Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Satoru was sixteen when he first presented as an Alpha.

It wasn’t a surprise. Obviously. He was the Strongest, curse-crushing, bloodline-blessed, society-shaking miracle child that he was. Everyone had expectations . He was born to dominate, wasn’t he? Born to protect the weak, to anchor the hierarchy, to be the perfect combination of bloodline and brute force and bio-alchemical social balance. Yaga made a face like well, of course , when it happened. Gakuganji probably shit himself out of spite.

His first rut hit a week later.

It was awful .

Like, truly horrific. The kind of body horror no one warned him about. Heat under his skin, gnawing and growling and chewing through his joints. He bit through a door. A door . Splinters in his gums. Left a tooth mark on the wall. Screamed at Yaga. Punched a hole in his dresser. Tried to suffocate himself with his own pillow because the scent of his own slicked-up frustration made him gag.

They tried to bring him an Omega.

Standard procedure. Emergency match-response. Someone docile, scent-balanced, fully prepped, probably trained for it since middle school. He told her to fuck off.

Actually, no—he didn’t say anything. He just looked at her. One long, slow, disgusted look like what are you doing in my nest, rando, and then turned to the wall and smashed his head into it until they took her away.

Yeah. Not happening.

No random Omega was going to “help him through it.” No school-issued scent-match with a regulation slick and a certified fuck license was going to crawl into bed with him. So he dealt with it.

Alone.

Gnawed through sheets. Dislocated a shoulder. Didn’t sleep for four days. Nearly blinded himself trying to snap his blindfold off mid-spike.

And afterwards?

Shoko said he was probably just broken. In that fun, sarcastic way of hers. Half-serious, half not. She stitched his wrist up after he fractured it on the sink and said, “You’re just an ungrateful bitch, Gojo. Someone offers to fuck you and you act like they tried to poison your waffles.”

Maybe she was right.

Maybe he was ungrateful.

He was the best. Obviously. Objectively. Factually. Genetically. The rest of them were lucky to even breathe in the same direction as him, let alone get the chance to mate him. But even when he got older, when things were calmer, when his ruts stopped turning him into a wild dog chewing through drywall, he still didn’t want anyone.

He tried.

Once. Twice. A few times.

Let some cute Alpha-fluff Omegas kiss his neck and straddle him on heat days. Went through the motions. Slick, scent, stimulation, climax. All of it.

They always moaned like he was the best thing they’d ever touched. Told him he felt like power incarnate. Said they’d never been more satisfied.

He never felt anything.

There was just this hole in his chest. This awful, yawning, echoing hollow where something was supposed to be. Where something wasn’t .

Like his body knew something he didn’t.

He didn’t talk about it. Not to Shoko, not to Yaga, not to anyone. They wouldn’t get it. Or worse—they would get it, and they’d say something stupid like “you’re just touch-starved” or “you need a proper bond” or “you should pick someone you actually like next time.”

Gross.

He didn’t want a bond. Didn’t want a nesting partner. Didn’t want someone in his bed rearranging his blankets and asking if he’d eaten and looking at him with those eyes.

Blegh . Blegh. Blegh blegh BLEGH.

Worse than pickles.

Worse than tomatoes.

Worse than all those bitter, foul little foods Utahime kept in her lunchbox.  Bitter melon. Radishes. Umeboshi. Once, she brought a salad with actual raw eggplant in it and he swore the smell alone gave him hives. He didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust her . Anyone who voluntarily ate that shit probably nested with lavender-scented pillows and kept a journal called Things My Bondmate Said Today .

Fucking unbearable.

No.

He wanted the opposite of that.

He wanted someone who fought back . Who bit first. Who didn’t cry when the room got too heavy or whimper when his hands got too rough. He wanted someone who’d snarl when his scent got territorial, someone who’d shove him and snap don’t you fucking dare when he got smug.

Someone who hated tomatoes too.

Someone who knew what it meant to want something and not get it.

Someone who’d look at the inside of his chest and go, Oh. Yeah. That’s familiar.

But no one ever did.

The Omegas they lined up for him were all the same—soft-spoken, “submissive but spirited,” scent-balanced, touch-positive, counselor-approved. The kind who talked about nesting like it was a lifestyle brand. The kind who printed pictures of their future homes and slid them under his door with I’m just manifesting! ☺

One of them made a color-coded chart of their combined gene pool. Another asked him if he wanted to name their hypothetical future kids after flowers.

He told her he was allergic to flowers. (He wasn’t.)

Another one brought over a selection of nesting fabrics. Just to get a feel for his tactile preferences.

He threw one in the trash and said he didn’t like the texture. (It was silk.)

They kept trying.

The council. The school. The whole damn system. Always so desperate to mate the strongest Alpha like it was some kind of national stability ritual. Like if they bonded him right, he’d settle. He’d stop pushing. He’d stop breaking the mold and start cooperating.

They didn’t get it.

He wasn’t unbonded because he was picky.

He was unbonded because the bond system was bullshit.

Because nobody ever looked at him like a person.

They looked at him like a role. A solution. A problem in need of containment.

Strongest Alpha on record.
Mentally volatile.
Sexually inconsistent.
Emotionally unavailable.
Highly dangerous in rut.

He read his own file once. Just for fun.

It was like reading a recipe for disaster in bureaucratic font. A slow-simmer emotional bomb with a 96% mating failure rate and a little red stamp that said PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

Cool. Great. Totally not dehumanizing at all.

He tossed the file in the trash. Then incinerated the trash. Then told the document control team he was “reclaiming his narrative.”

They didn’t think it was funny.

Shoko did, though.

She laughed so hard she nearly fell off the desk. Said he should teach a class on Alpha delusion. Called him a “walking hormone with a god complex and zero patience for cuddling.”

She wasn’t wrong.

He was a god.

And gods didn’t cuddle.

They didn’t mate.

They didn’t nest.

They just burned.

So yeah. He didn’t talk about it. Not the ache. Not the hole. Not the bitter little itch in his spine that said something’s missing.

Because it didn’t matter.

He had his power. His sweets. His students. His war against pickles and the council and mediocrity itself.

And maybe that wasn’t a bond.

But it was enough.

Almost.

Maybe.

Kind of.

( Blegh. )

BUT NOW—

Now he had to get an Omega pregnant.

Let that sit for a minute. Let that ferment in your frontal lobe. Let it rot slowly in the back of your brain. Because yeah, that’s his life now. Not just "Alpha duties," not just "mating evaluations"— pregnancy . Reproduction. Gene splicing via dick.

He had to get someone pregnant .

Not just someone , either. No, no. It had to be Suguru .

The brat. The menace. The cursed energy time bomb with a tail and a snarl and a bad attitude who was currently sulking on Satoru’s couch like he hadn’t just turned his whole life into a political hellhole with one file and a signature.

He was curled up under Satoru’s favorite throw blanket— stolen, by the way—with his arms crossed and his ears flat and his tail swishing in those pissed-off little arcs that meant I’m not going to talk to you but I’m going to sulk loud enough that you know I’m mad.

And Satoru? Satoru didn’t blame him.

Not even a little.

Because apparently— apparently —Satoru Gojo, national security hazard and part-time war deterrent, had to breed his match if he wanted to keep him.

Which—like—what??

Who wrote that clause? Who put baby trap in the fucking paperwork? Who looked at his record and thought, “You know what this emotionally stunted demigod needs? A child.”

Not a nap. Not a therapist. Not a six-month leave of absence and a sugar detox. Nope. 

A. Fucking. Baby.

He wasn’t ready for kids. He wasn’t even ready to share a bathroom, let alone co-parent.

Children were…a lot. Loud. Sticky. They cried. They needed food and clothes and attention and regular medical checkups and bonded guardianship approval paperwork. They ruined your sleep cycle and your savings account and probably your emotional bandwidth.

Also, he was the kid. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually.

He had a box of dinosaur band-aids in the medicine cabinet. He ate frosting straight from the can when he was sad. He wore sunglasses indoors. He wasn’t a dad. He was barely a functioning adult.

Horrifying.

How is he supposed to knock that up?

How is he supposed to look at that mouth—currently chewing angrily on a pencil—and think yes, let’s create life together ?

He wanted to say something. Something comforting. Or cool. Or…Satoru-esque.

He opened his mouth.

“Hey,” he says. “You ever think about, like, y’know… kids?”

Suguru turns his head slow, slow, slow, eyes narrowed. “Are you—” his voice is pure acid, “— asking me if I want to be your incubator? ”

Satoru immediately regrets everything.

“Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool,” he says, waving his hands, “so that’s a no.”

Silence.

“Do you think the kid will have cat ears?”

Suguru threw a throw pillow directly at his face.

“Fuck you.”

God help him.

He’s gonna be someone’s Alpha, someone’s dad , and maybe even—if the stars align and the council doesn’t implode from his audacity—someone’s mate.

He doesn’t know how to do any of it.

And he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to wait for Suguru’s heat—if that’s what they want, if that’s what the process demands, if that’s the biological route to success and compliance and blessed council-approved legitimacy, and he doesn’t even know what Suguru wants, because Suguru won’t look at him, won’t talk about it, won’t acknowledge the sentence dropped between them: get him pregnant and you can keep him, and Satoru’s brain keeps chewing on that phrase, keeps shorting out on the implications because who the fuck says that, who reduces a person to uterus potential, to progeny value, to a cursed energy breeding contract disguised as a bond—and the worst part, the truly fucked-up, vomit-inducing part is that it almost makes sense, it almost feels typical , like of course they’d weaponize something as raw as reproduction and brand it as permission, like of course they’d look at Suguru and see nothing but a strategic bloodline, like of course they’d look at Satoru and think he’d go along with it if they dangled just enough rope.

And he could go against them—he could drag the whole process into the light, could throw the council into the sun, could call every journalist he knew and set the entire Omega Assignment Program on fire, and he wants to, god, he wants to, because this isn’t right and it isn’t fair and it isn’t what Suguru deserves—but that option comes with collateral, with fallout, with more names on the chopping block than his, and one of them is Itadori’s, one of them is the pink-haired kid with too many hearts and not enough time, the boy Satoru bargained everything for, the boy he’s already failed once and can’t afford to gamble with again, because if he loses the match contract, if he invalidates the council’s trust, if he throws this all away just to protect an Omega who won’t even meet his eyes, what happens to the next fight, the next mission, the next vote on clemency—what happens to Yuji ?

And what happens to Suguru?

What happens to the brat on his couch, to the snarl and flick of a tail that says stay away even while the scent underneath begs for touch, what happens if Satoru chooses wrong—if he pushes too hard or not enough, if he waits and misses the signal, if Suguru goes into heat without telling him and deals with it alone and then throws it in his face after like you don’t get to be my Alpha if you can’t even be my person , because Satoru has never been good at middle ground, never been good at waiting or listening or playing along, because they didn’t teach this in training, didn’t cover it in bloodlines and battle strategies and cursed technique theory—there’s no handbook for what to do when the Omega you claimed hates you and the government wants his womb .

And maybe it’s selfish—maybe it’s the most selfish thing he’s ever done—but he wants to keep him anyway, wants to drag him out of that facility and into his life and figure it out one messy day at a time, wants to learn the cadence of his silences and the tilt of his scent when he’s thinking too hard, wants to know if he likes brown sugar syrup or the pink mochi with the flower on top or if he has a favorite pillow or if he’s ever let anyone hold him without flinching.

It’s disgusting.

He should be ashamed.

He is ashamed.

So obviously, the only thing to do now is—

“You wanna go shopping?” Satoru asks, flopping upside-down on the couch and grinning with all his teeth. “Y’know. For nesting stuff. Supplies. Snacks. Something to make your corner of the apocalypse feel homey.”

Suguru doesn’t even look up. He’s curled in the corner of the opposite end of the sofa. Tail wrapped tight around his thigh. Arms crossed. Ears twitching.

“…Shopping?” he asks finally, brows furrowed.

Satoru lifts his head slightly, squinting at him. “Shopping. You know. You go somewhere, you give them money, they give you stuff .”

Suguru’s frown deepens. One ear flattens to the side, a slow, puzzled flick.

“…Shopping?” he repeats.

Satoru sits upright now, blinking at him. “Wait—waitwaitwait. Are you saying you don’t know what shopping is?”

Suguru scowls. 

“I know what shopping is,” he mutters, but he sounds defensive. Uncertain.

Satoru leans in, voice too loud, “ Ehhhhhhhh? ”

Suguru’s face does that thing—brows pinched, nose scrunched, lip curled, whole expression twisted up into what Satoru affectionately calls his little bitch face . A mix of mild disgust and high-grade contempt. 

Daww.

He’s so cute.

Also fucking sad.

God. He hates this. Hates that the Council put Suguru in a box, labeled him Omega (Difficult, Dangerous, Disposable), and locked the lid tight. Hates that somewhere along the line, someone taught him to expect so little from the world that buying a damn blanket is uncharted fucking territory.

“Okay,” Satoru says, this time a little quieter, sitting back into the couch. “So you know what shopping is, but…”

“But I’ve never done it,” Suguru snaps, crossing his arms tighter. “Like that. For myself. With... choice.”

He grins.

“Alright then,” he says, clapping his hands once, “We’re going shopping.”

Get him pregnant and you can keep him.

Fucking disgusting.

Satoru wasn't usually a rage guy. Not really. Anger made his head feel itchy. Made his throat tight and his thoughts messy. He didn’t like it. Too much cortisol, not enough serotonin. Whenever something pissed him off—really pissed him off—he usually just ate something obscenely sweet until the fury rotted into nausea. Emotional alchemy, baby. Turn rage into sugar. That was the Gojo way.

But this?

This wasn't fixable with cupcakes.

He’d downed half a box of strawberry mochi in the car and still wanted to throw something.

Apparently his scent agreed, because Suguru had crinkled his nose the second they stepped into the store. His tail twitched. His ears folded back.  Li I ootiyo

“Your scent is loud,” Suguru muttered under his breath, barely audible over the sliding doors and fluorescent buzz of the entryway.

Satoru winced. Shit. Shit . He hadn’t meant to bleed scent like that. He was usually good at keeping it tight—neutral, locked-down, pleasantly sweet with just a hint of Alpha edge. But the whole get him pregnant or we’ll take him away thing was… yeah. Hard to metabolize.

“Sorry,” Satoru mumbled, tugging at the collar of his uniform. “Didn’t mean to—yeah. Sorry.”

Suguru didn’t say anything.

They moved past the entrance. Into the aisles. Bright lights. Busy shoppers. Nesting materials and scent-neutral wipes and pre-packaged snacks stacked.

Satoru glanced at Suguru, who had subtly shifted behind him, tail low, body angled like he wasn’t trying to use Satoru’s body as a shield but was definitely doing that anyway.

So Satoru said the first stupid thing that popped into his brain.

“Ahhh! Suguruuu~ hold my hand!” He sang loud enough that a couple of high schoolers turned around. “There’s soooo many people~ I might get lost~!”

Suguru’s ears twitched.

His eyebrows crunched.

And then, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he looked away—long lashes fluttering like fuck you in Morse code , the exact expression of someone trying very hard not to commit murder in public.

Satoru pouted, full lip-jut, hands on hips.

“Fine,” he huffed. “Be mean, then! Let me wander off and get kidnapped and sold. Let me die in the food court. Let me be trampled by middle schoolers. No one ever thinks about me. ”

Suguru shook his head and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “No one would pay money for you.”

“…Hmph,” he mumbled, almost to himself. 

The crowd around them was only getting louder—kids whining, adults shouting, someone bumping into him from behind with a muttered sorry , and Suguru flinched at that.

Barely.

Just a ripple down his spine, a twitch of his tail—

—and then his hand shot out and grabbed Satoru’s sleeve.

He glanced down.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t say anything.

Suguru didn’t look at him. Just stood there with his eyes on the floor and his tail coiled around his ankle and his scent pressing against Satoru’s.

God, he wanted to coo .

Wanted to pinch his cheeks and make kissy faces and say something stupid like awww baby’s first panic response, wanted to annoy him into blushing or biting or both, just to see those ears twitch in high-definition rage.

Instead, he smirked.

Slid his sunglasses a little lower.

Leaned down just enough to let his voice curl into Suguru’s ear with that syrupy, unbearable Satoru Gojo tone.

“Dawwwww,” he crooned, drawing the word out obnoxiously, “ Suuuu-gu-ruuuu~ You could’ve just told me you wanted to hold my hand!”

Suguru’s grip didn’t loosen, but his eye twitched violently.

“That’s not—”

“I mean I get it,” Satoru went on, “I’m tall, I’m strong, I’m devastatingly handsome. Your hands are just doing what your subconscious wants. Protect me, Alpha Gojo, you’re my only hope—”

Suguru let out a slow, audible inhale through his nose.

“—my delicate Omega instincts just can’t resist your pheromones, your power, your charmingly fucked-up attachment style—”

WHACK.

Pain was mostly theoretical for Satoru Gojo.

Like, sure, technically he had a nervous system. Technically his body was capable of registering damage. But pain was something that happened to other people. Normal people. Weak people. 

But this?

This was different.

This was domesticated vengeance . This was selective, concentrated Omega wrath , packed into one beautifully balanced strike that landed dead center on his shin.

“ FUCK ,” Satoru yelped, hopping on one foot, sunglasses askew. “You kicked me?!”

Suguru didn’t even look sorry.

“I warned you.”

“That was bone, ” Satoru hissed, flopping dramatically into the cart display. “I need that shin! I use it for standing! Walking! Looking hot in photos!”

“Mm,” Suguru said, not looking at him.

Satoru blinked again, lips parting brushing imaginary dust off his pants, trying to preserve what was left of his dignity (spoiler: not much).

Suguru was unbothered . Dangerously so. Staring at throw blankets and refusing to acknowledge that Satoru Gojo, The Strongest™, had just been publicly assaulted via shin.

Satoru wanted waffles.

Like, badly.

Because that’s what Suguru smelled like.

Sweet, but not soft. Soft, but not safe. And now it was stuck in Satoru’s nose, under his tongue, behind his eyes , like it had branded itself onto his scent receptors and rewired his needs hierarchy from oxygen > power > sugar to Omega. Suguru. Waffles. Suguru. Suguru. Suguru.

Unfair.

Unethical.

He was starving.

But they weren’t there for waffles. They were there for Omega stuff.

Which.

Yeah.

He had no fucking idea what that meant.

What was Omega stuff? What even was nesting? Was it like birds? Was he supposed to bring twigs? Was there a section for “soft things that say please don’t hate me I just want you to be comfortable so I don’t commit emotionally motivated arson”?

Because that’s where he was.

Full-blown panic in the aisle 3 Home section, trying to decipher which weighted blanket was least likely to trigger abandonment flashbacks and whether Suguru would prefer lavender or the blood of his enemies, when in reality—

He needed help.

He needed backup.

So he texted Shoko.

[YOU] : yo
[YOU] : if you were nesting for an omega
[YOU] : like, hypothetically
[YOU] : and you didn’t want to fuck it up
[YOU] : what would you buy
[YOU]: like exactly. like brand names. like now

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Then disappeared.

Then reappeared.

Then stayed.

[SHOKO]: fuck you

Another message came in.

This time, a photo.

It was her middle finger. Covered in a latex glove. Holding a thermometer.

Then, finally, mercy:

[SHOKO] : fine
[SHOKO]: omega supplies:

• scent-soothing fabric spray (NOT lavender)
  
  
• nesting base (thick enough to regulate body temp)
  
  
• heat-safe comfort layers (fleece or cotton)
  
  
• hypoallergenic lube
  
  
• backup suppressants
  
  
• heat-calming chews
  
  
• grab a low-sugar electrolyte drink
  
  
• hydrating snacks
  
  
• painkillers
  
  
• spare towels
  
  
• bonding collar (if you're doing that — probs don't)
   

[SHOKO] : also tell him not to bite you unless you’re ready to commit murder
[SHOKO] : like, legally
[SHOKO]: heat marks aren’t reversible

Satoru stared at the list.

Stared at the words “bite you” and “commit murder” and “not reversible.”

Cool.

No pressure.

“Okay,” Satoru said out loud, clapping his hands once. “Operation: Don’t-Be-A-Terrible-Alpha is a go.”

Suguru glared at him sideways.

Satoru grinned. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got resources. ”

He yanked a cart out from the rack, whipped it around like a racecar, and started piling in supplies. Blankets. Pillows. A heat pack shaped like a whale. Protein bars with approximately four grams of flavor and twenty-five grams of obligation. A lavender diffuser and a black pepper one just to cover his bases. An electrolyte drink he picked based on color alone. (It was pink. It reminded him of frosting. That was probably good.)

He held up a bottle of suppressants and waggled his eyebrows.

Suguru didn’t even blink. 

“I’m allergic to suppressants,” he said flatly.

Satoru froze, mid-waggle.

“…Ah,” he said.

Suguru raised an eyebrow.

“Right,” Satoru added. “Right, right. I knew that. Totally forgot. It was a test. You passed. Good job, Omega-san.”

Suguru didn’t answer. Just crossed his arms tighter, one ear twitching in the universal Omega language of you’re an idiot but I’m too tired to argue.

Satoru snorted. Loud. Nearly choked on it. God, he really was shitty at this. Omega care, bonding protocol, basic memory retention. He could name ten ways to counter a domain expansion but couldn’t remember one goddamn medical restriction from the only Omega in his life.

He was failing already.

(Which wasn’t new. He failed all the time. Failed as a mentor, as a teacher, as a political pawn, as a functional adult. He could add potential Alpha partner to the list now. Right under custody risk and emotional sand trap. )

“Okay,” he said, carefully placing the bottle back on the shelf “No suppressants. Got it.”

This was not going well.

From where Suguru’s standing, there are only two types of things in the world: Things that won’t kill you. And things that might.

Safe / unsafe. Always. Everything. Everyone. Every object, every hour, every sound. The rulebook updates automatically. Adjusts on the fly. Reacts to tone, to temperature, to breath cadence. There’s no off switch.

There’s just survival.

Scented soap = not safe.
Alpha footsteps = not safe.
Raised voices = not safe.
Unexpected kindness = extremely not safe.
Softness without reason = suspicious = dangerous = unsafe.

The rulebook tells him what to do. How to sit. How to speak. Where to look and when not to. The list decides what volume is acceptable for his voice. How long he can make eye contact before it’s considered insolent. How many towels are allowed in his nest before someone calls it “hoarding” again.

It’s not paranoia if you’re right.

And Suguru’s always been right.

Two days.

He’s been here two days. Long enough to track Satoru’s patterns, map out the territory, build a new subroutine for this temporary habitat. Long enough to know Satoru doesn’t get up until 7:45 (or 8:00 if he’s being a brat), long enough to know breakfast starts around 8 but isn’t enforced, long enough to reprogram his response timer and adjust the schedule by exactly an hour without breaking routine.

So he waits.

That’s what the rulebook says to do.

Wait. Stay quiet. Take up less space. Don’t wander. Don’t touch. Don’t investigate. Don’t smell too much like yourself. Don’t forget that this place isn’t yours. That nothing is. That you’re here conditionally. That someone else signed the papers. That someone else picked your name. That someone else decided your presence was acceptable—for now.

He stays in the room.

He doesn’t call it a bedroom. Bedrooms are personal. Bedrooms have names on the door and drawers full of choices and bedding someone picked out for themselves.

This is just a room.

Satoru said it was his. But Satoru says a lot of things. Satoru said waffles were a love language. Satoru said being feral was a right. Satoru said he wouldn’t touch Suguru without permission, but then went ahead and touched the edges of his life without asking. Just barged in with paperwork and power and that look , the one that means mine even though Suguru hasn’t agreed to shit.

He doesn’t believe him.

Not about this.

He wakes up at 7. Showers quickly. Keeps the towel folded tight and scent-masked. Doesn’t touch the shelves in the bathroom. Doesn’t open drawers. Doesn’t leave anything out. He learned early—too early, too young—that Omegas who linger get labeled. That mess is an excuse for containment. That autonomy is just a leash with prettier packaging.

And Satoru’s leash might be silk, but it’s still a leash.

Talking leads to questions. Questions lead to interest. Interest leads to expectations and monitoring and files with notes like shows resistance to bonding protocols and verbally defensive under stress and recommend scent sedation during heat cycles. Talking is what got him flagged in the first place. Talking is what made them think he was difficult. They called it aggression, called it emotional volatility, said it was inappropriate for an Omega to challenge hierarchy in that tone. That volume. With those words.

And now, even in this big stupid apartment with the massive windows and the scent-neutral rugs and the Alpha who buys snacks shaped like bears and heat packs shaped like whales, he still doesn’t talk. What would he even say? Hi, I’m Suguru, your council-mandated womb assignment, here to fulfill my biological function and then disappear? Hope I meet your breeding expectations. Hope I don’t bite you hard enough to leave a scar. Hope you don’t flinch when I start smelling like vulnerability and need.

He wants to laugh.

Instead, he waits. Quiet. Still. Teeth grinding behind closed lips.

Because his heat is coming up. He can feel it. The early signs are there—temperature spikes, scent shifts, skin hypersensitivity. He knows his body better than anyone. Has had to. Has learned to read the signals with terrifying accuracy, learned to catalog the timeline of his own hormonal collapse. 

Day one: tension. Day two: sweat. Day three: scent stretch. Day four: arousal. Day five: helplessness.

He hates it.

Hates it more than he can say.

And now—now he’s in Satoru Gojo’s house, under Satoru Gojo’s roof, and Satoru Gojo has the paperwork and the clearance and the council’s blessing to use him.

To get him pregnant.

To fuck him through his heat, knot him, mark him, breed him— claim him, biologically, chemically, politically. All of it.

It makes him want to put his fist through a wall.

Or better—through Satoru’s face.

His pretty face.

Because Satoru’s face is very pretty. Stupidly pretty. Smooth skin, soft mouth, those ridiculous lashes, the smug slant of his jawline. That his instincts are whispering yes, Alpha, yes, touch me, mark me, claim me even while his soul is snarling I will cut your hand off if you try —

Knock knock.

“Su-gu-ruuu~” That voice, that fucking voice. Drawn out in sing-song vowels, syrup-thick and smile-laced. “You want breaaakfast?”

Suguru’s ears go flat.

Fuck.

“Wait wait wait,” Satoru calls through the door, knocking again “Orrrr—mmm—something else~?” 

Suguru doesn’t respond.

Undeterred, Satoru keeps going.

“I have waffles. Like always. Do you want waffles? I brought the good syrup. The thick one. The one with the cartoon bear on it. His name is Barry. Barry the Bear. He’s very serious about brunch.”

No.

Yes.

No.

Suguru wants to punch him.

Suguru wants to kiss him.

Suguru wants to set the kitchen on fire and then crawl into the wreckage alone and ache until it passes. He wants to throw a book at the wall and scream until the rulebook stops buzzing in his ears. He wants to open the door and slam it in Satoru’s face and open it again just to say I’m not yours and I never will be —but instead he sits perfectly still, because that’s what you do when you don’t know which part of yourself is winning.

Because his body wants.

Because his scent is trying to betray him.

Because heat is coming and his control is fraying and Satoru is still at the door.

“Okay,” Suguru says flatly, scrunching his nose  “Fine.”

Rule Number 37: Obey the Alpha, even if you don’t want to.
Rule Number 14: Never say no twice. Once is resistance. Twice is insubordination.
Rule Number 52: Your tone matters more than your words.
Rule Number 19: If you must obey, obey neatly. Quietly. Convincingly.
Rule Number 41: Smile if they expect it. Don't if they don't.

He doesn’t smile.

But he opens the door.

Suguru doesn’t meet his eyes.

(You don’t meet their eyes unless you want something. Rule Number 6.)

Satoru brightens anyway.

Delighted grin. Full teeth. Whole face lit up.

Rule 2: Keep your scent calm.

Rule 10: Don’t react to teasing.

Rule 14: Alphas get bored. Don’t be interesting.

Rule 19: If they offer you food, take it. If you refuse, you’re being ungrateful. If you eat too much, you’re greedy. There is no right answer.

Rule 25: Never flinch.

Rule 31: Don’t look like you want to run. Even if you do.

Rule 39: Don’t touch your scent glands unless you’re asking for something.

Rule 45: Do not contradict an Alpha in public. Do not contradict an Alpha in private. Do not contradict an Alpha. Full stop.

Rule 60: Do not forget the rules.

Suguru knows exactly which words are coming next. He’s studied them already.

“Oka—”

“Okay,” Satoru says, a delighted grin spreading over his face, “Progress. We love to see it. See? I told you you’d want waffles.”

Suguru rolls his eyes.

Doesn’t reply.

Satoru takes that as a win, obviously. Suguru can already feel the conversation spinning up, can feel Satoru’s thoughts galloping ahead into dangerous territory—if he’s eating, that means he’s relaxed, and if he’s relaxed, that means he’s open, and if he’s open, that means maybe—

“Mmhmm,” Satoru hums, and—crucially—doesn’t elaborate.

And he hates —god, he hates—that it’s Satoru standing there, being confusing, being Alpha , being himself.

It’s okay, though. It’s fine . It wouldn’t be fine if it were anyone else—if it were any other Alpha—but it’s Satoru. And Suguru obeys Alphas.

(Despite hating them. Despite hating everything that word has ever meant. Despite hating the way it slams into your life)

But this is Satoru. So he follows.

Because that’s what you do when you’ve been flagged since fifteen and categorized since sixteen and boxed up and labeled with half a dozen warning tags. You follow. You comply. You accept the leash because the collar’s looser than the muzzle and you learn to prefer your cage to the cold. You go where the system tells you, even if the system looks like the one person you used to love back when love still felt like a future instead of a death sentence.

The kitchen is too bright. Clean. Color-coded. It’s full of stupid things—Alpha things, nest-adjacent-but-not-quite things. A dumb little calendar on the wall. Pink sticky notes. A fake potted plant on the windowsill that Satoru keeps forgetting to water, even though it’s plastic.

The next few days are marked clear.

Empty boxes. No missions. No visits. No scheduled council calls. A blank stretch of time in marker that reads “Suguru acclimation (no disruptions)” in Satoru’s chicken-scratch handwriting. With a smiley face. And a sticker.

Suguru stares at it for three seconds too long. Then closes the fridge.

“Hey! Hey! Suguruuuu—look look look!”

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t jump. His ears just twitch once—like an involuntary muscle spasm of annoyance—and then he turns, to find Satoru bounding across the kitchen with a plate of waffles held above his head.

“Isn’t this the best breakfast ever ?” Satoru beams, eyes bright behind his sunglasses, syrup already dripping off the edge. “I made ‘em myself. You can tell because they’re ugly. Like me!”

Suguru blinks. Once.

They are, in fact, ugly. One is burnt at the edge. One’s slightly torn. None are symmetrical. The butter’s haphazard. 

“…That’s debatable,” Suguru says.

Satoru gasps. “You think I’m hot?”

“No,” Suguru says flatly, taking the plate. 

He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t need to. Satoru’s scent kicks anyway—sweet and smug and good boy eat your waffles —and Suguru rolls his eyes before turning toward the counter.

It’s not a nest. Not yet. It’s a table. With a chair. But Satoru’s added padding—two throw pillows, one stolen from the living room and the other probably from his bed. There’s a fleece blanket bunched at the edge and a novelty cup shaped like a fox filled with juice.

It’s insulting.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s the nicest thing anyone’s done for him in years.

He hates it.

(He doesn’t.)

“You gonna eat?” Satoru asks, already halfway through his own plate. His mouth is full. His face is sticky. His hair is a mess and he’s wearing pajama pants covered in strawberries.

He wants to shove the waffles in Satoru’s face. He wants to throw the plate at the floor. He wants to demand why are you trying so hard , why are you making this harder , why are you pretending this is normal when it’s not . He wants to scream I’m not someone you can fix with breakfast .

Instead, he sits.

And eats.

The waffles are… fine. Too sweet. A little undercooked in the middle. The butter’s fake. The syrup is real. His teeth ache after the first bite.

“…They’re edible,” Suguru says.

Satoru gasps again. “High praise!”

“Moderate praise,” Suguru corrects, chewing slowly.

“I’m taking it as high praise,” Satoru declares, licking syrup off his thumb. “You’re impossible to please.”

“You’re easy to disappoint.”

“Ooooh,” Satoru winces dramatically. “Cut deep, Suguru-chan. My fragile Alpha heart.”

Suguru doesn’t answer.

The silence stretches.

Satoru shifts. Picks at the edge of his plate. Tries again.

“…You slept okay?”

Suguru shrugs.

“You warm enough?”

He nods, barely.

“Bathroom’s stocked, by the way,” Satoru says, casual. “Shoko dropped off extra stuff. You know. Just in case.”

Suguru doesn’t ask in case of what . He knows. His body knows. His scent knows. It’s coming, the way storms come—slow and humid and heavy at the edges. He can feel it in his pulse. In the soft parts of his skin.

And Satoru knows it too.

The room shifts.

Suguru puts his fork down. Carefully.

“I’m not going into heat yet,” he says.

“I know.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“I know.”

“I’m not—” his voice catches, just for a second. “I’m not yours.”

Satoru’s smile falters.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t correct him. 

He just nods.

“Okay,” he says softly. “You’re not.”

Suguru’s heat started two days early.

A calendrical ambush designed to ruin Satoru Gojo’s emotional stability and scent profile for the next week.

His jaw felt locked. His teeth ached. His eyes burned behind his glasses, vision slightly unfocused. His Alpha senses were screaming . Everything was syrup. Everything was heat. Everything was him .

He chewed mochi that didn’t taste like anything and trying not to breathe too deep because the air was changing and he knew exactly what that meant and he’d been bracing for it for days but now it was here and—

Fuck.

Shit.

Shit.

Suguru’s scent wasn’t just syrup now.

It was fresh waffles with syrup and burnished sugar on the edge of the pan and hot cotton and goddamn cinnamon and it was in Satoru’s mouth and in his hair and on his skin and—

He tugged his collar higher.

It didn’t help.

His Alpha instincts weren’t subtle. Never had been. He’d trained himself into scent discipline the hard way—back when ruts cracked his spine and made the walls sweat—but this was something else. This was bad. This was dangerous . This was he’s not even my Omega and my whole nervous system thinks he’s mine . This was my fangs are tingling and my bones feel too small and if I breathe any deeper I’m going to scent-mark the fucking drywall .

Everything was full of Suguru. Suguru sweating under heat. Suguru whining in soft, fucked-up half-sounds behind a closed door. Suguru curled up somewhere scenting the blankets Satoru bought him. Suguru buried in fleece and frustration, probably biting his hand or his tail or the pillow because he didn’t want to call for help.

Some minutes pass. Two? Five? Ten? Satoru isn’t sure. Time is weird like that when you’re actively fighting for your life via erection. His cock is a traitor. It’s been hard for at least eight minutes straight and he’s standing there trying to think about anything else—math, curse statistics, Utahime’s ugly shoes— anything but the sound of Suguru whining on the other side of the door.

It’s heat. That’s all. Just biology. Just hormones. Just—

“Alpha.”

And just like that, Satoru’s internal defense system fails. All of it. Every protective instinct, every “wait for permission,” every “be careful, be gentle, don’t be the kind of Alpha they say you are”—gone. Vaporized.

And Satoru doesn’t remember opening the door. Doesn’t remember walking. Doesn’t remember making any kind of decision at all. One moment he’s trembling in the hallway, fists clenched at his sides, and the next—he’s there. In the room. At the foot of the bed  and fuck, he shouldn’t be, he shouldn’t be here , he should back off, should apologize, should slam the door shut and freeze his own face off in the bathroom until this feeling goes away, but instead he’s stepping closer, breath caught, pupils blown, throat dry, and Suguru’s on the bed, Suguru’s on the fucking bed , flat on his back and flushed to the tips of his ears, skin damp, chest heaving, eyes unfocused, legs spread, cunt slicked and dripping and fuck and fuck and fuck what is he doing, what is Satoru doing, what is any of this, how is this real, how did he go from mochi jokes to this, to this , to Suguru laid out—

“Alpha. Please.”

Satoru can’t ignore it, can’t unhear it, can’t unsee the way Suguru’s cunt clenches around nothing, the way his hips stutter, the way his hands twitch like they want to grab something— someone —and he wants to help, fuck, he wants to, wants to touch and hold and taste and soothe , wants to crawl into bed and say shh I’ve got you, I’m here, I’ll take care of it, I’ll take care of you, just say it again, say my name like that again, say it like you mean it, like I’m the only one who can fix this, because maybe he is, maybe this is what the council meant, maybe this is the reason they sent Suguru to him, maybe this is the thing Satoru’s supposed to do, not the breeding, not the paperwork, not the mating—this, this , this moment, this ache, this split-open vulnerability that only he gets to see, because Suguru could’ve called for help, could’ve hit the alert, could’ve locked the door and stayed quiet and waited it out alone, but he didn’t—he called him , and that means something, it has to mean something, even if he never says it again, even if he bites Satoru tomorrow and tells him to fuck off forever, this moment is real and heavy and huge and—

Satoru swallows.

Hard.

His hands curl into fists.

His scent goes sharp.

And still, he doesn’t move.

Because if he touches him now—if he touches Suguru now—it won’t be slow, it won’t be sweet, it won’t be the careful, council-approved procedure with supervision and protocols and bonding checks. It’ll be instinct and heat and need , it’ll be claws in soft skin and teeth in scent glands and the kind of knotting that brands, not bonds.

“You’re not mine,” Satoru breathes, forehead pressed to Suguru’s shoulder, voice tight and cracked and wrong, “you’re not—you’re not mine—”

It’s a miracle he can speak at all with the way his cock is straining against the zipper, how his hands tremble. His scent’s unraveling. Every instinct is screaming, touch him , take him , he asked , he called for you .

But no.

No.

He can’t.

He won’t.

He’s spent his whole damn life proving he’s not the kind of Alpha they all think he is. And right now, that means backing the fuck off before he breaks both of them.

Satoru swallows hard.

He needs to go.

He needs to leave .

Now.

But then Suguru whines.

Just a sound. Small. Frustrated. Open.

And Satoru’s eyes—traitorous, desperate, hungry—slide downward before he can stop them.

He sees everything.

Suguru’s chest, flushed and slick with sweat. His narrow waist, the way his abs flex when he shifts. The line of dark hair that disappears between his thighs. His cunt, swollen and glistening, wet with want and heat and need.

Satoru jerks back. Turns away fast, breath catching hard in his throat.

He starts to move—halfway to his feet—when he feels it.

Fingers.

Light, quick, curling around his wrist.

“Alpha,” Suguru hisses, voice fraying at the edges. “ Please .”

He can’t move. Can’t breathe. Omega reaches for him with scent and skin and voice, and Satoru’s whole body wants to stay. But his mind is screaming. This is dangerous. This is real. This is crossing every line.

He clears his throat. Tries to steady himself. Fails.

“You want a suppressant pack?” he asks. “Cold cloth? Distraction? I’ve got cartoons. I can do cartoons.”

“I can’t take suppressants,” Suguru mutters.

“Right,” Satoru says immediately. “Right, fuck, I forgot. Sorry. No suppressants. Cool, okay, option two.”

“Nothing’s working.”

The words are rough. Strained.

“I’ve tried,” Suguru goes on, teeth clenched. “I’ve tried everything. Touch, pressure, breathing techniques. I even—” He cuts himself off. “Doesn’t matter.”

Satoru swallows hard.

“Do you need me to leave?” he asks. Quiet. Cautious. Hating every word.

“No.”

Satoru turns his head a little. Just enough to see Suguru in his peripheral vision.

He’s still on the bed. Still flushed. Still wrecked. But his eyes are sharp. His jaw is locked.

Long limbs sprawled. Skin dewy with heat. Chest rising fast. Hair clinging to his temples in damp, pretty strands. Every inch of him says I don’t need you, even while his scent says stay . He tracks the curve of Suguru’s waist, the slope of his hip, the low hang of the blanket across his thighs. The muscles in his stomach twitch with every breath. Sweat beads at the hollow of his throat. His lashes flutter.

And lower—

Lower, there’s the curve of his ass under the blanket. The way his body dips at the waist and rounds out like some divine, hand-sculpted proof of God’s bias. Full. Perfect. Unreasonable.

The kind of ass that turns otherwise decent Alphas into drooling, rut-drunk degenerates with nothing on their mind but bite, hold, fuck.

He shouldn't be thinking about this. Shouldn’t. Not here. Not now. Not when Suguru is half-feral with heat and barely holding himself together.

But his cock’s already throbbing, straining against his pants, sticky with the kind of ache that feels cellular. That scent. That ass .

He imagines it. Just for a second.

What it’d feel like to sink between those thighs. To grab handfuls of that perfect curve and spread Suguru open. To bury his face and taste the slick there, lap it up until Suguru breaks apart—voice gone, hands tangled in his hair, tears tracking down flushed cheeks while his body arches back like please, Alpha, more, more, more—

Satoru groans into his fist.

Fucking hell.

Satoru’s rut isn’t just humming under his skin anymore. It’s burning . His temperature’s spiked. His scent is feral. His pupils are blown so wide it’s hard to see. Everything is him . Everything is Suguru.

His Omega.

Not his.

Not his.

But fuck , he could be. He could be, right now, if Satoru let go of the leash. If he let instinct take the reins.

Suguru shifts.

Just slightly.

A twitch of his thigh. The barest lift of his hips.

And the scent hits Satoru—fresh slick and bare skin and the kind of arousal that wants to be smelled. Wants to be found. Wants to be—

“Say it,” he growls. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. It’s low. Ruined. Barely human. “Say what you want.”

Suguru whimpers.

Doesn’t answer.

His whole body trembles—wrecked and writhing on the bed, skin flushed, thighs slick with arousal, pupils blown. His hands are fists in the sheets. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something—but all that comes out is a shattered breath and a sound . 

“Suguru,” Satoru says again. Rougher. Closer.

He’s at the edge of the bed now, crouched, scent flaring, body locked, eyes locked.

“Say it.”

Suguru twitches.

“Y-You—” he stammers. Voice shredded. High and thin and helpless. “You—You—You—”

His scent spikes. Sharp and slick and sweet. Cinnamon-sugar fire. Arousal and desperation.

Satoru’s hands curl into fists.

He’s losing it.

Suguru’s scent is everywhere now. Coating the air. Sticking to his skin. Sinking into his fucking lungs .

“Alpha,” Suguru gasps.

Satoru growls.

“You,” Suguru moans. “You. You. You. Alpha. Alpha. Alpha—”

He’s gone. He’s gone .

Scent pouring from him. Words slurred. Hips rocking into nothing. Whole body begging without saying the actual words—because the words are gone. Burned up. Language is useless here. Only instinct matters. Only scent and sound and want .

“Alpha,” he cries again. “Alpha—please—”

Satoru’s rut kicks harder.

His body lunges before his brain catches up—one hand braced on the bed, the other hovering above Suguru’s thigh. Shaking. Waiting.

“Tell me,” he rasps, “what you need.”

Suguru’s breath stutters. His legs twitch open.

“I need—I need—” He cuts off with a sob. “I don’t know.”

“You do ,” Satoru says. “I can smell it.”

Suguru whines.

The sound is awful. Beautiful. Dangerous .

“You’re so wet,” Satoru says, low and hungry. “I can smell how slick you are. I can see it.”

Suguru whimpers again—louder this time. 

“Say it,” Satoru growls. “Say you want me.”

Suguru bites his lip. His eyes roll. His head tips back, throat bare and shining with sweat.

“I—want—” he gasps. “I want—I need —”

“Me.”

“Yes.”

“My knot?”

Suguru chokes on a sound. Nods. Desperate.

“Say it.”

“You—your knot—Alpha—fuck— please —”

That’s it.

That’s the word.

Please.

His arms wrapped around Suguru’s waist, hauled him in fast and hard like the bed wasn’t even there, grabbed him, held him, all in one motion, and suddenly their bodies were crashing together, chest to chest, scent to scent, slick to skin, and Suguru let out this sound , this helpless, relieved, still-angry exhale.

Satoru’s cock—hot, hard, utterly monstrous—pressed flush against the heat-drenched curve of Suguru’s cunt through two pathetic layers of clothing that might as well not have existed at all, and the feel of it made his entire body shudder, because fuck , fuck, he was right there, right there , and Suguru was so soft , so wet , so ready —

And still angry.

Still tense.

Still Suguru .

Still the same brat who kicked him in the shin and insulted his waffles.

“I can’t…” Suguru’s voice cracked on the edge of a breath, sharp with frustration, chest trembling with effort. His fingers clenched in the sheets, knuckles bone-white. His thighs kept shifting, slick-slick-slick with every grind of his hips against the mattress, but it wasn’t working. His body wouldn’t stop burning, wouldn’t settle. No matter how he touched, no matter how he moved—he couldn’t get there.

His eyes stung.

“Can’t,” he spat, breath catching again. “Need—” His throat clenched around the word. “Need Alpha.”

Satoru let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Pressed closer.

Rolled his hips—slow, gentle, testing—and Suguru gasped , high and broken and furious, like yes, finally, thank you, fucking fuck you , and his scent spiked so sweet Satoru saw stars.

“You need me?” he asked, voice low, nose brushing Suguru’s temple.

Suguru didn’t answer with words.

He just nodded , fast and frantic and desperate, grinding down against the obscene bulge in Satoru’s pants

His hand on Suguru’s stomach slid lower—fingertips grazing the fine trail of hair that led to heaven, pausing just above the apex, just above the slick heat pulsing between Suguru’s thighs—and he pressed his mouth to the side of Suguru’s throat, just once, just lightly, just to taste the sweat there, just to remind himself that this was real, this was happening, that Suguru was letting him close enough to hold, close enough to grind, close enough to help , even if help looked like the slow, torturous push of Alpha cock through layers of friction and need.

“Y’know,” Satoru said, voice light, easy, way too casual for someone currently grinding the entire weight of his rut-hungry Alpha body against a slicked-up, heat-drunk Omega, “I did say I’d take care of you, yeah?”

His fingers dragged down Suguru’s chest—slow, deliberate, tracing the faint line of sweat running between his nipples, skimming the edge of bruises blooming where Satoru had gripped too tight without meaning to. He could feel Suguru’s breath hitch, not sharp, not alarmed, just aware , just that quiet little intake that said yeah, I feel that, and god, Satoru wanted to lean in and say I feel it too, wanted to crack his own ribs open and press every ruined part of himself into Suguru’s hands here, you want something real? This is all I’ve got.

But instead, he kept his tone light, his touch teasing, fingers sliding lower, lower, stopping just short of the edge of slick heat.

“I mean, that was the deal, right?” he went on, thumb dragging lazily over the soft skin above Suguru’s hipbone. “You let me haul you outta that council hellhole, I feed you, I try not to say anything too emotionally repressed, and if the stars align and you say please, maybe I even help you through your heat without accidentally bonding you out of sheer hormonal stupidity.”

Suguru didn’t say anything. Just blinked up at him—barely, slowly, lashes heavy with fever and sweat and wanting. His scent was wrecked. Sticky-sweet and deep and pulling, and Satoru was trying not to drown in it and say yes now mine fuck bite claim breed mark now now now —

“I mean,” he said, grinding in just a little harder, enough to feel the obscene drag of slick through his boxers, “I didn’t say I’d do a good job taking care of you. Just that I’d do it. There’s a difference. Words matter. I’m a language guy. A verbal genius, really.”

