzled over something warm and fluffy and made of carbs. Waffles. God. He would kill for waffles.
Suguru moved again—closer to the corner now, fingers trailing along the edge of a bookshelf—and Satoru made a mental note to hide the cursed manga before this turned into a different kind of interrogation.
He really needed to stop thinking about waffles.
Suguru’s ears twitched again.
It was kind of unfair, honestly. That much precision in one body. Like someone had engineered a combat Omega with perfect situational awareness and then gotten bored halfway through and decided, actually, let’s make him hot too. Because why not. Let’s really ruin Gojo Satoru’s day.
He wasn’t a typical Alpha. Never had been. Never would be. His rut cycles were erratic at best, non-existent at worst. Scents didn’t do much to him—never had. Pheromones registered, sure. He had a working nose. But he wasn’t the kind of Alpha who got distracted in meetings when someone’s heat spike trickled under the door, or who needed to keep scent-suppressants in his bag just to get through a mission with an unbonded Omega teammate.
He was above that. Mostly. Usually.
Suguru’s scent, though?
Suguru’s scent was a problem.
Mating and waffles. Waffles. Waffles. Waffles.
Because waffles weren’t just any sweet. Waffles were Satoru’s sweet.
He’d been obsessed with them since childhood. His first heat-craving food. His go-to stress snack. The treat he made Nanami buy at 2AM after missions because he didn’t trust himself near a grocery store while blood-drunk. His favorite nesting food. (Not that he nested, shut up, that’s not a thing. Shut up.)
And now they smelled like Suguru.
Or Suguru smelled like them. Whatever. Didn’t matter. Either way, he was screwed.
Why did Suguru have to smell like something he liked? Why couldn’t he have smelled like overripe bananas, or weird musky incense, or one of those gross bath bombs that made his eyes itch?
Why waffles? Why now? Why him?
He hadn’t even told the Council he’d found an Omega yet.
Technically, he wasn’t even supposed to be looking.
Technically, this was still just “preliminary review.” Technically, he was supposed to go back to his Council handler with a ranked list of approved Omegas and fill out a compatibility matrix and wait for the results of a 12-point biofeedback assessment before making a formal request.
Technically, if they found out he’d taken one home unsanctioned—especially this one—they’d lose their minds.
He smiled.
Let them.
He liked pissing them off. It was a hobby at this point. A personality trait. A coping mechanism, probably.
They could wait. Let the old bastards stew in their ugly little tea-stained meeting room chairs while he figured it out.
He’d never seen Suguru’s full file. They wouldn’t let him. Redacted lines and blank fields and half-lies stamped with “CLASSIFIED” in kanji that looked more smug than official. The clerk wouldn’t talk. The Match Center director looked scared to even mention Suguru by name. Everyone kept using passive language. “This Omega is unavailable.” “This candidate is restricted.” “This match is currently on hold pending further review.”
Which, in bureaucratic terms, basically meant: “We don’t know what to do with him.”
Which made him perfect.
Ahhhhh, isn’t it my favorite group of crusty old bastards , Satoru thought cheerfully.
What he said out loud was, “Elders! What a delight.”
Suguru stood close beside him—too close, probably, if you asked the Council—but just close enough if you asked Satoru. He wasn’t looking at Suguru, though. He was looking at the room full of ancient, curse-stained, spine-curved bureaucratic demons who still called themselves “advisors.”
He hated them. He hated them.
Why were they always so fucking old?
He wanted to kill them. He wanted to gut them with his words, wanted to flash the whites of his eyes and remind them he was nature’s tantrum in human form, that he was not born to be contained, that the only reason they were breathing right now was because he was convinced they regenerated by absorbing the life force of lesser sorcerers. He was convinced if he peeled off one of their faces, there’d be nothing underneath but curses stitched into meat.
“Gojo,” one of the elders said, breaking the silence. “We weren’t expecting you so soon.”
“I missed you,” Satoru said sweetly, smiling with every single one of his teeth.
Suguru didn’t look at him.