His hand slid further down, palm wide and warm against Suguru’s stomach, tracing the shape of him—curved, beautiful, slick, wet, his Omega’s cunt practically begging to be touched, to be filled, to be used , and god, Satoru was so close to losing it, so close to dropping the act and letting every ruined, starved part of himself take over and say fuck words, fuck rules, fuck the council and their threats and their paperwork— this is mine, he asked for me, he chose me, let me have him—

“And,” Satoru added, ducking down to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to Suguru’s collarbone, letting his lips drag over salt and scent gland and instinct, “Since I’m a man of my word and a very generous lover, I think it’s time I actually delivered on the promise. So…”

But that wouldn’t do.

Because Suguru— his Suguru, sharp-tongued and stubborn and so wrecked with heat he was practically vibrating—suddenly turned his head, buried his face in the pillow, and whined.

Raw. Shaky. Ripped from somewhere deep in his chest and crushed down like he was embarrassed of it. Like he didn’t want Satoru to hear the broken little noise he made when instinct overran pride.

“Mmph,” Suguru gasped, muffled against the pillow. His back arched. His hips rolled. “Hnn—ngh—puh—”

His legs twitched, thighs slick, cunt dragging against the sheets as he ground himself down, chasing friction without even thinking. Wetness was dripping now—down his thighs, onto the sheets, soaking into the blanket underneath—and Satoru could smell all of it. Cinnamon-syrup, sharp with need. Ripe with want. So ready. So close.

And still— still —Suguru turned away.

Bad move.

Bad Omega.

“Ohhhh,” Satoru drawled, “No, no, no. That’s not how this works.”

Suguru whimpered.

“Turning away?” Satoru murmured, leaning closer, dragging his mouth along the curve of Suguru’s shoulder, letting his breath ghost over flushed skin. “Grinding on my cock, whining like a bitch in heat, dripping all over my sheets—? Bad Omega.”

That got a reaction.

Suguru let out a high, bitten-off sound— mpgh! —and shoved his hips back, ass pressed hard against Satoru’s lap like he was trying to grind him down into the mattress. His tail twitched, twitch-twitch-twitch—

“Alpha,” he whispered.

Satoru growled.

“Say it again.”

“Alpha—Alpha—Alpha,” Suguru panted, voice catching, hips still rolling. “Alpha, fuck, I can’t—I need—need— ugh —”

“You need what?” Satoru purred, hand sliding down, down, slipping over soaked skin, cupping the heat between Suguru’s thighs “Use your words, baby.”

“ Yours, ” Suguru cried, voice breaking. “Yours, yours, Alpha , just—just do something , please—!”

He was losing it. Really losing it now. His pride had cracked wide open, and instinct had taken over, fully. His body was demanding touch. Pressure. Filling. He was rutting against the bed. Writhing. Slick gushing. Making these soft, desperate, pathetic little moans like he didn’t care how he sounded, just needed to be taken .

His hands clawed at the sheets.

His thighs trembled.

His tail curled tight around Satoru’s wrist trying to drag him closer.

And Satoru? Satoru was feral with it.

His whole body was buzzing. His cock ached. His fangs itched. His scent was punching through the air, drowning the room in Alpha—dominant, focused, starving Alpha.

“Ohh, you’re a mess, ” he whispered, dragging his fingers through the slick between Suguru’s legs, pulling back glistening, sticky, dripping wet. “You’re not even trying to be good, huh? Just humping the sheets like some needy little bitch.”

Suguru let out a helpless little huhhhn —somewhere between a sob and a whimper—and collapsed forward, ass still up, hips twitching. His body was begging , leaking so much it was obscene, and Satoru could feel the way his inner walls were already fluttering, clenched around nothing, desperate for something to fill him.

“You want my cock that bad?” he asked, dragging two fingers along the slick folds, teasing the entrance. “You’re dripping all over me. I could slide in right now without prep.”

“ Do it, ” Suguru choked. “Please—Alpha, I need it—I need it , I can’t —”

Satoru leaned down, teeth brushing Suguru’s scent gland, breath hot.

“You gonna take it like a good Omega?” he growled. “You gonna open up for me? Let me fill you till you can’t walk?”

“ Yes, ” Suguru sobbed. “Yes, Alpha—yesyesyes, please—!”

His hands were shaking. His thoughts weren’t thoughts anymore—they were heat and slick and need and mine mine mine mine mine.

One hand fumbled with his zipper, almost too clumsy to get it down. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and leaking. Slick stuck to his skin, on his fingers, on Suguru’s thighs, on the sheets. Everything was syrup. Everything was suffocating. Everything was him.

“Fuck,” he snarled, pressing forward, rut-drunk and reckless, barely holding himself up with one hand braced next to Suguru’s head, the other guiding himself down—lower—closer—

Suguru gasped.

The head of his cock nudged his pussy, and Suguru tensed, whole body twitching under him.

But Satoru didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

He pushed in—too fast. Too deep. Felt the tight, wet clench of Suguru’s cunt drag along every inch of him as he bottomed out in one long, brutal thrust.

Suguru screamed.

It wasn’t a pretty sound.

It wasn’t a moan.

It was raw. High. Almost panicked.

And Satoru didn’t hear it—didn’t process it—because all he could feel was tight , and hot , and wet , and mine . Every instinct he’d spent years shoving down—every rule, every warning, every control mechanism—snapped clean in half.

“Fuck— fuck , you feel so—god, Suguru—”

He pulled out halfway and slammed back in.

Suguru jerked under him. Hands scrabbling at the sheets. Face twisted in something between pleasure and pain. His thighs trembled around Satoru’s hips, but he didn’t wrap them around. He didn’t pull him in.

He wasn’t ready.

Satoru should’ve noticed.

Should’ve stopped.

But his brain was soup. His breath was breaking. His cock was buried in the tightest, sweetest heat he’d ever felt in his life and the only thing he could think was deeperdeeperdeeper .

He started fucking him in hard, relentless thrusts. He barely even noticed the way Suguru’s hands balled into fists. The way his tail curled under him in a frantic, defensive loop. 

“Alpha—Alpha, wait—” Suguru gasped, voice thin, shattering.

But Satoru didn’t.

He couldn’t.

His teeth were inches from Suguru’s gland. His hips snapped forward again, again, again, hitting too deep, too hard, pace erratic with rut.

“Alpha—hurts—”

Satoru didn’t hear him.

Not really. Not until his own hand—shaking, possessive, rough—clamped down over Suguru’s mouth to muffle the moans. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t think. His hand just moved, locking Suguru’s cries against his palm as his hips bucked forward again, again, again, rhythm gone, pressure too much.

“No, shh, just—fuck, just let me—just a little—just—”

His hips ground harder, rut tearing through his restraint. Slick smeared down his thighs, Suguru’s cunt clenching too tight, too much, and Satoru moaned loud, sloppy, teeth dragging down Suguru’s shoulder, scent flaring uncontrolled.

“Shitshitshit—fuck, good boy,” he groaned, head spinning. “You take it so good—fuck—Omega—mine—mine—mine—”

Suguru twitched beneath him.

A full-body jerk.

Not pleasure.

Not surrender.

Fear.

Satoru froze .

Right there, halfway through another brutal thrust—his body locked, breath caught, scent flooding with alarm.

Suguru’s eyes were wide. Glassy. His hands were clenched in the sheets.

And Satoru—Satoru saw it now .

He saw the difference.

The difference between wanting and enduring . Between giving permission and gritting your teeth through it . Suguru hadn’t tapped out. He hadn’t said stop. But his body had. His eyes had.

And Satoru had missed it .

“No—no, no, fuck—” His hand flew off Suguru’s mouth “Shit, I’m—fuck—”

He pulled out.

Too fast. Wetness splattered against his skin. Suguru flinched again—just once—and Satoru hated himself .

“Breathe,” he said, voice shaking, hands hovering, not touching, trying not to scent too sharp. “Breathe, Omega. You’re okay. You’re okay. I—I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking—fuck—”

Suguru turned his head away.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t cry, either. Just breathed. Fast. Shallow. Silent.

His whole body was trembling.

He dropped to the floor, hands in his hair, back against the wall, rut still spiking through his bloodstream but guilt overriding everything. His cock was still hard. Still leaking. Still aching for Suguru—but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

He’d fucked up.

Bad.

“I wasn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “I didn’t hear you—fuck, I heard you, I just—I didn’t listen —”

He stumbled back from the bed, nearly tripping over his own feet, slick still wet on his skin, cock still hard and angry in his pants, and god, he hated himself.

Suguru was curled in on himself.

Not sobbing. Not yelling. Not even speaking arms wrapped around his stomach, tail tight around his thigh, skin flushed and damp and twitching with every small movement.

Hurts.

Suguru had said it. Whispered it. Voice tight and thin and trembling. And Satoru had kept going, rut-blind and drowning in heat and scent and the sound of his Omega begging for more, until more stopped feeling good and started becoming too much.

He couldn’t breathe.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes and tried not to crumble.

“I shouldn’t have touched you,” he said hoarsely. “I should’ve—fuck, I should’ve walked away. You told me to stop. You said—”

He gritted his teeth. Dug his nails into his hands. Focused on breathing. One inhale. One exhale. One promise, over and over:

I’ll fix it.

Chapter Text

Satoru was losing it.

Fucking losing it.

No sweets in the world could fix this. Not even mochi. Not even strawberry pocky or syrup-drenched waffles or whatever-the-fuck saccharine comfort food he usually drowned his guilt in when the world started crumbling underneath him, because this time the mess wasn’t around him, wasn’t abstract, wasn’t a system he could laugh at or a curse he could vaporize or a stupid, smug elder he could intimidate with a smile—this time the mess was Suguru, Suguru who was in heat and vulnerable and still recovering and scent-wrecked and smaller and lighter and breakable, Suguru who had said please and Alpha and yours and hurts and Satoru didn’t stop, didn’t listen, didn’t fucking notice, because he was too lost in the moment, too deep in rut, too fucking selfish to track what mattered and now—

Blood. There was blood on his leg. Suguru’s blood.

Not a lot. Not enough to be life-threatening. Not from what he could tell, anyway, but enough to spike his panic through the roof, enough to coat the inside of his thigh, enough to send his Alpha instincts screaming in opposite directions— fix this , protect him, don’t go near him, don’t fucking touch him again, you’re the danger now, asshole, step back, step back, STEP BACK—

He stumbled out of the room.

Fell into the hallway breath coming in short, shallow gulps, trying not to hyperventilate, trying not to collapse entirely, one hand on the wall, the other shaking, and his scent was everywhere, sour with panic, wild with guilt, wrecked beyond recognition.

He grabbed his phone.

Couldn’t type at first. Dropped it. Picked it back up. Dialed.

Shoko answered on the second ring.

“What now,” she said, dry, unimpressed.

“I fucked up,” he choked, voice high, cracking at the edges, “Shoko, I—I fucking hurt my Omega, there’s blood, he was in heat and I—he—he asked me and I was careful, I was trying to be careful, but he said it hurt and I didn’t stop, I didn’t even hear him—”

“Where is he?”

“In—bedroom,” he gasped. “I left—I’m not—I’m not near him—I backed off—I didn’t bond—he’s not—fuck, Shoko, there’s blood—”

“Okay. Breathe.”

“I can’t breathe—”

“Gojo.”

Her voice was sharp this time. 

“Get a cold pack. Sit down. Put it on your neck. Don’t go back in that room. I’m coming over.”

He was already sliding down the wall.

Phone on speaker. Hands on his face. Cold pack from the freezer pressed against his overheated neck, his cheeks, his pulse points, anything to stop his scent from spiking even worse. His rut was still present—still clawing at his ribs—but guilt was louder now, sharper, gnawing at every soft edge he had left.

He’d hurt Suguru.

That was the part he couldn’t stop circling back to.

That Suguru was already half-shattered, half-wild, already wrapped in control mechanisms and survival instincts and rules—so many fucking rules—and Satoru had promised not to be another rule, not to be another cage, not to be the kind of Alpha who took and didn’t see and kept taking and—

He failed.

He failed and now Suguru was bleeding and quiet and curled up alone in a room Satoru wasn’t allowed to walk back into.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye socket until the pain drowned out the burn of tears.

She’ll be here in five. Maybe six if the roads are shit. Maybe four if she jumps the red lights. Doesn’t matter. She’ll come. She always does. Always has.

Fucking asshole. Of course he fucked it up. Of course he did.

Because who the fuck let him be an Alpha? Who looked at Gojo Satoru —too much, too loud, too fast, too broken—and said, yeah, let’s pair him with a traumatized Omega and see what happens?

This. This happens.

And yeah, okay, maybe he usually wouldn’t care—because he’s an asshole, a grade-A, council-certified, emotionally illiterate, functionally feral asshole , and he likes it that way. He’s meant to be too much. He likes being a freeloader, a brat, a problem. He likes pissing people off, pushing buttons, watching the world try to contain him and fail. But this —this isn’t fun. This isn’t funny. This is Suguru . And he fucked up. He fucked up bad.

Knock knock.

He jumped.

Shit .

Shoko.

He scrambled to his feet, kicked a half-eaten box of mochi across the hallway, almost slipped on a heat patch wrapper, cursed under his breath, and yanked open the door and—

“OW—WHAT THE FUCK, SHOKO?!”

She’s standing there with her usual dead-eyed unimpressed face, a cigarette in one hand and the other pulling back from where she just stubbed the lit end of it into the center of his forehead like that’s what you get, dumbass , and he’s wincing and flailing and trying to swat her away.

“Don’t scream,” she said, stepping past him “Where is he?”

“In—” Satoru winced, clutching the side of his face. “Bedroom. Down the hall. I left the door open. I didn’t go back in, I swear , I—ow, fuck, did you just brand me?!”

“You deserved it,” Shoko said flatly, dropping her bag on the kitchen table. “Do you want to explain how you managed to injure an Omega in heat when you were supposedly trained for this exact situation?”

“I didn’t mean to! ” Satoru wailed, dragging a hand down his face. “I was trying to help! He asked —he begged , Shoko, and I—I didn’t realize I was going too fast and then there was blood and he flinched and he went quiet and I panicked and now I think I’ve officially joined the list of Alphas he fantasizes about murdering in his sleep—”

“Shut up.”

He shuts up.

Because Shoko is many things—a chain-smoking sadist, a world-class emotional assassin, the only person he’s ever trusted with his worst truths—but above all, she’s calm when he can’t be, and he’s never been more grateful for that than he is right now.

She walks down the hall, pauses at the bedroom door, breathes in.

“His scent’s feral,” she mutters. “Still peaked. He’s not out of the cycle yet.”

“I know,” Satoru chokes. “I know, I just—I couldn’t—he said it hurt , Shoko.”

Her hand tightens on the doorknob. She doesn’t look at him.

“Was it a rupture?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “No. No knotting. I stopped before—I didn’t—I mean I wanted to but I didn’t —”

“I’m not asking if you fucked him raw,” she snaps. “I’m asking if you tore anything. Did you look ?”

“No,” he whispers. “I was scared to.”

Shoko sighs. Long. Tired. 

“Of course you didn’t.”

She disappears inside the room.

He doesn’t move.

Can’t.

His body is humming— throbbing, fuck, his cock’s pressing hard against his zipper and it’s not right, it’s not okay, because this isn’t rut, this isn’t supposed to be rut, he’s still in pre , he’s still got time, he’s still supposed to be in control, but everything in him is screaming mine mine mine mine and it’s because Suguru’s scent is still there, bleeding through the walls, thick and syrup-slick and Omega-sweet and fucking—

He presses his fist to his mouth 

everything’s going red—

—and his fangs are peeking .

Fuck. No. No, no, no, not now.

He presses both hands to his face and breathes hard, nose to palm, scent to skin, trying to ground himself in something that isn’t bloodlust and want and punishment and need, trying to shut out the image in his head of Suguru’s bare legs curled up and slick-dripping and open-open-open and the sound he made when he said Alpha those blown-wide eyes—

He’s fucking trembling, hands clenched, thighs burning, breath ragged, every sense zeroed in on that goddamn door, that scent, that unholy mix of slick and sorrow that says Suguru is hurting, Suguru is vulnerable, Suguru is open and soft and leaking and Satoru can smell it and wants to be buried in it and can’t, can’t, because he already hurt him once and if he does it again he won’t survive it, not emotionally, not physically, not anything-ly, he’ll die, he’ll fucking die—

The door opens.

Shoko steps out. Closes it behind her. Looks him dead in the face.

He straightens. Tries to breathe normal. Fails.

She flicks her eyes down.

Because this is what he’s become, apparently. Not Gojo Satoru, sorcerer extraordinaire, teacher, protector. Just some Omega-hurting Alpha-shaped failure on the edge of a rut that didn’t wait for permission.

“You still hard?” she asks.

His jaw clenches. “What do you think.”

“Then get in the freezer,” she snaps, stepping aside. “You’re not seeing him again until you’ve burned this out or tied yourself to a tree.”

He doesn’t argue. Can’t.

She jabs a thumb toward the hallway. “Bathroom. Ice packs. Cold shower. And jerk off in private, ”

“Ngh—fuck—” Satoru groaned, head slamming back against the shower tile, eyes squeezed shut, throat stretched, mouth open. “Fuck, fuck—”

Water slammed down on him soaking through his hair, shoulders, back—pooling at his feet and running down his chest — but none of it helped. His skin was still burning. His cock was still throbbing. He could smell Suguru’s heat on his hands, in his mouth, in the fucking steam.

His fist was pumping his cock fast, rough, desperate, lube be damned, thoughts be damned. He was past thought. Past control. Just a mess of noise and scent and instinct—

“Mine—mine, Omega—”

His hips jerked. His hand moved faster. Up, down, up, down, wet slap of skin against skin.

He couldn’t stop.

He should’ve.

But his knot was swelling. Not full size, not yet, but enough. Enough to hurt. Enough to ache. Enough that it felt like his cock might split in half if he didn’t finish right now . His balls were tight. His abs were clenching. His fangs were out, sharp and aching with the ghost of Suguru’s scent on his tongue.

Mine. Not yours. Mine. Not yours.

“Fuck, Suguru,” he groaned into his own shoulder, lips pressed to wet skin, “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

He pictured it. Again. Suguru on the bed, flushed and soaked, lips bitten red, thighs glistening with slick—eyes wide and teeth clenched.

He was a fucking monster.

He knew it.

Didn’t stop him.

Didn’t stop his fist from tightening around the base, squeezing just right, dragging slow up the shaft to the swollen not-quite-knot already forming like his body had made the decision for him, like he wasn’t in charge anymore, like he’d never been in charge, like he was just a feral fucking Alpha who’d gotten a taste of something forbidden and now he couldn’t let it go, couldn’t forget it, couldn’t not want it, because Suguru was in his blood now, in his head, under his skin, between his fucking teeth, and even his scent was still clinging to Satoru’s jaw, to his wrist, to the back of his tongue, and every breath made his cock throb harder, every blink brought the same mental slideshow of filth—Suguru on his knees, Suguru with his head tipped back, Suguru trying to take him too deep and choking on it, eyes tearing, mouth stretched too far around Satoru’s cock his body curled sweet and obedient and wrecked, perfect little omega in the throes of heat with his claws digging into Satoru’s thighs, spit and slick dripping down his chin, tears in his lashes, gagging on the length of him and still not pulling back, still trying to take it all, still fucking trying like please use me until I break —

Satoru snarled.

Teeth bared. Head thrown back. His whole spine arched off the tile and his breath hitched in broken bursts he didn’t deserve to finish, but his body didn’t care, his knot didn’t care, his dick definitely didn’t care, because he was so close now, so fucking close, and the shame was so thick it should’ve drowned him, but instead it fed it, fueled it, made it worse, made it faster, because the punishment was part of the pleasure now, the guilt was the friction, the pain was the fuel, and he deserved it, deserved to be wrecked, deserved to lose it, deserved to sit here leaking and panting and begging for release like a stupid fucking Alpha with nothing left to offer but instinct and rut and the memory of a ruined Omega who still smelled like—

“Suguru—” he groaned again, louder this time, voice raw and wrecked and shuddering, and then—

He came.

Hard.

Hard enough his vision went white at the edges, hard enough he slammed his fist against the wall, hard enough his whole body seized with it, knot swollen in his grip, cum splattering across his abs, the tile, his hand, the air , and still—still—his rut wasn’t done with him, still his hips bucked, still his teeth ached, still his brain screamed more , screamed him , screamed you hurt him fix it fix it fix it —

—he collapsed.

Breath gone. Muscles shaking. Fingers twitching around the root of his cock.

“Fuck,” he whispered, forehead pressed to the cold wall.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

Satoru stuffed another mochi into his mouth.

Cheeks full, jaw moving, powdered sugar all over his sleeves because he wasn’t using the stupid napkins like a normal person, because nothing about him felt normal right now, and that was definitely not his fault, because some people (read: elders, matchmakers, probably Shoko, and yes, even himself , ugh) had decided it was a great idea to pair Gojo Satoru, emotionally bankrupt, rut-prone menace of a man-child Alpha, (1) Omega and now here he was, two days after the worst mistake of his fucking life, face-deep in glutinous rice.

“Ughhhhhhh,” he groaned into the countertop, forehead dropping down between two empty pastry boxes. “This is fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’m totally fine.”

He was not fine.

It had been two days since Suguru’s heat broke.

Two days since Satoru touched him.

Two days since he’d seen more than the blurry outline of Suguru’s figure disappearing behind the bedroom door. Two full days of waking up at 5am in a cold sweat, hard and aching and so desperate for Suguru’s scent it made him claw the sheets. Two full days of not going to class. Two full days of skipping training, ignoring Yaga’s calls, deleting Ijichi’s messages, hiding from the world with a box of rice cakes.

Little Megumi-chan was going to kill him.

Which was unfair, because wasn’t he the grown-up? Wasn’t he the teacher? Shouldn’t he be the one holding the moral high ground here? Shouldn’t he be able to say sorry I had a biological meltdown and emotionally collapsed over my Omega and had to jerk off in the freezer to avoid a bonding accident and get at least one goddamn day of pity?

But no.

Because Megumi would just cross his arms, sigh like a disappointed father, and say something quietly brutal like you’re late , or I thought you were stronger than this , or Shoko said not to enable you anymore, and Satoru would have to smile through it and pretend it didn’t cut him straight in the soul.

It wasn’t like he wanted to miss class. It wasn’t like he wanted to hide in a dark faculty lounge with crumbs on his hoodie and sugar on his knuckles and seventeen missed calls from the higher-ups wondering why the fuck he hadn’t filed his bond status report yet. It wasn’t like he wanted to sit here imagining every possible expression Suguru might’ve made after Satoru left the room—disgust, pain, confusion, regret—or thinking about how cold the bed must’ve felt without him there, or how quiet the house had been, or whether Suguru had cried again, whether he’d bled again, whether he hated him now.

Satoru threw the empty mochi wrapper at the trash can and missed.

He groaned louder.

The mochi stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Bleghhhh,” he mumbled, trying to dislodge it with his tongue cheeks puffed out, throat working hard to scrape the gummy bastard loose—get off, get off, you little bastard, you’re not even the good flavor—he slapped his chest, gagged quietly, gave up—

“Gojo.”

He froze.

His entire body did that stupid fucking Alpha thing where it surged forward without asking permission, like: hey, Omega nearby, should we scent him? Touch him? Fix the fucking mess we made? And he had to shove it all down—every instinct, every twitch, every red-flag chemical reaction screaming mate, mate, Omega, ours —because he couldn’t do that, not now, not after everything.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t say anything.

Didn’t trust his mouth to work. Didn’t trust it to form real words instead of pleaseforgivemeyoursmellsmakesmecrazyagainagainagain .

Suguru glanced at the mochi box on the counter. Then at Satoru.

Then back again.

"...you ate all the strawberry ones," he said.

Satoru blinked.

Suguru’s nose crinkled in that face—that god-tier, bitchy, annoyed, slightly disgusted expression that made Satoru’s soul leave his body and re-enter through his ass, because it was hot and rude and nostalgic and very much alive, and Satoru didn’t deserve to see it again. Not after—

“I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly, stupidly, mochi still glued to his molars. “They were just—on top. It was random. Fate. Mochi fate. I would’ve saved you one if I’d known—”

“You always eat the strawberry ones.”

“No I don’t.”

“You do,” Suguru said, crossing his arms. “Every time.”

Satoru wiped his hands on his hoodie “Well, I didn’t think you’d want one.”

“Why?”

“I thought you were mad at me.”

“I am mad at you.”

“Oh,” Satoru said, deflating immediately, “Cool. Okay. Right. Yeah.”

Not that he didn’t expect it. He did expect it. Of course he did. Suguru had every right to be mad, to be livid, to want to claw his face off and leave him scentless and shattered and permanently on the Council’s blacklist, because Satoru had done what Satoru always did, which was ruin the one good thing he wasn’t supposed to ruin, and yeah, maybe this one hurt more than usual, maybe this one had teeth, maybe this one was still bleeding in the soft part of his chest that nobody was supposed to reach, but it wasn’t like he could say that out loud, wasn’t like he could make it better with an apology, wasn’t like he could reach out and touch him and say please because he’d already crossed the line, already failed the test, already left a bruise on someone who couldn’t afford any more bruises.

So he didn’t touch him.

In fact—he turned on Infinity.

Not out of fear. Not out of anger. Out of guilt. Out of pure self-directed loathing.

Because Satoru Gojo might be a lot of things—an asshole, a freak, an attention whore, a sugar addict, a Council headache, a walking nuke—but at the very least, he knew what he was. Knew what he’d done. Knew that right now, the worst thing he could possibly do was let Suguru get close enough to reach him again, to try and reach him, to maybe give him something like forgiveness that Satoru didn’t deserve, hadn’t earned, would absolutely wreck if he so much as breathed on it too hard.

So instead he blurted out, “You want any food?”

Suguru blinked.

“I mean—uh—” he waved vaguely at the counter, the open fridge, the slightly burnt croquettes he tried to reheat and forgot about because he got distracted thinking about ear twitches and tail swishes and maybe biting someone (but not like, hard, just like... affectionately?), “There’s food. If you want. Or if you’re hungry. I dunno. Do you want food?”

There was a silence.

Suguru tilted his head, ears flicking in sync like twin radar dishes picking up bullshit .

“You’re bad at this,” he said flatly.

“Whaaaat?” Satoru said, voice way too high, “No, I’m great. I’m like, the king of… emotional…mmm...connection.”

Suguru raised one unimpressed eyebrow and for a moment, Satoru honestly couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh, cry, throw something at his head, or sink his claws into his chest and rip the heart out slow.

(Which, to be fair, would be a deserved move. Honestly. Satoru might hold still for it.)

Because he wasn’t good at this. At… mm. What do you call it? Emotion… empathy… sympathy… whatever. Empathic… empathine? No. Empathy. That’s it. Empathy , he thinks.

He was great at screaming. At fighting. At keeping the entire goddamn country from falling apart. But he wasn’t good at this— this —the quiet, the after, the I’m sorry and I don’t know how to fix it and I think about you when you’re not in the room and it’s killing me and I don’t even know what the fuck to do with that. He could kill a curse the size of a city block with one eye closed, one hand behind his back, and a sucker in his mouth—but he didn’t know how to stop Suguru from looking at him like that. Like this . Like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust himself not to bite when he said it.

So yeah. Food. That was safe.

Food was the one thing Satoru Gojo always understood.

You offer it to people you care about. You give it to people you don’t know how to apologize to. You shove it in your own mouth when you’re lonely, or angry, or spiraling so hard your head feels like it’s floating three inches off your spine. You bury the panic in sugar and carbs and hope your body doesn’t notice the difference.

He opened the cabinet, stared at the rows of snacks. Strawberry Pocky. Peach Ramune. Three boxes of mochi (no strawberry, because of course not). Red bean taiyaki. Three flavors of milk candy. Half a roll of konpeito he stole from Utahime’s drawer two months ago. Six emergency chocolate bars. One matcha cake he hadn’t opened yet. And a sad little note taped to the inside of the door that said BUY MORE CUSTARD PUFFS — DON’T FORGET AGAIN, DUMBASS , written in his own handwriting, which was honestly unfair.

He didn’t turn around. Not yet.

“Could make rice,” he said, voice softer, not even sure Suguru could hear him. “Or… ramen? There’s miso. Or cold noodles, if your stomach’s still weird.”

Still nothing.

He hated that.

He wanted Suguru to snap , to throw something, to call him a bastard again. He wanted him to make noise, make trouble, claw through the distance with something sharp so Satoru didn’t have to keep pretending this silence wasn’t worse than being punched in the mouth.

He waited.

Five seconds.

Ten.

A shuffle.

“…I want tea,” Suguru muttered.

Satoru’s breath left his body in a rush.

Tea. He could do tea.

“Yeah,” he said, fast, eager, like the word tripped over itself trying to get out. “Yeah. Of course. What kind?”

Suguru shrugged.

“I’ve got peach blossom,” he said, opening the cabinet. “And caramel rooibos. That brown sugar cinnamon one you sniffed once and said smelled like a hooker’s dream, remember? That one’s still unopened. Oh—and there’s a vanilla milk oolong. Think that one’s supposed to help with—uh—hormonal stuff, I dunno, someone online said it helped with—”

He reached up. Hand over Suguru’s head.

And—

Flinch.

Tail whipping, sharp and fast, smacking straight into his arm.

Or it would’ve, if he hadn’t had Infinity on, just out of habit, just because he still couldn’t fully let it drop around Suguru without a voice in the back of his head screaming what if you fuck it up again, what if you touch him wrong again, what if you break him this time —but even with the space between them, even with the tail’s strike muted, even with no pain, no impact, no contact—

Suguru flinched again.

And his eyes—god—his eyes snapped wide , panicked, wet, scent crashing in a way that made Satoru’s own stomach drop—scared, scared, scared —a pure Omega fear-spike, high-pitched and acrid and so wrong coming from someone who had rolled his eyes at Council officials and cursed under his breath when locked behind three inches of steel and never once looked like he was afraid of Satoru.

Until now.

He’d never seen Suguru cry.

Never—not once.

They hadn’t known each other long, sure, but he’d already cataloged a hundred of Suguru’s expressions—annoyed, smug, tired, too-proud-to-speak, rebellious Omega bitchface #5, quiet hunger, reluctant curiosity—but not this. Not this. Not this crack at the edge of something brittle, this tiny splinter that looked too much like fear, like deep, instinct-buried terror leaking through the cracks in his scent.

And Satoru—

Satoru fucking froze.

Because it didn’t matter that he hadn’t touched him.

Didn’t matter that he’d meant nothing by it.

Didn’t matter that it was just a stupid cup and a stupid reach and a stupid, dumb motion that anyone else would’ve brushed off—

Suguru flinched from him .

And his scent said danger .

And that meant Satoru had failed .

“I—shit,” Satoru breathed, immediately stepping back, both hands raised now, palms open, voice cracking like maybe if he could just make himself physically smaller Suguru wouldn’t look at him like that anymore, wouldn’t shrink like that, wouldn’t wrap himself in fear that Satoru had put there . “I wasn’t—I wasn’t gonna—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

Satoru backed up another step. And then another.

Because nobody ever comforted him when he cried.

Not when he was a kid, not when he was bleeding, not when he was locked up after missions in sealed rooms because nobody trusted the Strongest to be vulnerable, and he’d learned early on that tears didn’t help and feelings didn’t matter and if you broke in front of people, they either used it or ignored it, and you might as well swallow your sobs and shove a sugar cube down your throat and grin like your heart didn’t exist, and maybe that’s why he didn’t know what to do now.

Because Suguru was crying.

And Satoru’s Alpha—was screaming do something, fix this, hold him, kiss it better, make the world stop hurting him, while his conscience—the human part, the smart part, the part that still remembered blood on white sheets and too-loud apologies and a body that flinched away—was whispering fuck that, don’t you dare, leave, leave, LEAVE.

And somewhere between those two cliffs, he cracked.

“Baby—” he said, and it slipped out, stupid , reckless , that word, that fucking word, “—sweetheart, I—”

Suguru’s ears flicked.

His tail curled tighter around his thigh. Satoru’s hands shook.

“I—” he tried again, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t mean to make you—flinch. Or—” he swallowed, throat dry as ash, “—cry.”

And god, he sounded so fucking stupid saying that, like an apology you give a kid after accidentally stepping on their toy, not after dragging someone into a heat spiral they didn’t fully consent to, not after making someone’s tail whip in fear at just a raised arm.

He wanted to rewind time.

Wanted to grab himself by the back of the neck and slam his head into a wall and say look what you did, look what you did to him, look what you are when no one’s watching , because this wasn’t strength, this wasn’t power, this wasn’t the kind of Alpha anyone should be allowed to keep, much less bond.

“I’m not gonna touch you,” he said, because it was all he could offer, the only currency left. “Not unless you tell me to. Not unless you want me to. Not ever again.”

Suguru’s chest was rising fast now. Shallow. His eyes shiny. His hands curled at his sides, fisted in the fabric of his shirt. 

Singularity.

Singularity.

Singularity.

The point where everything collapses inward, where gravity becomes infinite, where there is no space, no time, no light, just weight. Crushing, terrible, irreversible weight. And this—this right here, this silence, this breath, this look—was his singularity. The point at which everything that had come before meant nothing. The point at which the center gave out and the world folded inward and Satoru couldn’t do anything to stop it.

“I hate you,” Suguru choked out.

Satoru didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t break—not visibly, not immediately—but inside something snapped. Quietly. Cleanly. A line pulled too tight for too long.

Because yeah.

Oh.

Right.

Of course.

Because Suguru should hate him.

Suguru should hate every molecule of him, should flinch every time he hears his name, should throw plates when he hears his voice, should file a Council report and demand relocation and list “Gojo Satoru” as a category 5 scent-trigger and get a restraining order and a suppression field and a brand new bed that doesn’t smell like rut and regret and rut and regret and rut and—

Satoru said nothing.

Because what the fuck was he supposed to say?

Because he was shit at this.

So, so shit at this.

Shit at feelings. Shit at words. Shit at apologies and empathy and whatever the fuck you’re supposed to say when someone cries in front of you and says they hate you and means it, really means it.

He wanted to say sorry . But sorry wasn’t enough.

He wanted to say it’ll be okay . But it wouldn’t be.

He wanted to say I didn’t mean to . But meaning didn’t matter.

Intent didn’t heal bruises.

Intent didn’t rewind the second where Suguru flinched .

Intent didn’t stop a tail from twitching in panic or wide violet eyes from filling with terror or fragile trust.

“I’ll give you space,” he said, quiet.

Because it was the only thing he could think to offer.

Because everything else—touch, scent, apologies, promises—felt wrong, useless, poisonous in his mouth. Because space was the only kindness he could offer without risking more hurt, and even if it was the last thing he wanted—even if every Alpha cell in his body was screaming, stay close, fix this, fix him, don’t let him go —he stepped back again.

Gave it.

Tried to give it.

His throat locked tight around everything he didn’t say.

Like I didn’t mean to and I’m sorry and please don’t look at me like I’m just another Alpha who hurt you, and I wish I knew how to make this okay, but I don’t, and I’m so fucking scared I’ll never get the chance to try.

He didn’t say any of it.

Didn’t deserve to.

“Have you bred him yet?” one of the elders asked.

Satoru bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t—not right away—because if he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure whether a joke or a scream or a command to shut the fuck up before I take your throat out with my teeth would come out first, and the last thing he needed was another ethics review from the Council or another round of gossip about how “Gojo Satoru has gone feral,” which was funny because they were the ones constantly telling him to “reconnect with his instincts” and “develop proper Alpha control,” but apparently “proper Alpha control” only counted when he was calm and silent and good, not when he was two seconds from throwing a chair through a wall because they wouldn’t stop talking about Suguru like he was a fucking asset .

His jaw clenched so tight he felt the bones shift. His hands stayed at his sides. Barely.

“I said,” the Beta elder repeated, voice nasal and thin and reeking of dried mint and superiority complex, “has the bond been physically confirmed through reproductive contact?”

Satoru wants to vomit. Satoru wants to die. Satoru wants to cram seventeen waffles into his mouth until his brain shuts off and the sweetness burns the memory clean out of his fucking skull, because this isn’t a conversation, this isn’t a policy check, this is inventory—this is someone checking stock, measuring worth, filing notes on Omega-usage as if Suguru’s blood wasn’t still in the fibers of Satoru’s bedsheets, as if Suguru’s voice hadn’t cracked open inside him and lived there ever since—Alpha, hurts, please—

“No,” he said, finally.

He didn’t say yet . He didn’t say but I wanted to . He didn’t say I’m still in pre-rut and it’s driving me insane, I can feel it slithering under my skin, all coiled instinct and want and guilt, and I can still smell him when I close my eyes and it’s fucking killing me .

He didn’t say any of that.

Because they didn’t deserve it.

Because they’d never understand it.

“Not even a partial cycle?” the elder asked again.

Satoru’s hand twitched.

Another elder cleared his throat. “You understand the timeline implications, of course. If your Omega remains unbred by the end of your scheduled rut cycle, the match will require reevaluation. Possibly even reassignment.”

Satoru almost laughed.

Reassignment . What a fucking word. What a neat little phrase for we’ll take him from you and give him to someone else .

“I’m aware,” Satoru said.

His temples throbbed. His vision blurred. His rut wasn’t here yet, but it was close—close enough that he could feel the pressure building behind his teeth, the taste of Suguru still in his mouth, phantom-slick still on his fingertips, and if he didn’t get sugar soon—real sugar, not that council-issue nutrient bar crap but actual goddamn waffles—he was going to burn this whole building to the ground and salt the ashes.

He needed a mouthful of syrup. He needed a plate of whipped cream and too-sweet peaches. He needed the kind of comfort food that numbed the part of his brain screaming go back, fix it, fix him, bond him before someone else does, before he changes his mind, before he forgets he ever said please.

“Failure to comply will be recorded,” he said blandly. “Expect a formal notice within the week.”

Satoru didn’t answer.

He was already walking away.

Because he needed sugar.

Because he needed waffles.

Because he needed distance between himself and a question that made his claws itch and his fangs throb and his whole spine scream mine , when he’d already failed to protect what was his.

Because the only thing worse than not breeding Suguru—

Was thinking about what it would mean if he did.

For as long as Suguru can remember, he’s been alone.

He was thirteen when they took Riko away.

Fourteen when she died.

Fourteen and already curled up in a room with metal vents that buzzed too loud and white walls that never let scent stick, and a camera in every corner, and a logbook outside the door that marked every time he “refused to engage in a scheduled socialization event.”

He didn’t care.

Didn’t want to engage.

Didn’t want to “process his feelings” or “connect with his cohort” or whatever recycled, scentless bullshit the Center called therapy. He just wanted to be left alone. Wanted the numbness to take over. Wanted to sleep and not wake up and maybe never smell another Alpha again for the rest of his life because fuck them. All of them. Every single one.

Alphas were the reason Riko was dead.

Alphas with badges and permission slips and “mission priority” orders. Alphas who looked at Omegas and saw resources. Wombs. Currency. Temporary fuck-toys they could slap a bondmark on and call “mate.” Every time Suguru closed his eyes, he saw the way Riko looked when she laughed. The way she tried to braid her hair into his. The way she told him he didn’t smell broken, even when everyone else said he did. The way she cried the night they told her she was being matched with a government Alpha and she didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave him, didn’t want to get bonded to a stranger with a gun.

And then she was gone.

And then she was dead.

The news came through in a flat-voiced memo, one of those cold clinical updates they print on white paper and leave outside your door like it’s not going to destroy you. “Bond terminated. Candidate deceased. Cause: conflict during transport.”

He didn’t get out of bed for a week after that.

Didn’t talk for two.

He started believing then—fully, deeply, with the kind of faith that only children and the broken are capable of—that Alphas were evil. That their touch was a curse. That their hunger would always outweigh their empathy, and that no amount of reform or control or council-mandated sensitivity training could fix what was already wrong in their bones.

He believed they should all die.

Or disappear.

Or at the very least, never be allowed near something soft again.

And every time a new Alpha came into the center—some council-vetted match candidate or high-profile sorcerer with a superiority complex and a gold-plated collar and a note in their file that said “handle with care”—Suguru made sure they left bleeding. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make sure they never came back. A broken nose. A clawed cheek. A ruptured scent gland. A few cracked ribs if they got too close. He didn’t care. They deserved it. Every Alpha was just a trigger with a mouth, and he was done being their recoil.

They kept him under surveillance after that. Added more labels to his file. “Unstable.” “Unbondable.” “Feral-tendency candidate.” “Not safe for heat pairing.” “Do not engage without restraint team present.”

He didn’t care about that either.

He had nothing left to lose.

They could call him broken all they wanted.

They could lock him up, drug him up, study his pheromonal patterns until they bled out their eyes—he wasn’t going to submit. Wasn’t going to bow. Wasn’t going to go docile the way they wanted.

He wasn’t Riko.

And he was never going to let an Alpha touch him again.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Over and over.

Until Gojo fucking Satoru walked in.

The red stamps and psychological cautions and the literal note that said “DO NOT MATE WITH THIS OMEGA” in block letters. Gojo saw it, ignored it, and chose him anyway.

Because Satoru Gojo was a bastard like that.

A stupid, reckless, too-strong Alpha who didn’t follow the script. Who poked the cage and told the handlers to fuck off and said, I want that one, just because they told him no. Who looked at Suguru like he was interesting, not broken. Who never called him sweet, or compliant, or submissive. Who didn’t even flinch when Suguru snapped or glared or rolled his eyes, just laughed and leaned closer.

Gojo had found the part of him that still wanted things.

And if Suguru wasn’t careful, he’d take it.

And he did.

He did.

Because Suguru went into heat, and it wasn’t soft, it wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t gentle like the stories said it would be if you were good, if you were normal, if you were mate-shaped and bondable and clean—it was messy and sharp and brutal and loud and hungry, and he begged, god, he begged, he dropped to his knees and begged for it, begged for Gojo, begged for an Alpha to fuck him, begged in a voice that didn’t sound like his, with a body he didn’t recognize, with hands that shook and lips that opened too easily and a scent that screamed take me, use me, ruin me, and Gojo took, he took and took and took , and maybe he didn’t mean to and maybe he didn’t knot him and maybe he tried to stop and maybe he looked scared too but it happened, it happened, and the second Suguru came down from the fever, the moment the edge dulled and the need ebbed and the pressure in his gut loosened and his brain stopped spinning long enough to remember , he knew.

He knew.

It was his fault.

His fault his fault his fucking fault because he asked for it, because he begged, because he pulled Gojo’s face down and said Alpha, because he opened his legs and sucked his fingers and said please, because he wanted it—god help him, he wanted it, and that made him a whore, a fucking heat-slut who deserved everything he got, a filthy little Omega who’d been saying his whole life that Alphas were monsters only to melt the second one looked at him.

It’s not Gojo.

It’s me.

It’s me.

It’s always been me.

My fault, my scent, my heat, my voice. My fucking body, going pliant when it should’ve fought, going soft when it should’ve clawed, going open when it should’ve closed up and screamed and bitten and run, but I didn’t run, I didn’t fight, I didn’t do anything except beg and cry and take it, take him, take every inch of him like it was a gift instead of another punishment, and I let it happen, and I let him touch me, and I liked it, and now I can’t get the sound of my own voice out of my ears, can’t get the image out of my head—of me, soaked and ruined, saying please.

I hate me.

I hate me.

I hate me.

He got up.

Shaky legs, numb knees, hands trembling even though he clenched them into fists. 

He sniffled once. Tried to swallow it back.

Failed.

Fuck. He didn’t cry. He didn’t cry , not like this, not stupid trembling lip and stuffed nose and cheeks wet without permission, not like some child who couldn’t hold it together. This wasn’t him. He was the feral one. The sharp one. The don’t-touch-me-I’ll-bite-you Omega who cracked ribs and dislocated jaws and didn’t let Alphas near unless he was trying to bleed them. He wasn’t soft . He wasn’t breakable . He wasn’t—

He padded toward the door on bare feet, still sniffling.

God, he felt pathetic.

He wanted to break something. Rip the fucking walls down. Track down every Alpha on the Council and watch them bleed.

He wanted revenge. He wanted to burn the system to the ground and salt the earth. He wanted to never feel this small again, this scared, this fucking exposed—

But none of that changed what he was.

Omega.

Too weak to win.

Too broken to resist.

Born a victim. Raised a tool. Leashed by biology. A walking trigger warning with scent glands and a file full of red stamps that said dangerous, dangerous, damaged, discardable.

His hands curled into fists in his sleeves. His breath hitched.

God, he hated it so fucking much he wanted to scream, wanted to set his own scent on fire, wanted to rip the subdermal suppressant implant out of his spine with his own claws and stab it through the eye of the next elder that told him he “still had potential.” Fuck that. Fuck them. Fuck this whole fucked-up hormone-choked body and the fucked-up system that said it was supposed to want this and need this and bond to someone who couldn’t even touch him without making everything spiral out.

But he was scared. He was so fucking scared.

I’m scared.
I’m scared. I’m scared.
I’m scared I’m scared I’m scared—

He hadn’t said those words in years. Not when they locked him up. Not when they dragged Riko away. Not when he bit through an Alpha’s finger and they pumped him full of suppressant until he passed out for two days. He didn’t say scared then.

But now he was. Now he was .

He pressed one trembling hand to the doorframe. Peaked his head out. Ears twitching. Scent pulled in tight. Cautious. Curious. Embarrassed. Stupid. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should be locked in the room, tail around his leg, eyes on the ceiling, pretending he didn’t care, pretending none of this touched him, but his instincts were still hunting. Still seeking. Still straining for safety. For scent. For him .

For Satoru.

Because it was 9:00 p.m.

Exactly.

And that meant—like every other night since this fucked-up forced match started—that Gojo Satoru, menace of Tokyo, chaos-bringer, sugar addict, Alpha-pile-of-sunshine-shaped-regret, would be in the shower.

Right now.

Because he was a creature of habit. Ritual. Predictability. He showered at 9. He towel-dried his hair for seven seconds too long. Then he ate strawberry Pocky and exactly one rice cracker. Then he sat in the kitchen, phone on speaker, feet kicked up on the chair across from him, and talked to a kid named Megumi.

Suguru didn’t know who the fuck Megumi was.

Some student, probably. Or a curse baby. Or a gremlin. Definitely a gremlin.

All he knew was that Megumi had the patience of a saint and the voice of a chain-smoking war general and that he told Satoru to “shut up” at least nine times per conversation. Satoru would laugh. Megumi would hang up. 

Suguru had listened to every single conversation through the wall for the past two weeks.

He didn’t mean to listen. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He wasn’t being a bad Omega or a nosy bondmate or a creep or anything wrong , it’s just—

The walls were thin. So thin. And Gojo was loud .

Even when he wasn’t trying to be. Even when he was just talking.

And when he talked—when that voice rolled out, warm and rich and stupid and smug and Satoru-shaped, Suguru flinched . Every time. 

And that—

That was the problem.

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel good.

It wasn’t supposed to feel good .

It was supposed to hurt. It did hurt. God, it fucking hurt.

He bled. He flinched. He went quiet. He curled in on himself and smelled like fear and shame and the chemical sting of someone who hadn’t been ready, hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t even known what his own body could take—

But.

But.

It also felt good.

And that was the part that made him sick.

Because it wasn’t just that Gojo’s cock was big—it was , it was massive, it was stupidly huge and heavy and too much, the kind of too much that felt like it was made to break people open, the kind of Alpha anatomy they wrote warnings about in textbooks—and it wasn’t just that he’d never taken anything that deep before, anything that wide, anything that made his vision go white and his back arch and his thighs shake—

It was that he wanted it again.

Even now.

He was wet.

He could feel it.

That syrup-thick, heat-hangover slick just starting to build again, just from the memory, just from thinking about it, just from imagining Gojo’s hand on the back of his neck, Gojo’s voice going low, Gojo’s mouth on his—

He pressed his thighs together.

Hard.

Ashamed.

He hated this. Hated it. Hated himself.

Because what kind of Omega wants it like that?

What kind of Omega cries and begs and bleeds and comes back for more?

What kind of Omega thinks about the same Alpha who hurt him and gets wet just from the sound of his voice through a fucking wall?

He must be disgusting.

Gojo probably thought he was disgusting.

He’d seen the look on his face. That split-second flash of horror when Suguru flinched, when his tail whipped, when his eyes went wide and wet and terrified and Gojo stepped back, like oh , like fuck , like I didn’t know I broke you that bad, and maybe he hadn’t meant it, maybe he’d tried to be careful, but it didn’t matter, because now he looked at Suguru like something fragile.

Like something ruined.

And Suguru couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Couldn’t stop remembering the way it felt when Gojo pushed in deep, too deep, all the way to the root, when his body stretched too far, when his breath left in a sob, when he cried into the pillow and said Alpha and Gojo kissed the back of his neck like good boy —

His cheeks burned.

His stomach turned.

He wanted it again.

He wanted it so bad .

But he was terrified.

Because it hurt.

Because he liked it.

Because Gojo probably hated him for it.

So he moved.

The shower was still running.

He peeked his head out again. Steam curling from the bathroom. Gojo was still in the shower. Singing. Humming . Some ridiculous song, half-words and off-key, the kind of stupid little jingle he made up just to make people roll their eyes. He sounded—god, he sounded normal . Like none of it happened. Like Suguru hadn’t flinched. Like he hadn’t cried. Like he hadn’t ruined everything.

He needed to move.

Now .

He didn’t really have any belongings—just a bag. A change of clothes. A small tube of scent suppressant. A hairbrush. A paper packet of heat patches. And the stupid oversized hoodie he always ended up in, the one Gojo left on the couch, the one that smelled like waffles and shampoo and AlphaAlphaAlpha .

He grabbed it without thinking. Pulled it over his head.

Wrong move.

The second the fabric hit his skin—his scent glands, his throat, his wrists, his back—it hit him back.

Like Alpha , mate , home , yours , run , run , don’t run , stay , kneel , run —

His ears twitched. Tail low. Heart thudding too loud.

Stupid, he told himself. Stupidstupidstupid. He shouldn’t have touched it. Should’ve left it. Should’ve gone out naked if he had to, anything but this, anything but dragging that scent across his skin.

But it was too late.

And he had to be fast. Had to move now, before Gojo stepped out, before the humming stopped, before the door opened and those bright blue eyes locked onto him and saw him like this—trembling, hoodie-clad, scent-flooded, guilt-drenched Omega running away.

He tiptoed out of the room. Careful. Silent. Feet barely brushing the floor.

His hands were shaking. His scent was all over the place —fear, fear, fear, panic, and the smallest thread of slick that made his stomach twist in disgust.

What if Gojo smelled him? What if he noticed?

What if he came after him?

What if he didn’t?

He reached the front door. His breath was loud in his throat. Everything inside him was screaming. He couldn’t tell if it was Alpha-panic or Omega-guilt or some fucked-up cocktail of both.

He hesitated.

Hand on the knob.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to think what if he punishes me for this?

Because Gojo was still strong. Still Alpha. Still bigger. Still Gojo Satoru, who could crack buildings in half, who could snap a neck with a thought, who could have anything he wanted— and what if what he wanted was obedience?  What if he got tired of walking away? What if next time, he didn’t stop?

Suguru’s fingers twitched. His throat closed. His tail curled tighter.

He should run. He had to run.

Even if it felt wrong.

Even if his body wanted to turn around and curl up in that hoodie on the couch and wait for Gojo to come out and pet his hair and call him brat .

He didn’t deserve comfort.

He didn’t deserve to stay.

So he turned the knob. Slipped outside.

Closed the door behind him.

And ran.

Chapter Text

Satoru hums a stupid tune under his breath— “anpan for my manpan, dango in my pants-go” —dumb as hell, he knows, but it’s catchy, okay, it’s catchy, and it buys him a few seconds to pretend things are normal while he kicks his wet towel toward the laundry basket and glares at it for missing. 

“Anko anko daifuku,

yubi de tsunde, chuu chuu chuu~

Oishii toki wa, Pocky de pon~

Ama ama daisuki, ore wa hon~!”

It was funny when he wrote it. Goofy. Sweet. He sang it while stealing pastries from Utahime’s drawer, and Suguru rolled his eyes and told him shut up, which, okay, fair, but it was also cute and kind of impressive that Satoru could rhyme “wave” and “crave” with a straight face, and Suguru had looked at him—just looked, unimpressed, unimpressed, unimpressed, but his tail had twitched once and his scent had flickered and goddammit why the fuck is everything about him so fucking rememberable —

He opens the fridge. Stares.

Cold noodles. A leftover bento. One sad slice of strawberry shortcake that he didn’t eat yesterday because the sight of whipped cream made him nauseous with guilt.

Suguru hasn’t eaten.

Suguru hasn’t fucking eaten.

He glances at the wall clock. Almost 1 p.m. Which is—what? Twenty hours since heat broke? Twenty hours and all Suguru’s done is hide in the room and pretend Gojo doesn’t exist and breathe like he’s trying not to be heard, and Satoru didn’t want to bother him, didn’t want to scare him again, didn’t want to be in the same fucking zip code if it meant Suguru would flinch—but—

Omega needs food.

Omega biology is fragile, isn’t it? Or maybe just complicated. Post-heat, post-slick, post-everything, there’s supposed to be a rebalancing phase, hormonal crash, metabolic spike, something like that, something he vaguely remembers from training, something about electrolytes and energy reserves and god why didn’t he pay more attention to the care module instead of trying to balance a pocky stick on his nose—

He grabs the bento. Reheats it.

Doesn’t think.

The microwave beeps.

He plates the food. Adds pickles. Slices the last piece of cake in half like that makes it less pitiful. Grabs a small bottle of tea. Lines it all up on a tray.

 And then he picks it up, and—

“Shit—”

He trips.

Almost faceplants over the fucking candy wrapper he left on the floor, some stupid piece of konpeito he tried to ration last night but gave up halfway through and let scatter across the tile. The tray wobbles. The tea sloshes. The cake slides half an inch to the left.

He steadies it. Just barely.

He swallows hard.

Walks down the hall.

Knocks on the bedroom door.

No answer.

Which is fine. That’s fine. That’s so fine. Because of course Suguru isn’t going to jump up and say thank you, Alpha, wow I’ve forgiven you now because of this microwaved rice and this pity-slice of cake, let’s mate forever. Of course not. Satoru fucked up . He knows that. He knows that. So no answer? That’s expected. That’s normal.

What’s not normal is—

He can’t smell him.

Frown. Pause. One step closer to the door. Deep breath.

Still nothing.

No scent at all.

Not Omega, not heat, not suppressant, not clean shampoo or dirty laundry or even pillow-warmth or leftover slick—just nothing . Like the room’s empty. Like Suguru’s not even in there.

His hand hovers over the doorknob.

And that’s when the thought hits: Did he leave?

No. No way. He would’ve heard it. Or seen it. Or smelled it. Unless he suppressed himself. Unless he masked his scent so hard even Gojo-fucking-Satoru can’t smell it. Unless he timed it right, left when Satoru was in the shower, walked straight out the door without a sound, without a trace, without even—

He closes his eyes.

His heart is beating too fast.

What if he’s not okay? What if he collapsed? What if his heat left him too weak and now he’s unconscious on the floor and Gojo’s standing out here like an asshole, tray in hand, waiting for permission to walk in when what he should be doing is breaking down the fucking door?

But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

Because what if he is in there?

What if he’s just hiding, just curled up in a hoodie that doesn’t fit, scent locked down so hard he’s basically invisible, and the second Satoru walks in again— uninvited —he flinches again? What if he’s scared? What if he’s terrified , crouched behind the bed or the closet or the silence itself, just waiting for Satoru to fuck up one more time?

He presses his forehead to the door.

Cool wood. No scent.

He exhales slowly, quietly, through his nose.

“Hey,” he says. Low. Careful. Not Alpha-low, not rut-low, just... soft . “I brought food.”

No answer.

“I didn’t come in. I won’t come in. Not unless you say.”

No answer.

“I just… I don’t know if you’re okay,” he admits. “You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to come out. Just... I dunno. Cough or something? Knock once? Just let me know you’re still in there?”

Nothing.

Fuck.

He stands there another moment, the tray getting heavier in his hands, the silence getting louder, the lack of scent eating through his skin.

Then—gently, so gently—he lowers the tray to the floor. Pushes it forward until it touches the door.

And steps back.

Two steps. Three.

Wipes his hands on his hoodie.

Turns away.

Doesn’t look back.

Even when his whole body is screaming go in, go in, go in.

Because if Suguru wants space?

He’ll give it.

Even if it kills him.

He’s scared.

He’s scared he’s scared he’s scared—

Because this is the first time he’s been out like this. Out-out. In public. Without someone yanking him by the wrist or walking three paces behind with a clipboard and a taser. No handler, no leash, no Alpha with a barcode on their sleeve to scan him back in.

It’s just him.

Alone.

The crosswalk beeps.

Green.

He hesitates.

A hand brushes his arm and he nearly jumps into traffic, legs locking up. The person mutters an apology—casual, dismissive—and walks on, doesn’t even look back. Suguru watches their back disappear into the crowd and hates them for not noticing how close he was to crumbling.

He hates himself more for not knowing what to do.

He’s scared he’s scared he’s scared—

A high-rise looms over the sidewalk. Glass and steel and windows that don’t open. He wonders what it’s like to stand at the top of one and see the whole world small beneath you. If it would feel like freedom or if it would feel like the edge of a cage.

He doesn’t want to cry.

He can’t.

Tears mean attention. Attention means danger.

He tucks his chin down. Tries to shrink smaller. Tries to disappear. The people keep coming, wave after wave, and Suguru’s legs start to tremble from holding himself together, from not running, from not collapsing.

He shouldn’t have left.

He shouldn’t have come out alone.

He shouldn’t have thought he was ready, because now—now all he can think is—

Is Gojo looking for him?

And if he is—

If he is—

If he is—

Then what will he do when he finds him?

Suguru’s throat tightens. His nails bite into his palms. His ears flatten under the too-big hoodie he shouldn’t have worn, because it smells like Alpha and it smells like Satoru and it smells like danger now, like ownership, like you should know better, like you broke the rules, like time to be punished —

And Suguru knows punishment.

He knows what happens when a "bad Omega" runs.

He knows the shock collars. The pheromone suppressors. The restraints.

He knows the white room with the mirrored walls and the table in the middle and the clamps. He remembers how cold the floor was. How his tail twitched involuntarily with every strike. How they made him count, made him say thank you, made him apologize for being too difficult to manage .

He remembers the whir of the camera overhead. The hum of the lights. The slow creak of the gloves being pulled tighter, tighter, tighter over Alpha hands.

“Submission is safety,” they’d said.

“Disobedience is dysfunction,” they’d said.

“You’ll never mate this way,” they’d said.

He trips.

Stumbles over a rock in the concrete, almost goes down face-first, instinct screaming protect your stomach , protect your neck , protect the future you’re supposed to carry , even though there’s nothing there, not anymore, maybe never was, maybe never will be, because—

—Because his biology means nothing without permission.

His breathing stutters. His chest hitches. His hoodie slips down over his face and he gasps under the weight of it—Gojo’s hoodie, Gojo’s scent, thick and sweet and wrong right now, because Suguru is reeking, he knows he is, he’s always reeking when he’s scared, he’s always obvious , and someone’s going to notice—

Someone’s going to smell it.

Sad Omega scent.

Scared Omega scent.

Pathetic pathetic pathetic.

He whines.

Pat pat pat.

Footsteps.

Footsteps behind him.

Footsteps getting closer.

He shrinks.

He tucks into himself. His shoulders curl. His tail wraps tight to his thigh. His ears are shaking under the hood. He wants to vanish. He wants to dig into the sidewalk and become part of the stone. He wants to die. Just for a little. Just for now. Just until it’s over.

But the footsteps don’t go past.

They stop.

They stop—

Right behind him.

Is it Gojo?

Is it Satoru?

Is it Alpha?

Is it punishment?

Is it—

“Hey—are you… okay?”

Not Gojo.

Not Gojo.

Not the voice. Not the scent. Not—

But Suguru still doesn’t turn.

Still doesn’t move.

Because what if Gojo sent someone?

What if he’s watching?

What if this is a trap?

What if this is just another test to see if he’s fit to be outside?

His hands won’t stop shaking.

He presses his forehead to the cold metal of the post.

Grab.

Fingers— not his —wrap around his wrist.

His body snaps .

“Don’t—!”

His whole arm jerks back on instinct. His nails dig into skin. His foot lashes out. There’s a sharp thwack of bone hitting shin, and the person stumbles back with a choked-off curse.

“Argh— you fucking brat— ”

Male. Grown. Alpha.

Suguru’s breath hitches.

Alpha. Alpha. Alpha.

He reels, eyes wild, scent flaring sharp and wrong and broadcasting , because he can’t control it anymore, he can’t shut it down , and this wasn’t supposed to happen, he was just going for air, he was just trying to breathe —

“Hey, hey—calm the hell down—!”

The man steps forward again and Suguru bares his teeth . Doesn’t think. Doesn’t plan. He just drops low into a crouch, tail bristled, ears back, and growls .

A full-body, Omega-coded threat display.

The man freezes.

He wasn’t expecting that. Probably thought Suguru was harmless. Or heat-drunk. Or alone and fragile and ready to be snatched up like some broken toy.

But Suguru’s not that.

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

“I didn’t touch you like that—fucking psycho—”

The Alpha retreats with a sneer, limping slightly, muttering curses under his breath as he disappears into the crowd. A few people look. No one interferes. Of course not. It’s Tokyo. It’s busy. It’s none of their business. Just an Omega in a hoodie, crouched like a cornered animal with wide eyes and scent leaking out in waves of fear .

Pathetic.

His nails are still dug into his palms. His wrists burn where the man grabbed him. He wants to throw up.

He’s scared he’s scared he’s scared—

"Sweet sweet candy in my handyyy~

Sticky rice dreams and my brandy~

Put that mochi in a box—

Gimme sugar, gimme stocks—"

He sang it at full volume, off-key, lollipop stick between his teeth and socks skating across the hardwood as he kicked his feet out.

He’d already eaten three lollipops, half a sleeve of strawberry Pocky, a jelly doughnut, and something suspicious from his emergency candy drawer labeled “seasonal caramel capsule – NOT FOR RUTS.”

Suck. Spin. Hum. Spin. Suck.

The tray is still there.

He saw it the last four times he passed the hallway. Neatly placed, untouched, cold now. Bento sealed, tea bottle sweating, sad slice of strawberry cake slowly collapsing under its own weight like a metaphor for everything Satoru has done wrong in the last 48 hours.

Still no sound from Suguru’s room.

No footsteps. No light. No scent. No shuffle of movement or creak of bed springs or sigh of blankets or soft, irritable bitch-noises about Satoru’s latest disaster. Just stillness. Just nothing.

And no waffles.

He frowns. The lollipop clicks against his teeth. He chews once, twice, crunches the whole thing with a snap and winces when the sugar shards cut his tongue.

Still no waffles.

Which—okay. Okay. That’s maybe the real sign that something is deeply wrong , because Suguru’s heat broke and the rebalancing phase should’ve started by now, and maybe Satoru isn’t the most emotionally intelligent asshole on the planet but he knows what a nesting-cycle recovery pattern looks like and this ain’t it. This is off. This is quiet. This is bad.

This is no scent through the door and no tray being touched and no sugar-craving Omega leaving nesting drift on the couch pillows.

This is a bad, bad vibe.

Satoru licked his dry lips.

Okay.

Okay.

So what now?

He spun in the chair again, slower this time, like it might help him think, like maybe centrifugal force would squeeze some sense out of him. But all he could think about was how quiet the apartment was. How the sugar was turning sour on his tongue. How thirty-one hours ago he told himself he’d wait and give space and do better , but maybe better wasn’t good enough if it meant standing still while the person he—

He blinks once. Spins again. Then stops.

His foot taps the floor.

Maybe he should check.

Maybe he should’ve checked earlier.

Maybe he should’ve banged down the door the second Suguru didn’t answer the first time. The second he didn’t eat. Maybe he should’ve gone in the second the scent disappeared.

But he didn’t.

Because he wanted to do it right .

Because he was trying to be better .

Because everyone kept telling him that Omegas needed time, and space, and respect , and he was trying to show it—really, actually trying—and now all he had to show for it was a cold fucking tray and the echo of his own heartbeat in an apartment that was starting to smell like nothing .

And the council.

God.

The council.

Those crusted-up geriatric goblins were already back on his ass, rattling their old bones over his mating status, whispering about “wasted lineage” and “Alpha imperative” and “reproductive timing,” like Suguru was a walking incubator instead of a human person with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind and eyes that looked like they remembered every awful thing Satoru had ever done.

The last meeting wasn’t even subtle. They didn’t even try. They just slid a packet across the table labeled Recommended Bonding Protocols for High-Risk Omega Candidates , and one of the wrinkled fossils had the audacity to ask, “Have you successfully knotted him yet?”

Because even though he’d smiled and bitched and rolled his eyes and said something like “Oops, didn’t realize you wanted a play-by-play,” all he could think about— all he could think about —was Suguru’s scent going sharp when he got scared. Suguru’s voice when he’d said Don’t . Suguru’s whole body going still and tight and small underneath him.

And Satoru hated them for it. For turning mating into policy. For making it about performance metrics and bloodline potency and compliance graphs and fertility tables.

He hated himself more for being part of it.

He taps his foot again.

Harder now.

Jittery.

The silence is pressing at his temples.

Maybe something’s wrong.

Maybe something’s really wrong.

He stands up too fast. The chair spins behind him, ghosting the last of his movement, and he’s already halfway down the hall before he realizes he forgot the tray. Again. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t care. There’s no sound behind the door. There’s no scent. There’s no anything .

He presses his palm to the wood.

“…Suguru?” he tries, voice quiet at first, then—just barely—pitched into something more like himself. “I left food outside,” he says, and he pouts as he says it, because maybe if he sounds soft, lazy, harmless, Suguru will respond. 

He waits for the eye-roll, the soft scoff, the dry little “you’re so fucking loud in the mornings,” or even just a beat of breathing to sync his own to.

No answer.

He resists the urge to whine, because Suguru is hurting, and Satoru is definitely being annoying, and he knows that, he knows that, and he’s trying, he’s really trying to just give him space, be better, not fuck it all up more than he already has. But something in his stupid Alpha brain is screaming , now, not the usual whine-whine-mate-want bullshit it’s some animal instinct pacing in his gut, screaming something’s wrong, wrong , wrong . It’s not logic. It’s not strategy. It’s gut-deep . It’s scentless air and unnatural quiet and this heavy, cloying nothingness pressing against the edges of his senses.

What if—?

No. Don’t spiral.

Except maybe spiral a little because what if Suguru’s more advanced than he thought , what if he’s masking harder than anyone expected, what if he figured out how to erase himself, really erase himself, and—

Fuck it.

Satoru twists the knob and opens the door.

“Suguru?” he says, louder now, voice cracking somewhere between command and plea. “I’m coming in, okay?”

Still nothing.

He steps in, slow, careful. His bare feet make almost no sound on the hardwood. The tray is still in the hallway, food cold by now. The bed is made. The lights are off. There’s a glass of water half-drunk on the desk, and a folded shirt on the chair.

But there’s no one here.

And there’s no cursed energy.

And Satoru is starting to panic .

“Okay,” he says out loud, to himself more than anyone, “okay okay okay okay okay—fuck.”

His six eyes flick on without thinking, and they confirm what he’s already fearing: no trace of cursed energy. No fingerprints on the blankets. No lingering aura. Nothing fresh. No trails of motion. No Suguru.

He reaches into the floor with his technique—no anomalies. Checks the window—locked from the inside. The scent trail ends cold at the foot of the bed, like Suguru stood there, for a long time, maybe thinking, maybe breathing, maybe—

His chest constricts.

Suguru is gone.

“Shoko,” Satoru breathed, “Shoko, he’s gone. He’s—he’s not here—he’s not in the room, I checked, I double-checked—he’s gone, Shoko—”

“Jesus Christ, shut up,” she said. Her tone was flat and tired and she had clearly just woken up. He could hear her flicking a lighter on the other end. “Can you not yell directly into my eardrum?”

There’s a rustle. Bedsheets, probably.

“I’m serious.” His voice cracks. “I’m not being dramatic. He’s gone.”

“You have Six Eyes. Try using them.”

“I did , I—Shoko, I did, I did, I—”  Stress fractals across his voice. He chokes on it. “I used them in the room. He’s not there.”

The silence on the line is so long he thinks maybe she did hang up, until—

 “Maybe he’s in the ceiling.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I. Last time Nanami was missing he was asleep in the ceiling tiles.”

 “Shoko—”

Satoru chews. Chews too hard on the end of a strawberry pocky.

Crunch. Crunch. Mmmmm.

He reached into the drawer beside his desk and pulled out a handful of packets. Strawberry Pocky . Wasabi senbei . Melon Hi-Chew . A little box of Apollo chocolates that had melted slightly at the corners. He dumped the entire contents onto his desk and immediately tore into the strawberry mochi. His jaw moved furiously.

“GOJO—”

Right. Right. Right. Shoko is still on the phone.

“Yes yes what— I—I can’t—can’t—”

“Then fucking BREATHE and THINK,” she snaps.

He breathes. One. Two. Choke on mochi. Swallow it wrong. Cough. Keep going.

The Apollo chocolates are melting into a slow smear on his desk. He wipes his palm on his pants. Reaches for another Pocky stick.

“Shoko,” he mumbles, crumbling in real time, “what if—what if an alpha took him? What if someone smelled him from the road or—or picked up a trail or—he’s still weak, Shoko, his body’s still recovering , you know it’s delicate, it’s fragile, I shouldn’t’ve—I shouldn’t’ve let him be alone, I should’ve watched— ”

“You’re catastrophizing.”

“I am not— ”

“You always do this.” Crunch. That’s not the senbei. That’s her tone. “You spiral like a dumbass, convince yourself something horrific happened, stress eat an entire convenience store, then call me screaming when it turns out he just needed to take a piss outside.”

“It’s not the same—”

“Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer. He bites the end off another Pocky and lets the stick hang out his mouth.

God. God. He’s such a fatass . He’s disgusting. He’s disgusting and panicked and stupid and none of the calories are helping but he can’t stop, his mouth needs something , his hands need something , and his heart won’t shut the fuck up.

Suguru’s gone.

Suguru is gone and he doesn’t know how or why or where or if he’s okay or if someone took him or if he’s hurt or—

What if he passed out somewhere?

What if he collapsed and no one found him?

What if he’s bleeding in a ditch because Gojo let his guard down again and failed to be what he promised to be, failed to keep him safe —

He grabs a mini custard bun. Doesn’t even taste it. Tries not to throw up.

“You haven’t known him long.” Shoko’s voice cuts in again, “But you’re talking like he’s your goddamn soulmate.”

“He’s my baby.”

Silence.

“…What.”

He squeezes the bridge of his nose, eyes burning. “Not actually —not in a weird way, it’s just—he’s small. Not small-small, but emotionally small. You know? He needs taking care of. He doesn’t ask for it, but he needs it, and I just—he matters , okay?”

Silence.

“Shoko?”

“…You’re an idiot.”

“I know. ” He’s pacing again. Circles around the desk. Past the door. Back again. “I’m trying , okay? I’m trying not to freak out. But he was here and now he’s not , and I didn’t see him leave and I didn’t smell him leave and there’s no trace of him and it’s like—like—like he got deleted from the fucking timeline!”

“Okay. Shut up.”

“Shoko—”

“Shut. Up.”

He stops.

“Use your eyes. Use your brain. Track his residual energy. Check the cameras. Check the hallway. Check the barrier log. If someone really took him, you’d know. If he left by himself, you’ll know that too.” A pause. Drag. Exhale. “And if you’re still panicking in fifteen minutes, call me again. But this time, don’t scream.”

Click.

She hangs up. Leaves him standing in the middle of his room, surrounded by empty wrappers and sticky fingers and chocolate smears and one fat-ass Alpha heart that won’t stop racing.

Suguru ducks behind a shop. Tail coils tight around his leg. Too tight. 

(He deserves that.)

It’s raining. Pat pat. Croak croak croak. (There’s a frog. Or maybe it's just his brain doing that thing again.)

He presses his back to the wall. Tries to fold smaller. His fingers are shaking. He doesn’t like that. He curls them into fists. The skin over his knuckles feels raw.

The hoodie is too big. ( Satoru’s.) He shouldn’t be wearing it. He didn’t ask.

The sleeves cover his hands. The hem hits mid-thigh. His knees are scraped. He doesn't remember falling.

He presses his face to the inside of the hood. Breathes.  It smells like sugar and clean sheets and the faint, fading edge of Satoru’s scent.

(Alpha.)
(Safe.)
(Unsafe.)

He shouldn’t have run.

He curls his tail tighter. It presses against the inside of his thigh. It’s sticky. (He doesn’t look.)

He can feel it. The slick. Sliding down the backs of his legs. Soaking through his boxers. It’s always like this before a crash. It happens when he’s scared. Or tired. Or overworked. Or breathing. He hates his body. He hates what it does.

He sniffles once, sharp and shaky, barely manages not to let out a sob because he can’t , he can’t be loud, he can’t be heard, he has to be still and silent and gone , he has to disappear just like he practiced, and even if his body is loud and leaking and dumb, he can make himself quiet, he can still control that , at least.

(He has to.)

The wind changes direction. The hoodie clings tighter to his back. His tail flicks against the asphalt once, twice, before curling up again.

His jaw shivers. His hands twitch. His scent’s everywhere. It’s everywhere , and he doesn’t have anything to stop it with, and someone is going to smell him, someone is going to know , someone is going to find him and—

—grab him?—

No. No.

He pushes the thought away. Too dangerous. Too close. Too easy to believe.

Instead he presses his back to the brick.

Feels the shudder crawl through his spine.

(He should’ve gone back.)

Back to the dorm. Back to the closet. Back to the corner of Satoru’s room where the windows seal tight and the curtains don’t let anything through. But he panicked. Because it started too fast. Because he could feel it coming on, sudden and sharp and wrong , and all he wanted was distance .

(From Gojo? From Gojo.)

(Stop it. Stop it stop it stop it—)

His body won't listen. It’s obeying something older than thought, older than language, older than safety.

He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. The snot smears across his cheek. His eyes sting.

Suguru knows how to take a punch. He doesn’t know what to do with kindness. It doesn’t make sense to him. It doesn’t map onto anything. He was never taught the language of soft things.

He presses himself flatter against the wall. Hears footsteps somewhere near the edge of the alley, too far to identify. Could be a dog. Could be an Alpha. Could be a drunkard with a cigarette and too much curiosity.

He smells himself again and wants to scream.

He clamps a hand over his inner thigh and tries to focus. Count. Regulate.

Inhale, four. Hold, seven. Exhale, eight.

That’s the rule. That’s the script. It works. It always works.

(But it doesn’t. It hasn’t. Not since heat. Not since him .)

Rain pools around his feet, seeping into his socks. He flexes his toes. They’re numb. His fingers are numb. His chest isn’t.

His chest is burning.

The hoodie’s drawstrings slap wetly against his chin. He yanks the hood up over his ears, presses it down hard, pretends it’s pressure therapy. Pretends it’s safe.

(If he finds me, what will I say?

If he doesn’t, what will I become?)

He hasn’t eaten in thirty hours. He knows because he counted. He always counts. Calories, steps, exits, mistakes. It helps keep the panic from fracturing. He’s operating on residual suppressant, one half of a protein bar, and three hours of sleep he only took because his body collapsed mid-sentence.

The rain stops.

Suguru blinks.

Still water running down the alley walls, still puddles blooming on the asphalt, still his own breath fogging faintly in the cold — but nothing hits his head. No drip. No pat. No hiss of air disrupted by raindrop speed.

He blinks again.

(Did the storm end? Did he black out? Did he lose time again?)

No.

There’s a shape. A presence. Soft-soled shoes just past the edge of his hoodie’s shadow. A pair of knees. The silhouette of a thin wrist, fingers curled tight around a black umbrella’s handle. The sound— shk-thm —fabric flinching in the wind.

Suguru lifts his head.

A boy.

Younger than him. Barely. A student maybe. Small frame, short hair. Round eyes. Kind ones. Beta, probably. Nothing sharp in his scent, nothing that stings or scrapes or prods. Just neutral warmth, maybe a little shampoo, something like soap and cafeteria bread.

“Are you okay?”

Suguru’s mouth opens before his brain tells it to. No words come out. Just breath.

The boy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shrink back. Doesn’t recoil from the leaking Omega curled up in someone else’s hoodie, tail coiled, face red from cold and shame and rain. He just stands there, holding the umbrella out, letting it tilt gently over both their heads.

Suguru says nothing. He doesn’t know how.

His brain is running molasses circuits. His thighs are still wet. His dignity’s buried somewhere in the drain. And this kid is—

“You looked like you were cold,” the boy says. He’s crouching now, one hand still holding the umbrella high. “Do you want my jacket?”

Suguru’s first thought is: trap .

Because that’s the shape kindness takes, sometimes. In his world. In his history. He was taught to inspect it for barbs.

(What does he want? Why’s he being nice? What does he smell? What does he see? Does he know? Does he know?)

He shakes his head. 

“Okay,” the boy says, still crouched beside him, not touching, not crowding. “Do you want me to call someone?”

Suguru blinks again. The umbrella drips quietly between them.

Call someone. Like a teacher. Or a nurse. Or a cop.

Or—

( No. No no no. )

He jerks back, just a centimeter. Just enough for his shoulder to scrape the vending machine, for the pain to spike and drag him back into his body. His tail lashes involuntarily, water flying from its soaked tip. He pulls his knees closer.

He doesn’t know what he wants.

His throat tightens.

He looks at the boy again.

(Non-threatening. Civilian. Beta. Lower body language. No scent aggression. Hands visible. Posture relaxed. No Alpha markers. Not a threat. Not a trap. Probably. Probably.)

He opens his mouth. “No.”

“Okay,” the boy says again. Still not moving. Still holding the umbrella. 

Suguru’s tail uncurls half an inch.

He looks away. The wall’s easier to face. The wall doesn’t ask questions.

“My name’s Yuta,” the boy adds. “I can sit with you. If you want.”

He doesn’t say you don’t have to talk . He doesn’t say you look like hell . He doesn’t say what the fuck is wrong with you .

Suguru doesn’t reply. But he doesn’t say no, either.

And that’s apparently enough, because Yuta shifts his umbrella grip so it leans a little closer to Suguru, shielding more of his spine from the wind.

They sit there like that for a while.

In silence. Under the umbrella.

Rain mutters against the buildings. The pavement steams faintly in its wake. Water drips in soft percussion off the awning above, a rhythm Suguru tries not to map onto his own pulse.

Yuta moves beside him—not much. Just small things. Tracking lines in the wet cement with the toe of his sneaker. Pulling at the hem of his hoodie. Pouting. Unpouting. Pouting again. A soft, compulsive motion like lip movement can chew through uncertainty.

Suguru doesn’t look at him, but he knows. He’s trained to notice.

Then a glance. A flicker of movement in Suguru’s peripheral vision.

Yuta looks at him—then immediately blushes and turns his head away.

The umbrella shifts slightly. Drops hit Suguru’s exposed knee. He doesn’t flinch.

“Eto…”

Suguru’s fingers flex inside the hoodie sleeves.  He knows the word. Knows the sound. "Eto" — hesitation incarnate. Verbal filler. Fawn response in phoneme form.

Yuta breathes in. Breathes out. Starts over.

“Y-you… um… d-do you want to…” His voice pitches up, breaks slightly. He clears his throat. Starts again. “…Mmm—s-some hot tea? Maybe? I have extra, in my thermos, I mean. It’s still warm. Probably.”

Suguru blinks. Looks at him this time.

Hot tea. Warmth. Offer. No demand. No expectation.

He stares forward. Doesn’t answer.

(Too much. It’s too much. That kind of softness, that kind of unguarded offering. It makes his teeth ache.)

He doesn’t understand the boy. Yuta.

He wants to ask why he’s here. Why he cares. Why he’s bothering. But the words calcify before they reach his tongue.

Yuta fumbles with the zipper on his backpack. His fingers are pink from cold, knuckles red where he’s picked at them. He pulls out a thermos—blue, dented, cartoon fox sticker peeling off the side—and unscrews the cap. He pours into the lid. Steam curls up. Subtle. Floral.

Chamomile. Or jasmine. Maybe lavender.

Yuta flushes deeper. Waves a hand vaguely, as if gesturing will summon the missing words.

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to,” Yuta says quickly. “It’s not a weird tea or anything. It’s normal. Safe—”

Suguru’s stomach growls. Loudly. Obscenely. Like it’s decided embarrassment is a luxury they no longer have.

Yuta flinches. Suguru winces. They both freeze.

Suguru wants the earth to swallow him. Not metaphorically. Literally. He wants an interdimensional fissure to open beneath his soaked sneakers and eat him in one bite. He wants to vanish without sound or trace or obituary.

He can feel the heat climbing up his throat. 

(He’s going to laugh. Or pity me. Or offer something I don’t know how to refuse. Or—)

“There’s a konbini down the block,” Yuta says quietly, as if trying not to scare him. “They have those heated nikuman. And melon-pan. You don’t have to come in. I could bring you something. If you want.”

Suguru swallows hard.

His first instinct is no. His first instinct is always no.

No means control. No means distance. No means safety from debts, from exposure, from the implication that he needs anything.

(Needing is dangerous. Need makes you visible. Visible makes you a target.)

But Yuta isn’t pressing. He’s not leaning in. He’s not trying to make Suguru say yes.

Suguru breathes through his nose.

He says, quietly:

“Nikuman.”

Yuta blinks. 

Suguru keeps his eyes on the pavement. Tail curled tight. Hands fisted in Satoru’s hoodie. But he says it again.

“Nikuman would be okay.”

Yuta lights up.

“Okay!”

He hops up. Nearly drops the umbrella. Scrambles. Recovers. Grins sheepishly.

“I’ll be right back, okay? You, um. Stay here. Please. If you want. Or not. I mean. It’s fine. I just—yeah.”

Suguru watches him go.

He leaves the umbrella.

He leaves the bottle of tea, too—unsweetened oolong, condensation tracing rivulets down the label, pooling under the cap.

Suguru stares at it.

Doesn’t touch.

That would be bad. That would imply ownership. Engagement. Acceptance. And he’s not supposed to accept anything. Not from strangers. Not from Betas with big eyes and clean hands. Not from kindness he can’t afford to return.

(If he drinks it, it means he wanted it. If he wanted it, it means he needed it. If he needed it—)

His stomach twists. He clamps his arms tighter around his knees.

He tucks his chin into the fabric. He doesn’t cry.

Usually, he’d be bratty by now.

Usually, this is the point in a bad day where he snaps. Eyes narrowed, voice sharp. Defensive because offense feels easier to survive than pity. Fuck off , he’d say. What are you staring at , he’d say. Do I look like a cause , he’d say.

But everything’s too big.

Suguru doesn’t know how much time passes.

Ten minutes. Twenty. Maybe thirty. Maybe more.

He doesn’t know. His sense of chronology is a broken wristwatch now, ticking at random intervals.

He tries to count his breaths.

(Four in. Four hold. Six out. No, that’s wrong. Was it six in? How many are enough?)

Nothing anchors.

Everything is fuzzy.

The alley’s neon reflection ripples in the puddle near his foot. A smear of yellow and red and electric blue. The tea bottle’s label flutters in the breeze. His tail flicks once, then goes still again.

He hears a laugh, distant and tinny. Probably a drunk. He hears the low murmur of automatic doors opening somewhere— ding —and closing again. He hears a dog bark.

His stomach gurgles.

He doesn’t even blush this time.

It’s too cold. Too late. Too much.

His teeth chatter quietly. He bites his tongue to stop them.

(You should leave. Shouldn’t you? You should run. He left. He left. You’re so stupid. Stupid, stupid. What if he called someone? What if someone else comes? What if—)

But his legs don’t move. Won’t. Not yet.

Movement would be a decision. Decisions mean risk. And Suguru can’t afford risk when he can’t tell what’s safe.

So he stays.

He watches the fog rise from the rim of the untouched tea.

And he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

“Sensei—Sensei, I, eto…”

Satoru whirls. Too fast. His coat flares dramatically (not on purpose—okay, maybe a little on purpose), and his half-unwrapped melonpan flies out of his hand and bounces off the side of a vending machine.

“Yuta,” he says. Blinks. Tilts his head.

Yuta’s standing there—awkward, damp, hoodie sleeves swallowed halfway down his fingers, eyes way too wide for this hour of the morning and way too full of something . Concern? Guilt? Fear? One of the soft ones that Satoru absolutely cannot handle right now.

“Heyyy, kiddo,” Satoru drawls. His voice cracks halfway through because he hasn’t slept and his blood is 80% custard and still very much missing (1) emotionally-compromised, semi-feral, slick-leaking Omega ? “What’s up? You okay? You hungry? Wanna go split a donut? I ate four.”

Yuta just stares at him.

“Yuta-chan,” Satoru says, smile twitching at the edges, “you gotta say something or I’m gonna spiral.”

Satoru cannot handle that right now.

He can’t handle any of this right now.

Because he was still looking for Suguru.

Where the fuck was Suguru?

Where was he?

He’d checked the security cameras. All of them. He’d watched the footage so many times he could probably recite the exact time the janitor dropped a rice ball near the east hall stairwell. He’d tracked every scent trail in a half-kilometer radius. He’d bribed the dorm staff with imported daifuku. He’d even offered Utahime a limited-edition sakura parfait if she could use her boring little witch powers to find him, and she’d told him to go fuck himself.

So.

That went well.

And now Yuta was here.

With his big eyes and his gentle voice and his nervous fidgeting.

“It’s—uh. I just. I was walking back from the store and I, um, I found someone. Or—something. I think? I mean—I think they’re an Omega?”

The world went quiet.

For exactly 0.3 seconds.

Then it shattered.

“Where,”  Satoru barked, voice cracking sideways. “Where exactly? Tell me right now.”

“I—I gave him tea,” Yuta blurted, clearly panicking under the pressure. “I didn’t know who he was! He looked really cold! And kinda sad? So I just—I said he could sit under the umbrella, and he didn’t say anything, but he, like… curled up? And he looked really tired and wet and also maybe a little sick? And I didn’t know who to tell because I thought maybe he was one of the temporary housing residents but then I realized he didn’t have a badge so—”

“Yuta,” Satoru snapped. “Okay. Breathe. Hi. I love you. You’re great. Back wall. Now. ”

“Wh—?”

“Back wall, vending machines, the cat-eared possibly-traumatized Omega you gave tea to? Take me there ”

Yuta jolted upright so fast his sleeve flopped down past his fingers again. “Yes, Sensei!”

Satoru was already moving.

One blink, and he was gone.

His brain was racing. Tripping. Spinning. Looping on the last scent memory, the last flick of a tail, the last time Suguru made eye contact and didn’t flinch away.

He hit the stairs hard. Three steps at a time. Down the east hallway, out the service door, feet skidding against the wet tile because he hadn’t stopped to put shoes on, because it didn’t fucking matter, because—

Please, please, please—

He turned the corner at full speed, took the stairs three at a time, blew past the side door, and—

There.

There he was.

Suguru.

Suguru, who wasn’t supposed to be out here, who wasn’t supposed to be gone , who wasn’t supposed to be small and curled and leaking scent like he’d been cracked open and left to rot .

Relief flooded him in a single, bone-snapping wave.

Relief, then something else.

He was alive. Suguru was alive. Not fine. Not okay. But alive.

And Satoru—who had once obliterated an entire enemy platoon in under thirty seconds, who could level cities without so much as a nosebleed, who had stared down eldritch horrors with a grin and a lollipop—was frozen in front of one cold, damp, half-feral Omega and did not know what to do with his hands.

Because his hands wanted to touch .

To fix.

To scoop and carry and lift and wrap.

But Suguru didn’t need that. Didn’t want that.

Not from him.

Not after the look on his face, not after the silence in the car, not after the signature on that file and the smug smile and the goddamn Match Center—

He should’ve known this would happen.

Should’ve known that you can’t shove something half-broken into a new shape and expect it not to fracture. Should’ve known that “freedom” doesn’t come pre-wrapped in consent, and “choice” isn’t real when it comes with handcuffs made of politeness and paperwork and bureaucratic smiles.

Suguru had told him no.

Repeatedly.

And the only thing Satoru could think about was fucking waffles.

Because the scent was still there—diluted, ruined by the rain, punctuated by the metallic staleness of concrete runoff—but still there . Buttercream sweetness and a burnt sugar edge that made Gojo’s brain light up. It shouldn't be doing this. It shouldn't be this strong. His body shouldn’t be responding like this—to this , to him , to a semi-feral Omega with wet ears and trembling fingers and a scent profile that should’ve been banned for public health reasons.

His mouth went dry.

His stomach twisted.

It was too much.

He’d only ever felt this kind of destabilizing sugar-hunger when he got dragged to those cursed Akihabara maid cafés—the ones with floor-length menus and employees who called him Master with perfect 90-degree bows, the ones that served three-tiered waffles and stacked with whipped cream, marshmallows, and anime-themed macaron bears. That kind of absurd, unholy sweetness. The kind that made his teeth ache and his rut almost start right there in the booth.

His rut hadn’t fully hit.

But it was close . It was prowling under his skin, tightening his jaw, sharpening every detail around the edges until everything was too loud , too bright , too Suguru .

And his eyes went wide . Suguru didn’t speak. Didn’t scowl. Didn’t sneer. Didn’t say anything cutting or cold or bratty.

He ducked .

His ears flattened to his head, his hands came up, his whole body scrunched smaller—and a small, desperate, involuntary whimper escaped him like the noise had been waiting just under his tongue and couldn’t stay in anymore.

And now Gojo was going to be sick.

His body wanted to do one thing—one horrible, rut-adjacent, scent-obsessed Alpha thing—but his brain was suddenly white-hot with something else entirely. Horror. Guilt. Helpless, paralyzing regret .

Because Suguru was scared. Of him .

“I’m not—I’m not mad,” he said quickly, “You’re not in trouble. I swear to god, you’re not in trouble. I just—fuck—I was looking for you for hours . I thought something happened. I thought—I didn’t know—”

Suguru flinched again.

Subtle.

Gojo’s throat closed.

“I shouldn’t’ve signed the file,” he said suddenly. “At the Center. I shouldn’t’ve pushed. I didn’t know—I didn’t know what they’d done to you. I didn’t read the whole thing. They redacted so much, and I just—I just thought you were being bratty, not broken —”

Still no words.

Just wet ears. Wide eyes. One hand curled too tight into his hoodie sleeve.

Gojo crouched again, slower this time, hands empty, heart in pieces.

“You’re not a mistake,” he said. “I didn’t pick you to make a point. I didn’t pick you to piss them off. I picked you because—because you’re the only person in that building who looked me in the eye and didn’t fold.”

Suguru stared.

The rain kept falling.

Gojo’s breath hitched, mouth too dry, skin too tight.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to hit something. Not because Suguru was broken—but because someone had convinced him he was.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to come with me. But I can’t—I can’t leave you here. I can’t walk away again. So just—just nod. Or blink. Or breathe in my direction.”

Suguru didn’t move.

And Satoru— fuck . He didn’t know what to do.

Fuck.

FUCK.

He was so shit at this.

He wasn’t built for this. This being, apparently, “basic emotional regulation in the presence of someone scared out of their mind.” He was great at a lot of things. Stupidly good. Irresponsibly good. He could dismantle a curse in three seconds flat. He could pull a high-level jujutsu strategy out of his ass mid-battle and still find time to make a joke. He could eat eight cream puffs in two minutes. He could benchpress Nanami.

He clenched his fists. Unclenched them. Did it again.

His scent was leaking. He could feel it. Sweet and warm and too much. Sugar spun into desperation. Waffles and syrup and want —the wrong kind of want, because it wasn’t about rut, it wasn’t about claiming, it wasn’t even about bonding anymore. It was about stop being scared . It was about please look at me . It was about I don’t know how to fix this but I want to .

This was his fault.

Not the running. Not the system. Not the bullshit that had put Suguru in a cage and labeled him a risk. That was their fault. That was the Council’s rot, the Match Center’s failure, the whole Omega-classification meat grinder chewing up vulnerable people and spitting out compliance.

But the now ? The flinch? The frozen, wide-eyed terror?

That was him.

He wanted to punch the wall. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry into a box of strawberry mochi and then crawl into a ditch and never speak again.

Suguru looked up.

Barely. Just a flicker. Just enough for Satoru to see the way his lashes clung to his cheeks and his pupils were blown out and shaking.His hoodie was damp. His knees were scraped. His tail was twitching like he didn’t know if he wanted to bolt or bite.

Behind Satoru, there was a shuffle.

Yuta.

Oh. Right. Yuta was still here.

Satoru had completely forgotten. Which—oops. Bad Alpha behavior. Terrible teacher behavior. Gold medal in Neglectful Bastard Olympics.

But he couldn’t focus on that right now.

Couldn’t focus on anything except Suguru.

He swallowed.

Slowly—like a diver surfacing from somewhere deep and pressure-locked—he reached up and tugged his blindfold off. His eyes burned a little in the light. He blinked, blinked again, tilted his chin down so Suguru could see .

Could see his face.

His stupid, reckless, way-too-pretty face.

(It was a good face. Objectively. That wasn’t arrogance; that was just genetics. But it didn’t matter right now.)

“Hey,” he said. Quietly. As gently as he could manage with every muscle in his body screaming go to him . “It’s just me.”

Not The Strongest.

Not The Alpha.

Not the idiot who signed the wrong form and dragged him into a war he didn’t ask to fight.

Just Satoru.

Just him .

Suguru sniffled. His nose scrunched like he hated the sound.

Then—barely above a whisper—

“I’m sorry, Alpha,” he said.

And Satoru broke .

Because no.

No no no no no.

That was wrong. That was backwards. That was everything he’d been trying not to be.

“No,” he said. Crawling forward now. On hands and knees. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t call me that right now.”

Suguru flinched as he moved.

Pulled back half a pace.