“You weren’t on the docket for Council hearings until next week,” said another elder, “Was your selection process expedited?”
“Nope,” Satoru chirped. “I just got bored waiting.”
“I thought we suggested you Omegas,” another elder said.
Satoru’s smile widened. “You did,” he chirped.
Another elder cleared her throat—shaky, phlegmy, the kind of sound that made his ears want to fold backwards. “And you selected that one?”
A pause.
A longer pause.
Suguru didn’t move.
Satoru took a step forward.
“I don’t remember asking for a second opinion,” Satoru said brightly.
“He’s flagged,” the kelp-voice elder said.
“Yeah?” Satoru said. “So is most of your blood pressures. We all have our burdens.”
“He’s unstable.”
“He’s standing right here.”
“His scent history—”
“Is none of your business.”
“You’re making a mockery of the process.”
“Oh no,” Satoru said, mock-gasping, “ not the process!”
Suguru’s tail twitched once.
Another pause.
The elders didn’t notice it—too old, too dumb, too wrapped up in their own sense of importance to realize what they were breathing in.
Suguru glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Not worried. Just watching.
Satoru tilted his head.
“Listen,” he said, voice so sweet it could’ve melted frosting, “if you wanted to have a say in who I bond with, maybe you shouldn’t have made the last twelve years of my life a never-ending bureaucratic hostage situation.”
“That Omega is not compatible—”
“Wrong again,” Satoru cut in. “We’re extremely compatible. In fact, I’d say we’re dangerously compatible. Practically one good argument away from a rut.”
The youngest of the elders—he was probably still pushing ninety—visibly paled.
Satoru smiled wider.
“Honestly, I’m surprised,” he said. “You’ve been dying to leash me for a decade. I finally pick someone who’s willing to sleep in the same building without trying to stab me, and you’re still not satisfied?”
“He’s not Council-approved.”
“I’m not Council-approved ,” Satoru laughed. “What’s your point?”
“You’ll be mated to a liability.”
“ I am a liability.”
Next to him, barely loud enough to register, Suguru muttered under his breath, “You don’t need to tell them that.” and Satoru almost laughed, not because it was funny (it was), but because it was so on-brand, so deeply brat-coded and snark-laced that he suddenly wanted to press his palm to the back of Suguru’s neck and whisper you’re my favorite science experiment just to see what would happen. He wouldn’t, obviously. That would be unprofessional. Disrespectful. Possibly a violation of several bonding ordinances. But still. The temptation was there. Because fuck , Suguru was pissed standing next to the most powerful Alpha alive and still managing to exude a personal bubble of fuck off.
He smiled to himself.
Not like those other Omegas. The docile ones. The ones the Council paraded like prize pigs at an estate fair, all scent-neutral and heat-trained and practically foam-wrapped for convenience. The ones who blinked too slow and said things like I’m very adaptable and I’ve been nesting since I was eleven like that was supposed to be a turn-on. Ew , Satoru thought, Ew ew ew ew ew ew ew.
“You don’t understand,” one of the elders said—same tone as always, same insufferable arrogance that made Satoru want to unhinge his jaw and see if he could swallow a council member whole just for sport. “This match is untenable. That Omega hasn’t even been properly briefed on what he’s stepping into.”
“Do you know what jujutsu sorcery is, Omega?” The question came from the far left. Some fog-lunged relic in a brocade haori who had absolutely not been paying attention
Suguru blinked slowly. Crinkled his nose.
“…What?”
It was such an unimpressed, unbothered, bone-dry little syllable that Satoru actually wheezed, just barely stifled the sound with a cough, but god, it was hard, he was trying to behave, he really was, but the elders made it so easy and Suguru made it so fun and he had the nerve to look genuinely confused when one of the oldest people in the country was implying that he didn’t know what cursed energy was, like he hadn’t been raised on council propaganda like the rest of them, like he wasn’t supposed to nod and simper and say “yes, sir, I’ll keep my head down, sir” the second someone in a ceremonial robe barked at him.
Satoru sighed.