Tail curling in, hands bunching in the fabric of his hoodie.

Satoru stopped.

Sat on his knees.

“I’m not gonna take you,” he said. Voice shaking. “Not if you don’t want to come. Not if you’re scared. I don’t care what the Council says. I don’t care what anyone says. If you wanna stay here forever, if you wanna disappear, if you wanna set me on fire and tell me to rot—fine. I deserve it. But I’m not—I’m not gonna force anything on you. Ever. Not again—”

Whack.

Direct hit.

Right to the dick.

Satoru doubled over with a choking sound that could’ve belonged to a man being stabbed or a dying kettle, he wasn’t sure. His whole body folded.  He hit the ground hard—knees to pavement, hands braced on the wet concrete, mouth open in a wordless fffFFFFFUCK.

He didn’t have Infinity on.

He didn’t have Infinity on.

He didn’t have Infinity on.

Which meant that was a full-powered Omega panic-kick. Right to the most sensitive, emotionally-vulnerable part of him.

And honestly?

He deserved it.

Maybe.

Possibly.

His balls were still voting no, though. Loudly.

He gasped. Choked. His hands slapped the ground. One foot kicked out weakly, as if trying to reverse time. His entire soul left his body, hit the ceiling, bounced once, and came slamming back into his chest with the force of a metaphysical semi-truck.

In front of him, Suguru sat frozen.

Absolutely frozen .

His hands were curled in his hoodie sleeves. His tail was curled tight behind his leg. His pupils were still blown out, and now his whole face had gone pale. Pale-pale. Terrified-pale. Like he couldn’t believe what he just did.

There were tears in his eyes.

Real ones.

Satoru blinked through the blur.

And then—stupid, awful, wrong—he laughed.

He wheezed .

Because god. God. Even now. Even now . Suguru had kicked him in the dick and was about to cry over it, and somehow he still looked like the brattiest, most gorgeous, most Omega-coded menace on the face of the planet. His nose was scrunched in that little bitchface expression like you deserved that, Alpha , but his eyes—his eyes were wet.

“Still got that attitude,” Satoru muttered hoarsely, wiping a tear from his own eye, though his was from searing nut pain, not emotion. 

Suguru sniffled.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t run.

But his lip wobbled a little.

“I’m not mad,” Satoru said, still folded, hand clutching his crotch, voice shaking with effort and pain and some horrible, stubborn affection. “Just. Ow.”

Suguru made a noise.

A tiny one.

Somewhere between a snort and a sob and a hiccup.

And then?

He burst into tears.

Real ones.

Messy ones.

Full-body, face-crumpling, shoulder-shaking, nose-running Omega tears, and Satoru’s heart cracked open like a fortune cookie from hell.

He crawled forward—slowly, slowly—ignoring the fact that he still felt like he’d been drop-kicked in the junk by the universe.

And then—

He pulled Suguru into his arms.

Suguru flinched.

Full-body, visceral, Omega-coded terror flinch.

It made a sound. He made a sound. A short, high, involuntary whimper—half-breath, half-sob, all instinct. It scraped right under Satoru’s ribs and cracked against something soft in his chest.

And then—then—

Slick.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

There was slick .

Everywhere.

Suguru’s body was soaked with it, his scent blooming thick and sweet and wrong , blooming too fast for this kind of moment, wrong-wrong-wrong because he was crying and still slicking and he didn’t even seem to realize it.

His thighs were damp. His inner leg pressed to Satoru’s knee was wet.

His pussy was wet.

No. No. Not now.

Not now.

Not when Suguru was like this—terrified and collapsed and half-feral, curled against his chest like he wasn’t sure whether to beg for comfort or sink his teeth into Satoru’s throat.

“Shhh,” Satoru breathed. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just me. It’s just me.”

But Suguru didn’t answer. He was crying harder now. Silent, wet, cheek-pressed-to-Satoru’s-collarbone crying. 

Satoru tightened his hold instinctively—not sexually, not rutting , just to hold him, give him something to press against—but the scent got worse. Stronger. Richer. His whole lower half was slick-slick-slick and his body was vibrating and Satoru’s wolfbrain was like do it, take him, claim him, bite him, mate-mate-mate —

And he wanted to.

God, he wanted to.

But more than that?

He wanted Suguru to feel safe.

He needed Suguru to feel safe.

And this?

This wasn’t safe.

Chapter Text

Satoru would like to say he brought Suguru home, bathed him, wrapped him in a blanket, and kept his little baby safe from worldly creatures such as alphas, elders, and people! But no, no, no! Satoru's life isn't that simple. 

Because Suguru hissed and tried to scratch his face off.

He had let Satoru hug him two seconds ago and now he was currently hissing. Suguru wasn't even that strong. He was like—cute, you know? So it wasn't hard to restrain him, but it really wasn't in anyone's best interest to do so and definitely not Suguru's.

One minute: sweet little Omega pressed against his chest, soft and sniffling and making noises that activated instincts Satoru didn’t even know he had . Next minute? Hissing. Baring teeth. Swiping at him like a pissed-off cat who just remembered he has trauma.

Which—okay. Fair. He does have trauma.

But so does Satoru! (His trauma just happens to involve sugar deprivation and the emotional consequences of being the strongest and hottest and most emotionally constipated Alpha in Japan.)

Anyway. Point is, Suguru tried to claw his eyes out.

And sure, Satoru could ’ve restrained him. Physically? Not a challenge. Suguru’s scrappy, yeah, but he’s also, like… delicate. Soft. Mostly bones and Omega rage. He was wearing Satoru’s hoodie, for fuck’s sake. His sleeves were half-eaten by his hands. He was tiny .

But Satoru didn’t restrain him.

Because (a) that’s a dick move, and (b) he’s trying this new thing called respecting boundaries , even when said boundaries come with feral noises and minor domestic violence.

So now he’s standing in the hallway with a scratch on his cheek, three buttons ripped off his shirt, and his baby Omega currently crouched on the couch who’s five seconds away from biting the next hand that gets too close.

And all he can think is: Wow. This is going great .

Because let’s recap: Suguru ran away. Ran. Into the city. Alone. And yeah, okay, Satoru found him before some predatory Alpha could, but let’s not pretend that counts as a win. Finding the baby Omega you accidentally triggered into a full-blown trauma spiral because you couldn’t control your goddamn rut instincts?

Amazing.

Ten out of ten performance from Gojo Satoru: Alpha Disaster, Emotional Fuck-Up, and Current Leader of the Why Did You Try to Knot a Traumatized Omega Without Talking About It First fan club.

Because not only did he fuck up spectacularly, not only did he hurt Suguru in the middle of heat, not only did he let instinct take the wheel when he promised he’d never be that kind of Alpha—now he’s standing in the middle of his own kitchen, scent-wrecked and lightheaded, because his rut is three days out at most , and Suguru is still leaking slick.

Everywhere.

On the blanket. On the couch. On the floor. Probably on the hoodie Satoru loaned him. The one that still smells like his shampoo and whatever sugary cologne he sprayed on that morning trying to feel normal .

And now?

Now it smells like waffles.

He groans into his hand, presses the heel of his palm to his forehead like that’s going to stop his brain from throbbing or his knot from swelling or his dick from doing the wrong kind of stretch against his zipper.

“Alpha brain,” he huffs under his breath, “shut your fucking mouth.”

No one listens.

His cock twitches.

But the slick—

The slick is the problem.

It’s soaked into the throw pillow. Into the cushions. Probably into the goddamn wood frame , because Omega slick doesn’t play around when it’s heat-adjacent and chemically bonded to trauma and self-loathing and thirty layers of pheromone overload.

And someone has to clean it.

Which is fine .

Except that person is not going to be Satoru .

Nope. Nuh-uh. Bad idea. Terrible plan.

Because if he gets down on his knees and starts scrubbing that scent out of the fabric, he’s not getting back up. He’s going to black out face-down in it, rut-triggered and drooling, probably trying to rut a throw pillow while whispering I’m sorry.

So. That leaves Suguru.

Which also sucks. Because making Suguru clean up his own slick when he’s already fragile and flinchy and hiding in the hoodie of the Alpha who wrecked him? That’s like… psychological warfare. That’s mean. That’s elder-level cruel.

But leaving it there? That’s worse.

Because every second that smell lingers, Satoru feels like he’s being smothered with a waffle-scented death blanket. He’s vibrating with it. He’s dizzy. His gums ache. His fangs are out. He hasn’t even fully dropped into rut yet and already his body is screaming mate, slick, mine, bond, now, now, now and he wants to tear his own spine out and throw it in the trash.

There’s a box of strawberry gummies on the counter.

He grabs one. Chews it too fast. Doesn’t taste it. Swallows. Immediately regrets it.

Useless. Garbage sugar. No serotonin. Zero help.

He palms the rest of the box and shoves the whole thing into his mouth.

Still no help.

He turns back toward the couch.

“Suguru,” he says, hoarse, desperate, barely keeping his voice level, “I need you to either let me clean that, or… I dunno, towel off. Please.”

Suguru doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just… tightens the blanket. Tail curling tighter around his leg.

Satoru closes his eyes.

And counts to ten.

And then ten again.

And then again.

He sniffled. He teared up. He pressed his forehead to the counter and whispered, thank you to whatever higher power hadn’t decided to punish him for being a walking hormone bomb with poor judgment and a savior complex.

Because Suguru came back.

He ran. He bled. He flinched. He cried . And Satoru didn’t know if that meant he’d ever see him again, ever smell him again, ever get the chance to try to fix it—

But now he’s here.

He’s here.

His Omega is here.

Not safe. Not happy. Not talking to him. But alive. Close. Real. Breathing.

Satoru swallows hard.

It hurts. His throat’s dry. His mouth’s dry. Everything is dry—except his dick, which is the opposite of dry. It’s fucking leaking .

He’s so hard it hurts .

He presses the heel of his hand to the bulge in his pants, trying to calm it, trying to breathe through it, trying to remind his dick that now is not the time, that they’re on an apology arc, not a porno arc, that he’s got to be patient and careful and gentle and respectful because he already fucked up once and if he fucks up again he’ll lose Suguru for good and—

Nope.

Bad.

Bad brain.

He slaps his own cheek lightly. Out loud.

Focus, asshole.

He grabs his phone. Drops it. Picks it back up. Unlocks it with a shaking thumb. Types:

what to do when your omega starts slicking and hates you

Enter.

No good answers. Just a Reddit post titled “My Omega is acting weird post-heat, help???” and a Yahoo Answers thread from 2008 where someone responded with “Try rubbing his tummy gently.”

Satoru stares at the screen.

Rub his tummy.

Okay. That’s definitely how you get bitten .

New search: omega post-heat recovery support alpha do’s and don’ts please god help

• “Make sure they’re hydrated.”
  
  
• “Low lighting and soft textures can help them feel safe.”
  
  
• “Do not approach without permission. Especially if there was trauma or miscommunication during heat.”
  
  
• “Omega instincts may trigger involuntary slicking. Do not assume arousal.”
  
  

He winces.

Yeah. That one. That’s the one.

Because it’s not arousal. He knows that. Deep down, he knows . Suguru’s not wet because he wants him. He’s wet because his body is still misfiring. Still recovering. Still scent-wrecked and touch-shy and probably terrified that Satoru’s going to pounce on him the second he makes a sound.

And here Satoru is—failing to breathe through a fucking boner .

“Get it together,” he mutters, thumb already moving again. New tab. New search.

how to make your omega stop smelling like sex so your rut brain doesn’t explode

• “Cold packs on scent glands.”
  
  
• “Clean clothing.”
  
  
• “Fresh bedding.”
  
  
• “Showers with unscented soap.”
  
  
• “Distance.”
  
  

Distance.

Right. Distance. He should be at least two rooms away. Maybe in another city. Possibly buried under six feet of snow in Hokkaido with an emergency bucket of ice and a muzzle.

But instead he’s standing here, six feet away, in the same goddamn hoodie he wore the day he—

Breathe.

He types again. One more.

how to take care of omega after hurting them

Enter.

• “Start by acknowledging the hurt.”
  
  
• “Don’t demand forgiveness.”
  
  
• “Make space for their boundaries.”
  
  
• “Don’t ask for physical contact. Don’t seek comfort from them. Don’t make your guilt their burden.”

Because yeah. That’s what he’s doing, isn’t he?

Turning his guilt into a project. Making it about him . His urges. His pain. His rut. His mess. While Suguru’s the one still recovering, still aching, still leaking , still hurting —

He locks his phone.

His throat clicks when he swallows.

Then, as softly as he can manage, “Sweetheart—Suguru—”

HISSSSSS

Right. Cool. Awesome. Message received. That one almost vibrated the windows.

He holds both hands up. No movement. No approach. Just standing six feet away like a Very Respectful Alpha who absolutely deserves to be kicked in the dick and definitely isn’t currently trying to suppress the entire weight of a pre-rut tremor shaking through his thighs.

“Okay,” he tries again, voice gentler, a little higher,  “I’m gonna clean the sofa. Just the sofa. Just the spot under your leg. You’re—you’re leaking, baby, and I know that’s not your fault, I know it’s biology and post-heat and trauma and scent glands and a dozen other things the Council writes reports about, and you’re doing so good, really, but if you keep soaking the cushion like that I’m gonna have to burn it.”

Suguru does not answer.

Just curls tighter. Face buried in the hoodie sleeve. Ears flat. Tail flicking with exactly the kind of speed that says touch me and die .

Satoru takes a step back. Just one. Then turns on Infinity. Fully. Click. Locked in.

Not because he’s scared of Suguru. He’s not. He’s scared of himself.

Okay—no—he is scared of Suguru, a little . But only because the last time he tried to help, he ended up with claws to the chest and one very near-miss to the groin that might have permanently dented his future fatherhood dreams.

(And yes, okay, he’s big. He’s not bragging. That’s just reality. Which means getting hit in the balls with a clawed Omega tail feels less like a playful slap and more like God declaring war .)

“I’m not touching you,” he says again, slower this time,

“I’m just—gonna clean the couch. I swear. No funny business. No scent marking. No hovering. No bonding attempts. No accidental dick stuff.”

A beat of silence.

Then a slow, suspicious tail flick.

He takes that as permission.

Carefully, Satoru grabs a towel from the kitchen. Unscented. Not one of the fluffy ones he used during heat week. No risk of memory triggers or emotional landmines. He wets the edge with cold water. Not too cold. Just enough to neutralize the slick without upsetting the pheromone balance of the room. (Thank you, Reddit. Thank you, Council pamphlet PDF he definitely skimmed this morning while pretending to listen to Yaga yelling.)

One step closer. Then two. He kneels at the edge of the sofa, Infinity still up, hands careful, movement slow, slow, slow.

Suguru twitches.

Satoru doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t reach toward him. Doesn’t touch a single hair. Just gently starts patting the fabric, lifting a bit of the soaked hoodie hem so he can blot the spot underneath without brushing skin.

The scent is intense . Sweet. Sharp. Still too recent. Still post-heat, post-shame, post-panic.

Satoru’s mouth waters against his will.

He hates himself for it.

He grits his teeth and keeps wiping.

“Doing good,” he mutters, more to himself than anything. “Just a little cleanup. All good. No touching. No staring. No being weird. Definitely not sniffing. Nope. Absolutely not. Totally normal behavior. Cleaning a sofa. Like a responsible adult who didn’t almost ruin everything with his dick.”

Suguru makes a soft noise—something between a whimper and a warning growl.

Satoru freezes.

Then—slowly—he pulls back. Tosses the towel over his shoulder. Straightens. Keeps his hands where Suguru can see them.

“I’m done,” he says. Quiet. “You’re good. Promise.”

Suguru knows Gojo probably meant well.

Probably.

He thinks that word a lot— probably —because it’s a soft word. A word with edges that fold inward instead of cut. Not like always . Not like never . Probably means: maybe there is goodness. Maybe there is hope. Maybe there is still a version of Gojo Satoru that does not hold cruelty.

He doesn’t even know how to say it, not really. The word won’t line up correctly in his mouth. Truh—tru—mm—trus—truhs?

He gives up.

Still. He knows what it means.

Suguru knows—or believes, or perhaps only hopes, if even that can be counted as a form of knowledge—that Satoru is trying . That he is, in his own stilted, erratic, Alpha-coded way, attempting some measure of repair, some manner of reclamation. An apology, maybe. A reparation. A retroactive undoing of that which cannot, under any circumstance, be undone .

But he cannot trust Gojo.

He cannot trust anyone, really. That is not Gojo’s fault—no, or maybe it is, or maybe it isn’t. It doesn’t matter. All Alphas are built from the same blueprint. They all begin as warmth, with hands that reach. They all end with hunger.

Even if Gojo didn’t mean to hurt him, Suguru still bled.

(Not on purpose—he doesn’t think it was on purpose. But then again, he doesn’t think that matters. It happened. The knot forced too early, the tear in the flesh, the way his body seized and twisted and failed to open wide enough. And that’s supposed to be normal, right? That’s just Alpha biology. That’s just Omega error. That’s what he was taught. If you tear, it’s because you weren’t trying hard enough to be soft.)

So why hasn’t Satoru punished him?

Why hasn’t he been dragged to the floor, reminded of his station, corrected in the language all Alphas speak fluently?

He finds the absence of punishment worse than the violence itself.

Because it’s a silence he doesn’t know how to interpret.

Because it leaves too much room for doubt .

What is he waiting for? What game is this? Is this a trick, a test, a slow unraveling of Suguru’s defenses so he can be split open later, when he’s least expecting it? Or worse—does Satoru think he deserves forgiveness? Does he think Suguru is his to care for, even now, even after —

He doesn’t want to remember the moment of it. Doesn’t want to name what happened. Doesn’t want to acknowledge that part of him—some treacherous, heat-laced part— let it happen , believed it was supposed to happen, that pain was the preamble to bonding and bonding was the preamble to safety.

(It wasn’t. It never is. But try explaining that to glands. To scent. To instinct.)

So he sits on the couch in Satoru’s hoodie, soaked in old slick, unsure of what to expect and angry at himself for not knowing.

He is still waiting for the punishment. The real one.

It has to come. It always comes.

Even if it arrives wrapped in kindness.

Even if it calls itself love.

Love . 

He’s heard it, said it, maybe even felt it, but the shape of it remains nebulous, ungraspable. He thinks he loved Riko—yes, yes, she was like a sister, something soft and small and breakable and bright—but was that love, really ? Or just possession? Familiarity? A shared fear of being consumed by the same system?

Was that love?

He doesn’t know what love is. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to feel like. He only knows what fear feels like. What it feels like to wait. To anticipate a hand around the back of his neck. To sit there, pliant and bracing, because it’s worse— so much worse —when it comes and he isn’t ready.

His face is burning. He’s flushed with heat not caused by temperature but by some grotesque biochemical betrayal—an instinct he doesn’t want, doesn't trust , but still obeys.

His thighs are soaked.

He doesn’t remember when the leaking got worse. Doesn’t remember when the hoodie got this damp. His skin sticks to itself in too many places. His breath hiccups in his throat.

He wants to ask.

He wants to ask— please tell me what you’re going to do to me, Satoru, please tell me if you’re going to hurt me again, please punish me now if you’re going to, because I can’t take this not-knowing, can’t take the dread of waiting for a violence with no schedule —but he’s scared.

Scared to speak. Scared to break the silence. Scared to admit the question at all.

Because what if asking is bratty? What if brattiness is a line? What if Satoru doesn’t like brats?

(He likes being bratty. Sometimes. When he’s safe. If he’s ever safe. If safety is even a thing that exists outside theory and textbooks and long-dead dreams of belonging.)

But Satoru is bigger. Stronger. Heavier. Alpha.

And Suguru is just—

Smaller.

Always smaller.

Biologically smaller. Legally smaller. Voice smaller. Body smaller. Desires smaller. Power, smaller. Worth , smaller.

IM SCARED IM SCARED IM SCARED IM SCARED—

He bites down on his knuckle hard enough to break skin. His molars grind until pressure spikes behind his eyes. His little fangs graze bone. He doesn’t notice. He doesn’t care.

His tail flicks behind him. An unconscious rhythm. Left-right. Left-right. Faster now.

Tears drip. Unwelcome. Undeserved. Weak.

He hates crying. He hates it. He hates the vulnerability of it, the infantile connotation. The immediate evidence of distress. The way it so easily invites concern from those who don’t understand, or worse, those who think they do.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Salt stains blooming along the sleeves of Satoru’s hoodie. His hoodie. The one that smells like Alpha and power and closeness and shame .

The first time Suguru tried to die, he was fifteen. (No—he decided to die. He didn’t try . Try implies failure. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of surviving it.)

Fifteen and already exhausted. Not with the world—no, not the world. The world was always cruel, always broken, always unworthy of redemption. That wasn’t new.

He was exhausted with himself. With the never-ending chase for compliance . For docility. For value in the eyes of people who saw him as a delicate possession and nothing more.

And he’d promised himself afterward, when he came back from it— never again . He had made that promise. Never again. Because if he could choose to live, then it had to mean something. He couldn’t go back. He wouldn’t go back.

But now—now—

He feels the pull again. The flicker of why do I exist like this? The echo of what am I for, if not to be used up? The involuntary shudder of a soul brushing up against its own threshold.

He doesn’t want to die. But he doesn’t want to feel this, either. He doesn’t want to feel like this .

Which is almost the same thing.

He curls tighter into himself. His voice is gone, buried under the wet sound of his own breathing. He shakes. He vibrates. He implodes. Everything is too much and too close and too unanswered .

The weight of silence. The anticipation. The heat of the hoodie that isn’t his. The phantom memory of Satoru’s hands—too large, too hot, too Alpha —gripping his hips, pushing too far, taking too much, even if he said sorry. Even if he looked afraid afterward. Even if he says he didn’t mean to.

Meaning doesn’t undo the bleeding. Doesn’t stitch up the tear. Doesn’t sanctify the suffering.

And so, eventually, Suguru moves.

He rises on legs that tremble, knees unsteady beneath the full-body tremor of panic held in suspension. His bare feet land sticky against the floor. Sweat or slick or both—he doesn’t check. He doesn’t care . The fabric clings to his thighs in obscene dampness. His hands shake. His jaw locks.

He walks. One foot. Then another. Then another.

It takes all of him to cross the room.

Takes more than he has to give to pass the hallway threshold.

And then he sees him. Satoru.

The kitchen lights are on. Soft. Almost domestic. The clatter of ceramic, the scrape of a drawer, the hum of a refrigerator door swinging shut—ordinary sounds. Normal sounds. But every sound feels wrong . Too bright. Too sharp. Too mundane for the magnitude of what he’s about to say.

His throat burns. His tears are still falling, sticky against his flushed cheeks, salt mixing with the dried sheen of sweat on his skin. His lips part before he can stop them, before he can second-guess the sentence, before he can convince himself he might still be allowed to be good .

“...Alpha.”

He clears his throat with a stuttering, wet little breath that barely makes it through his chest.

Satoru turns.

Their eyes meet.

And Suguru—shaking, unsteady, dressed in a hoodie that smells like someone else's safety, soaked through with the evidence of his own fear and biology— bows his head . 

“I’m here,” he says, voice just above a whisper. “To accept my punishment.”

There was a song Suguru’s mother used to sing before she died.

fuooo… fuuuooo… hiiii… fuuuu—

「さようなら、やさしいひと…」

 ( Goodbye, kind one… )

hiiiiii… hiiii-huu… fooooo…

「ぼうやはよいこだ　ねんねしな…」

( My little boy is good… sleep now, my love… )

fiiiii… hiiii-huuuu… fuuuuu…

「夢のなかでも　手を離さないで…」

( Even in dreams… don’t let go of my hand… )

“Mama,” he remembers saying, interrupting the lullaby. His voice barely there, a breath more than a word. “Mama, can you teach me?”

“Of course, baby,” she whispered, opening her arms. “Come here. Hold—just like this—”

He was five years old. He had never known anything larger than her arms.

That was the first time he thought he felt love. Or at least something like it. The first time he felt chosen , not for usefulness or obedience or designation, but simply because he existed . Because he was hers.

And then—

She died.

And everything after that was procedural. 

He presented too early. Five years old. Way too early. His scent flared sharp and unregulated in the clinic where her body was still waiting to be wheeled away. One of the nurses recoiled at the strength of it— Omega, Omega, he’s presenting, get the suppressant, he’s imprinting on the corpse, get him out of here—

It was messy after that. The center was colder than the hospital. No lullabies there. Just walls too white, lights too bright, voices too loud. Suppressants twice a day. Scent monitors. Behavior charts. A numbered tag around his wrist.

He cried for her. Every night for weeks. Cried until he vomited. Until his throat cracked. Until the nurses got tired of sedating him and taught him what happened to “bad Omegas” who made noise at night.

He stopped crying.

He never sang again.

Now, he only hears her voice in dreams. Sometimes, if he’s slick-soaked and feverish, he’ll hear it between things—between silence and sound, between a door opening and a voice calling his name. He’ll feel her hands again for a second.

But they’re never real.

Never warm.

Never long enough.

He didn’t let go— wouldn’t let go—until the system forced him to. Until the world wrenched her memory out of his clenched little fists and replaced it with forms, injections, and behavioral assessments. Until the scent of her was scrubbed out of his hair and replaced with antiseptic. Until the lullaby was drowned out by the sound of keys jangling on utility belts.

Until he became inventory .

He was five.

Too young. Too small. Too beautiful. That last part was the beginning of everything going wrong.

“Wow,” one of the handlers had said— whistled , even, “This one’s pretty.”

It didn’t sound like a compliment. Not in the way his mother might have meant it. Not in the way a person should be called beautiful. No—this was ownership disguised as admiration . A verbal barcode. A measurement.

Another one said— “When should we take his virginity?”

He learned, then, how the world would see him: not as a boy, not as a grieving child, not even as a person—but as a body . An asset. A commodity cloaked in bio-legal classification.

He learned how to clench his jaw so tightly that no sound escaped. How to flatten his voice into neutrality. How to disassociate when hands wandered. How to bite when they didn’t stop. How to be dangerous.

The punishments were swift.

He remembers the first one. Not in the order it occurred, but in the texture of it. That’s how trauma operates—it rearranges time and leaves behind sensation. What lingers isn’t chronology but the weight of a belt across skin. The muffled gag of a mouth forced closed. The quiet afterward that lasted for hours, maybe days, where no one looked at him like a child again.

The glass shattered slowly.

Tiny fissures at first. Hairline fractures. The type you can’t see until sunlight hits it just right and reveals the damage.

Then—

Pressure.
Isolation.
More “assessments.”
More punishments .
More waiting rooms and evaluations and trials by compliance .

He began losing pieces of himself.

And still, he defended—however he could. He bit, screamed, clawed, bit again . At one point, someone labeled him “difficult.” Another called him “feral.” Another just said, “Shame. A waste. He could’ve been such a good pet.”

But the glass still broke. It didn’t matter how tightly he pressed the pieces together. The cracks spidered anyway—fractures beneath the surface, invisible until too late. Eventually, all things give.

He never tried to pick up the shards. He knew better. You touch brokenness with bare hands and all you get are deeper wounds. You try to reclaim yourself too soon and you only learn how deep your soul can bleed.

So he left the pieces there.

Scattered.

Unassembled.

Because at least if he was fragmented , no one could hold all of him at once.

And no one could break what had already been broken.

Satoru Gojo grew up being the strongest.

This was not hyperbole. Not myth. It was statistical, biological, fated. From the moment he came into the world, the universe arranged itself around him. Alpha, yes. Six Eyes, yes. Limitless, yes. Every box ticked, every door opened, every room entered as though it had always been waiting for him to arrive.

He never had to ask for attention. He was attention. He was presence. He was inevitability.

Attractive? Check. Well-endowed? Check. Inherited wealth? Old money, new power, ancient legacy? Check, check, check.

By all metrics—genetic, societal, mythological—he should have been complete.

But there had always been a hole in him.

A fracture. A hairline crack running through the architecture of his being. Something just imperceptibly wrong , something slightly askew. He would feel it sometimes in the dead hours of night—reflected not in pain, but in hollowness. A quiet, persistent sense that he was not entirely real. That he was only ever performing the role of Satoru Gojo, and at any moment someone might arrive to pull off the mask and find nothing underneath.

He didn't talk about it.

How could he? He was the strongest. The gifted. The golden Alpha with the world in his palm.

And yet, every time he looked into a mirror— really looked, not just for vanity or adjustment or routine—he saw not himself, but shards.

Shards of someone he was supposed to be. Shards of the child he once was, the boy who had no choice but to become a weapon. Shards of every “you’re lucky” he’d ever been told, every “must be nice”

He learned early not to flinch. To let people believe what they needed to about him. To keep his hands clean, his heart closed, his mask welded on.

But the glass kept splintering. Even if no one could hear it.

Crack.
Crack.
Crack.

"I'm here to accept my punishment."

And all the glass broke.

It didn’t shatter—it collapsed . Imploded. Buckled in on itself like a cathedral razed from within. One sentence, and the whole fragile scaffolding of Gojo Satoru—Alpha, strongest, untouchable— gave out .

Because what kind of man creates a world where Suguru thinks he deserves to be punished?

What kind of monster?

He’d always thought the cracks in him were cosmetic. Artful. Aesthetic. Manageable. Maybe even poetic. He'd believed he could live like that forever— functioning in fragments . A disintegration of the scaffolding that held his psyche together.

Because he knew the truth.

Because it had been his fault.

And all Satoru could think, as the glass fell inward, was:

I did this.
I made this.
I deserve no one.

His mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

“Su—” he tries. Stops. Swallows. Swallows again.

(Why is this so hard?)

“Suguru—” he tries again. “Omega—Baby—”

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. Doesn’t know how to hold something that flinches when touched. Doesn’t know how to repair a body that was built to endure harm but never recover from it. Doesn’t know how to clean up trauma without making it about himself .

How do you do this?

He never had to know before—because everyone assumed he already did. Because everyone said strongest like it meant smartest , wisest , kindest , ready . Because no one ever told Gojo Satoru that love required vocabulary —that it demanded fluency in silence, in stillness, in patience.

He doesn’t know how to do any of it.

His instincts scream: fix it, fix it, fix it.

But all that comes out is:

“Suguru, I—”

He falters.

Takes a breath.

“—I don’t know how to do this.”

He lowers himself slowly. Onto his knees. 

“I don’t know how to make it right. I don’t know what you need. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to ask. I just—fuck, I don’t know , okay?”

He sounds insane. Great. Perfect. Omega-traumatizer and now also a breakdown-haver. Maybe if he cries hard enough his rut will cancel itself and he’ll die quietly in the corner like the failure he is.

Suguru doesn’t answer. Just scrunches his nose in that way he does when something smells bad or when he’s actively trying not to cry or scream or both. He keeps his head bowed. Waiting. Bracing.

And Satoru—

God.

Satoru is so fucking dumb.

Because his brilliant, genius, enlightened Alpha brain decides this is the moment to say:

“Hit me.”

Out loud.

Suguru blinks.

Satoru doesn’t stop.

“Hit my face,”

He turns his head. Offers up his cheek like an idiot. Like a martyr. Like a man who has no idea what else to give except his own goddamn face.

Suguru tilts his head. Just slightly. More confused than angry. That little scrunch intensifies. His brow furrows. He’s making that expression— that expression—that bitchy, imperious, confused-cat face that usually precedes insults or insults plus biting.

And Satoru—

Satoru feels relieved.

Like: yes. There he is. My Suguru. My Suguru who judges me. My Suguru who rolls his eyes when I talk too long. My Suguru who makes that face when I’m being ridiculous, which is always. My Suguru who maybe, just maybe, is still in there —

SLAP.

Right across the face.

It doesn’t even hurt, not really. Like, yeah, okay, there’s sting , but it’s not pain-pain. It’s more like… Utahime’s slap. That weird, sharp you absolute dumbass sting that burns more from the symbolism than the force.

Satoru blinks. Then smiles.

“Owwww,” he whines, leaning into it, playing it up. “That hurt, Suguru! You’re such a strong Omega—”

KICK.

OOOOF.

Right in the dick.

Direct hit. Instant regret. Stars. Planets. Entire multiverses of agony.

“Oh my—OH FUCK—” Satoru yelps, doubling over.

He hits the floor. Hands to his crotch. Eyes wide, mouth open, wheezing .

That one hurt. That one wasn’t for the drama. That one destroyed him AGAIN.

His dick is retreating like it just received a cease and desist from the universe. His balls have entered a new plane of suffering. His pride is in shambles. His dignity? Dead. Gone. Vaporized on impact.

He gasps, “Suguru—baby—why—”

And then—

He hears it.

Not a hiss.

Not a scream.

Not another insult.

But a sob .

Wet. Guttural. Heart-wrecking.

He looks up, blinking through pain and confusion and the very real possibility of needing ice for the rest of his life.

And sees Suguru.

Standing. Crying. Shaking.

Kicking.

Still kicking.

Not hard now. Not aimed. Just—reactive. Disoriented. He’s not attacking anymore, not consciously. He’s just in full meltdown mode. His body doing things it doesn’t know how to stop.

The blanket’s fallen. The hoodie’s riding up. His legs are trembling. His tail is twitching wildly, frantically, like it doesn’t know where to go. His fists are clenched at his sides, and his whole body is making those desperate, helpless little noises. Those broken noises . The ones that say I am still hurting and I don’t know how to survive it .

And his eyes—

God.

His eyes are wide and red and so wet . Like he’s been crying for hours and just now realized he’s allowed to cry harder.

Satoru forgets the pain in his crotch.

(Okay, no, he doesn’t forget , but he suppresses it like a champ.)

Because all at once, the instinct shifts. All that rut heat and scent and Alpha-thirst just evaporates under the sheer, overwhelming force of Suguru’s distress.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Oh shit—Suguru—baby—”

He doesn’t move. Not yet. Not without permission. He stays on the ground, crumpled but present, one hand on the floor, the other loosely bracing his chest.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay, you’re safe, I’m not mad, I deserved that, I deserve all of it—”

Suguru kicks again.

Then drops to his knees.

Then curls in on himself. Still crying.

Still shaking.

Still—there.

And Satoru, from the floor, holding the aftermath of both a slap and a dick-kick, blinks up at his trembling Omega and thinks:

I would die for him. I would let him gut me open with his bare hands if it helped.  I would live in this pain forever if it meant he felt even one second safer.

And even though he can’t move—

Even though he’s literally paralyzed by testicular pain and spiritual devastation—

He still reaches out.

He hesitates for a nanosecond too long. (Time cleaves into microsecond agony when you're waiting for someone else to either run away or stay, but still.) And then he places his palm flat on the hardwood. The ache in his abdomen resonates upward. His balls scream. His pride evaporates. But his intention is bulletproof.

Suguru flinches.

He jerks—just a small, almost imperceptible recoil. But Satoru doesn’t withdraw. He holds steady. Because he’s not trying to overpower him. He’s offering presence , not possession.

Suguru’s fingers curl, rigid with instinct. Small. Fragile. So fucking small. He doesn’t touch back—yet. But his palm stays where it is, on top of Satoru’s.

Then Suguru’s hand quivers .

Shakily. Reluctantly. As though testing gravity. As though afraid that if he trusts it he'll fall all the way down, brutally and without solace.

Satoru closes his eyes. Feels the pulses under his skin. Taste of blood still on his tongue. Scent of desperation drying in the doorway.

Suguru’s grip is tentative. Patient. Barely even pressure. But his fingers straighten, then flex. Pulse. Pulse.

Slow.

Slow.

Slow.

Please continue holding my hand.

The concept of touch exists in his mind like a half-formed god—powerful, amorphous, worshipped by others but incomprehensible to him. It moves in a space adjacent to the idea of safety: close enough to observe, too distant to inhabit. Both are abstractions, too volatile to trust, too contaminated by history to engage with directly.

Lately, though, things are...breaking. Little fractures spidering across the surfaces of the walls he built. He doesn’t know what’s causing it. He only knows he doesn’t like it. Change has never been anything but a prelude to pain.

Still.

Something escaped.

Something warm.

Something he doesn’t have a word for.

Satoru is on the phone. Laughing. Loudly.

Suguru is on the couch. Quietly.

He stares at the floor. Not at anything in particular. Just… at it. There’s a word for this—he remembers it vaguely from before, from when things were still soft: munashii . Emptiness that isn't hunger. A hollow ache that isn't quite pain. The gnawing sensation of needing something you can’t even name, let alone reach for.

Munashii , he thinks, and closes his eyes.

He’s not crying. Not properly. His body’s used up most of its water a long time ago, left him with ghost-tears now—just the burning in his face and that awful tight pull behind his eyes, the feeling of crying without the proof.

He shifts slightly, just enough to feel the dried slick between his thighs start to crack and pull. A reminder. He wants to clean himself, but he can’t. Not without permission. Not after last time.

Satoru’s voice in the other room lifts slightly, an easy chuckle. 

He wants to ask: who are you talking to?

He wants to ask: why does your voice sound like that?

He wants to ask: do I still matter when you’re speaking like that, laughing like that, forgetting I’m right here like this ?

He doesn't ask. Of course he doesn't. Suguru doesn’t ask questions anymore. Not after the last one. Not after—

(“Alpha, please—don’t—” and the blood and the shaking and the silence and the pain and the punishment that never came—)

Satoru’s pacing the room now, long legs too loud on the hardwood. Suguru tucks in tighter. He can feel the slick drying on his thighs, sticky, shameful, the scent of need and fear mixing into a chemical embarrassment.

He presses his face into Satoru’s hoodie.

He wants to disappear.

He does not want Satoru to hang up the phone.

Because then it’s just them.

And when it’s just them, the unpredictability starts.

Earlier—before the phone, before the ache in his throat, before the noise of the world came rushing back in—he held Satoru’s hand.

It felt good. It felt good.

Which is terrifying.

Because nothing is supposed to feel good. Not anymore. Not when it comes to touch. Not when it comes to warmth. Not when it comes to him .

Satoru’s palm is large. Large. Too big. His fingers dwarfed Suguru’s when they wrapped around him. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t take. He didn’t twist.

It was just a hand. A kind one.

That’s worse.

Because now Suguru’s body is reacting like it’s safe. Like it wants more.

And it’s not safe. It never has been.

When people touch him—when they touched him, before, in the centre, in the dark rooms, under the false fluorescent moons—something always followed. Something sharp, humiliating, irreversible. They took and took and took until the word “omega” meant object .

He doesn’t like being touched. He can’t like being touched. He doesn’t want anyone’s hands on him ever again. Not even the good ones. Especially not the good ones because then the body thinks it belongs to him again. That it deserves comfort.

It doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

He shouldn’t even have a body.

It’s not his. It’s never been. It’s branded. Claimed. Shaped. Ruined.

It’s not Suguru’s.

It’s theirs .

Whoever "they" are. The handlers. The alphas. The facility. The ones who decided. The ones who knew better .

He folds tighter. His hips ache from the angle, but he doesn’t adjust.

Pain keeps him here . Pain keeps the shame from sliding out of reach.

He imagines cutting the strings that tie him to his flesh. Floating out of it. Becoming untouchable. Unwanted. Un-thinged.

(He wants to be a ghost. He wants to be air.)

Suguru remembers hands that twisted. Fingers that bruised. Breath that reeked of dominance. He remembers instructional pain. He remembers discipline as a kind of intimacy. He remembers being touched in the same breath he was broken.

The logic of that is inescapable. Touch equals hurt.

So why—why—is there a part of him now that wonders if he’s wrong?

Why does Satoru’s hand, held just once, gently, carefully, make his chest ache not with fear but with a deep, terrifying hunger?

He presses his face deeper into the hoodie, trying to chase away the thoughts.

“Suguru.”

He jumps. His tail whips once—twice—reflexive, defensive. It stings the side of his thigh. Good.

Pain = real. Pain = now. Pain = not then .

Satoru stands there with his whole stupid face exposed to the room.

“I was talking to Shoko.”

Suguru swallows hard. Shoko.

The medic. The woman with tired eyes and clean gloves. The one who didn’t flinch when she looked at him. The one who didn’t touch.

Satoru flicks his wrist. A Pocky‑stick dangles from his mouth, crumb‑dust drifting. Suguru notices this: the sugar. The habit. The constant compulsion to eat sweets. He wonders how someone with that diet can have teeth so white. He shakes his head, to dispel thoughts he knows are too delicate to hold.

“She’s a doctor, you know. The one that helped—” Satoru waves his hand vaguely. Around the room. Around his face. Around the history between them, the events that they never speak of directly. The one that helped. Suguru doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t ask. He never asks anymore.

Satoru crunches down the last bite of pocky. 

“She said something about therapy?” He lifts a shoulder, chewing “I don’t really know what it is, but she said it can be good.”

Suguru doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how. He’s too busy staring at Satoru’s mouth.

It’s awful. The things his mind notices now.

How his lips curve when he talks, how the pocky leaves a faint trail of sugar at the corner of his mouth. He wants to lean forward and lick it off. He wants to die.

He curls in tighter.

Therapy.

He knows the word. He’s seen it on clipboards. On pamphlets. In the mouths of people who smiled too wide and touched too much. He remembers the first time someone said it to him.

“Don’t you want to feel better?” they’d asked, while strapping his wrists to a table.

Therapy is not safety. Therapy is not kindness.  Therapy is compliance. Behavior modification. Conditioning. Soft-spoken reeducation.

“She said it might help with the...” Satoru’s voice falters a little. He gestures in Suguru’s general direction. “...the stuff.”

The stuff. The stuff . The endless, fucked-up, catastrophic wreckage that trails behind Suguru.

He wants to scream.

Instead, he whispers: “No.”

Barely audible. But Satoru hears it.

He blinks, surprised. “No?”

 Suguru nods. One sharp jerk of the head. His mouth won’t open again. 

Satoru walks over. Slow. He stops halfway across the room. Suguru is grateful for the distance.

“I wasn’t gonna make you,” Satoru says. “Just... thought I should mention it.”

 He scratches the back of his neck. There’s a faint red mark on his wrist—where Suguru grabbed him, maybe, earlier. Or maybe from before. Suguru doesn’t remember.

Satoru stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight. “You don’t have to go anywhere, or talk to anyone, or do anything you don’t want to,” he adds, softer now. “I’m not like them.”

Them.

Suguru doesn’t answer. He doesn’t believe him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But still.

His eyes drift again—unwilling, traitorous—to Satoru’s mouth. There’s another pocky stick between his teeth now. His lips curl around it just a little. He’s beautiful , Suguru thinks, and the thought is so blasphemous it makes his chest seize.

He curls tighter into the hoodie. Into the scent. Into the warmth.

 He whispers again, barely a thread of voice: “Why do you eat so many sweets?”

Satoru laughs. “’Cause they’re good.”  He grins. “You’d like ’em”  

And before Suguru can protest—before he can even think —there’s a sharp crack of plastic, a rustle of foil, and suddenly—

“Here. Take it.”

Something presses against his lips. He flinches. Hard. But Satoru doesn’t push it in , doesn’t wedge it past his teeth like the pills or the collars or the fingers that always came before—he just holds it there.

A pocky stick. Strawberry, judging by the smell. Sugary and fake and pink and bright .

Suguru stares at it. His body freezes.

I’m not allowed to eat sweets. They said it dulled his senses. Made him bratty. Made him forget his place. Too much serotonin, they said. Too much independence. Omega regulation required discipline.

Still—his mouth opens. Automatically. Stupidly.

He doesn’t mean to take it. He takes it.

The stick slides against his tongue, light and rough and dry—until the coating hits.

Oh.

Oh.

He chews. Once. Slowly. The biscuit cracks between his teeth. Then comes the strawberry: artificial, yes, but bright . It spreads across his tongue. A noise escapes his throat.

A hum. A whimper. A sound without language.

Satoru beams .

“Whoa,” he says, soft and awed. “You like it.”

Suguru doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know where to look. His cheeks are hot. His mouth is full. His instincts are all wrong .

He swallows the rest of the stick like it’s contraband. Which, in his mind, it is.

“I’m not—” he starts. But the sentence won’t finish.

 He doesn’t want to tell Satoru what they used to say. What they used to take away. He doesn’t want to say it out loud. Because it’ll make it real. And it’ll make Satoru angry. And Suguru doesn’t want that.

He just wants another stick. He wants to taste that again. Just one more.

Satoru sees the look on his face and—miraculously, intuitively—reaches for another.

Breaks the seal. 

Suguru takes it this time with his fingers. Slowly. Watching. Testing.

He doesn’t flinch when their hands brush.

He brings it to his mouth. Bites.

Oh god.

He doesn’t moan this time, but he wants to. His body feels light. Almost buoyant. His tail gives a lazy flick without warning. He thinks his ears might be twitching. His lips are sticky with sugar.

Satoru kneels down a little, watching him like he’s seeing a miracle. And not the tragic kind. The good kind.

“You’re allowed to like things, y’know,” he says softly. “Even small things.”

Suguru doesn’t know what to say to that. So he takes another bite. And lets the sweetness sit on his tongue.

And for once, he doesn’t apologize.

Chapter Text

Shoko says she is not a therapist. Satoru says she is not a therapist. Satoru says she is “just someone to talk to,” as if that absolves her from being dangerous.

He sits where the chair tells him to sit. Back straight. Hands in sleeves. Eyes on the door that isn’t locked (she told him; he confirmed twice). Doctors, therapists, not-therapists—taxonomy changes but the epistemology of pain does not. White rooms are palimpsests: whatever kindness you write on top, the old script bleeds through.

Suguru catalogues: ashtray (cheap glass), blinds (half-masted, light banded into obedient geometry), floor (clean, not reflecting), her hands (nicotine sheen, cuticles intact). No clipboard. No latex. No orbiting staff. Still: doctor.

“I’m not a therapist,” she says, as if repeating Satoru’s apothegm will transubstantiate it into comfort. “I’m a doctor. I fix bodies. Sometimes people bring me souls as a joke.” A brief smile, lambent, gone. “I don’t file reports. Satoru doesn’t get a transcript, a memo, a scent sample. If he wants to know something, he can use his words like a big boy.” The corner of her mouth tips. “He won’t.”

The joke hovers. He does not take it. Jokes are doors; doors lead to rooms; rooms lock.

She lets it pass. “I’m supposed to ask you how you feel about him,” she says, bored with formality, “but all the questionnaires are written by people who think healing is a synonym for forgetting. So let’s try this: today, if the universe handed you a red button labeled ‘Satoru shuts up for twenty-four hours,’ would you press it?”

A trap, obviously. Questions always are.

(1) The catechism exam. There is a correct answer, preselected and sanctified. You are not being asked; you are being weighed. Choose wrong and you are remediated—gently if the room is polite, brutally if it isn’t. The red button is bright as an apple in a story that ends with a sermon: press to prove you are petty, don’t press to prove you are patient. Either way the invigilator gets her data.

(2) The extraction. You are being invited to volunteer something that will later be notarized against you. The smile is a clipboard. The clipboard has teeth. “Tell me what you want,” says the trap, and what it wants is to inventory the want, to tag it with your name and store it where leverage is kept.

“Thought so.” Tap. Ember. “Gojo's an idiot,”

Suguru’s nose betrays him—an involuntary brat of a muscle, scrunching with aristocratic disdain before he can sand it flat. Denial arranges itself on his tongue; the posture in his shoulders is a dissertation on refusal. But the scrunch is already in the record, a marginalia of truth his body wrote in the margin without asking his mind’s permission.

He hates that. Hates the mutiny under his skin—the little rebellions, ear twitch, tail flick, the micro-litany of tells that translate him for other people. He can feel the facial muscles settle again, restored to the neutral mask the Center taught him to lacquer on. 

Shoko sees it and smirks—just enough curve to say I caught that.

Suguru’s omega bristles at being read so easily. Bristling turns into the small, wicked pleasure of imagining punching Satoru square in the groin. The last time had been accidental (mostly), a reflexive consequence of Gojo’s rut-induced proximity crimes. But the fantasy of doing it now, on purpose, in cold daylight—

“Don’t look so suspicious,” Shoko says mildly, tipping ash into the tray. “I’m not going to run off and tell him you think he’s a moron. He knows.” Another drag. Another curl of smoke that does not cling to her, does not carry scent. Beta neutrality—unscented, untouchable, a kind of biological armistice.

The unscented part is worse than she realizes. Scent is how you know where you are. Scent tells you the species of the threat. Without it, you’re in freefall—no cues, no category. It’s like standing in the center of a field with no wind, no horizon, just the knowledge that something could move at any moment.

Shoko smirks again. “He’s not going to change,” she says, “Not for me, not for you, not for himself. But he’s also not going to stop trying to save you from things he doesn’t understand. It’s…annoying, I know.”

Suguru’s nose scrunches again, smaller this time. The desire to hit him—just once, strategically, a perfect, satisfying crack to the crotch—surfaces in the back of his skull. Not out of cruelty. Out of necessity. An idiot sometimes needs to be reminded he’s an idiot.

Shoko smirks again. “Oh, you really don’t like that, do you?” she murmurs, “He tries so hard and still manages to step on every nerve you’ve got.”

Suguru keeps his gaze fixed on the ashtray. Eye contact is an accelerant. Look too long and suddenly you’re explaining yourself, and explanations are just self-indictments with extra words.

Which is why he does not mean to say it.

“Gojo is attractive,” he says.

It isn’t pride that should have stopped them; pride is an amateur’s barricade. This is about the rules. Rule Two Hundred, specifically: One does not speak of one’s Alpha in those terms. Not in praise, not in longing, not in aesthetics. To verbalize that kind of assessment is to mark yourself as vulnerable, to announce that the Alpha has purchase on you beyond the functional.

He hears the rule in his head, the way it was taught—dry recitation, no room for interpretation: Such speech is not permitted. Such thought is not encouraged. Such attachments are counterproductive.

And yet. Here it is. Out loud. Catalogued now in the air between himself and Shoko, who is still Beta-scentless, still inscrutable.

She doesn’t pounce. Doesn’t even blink in a way that would acknowledge surprise. Just exhales, slow, as if tasting the shape of the admission in the room. “Attractive,” she repeats, and her tone is purely observational.

Suguru’s shoulders itch with the urge to take it back, to overwrite it with something neutral, something compliant. I misspoke. I meant he’s tall. I meant he’s loud. I meant— But the rule doesn’t allow for retractions; the damage is in the saying. And retraction is still speech. Speech is still a vector.

“Mm,” Shoko says, cigarette between two fingers, ember winking “That one’s not going to fit in the official record. I’ll have to leave it out.”

Do not discuss physical appeal. Do not discuss personal appeal. Do not suggest desirability in the Alpha. To do so is to compromise both parties.

Compromise, in the old sense, meant to soften, to make penetrable. A weakening of the walls. He feels the wall flex under his own voice, under his own treacherous mouth.

“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops. Half a sentence is safer than a whole one. Whole sentences can be used as evidence.

Shoko ashes into the tray. “Well, he is. You’re not wrong. And it’s not illegal to notice.”

“It should be,” Suguru mutters before he can stop himself. The rules are so deeply woven that his instinct is to defend them even when he’s the one violating them.

“Maybe in your old jurisdiction,” she says, smoke curling lazily around her face. “Not here. Here it’s just…data. Like saying he’s over six feet or needs glasses to read small print.”

The thought makes his jaw twitch. In her taxonomy, attraction is a detail without moral weight. In his, it’s contraband.

“Rule Two Hundred,” he says under his breath.

Shoko tilts her head, the smirk deepening. “Yeah, I don’t recognize your rulebook. Half the pages are just creative ways to call people property.”

He flinches. It’s an accurate translation, which makes it worse. Property doesn’t get to call the owner beautiful. It gets to be serviceable. It gets to be silent.

“Here’s the thing,” she says, leaning forward just enough that the smoke between them folds and twists. “You can find someone attractive without surrendering to them. It’s not a binding contract. It’s not a vow. It’s just…an observation. You’re allowed to have those.”

Allowed.

He looks back at the ashtray because the ashtray does not require him to believe her. It does not ask him to rewrite anything. It just sits there, holding the residue of what’s been burned.

“You’re making that face again,” Shoko says, almost amused.

He feels the muscles answer before the thought: zygomatic slack, corrugators smooth, mandible set to neutral. Rule 176—do not show emotion—he old catechism fastening his features shut. Blink rate normalizes. Breath is clipped into regulation-length parcels. Tongue to palate; swallow the tremor.

He presents the mask.

“Your boyfriend is broken,” Shoko said, and Satoru bit down on the Pocky so hard the biscuit splintered.

Not helpful. Zero stars. Would not recommend that phrasing to the emotionally volatile Alpha currently white-knuckling his own nervous system. He swallows the gravelly strawberry dust and refuses— heroically —to pout. (Minimal lip wobble. Maybe a micro-pout. Subatomic.)

“He’s not broken,” he said. “He’s—” Words cartwheeled; an empty Ramune bottle skittered. “—battle-damaged. Booby-trapped. Precision-engineered by assholes.”

Shoko blew an indifferent halo of smoke. Beta neutrality; nicotine benediction. “Congratulations on the thesaurus. My clinical point remains.”

He paced. He did geometry on the floor with his socks—three strides, pivot, three strides—because he needed momentum or the guilt calcified. Everything in him wants to fix, to repair, to slap some cosmic duct tape over the fracture and declare it “as good as new.” Strongest man alive, weakest impulse control; what a charming paradox.

“Say ‘wounded,’” he muttered. “Say ‘adapted.’ Say ‘heroically surviving in a civilization built by jackals.’”

“Fine,” she said. “Your heroically surviving boyfriend has a nervous system that expects harm. You are currently a variable. Variables are dangerous.”

He hated how accurate that was. Villains could be exorcised; variables only minimized.

“What do I do?” slips out before he can lacquer it with arrogance. It’s small. It’s awful. It’s true.

“Ah,” Shoko says, “At last we approach the practical.”

She taps ash into my favorite souvenir mug. “Here’s the ontology of not making it worse,” she says, dry. “Predictability. Proximity without pressure. Offers that can be refused without consequence. And a total moratorium on using his distress to regulate your rut.”

He opened his mouth to deny, then shut it. Lying to Shoko was like gaslighting a mirror. He chewed the ruined Pocky and pretended it was a cigarette. “Okay. No harvesting comfort. Asceticism. Monasticism. A waffle monk.”

“Why are you like this.”

“No one knows.” He braced both hands on the counter to keep them off his face. “Give me a protocol. I can laminate it.”

She counted on smoke-signed fingers. “Food. Gentle sugars he can accept without feeling indebted. Water within reach. Unscented soap; fresh towels left, not handed. Lighting low. Doors opened at the hinge, never sudden. Questions instead of moves. ‘Do you want tea?’ ‘Do you want me to sit on the floor?’ ‘Red, yellow, or stop?’”

Traffic-light consent. Cute.

“And Infinity?” he asked.

“Window, not wall,” she said. “When in doubt, up. When invited, down—slow. Let him see the switch.”

“Metaphor acknowledged.” He rolled the Pocky stem between his teeth, tasting ghost sugar. “Language? My mouth… runs.”

“Fewer declarations.” Her glance was bored mercy. “Not ‘You’re safe now’—that’s authoritarian. Try ‘I’m here; I’m not asking anything.’ Or ‘I’m going to the kitchen; I’ll be back in five.’ Time-stamped reliability. Boring is merciful.”

He could be boring. Ambitious, but fine. Aggressively uneventful.

“What if he never forgives me?” The boyishness of it annoyed him; the truth of it gutted him.

“Then you love him ethically,” she said. “Stop asking him to absolve you for free. Become low-friction furniture in his life. If forgiveness happens, it’s a side effect of safety, not a payment for your suffering.”

Direct hit to the ego. Deserved crater. “So: oatmeal love. Functional, not flashy.”

“Exactly.”

He told himself sadness was just poor blood sugar. He treated it accordingly: waffles, then a second waffle to interrogate the first waffle’s findings, then a candy-colonized crime scene around the sink. The sweetness helped for exactly five minutes, the precise half-life of performative cheer. He called it “maintenance,” as if sorrow were simply the cost of operating a body at unjustifiable wattage.

Sometimes it even worked. Sometimes the flood still came.

On those nights, the room went very large and he went very small. The ceiling wasn’t plaster anymore; it was sky. Thoughts drifted up and calcified there—satellites that refused to deorbit. The loudest one carried a refrain he hated for its accuracy and for the way it fit the shape of his throat too well: You’d be better off without me. Find somebody whose gravity doesn’t shear you. Find a man with fewer switches and more doors.

It was not a noble thought. It was not even dramatic, which he could have respected. The Strongest, walking procurement form: danger, high maintenance, keep away from delicate ecosystems. Love him from far away.

He turned the thought over: Find somebody better than me. The petty part of him objected on aesthetic grounds—better where, exactly? Candy acquisition? Door-hinge stealth? Controlled annihilation? The honest part of him knew this wasn’t about replaceability. It was about harm. About how often he had been the loudest thing in a room where someone needed quiet to heal.

“Gumiiii~ I bought you more sweets,” Satoru sing-songed down the hall, a jingling Santa with a paper bag for a sleigh.

Sniffle. Sniffle.

He eased the door with two fingers and peered in. Little Megumi—hedgehog hair, stubborn mouth—sat on the futon with his knees up and his face doing the brave, quiet cry. The one that insists no sound is happening while the eyes turn glassy and the lower lip rehearses mutiny.

“Heyy, Gumi,” Satoru tried again, brighter. “What’s wrong? Wanna see the haul? I brought so many flavors you’ll think we robbed a rainbow.”

No answer. Just the microscopic tremor in the boy’s lashes. Stoic in the way only a child who’s been told stoicism is a survival skill can be.

Okay. Plan A: Bribery.

Satoru dumped the haul on the low table listing them:  ramune drops, yuzu gummies, strawberry Pocky, chocolate Pocky, matcha Pocky, mango hi-chew, melon pan, a donut that looked illegal, and one mystery item the cashier swore was “seasonal.” He wiggled the bag.

Megumi stared at the floor with ferocious indifference.

Right. Plan B: Jokes.

Satoru picked up two Pocky sticks, crossed them like swords. “En garde. If you defeat me, you win custody of my limited-edition peach Ramune.”

Nothing.

Plan C: Analysis (performed by a man whose emotional syllabus was mostly blank pages). What was the stimulus? Rain? A misunderstanding with Tsumiki? A cruel comment at school? Or simply the big, nameless weather that rolls in sometimes and sits on your chest?

He crouched, all height folded down “You don’t have to tell me,” he said to the carpet fibers. “But I’m certified in sitting nearby and being annoying until the sadness gets bored.”

Silence. A hiccup. The smallest one.

Satoru’s instincts wanted to fix it with spectacle. Build a fort out of snack boxes. Invent a game with rules so baroque they ate the afternoon. He knew how to annihilate curses and committees; he did not know how to negotiate with a tear clinging to someone else’s eyelashes.

He set a Ramune on the table, thumbed the marble down with a decisive pop. He slid it within reach. “This one fizzes”

Megumi’s mouth did the fault-line thing again. “Tsumiki’s hair clip broke.”

Ah. Catastrophe scaled to the size of the world you live in. “That is an outrage,” Satoru said gravely. “As your legal representative, I will acquire five hair clips so adorable they violate city ordinance.”

“It was her favorite.”

“Favorites have a way of returning disguised as new favorites,” Satoru said. “In the meantime, we will hold a memorial service befitting a heroic hair clip—moment of silence, twenty seconds of controlled sobbing, then mochi.”

Megumi scrunched his nose, that precise little disdain he’d perfected at age six. “Can we just sit here quiet,” he muttered, annoyance sanded down to its bare grain.

Satoru pouted on instinct. “But, Megumiiii~”

The boy stood, gathered what was left of his dignity (and his gravity), and executed a tactical retreat. Door. Hinge. Finality.

Slam.

Drip. Drip.

What a joke.

Another stick. Another crunch. His tongue was getting sanded pink by artificial strawberry; fine, let it. He deserved a little abrasion. 

Drip.

He wiped his face again, annoyed at the wetness, more annoyed at the evidence. There was a childishness to it he resented. Sadness did not suit him; it wrinkled the mask. He was usually good at discipline—he could tighten it down to a clean, neutral horizon when the Council came sniffing—but right now it was bleeding out of him in thin, embarrassed threads.

He reached under the bed and found the emergency tin: a ridiculous bento of sugar—a treaty he kept with himself for nights exactly like this. He broke open a wafer and ate it without tasting it. The point wasn’t flavor; the point was rhythm. Something small he could finish.

Gumi would tell you to stop making this about you, he thought. The kid was right. 

Blegh. Gross. 

Emotional accountability tasted worse than sugar-free cough drops. He physically shook his head—

KNOCK KNOCK.

He frowned at the door. Surely not. Not at this hour, not with his scent control slipping and his eyes still damp. He palmed his face dry, flattened the pheromones to a thin, anodyne line, and called, soft: “Suguru?”

The door edged open two centimeters—enough for a wedge of hallway light, enough for the silhouette: cat-ears tipped forward, tail a guard-rail around one thigh, chin up in bratty defiance while his eyes betrayed him with that wet, skittish shine.

Satoru’s heart did the humiliating thing: stood up too fast and saw stars. D’aw, his idiot brain supplied, unhelpful. The ache in his chest tried to convert into a grin. He strangled it. Bratty + scared was not an invitation for comedy hour.

He sat up, fast, then slower, scrubbing any evidence off his face. Strongest didn’t get caught crying. (Correction: Strongest often cried; he just preferred to do it behind sunglasses.)

“What happened?” Satoru asked, then immediately corrected himself—too open. He tried again, offering yes/no rails. “Nightmare? Hungry? Need quiet in a room that isn’t yours?”

Suguru blinked. Twice. He didn’t come in. He didn’t retreat. Progress, by the stingy metric of midnight “I could smell you,”

Ah. There it was. Satoru’s stomach did the graceless elevator-drop of a busted hotel lift. Leaking sad-scent. Dumbass Alpha move. Vulnerability: the most disgusting cologne on the rack. Great job, genius. Broadcast your feelings like a busted waffle iron splattering syrup.

“I wasn’t—” He stopped, rewired the sentence so it wasn’t a defense masquerading as context. “I’m okay now.” Another beat. Try again, clown. “I got… tired for a minute. Sometimes it leaks.” He fluttered two fingers near his throat in a little spritz-spritz gesture and immediately wanted to crawl under the bed.

Suguru’s mouth twitched. The smallest concession to humor—high praise from the temple of Stoic Brat. Which—if we’re being accurate—was not so Stoic Brat since the last time they’d crossed proximity lines. Not after that knee had made tactical contact with his balls. They still twinged at odd angles, a ghost ache that liked to visit in quiet moments. And he hadn’t exactly… taken the edge off since then.

Now, looking at Suguru, narrow-shouldered in the hoodie he’d stolen weeks ago, tail looped around his thigh, Satoru’s dick did an unhelpful heyyy .

Bad dick. Down. Not the moment.

Suguru’s ears flicked — one of those little prey-animal tells Satoru had learned to clock. Nervous twitch. His scent was tight, held low, braced. The mouth twitch was gone, replaced by a tiny crease between his brows. Not a good sign.

“Wanna, uh—” Satoru started, hands lifting halfway in a vague gesture that could have meant sit down , come in , or do you need me to throw a waffle at you?

“—Can… can I stay here?” Suguru interrupted.

The words themselves were good. The body language wrapped around them was not. His shoulders folded in tight, chin tucking, curling into a brace position.

Not bracing for rejection. Bracing for impact.

And because Satoru is a stupid fucking idiot with a mouth that moves faster than the part of his brain labeled think first, you clown , he said—

“Sure. In my bed?”

Oh. Oh no. Bad choice. Terrible choice. You could hear the sound of a thousand Shokos facepalming in unison.

“I mean—” He coughed “Only if you want to. Obviously. You could also stay… anywhere. Floor. Chair. Closet. Bathtub. Balcony. I have, uh, options.”

Nailed it. No one has ever recovered smoother.

Suguru just stared at him, ears twitching in this very you absolute moron rhythm. His eyes said, “I was asking for minimal risk proximity, not an invitation to your suspiciously warm Alpha dent in the mattress,” but his mouth… his mouth didn’t say anything.

Satoru threw both hands up “Okay, okay, wait, I’m not— That wasn’t, like, a— I wasn’t trying to—”

Good God, abort, abort, abort. 

Think, he ordered himself. This is where you remember Shoko’s protocol. Predictability. Proximity without pressure. No rut brain, no harvest-the-omega’s-comfort nonsense. No mixing guilt with horny. We are a monk. A waffle monk. We chant in syrup. We abstain. We—

“—I can take the chair,” he said finally, stabbing a thumb toward it

“You can have the bed. I’ll just… do some light furniture cosplay over here.”

Suguru’s eyes narrowed, but not in the “prepare the dick-kick” way. More in the “I’m scanning for traps” way. He stepped in, slow, door clicking shut with that careful hinge etiquette he has. Crossed to the far side of the bed, and then—without asking, without looking—sat right in the middle of it.

Satoru’s entire spine went into don’t move mode. Which was wild, because normally he’s a professional at moving. He’s built for moving. He’s the human equivalent of a bounce house, and right now? Statue.

Suguru didn’t lie down. Didn’t curl up. Just sat there, tail looped lazy over his lap, eyes on the floor.

“Cool,” Satoru said, “You want… a blanket? A snack?”

One ear flicked in his direction. “Blanket.”

“Yes. Blanket. Noted.” He went to the closet, retrieved the least Alpha-scent-drenched blanket in his arsenal (which is not saying much, because all of them had suffered prolonged Gojo contact at some point), and held it out—then remembered: Don’t hand. Place.

So he set it on the bed, one respectable Omega-tail-length away from Suguru’s knees, and retreated.

Suguru pulled it closer without looking at him, which was—honestly?—a victory. A stupid little victory that made something in Satoru’s chest loosen.

He sat down in the chair. 

And when his stupid dick tried the whole heyyy, there’s a cute guy in your bed routine again, he told it, Down, bad dog. We are not doing this. This is not the vibe. The vibe is safe IKEA furniture. The vibe is wallpaper. We are oatmealing this love.

“You were sad,” Suguru said.

Small voice. Not looking at him. Nose scrunching

Satoru’s head snapped toward him “What?”

“I have good ears,” he added quickly, “I mean—I heard you. Sorry, Alpha.”

Alpha.

Oh. Oh no . He said the A-word. And apologized for it. That was like—ugh. That was like handing Satoru a cupcake and telling him he wasn’t allowed to eat it or even think about cupcakes.

Also: what the hell was he apologizing for? Hearing? Existing within sound’s jurisdiction? Being correct?

“No, hey—don’t—” Satoru stopped, rewound, because the first attempt was just gonna sound like defensive nonsense. “You don’t gotta apologize for having ears. Or for… noticing.”

God, this was why Shoko said fewer declarations. Because his brain wanted to say things like Noticing me means you care , and that was an insane thing to dump on someone who still occasionally looked at him like he was a Council goon in disguise.

Suguru just kept looking anywhere but at him, the blanket drawn up. Tail tucked. Ears angled to half-attention.

“You have… ridiculously good ears, huh?” Satoru tried instead, softer. “Bet you can hear me even when I’m trying to be stealthy.”

One twitch. The kind that said don’t flatter yourself.

“Were you… worried?” The question came out gentler than he expected, all the swagger sanded off. Which was annoying, because vulnerability wasn’t supposed to just slip into his sentences uninvited.

Suguru didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed pinned on the corner of the blanket, fingers worrying the seam. Finally, “You smelled… different.”

Oh, great. Scent control fail. Rookie move. Leak sad-pheromones all over the place, why don’t you? Might as well put up a neon sign: Strongest, Having a Meltdown, Two for One on Emotional Damage.

Satoru scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. I was… thinking about stuff.” Weak. Lame. Truth-adjacent but not truth-truth. “Sometimes it… comes out.”

Suguru’s nose scrunched again and something in Satoru’s chest warmed at the sight. Even if it was disdain, it was alive disdain, and alive meant he wasn’t shutting down.

“You didn’t have to…” Satoru trailed off, not sure what the end of that sentence was supposed to be. Come in? Notice? Care? All of them were too heavy for midnight.

But Suguru surprised him. “You stopped when I came in.”

Satoru blinked. “Stopped what?”

“Leaking,” Suguru said simply, “I could smell it from the hall. Then… not.”

Huh. Okay. That was… that was interesting. That meant the moment he’d seen Suguru in the doorway, his instincts had slammed all the emotional windows shut without him even thinking about it. Which was wild, because normally seeing Suguru made him more feral, not less.

Like right now. Like right now .

Because apparently his dick didn’t get the memo about “emotional windows shut.” Nope. Even in this very touching midnight vulnerability moment, dumb dick was still sending up little smoke signals like, hello, that’s a very attractive Omega in your bed, sir . God, he hated himself. Well, not hated . Just… wanted to bonk himself on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.

He adjusted. Subtly. Or—he hoped subtly. There is no such thing as true subtlety when you’re six-foot-something and made entirely of limbs, but he gave it his best shot. Just a little shift in the chair, like, ooh, my back is sore , and not ooh, my dick has opinions.

Think about something else. Think about sweets. Think about mochi. Think about that weird limited-edition seasonal donut Megumi hated. Think about the time he accidentally dropped a Pocky box in the river and tried to fish it out with Infinity like an idiot—

“Wanna sleep together?”

…

Oh. Oh no. No no no no.
He said that out loud.
He SAID that OUT LOUD.

Suguru’s head whipped toward him so fast it should’ve gotten stuck there. His ears went full alert, tail freezing halfway through a flick.

“I meant—” Satoru’s hands flailed, his mouth moving way too fast to let his brain catch up— “like, sleep sleeping. Not… you know. The other sleeping. Horizontal unconsciousness. REM cycles. The innocent kind.”

Oh, excellent clarification. Perfect. Ten out of ten. Definitely didn’t make it sound more suspicious.

Suguru’s expression was doing that thing where it was 90% deadpan but with this tiny little muscle twitch near his mouth that said you’re an idiot but I haven’t decided if it’s lethal yet .

“Wow,” Satoru said, because when in doubt, double down on verbal noise. “You think I’d—? I mean, obviously I would , because you’re—you—but that’s not what I’m saying right now. I’m saying… the bed is softer than the floor, and my floor is, like, aggressively floor. Also cold. Probably bad for your joints. Omega joints need—”

Shut. Up. Gojo. Satoru.

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning into it. “Forget it. That sounded bad no matter how I phrase it.”

Suguru blinked slowly,  “I’ll stay here.”

“Here here?” Satoru pointed to the bed.

A small nod.

He exhaled “Okay. Cool. That’s cool. I’ll… stay in the chair, though. Keep my dangerous Alpha aura safely over here.”

Suguru didn’t dignify that with a response. He just shifted, arranging the blanket over himself in careful folds, tail curling at his side. He still wasn’t looking at Satoru, which was probably for the best, because if he did look—if his eyes did that soft, guarded thing they sometimes did—Satoru’s brain might forget the monk vow entirely.

The room settled again. Quiet, low light, the faint rustle of blanket fabric.

Satoru leaned back in the chair, forcing his gaze up toward the ceiling instead of down toward the very tempting bed situation. Think about donuts. Think about Infinity maintenance. Think about anything that didn’t rhyme with “truck him on the floor.”

“You’re really not gonna—”

“Nope,” Satoru cut himself off before he could get himself in more trouble. “Not gonna finish that sentence. I’m learning. See? Growth.”

Suguru made a noncommittal sound from under the blanket. 

It was enough.

Even if his dick disagreed.

Satoru didn’t have nightmares often.

Which is not bragging, by the way—just fact. He’s the Strongest, the most annoying man alive, and generally too tired or too sugar-high to dream about anything other than, like, giant candy stores or beating up curses with a loaf of bread.

But when he did have nightmares… yeah, they were about the stuff he’d rather not talk about.

And tonight? Tonight was one of those nights.

He sat up fast—well, half up, enough to see the room, enough to anchor on the fact that yes , he was in his bed, yes , this was his place, yes , he was still the strongest, so whatever dream-bullshit wanted him dead could try again and fail harder.

Okay. Good. Breathe, idiot.

He flopped back against the headboard, exhaling hard, already building the wall in his head labeled Don’t Think About It. The faster you drywall over the cracks, the less anyone notices.

Except—

He hadn’t noticed the weight at the foot of the bed.

Not until it moved.

Satoru looked down, expecting maybe a blanket bunching weird or one of his ridiculous souvenir pillows sliding out of place.

What he saw instead—

An Omega.

His Omega, technically-speaking-but-don’t-say-it-like-that, curled at his feet like some kind of actual cat .

Suguru.

Head pillowed on his lap—when did that happen?—tail curled, the rest of him stretched out along the mattress as if this was just where he lived now.

And he was looking up at Satoru. Through his lashes. Those stupid long, perfect lashes that should be illegal for anyone with a tail.

Satoru’s brain short-circuited.

“Oh,” he said, because that’s definitely what you say in this situation. “Uh… hi?”

Suguru didn’t move. Just blinked slowly, like Satoru was the one who’d wandered into his space instead of the other way around.

“Were you—” Satoru cut himself off before he said watching me sleep , because that sounded either romantic or serial killer-y and he wasn’t sure which option scared him more. “I mean… how long have you been…”

Suguru shrugged, which was an insane thing to do while your head was on someone’s lap . His hair shifted against Satoru’s thigh, and—yep. There went his brain. Bye-bye.

The nightmare was already fading, but the aftertaste of it lingered. Usually, he’d shove it down, bury it under jokes, bury that under waffles.

But Suguru was still there. Still watching him. Still, inexplicably, touching him in a way that wasn’t defensive, wasn’t tense.

“Did I…” Satoru hesitated. “…wake you up?”

Another shrug. Then, “You were breathing weird.”

Oh. Right. 

“Ah, sorry, just—ha—dreams, you know?” Satoru grinned, because if you make it sound like a joke it’s basically not trauma, right? He looked down at Suguru, who was still looking up at him, and for a second the world narrowed to dark hair, stupidly long lashes, and that unreadable expression.

Then Suguru’s gaze dropped.

“The Center said if Alphas are going through a tough time, Omegas should serve them,”

Satoru’s brain froze mid-thought. The Center said what now?

And before he could even come up with a follow-up question—before his mouth could do the “haha, you mean serve like bring me waffles, right?” thing—Suguru was pulling his shirt over his head.

Oh. Oh no. Oh hell no.

“Whoa—hey—” Satoru’s hands went up  “Time out, foul on the play, we are not—this isn’t—”

Suguru’s shirt was already on the floor. His shoulders rolled back in that unconscious way that was probably just stretching but to Satoru’s traitor brain looked like a centerfold moment. And that was unfair. That was so unfair because he was still coming down from a nightmare and his body did not need mixed signals right now.

“Uh,” Satoru said brilliantly. “You… don’t have to do that.”

Suguru’s ears twitched but he didn’t reach for the shirt. He just sat there, lean and pale in the low light, watching Satoru like this is what I was taught, this is the rule, so why are you making it weird?

And that—more than the skin, more than the lashes—was what made Satoru’s chest twist.

He’d been given protocols . Not affection. Not care. Protocols.

“Listen, Suguru…” Satoru’s grin flattened out without him meaning it to. “That’s… not serving. Not for me. Not ever for me. You hear me?”

Suguru blinked. “The Center said—”

“Yeah, and the Center can go choke on an entire bag of expired Pocky.”

That got a nose scrunch—“It’s what Omegas are for,”

“Nope,” Satoru said immediately, leaning forward so his shadow didn’t loom, just folded in with him. “Omegas are for whatever they want to be for. Not for making some Alpha feel big when he’s already the Strongest.”

Okay. Sure. Bit of the ego talking there. But whatever . It was also true. To a certain extent.

Except—

Look, in his defense, it wasn’t on purpose . He wasn’t trying to look. His eyes just… had this bad habit of cataloguing things. And right now, Suguru—shirtless for the last thirty seconds because Center says —was presenting data. And Satoru decided to focus on exactly one detail:

Suguru’s nipples.

The cutest little nipples.

Not like he’d spent hours thinking about them or anything, but they were right there. All pale skin and the faintest pink, neat little circles

And now his rut brain was like, Hey, remember those? Yeah, we like those. We liked them last time, too.

Suguru didn’t seem to notice the mental chaos happening two feet above him. Which was both a blessing and a curse, because if he did notice, he might deck him, but if he didn’t , Satoru had to keep pretending that his own mind wasn’t putting up flashing neon signs saying CUTE CUTE CUTE over and over again.

It was fine. He could do this. He was an adult. He was a monk. He was oatmeal.

Right. Cool. Play it off. Definitely don’t think about how, in rut, his first stupid instinct would be to mouth at those—like, soft little kisses, teeth barely there, nothing threatening—shut up shut up shut up.

His mouth went dry. Which was the opposite of helpful because now he was hyper-aware of his mouth, which was dangerously close to thinking about taste, and—no. No, bad.

He wiped at it with the back of his hand, casual, casual, definitely not checking for drool.

Suguru’s eyes flicked up at the movement, one eyebrow barely twitching. Suspicious Omega is suspicious.

Satoru scrambled for safe ground. 

“Anyway,” he said, voice just a shade too bright, “point is, you’re not my servant. You’re my… roommate who occasionally lets me look at your majestic tail without charging rent.”

That earned him a nose scrunch—excellent, safe territory. Nose scrunches were practically a game at this point.

Suguru tugged his shirt the rest of the way back down, and Satoru told himself that was good. That was safe. That was the responsible thing to do.

Except… now he was thinking about how warm Suguru had been without it. And about the brief brush of his tail against his leg earlier. And about—

Nope. Mental leash. Tighten it. Sit, bad Alpha brain, sit.

He forced his gaze up toward the ceiling instead of back down at Suguru. Count the little imperfections in the paint. Think about grocery lists. Think about how many bags of Pocky you could fit in the freezer if you rearranged the mochi.

Don’t think about nipples. Definitely don’t think about the way they might look if—NOPE.

He took a long, slow breath through his nose and let it out like he was meditating instead of trying not to ruin a perfectly good moment of trust with something his rut-brain would thank him for and his actual conscience would regret.

Suguru shifted under the blanket, settling into what Satoru could only interpret as I’m done talking now posture. Which was fair. He’d probably had enough weirdness for one night.

“Alright,” Satoru murmured, softer now. “Then let’s just sleep. The innocent kind.”

Suguru’s ears twitched once, but he didn’t respond. His breathing evened out after a minute, the faintest puff of warmth against Satoru’s leg still grounding him in a way that had nothing to do with rut and everything to do with not being alone after the nightmare .

So he leaned back, closed his eyes, and focused on matching his breathing to Suguru’s.

And if his brain, somewhere in the background, was still whispering about cute nipples—well. That was tomorrow’s problem.

Satoru woke up hard .

And oh, fuck.

Omega smell. In his bed.

His Omega— nope, nope, don’t think it like that, bad phrasing —curled in a warm coil right there.

And yeah, maybe Satoru had some practice controlling himself, but that was when his brain wasn’t marinating in rut hormones. He was on a ticking clock before instinct reached up and took the wheel.

He needed distance. Space. A cold shower. 

So he moved. Fast.

Too fast.

One second Suguru’s head was a warm, grounding weight in his lap, and the next—

Thunk .

He’d practically knocked him onto the mattress in his scramble to get up.

“Get out,” Satoru said.

And oh, oh, that was bad. That was not the sentence he’d meant to say. It came out aggressive , sharp-edged in a way that made his own stomach twist the second it hit the air.

What he’d meant was something like, Please leave for five minutes while I wrestle my feral brain back into its cage so I don’t ruin everything between us forever.

But rut didn’t speak nuance. Rut spoke in single-syllable imperatives.

Suguru doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. His ears twitch again, catching the sound of Satoru’s breathing. His tail sways side to side, slow, hypnotic.

“The centre said I have to serve Alphas in rut,” Suguru says, voice stripped of inflection, as if he’s reciting from a handbook, as if it’s not about him . “If I don’t, I will be punished.”

Satoru’s brain catches the words but not the meaning—no, the meaning gets swallowed instantly, chewed down by the single image that’s been burning itself into his vision: skin, slick at the curve of thighs, the slow lift of Suguru’s chest when he breathes. The smallness of his frame that Satoru’s hands could span too easily. The slope of his shoulders into the narrow taper of his waist.

Something in him flinches at the words serve Alphas . Something in him wants to tear down whatever centre, whatever rule, whatever punishment lives behind that. But the rest of him—the rut-heavy, pulse-in-his-throat, knot-thick ache—registers only omega and available and heat .

It makes sense, his body tells him. Perfect sense. His rut idles on that logic: that the rules exist because of this, because of now , because of Alphas like him who are supposed to take what’s given. His mind can’t focus on anything except the warm, sweet, sharp scent rolling off Suguru, coating the air until it’s impossible to breathe without tasting him.

Pussy.

Pussy and curves and the particular sharp angle of Suguru’s collarbone when his chin dips down like that, when his hair shifts just enough for Satoru to see the long line of his throat.

The want is a pressure. A wall of heat behind his ribs, a fist closing around the base of his spine and pulling him forward. He can already see it: Suguru’s back hitting the wall, legs wrapping around his hips, tail curling tight, heat-slick thighs parting just enough for him to push in, lock, stay. Stay until his knot empties. Until he can’t anymore.

His fingers twitch where they’re still wrapped around himself.

No.

No, he can’t. He can’t take advantage of him.

And his ruts are dangerous.

He hears his own voice before he even decides to speak. “Get. Out.”

It comes out low, guttural, almost a growl. His hands drop away from himself, and the sudden absence of friction makes his thighs lock, makes his breath stutter. His body doesn’t understand why he’s stopping. His brain has to shout the command over and over again just to keep his feet moving.

He stands. The room tilts, or maybe that’s him swaying, the heat in his veins making balance a fragile thing. Suguru doesn’t step back. Doesn’t react at all except for the faint flick of his ears, the slow sway of his tail, the steady beat of his heart that Satoru swears he can hear from here.

His hand finds Suguru’s shoulder. It’s warm. Small. The muscle under his palm barely shifts when Satoru pushes—not hard, not enough to bruise, but enough to guide him back. Back, back, until they’re in the doorway

It’s harsh. He knows it is. Knows he shouldn’t touch him at all if the whole point is not to hurt, not to take. But the alternative—the image of keeping him here, of letting that tail brush his thigh, of breathing him in until the rest of the world disappears—is worse.

His pulse is everywhere now. In his cock, in his throat, in his skull. His rut roars at him for letting the omega leave.

“Go.”

He pushes. Not hard. Not nearly as hard as he could. But hard enough that Suguru’s bare heels skid against the floor and he’s out in the hallway before the rest of his body catches up.

The door slams. The lock turns.

It’s harsh. Wrong. But it’s the only choice he had left.

Suguru can’t. Satoru can’t.

He won’t let himself hurt him again.

-

The laws of his upbringing had been simple.

An omega serves an alpha in rut.

An Alpha in season is a summons; to ignore it is heresy; punishment follows heresy. The center taught it with charts and tranquil smiles. Approach. Present. Serve. Be good and pain will not come. (Lie upon lie upon lie.) Body bows before the mind can argue.

But Satoru is not the center, and this house is not a ward. Consent is the new scripture. Even so, the ancient psalms rise—unbidden, venomous, beloved—until his nerves sing with contradictory hallelujahs.

“Get. Out.”

Exile pronounced in a voice made hoarse by heat. Not hatred—he knows that. Protection, he’s told. Distance, he’s told. Safety, he’s told. To be pushed away was to be unchosen. To be unchosen was to be cast out from the only liturgy his body knew.

Alpha doesn’t want you. Alpha will not bind you.

The door is a line. A hinge. A sentence. He could go. He should go. That’s what a good Omega does when dismissed: obeys the imperative, erases the scent, returns to neutral. He puts one foot toward the stairs and his body refuses. 

Suguru shuts his eyes. His ears still catch every beat.

The Center would tell him this is proof. Proof that he is insufficient. That if Gojo wanted him, the door would be open, the blanket unnecessary.

Another shift inside. The sound sharpens. The scent spikes.

Fap. Fap. Fap.

Suguru sits on the floor opposite the door, blanket around his shoulders, knees drawn up. He tells himself he isn’t listening. He is. His ears turn traitor, flicking toward the smallest changes in cadence.

Gojo’s scent swells, breaks, swells again. There’s a grit to his breathing—half-growl, half-groan—that hits some part of Suguru’s spine he can’t defend.

The Center’s voice again: If you are not bound, you are not his.

He pulls the blanket tighter, trying to block the scent. It doesn’t work. Alpha is in every fiber. Every inhale feels like stepping closer, even as the door stays shut.

Ever since Satoru “forced himself” onto him—though the Center would never call it that; they’d call it asserting claim —Suguru has felt bound in ways that don’t need rope.

The rules were drilled in so deep he could recite them in his sleep:

An Alpha’s mark is a contract. An Omega’s obedience is the signature. Do not meet an Alpha’s gaze unless instructed; it will be read as provocation. Do not refuse an Alpha’s touch without cause; refusal is an offense. When an Alpha scents you, stand still and permit it; scent is a declaration, not a request. Once bound, you are bound. The knot is not in flesh alone—it is in duty.

They don’t fade. Not when he’s alone. Not when the Alpha is Satoru and not the faceless training cadre of his adolescence.

The “binding” isn’t visible. Satoru hasn’t marked him in the way the Center meant. There is no scar at his neck, no formal bite, no ceremony. But Suguru feels it anyway.

Because Satoru smells like him now. Or maybe Suguru smells like Satoru. Maybe the difference doesn’t matter. Every time their scents mix—even in the smallest accidental contact—it’s like the chain pulls taut.

And rut makes the chain louder.

He can’t not think about that day. The moment Satoru didn’t ask—didn’t mean harm, not exactly, but still moved into his space with that unstoppable Alpha certainty and took . Not violence. Not the way the Center’s worst stories warned of. But not choice, either.

The body logged it. Filed it under “belonging.” And once the body logs something, the mind doesn’t get to erase it.

Now, outside the door, he’s drowning in scent.

The blanket is nothing. His clothes are nothing. The molecules in the air are saturated—heat, sweat, the musk of rut and the raw edge of something more personal, more Satoru .

It’s infuriating, how easily his own body falls in line with the chemical order. Heart rate up. Breathing shallow. Muscles tensing in the slow, anticipatory way the Center called “readiness.”

It’s not readiness. It’s reflex. It’s the leash tightening.

If your Alpha is in rut, you will serve. If you are told to leave, you have failed.
If you are bound, there is no leaving until released.

But Satoru told him to get out.

That’s the part that doesn’t fit. The contradiction that scrapes at the edges of the pattern until it frays.

Because if he’s bound—and he is , in all the ways that matter to his nerves and scent glands and bones—then being told to leave should be impossible.

Alphas don’t release without reason. And yet here he is, blanket around his shoulders, sitting on the wrong side of a door while the sound of Satoru’s rut seeps through the gap at the floor.

The sound is worse than the scent. Low, rhythmic, almost careful. As if Satoru’s trying to keep it contained. As if the control costs him.

Suguru wonders if that’s why he was sent away—not because he failed, but because Satoru refused to use him.

The Center would say that’s a weakness. That an Alpha who refuses to use what is his is no Alpha at all. That Omegas need the direction, the structure, the physical reminder of place.

Suguru doesn’t know if the Center was wrong. He only knows that being dismissed feels worse than being taken.

He presses his face into the blanket, inhales fabric that smells like both of them, and tries to imagine he is somewhere else. That there isn’t an Alpha in rut on the other side of the door whose voice has already cut through him once tonight.

The Center said you can only be unbound by a formal release. Satoru never gave one. And until he does, the leash will be there—whether it’s wanted or not.

His body does. His body reacts as if wanted, whether the Alpha’s hands are on him or not. The air is thick with rut scent and it crawls under his skin, into his throat, down between his legs.

He’s wet. Slicking everywhere.

The Center would call it a failure of control, a “presentation issue.” They always had terms for it— excessive slick production , trigger sensitivity . What they meant was: you’re messy, you’re obvious, you invite attention whether you want it or not.

He’d been told since he was old enough to stand in a line for inspection that it was his job to contain it. That any Omega could produce slick, but only the disciplined ones knew how to hide it.

He bites his lip. It doesn’t stop the pulse between his thighs.

He isn’t a virgin anymore—not after what Gojo did. The Center would call it “completion of bond protocol.” Suguru knows it wasn’t that—not by the book. But the body doesn’t care about the book.

The body remembers the first time an Alpha pushed inside. Remembers the stretch, the heat, the way scent and touch rewired the idea of boundaries.

And now, remembering is enough to make it worse.

His pussy gets wetter. He hates thinking of the word— pussy —because it’s too crude, too naked. But the Center liked crude words. They said shame was part of obedience. That knowing you were filthy made you easier to keep clean.

He feels filthy now.

Satoru’s rut scent is a living thing, pressing against the door, seeping into his lungs until it’s the only thing he can taste. The Center taught that a rut in proximity could trigger heat whether the Omega consented or not. It’s just biology, they said, as if that excused the lack of choice.

Whether he wants it or not, his body is already tilting toward that heat. The slow fever under his skin, the ache low in his belly, the way every muscle feels like it’s waiting for touch.

And of course, it’s the worst possible timing. He’s at the height of fertility—he knows because the Center made him track it, chart it, predict it. A fertile Omega during an Alpha’s rut.

He always had a bad issue with heats. That’s what they called it— issue —as if it were paperwork that could be filed away instead of something built into his blood.

They would trigger if an Alpha even had a rut. He wouldn’t need to be touched. Sometimes he wouldn’t even see them—just smell it in the air, the shift in chemistry—and it would start.

Made him horny.

Made him grind against the floor, or the corner of a bedframe, or anything solid enough to give friction. Made him cry afterwards.

He told himself, for a long time, that it was shame. That it wasn’t the loss of control that made his chest hurt, it was the embarrassment of needing. But later he learned that shame was just the word they gave you so you wouldn’t call it want.

He’s so horny now he can’t even think in straight lines.

The scent through the door is thick—Alpha, rut, Satoru —and his body has stopped pretending to resist. His thighs ache from pressing together. His breath keeps catching.

He puts a hand between his legs before he can stop himself.

His palm finds the heat there anyway. The damp. The humiliating proof of what his body is doing without permission.

He rubs his clit through the thin layer of his panties, slow at first, like that makes it less obvious, less dangerous.

It doesn’t.

The pleasure sharpens too quickly. His hips shift against his hand, chasing it. His jaw tightens to keep the sound in, but a thin whimper still escapes.

He doesn’t want to be pleading. Not like this.

But his hand doesn’t stop.

The fabric drags against him in the right way, pressure building. Every inhale pulls more of Satoru into his head—his scent, the sound of his breathing inside the room, the muted rhythm of movement. It’s too easy to imagine the door open, the heat in the air swallowing him whole.

He presses harder, circles once, twice, hips rocking into it.

The whimper turns into a broken exhale.

He should stop. Every rule in the book says to stop. But the part of him that memorized the rules is losing to the part of him that remembers what it felt like when Satoru’s body was flush with his, when that scent wasn’t just in the air but on him, around him, inside him.

The ache gets sharper. His thighs tremble.

He presses his forehead to his knees, tries to muffle the sound, but his breathing’s already quick, ragged. The blanket slips off his shoulders, pooling on the floor.

If the door opened now—if Satoru saw him like this—

The thought makes his fingers twitch against himself. Makes the slick soak deeper into the fabric. t’s obscene—how fast it happens. How ready his body is for something it isn’t even getting.

He shifts his hips for more pressure. The heat curls deeper, molten, rolling low in his stomach until it feels like the whole of him is between his thighs.

Suguru’s face flushes hot, skin prickling.

He rubs himself harder, small tight circles over his clit, trying to keep the rhythm steady even as his breath starts to break.

A whimper slips out before he can catch it.

“Alpha.”

Not calling to him—at least, not intentionally. Just… leaking out. The word heavy on his tongue, coated in the way his body wants to use it: a beacon, a surrender, a request.

And through the door—

A groan.

Low, rough, pulled up from somewhere deep in Satoru’s chest.

Suguru freezes for a beat, his whole body lit up with the realization that he’s hearing it in real time, that Satoru is inside and rut-drunk and making that sound .

It’s too easy to map the sound onto a picture—broad shoulders tense, long fingers wrapped around himself, rut-pink flush running up his throat.

The Center warned about this: In heat, you will idealize the Alpha. You will fill in what you cannot see with what you most want to see. This is dangerous.

Dangerous or not, the image slots into place, vivid enough that his hips roll into his palm without conscious thought.

He knows he should stop. He knows if the door opened now—if Satoru’s eyes caught him mid-act—it would be a point of no return.

Suguru’s pulse jumps. His fingers move faster, the friction now maddeningly close to what he needs. The slick soaks through, fabric dragging against his clit in a way that makes his toes curl.

His heat is in full swing now. Every nerve feels tuned for touch, every breath comes too quick. He can smell himself under the blanket, layered over Satoru’s scent in the air, the combination hitting some primal register that says together .

He swallows hard, hips lifting into his hand. Another whimper escapes—

Bang.

Suguru flinches. Ears twitch, then pin all the way back.

Satoru is there.

The smell hits first, even before the sight. Rut, thick and unfiltered, no polite edges, no restraint. It’s heavy enough to make the air taste like him, to drag the breath out of Suguru’s chest before he can stop it.

And then the sight—

Fangs. Out.

Not just showing, but bared , the way an Alpha’s canines extend when they’re past the point of managing themselves. His pupils are blown wide, eating almost all the blue. His chest is rising fast, the thin sheen of sweat catching the hallway light.

Deep in rut.

Suguru has seen Satoru like this once before—fleeting, half-hidden, the Alpha turning away before the look could land. This time, there’s no turning away.

His eyes drop without permission, following the line of Satoru’s open jacket, down over the tight pull of muscle, lower—

He’s never actually gotten a look at Satoru’s cock. Not in daylight, not without the haze of movement. And now, in rut, the shape pressing against his sweats is…

Suguru’s mouth goes dry.

His heat-addled brain jumps straight to calculation—how it would fit, if it could. If the stretch would be impossible. If the Center’s warnings about Alpha size were understated.

It would split me open.