“He’s a normal Omega,” he said lazily, already knowing exactly where this was going, already bracing for the follow-up, already bored.
“He’s not,” said the kelp-voice elder, “and you know it.”
Satoru rolled his eyes.
Yeah. Okay. Sure. He noticed . Fine.
But so what?
So what if he had cursed energy?
So what if he was more than he let on?
So what if the Omega they’d tried to lock in a scent-neutralized isolation chamber turned out to be the most interesting thing in the building, the most volatile piece of chemistry Satoru had tasted in years , and maybe—just maybe—the kind of person who could stand in the same room as him without tipping sideways under the weight of it all?
None of that was their business.
Because Satoru didn’t pick Suguru for them . He didn’t pick him because he was safe , or because he was normal , or because he fit into some neat little compatibility chart. He picked him because the second he walked into that isolation suite and saw those violet eyes and that unimpressed mouth and those ears flicking sideways in obvious irritation, he knew . Knew this Omega wasn’t scared of him. Knew this Omega wasn’t impressed. Knew this Omega wouldn’t crumble under pressure or cry when the heat came or fawn at the first sign of dominance. He picked him because he was beautiful and bitter and angry , and because something inside Satoru’s chest—something primal and aching and exhausted—had sparked the moment Suguru told the council to fuck off with his eyes.
He picked him because no one else would .
Because no one else could .
Because Suguru had sat in that facility for years , flagged and categorized and passed over like some broken thing, locked away behind frosted glass and scent-proof walls and bureaucratic red tape because someone somewhere decided he was too sharp for the bond system to handle. Because he didn’t coo or kneel or simper. Because he refused to act like property. Because he had cursed energy, maybe, or because he thought too much, or because he simply wouldn’t sit still long enough to be claimed.
They saw a liability.
Satoru saw a match.
And maybe that made him reckless. Maybe that made him irrational. Maybe he was setting fire to the last bridge between himself and the council’s fragile leash system, maybe he was about to mate a semi-feral, scent-reactive, flagged Omega with an unverified cursed technique and a documented defiance index, but honestly? That sounded like the best decision he’d made all year.
He turned back to the elders now, smile razor-thin.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
And before anyone could respond—before the protests could resume, before another brittle old voice could croak out another warning about liability or control or compatibility—he reached out, lazily, easily, and ran two fingers down the side of Suguru’s wrist, just to see what would happen.
Suguru didn’t flinch.
Didn’t freeze.
Didn’t even blink.
But his scent shifted—just slightly. Like something inside him said, I felt that.
Satoru smiled.
Yup.
Definitely better than waffles.
“Fine,” one of the elders said, voice rough “But let’s say, hypothetically, this Omega does have cursed energy—”
Satoru turned his head, smile vanishing like a match in the wind.
“Which he does,” the elder continued. “The records may be sealed, but we’re not blind. We know what he is. What he carries.”
There was a pause.
A long one.
The kind that felt like a hand closing around your neck.
“Can he reproduce?”
Satoru blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Reproduction,” the elder said plainly. “Can he bear a child? Carry one to term? That’s the concern. That’s the risk. Cursed energy complicates fertility. Stability. Gestation. But if he can, and if you’re willing to—”
Another pause.
A meaningful one.
Satoru’s jaw clicked once, hard.
“Are you asking me,” he said slowly, softly, each word laced with lethal incredulity, “to get him pregnant ?”
The elder didn’t deny it.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even look ashamed.
“If he can reproduce,” the elder said again, “we’ll approve the match. His cursed energy is strong. Unquantified, but potent. His lineage would be… valuable. A child with your bloodline and his potential—well. It would quiet the council. Cement your bond. It would ensure your control. Your protection. It would guarantee your right to keep him.”
Satoru didn’t move.
Suguru was still silent beside him, tail low, head turned slightly away, unreadable as ever. But Satoru didn’t need to see his face. He could feel it. The pressure. The sharp, clean heat of humiliation. Of disgust. Of rage .
This wasn’t a proposal.
It was a transaction.
Breed him and you can keep him.