His thighs press together, slick damp and hot between them. The pulse in his clit answers the image without asking him first.

Satoru’s gaze drags down his body and stops where Suguru’s hand is still between his legs.

Everything in Suguru’s training screams to move it, to hide it, to present neutral. But his heat refuses to obey, keeps his fingers curled against himself, holding the pressure.

Satoru steps forward.

It’s not a lunge, not aggressive, but the air shifts with him—Alpha presence filling the hallway, filling Suguru’s lungs. Every inch of space between them feels thinner.

Suguru’s ears twitch back again. He looks up through long lashes. Submission without collapse.

Satoru’s nostrils flare. A sound escapes him, low in his throat—half-growl, half-something else. The kind of sound that makes the slick pulse harder, that makes the Center’s voice in his head stutter and falter.

Suguru swallows hard.

There’s no Center rule for this. Not exactly. They had protocols for proximity during rut— stand still, avert gaze, wait for instruction —but none of them accounted for the Alpha being Satoru . None of them accounted for the leash already in his chest, the one he’s been pretending isn’t there.

He should feel fear. And he does—somewhere under the heat, under the scent, a thin wire of it. But the fear is tangled with something else, something worse to admit.

Want.

Satoru takes another step, and the hallway is too small for both of them like this. Suguru’s back meets the wall without realizing he’s moved.

The Alpha’s scent is overwhelming now, the heat of it sinking into his skin. His own smell is probably just as loud—fertile, slick, need.

Suguru’s lips part without meaning to. His breath is shallow.

“Sorry, Alpha, I—”

The rest of the sentence never leaves his mouth.

Satoru’s hand is in his hair—fast, rough, fingers locking at the root.

Suguru chokes on the suddenness of it, his throat tightening with reflex. The pressure tips his head back a fraction, just enough to bare his neck, the exact posture the Center taught for full yielding. Except this isn’t a trained bow. It’s forced, his body bending to Satoru’s grip whether he means it to or not.

But instead of impact, instead of teeth or a bite, Satoru’s grip angles his head forward. Down.

And suddenly Suguru’s mouth is too close to the hard line pressing through Satoru’s sweats.

The Center would call this presentation for service . They’d say, An Omega’s mouth is an offering when the Alpha’s need is urgent. They’d say, In rut, urgency is the Alpha’s right.

Suguru isn’t sure if this is offering or taking .

His breath catches against the cotton, scenting him at point-blank range. The musk is stronger here—dense and dizzying, rut distilled into something his body reads as inevitable.

Every lesson from the Center shouts at him: Don’t gag. Don’t resist. Don’t hesitate when called. But he hasn’t actually been told what to do. Satoru hasn’t spoken, hasn’t given instruction—only guided.

His mouth is this close to Satoru’s cock. His Alpha is in rut. His own body is in heat, fertile and slick and wanting .

“Alpha—”

A whimper slips out. He bites it down. Doesn’t help. His mouth is already open for more air, because the room is full of Satoru.

The Alpha doesn’t have to be touching him. Doesn’t have to be looking at him. Just existing this close is enough to send the omega part of Suguru’s brain into frantic bloom — serve Alpha, serve Alpha, serve Alpha .

“Mm.” Satoru’s voice — lazy, curious, “Omega’s restless.”

The sound of a zipper. Fabric shifting. A low exhale from Satoru, hotter, heavier than before.

Suguru makes the mistake of looking.

Satoru’s cock hangs heavy between them, thick enough that Suguru’s throat goes dry, very dry. Not the kind of dryness that comes from thirst — the kind that comes from every drop of moisture in his body being rerouted somewhere else .

He squeezes his eyes shut. The image is already burned in anyway: broad hand wrapped casually around the base, the flushed head, the sheer size of it. His heat-rattled brain does a fast, involuntary calculation of width to stretch ratio, of depth, of how far it would press if—

No. No, no. Don’t think it.

His ears flatten against his skull. His tail lashes again, a restless banner of want and warning tangled together.

A small, broken whimper escapes. Then another. And another.

“Shh,” Satoru says, not even unkindly.

 “You’ll work yourself up.”

Too late. Suguru is worked up. Every inhale drags Satoru’s rut scent deeper into him, makes his body tense and loosen in the same breath. The want is constant, low and thrumming. It’s not just lust — it’s the urge to serve , to fold himself into whatever shape the Alpha wants.

Another whimper, higher this time. Suguru bites it back, bites his lip until he tastes blood, but it’s no use. The sound is already in the air between them, joining the heavy rhythm of Satoru’s breathing.

A shadow moves closer. Satoru is directly in front of him now. Suguru can feel the heat radiating from his body, the raw pulse of rut-energy that his own system answers to whether he wants it to or not.

“Open your eyes,” Satoru says.

Suguru doesn’t. He shakes his head once, small and stubborn. He’s afraid of what will happen if he sees all of him like this — afraid that every rule, every scrap of Center-taught restraint, will melt right out of him.

A hand cups the back of his head, tilts it up. Not rough, but not negotiable either.

“I said,” Satoru murmurs, “open.”

Suguru obeys.

The first thing he sees is blue. That impossible, cutting blue, locked on him with the kind of focus that strips the rest of the room away. Then, inevitably, his gaze drops.

Satoru’s cock is right there, close enough to feel like it’s already in his space, already part of his air. Massive. Heavy-veined. Slick at the tip with precome. Suguru swallows hard and it feels loud in the silence.

“Like what you see?” Satoru teases. 

Suguru’s mouth opens, but all that comes out is a breath. His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth, too aware of how dry it is.

Another involuntary sound slips free — a little needy thing, high in his throat. His ears twitch forward before flattening again.

Satoru watches him like he’s reading something in the tilt of his head, the set of his shoulders, the way his knees press together. 

“Omega wants to serve.”

It’s more growl than sentence, a sound dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. Rut-thick. Dangerous.

Before Suguru can even breathe a reply, Satoru’s hand tightens in his hair, yanking his head just enough to make his neck bare. The other hand grips his own cock, heavy and flushed, and then—

Shoved forward.

All of it. All at once.

The thick head breaches his lips and then every inch of Satoru’s length forces past, crowding his mouth, filling his throat before Suguru’s brain has even caught up. The stretch is obscene. His jaw aches instantly, eyes going wide as tears prick from the corners.

He gags, throat clenching reflexively around the intrusion.

Satoru doesn’t pull back. If anything, the low, guttural grunt he lets out makes him push deeper, hips locking in place until Suguru can feel the heat of his rut-scent pouring down his airway. The Alpha is all weight and intent, using him like there’s no room for hesitation in his body.

The first thrust is brutal. Pulled almost all the way out, just enough for Suguru to gasp for half a breath before Satoru drives forward again, faster this time, rut-deep, burying himself until Suguru’s nose is pressed into the hair above his cock. The scent there is dizzying — salt, sweat, the sharp edge of precome.

He moans around it without meaning to. The vibration makes Satoru’s hips stutter for just a beat, and then the Alpha growls low and starts to fuck his mouth in earnest.

No rhythm except want. No gentleness except the unspoken knowledge that he won’t break him. It’s just use — sharp, deep strokes that have Suguru gagging every other thrust, spit slicking his chin, heat blooming in his cheeks.

Every time he tries to breathe through his nose, Satoru is already pushing back in, rut-growls dripping from his mouth with each plunge. “Fuck—yeah—Omega—take it—”

And Suguru’s omega loves. Loves . His slick is a mess in his pants now, soaking fabric, dripping down his thighs. His body is alight with the pure instinct of it: Alpha wants to use me — Alpha is using me — good .

His ears are flat, his tail curling tight, every nerve singing in submission. There’s nothing to do but hold on, let the Alpha’s pace dictate the shape of the world.

The tears spill over properly now, wetting his cheeks. His throat feels raw, stretched open in a way that feeds that deep, primal satisfaction: serving . Giving all of himself over to be taken.

Satoru’s voice comes ragged between grunts. “Perfect—fuck—Omega mouth’s—so good—”

Suguru gags again and the Alpha’s answering sound is pure rut-pleasure, a deep rumble that vibrates through his cock and down Suguru’s spine. He swallows around him on instinct, and Satoru’s hips jerk, the pace growing erratic.

Suguru can feel every twitch, every pulse of heat inside his mouth, the way the Alpha’s cock swells with the approach of release. He moans again, needy, because the idea of Satoru finishing like this — using him until the very end — is enough to make his own hips rock helplessly against the air.

“Yeah—yeah—just like that—fuck—” Satoru’s grip in his hair tightens, holding him flush to his pelvis for the last few thrusts. Suguru’s lungs burn but he stays there, obedient, letting the Alpha take exactly what he wants.

The first hot spurt of come hits the back of his throat and he swallows without thinking, desperate to keep every drop. More follows, thick and hot, each pulse dragging another rough groan from Satoru’s chest.

Only when the last shudder leaves him does Satoru pull back, slow, his cock dragging wetly over Suguru’s tongue before slipping free.

Suguru’s lips are swollen, chin slick with spit, throat sore in a way that feels almost holy. His omega hums under his skin, sated for now, basking in the glow of having served.

Satoru’s hand stays tangled in his hair, holding him there just long enough to murmur, still panting, “Good Omega.”

The praise sinks deeper than the cock ever could.

Suguru feels… fuzzy. Head light, edges blurred. His breath stutters out in little whimpers he can’t stop — high, needy sounds that make his own ears twitch back. Slick is pooling between his thighs again, soaking through, hot and shameful and perfect.

He shouldn’t be this far gone from just that. Shouldn’t be trembling like this. But his omega doesn’t care.

Satoru leans over him, still so close the rut-scent is choking sweet, curling into every breath. Suguru’s pulse trips hard. The Alpha smells heavier now — the sharp, dizzy edge of want layered over everything else. His voice drops low, rough. “Omega, hmm… tell me what you want.”

The command makes his chest squeeze. His mouth opens before his brain can catch up.

“Hh—hic—” The sound stutters out of him as his hips shift without permission, thighs pressing together. “Wan… wan’ you—” It’s pathetic how broken his voice sounds, every word tangled in hiccups and little gasps. “Wan you—wan you—wan you—”

It’s not even sentences. Just instinct spilling over, the truth boiled down to need.

Satoru chuckles, the sound dark and warm in the space between them. “Mm. Omega wants me, huh?”

Suguru nods, desperate, the movement jerky. His tail lashes once against the sheets.

“Wants Alpha’s cock? Wants to be full?” The questions are a tease, but they make heat lick down his spine, coil low in his belly.

He can’t answer. His throat works around a whimper, lips parting as if the words might come, but only more broken little noises fall out. Slick runs hot over his skin, soaking into the fabric clinging to him.

Satoru’s hand moves from his hair to his jaw, holding him still, making him look up. “Say it, Suguru.”

His lips tremble. “Y…yes—yes, Alpha—”

“That’s better.” Satoru’s grin is slow, sharp. His thumb strokes once over Suguru’s spit-wet lower lip. “Such a needy little thing in heat. Can’t even think, can you?”

Suguru shakes his head before the thought finishes forming. His body’s doing all the talking for him: knees spreading a little wider, back arching.

The Alpha’s eyes drag down over him “You’re dripping through your pants,” Satoru says, and his voice is thick with satisfaction. “Bet you’ve made a mess of yourself just from sucking my cock.”

The words make him flush hot everywhere. He has . He can feel it — the way every movement drags wet heat against his thighs, the stickiness clinging.

Satoru leans down, until his mouth is just over Suguru’s ear, and breathes him in. “Say it again.”

“Wan you—” It slips out smaller this time, almost pleading.

“Mm. Good Omega.”

The praise makes his stomach flip. Makes him want to crawl into Satoru’s lap and never leave. Makes the slick gush hotter, thicker, shame and want hopelessly tangled.

Satoru straightens just enough to look down at him properly. His cock is still flushed and heavy, glistening faintly at the tip. 

“I could fuck you right now,” he says, almost conversational, “and your pretty little hole would just—” his fingers mimic the stretch, parting the air— “open right up for me.”

Suguru whimpers like the thought alone is enough to push him over. His knees draw up automatically, thighs parting further.

“Ohhh. Look at that.” Satoru’s laugh is low, pleased. “You are ready for me. Just needed Alpha to tell you.”

Suguru’s mouth works uselessly, breath shivering. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for anymore — just that he needs it, needs him .

Satoru dips his head, licks the taste of tears from Suguru’s cheek. 

“Say it one more time,” he murmurs, and there’s no question what he means.

“Wan you, Alpha,” Suguru breathes, voice wrecked.

The sound barely leaves his mouth before Satoru’s hands are on him, rough, urgent — rut-fast. One hand fists in the waistband of Suguru’s pants and yanks them down in a single drag, heat hitting bare skin as fabric scrapes past his thighs. His pussy is soaked — obscene slick strung between his folds, glistening in the low light — and the exposure makes him whimper high in his throat.

“Fuck…” Satoru’s voice drops low, almost reverent, almost a growl. “Look at you. Messy little Omega.”

Suguru’s ears twitch back, tail curling against the floor as if it could hide him. It can’t. The Alpha’s gaze is heavy, pinning, drinking him in.

rip .

The sharp tear of fabric echoes in the air as Satoru grabs the front of Suguru’s shirt and tears it apart.  Buttons scatter somewhere. The sudden rush of air on his bare chest makes his nipples pebble instantly, a shiver raking down his spine.

Satoru grins and catches one between his fingers, rolling it slow before pinching hard. Suguru’s back arches without his permission, a needy sound spilling from his throat.

“Sensitive,” Satoru hums, clearly pleased. His other hand finds the twin peak, circling it lazily before giving it the same treatment — a squeeze, a pull that makes Suguru gasp.

“Please—” 

“Mm?” Satoru doesn’t stop, thumbs brushing back and forth over the tender peaks now, keeping them peaked and aching. “You like me playing with you here? Hm? Little Omega tits getting all hard for me?”

The words make his face burn. He tries to shake his head but his body betrays him — his nipples tighten under the attention, and the pulse between his legs throbs harder.

Satoru notices everything. 

“You do,” he says, smug and certain. “Your scent just spiked.”

Suguru whimpers. He can feel his scent spiking, feel it curling into the air thick and sweet — fertile, slick, wanting. It’s humiliating and perfect.

“Bet if I keep this up, you’ll be dripping all over the floor without me even touching your pussy.” Satoru pinches again, a little sharper this time, and Suguru’s hips jerk. His thighs try to close, but Satoru’s knee pushes between them, forcing them apart.

The Alpha leans down, mouth hot and wet as it closes over one aching nipple. His tongue swirls once before sucking deep, pulling at it until Suguru’s breath stutters out in a helpless moan.

His other nipple is still being teased by Satoru’s fingers — tugged, rolled, flicked. The contrast sends sharp pleasure zipping down his spine, pooling in his belly. Slick is running freely now, hot trails down his inner thighs.

Satoru releases the bud from his mouth with a wet pop, switching sides without pause. 

“Told you,” he murmurs against skin, his breath hot and teasing. “You’re leaking for me already.”

Suguru bites his lip, eyes squeezing shut. He doesn’t want to see the look on Satoru’s face — that knowing , owning look — but he can feel it in the way the Alpha’s hands move, claiming every inch of him.

“You gonna let me fuck you, Omega?” Satoru’s voice is thicker now, his rut pressing through every word. “Gonna let me fill you up until you can’t think?”

“Yes—” It’s out before he can think.

Satoru hums, satisfied. His hand leaves Suguru’s chest, sliding down his belly, through the mess between his thighs. The slick coats his fingers instantly, and the sound he makes is a low, hungry growl. “You’re so ready for me.”

Suguru’s breath hitches as those fingers ghost over his entrance but don’t push in. His whole body leans toward the touch, desperate without even meaning to.

Satoru smirks against his skin. 

“Patience, pretty Omega,” he says, giving his nipple one last teasing pull before letting go. “Alpha’s gonna take his time ruining you.”

Suguru’s stomach flips before his brain even catches up. Then—air shifts, world tilts. He’s off his feet. Strong hands hooked under his thighs, another arm locking around his back, hauling him up like he weighs nothing at all. His body gives an automatic, dizzy little cling—arms looped weakly around Satoru’s neck, legs tightening in reflex. The room spins, fuzzy edges eating at his thoughts.

And then— thud .

Suguru hits the mattress, bouncing once before sinking into the give of it. Breath leaves him in a gasp, vision going soft and floaty. His head feels like it’s full of heat and fog, everything syrupy and slow except the frantic thud of his heart. The scent in the room is thick , Alpha rut-musk and Omega slick winding together until there’s no air left that isn’t theirs.

He’s hardly there—eyes rolling, mouth slack. Everything feels loud : the heavy drag of Satoru’s breath, the rustle of fabric, the creak of the bed frame under Alpha weight.

And then—his legs are pulled up. Not rough, but sure. Bent high, thighs pressed toward his chest until his slick folds are open and bare to the air. He squirms, heat flooding his cheeks, the base of his spine, deep in his belly.

Satoru’s mouth is on him before he can think.

It’s not gentle. Heat, wetness, suction—Satoru’s tongue pushing deep between his folds, licking him open like he’s starving for it. The first drag makes Suguru squeak , a high, breathless sound that startles even himself.

Satoru growls into him. Growls . The vibration rolls through Suguru’s pussy, straight up his spine, and he gasps so hard it hurts. His toes curl, tail twitching against the sheets, ears pinning back.

His Omega doesn’t want to hide. His Omega is singing , every nerve tuned to serve Alpha, give Alpha, please Alpha.

Satoru’s hands are heavy on his thighs, keeping him wide open while his mouth works him over—lips sucking at his clit, tongue sliding down to push into his hole, tasting him like slick is some rare, perfect thing. The obscene sound of it—wet, messy—makes Suguru’s face burn hotter, but the heat between his legs only pulses harder.

“Alpha—” His voice cracks, thin and needy. His fingers scrabble at the sheets before finding Satoru’s hair, clutching without even thinking.

Satoru doesn’t answer. He devours . Tongue pressing in deep, pulling back to swirl over his clit, back down again, over and over until Suguru’s thighs tremble and the knot in his belly tightens painfully.

He can’t think. Can’t speak. Just small, stuttered sounds spilling from his mouth while his hips twitch against Satoru’s face. He’s so wet that slick is dripping down the curve of his ass, soaking into the sheets, and Satoru laps it up.

The fog in Suguru’s head is almost total now—only sensation left, only Alpha-mouth and Alpha-scent and the raw need clawing up from his core. Every time Satoru’s tongue flicks his clit, his breath catches; every time it pushes deep, his vision whites out.

Then—pressure. Satoru’s fingers, thick and hot, sliding into him alongside his tongue. Curling. Finding that spot that makes Suguru’s whole body jump .

“Ah—!” It bursts out of him, high and helpless.

Satoru grunts, rut-rough, and the pace changes—fingers pistoning in him while his mouth stays locked on his clit. It’s too much. It’s exactly enough. His hips try to jerk away and toward at the same time, caught in the contradiction of overstimulation and desperate want.

Slick squelches around Satoru’s fingers, dripping to his palm. His other hand slides up Suguru’s belly, palm flattening just above where he’s being filled, holding him still while the pressure builds and builds.

“Gonna come for me, Omega?” Satoru’s voice is wrecked, but steady enough to make it a command.

Suguru whimpers, nodding—he can’t not.

“Then do it,” Satoru growls, and his fingers curl hard, mouth sealing over his clit with deep, sucking pulls—

—and the knot inside snaps.

Suguru breaks. Slick gushes around Satoru’s hand, his whole body seizing with the force of it, mouth falling open in a voiceless cry. His vision floods white, every muscle fluttering, hips bucking helplessly against Satoru’s hold.

Satoru doesn’t let up until Suguru’s trembling so hard his ears can’t stay up, tail twitching weakly against the sheets.

“Good Omega,”

Then Suguru’s being lifted—no, gathered . Big hands under his thighs again, another around his back, pulling him off the mattress.  His limp head tips forward until it’s pressed against Satoru’s chest, the broad wall of his pecs solid under his cheek. He can feel the steady thud of Alpha’s heart, the heat coming off him in waves, the scent so thick it’s all he can breathe.

His Omega hums for it. Safe. Held. Owned.

Satoru drops back onto the bed with him in his lap, Suguru straddling him, pliant and soft, legs automatically wrapping around Alpha’s waist. His tail curls tight around Satoru’s hip before he even notices. Fingers—huge, warm—cup the back of his head, holding him there against the rise and fall of that massive chest.

Suguru’s still catching his breath when Satoru moves. One sharp lift of his hips, one hard drag down—

—and Satoru’s cock is inside him. All at once .

The air knocks clean out of Suguru’s lungs. His mouth opens on a soundless gasp before it crumples into a broken whimper. It’s too big, too much , thick heat stretching him wider than he can take but he’s taking it , every heavy inch forcing its way deep. Slick gushes out around the intrusion, soaking Satoru’s rut-hot skin, dripping down his balls.

“Ah—ah—Alpha—” It’s a slur, barely a word, half-swallowed in a hitching breath. His ears flatten hard against his head, tail spasming tight. His whole body feels split open, stuffed so full it aches, so full it flutters around the thick pulse of cock inside him.

“Shh,” Satoru rumbles, big hand still on the back of his head, holding him close so his cheek smears sweat against Alpha’s chest. “Omega can take it. Made for me.”

Suguru shakes his head weakly—he doesn’t know if it’s a denial or just his body sparking at the edges. His voice is wrecked already, all sniffles and half-formed noises. “Too… too much…”

Satoru’s arms tighten, one braced around Suguru’s waist, the other gripping his thigh. His hips roll up, slow but deep , dragging cock out until Suguru feels the ridge of the head catch on his rim before pushing back in to the hilt. The angle punches the breath out of him all over again.

“Not too much,” Satoru growls against his temple. “Exactly enough.”

Suguru can feel the knot there, already swelling thick at the base, pressing at the rim with each thrust. Every movement rocks him in Alpha’s lap, the world nothing but heat and the deep, molten stretch in his belly. Slick is everywhere now, sticky between his thighs, running down to the bed under them.

His hands clutch at Satoru’s shoulders, weak and shaking. He can’t lift his head from Alpha’s chest. Can’t even think about fighting the heavy, slow grind of hips beneath him. Every time Satoru bottoms out, a sharp cry tears from his throat, high and wet.

“Sound so pretty,” Satoru says, rut-thick voice curling around his ear. “Pretty Omega taking all of Alpha’s cock.”

It makes Suguru clench down, makes Satoru grunt like he feels the praise echo in him. His thighs tighten reflexively around Alpha’s waist, trying to pull him deeper, though he’s already as deep as it gets.

The rhythm gets rougher, heavier. Satoru’s cock spears up into him again and again, balls slapping slick against his ass, each thrust forcing him higher in Alpha’s lap before slamming him back down. The knot catches harder now, stretching his rim each time, teasing at being seated.

Suguru’s head tips back, a broken “ah—ah—ah—” spilling from his mouth in time with the thrusts. His eyes roll, breath coming in short, sharp pulls. His Omega’s crying in his chest— serve Alpha, take Alpha, keep Alpha close.

Satoru’s hand drags down from his head to his throat, cupping it—not choking, just holding. The weight of it pins him in place, makes the blood in his veins feel hot.

“You want Alpha’s knot?” It’s not a real question.

Suguru nods before his brain catches up, ears twitching, cheeks hot. “Wan’… Alpha…”

Satoru groans, a low, shuddering sound that vibrates against Suguru’s ribs. His grip tightens on Suguru’s thigh, the other hand holding him by the neck as his hips drive harder, faster, chasing that last push.

And then—he bottoms out deep, knot forcing past the rim in one hot, swelling push, locking them together. Suguru gasps, full-body shiver running from ears to toes, every muscle tightening around the heat flooding into him.

Satoru’s head tips back with a groan so deep it vibrates through Suguru’s chest where they’re pressed together. 

“ Fuck—fuck—fuck, that’s it—shit— ”  His hips grind shallowly, knot grinding deeper, sealing the heat in.

And then—heat floods him.

The first gush of cum is so hot it makes him gasp again, belly tightening, Omega instincts keening at being filled . Then another pulse, and another—thick ropes pouring deep, nowhere to go but deeper, until it feels like it’s spilling into places inside him that aren’t meant to be reached.

Suguru can feel it—so much, so fast—it’s stretching him from the inside, and his body clenches greedily around it, milking every drop. His vision fuzzes at the edges, mouth falling open.

Satoru’s cock is so big it makes a faint outline in Suguru’s lower stomach, and as the cum keeps coming— keeps coming —that outline swells, his belly slowly, visibly pushing out under the sheer volume.

Suguru’s hands go to his stomach on instinct, trembling fingers pressing over the firm curve where Alpha’s knot keeps pumping into him. “Oh—ohhh—”

“Look at that,” Satoru groans, rut-drunk but still watching, always watching. One big palm slides over Suguru’s hands, pressing down just enough to feel the head of his cock buried there. “You’re so full , pretty Omega. My cum— all mine. ”

The praise spears right through him, makes his walls flutter even tighter. 

t’s too much—too much heat, too much fullness, too much Alpha —and then it breaks him.

Suguru comes again with a cry that’s almost a sob. It rips through him, spine bowing, ears flicking weakly before pressing flat against his head. His vision whites out for a second, his slick splattering warm against his stomach and Satoru’s abs.

“ That’s it, ” Satoru growls, hips rolling slow and deep, knot grinding against the inner ring of muscle. “Cum for me again. Milk your Alpha.”

Suguru’s still shaking through the aftershocks, thighs trembling where they’re locked around Satoru’s waist. He’s crying, eyes wet and glassy, tears tracking down his temples into his hair. His Omega’s purring in his chest, drunk on the bond-haze, on the fact that Alpha’s knot is in , Alpha’s cum is in , and he can’t go anywhere, can’t be anywhere except right here in Alpha’s lap.

Satoru leans in, mouth hot and damp against the shell of his ear. “You feel it, don’t you? How deep it is? How full you are?” His hand presses harder on Suguru’s stomach, making him moan. “Not going anywhere, Omega. I’m gonna keep you here till every drop’s inside you.”

Suguru whimpers, voice breaking around it. “Full… Alpha…”

“Yeah, you are.” Satoru’s voice softens, just a little, but the rut-edge is still there. “Good Omega. My Omega.”

Another pulse of cum makes Suguru’s breath hitch. His stomach’s tight now, heavy with it. His hole flutters around the knot, desperate to hold him in.

Satoru just keeps petting his hair, other hand never leaving his belly. “Gonna walk around with it all day tomorrow. Every step you take, you’ll feel me in you. Everyone who looks at you will smell me on you.”

Suguru doesn’t know if that makes him want to hide or preen, but his Omega is already keening inside him for exactly that. Marked. Full. Owned.

Satoru grinds into him once more, slow and deep, just enough to make the knot shift inside him. Suguru gasps and clutches at him, clinging like he’ll fall apart otherwise.

“Full with my pups…” Satoru’s voice is a low, dangerous purr right against his ear, the rut-thickened growl of an Alpha talking to his Omega. “Want that, Omega? Wanna be pregnant?”

Suguru’s eyes are glassy, wet lashes stuck together. His lips part, a tiny sound catching in his throat. He doesn’t even seem to process the words beyond the tone—doesn’t register that Satoru’s actually already come inside him, that the sheer amount filling him right now makes it more than possible.

He just sniffles. Nods.

Satoru’s grin flashes against his skin, sharp and feral. “Yeah? Want Alpha to fuck you full until you’re round with me? Walk around smelling like my seed for everyone to know you’re bred?”

Another nod. It’s pathetic—beautifully pathetic—how fast it comes, like the question hit a nerve wired straight into his Omega core. His ears twitch back, his tail curls tight around Satoru’s thigh, and his hips give this small, desperate roll against the knot.

Satoru feels it and laughs low. “You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to, do you? Just a needy little Omega nodding along because Alpha told you to.”

Suguru whimpers—quiet, pleading—and that’s answer enough. His walls squeeze reflexively, milking the knot, trying to pull more from him.

“Mm, still trying to take more.” Satoru presses his palm harder against the swell in Suguru’s lower stomach. The heat there is obscene, the fullness so solid it pushes back against his hand. “You’re already stuffed, Omega. But maybe I should keep going—keep filling you until there’s no room left for anything but me.”

Suguru shudders, body pliant in his lap. He doesn’t fight when Satoru tilts him back, the bigger man’s arm cradling under his shoulders to keep him open. His head lolls, a fresh tear tracking down his cheek, and his thighs tremble where they’re hooked over Satoru’s hips.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Satoru’s rut makes his voice rich “Being so bred you can’t think about anything else. Omega brain all fogged up with my scent, my cum, my pups.”

Another tear slips. Suguru’s throat works, like he wants to say something, but all that comes out is a tiny, broken, “Alpha…”

Satoru growls softly in reply, rut instincts purring at the title. His hand strokes over Suguru’s side, up to his chest, thumbing lazily over a nipple just to make his Omega squirm.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he says, rocking his hips—slow enough for the knot to grind deep and stretch him just a little more. “All night. Till the heat of me is stuck in you, leaking down your thighs, so deep it takes days before you stop smelling like my cock.”

Suguru’s breath stutters. His cunt clenches again, slick spilling hot around the knot even though there’s nowhere for it to go. The sound he makes is almost a sob, high and helpless.

Satoru dips his head, lips brushing the curve of his ear. “Maybe I will breed you, Omega. Maybe I’ll make sure you can’t go anywhere without everyone knowing who you belong to.”

His fingers are back on Suguru’s belly, rubbing the taut curve there. 

“Already halfway there,” he murmurs, and the pride in his tone is dizzying. “Look at you, so full for me.”

Suguru doesn’t look. Can’t. His eyes are shut, chest heaving in little jerks, every nerve tuned to the way Alpha’s cock is seated so deep inside him, knot keeping them locked. He’s not thinking about the Center’s rules, or what happens after—just the now. Just the heat, the weight, the belonging .

“Good Omega,” Satoru praises again, voice low and molten. “So good for me. So perfect.”

And Suguru—still nodding faintly, still trembling—melts even deeper into the hold, his whole body saying yes even if his mind hasn’t caught up.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since they had sex.

A week since Gojo’s rut burned itself out in less than twenty-four hours, a violent fever that took him whole and spat him out again. Suguru’s body had not obeyed the same clock. His heat had lasted three days. Three days of slick dampening sheets, of muscles wringing themselves tight around nothing, of a brain that whispered Alpha, Alpha, Alpha until the sound of his own thoughts disgusted him.

And Gojo—Gojo had touched him once. Only once, in the bright delirium of rut and heat colliding. After that, the Strongest locked himself away. Closed a door Suguru wasn’t allowed to open. Suguru had woken alone, in a bed that wasn’t even his, not really—because Omegas didn’t own anything. Property couldn’t possess. Property was possessed. The Center had carved that axiom into him.

And Gojo did not touch him.

Instead there was silence punctuated by chewing. The sound drove him mad: Gojo eating on the other side of the partition, chewing calmly, as though Suguru weren’t drowning in need three feet away. Each crunch of cereal, each click of teeth on hard candy felt obscene in its casualness. Gojo’s appetite—limitless, loud, indulgent—filled the room where his presence did not. Suguru pressed his ears flat against his skull to block it out, but he still heard it. Always.

Gojo always left food on the counter. That much remained constant. A plate or a box or a plastic-wrapped bun, offerings in place of words. A stand-in for presence. Sometimes Suguru ate them. Sometimes he didn’t, letting them grow cold, proof that what he wanted wasn’t calories.

He wanted Alpha.

And Suguru hated being clingy.

It was disgusting.

Made his nose crinkle, made him feel bratty, made him want to kick Gojo in the dick just for existing. Alphas were supposed to be scary.

But.

The thing about heats was that they rewrote you. Biology reached up from underneath all the neat little masks and said, Mine now. Once an Omega took a knot, the omega-brain (he spat the term with contempt, even in the privacy of his own thoughts) rewired itself. The Center warned them about it. Not in words—no, words would’ve given it too much humanity—but in protocols. After exposure, Omega will exhibit heightened cling behaviors. After knotting, Omega will seek proximity to the binding Alpha. Neutralize as needed.

Suguru pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, hard, until sparks lit behind the lids. He didn’t remember much of the sex—just fragments blurred by heat and rut and too much need for it to file neatly into memory. The bits that did cling were disobedient: the way Satoru had asked, the pause in his voice when he said, Is this okay? The way Suguru hadn’t been scared. Not like last time.

It had felt good. He scrunched his nose at the thought, irritation burning at the edges of his shame. Good. Pathetic. Betrayal of the self he thought he was building.

And now—now Gojo was avoiding him.

That was the cruelest part. That Gojo, who couldn’t shut up to save his life, who was always leaning too close and talking too loud, now kept his distance. No stupid commentary, no bad candy bribes, no careless shoulder bump in the hall. Just… absence.

And Suguru’s Omega brain—treacherous, pathetic thing—did not approve.

It wanted Alpha. Wanted scent, wanted warmth, wanted reassurance pressed into the back of his neck. It wanted Gojo, and the wanting was so strong it tipped over into grief. Twice, alone in his room, Suguru had cried. Whined into the fabric of Satoru’s shirt. 

The shirt was huge, of course. Everything about Satoru was huge. The fabric hung off Suguru’s shoulders, drowning his frame, sleeves swallowing his hands whole. It smelled like him, even after the wash—sweet, clean, something sharp underneath, all tangled with the impossible ozone-glow that was just Satoru’s existence.

Suguru curled up like that, knees tucked, fists pressed against his eyes under the drowning cotton. Bratty and pathetic, ears twitching with every creak of the floorboards outside as if Satoru might appear and find him like this. And every time he didn’t, Suguru’s chest ached sharper.

Each not-step hurt. He whimpered. Quiet at first, the thin mewl of a slipping hinge. Then again, louder—an involuntary ribbon of sound his body unspooled without consent. Instinct wrenched the axis; reason went dim. By the time he noticed he was standing, he’d already padded to Satoru’s door, bare feet cooling on the lacquered grain.

He knocked. Gentle, then not. The second set of raps trembled, a cadence from some old catechism of need the Center had tried to beat out of him. He pressed his forehead to the wood, the shirt’s oversized shoulder slipping to expose the vulnerable notch of his neck.

“Alpha,” he hated the way his throat shaped the word, “please—”

His claws crept out before he could sheath them with dignity. He scratched—tiny, tentative half-moons at first, then longer strokes, the soft rasp of keratin against varnish. His tail flicked and coiled; his ears flattened; his throat attempted the little pleading trill he’d sworn he didn’t know how to make. The door never opened.

He tried again. Knock, then the small humiliating sound, the one that made him feel five years old. He braced for reprimand that didn’t come. He sank to the floor with his back to the frame and stayed there, shivering in the not-cold.

The hallway clock ticked past midnight. Past two. Past three. He stayed crouched there, nails still tracing over the door, body trembling in the silence.

He told himself he’d wait all night if he had to.

Satoru left at dawn. Suguru heard the soft collapse of space, the slight ozone-sweet pressure that preceded him when he warped out and came back without a sound. Suguru had listened to the creak of the windows, the hum of Infinity dropping in the living room. He knew he was home. He knew Gojo was here. And still the door stayed shut.

Suguru’s claws ached. His knuckles hurt from knocking. His body sagged heavy with exhaustion, but he refused to move. It wasn’t him anymore, not really. It was the instincts spilling out, dragging his dignity through the dirt. He was only a vessel, a pathetic creature whining at a locked door. Crying for Alpha.

Hours passed. His body slumped. His eyelids drooped, but every time they fell he forced them back open. The Center had punished sleep when one was meant to be attentive. He carried that fear still, afraid that if he succumbed, Gojo would come and find him lacking.

So he stayed awake.

He whimpered again, louder this time, the sound tearing out of him without conscious consent. His stomach hurt. His whole body hurt. He had always been alone before. Loneliness was not new. He had lived with its weight, slept beside it, even learned the trick of biting down on it until it went numb.

He didn’t understand why it hurt so much right now.

—Maybe because his body remembered what it meant not to be alone

And then to be left again—

The ache doubled.

He tried to think—tried to order the world into something coherent—but thought frayed and failed him. He felt fuzzy, blurred around the edges, as if he were being unstitched. His Omega brain had slipped the leash of conscious intention; it was driving him now, pulling his body into the motions of supplication without permission.

“Satoru—” his voice cracked, brittle and desperate, “alpha, please. Please.”

His mind blurred further, thought unraveling into sensation. Fuzzy, too fuzzy. His breath stuttered and hitched. Heat pooled wet and humiliating between his thighs, his body slicking itself against his will, betraying him in the most primal way.

He didn’t even want therapy—didn’t want Shoko’s calm voice dissecting him into parts, into pathology. But some part of him still wished for it, wished for someone to name what was happening, to call it by a word smaller than despair.

Instead there was nothing. No Shoko. No Alpha. No one. Just Suguru curled on the floor, a tangle of trembling limbs and damp cotton, eyes swollen, nose raw, crying.

“Alpha,” he whispered again, weaker now, voice threadbare. “Please.”

The syllables broke apart in his mouth, more whimper than word. His forehead pressed harder into the door as if pressure could bridge distance. His claws tapped a rhythm against the wood: let me in, let me in, let me in.

Satoru was honestly surprised he hadn’t gained weight. Like—genuinely baffled. The amount of sugar he put away on a daily basis should’ve left him looking like a bloated marshmallow mascot, but nope. Buff as fuck. Still had the abs. Still had the arms. Still had the eyelashes so unfairly pretty that random old ladies in supermarkets stopped to compliment him. Eyes? Gorgeous. Cock? Hung. The full damn package. 

And yet… sweets. So many sweets. Pancakes drowning in syrup, waffles stacked to the ceiling, parfaits. He was singlehandedly keeping every bakery within a five-block radius in business. Shoko had once told him his blood was probably seventy percent glucose; he had pretended to be offended, but she wasn’t wrong.

Could anyone blame him, though? Sugar made everything easier. Sugar didn’t judge. Sugar didn’t flinch away when he touched it. Sugar didn’t look at him with wide Omega eyes like you’re going to ruin me and I’ll let you.

Ugh.

And okay, yeah, he’d gone to that maid café. Just once. For the novelty. For the waffles shaped like cat paws. For the strawberry parfait. Totally innocent outing. Except it wasn’t, because all the workers were in tight little skirts and stockings and every single one just made his stupid brain conjure Suguru in the same outfit. Suguru in a tiny black skirt, tugging at the hem in irritation, thighs pale and perfect, his stupidly big ass peeking out when he bent even slightly. Satoru had dropped his fork halfway through the parfait and pretended to sneeze to cover the sound of his groan.

He should’ve been excommunicated on the spot.

Because yeah, that was hot. Too hot. But right on the heels of it came the guilt. The gut-deep, sour guilt that burned worse than any sugar crash.

Because he’d forced himself. Twice.

Rut was supposed to be this sacred biological bullshit—natural, unstoppable, blah blah blah. But he knew better. He chose . Even drowning in hormones and instincts, he knew enough to recognize the fear in Suguru’s face, and he hadn’t stopped. He hadn’t been strong enough to pull back. And that was the real joke, wasn’t it? The Strongest, undone by his own biology, twice.

He hadn’t even gotten through a full rut because of it. Couldn’t. Every time the edge started to crest, his brain screamed at him about what he’d done, about Suguru’s silence afterward, about how distressed his Omega had looked. His rut had fizzled out halfway, leaving him raw and unsatisfied and miserable.

He’d ended up fucking his own sock. Four times.

Pathetic.

And he couldn’t stop replaying it. Suguru beneath him. The sound he’d made when Satoru pressed too hard. The way his ears had gone flat. That tiny twitch in his nose, that disgusted little scrunch he couldn’t hide.

Satoru wanted to laugh it off. He always wanted to laugh it off. “Oops, my bad, ha-ha, hormones, Omega you know how it is!” Except Suguru wasn’t laughing. Suguru was whining.

Like—actually whining. Cute, pitiful, kitten noises. Whimpering outside his door

And Satoru—idiot, rut-busted, guilty-as-hell Satoru—stood on the other side of the door with his forehead pressed against it and clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

Because fuck.

Every part of him wanted to throw the door open, scoop Suguru up, wrap him in a giant blanket burrito, and shove a baby bottle of kitten milk at him. Did neko omegas even like kitten milk? Who cared? His brain was already supplying a dumb little fantasy reel of rocking Suguru in his arms until the brat stopped crying, ears twitching, tail curling around his wrist. Ridiculous. Soft. Comfort.

But no. Nope. Couldn’t do that. Shouldn’t do that. Because he’d hurt him. And when you hurt someone, the noble and righteous thing was to back the fuck off.

Right?

Right.

Except Suguru kept making those noises. Those little please Alpha, please let me in noises that made every inch of Satoru’s restraint snap and creak. 

And Satoru couldn’t even bring himself to face him, because what the fuck was he supposed to say?

Sorry for breaking you, twice? Sorry for being the Alpha stereotype they warned you about? Sorry for wanting you so bad it eats me alive?

And God, the stink of his own instincts rising up in answer— protect, comfort, gather, claim —was humiliating.

He wanted to open the door. Wanted to touch him. Wanted to press Suguru’s damp little face into his chest and say, Shhh, Omega, you’re mine, mine to take care of, mine to feed waffles to, mine to carry around in my pocket like a bratty little keychain.

Instead he did nothing.

Because wasn’t that better? Wasn’t that safer? He’d already forced him twice. Twice. Who knew how many invisible cracks that had left? Who knew how many times Suguru had thought, This is the moment he stops pretending and just takes me apart.

The best thing—the responsible thing—was to avoid him. To give him space. To let him breathe without Alpha scent clogging his lungs.

And yet. And yet.

The fear was there too.

The fear that Suguru would run. Again. That he’d pack himself up in silence and vanish, the way he always could, the way he had before.

And Satoru wouldn’t chase. Couldn’t chase.

Because maybe—ugh, it hurt to even think it—maybe Suguru really would be better off with someone else.

Some other Alpha who wasn’t cracked in the head, who didn’t drown in rut guilt, who didn’t fantasize about kitten bottles when his partner was crying at his door. Some steady, boring, oatmeal-flavored Alpha with a mortgage and a Honda Civic, who’d never scare him, never force him, never make him cry unless it was in some tasteful, aftercare-approved way.

The idea made Satoru’s chest squeeze so tight he wanted to laugh until he broke in half. Because—hello? He was the Strongest. The best Alpha on the market. The full buffet. Premium cut, no substitutions. And still he was standing here, forehead to wood, listening to Suguru whine like his heart was breaking, and doing absolutely fucking nothing.

So he did what any responsible Alpha did in a crisis.

He called Yuta.

Yeah. Yuta. The kid. The good kid. 

And, more importantly: the one who’d found Suguru last time he ran.

Because Satoru might be the Strongest, but Suguru hadn’t minded Yuta. Suguru had tolerated him. Maybe even liked him, in that quiet, nose-scrunchy way that passed for affection in Suguru’s brat lexicon. And Yuta was a Beta. Neutral, harmless. Like unsalted oatmeal. Exactly the opposite of rut-crazy, guilt-slicked, sex-stupid Alpha Satoru Gojo.

So yeah. Call Yuta. Hand it off. Delegation. Leadership 101.

His thumb hovered over the call button for a second too long. Because it was humiliating, wasn’t it? Having to outsource his own Omega management.

He hit call anyway.

“Sensei?” Yuta’s voice came tinny through the speaker, soft and earnest. God, even his hello was polite.

“Yuuuutaaa~” Satoru sing-songed, pitching his voice high enough to crack glass just so the guilt didn’t bleed through. “How’s my favorite little relative-ish doing?”

A pause. “Uh. Fine? Are… are you okay?”

“Nope!” Satoru chirped. “I’m in the middle of a crisis.”

The pause stretched. “Is… is this about Suguru-san?”

Of course it was about Suguru. Everything was about Suguru. The kid didn’t even know how true that was. Satoru flopped back against the wall, phone pressed to his ear, door still vibrating faintly with the sound of Omega whines on the other side.

“Ding ding ding. We have a winner. Someone give this boy a gold star.”

Yuta inhaled like he was bracing for a lecture that hadn’t even happened yet. “What happened?”

“What happened,” Satoru repeated, mocking himself, dragging the words out. “What happened is he’s at my door doing his best impression of a dying kitten and I—” his voice cracked on the word, so he covered it with a laugh, “—and I can’t handle it. Like, at all. Like, big nope. Strongest sorcerer in the world, officially defeated by whimpering noises. Please clap.”

Another pause. Yuta’s silence wasn’t like Suguru’s silence. Suguru’s silence had knives in it. Yuta’s silence was soft, like fresh bread. It made it worse.

“You… want me to come over?” Yuta asked finally.

Satoru bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say, I’ve got this, don’t worry, everything’s under control, I’m an amazing Alpha, look at me being amazing. But Suguru’s claws scratched faintly at the wood again and his chest just… folded.

“Yes, please,” Satoru said, “Because apparently I’m the kind of Alpha who calls in the interns to mop up his mess. Congrats, Yuta, you’ve been promoted to emotional support Beta.”

“…Sensei,” Yuta said softly, and Satoru hated how gentle it sounded, “it’s not—”

“Don’t,” Satoru cut him off, “Don’t pity me. Just get your sweet little neutral ass over here before I do something stupid. Like open the door.”

Because opening the door would be stupid. Opening the door meant hands, scent, instinct. Opening the door meant he’d fold Suguru into his chest and never let go. Opening the door meant risking it all again.

And Satoru had already failed him twice.

He wasn’t going for round three.

Suguru reminded him a lot of himself.

The version of Yuta that existed before Gojo-sensei had found him and told him there was a place for him in the world. Before Inumaki-san grinned at him over a rice ball and taught him that silence didn’t have to mean loneliness. Before Maki-san handed him a sword and expected him to fight back.

Before all of that, Yuta had been… like Suguru was now he has seen it in the mirror, back when his reflection frightened him, when all he could think was monster, monster, monster.

That was worse, in some ways. Fear was familiar. Yuta knew the shape of it in the body—the curled shoulders, the fists pressed against eyes too exhausted to keep guard, the little twitch of ears that didn’t miss anything. Suguru’s whimpers carried the same brittle note Rika’s sobs had, the same fragile don’t leave me, don’t hurt me, don’t look too hard or I’ll break.

And maybe that’s why Gojo-sensei had called him. Because Gojo-sensei couldn’t stand that sound. Because Yuta could.

And he was small, actually. Smaller than Yuta expected. Yuta was used to looking up to people: Gojo-sensei with his long, lean lines and towering frame, even Maki-san with her solid, sure presence. But Suguru wasn’t tall at all. Maybe the same height as Yuta. Maybe even shorter.

The Omega Center must have gotten his stats wrong. On the file, they’d listed him a few centimeters taller. Yuta thought about that often—how bureaucracies measured people. put them into boxes and charts. How easy it was to erase someone’s real body, their real self, with just a few careless numbers.

Suguru hadn’t grown much, either. Yuta could tell, in the way his wrists were narrow, his shoulders less broad than they should have been. Malnutrition stunted growth; he’d read that once, in some health pamphlet Shoko-sensei left lying around. 

Leiri-san had told Yuta that once, softly, when he was still trying to understand what the Center had done. She had a way of explaining things plainly, without judgment. 

“He didn’t get enough,” she’d said, simple as that. “Not enough food, not enough affection, not enough freedom.”

Not Gojo-sensei.

Gojo-sensei wouldn’t have said it like that. He wasn’t good at soft truths. He was good at deflection, at hiding tenderness under arrogance. If he’d explained it, he would’ve turned it into a joke, something about “Suguru being stunted because he doesn’t eat his veggies.” Something loud and careless that made you laugh but also made your stomach hurt if you thought about it too long.

Yuta didn’t laugh. He couldn’t. 

Because it wasn’t funny, not really. It wasn’t funny that Suguru had been robbed of years he couldn’t get back. It wasn’t funny that his body had been denied its natural shape, that his growth had been stifled because someone, somewhere, had decided Omegas didn’t deserve to thrive.

Suguru was cute, though. That was the other truth Yuta couldn’t ignore. Cute in a way that made Yuta feel protective and guilty at the same time. He wasn’t supposed to think that. Not about someone in this much pain. But it was true. The way Suguru’s ears flattened when he was upset, the way his nose scrunched when he tried not to cry—it was endearing in the softest, saddest way.

Yuta wanted to help. That was all. That was always all.

He wanted to do for Suguru what Gojo-sensei, Maki-san, Inumaki-san had done for him. Wanted to be steady enough that Suguru could lean on him, wanted to be kind enough that Suguru’s eyes stopped darting 

Yuta knew he wasn’t Alpha. He didn’t have the overwhelming scent, the binding strength. He didn’t have the luxury of commanding safety with biology. But maybe that was better. Maybe what Suguru needed wasn’t another Alpha hovering over him, demanding things he couldn’t give.

Gojo-sensei had left clear instructions over text. He’d rattled them off between emojis and half-serious warnings, but Yuta had read them twice, three times, just to be sure. Food on the table before he asks. Don’t crowd him. Don’t hand him things—leave them where he can take them. Keep the door hinges quiet. Ask, don’t move. Don’t use your scent. Don’t joke about obedience. Don’t touch him without permission.

He didn’t know what had happened before, only that Suguru looked… fragile, in a way that made Yuta’s chest hurt. And now, Suguru was here. At Gojo-sensei’s door. Whimpering. Crying.

Yuta wasn’t great with people. He knew that. He fumbled words, tripped over silences, wanted so badly to comfort that he sometimes made it worse. But… how hard could it be, really? You just had to be gentle. Just had to listen.

“Suguru-san,” he said softly, crouching down so they were closer to the same height. He tried not to loom, tried to keep his hands still on his knees.

Suguru whimpered, nose scrunching, ears twitching flat. Gojo-sensei had said that meant he was being a brat. Yuta didn’t think it looked bratty at all. It looked like someone trying not to cry harder than they already were.

“Hey,” Yuta tried again, quieter this time. His voice always came out a little shaky, but maybe that wasn’t bad. Maybe sounding soft was better than sounding too confident. “It’s just me. Yuta.”

Suguru’s eyes were red, lashes spiky with tears, his fists pressed against the too-long sleeves of Gojo-sensei’s shirt.

“Gojo-sensei’s at work,” Yuta said carefully, remembering the instructions. Don’t make promises, don’t say things like you’re safe now . That was Alpha talk, Gojo-sensei said, and it always backfired. “But… he told me to look after you.”

The words felt clumsy in Yuta’s mouth. Too formal, too stiff. But Suguru’s ears twitched again, not flat this time. A tiny sign of attention.

Yuta risked a little more. “Can I sit out here with you?”

Suguru sniffled, eyes darting away. His nose wrinkled again, and Yuta remembered the text: Wrinkle = brat mode. Don’t scold. Offer something small.

So he added quickly, “I brought snacks. Just in case.”

That earned him another twitch of ears. 

Yuta lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the floor, leaving enough space so Suguru wouldn’t feel cornered. He set the bag down gently, opening the top so the smell of sweet bread and soft mochi drifted out.

“They had melon pan at the bakery,” he said,“I thought… maybe you’d like it. You don’t have to. But it’s there.”

Suguru’s claws flexed once against the fabric of his sleeve. Yuta pretended not to notice. Pretended he wasn’t holding his breath, waiting.

After a long, shaky pause, Suguru shifted. A small shuffle closer. Not much, but enough that his knees brushed the doorframe instead of being pulled away. His nose wrinkled again, but this time Yuta thought maybe it wasn’t bratty. Maybe it was embarrassment.

Yuta smiled, even if it was awkward. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I’m just… here.”

Another sniffle. Suguru’s eyes flicked to the bag, then away. His fists rubbed against his eyes, sleeves damp. He looked so young like that, so unlike the sharp, composed man Yuta had heard stories about.

Yuta wanted to reach out, to put a hand on his shoulder the way Gojo-sensei always did to him, grounding and steady. But he remembered the rules. Don’t touch. Not unless he asks.

So he kept his hands in his lap and said softly, “You don’t have to be alone out here.”

Suguru made another sound—something between a whimper and a mewl, so sharp in his throat it almost sounded like a cat noise. His ears twitched, flat against his dark hair, and his scent curled stronger in the air: Omega, slick-sweet and wanting. Yuta caught it but didn’t really feel anything from it. He was Beta.

“How old are you?” Suguru asked suddenly, voice soft but pointed, nose scrunching as he blinked through damp lashes.

Yuta blinked back, caught off guard. 

“Uh—seventeen. Second year.” He grinned without meaning to, trying to make the air lighter. “What about you?”

Suguru’s mouth twisted. “Twenty-four. But…” His voice faltered, a curl of disdain turning back toward himself. “I don’t know my birthday.”

Yuta’s chest squeezed. He hummed, biting into his bread to keep from blurting out something too pitying.

“That’s sad,” he wanted to say, but he swallowed it down. Instead, he tried something gentler. “Why don’t we make up a birthday? You can pick a day you like, and—”

“You can’t,” Suguru cut in sharply, nose wrinkling in that bratty way Gojo-sensei had warned about. “Omegas aren’t allowed birthdays.”

Yuta froze, chewing slow, because the words didn’t just sound wrong, they felt wrong in his whole body. His hands tightened around the bread, fingers denting the soft crust. Not allowed birthdays. Who said that? The Center? The people who hurt him before? He wanted to snap, to say that’s stupid, you deserve one, but his throat closed around it. He didn’t want to make Suguru flinch more than he already did.

So Yuta bit his lip, swallowed the anger down, and said as lightly as he could, “Well… I think that’s dumb.”

Suguru’s eyes flicked to him, sharp, testing. “Everything’s dumb to Beta’s.”

Yuta scratched the back of his neck. “Not everything. Just the things that hurt people for no reason.”

“Hm.” Suguru made a noise low in his throat, curling tighter into Gojo-sensei’s oversized shirt. It drowned him, swallowing his frame until he looked smaller. His claws scratched faint lines into the wood of the doorframe, bratty even now. “Betas don’t get to decide what’s dumb.”

“That doesn’t sound fair,” Yuta said quietly.

“Life’s not fair.” Suguru’s ears twitched back, his nose scrunched again, like he hated the words even as he said them. “If it was, you’d have been born Alpha. Or I would’ve been born normal.”

The way he said normal made Yuta’s stomach twist. He set the melon pan bag between them, gently,“You’re normal enough to me.”

Suguru’s head jerked, ears twitching, eyes narrowing into a glare that didn’t quite hold because his lashes were still wet. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” Yuta lifted his palms a little, surrender, like he did when Maki glared at him in training. “I mean it. You’re just you. That’s normal.”

Suguru’s tail flicked, restless. “You’re so stupid.”

“Yeah,” Yuta said, smiling faintly because agreeing was easier. “I get that a lot.”

Suguru blinked at him, as if expecting him to argue, and when Yuta didn’t, he made another little cat-sound, this time halfway between annoyance and confusion. His claws retracted, and he pulled the too-long sleeve over his hand again, hiding.

Yuta tore another piece of bread and chewed it slowly, giving Suguru the space to stew without pressure. His chest still buzzed with the wrongness of what Suguru had said, about Omegas not being allowed birthdays. The Center had stripped so much from him, even something as simple as a day to call his own. It made Yuta’s throat ache with anger. But he didn’t let it out. His job wasn’t to rage for Suguru—it was to sit here, steady, until Suguru believed he could exist without punishment.

After a long silence, Suguru muttered, “If I had a birthday… I’d want cake.”

Yuta’s heart jumped, but he kept his voice calm. “What kind?”

Suguru’s nose wrinkled again, brattier this time, as if daring Yuta to laugh. “Chocolate. With stupid strawberries on top.”

Yuta grinned, bright, unable to help it. “Then that’s the one. Next time, I’ll get you one.”

Suguru sniffled, glaring sideways as if the words offended him.  

“Alpha always eats cake and stuff. S’gross,” he muttered, lips pushed into a pout. 

Yuta stifled a laugh, biting the inside of his cheek so it wouldn’t slip out too loud.  

“Gojo-sensei does eat a lot, huh?” he said carefully.

“Always eating,” Suguru muttered, curling further into the drowning shirt, sleeves hiding his hands. His ears twitched. His tail flicked against the doorframe. “Crunch, crunch, chewing all the time. He’s disgusting.”

Yuta’s throat bobbed. He didn’t think Suguru really meant it, not in the way it sounded. More like… it was easier to be bratty, to complain, than to admit he wanted the same freedom.

So Yuta nodded. “Yeah. He is kinda like that.”

Suguru blinked at him, suspicious, as if he hadn’t expected agreement. His pout deepened, and he huffed. 

“I don’t get why people think he’s so great. He’s loud. He’s… he’s—stupid. Always acting like things are fine when they’re not. Makes jokes when I…” His words stuttered, breaking into silence. His fists clenched under the fabric.

Yuta looked down at his bread, tore it slowly, giving Suguru the space to stop or continue. When Suguru didn’t go on, Yuta spoke instead. 

“I have a friend. Well… yeah, a friend. His name’s Miguel.” He smiled faintly, remembering. “He took me to Africa for a while. They have really good food there. Stuff I’d never tried before.”

Suguru’s nose scrunched again, this time not bratty so much as skeptical. “…Africa?”

“Yeah.” Yuta laughed a little. “It was different. Hotter, louder. Everything felt big. But the food was amazing. I thought Gojo-sensei ate a lot, but Miguel—” He made a small, sheepish gesture, spreading his hands. “He made me eat all the time. Said I was too skinny. Every day, something new. I didn’t even know half the names.”

Suguru tilted his head, lashes lowering as if he was trying not to show interest. “…Like what.”

Yuta brightened. “Stews, mostly. Thick, with meat and beans and spices. And there were these little fried breads—you’d tear them open and dip them—and sweet things, too. Candied fruits. Strong tea.”

For a second—just a second—Suguru nodded. Small, almost imperceptible, but Yuta caught it. His chest lifted. He felt like he was actually getting somewhere. A real conversation. Suguru wasn’t glaring or telling him to shut up or calling him stupid. He was… listening. Maybe even picturing it.

Click.

The door handle turned.

Yuta froze, bread halfway to his mouth, when Gojo-sensei strolled in sunglasses in place, mouth full of some sarcastic quip that never made it out—because the second Suguru smelled him, everything changed.

Omega.

It was so strong Yuta, a Beta, actually had to raise a sleeve over his nose. He wasn’t supposed to be affected; biology had excused him from that particular tug. And still, the weight of it pressed down. Heavy. Hungry. Vulnerable.

Suguru whimpered.

The sound was small and broken, but it made Yuta’s chest ache. It was like a kitten’s cry, desperate for warmth, for something only one person could give.

And then Suguru moved.

His body reacted before thought, pure Omega instinct overriding everything else. He bolted—no hesitation, no pause for dignity, just a rush forward—and collided with Gojo-sensei’s chest. His arms wrapped tight around the Alpha’s middle, fingers clawing into fabric. His face buried itself against him.

“...Suguru—” Yuta started, half-rising, but his voice faltered.

Because he could see it. See the shift. Omega instincts overriding every layer of Suguru’s carefully lacquered composure. His body knew before his mind caught up. His body had already decided: Alpha. Safe. Stay.

Gojo-sensei blinked, caught off guard for once. His mouth opened—some dumb comment probably queued up—but Suguru made another pitiful sound, almost crying, and Satoru’s long arms went stiff around him like he didn’t know where to put them.

“Ah,” Yuta thought, swallowing hard.

Suguru rubbed his face against Satoru’s chest like a starving cat, whining, little claws clutching at the fabric of his shirt. His tail lashed once, twice, before curling tight around Gojo’s hip.

Gojo-sensei looked down at the mess of black hair against him, then up at Yuta. For a second—just a second—Yuta saw something raw flicker across his face. Not his usual grin, not his easy arrogance. Something closer to panic.

Yuta had no idea what to do.

“Suguru, sweetheart,” Gojo-sensei said at last, “I have to go to my room.”

Suguru whimpered harder, nose scrunching into the shirt, whole body leaning forward as if he could merge with him by force.

Yuta’s brows pinched. He didn’t understand why Gojo-sensei was keeping his hands off. Why his tone was so careful, so clipped. Anyone could see what Suguru wanted. Needed. Every scrap of him screamed for Alpha, cried for it, instincts clawing through the thin veneer of control. Even Yuta, a Beta, could feel it.

And then it clicked.

Biology.

Yuta’s cheeks went red as the realization hit. Omegas who’d been knotted… they got clingy. Restless. The Center pamphlets he’d skimmed once used bland medical words, but he remembered the gist. Bonding cycles, hormonal echoes, desperate proximity-seeking. Their bodies latched on long after their brains tried to catch up.

Suguru was drowning in it now, clinging because his Omega instincts had no off switch. And Gojo-sensei—Gojo-sensei clearly didn’t know that. Or worse, he knew and was terrified of it.

Yuta shifted, throat dry. His Beta biology spared him the pull, the sharp scent that must’ve been screaming at Satoru. But he could imagine it. Could imagine how hard it must be to feel Suguru shaking against him, smell Omega rich and fertile in the air, and not—

He cut the thought off, ashamed it even brushed through his mind.

“Gojo-sensei,” Yuta said carefully, “maybe…” 

He trailed off, because what was he supposed to suggest? Maybe hug him? Maybe hold him? None of those felt like words he had the right to say.

Satoru’s mouth tugged into a half-smile, brittle at the edges. “Don’t worry, Yuta-kun. I got it handled.”

But he didn’t. Yuta could see it plain as daylight. His arms hovered his shoulders tight, his voice too high. If this was “handled,” then Suguru wouldn’t be clinging so desperately, making those awful little sounds.

“Alpha,” Suguru whimpered, muffled. His claws flexed against the shirt, catching threads. He didn’t sound bratty anymore. He sounded raw.

Yuta swallowed, chest heavy.

This wasn’t something he could fix. Not with food, not with soft words, not with sitting nearby. This was biology, instincts roaring louder than reason. Suguru wanted Alpha. Wanted Gojo. And Gojo was pretending he didn’t hear.

It made Yuta’s stomach knot in a way he couldn’t name.

He thought of Miguel again, of food placed in front of him when he was too tired to ask. He thought of warmth pressed into his hands until he stopped shaking. That was care. That was how you soothed a body that didn’t know how to stop crying. You didn’t leave it alone. You didn’t make it wait at a door.

Yuta pressed the bread bag closed with trembling fingers. 

“Sensei…” His voice was quiet, but firm, surprising even himself. “If you leave him like this, it’s just going to hurt worse.”

Gojo-sensei grinned. That big, lazy grin that usually made people roll their eyes, sunglasses glinting in the low light. “Baa, you worry too much, Yuta-kun. Go run along. I’ve got this handled. Promise.”

Handled.

Yuta’s eyes darted to Suguru, clinging tighter, nose pressed so hard into Satoru’s chest that the fabric was damp. His tail was coiled around the Alpha’s hip, fists trembling as though he thought if he let go, he’d be thrown away. His body said the opposite of handled.

“Sensei…” Yuta tried again, softer this time. “He doesn’t look—”

“Alpha,” Suguru whined, higher this time, ears flat, nose scrunching. He rubbed his face harder against the fabric, as if burying himself deeper would erase everything else in the room. His tail lashed once before wrapping itself tight around Gojo’s hip again.

“See?” Gojo’s grin widened, sharp and bright. “Totally fine. Just a little Omega temper tantrum.”

Suguru’s claws flexed. 

“Not—tantrum,” he muttered, muffled and bratty, voice thick with the edge of a sob.

Yuta glanced between them, heart hammering. “Sensei…”

Gojo tilted his head, eyeing him from over his shades. “What’s with the face? You don’t trust me?”

Yuta swallowed hard. That wasn’t it. He trusted Gojo-sensei with his life, always would. But the thing pressed into his chest wasn’t fear of strength—it was fear of neglect. Suguru needed more than someone to stand there pretending nothing was wrong. He needed warmth. Presence. Not the deflection of jokes.

He tried again. “He’s not throwing a tantrum. He’s—” 

Yuta cut himself off before the word clingy left his mouth. That would sound cruel, and it wasn’t. Suguru wasn’t bratty right now because he wanted to be difficult. His body was dragging him into it.

Gojo just leaned lazily against the doorframe, even with Suguru stuck to him “Yuta-kun. You’re adorable, really. But you don’t know everything.”

Yuta flinched, cheeks heating. He hated how small the words made him feel, but he forced himself to sit straighter. 

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I know what I see.”

Finally, Gojo sighed. Loud, dramatic,  

“Fiiine. You caught me. Yuta-kun wins this round.” He bent, just barely, lowering a hand to hover at Suguru’s back before finally—finally—resting it there.

The effect was instant. Suguru sagged, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. The sound he made wasn’t bratty or angry or demanding—it was relief.

Yuta blinked hard, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

“See?” Gojo smirked, looking over at him. “Handled.”

Yuta didn’t smile back. Not fully. Because he wasn’t convinced it was handled at all.

Satoru called Shoko because he had no idea what the fuck to do. None. Zero. Nada. Zip.

Yuta-kun had just left him alone—granted, okay, yes, Satoru told him to leave, but he didn’t mean seriously ! It was supposed to be a ha-ha little joke, “Go run along, Yuta-kun, sensei’s got it handled,” except he absolutely did not have it handled. Because now his Omega was stuck to him. Stuck . 

“Shoko,” he hissed into the phone, balancing it between ear and shoulder while Suguru clawed at his thigh. “I need—uh. I need medical advice.”

Her sigh came sharp and flat. “If this is another one of your candy headaches—”

“No! No-no-no, not that. Worse. Way worse. Code Red. Code… Omega.”

“…Satoru.”

“Shoko, he’s stuck to me.” He tried to shake his leg gently, but Suguru just latched tighter, claws pricking through fabric. “Like a parasite. A beautiful, tragic parasite. His nose is scrunching. He’s whining. And—and there’s slick . Everywhere. So much slick. I’m d.y.i.n.g.”

On cue, Suguru whimpered into his hip, grinding faintly, little sounds spilling out of his throat like he didn’t even know he was making them. His ears twitched back, his tail curling tighter around Satoru’s calf.

Satoru’s chest squeezed. Fuck. Fuck. He didn’t deserve this.

“I hurt him,” he blurted, too fast. “I hurt him, Shoko, and now he’s here, and he’s—he’s—look at him! No, wait, you can’t look at him because you’re on the phone, but if you could, you’d be like, ‘wow, Gojo, you’re the biggest asshole alive, and also that Omega is about to drown in his own instincts, and it’s all your fault.’”

On the other end, Shoko was maddeningly quiet.

“Say something,” he begged.

“What do you want me to say? You’re the one who can’t keep it in your pants.”

“That’s—okay, ouch. That’s mean. True, but mean.” He rubbed a hand down his face, groaning. “I didn’t even make it through a full rut. I was so freaked out I ended up jerking off in my sock, like a teenager. Four times, Shoko. Four. Times. I’m pathetic.”

Suguru tugged at his shirt again, whining, voice muffled. “Alpha…”

Satoru’s heart cracked straight down the middle. He crouched, phone slipping, hand twitching like he wanted to touch but not daring. Suguru’s eyes were glassy, lashes wet, nose all scrunched up in that bratty way, except this wasn’t bratty.

He swallowed hard, throat dry. 

“He’s crying,” he muttered into the phone, softer now. “Crying for me. After everything. Why the fuck would he cry for me?”

“Because you’re his Alpha, idiot.”

“I don’t want to be!” His voice cracked, too loud. He bit his lip, lowering it quick before Suguru startled. “I don’t want to be. I don’t… I can’t. Not when I hurt him. I’m supposed to protect him, Shoko. I’m supposed to—” He cut himself off, pressing his forehead into his palm.

Suguru whimpered again, climbing higher, arms looping clumsy around Satoru’s waist now, slick scent overwhelming the room. Satoru’s cock twitched, traitorous, and he cursed under his breath, hating himself for it.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

On the line, Shoko sighed, cigarette smoke audible even through static. “Then start with the basics. Stop running. He’s clinging because you keep pulling away. Hold him, Satoru. Just—hold him.”

Satoru’s hands hovered, shaking. Touch him? After everything? After slick and heat and rut and that night? After the way Suguru had looked at him, broken?

He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

But Suguru whimpered again, broken little “Alpha” spilling out, face pressed into his stomach.

“Fuck, Shoko,” he hissed into the phone, pinching it tight against his ear, “why is he doing this?”

A long, static-laced drag came through the line, followed by her sigh, heavy and unimpressed. “Because you probably knotted him with your big stupid dick, that’s why. And you know what happens when an Alpha knots an Omega. Surely.”

Satoru froze. His stomach dropped.

“…ha?”

Another sigh, this one somehow louder. “Don’t play dumb with me, Satoru.”

He could hear her rolling her eyes. He scrambled anyway. “I’m not playing dumb! I’m—uh—strategically confused!”

Suguru whimpered again, clutching tighter, claws pricking through his shirt. Satoru flinched, nearly dropping the phone. His voice pitched up high, desperate. “He won’t let go, Shoko!”

“What you should’ve done was keep it in your pants during rut.”

He half-covered the receiver, whispering down at the messy black hair mashed against his stomach. “Don’t listen to her, Suguru, she’s just bitter because she smokes too much—ow, claws, okay, sorry, never mind—” He hissed into the phone again. “What do you mean ‘you know what happens’? I don’t know what happens! I skipped that class!”

There was silence. Then: “You skipped that class?”

“I had candy!”

Shoko groaned so loudly he had to pull the phone away from his ear. “You’re the worst Alpha I’ve ever met.”

“I know! ” He tugged at his blindfold with his free hand, wanting to rip it off and hide under it all at once. “I’m the Strongest, Shoko, but not in, like, the ways that matter. He’s—look at him!” He gestured wildly, forgetting Shoko couldn’t see through the phone. “Actually, don’t look at him, because you’ll judge me harder, but he’s all scrunchy-nosed and sticky and crying for me, and it’s because of my dick, apparently, and I just—I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t hurt him again.”

Suguru mewled, small and pathetic, rubbing his cheek harder into his stomach. His tail curled tight, possessive, wrapping around his thigh now.

Shoko’s voice cut through, dry as ever. “Here’s the biology lesson you slept through: once you knot an Omega, their body assumes you’re their Alpha. Instinct makes them clingy. Needy. Restless without you. Their brain doesn’t get a vote. Congratulations. You signed up without reading the fine print.”

“…oh.”

“Oh?”

“Like—‘oh wow,’ not ‘oh I knew that,’” he blurted. “Wait, so you’re telling me this—this whining, this grabbing, this—fucking squelch situation happening at my kneecaps—this is normal ?”

“As normal as anything is with you.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Shoko, I can’t be someone’s Alpha. I break things! I touch stuff and it explodes! You’ve seen me try to cook instant ramen! And now you’re telling me I broke him with my dick ?”

Suguru whimpered again, whispering something that sounded like “please,” and Satoru’s chest clenched so hard he almost dropped the phone.

“You didn’t break him,” Shoko said flatly. “You just don’t know how to hold him without feeling guilty about it.”

“That’s—” He bit his tongue. The worst part was she was right. She was always right.

“Here’s my advice,” she went on. “Stop whining, stop calling me, and actually touch your Omega before he spirals harder.”

“But—”

Click.

The line went dead.

Satoru stared at his phone. “Betrayed by my only friend,” he muttered, sagging against the wall.

Suguru whimpered again, and Satoru looked down at him, at the mess of black hair, the tear-streaked face pressed stubbornly into his stomach. His claws were trembling where they held on.

He swallowed hard, guilt clawing at his throat. Then, finally, finally, he lowered his hand—gentle, careful—and stroked it once through Suguru’s hair.

Suguru melted with a shuddering sigh.

Satoru breathed in—and instantly regretted it.

Because Suguru smelled like waffles.

Waffles . Warm, golden, syrup-dripping waffles, the kind Satoru would absolutely demolish at a diner at 2 a.m. 

“Oh my god,” he muttered, staring at the crown of Suguru’s head. “You smell like breakfast. You’re killing me.”

Suguru whimpered against his stomach, claws flexing tighter, as if punishing him for speaking.

“Right, right, shut up, I got it,” Satoru whispered, shifting his weight. He adjusted his pants quickly because—yeah, well, biology doesn’t give a shit about guilt or self-loathing, and his Omega smelling like fresh waffles was basically the cruelest torture on Earth. His cock twitched against the fabric, and he silently threatened it with death. Down, bad dog. No treats for you.

So he tried something else, because clearly he was losing the upper hand. He scratched lightly behind Suguru’s ear. A test. Just a little scratch-scratch.

And Suguru purred .

He purred.

Satoru nearly fell over. His whole body jerked. His brain blue-screened. What the actual fuck.

He yanked his hand back  “Nope. Nope-nope-nope. What the fuck was that. Did you just—you—you purred? ”

Except—fuck. Except it wasn’t defective. It was cute. Too cute. Cute in a way that hurt. Cute in a way that made him want to bury his face in black hair and never come up for air. Suguru shifted, claws curling into his shirt. His ears twitched, and the purr deepened when Satoru’s hand—traitorous, disobedient hand—drifted back to scratch the spot again.

His cock twitched again, and he clapped a hand over it like that would somehow fix the situation. It didn’t. Nothing was fixed. He was broken, Suguru was broken, everything was broken. And still Suguru purred, rubbing against him, tiny brat nose scrunched like he was annoyed Satoru wasn’t scratching fast enough.

That’s how it happened. That’s how they ended up here again—because Satoru, idiot Alpha, couldn’t keep his fucking hands to himself when Suguru made those sounds. He shoved Suguru onto the mattress and pressed him down, hips already rutting forward, cock slick and needy and too big for anyone sane but Suguru fit him anyway, Suguru always fit him, Suguru opened around him. He was drilling into him before his brain caught up, rut snapping at his spine, hands locking around Suguru’s waist. Too thin. Way too thin. His fingers nearly touched when he wrapped around, and that thought sliced through the haze: feed him. Feed him after. Don’t forget.

But right now—fuck. Right now Suguru was whining beneath him, all mewls and soft hitches of breath, his body clenching so tight around Satoru’s cock it bordered on unbearable. Every thrust made Suguru arch, black hair sticking to his face, pale throat bared when his head lolled back. And Satoru groaned, low and raw, grinding deeper, chasing something he didn’t even bother to name. 

“Suguru,” he gasped, voice cracking, “fuck—omega, you’re—shit—”

Suguru whimpered louder, hands clutching uselessly at the sheets because Satoru had him pinned open, legs folded, chest trembling. His noises were soft, bratty, desperate, the perfect counterpoint to Satoru’s ragged grunts. Every sound was fuel. Every sound was proof that Suguru hadn’t left him yet, that Suguru was still here letting him in, that he hadn’t destroyed everything beyond repair.

And then the heat broke. Satoru slammed in one last time, deep as his body would go, knotting himself on a long moan as his cock jerked and spilled, hot and endless, filling Suguru until he gasped at the burn.

Satoru’s vision blurred white for a second. His jaw hung open. His whole body arched. When it ended he collapsed forward, chest against Suguru’s, both of them sticky, panting, skin clinging together.

He should’ve pulled back. He should’ve taken care. But Suguru was already moving, sliding off the bed before Satoru could even register it, dropping to his knees in front of him. Big purple eyes, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.

“No—hey—” Satoru’s hand twitched, not sure if he was trying to stop him or pull his hair back. Didn’t matter. Suguru already had his cock in his mouth.

And god— fuck. The sight of it almost undid Satoru entirely. Suguru’s lips stretched around him, cheeks hollowing, throat working as he swallowed down the whole length. No hesitation. No fear. Just obedience wrapped in hunger, devotion wrapped in filth.

“Jesus Christ,” Satoru choked, head tipping back, one hand clawing into Suguru’s hair despite himself. 

Suguru gagged once when the head hit his throat, then adjusted, soft mewls vibrating around the shaft. He looked up through his lashes, and the sight punched air out of Satoru’s lungs. His Omega, bound to him, ruined by him, still taking him whole and swallowing.

Satoru’s hips twitched forward helplessly. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that—shit, Suguru, I’ll—”

Suguru’s tongue slid along the underside, pressure perfect, and Satoru broke. Came again, groaning through his teeth, holding Suguru’s head steady while hot spurts of come hit his throat. Suguru swallowed it down like he’d been waiting for it all along, throat working greedily, purring around Satoru’s cock as if the act itself was enough to satisfy him.

When Satoru finally pulled back, his cock slipping free with a wet pop, Suguru licked his lips. Pink tongue, shiny mouth, smug little hum like he hadn’t just deepthroated the most hung alpha cock in Tokyo without gagging once.

Fuck. The fuck.

Suguru had just swallowed his load like it was candy and was sitting there looking all pleased with himself while—oh god—cum was leaking right out of his pussy, sliding down pale thighs, wet and shiny. Satoru felt his brain short-circuit. Slick plus come plus bratty little hum? Dead. Gone.

“Sweetheart,” Satoru rasped, voice hoarse, hand twitching like he didn’t know whether to cover Suguru’s mouth or drag him back down on his cock again, “wanna bath?”

Suguru tilted his head, ears twitching back, face all pouty like the suggestion itself was offensive. A bath. A perfectly reasonable, responsible idea. Except Satoru could already hear Suguru gearing up to brat about it.

Sure enough—“Alpha just wants to look at me naked again,” Suguru muttered, scrunching his nose, purring low in his chest like a cat refusing to be picked up.

Satoru laughed, sharp and a little desperate. 

“Baby, I don’t gotta want to. You’re already naked. And leaking. And—” He groaned, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye. “Shit. How do I even clean this up? Do I—what, scoop it out with a spoon? Dab you with paper towels? Run you through a car wash?”

Suguru hissed through his teeth like that was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard, which, fine, maybe it was. Satoru’s brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders when he had his Omega sitting on the floor, thighs sticky, hole dripping with come that was his .

So he did the only thing that made sense. Scooped Suguru right off the floor into his arms. 

“Bath time,” he announced, already moving.

Suguru yelped, claws curling against Satoru’s chest, kicking uselessly. “Nooo, Alpha, I don’t want—”

“You’re gonna get washed. End of story.”

The tub was one of those deep ones, half the reason Satoru chose this stupidly expensive dorm. He twisted the tap with one hand, still holding Suguru with the other.

Suguru whined, ears flattened, tail flicking. 

“You’re treating me like a kitten,” he accused, nose wrinkled.

“‘Cause you’re acting like one,” Satoru shot back, lowering him into the rising steam. “Bratty little stray. Gotta scrub you clean so you don’t get fleas.”

Suguru’s eyes narrowed into slits, mouth open like he was about to bite back, but the hot water hit him and his whole body melted . The fight drained out in a rush of steam and he slumped against the porcelain, hair floating in dark waves around him. He purred. Loudly.

Satoru’s chest squeezed. His cock twitched again because apparently his dick was broken and thought bathing his Omega was the hottest shit on the planet. Which—okay, maybe it was. Suguru half-dazed, wet, flushed from heat, lashes stuck together with steam. Cute. Gorgeous. Ruined. All his.

“See?” Satoru crouched at the tub’s edge, rolling his sleeves up, grabbing the little washcloth. “Not so bad, huh?” 

He dipped the cloth, wrung it out, started wiping down Suguru’s sticky thighs, gentle, careful. His Omega shivered, hissed, but didn’t pull away.

The sight of come streaking down pale skin, diluted in water, made Satoru’s breath catch. Mine. Mine. Mine.

He bit his lip hard to keep from saying it out loud.

Suguru cracked one eye open, bratty even half-asleep. “You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” Satoru said shamelessly, swiping higher, up to his belly, his chest. “I’m allowed. You’re mine.”

Suguru scrunched his nose, turning his head away, but the tips of his ears went pink. Purr still rumbling.

Satoru grinned, leaning close, whispering against damp hair, “Next time, I’m buying you little bath toys. Rubber duckies. Floating dolphins. Whole fleet of ships. Gonna line them up and make you captain, Suguru the Great.”

Suguru made a disgusted noise, but his tail flicked once, pleased, and he let Satoru keep washing him.

“Wanna eat after this?” Satoru asked, casual, wringing out the washcloth, dragging it down a pale thigh again just because he could. Soap bubbles, steam, Omega purring like a cat who’d finally resigned himself to the bath. Cute as hell.

Suguru blinked. Frowned. “How much?”

Satoru blinked back. The fuck? “How much what?”

“How much?” Suguru repeated, slower, as if Satoru was the idiot (which, okay, maybe fair). “Calories.”

Oh.

The cloth slipped from Satoru’s hand and plopped into the water. Calories. He said it like it was a normal question. Like people asked that shit all the time. Like Satoru wasn’t instantly thrown into an internal screaming match with himself because—what the fuck? When had Suguru ever asked that? Never. Not once.

“The fuck?” Satoru blurted, a little louder than he meant. “Calories? Baby, what are you, a nutritionist now?”

Suguru’s nose wrinkled, defensive little scrunch. “It matters.”

Satoru’s throat went dry. He sat back on his heels, cloth hanging limp from his hand, bubbles dripping. He wanted to laugh it off, that was the instinct, make some stupid joke— yeah, sure, one thousand calories of sugar, doctor’s orders! —but his chest ached too much.

“Hey,” he tried softer, leaning in, brushing damp bangs out of Suguru’s eyes. “Since when do you care about that shit? You never asked me that before.”

Suguru looked away, ears twitching back, tail swishing slow. He muttered, “The Center always counted.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

The Center. Those bastards. He pictured it too easily: clipboards, numbers, Suguru in some sterile room with cold hands measuring and weighing and judging. His Omega turned into a set of stats, not a person. No wonder he was asking now.

Satoru forced a grin anyway, even though it felt cracked around the edges. 

“Well lucky for you, I’m a calorie expert.” He tapped his temple. “Got the numbers right here. Bath time burns, like, what—ten thousand? So you’re already in the negative. Which means you get infinite pancakes.”

Suguru’s eyes flicked back to him, suspicious, but not entirely unconvinced. “That’s not how it works.”

“Sure it is. Strongest’s rules. I decree it.” He waved the washcloth, nearly splashing himself in the face with suds. “Besides, baby, you think I’m counting when you purr like that? You think I’m thinking about numbers when I’ve got you dripping in my bathtub?”

Suguru flushed faintly, ears twitching forward this time. But he still mumbled, “You eat too much.”

“Damn right I do,” Satoru said instantly. “You ever see me shirtless? Premium grade A wagyu beef, baby. All these abs? Sponsored by waffles. Sponsored by parfaits. Sponsored by three cakes a day. ” He leaned closer, grinning like an idiot even as his heart twisted. “Tell you what—next time you count my calories instead. Bet you’ll lose track before we even get through lunch.”

Suguru huffed, little breath through his nose that sounded almost like a laugh. Almost.

Satoru soaked it up anyway. “There we go. That’s better. Way cuter when you’re bratty about me instead of yourself.” He set the washcloth aside, reaching in to cup Suguru’s cheek, thumb stroking damp skin. His voice softened without meaning to. “Suguru, listen. You don’t ever gotta ask me that. About calories. About numbers. If you’re hungry, I feed you. That’s the rule. That’s all.”

Suguru’s lashes lowered, his mouth pressing into a line. He didn’t answer right away, and that silence hurt more than any snark.

So Satoru filled it, because of course he did. “And hey, if anyone from that Center tries to tell you otherwise, I’ll—” He snapped his teeth with a grin too sharp. “Bite their heads off. Crunch, crunch. One serving of bureaucrat, zero calories, very filling.”

That earned him a real noise, a muffled giggle against his palm. Suguru shoved weakly at his chest. “Idiot.”

“Yup,” Satoru said proudly, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth.

Suguru grunted, immediately turning his face away like he’d just been kissed by a cockroach instead of the most handsome Alpha alive. Brat. But his fists stayed knotted in Satoru’s shirt, fabric soaked through, like he was trying to drown him by sheer clinginess. Even in the bath. Even with water up to his chest.

“You’re holding on kinda tight there, sweetheart,” Satoru teased, shifting the washcloth to one hand so he could peel Suguru’s fingers back a little. No luck. His Omega growled low, ears flat, tail flicking like a pissed-off cat. Still didn’t let go.

Satoru’s heart did something stupid in his ribcage, like it always did. He ignored it, because duh, he was totally composed and definitely not about to melt into bathwater.

“Alright, fine,” he sighed, “hold on all you want. Not like I mind.” 

He dipped the cloth, squeezed warm water over Suguru’s shoulders, over his chest, slow. He tried to keep it casual, not make a thing of it. Tried.

Then came the part where he had to be a good Alpha and clean lower down. Which, yeah, meant there.

He slid the cloth under the water, between Suguru’s thighs, carefully, gently. He’d barely brushed before—

Hiss.

Suguru jerked, ears shooting scarlet, whole body stiffening. His tail splashed once against the water and his nails dug into Satoru’s shirt harder.

“Hey, hey, woah,” Satoru said fast, raising both hands “Just cleaning, promise. No funny business.”

Suguru’s glare shot sideways, all sharp lashes and red ears and brattiness. “Liar.”

“Excuse me?” Satoru put on his most wounded expression. “I’ll have you know I’m the most trustworthy Alpha in the prefecture. Top reviews. Five stars. Excellent hygiene ratings.”

“You’re thinking gross things,” Suguru muttered, tail thumping against porcelain.

“Okay, yeah, maybe a little gross,” Satoru admitted, grinning. “But c’mon, look at you—”

Another hiss, sharper. Ears twitching flat.

“Alright, alright!” Satoru laughed nervously, backing off a fraction, cloth dripping suds into the water. “No looking, no gross thoughts, scout’s honor.” 

He made a dumb salute with the hand not being clung to death with. “Just Alpha maintenance, babe. Like taking a car to the wash. Vroom vroom.”

Suguru’s nose wrinkled, disgusted. “You’re not funny.”

“Wrong. I’m hilarious.” Satoru pressed a kiss to the top of his wet hair anyway, because he could, and Suguru didn’t pull away this time. Score one for him. “Also, you’re still holding onto me, so clearly you don’t hate me that much.”

Suguru muttered something under his breath that sounded like stupid Alpha.

Satoru chose to translate it as handsome Alpha, please kiss me more. Same difference.

He tried again with the cloth, slower this time, murmuring stupid commentary as he went like it was all just another chore. “Cleaning the knee. Sparkly knee. Five yen extra for the deluxe package. Now the thigh—ohhh silky thighs, very high-quality. And now, the deluxe omega pussy wash, available only to premium subscribers—”

Another hiss, louder this time. Suguru’s ears were crimson, and he kicked water at him.

Satoru snorted as the splash hit his chest. 

“Okay, okay, I deserved that one.” He leaned down, lips brushing Suguru’s ear, voice low and sing-song. “But you’re cute when you hiss. You know that, right?”

Suguru made another disgusted sound, but his claws stayed tangled in Satoru’s shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. His face was turned stubbornly toward the tiled wall, but his whole body trembled just a little, soft and clingy under the bratty surface.

Satoru’s grin softened without him meaning to. He let the washcloth float, slid one hand up Suguru’s back, steady and careful. 

“It’s alright,” he murmured, just for him. “I’ll be gentle. I’ll always be gentle, promise.”

Suguru huffed, cheeks puffed like some pouty cat, but he let Satoru finish cleaning him without another hiss. Victory. Kind of. Not that it made him any less bratty when Satoru tried to scoop him up afterward. One second Satoru was thinking wow, my Omega is so clingy, so cute, so— and the next he was doubled over with a well-aimed knee to the balls.

“Fuck—” he wheezed, stars in his vision. Deserved. Definitely deserved.

“Idiot,” Suguru muttered, ears flicking. But he didn’t let go of Satoru’s shirt, even as he stomped himself down the hall, towel trailing.

Satoru stood there clutching his poor abused dick, grinning anyway. Because Suguru hadn’t let go. Because maybe this wouldn’t be all bad. Maybe he hadn’t broken him completely.

A few weeks later.

Suguru was sick.

“Sweetheart,” Satoru said, crouched by the bed, palm pressing against Suguru’s too-hot forehead. “You’re burning up.”

Suguru cracked one eye open. Red. Glossy. He pouted. “Stop staring.”

Before Satoru could even roll out some smartass reply— boom . Suguru gagged, turned his head, and the sound that followed made Satoru’s stomach drop.

“Oh, shit—”

It was a little past six a.m., sun barely peeking over the curtains, and instead of getting his morning cuddles, Satoru was holding Suguru upright while his Omega puked miserably into the bucket he barely managed to snatch in time. 

Suguru groaned, face pale, tail limp. He spat weakly, shoulders trembling.

“Ugh,” Satoru winced in sympathy, rubbing his back in slow circles. “Not your best look, babe. I mean, I’ve seen you covered in blood and you still managed to look hot, but this? Yikes.”

Suguru glared sideways at him, watery-eyed, pouty even with puke breath. “Shut up.”

“Aw, there’s my brat. Still has energy to insult me—he’ll live.” Satoru forced a grin, but his chest was tight, too tight. He hated this. Hated watching him gag again, body jerking.

He slid the bucket closer, one hand steady at the back of Suguru’s neck, the other smoothing through his tangled hair. “Easy, sweetheart. Get it out.”

When it was finally over—when Suguru slumped forward with a pathetic little whine—Satoru grabbed tissues, wiped his mouth gently, then kissed his clammy temple even though it tasted like salt and sweat. 

“Gross,” he muttered, “but worth it. You owe me a kiss later when you don’t smell like…uh. That.”

Suguru groaned, curling up miserably, still clutching the hem of Satoru’s shirt. And that’s when the moodiness kicked in.

Because apparently being sick didn’t just mean fever and nausea—it meant Brat Suguru dialed up to eleven.

“No more water,” he muttered when Satoru held out a glass.

“You literally haven’t had any yet.”

“Don’t want it.”

“You’ll dehydrate.”

“Good.”

Satoru pinched the bridge of his nose, but the corner of his mouth tugged up. Even half-dead, Suguru still managed to sass him. “Sweetheart, you can’t just give up on basic biology. That’s not how it works.”

Suguru yanked the blanket over his head. “Hate you.”

Satoru tugged it right back down, leaning in until his forehead bumped against Suguru’s. “Yeah, but you’re still holding my shirt, so checkmate.”

Suguru’s pout deepened. His ears twitched, tail giving the weakest little flick before going limp again. Pathetic. Cute. Heartbreaking. Satoru kissed his cheek anyway.

“Look,” Satoru said, softer this time, “I know it sucks. You feel like crap. You wanna be left alone to die dramatically in bed. But too bad, ‘cause you’re mine, and I’m not letting you keel over ‘cause you’re too stubborn to sip some water.”

Suguru groaned again, muffled into the pillow.

So Satoru did what any responsible Alpha-slash-world’s-best-boyfriend would do: he grabbed the straw, stuck it in the glass, and shoved it gently against Suguru’s lips. “C’mon. Just a sip. For me? Pretty please? Strongest Alpha voice asking nicely here.”

Suguru scowled, but his lips parted just enough to take a reluctant sip. One sip. Then he bared his teeth like Satoru had poisoned him.

“There,” Satoru said brightly, “see? Not so bad. You didn’t combust. Proud of you, babe.”

Another groan. Another roll onto his side, away from Satoru. Still tugging his shirt.

Satoru stayed crouched there, chin propped on his arm, watching him breathe shallow and miserable. He tried to laugh, he really did, but it didn’t quite reach. His Omega was sick and pouty and fragile, and Satoru’s chest hurt in ways he hated admitting.

So he brushed Suguru’s bangs back again, kissed the sweat-damp forehead, and whispered: “You’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

Suguru’s only reply was a grumpy little huff. But his hand fisted tighter in Satoru’s shirt—

—and then promptly hurled all over it .

Surely the strongest sorcerer in existence did not just get absolutely destroyed by Omega stomach acid at six a.m. on a Tuesday.

Except, yeah. He totally did.

“Ah, fuck—” Satoru gagged, jerking back a millisecond too late. The damage was done. His shirt clung wet and foul-smelling against his chest. His nose wrinkled so hard it practically folded in half. “Suguruuuuuuu, nooo.”

And Suguru?

The bastard smirked .

Glossy red eyes, cheeks flushed from fever, mouth still tasting like puke—and he smirked at him.

“You think this is funny?” Satoru demanded, trying not to inhale. He tugged the shirt away from his body, as if distance could magically erase the stench. “You think covering your Alpha in— ugh —projectile omega gut soup is hilarious ?”

In one motion he peeled the shirt over his head, wadding it into a ball and tossing it with the precision of a baseball pitcher into the corner laundry basket. Direct hit.

Suguru caught his wrist mid-wipe, lips curling. “You don’t like mess?”

“Oh-ho-ho.” Satoru crouched down so their faces were level, towel still in hand. “Suguru, babe. I can handle blood, guts, curses, interdimensional horror nightmares. But bodily fluids?” He gagged again for emphasis. “Top of the no-fly list.”

“Even mine?” Suguru asked, voice a little too innocent.

Satoru squinted. “Don’t you dare weaponize your own puke against me.”

Too late—Suguru’s smug little brat nose scrunched up, tail flicking once with glee.

What a smug brat, Satoru thought, pouting. His poor, abused, puke-covered self. 

“Okay, okay, that’s it.” He stood up, stretching his long limbs dramatically. “I’ll be back in a sec—I’m calling Shoko. The goddess of diagnosis. She’ll—”

But before he could even reach for his phone, a weak whine tugged at his ears. Then fingers curled into his belt loop, tugging pathetically, followed by a tiny shake of the head.

Satoru froze mid-step, glancing down.

Suguru lay there, flushed and sweaty, pupils blown huge, lips pressed in a pout. His hand clung to Satoru’s hip, refusing to let go. Shaky headshake. Ears twitching back, brat nose scrunched, mouthing a silent no.

Satoru’s chest squeezed. Hard.

“Aw, sweetheart…” His grin wobbled, softer than he meant it to be. He crouched again, letting his knees knock the floor, and pried Suguru’s hand gently off his belt loop—only for Suguru to whimper louder and grab him again.

“Don’t wanna,” Suguru croaked, eyes glossy. “No Shoko.”

“No Shoko?” Satoru repeated, exaggerating his pout. “You sure? Shoko’s the best. Five-star service. She’ll fix you up in no time. No more puke ambushes. No more fever face. Just back to my smug brat with the cute little scrunched nose—” He reached down and booped it with his finger. “Boop.”

Suguru wrinkled it harder. “Don’t wanna.”

“You’re so needy.” Satoru sighed like he was put upon, but his free hand slid into sweaty bangs anyway, brushing them back from Suguru’s forehead. Damn, he was still burning up. “Y’know, you’re lucky I like needy. If you were some random Omega clinging to me while leaking stomach acid, I’d have teleported to another country already.”

Suguru gave him a look that clearly said liar.

“Okay, fine,” Satoru admitted, dropping his chin to rest on the edge of the mattress. “Maybe I wouldn’t. But only ‘cause you’re cute.”

With one hand, he brushed sweaty bangs off Suguru’s forehead again. With the other, he fished his phone out of his pocket, thumb already scrolling for Shoko’s contact.

Suguru’s eyes cracked open, red and hazy but still sharp enough to catch the move. And before Satoru could so much as blink— wham. A bare foot jabbed straight into his shin.

“OW—!” Satoru yelped, dropping his phone onto the sheets with a dramatic flail. “What the fuck, Suguru?!”

Suguru just lay there, looking smug as hell despite the fever. Tail twitching, brat nose wrinkled, pout curling into the faintest smirk.

“You little—” Satoru rubbed his shin with both hands, exaggerated wince plastered across his face. “You’re supposed to be sick! Fragile! Weak! A helpless, pitiful Omega clinging to his Alpha for survival!”

Another half-smirk. “Guess I’m not that helpless.”

“You think you’re so tough, huh?” Satoru poked his side, gentle but teasing. “Even half-dead with a fever, you’re still kicking me around like a ragdoll. That hurt, y’know! I’m delicate!”

“Strongest,” Suguru rasped, smirking wider. “Not delicate.”

“Excuse me—?” Satoru clutched his chest, gasping in mock offense. “I’ll have you know being the Strongest and delicate aren’t mutually exclusive! Ever seen eyelashes this pretty? That’s called fragility, sweetheart.”

Suguru groaned, rolling his eyes, but his hand still reached out blindly to fist in Satoru’s shirt again. Even sick, even bratty, he didn’t let go.

Satoru softened immediately, grin breaking through his fake pouting. God, he was weak. Weak, weak, weak. Strongest sorcerer alive, taken out in one hit by his fever-sweaty, brat Omega with bedhead and glossy red eyes.

He picked his phone back up, waving it dramatically. “Okay but—seriously, you kicked me! That means you forfeit your right to vote. Which means I’m calling Shoko. ”

Suguru’s ears pinned back, tail twitching, nose scrunching in bratty protest. He rasped, “No Shoko.”

“Yeah yeah,” Satoru sang, already scrolling for her contact, “you say that, but your Alpha knows best. And your Alpha says—” he pressed the call button with flourish, “— Shoko time! ”

Suguru groaned, dramatic for someone already sick, but he didn’t pull away. He just buried his face deeper into Satoru’s shirt as the line rang.

Ring. Ring. Ring—

“What do you want, Gojo?” Shoko’s voice. Flat, tired, like she already regretted existing in a universe where Satoru had her number.

Satoru perked up instantly, grin spreading wide enough to split his face. “Shoooooko! My favorite doctor! My favorite smoker! My favorite person who hasn’t blocked my number yet!”

“Mmhm.” He could hear the lighter click. Exhale of smoke. “What’d you break this time?”

Suguru made another grunt into the pillow. Didn’t lift his head, didn’t look at the phone, but Satoru noticed the way his ears twitched, caught the faint shift of his shoulders. He didn’t hate Shoko anymore. Not like before. He’d warmed up to her, even if he’d never admit it out loud. But trauma was trauma, and doctors were doctors, and Suguru still went stiff every time medical anything came up.

Satoru rolled his eyes skyward. “Fine, fine, you got me. It’s Suguru.”

There was a pause on the other end. Not long, but heavy enough that Satoru felt it in his gut. “What about him?”

“He’s, uh.” Satoru glanced down at the lump of brat still clinging to his shirt. Suguru peeked up at him with glassy, defiant eyes, “He’s kinda burning up. Vomiting. Pouty. Brattier than usual, if you can believe it.”

On the other end of the line, Shoko hummed. Not her usual ugh, Gojo, why are you wasting my time hum. This was sharper, more clinical. “When does he puke?” she asked.

“Huh?” Satoru blinked, “What do you mean when ? He pukes when he pukes! Right, Suguru?”

Suguru grunted, rolling his eyes weakly into Satoru’s chest like don’t drag me into your idiocy. His ears twitched.

On the line, Shoko exhaled smoke. “Timing matters, Gojo. Morning? Night? After meals?”

“Uhh…” Satoru frowned, scratching at the back of his neck. “Morning, I guess? But he also puked after I brought him soup last night. And also—” he glanced down at Suguru, who was glaring faintly, red-cheeked, glassy-eyed—“like, five minutes ago. Onto me.”

Shoko snorted. “Good aim.”

“Not funny!” Satoru whined. “My shirt is ruined. ”

Suguru made a smug little noise against his chest. Smug. Even sick, he was smug. Satoru sighed and kissed the top of his damp hair anyway because, well, Omega. His Omega.

Shoko hummed again. “And the fever?”

“Bad. Real bad. He’s burning up. Look, Sho-chan, I’ve had flus before, okay? This doesn’t feel like that. He’s too…ugh, I dunno. Too fragile.” The word tumbled out before he could stop it, heavy and wrong. His Suguru was never fragile. But looking at him now—sweaty, trembling, eyes glassy—made something in Satoru’s chest clench tight.

“…Fragile,” Shoko repeated, amused and unimpressed. “Gojo, you’re ridiculous.”

“I am not ridiculous! I’m the Strongest!” He puffed up automatically, then immediately slumped again, dragging his cheek along Suguru’s hot forehead with a sigh. “But I’m also bad at puke duty. You should come over.”

“Mmhm,” Shoko muttered, not committing. “Any other symptoms?”

“Uh.” Satoru counted on his fingers, eyes darting to the lump in his arms. “Moody. Clingy. Extra bratty. Doesn’t wanna eat anything unless it’s waffles, which I told him is not an acceptable recovery food—”

Suguru swatted at his ribs without lifting his head, tail flicking hard enough to slap Satoru’s leg.

“Ow! See? Violent. And his nose scrunches every time I try to give him water. Also he keeps getting tired at, like, the weirdest times. He slept all afternoon yesterday then was up at, like, 3AM trying to crawl into my bed—” Satoru stopped himself. Oops. Overshare.

Suguru pinched his shirt in retaliation, face redder than his fever could explain.

Shoko was silent for a beat too long. Satoru frowned. “…What?”

“Nothing,” Shoko said smoothly. Too smoothly. “Could just be a virus. Keep him hydrated. I’ll swing by later.”

Satoru narrowed his eyes, even though she couldn’t see. “You’re hiding something.”

“Paranoid much?” Another drag of her cigarette “Relax. It’s probably just the flu” 

“ Probably?”

Suguru groaned, tugging on his shirt like he wanted the phone call to end already. His nose wrinkled, bratty half delirious. 

Satoru exhaled, dragging a hand down his face “Alright, fine. Fluids, rest bland food. Got it. But you better come fast, Sho-chan. My omega looks like death warmed over” He glanced down at Suguru who was glaring up at him weakly but still gripping his shirt. Satoru’s grin returned, soft “A cute death warmed over, but still” 

Click. Shoko hung up without a goodbye. Typical. 

Satoru tucked the phone away, huffed. 

“She’s hiding something,” he muttered under his breath.

He looked down again, at Suguru’s flushed face, his glossy eyes, the pout still curling his lips even as his body trembled with fever. 

“You hiding something too, sweetheart?” he teased, brushing his bangs back again.

Suguru’s only response was to scowl and promptly throw up into the bucket Satoru had shoved there earlier.

Satoru grimaced. “Okay, ew. That’s not an answer. But I’ll take it as: ‘Alpha, I’m a brat and I like keeping secrets.’”

By the time Shoko finally dragged her nicotine-soaked ass over, Satoru was halfway through a tower of waffles and pancakes that would’ve made a competitive eater cry.

Six waffles. Six pancakes. Syrup dribbled down his fingers, but whatever, he’d lick it later. He was just cutting into his next stack—blueberry, extra butter, don’t judge—when the door opened without knocking.

Shoko with her usual unimpressed grimace.

Her eyes landed first on Suguru—pale, curled up in bed, sweaty bangs plastered to his forehead, tail limp. Then they flicked to Satoru. Then to the plate.

“You disgust me,” she said flatly.

Satoru pointed his fork at her, affronted. “ Excuse you, this is a highly nutritious caregiving breakfast. Omega nursing fuel. Do you know how many calories I burn worrying?”

“Zero,” she said, deadpan, and without hesitation reached over and plucked a pancake right off his plate.

“ Heeeyyy! ” Satoru yelped, eyes wide. “That was mine! That was my butter pancake!”

Shoko took a slow, deliberate bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Exhaled smoke right into his face. “Too sweet. Figures.”

Satoru flailed his arms “Unbelievable! You come into my house, steal my pancake, insult my cooking taste —”

“Box mix isn’t cooking,” she interrupted, already walking past him toward the couch.

“—AND you ignore my suffering. Wow. Worst doctor award goes to…” He waved his fork at her dramatically. “…Shoko Ieiri!”

“Mmhm,” Shoko muttered, crouching by the couch.

Suguru peeked up at her, eyes hazy, ears twitching weakly. His nose scrunched—not the bratty kind this time, but the wary kind, like a cat watching someone with a spray bottle.

“Relax,” Shoko said, voice even. “I’m not gonna stick you with anything. Just checking.”

Suguru huffed, glaring at her. But he didn’t pull away when she brushed his bangs back and pressed cool fingers against his forehead.

Satoru, meanwhile, shoveled down another pancake. Totally not hovering. Totally not watching Suguru’s every twitch. Totally not gripping his fork in case Shoko did something brat-Suguru didn’t like.

“Well?” he asked around a mouthful. “Give me the bad news, doc. Is it Omega flu? Heat poisoning? Some kind of curse tummy bug?”

Shoko didn’t answer right away. She was frowning—just barely, but enough for Satoru to catch it. Her hand lingered against Suguru’s temple a moment longer than usual.

Satoru’s stomach dropped.

“Shoko,” he said, more serious now. “What?”

She sighed, cigarette dangling. “Mm. He’s sick, sure. But I do wanna run some other tests.”

Suguru groaned, face back in the couch. “No tests.”

“No choice,” Shoko said calmly. “If you want me to help, you let me check. Otherwise, keep puking on Gojo’s shirts. Up to you.”

Satoru winced, remembering the smell. “Other tests?”

She stared at him like he was supposed to know. Like she’d just said the sky is blue and he was the idiot asking what color?

He spread his hands innocently, fork still clutched in one “Uh, hello? Not a doctor here. Strongest sorcerer, yes. Sexiest man alive, obviously. Amateur nutritionist, depending on who you ask. But medical diagnostics? Nah. Not my lane, Sho-chan. You gotta use smaller words for me.”

Shoko exhaled smoke in his face. “You really don’t know.”

“...Should I?”

“Yes.”

Satoru tilted his head, chewing his lip. He looked down at Suguru, who was watching this entire exchange from under his lashes, still curled on the couch. His hand fisted stubbornly in Satoru’s sleeve, nose scrunched in that brat way that said don’t you dare let her near me.

“What are we testing for?” Satoru asked finally.

Shoko didn’t answer right away. She flicked ash into an empty mug, crossed her arms, and studied Suguru with that clinical squint of hers. Suguru huffed, ears flattening, tail flicking against the blanket.

Satoru felt his chest squeeze. Okay. Fine. He’d bite. “...Sho-chan. You’re scaring my Omega.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she said calmly.

“You exist, that’s enough,” Satoru shot back, brushing a damp strand of hair from Suguru’s forehead. “Look at him. He’s trembling. He hates this.”

“He hated you too,” Shoko said, dry as bone. “Didn’t stop you.”

Low blow. He flinched, even if he deserved it. Suguru made a tiny sound—half-whine, half-pout—and curled closer against his side like he’d take Satoru over doctors any day.

Satoru smoothed a palm down his back, murmuring, “Shhh. ‘S okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. No one’s sticking you with needles yet.”

Shoko’s gaze sharpened. “‘Yet’ is doing a lot of work in that sentence.”

Satoru rolled his eyes skyward. “Okay, fine, what’s the big mystery?”

“It’s not that,” she said flatly.

“Then what?”

“Symptoms line up. Fever, nausea, vomiting, appetite change, mood swings.” She ticked them off on her fingers, smoke curling around her head. “Doesn’t take a genius.”

Satoru squinted. “...Sounds like every single time Suguru has to deal with me for more than five minutes.”

Suguru actually laughed, weak but genuine, muffled against his chest.

Shoko didn’t laugh.

“...Okay,” Satoru said slowly. “Not that, then.” He tried again. “Flu?”

“No.”

“Food poisoning?”

“No.”

“Elders finally cursed him for being hotter than the entire council combined?”

“Gojo.”

He shut up. Because she’d said his name like that. The serious way. The you really don’t get it, do you? way.

And for the first time in the conversation, he felt a flicker of nerves.

“Other tests,” he repeated softly.

Shoko actually looked annoyed now, which was rare. She’d seen him pull stunts that would send most people into early retirement, and usually she handled it with the patience of a saint—or, more accurately, the apathy of a chain-smoker. But right now? Right now she was frowning, actually frowning.

“Gojo,” she said flatly, “did you nut in him?”

Satoru blinked. “…Huh?”

“Answer the question.”

His grin snapped back in full force. “Ohhh, Sho-chan, I didn’t know you were into that kind of talk. If you wanted a threesome you could’ve just—”

WHACK.

Her foot connected with his shin under the table. Hard.

“OW—! What the fuck, woman!” Satoru yelped, clutching his leg “First Suguru kicks me, now you?! Do I have a sign on me that says kick the Strongest? That’s abuse! That’s harassment! That’s—”

“Answer the question,” Shoko repeated, completely unfazed.

Suguru, meanwhile, had lifted his head just long enough to glare at him with fever-glossy eyes before hiding back in his shirt again, ears twitching pink. Great. Perfect. Now he looked guilty, which only made Satoru’s stomach twist harder.

“Uh,” Satoru stalled, rubbing his shin. “Define ‘nut.’”

Shoko’s stare could’ve burned through walls.

“…Okay, fine, jeez.” He waved one hand. “Look, it’s not like I planned it, alright? I was in rut, he was in heat—”

“Pathetic,” Suguru mumbled, voice muffled but sharp.

Satoru winced. “—and yeah, okay, maybe it happened. Once. Or twice. Ish. But it’s not like—”

Shoko cut him off, voice clipped. “Gojo.”

He shut his mouth. Because she’d said his name in that doctor voice. The one that brooked zero argument.

“Unprotected?” she pressed.

Satoru grinned. Couldn’t help it. Flashy, shameless, as always. “I mean… yeah. I came in his pussy.”

Suguru hissed, ears going pink. He buried his face against Satoru’s side, voice muffled “Don’t say it like that.”

“What?!” Satoru looked between them, throwing one hand in the air while the other stroked Suguru’s damp hair “That’s literally what happened! Accuracy is important, Sho-chan, don’t you want me to be detailed? Specific? Thorough?”

“Gojo,” Shoko interrupted again, “How many times.”

“...Times?”

“How many times did you ‘nut in him.’” She made air quotes without looking up from lighting another cigarette.

Satoru scratched his jaw, sheepish grin wobbling but refusing to die. “…Uh. Once.”

Suguru’s brat nose scrunched.

“Twice?”

Suguru pinched him again.

“...Fine. More like… a lot.”

Suguru’s voice, muffled into his shirt but venomous, came through: “ A lot a lot. ”

Satoru coughed into his fist. “Details, details.”

Shoko groaned, rubbing her temple. “Unbelievable. Strongest sorcerer, weakest condom education.”

“Hey!” He jabbed his fork in her direction, scandalized. “I resent that. I know how condoms work! You put ‘em on bananas in high school. I saw the demo. I was just… busy during rut, okay? You can’t expect me to think straight when my Omega’s all—” He cut himself off, glanced down at Suguru, who was very deliberately not looking at him, ears flat and pink. “—uh. Yeah. You know.”

Silence.

Shoko took a long drag on her cigarette, exhaled slow, and smirked. 

“Well,” she said lightly, “time to deal with a baby then. Because Suguru is clearly pregnant.”

Chapter Text

A father.

Satoru—a father.

No fucking way. It had to be a joke. Yeah, okay, sure, maybe he came in Suguru’s pussy—what, once? twice? four times? (nope, don’t count, counting makes it worse, because the number is a lot and his brain starts screaming math equals responsibility equals diapers and holy shit he can’t do this)—but that doesn’t mean anything, right? People nut all the time and don’t end up with a baby, right? Right?? Except Shoko never says things like that unless she’s serious, and Suguru’s ears had flicked, and his nose scrunched up, and oh god he’s going to vomit, not Suguru this time, him, Gojo Satoru, the Strongest, the unbeatable, the unshakable, floored not by curses or prison realms or assassination attempts but by the mental image of himself holding some stupid, tiny, squalling, ugly—no, not ugly, no, probably not ugly, because Suguru is so, so pretty, too pretty, sometimes too much, soft cheeks and brat nose and lashes too long for someone that pouty, and okay fine, yeah, if you mixed that with him, Gojo Satoru, objectively hot, six-pack abs, eyelashes for days, cock of legend (literally, Suguru’s pussy knows)—then maybe, maybe the kid wouldn’t be ugly. Cute, even. Dangerous, actually, so dangerous.

But—no. No no no.

He wasn’t ready. He was not ready. Absolutely not. No fucking way.

He barely managed to take care of himself.

He could take down special grade curses half-asleep, blindfold crooked, hands sticky with cotton candy, but this? A child? A baby that breathes and eats and poops and screams and needs him? He can hardly take care of himself. He can hardly take care of Suguru. He forgets to do laundry until he runs out of socks, he lives on waffles and pancakes, he’s left Suguru crying outside his door because he was too much of a coward to hold him, and now—now he’s supposed to be a dad?

No fucking way.

Except Suguru’s hand was there, fisted in his shirt, hot palm through thin cotton, refusing to let go even when he tried to laugh it off. He wanted to shout: “Take it back! Say you’re kidding!” He wanted to rewind two weeks, three weeks, rut pounding so hard he couldn’t think straight, Suguru’s body wrapped around him, slick everywhere, moans in his ears—yeah, okay, maybe he came a lot, maybe more than “a lot,” maybe so much he lost count, but that’s not his fault, that’s biology, that’s instinct, that’s rut, that’s the universe conspiring. Not his fault. Not his.

Except.

Suguru.

Suguru curled into him now, fevered, sick, pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. His Omega, his brat, his partner, bound in ways neither of them could name out loud, carrying his child. Suguru sniffled and oh, oh shit, Suguru was crying. Crying. And not the bratty whiny kind, not the pouting nose-scrunch with claws out on his door, but the soft awful broken little sound and made his own eyes sting because fuck, he doesn’t do crying. He does smirking and joking and eating twelve waffles before a mission. He doesn’t do Suguru crying.

“What the hell,” he muttered, too soft, scooping him up anyway, all instinct. His arms knew what to do even if his brain didn’t, rocking him against his chest, big stupid hands rubbing circles.

“Hey hey, baby, you’re okay, you’re okay, I got you,” words tumbling out, clumsy, desperate, because maybe if he says them enough it’ll be true.

But yeah, he wanted to cry too, wanted to bawl into Suguru’s shoulder and scream he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t enough, he would ruin this the way he ruins everything. Shoko leaned against the doorframe, cigarette unlit, eyes sharp but mouth tugged with the faintest ghost of amusement. She looked like she was seeing something she never thought she’d see, the Strongest reduced to a mess with a crying Omega in his arms, and maybe she found Suguru cute too, who wouldn’t, glossy lashes wet, nose all pink, tiny fists clutching Satoru’s shirt.

“Shut up,” he snapped at her even though she hadn’t said a word, because her silence was louder than any comment.

“I didn’t say anything,” she deadpanned.

“You thought something,” he accused, clutching Suguru tighter as Suguru hiccupped against his neck. “You thought, ‘wow Gojo’s a fucking idiot who can’t handle a baby,’ and maybe you’re right but don’t think it so loud, Sho-chan, he can hear you, Omegas are sensitive, their ears twitch at mean thoughts.”

Suguru made a wet little noise, not quite laugh, not quite sob, somewhere between, and Satoru thought oh god, kill me now, I’d do anything to never hear him sound like that again. He kissed his temple, fever-slick hair tickling his lips, murmured nonsense, “shhh, sweetheart, don’t cry, it’s okay, Alpha’s here, I’ll feed you pancakes forever, I’ll buy you ten birthdays even if you say Omegas aren’t allowed them, I’ll—fuck I’ll do anything, just stop crying—”

Suguru’s tears only got worse, fat drops soaking his shirt, and Satoru rocked harder, bouncing him a little like he was already practicing for the kid, oh fuck the kid, his kid, their kid, his chest tightened and he almost burst out laughing, hysterical, because what the fuck did he know about being a father? He couldn’t even keep a cactus alive. Plants withered when he walked into the room. He was a curse to houseplants. And now he was supposed to grow a child?

No—no. He wasn’t stupid. He may act like a dumbass, may say dumbass things, eat six waffles and a box of mochi for dinner, but he wasn’t fucking stupid. The higher ups weren’t gonna clap and say congrats Gojo-kun, proud of you, raise your brat Omega however you like. They’d want everything. Papers. Proof. Control. They’d yank Suguru away to a breeding ward and lock him behind seals. They’d salivate at the thought of Gojo bloodline secured in an heir, of leverage pressed against the Strongest through the tiny body of a child.

Head of clan. Father. Prisoner in his own fucking name.

He pictured it too clearly: long wooden desks, endless scrolls, sycophants bowing their necks, his family clawing at him with their greedy hands. Suguru in some tight little kimono, sucking his cock under the desk while he stamped documents, because yeah, Satoru’s brain was a degenerate cesspool and of course it would go there, cock twitching at the mental picture. Down, boy. Down. Not the time. He adjusted Suguru higher in his arms, swallowed down the lust because lust was easier than fear, and locked eyes with Shoko across the room.

“Shoko,” he said, too serious for his usual tone. “You can’t tell the crusty bastards, yet”

She arched a brow, unimpressed as always. “That’s not really your call, Gojo.”

“It’s exactly my call,” he snapped, harsher than intended, rocking Suguru as his brat whined and buried his face deeper into his chest, damp nose rubbing his shirt. “He’s mine. This baby—fuck, even saying it feels insane—but it’s mine too. And if they find out, they’ll… they’ll take everything.”

Suguru made a tiny noise, muffled, bratty even in misery. His ears flicked, annoyed, like he was listening despite being half out of it. His claws flexed against Satoru’s chest, catching fabric. Marking him. Always marking him, even like this.

“See?” Satoru babbled, clinging to the sound, “He agrees. He doesn’t want those fossils poking their wrinkly noses in either. This is ours, Sho-chan. Mine and his. You’re not telling a soul.”

“You’re panicking,” she said coolly, though her eyes softened, just a flicker.

“Damn right I am!” he exploded, kissing Suguru’s damp temple, clutching him tighter because if he let go, the whole world would tear him away. “I’m panicking because—for once—it’s not about me. It’s not my reputation, my power, my throne. It’s him. Look at him! He’s crying and sick and pregnant and still being a brat about it, and I—I can’t—” his throat clogged, words jagged, breaking apart, “I can’t lose him again. Not to them. Not to anyone.”

Suguru sniffled, shifted, whispered something incomprehensible into his shirt.

Satoru breathed hard, forehead pressed to the crown of his Omega’s hair, voice a rasping promise: “I’ll kill them before I let them touch you. I’ll burn the clan, I’ll tear down the jujutsu world, I’ll—fuck—I’ll do it all if I have to. But you’re mine. You’re both mine. And no one’s stealing that from me.”

Shoko didn’t reply. Just lit her cigarette, blew smoke toward the ceiling, and said dryly: “You better learn how to change diapers before you start burning down the system.”

Yeahhhhh hiding that from the Higher-Ups was harder than he thought, because, ya know, Satoru Gojo had no fucking clue how to take care of a pregnant Omega. Especially not one like Suguru, who had apparently decided that physical detachment was a crime punishable by tears. Suguru refused—flat-out refused—to let go of him. Not for a second. Not even to piss. Satoru had lost count of the number of times he’d gone into the bathroom with Suguru wrapped around him.

Arms looped around his neck, legs hooked tight around his waist, chin digging into his shoulder. A barnacle. A bratty, pretty barnacle. He whined if Satoru tried to peel him off. He bit, too. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make a point. So Satoru carried him everywhere, because what else could he do? Let him cry? Ha. As if.

It might’ve been cute if not for the circumstances. Suguru’s little huffs, the way his nose scrunched up when Satoru teased him, the occasional purr against his throat when he scratched behind his ears—it was disgustingly adorable. Except they weren’t just two idiots in love anymore. They were two idiots with a baby, and Satoru wasn’t equipped for that level of responsibility.

And, worse, the Higher-Ups were starting to notice.

Because Satoru Gojo wasn’t doing missions anymore. And that was suspicious.

Suguru refused to let go long enough for him to even pretend to work. Every time he tried to leave, Suguru whimpered, claws out, pupils wide, ears flat, tail flicking like some bratty cat. He begged. He cried. He threw actual tantrums. And Satoru—yeah, he was the Strongest, sure, but he was also weak. Weak to Suguru’s stupid watery eyes and stupid soft voice and stupid everything. He couldn’t walk away. Not again.

So he stayed. He stayed and rocked him and fed him and carried him. He carried his pregnant Omega on his back through the halls of Jujutsu Tech, Suguru pouting into his neck, legs locked around his waist. Still. He couldn’t avoid the elders forever. They were vultures, circling. Suspicious. Already smelling something was off. (Fishy bastards. And yeah, he was pretty sure they literally smelled fishy. Old paper, ink, and bad seafood. Gross.)

Megumi had started glaring at him, too. Which, ouch. His precious adopted kid giving him that sharp, judgmental “you’re an irresponsible parent” look. Like he had any right! Okay, sure, technically Megumi was right, because Satoru had absolutely abandoned his duties. He hadn’t taught a proper class in weeks. Hadn’t drilled the kids, hadn’t given them guidance. Instead, he’d been dumping missions on them. But still. He wasn’t blind. The Higher-Ups were suspicious, and suspicion was a dangerous thing when it came from men with power and too much time to dig. If they caught on—if they realized what Suguru was carrying—it wouldn’t just be about Satoru anymore. They’d drag Suguru into it. They’d drag the baby.

And even if Satoru hadn’t known Suguru that long—what, two months? barely that?—it didn’t matter. Two months, one heat, one knot, one mistake (or miracle, depending on who you asked) and suddenly Suguru was his. His Omega, his brat, his responsibility. His baby now, too. Didn’t matter that Satoru didn’t even know half the basics. Like—did Suguru even like TV? Did he even know what TV was? Did he know his own birthday? Favorite food? Favorite color? Fuck if Satoru knew.

So, yeah. He sat there on the couch, Suguru on his lap, clingy as ever—attention-whore-bitchy-cat curling into him—Satoru leaned down, chin nudging against the curve of his shoulder, and asked the dumbest, most normal question he could think of: “So. What d’you wanna watch?”

Suguru blinked up at him. Blinked. Then scrunched his nose, ears twitching back. “Watch?”

Oh. Right.

The Center probably didn’t even let him watch TV.

God, how many things had Suguru been denied? Suguru, who pouted like a brat at breakfast if Satoru ate the last strawberry, who demanded scratches behind his ears until he purred like a spoiled cat, who had gotten pregnant after two months and still didn’t know what a Saturday morning cartoon was. His Omega had been raised in a cage. A cage Satoru couldn’t even fully wrap his head around.

“Yeah, watch,” he said lightly, trying not to sound too gutted. He waved at the TV with the remote, “You know—TV. Shows. Movies. Moving pictures. Story time, but with lights and noise. Modern magic.”

Suguru tilted his head, skeptical, pout deepening. “What for?”

“What do you mean, what for? For fun! Entertainment, babe.” He exaggerated the word, grinning. “It’s what normal people do when they’re bored. You ever been bored?”

Suguru made a soft, bratty huff into his throat, muttering, “Never allowed.”

And Satoru actually had to swallow around the lump in his throat because fuck, of course. Of course they didn’t even give him the luxury of boredom. Of course they kept him working, training, scrubbing himself raw. No wonder he clung now. No wonder he bit when Satoru tried to move an inch away. No wonder he didn’t even know what TV was.

“Then we’re fixing that,” Satoru declared, smacking the remote like it was some divine decree. “Suguru’s Great TV Education begins today!”

Suguru looked at him like he was insane. (Which, fair. He was.)

Satoru flicked the TV on anyway, flipping through channels with his usual brand of obnoxious commentary. “Soap opera, boring. Cooking show, also boring unless they’re making waffles. Cartoons! Ooooh, cartoons. These are great, you’ll love them.”

Suguru’s nose wrinkled. “Cartoons?”

Satoru was about to launch into a rant about how cartoons were the pinnacle of art—better than movies, better than novels, better than theater—when something else caught his nose. Drip. Drip. Fuck.

Slick.

Suguru’s slick.

Satoru’s grin faltered, eyes flicking down. The Omega was curled in his lap, staring at the remote, clicking buttons with open awe—but the air was thick. Sweet, cloying, sharp. The couch cushion beneath them damp. Suguru’s thighs pressed tighter together, tail twitching with every tiny movement. He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he was ignoring it, but Satoru sure as hell noticed. His cock noticed.

Shit. Right. The slicking problem.

They hadn’t gone shopping in forever—hell, Satoru hadn’t even thought about shopping. He’d been too busy carrying Suguru around, too busy rocking him, too busy pretending like the world outside their apartment didn’t exist. He didn’t have any of the things an Omega needed. No blockers, no cloth pads, no scent patches, no nothing.

What the fuck did you even get for a slicking Omega again?

Satoru fumbled for his phone with one hand, the other steady on Suguru’s hip, keeping him balanced on his lap while he leaned sideways. Suguru didn’t even look up, too mesmerized by the remote, flipping channels back and forth. His ears twitched every time the screen flickered. Adorable. Distracting. Dangerous.

Google. Right. Google had answers.

He typed with frantic thumbs: what to do when your omega is slicking a lot help.

The results were immediate and insane. Some weird Omegaverse forums with usernames like KnotKing69 and SlickKitten. He winced, scrolling.

– “Get slick pads, duh. Disposable or cloth, depends on preference.”

– “Hydrate your Omega. Slicking = fluid loss.”

– “Don’t ignore it! Slick is a sign of fertility, maybe heat incoming.”

– “Best solution is to breed them ;)”

Satoru groaned, scrubbing his face. He didn’t need horny strangers telling him to “breed his Omega.” Been there, done that, got the baby to prove it.

Still, he typed again, more desperate: where to buy omega slick pads discreet Tokyo.

More results. Online shops, specialty stores, half of which required some kind of registration or clan approval. Fuck. Fuck. Could he just waltz into a convenience store and grab a pack? Would they even have them? Would the cashier look at him weird? He was Gojo Satoru—everyone already looked at him weird.

Meanwhile, Suguru had gone perfectly still on his lap. Satoru froze. Oh shit.

Suguru’s eyes were still fixed on the TV, but his ears were pinned flat, his cheeks pink. His thighs pressed tighter, the tip of his tail twitching nervously against Satoru’s side. Embarrassment. The brat knew. He knew Satoru noticed.

“Hey,” Satoru said softly, lowering the phone, leaning his chin on Suguru’s shoulder. “It’s fine, sweetheart. Don’t pout.”

Suguru was pouting, though, lips pressed tight, nose scrunched like he could hide behind it. He clicked the remote again—cartoon, soap, cartoon, cartoon—like if he clicked fast enough, Satoru would forget.

But there was no forgetting the scent in the air, thick and overwhelming, nor the dampness against Satoru’s thigh. His Omega was slicking, embarrassed, trying to bury himself in cartoons like that would make it go away.

And Satoru? He had two options:

1. Make a joke, laugh it off, smother the tension with his usual brand of idiot bravado.

2. Be a responsible Alpha for once in his life.

He sighed, pressed a kiss to the top of Suguru’s head.

“I’ll figure it out,” he murmured, more to himself than to Suguru. “Pads, blockers, whatever you need. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”

Suguru’s ears twitched. He didn’t answer. But his grip on the remote loosened, and his weight slumped heavier into Satoru’s chest.

Satoru’s phone buzzed—Google helpfully suggesting nearby stores. His cock throbbed because, yeah, the scent was driving him insane, but he shoved it down, forced himself to focus. Because this wasn’t about him.

He kissed the side of his Omega’s head, pretending casual. “Wanna go shopping, baby? We went once, remember?”

Suguru sniffled, shook his head instantly, pout scrunching his face. His ears flattened. His tail whipped against Satoru’s thigh.

“C’mon,” Satoru coaxed, rocking him slightly. “It’ll be fun. Just us, out in the world, buying slick pads. Real romantic date vibes.”

“No.”

Satoru sighed, exaggerated, because of course. Of course his Omega wanted to curl up inside and pout instead of facing the world. Too bad. He didn’t get a choice.

“You’ll live,” Satoru said, sing-song, already standing and grabbing their coats. “C’mon. Field trip.”

That’s how Gojo Satoru found himself outside, scratches down his cheek—because apparently dragging a bratty Omega out of the apartment warranted claws—and Suguru clutched against his hand, nearly swallowed by Satoru’s oversized coat and wrapped in a scarf big enough to smother a grown man. The Omega glared at the hitogomi, tail twitching nervously under the hem of the coat, but he didn’t let go.

Satoru grinned, blood still drying on his face. “Cute. You look like a little bandit.”

“Shut up,” Suguru hissed, ears red, pressing closer as a group of schoolgirls giggled when they passed. He buried half his face in the scarf, glaring at anyone who dared look too long.

And, oh, people were looking. How could they not? The scent was impossible to miss. Omega. Fertile. Slicking. Satoru had Infinity stretched so no one could get too close, but still—the smell carried. Satoru saw the way a beta convenience store clerk froze in the doorway when they passed, the way an Alpha businessman’s nose twitched before he hurried the opposite direction.

Yeah. They were a spectacle.

Suguru noticed too, of course. His fingers dug tighter into Satoru’s hand, sharp nails biting the skin.

“Everyone’s staring,” he muttered, voice small, bratty with shame.

“Yeah, well, you’re gorgeous,” Satoru shot back, winking down at him. “They can’t help it.”

Suguru glared harder, ears twitching, but he didn’t pull away. He never pulled away.

The automatic doors of the konbini slid open with a cheerful ding. Satoru stepped in first, tugging Suguru with him. The fluorescent lights buzzed, shelves stacked with snacks, instant noodles, magazines, and—thank fuck—an aisle for medical and hygiene products.

Suguru froze just past the threshold, tail puffed, nose scrunching at the overwhelming scents of fried food and cheap coffee and too many humans. Satoru leaned down, brushing his lips against the shell of his ear.

“Don’t worry, babe. Just stick with me.”

Suguru already was—practically plastered to his side, his claws hooked in the fabric of Satoru’s coat like he thought he might disappear if he let go.

The problem was—the slick smell got worse inside. Tighter space. Hotter air. Suguru’s cheeks flushed pink, his thighs pressing tight together under the coat, and Satoru’s dick did a dangerous little twitch. Not now. Not here.

Focus.

He cleared his throat, steering them down the aisle. Okay. Pads. Slick pads. Which shelf? Which brand? There were too many. Rows of pastel packages with swirly letters, each one promising absorbency, comfort, “extra long,” “ultra thin.”

Suguru tilted his head up at him, pout sharpening. “What are you doing?”

“Shopping,” Satoru said breezily, scanning the shelves like he wasn’t on the verge of imploding. “For you, sweetheart.”

Suguru’s ears flattened, his whole face going red.

“No,” he hissed, mortified.

“Yes,” Satoru countered, just as easily, plucking three random packs off the shelf. One had flowers on the label, one had English words he didn’t understand, and one claimed “24-hour freshness.” Good enough.

Suguru tried to snatch them out of his hand, glaring furiously, but Satoru just laughed, tucking them under his arm. “Relax, brat. Everyone slicks. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

That earned him another set of scratches to the wrist. Worth it.

By the time they hit the counter, Suguru was practically vibrating with humiliation, tail lashing under the coat. The cashier—a tired-looking beta woman—gave them one look, then the pads, then back to Suguru’s flushed, scarf-swaddled face, and smirked knowingly.

Satoru only grinned wider, slapping down cash like he was buying candy. “Keep the change.”

Outside, Suguru hissed the second they stepped onto the street. “You’re an asshole.”

Satoru leaned down, kissed the top of his head. “Maybe. But I’m your asshole.”

Suguru’s pout sharpened, ears pink, tail flicking under the drowning coat. But his hand didn’t loosen. Not once. Not even when they stepped back into the flow of the hitogomi, pressed shoulder to shoulder with strangers, the scent of yakitori from a stall mixing with the sharper tang of oil and traffic. Suguru clung tighter, claws pricking through Satoru’s sleeve, as if he might get swallowed whole if he let go.

And then he saw it—a little bathroom tucked in a corner near the station, a box of tile and fluorescent light, a sign above that read お手洗い (otearai). Perfect. Private. Satoru tugged him toward it.

“No,” he muttered, nose scrunching. “Not going in alone.”

Satoru arched a brow. “It’s a bathroom, babe. You pee, you wipe, you leave. Revolutionary.”

Suguru’s ears went flat. His claws dug into Satoru’s palm.

“Not alone,” he repeated, quieter this time.

And fuck, Satoru could’ve argued, should’ve argued, but then Suguru’s glossy eyes flicked up at him and—yeah. Alpha instincts short-circuited. He was already tugging him toward the door before his brain caught up.

Inside, the light was harsh, too bright, bouncing off tiles that smelled like bleach and mildew. Suguru pressed against him immediately, scarf slipping, fingers curling in his shirt. And shit. Shit. The scent was worse in here. Trapped. Concentrated. Omega, heat-sweet, cloying. His cock twitched hard in his trousers, traitor, throb-throb-throb, and he clenched his jaw.

Not now. Not here.

Suguru shifted, wriggling out of the coat, fumbling at his waistband with a tiny brat frown. Satoru tried, oh he tried, to look at the wall, at the ceiling, at the cracked sink, but then Suguru’s ears went red, nose scrunched, and he muttered, “Don’t look.”

Like hell.

Satoru dragged a hand down his face. “Baby, I’m only human.”

“No, you’re an Alpha,” Suguru shot back, tail twitching sharply as he fussed with the waistband again. “Big difference.”

And wasn’t that the problem? His Omega, pregnant, clingy, slicking, in a public bathroom where anyone could knock on the door, and all Satoru could think was—fuck fuck fuck. Down boy, down bad dog, not the time. His palm itched to grab himself, to relieve the ache, but he shoved it against the wall instead, knuckles white.

Suguru’s nose scrunched, bratty, humiliated, but his hands trembled as he leaned back against the tile, glossy eyes flicking up at him. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Satoru rasped, voice cracking. He stepped closer, heat radiating. He felt feral, caged. “Sweetheart, look at you.”

Suguru’s breath stuttered, pupils blown. His thighs pressed together instinctively, but slick still ran down, dripping, dripping, hitting tile with a quiet shick shick. His Omega body betrayed him every time.

Satoru shoved a hand through his own hair, fighting himself.

“Fuck. Can—shit, can Omegas even fuck while pregnant?” His laugh was sharp, half-hysterical. “That’s a thing, right? It’s safe?”

Suguru scowled, ears flat, but didn’t answer. His breath came faster, chest rising and falling, as if the question itself sparked heat in him.

Satoru leaned in, one hand braced against the wall, the other still gripping his cock through his trousers. His voice dropped, rough, hungry. “Because, god, Suguru, I don’t think I can walk out of here with you dripping like that. The whole eki already smells you. They’re staring. They want you. And you’re mine.”

Suguru whimpered—small, sharp, betraying himself. His tail lashed once against the tile. His claws caught Satoru’s coat again, tugging, holding. His Omega instincts overriding his brat pride.

Satoru groaned, forehead pressing against Suguru’s. His whole body shook with restraint, Infinity humming instinctively around them, cutting off the world. “Shit, baby, I’ll ruin you in here if you let me.”

Suguru blinked up at him, glassy eyes wet, biting his lip till it bled.

“Alpha…” His voice was tiny.

That word. That goddamn word. Satoru’s hips bucked forward helplessly, cock straining against his trousers. He kissed him hard, sloppy, biting, swallowing Suguru’s whimper into his mouth. Slick smeared against his thigh where Suguru ground against him, desperate without meaning to, rutting the way his body demanded.

“Fuck,” Satoru hissed against his lips, panting, “fuck, sweetheart, you’re killing me.”

He dragged a hand down, fingers slipping over slick thighs, between them, brushing wet heat. Suguru cried out, muffling the sound against his chest, tail curling around his leg.

“Shhh,” Satoru murmured, kissing the crown of his head, hand gentle despite the shaking of his body, “I’ve got you. Always got you. Even here.”

Outside, someone banged on the wall. Voices, footsteps, the steady churn of the 人混み (hitogomi) shuffling past. Reality pressed close—paper-thin tile walls, muffled chatter, the scrape of a broom down the hall.

Inside? Inside was slick and heat. Suguru’s heat, dripping down his thighs, soaking Satoru’s fingers as they curled into him, spreading him open.

Suguru’s muffled cry tore out when Satoru pushed two fingers in deep. Tight. Soaked. Pregnant and still so wet for him it made his head spin. His Omega. His.

Suguru bit down on the scarf, glaring at him through glassy eyes, ears red, tail lashing against the wall in angry embarrassment. His little brat look that only made Satoru’s cock jerk harder.

“Don’t give me that face,” Satoru whispered, twisting his fingers, brushing the soft, spongy spot inside that made Suguru’s thighs twitch. “You’re the one dripping in a public bathroom, baby.”

Suguru keened, tried to shake his head, but it only made the scarf slip between his teeth, muffling the moan that ripped out of him when Satoru crooked his fingers just so.

Another bang outside. Someone muttering “急いで” (isoide, hurry up).

Satoru grinned, feral, his own cock leaking against his trousers, throbbing with every sound Suguru made. He shoved the scarf deeper between Suguru’s lips, pressing it in with his palm until Suguru gagged around it, eyes fluttering shut. “Good boy. Bite it. Keep quiet for me.”

Suguru’s tears pricked at the corners, humiliation making his lashes clump together, but his hips betrayed him, rutting forward against Satoru’s hand, slick squelching, spilling down his knuckles.

“God, you’re so needy,” Satoru groaned, dragging his other hand down, unzipping himself, yanking his cock free. The air hit it cold—already red, swollen, dripping precum. He wrapped his slick-wet hand around himself, stroked once, twice, shuddering. “Shit, baby, look at you. Look at me. You’re gonna make me lose it.”

Suguru’s muffled cry answered him, scarf catching spit as he tried to talk, tried to curse him, maybe beg. Satoru didn’t let him. He lined up, head of his cock sliding through slick folds, catching at the entrance. So hot. So wet. His Omega, clinging to the wall, trembling, staring up at him with fever-glossy eyes.

Satoru’s forehead dropped to his, sweat to sweat. “Tell me no if it’s no, sweetheart.”

Suguru’s pupils blew wide, his body arching, scarf muffling the whimper that could only mean yes. His claws dug into Satoru’s coat, anchoring. His Omega instincts spoke louder than words.

That was enough. More than enough.

Satoru groaned, shoved forward, burying himself in one hard thrust. The stretch tore a sob out of Suguru’s chest, his muffled scream loud even behind the scarf. Slick splattered onto tile. His thighs shook violently.

Satoru bit his own tongue, holding back a cry, because fuck—so tight, heat sucking him down like he belonged there, like he was made to fit. His cock throbbed deep inside, fighting to keep still when every nerve screamed at him to move.

Outside, more footsteps. Laughter. A flush from another stall.

Satoru started to move anyway. Short thrusts at first, careful, then harder, faster, until the sound of their bodies echoed obscene against the walls. Slick, wet, muffled cries, Satoru’s ragged groans.

Suguru clawed at him, at his coat, dragging him down for a kiss even with the scarf stuffed in his mouth. His moans vibrated into Satoru’s throat, messy and desperate. His tail wrapped around Satoru’s thigh, binding him closer, refusing to let him go.

“Shhh,” Satoru whispered, half-crazed, pounding into him harder, biting Suguru’s neck. “Shhh, baby, almost, almost. Take me, take it all.”

Suguru convulsed, muffled scream breaking through, thighs squeezing tight. His whole body shook, slick gushing hot around Satoru’s cock as he came, trembling.

The squeeze dragged Satoru right over the edge. His hips stuttered, cock jerking deep inside, spilling hot, thick, pulsing waves of cum into him. He bit down on Suguru’s shoulder to keep from roaring, muffling himself just like he’d muffled Suguru.

They clung together, panting, the scent of sex thick in the cramped space. The scarf hung wet between Suguru’s teeth, spit and slick everywhere, his face red and bratty even as tears streaked his cheeks.

Bang bang bang. “おい！急げよ！” (Oi! Iso geyo! Hey! Hurry up!)

Satoru laughed breathlessly against Suguru’s neck, still buried in him, cock twitching. “Guess we should, uh… wrap this up, huh?”

Suguru glared at him weakly, biting the scarf harder, tail flicking in pure brat fury. Suguru glared at him weakly, biting the scarf harder, tail flicking in pure brat fury. Not that it mattered. His pussy was clenched tight around Satoru’s knot, swollen and pulsing, holding him in place whether Suguru liked it or not.

Satoru hummed, smug, leaning back against the wall. Outside, fists banged against the bathroom door, voices rising. “おい！何やってんだよ！” (Oi! Nani yatten da yo! Hey! What the hell are you doing in there!). Someone else groaned, “列ができてるぞ！” (Retsu ga dekiteru zo! There’s a line forming!).

He smirked, whistling, the sound bouncing obnoxiously off the tiles.

“Man, people are so impatient, huh? Like whistling is gonna make my knot go down any faster.” He gave a little thrust just to prove his point, laughing when Suguru’s ears pinned back, face flushing hotter as he whimpered against the scarf.

“Aw, don’t glare at me like that, baby,” Satoru cooed, squeezing Suguru’s hand, their fingers laced tight. “It’s not like I’m doing this on purpose. Biology, y’know? Blame evolution.”

Suguru huffed through his nose, tried to bite his palm even though the scarf was still stuffed between his lips. His tail lashed once more against the stall wall, thump-thump. Brat through and through.

Satoru leaned close, kissed the corner of his wet eye.

“Alright, baby. We’ll figure this out. One step at a time. Bathroom, then shopping, then…” He trailed off, because the “then” was the part he couldn’t quite imagine. Higher-ups. Family. A baby. His baby.

Suguru tugged his scarf higher, cheeks pink, voice muffled. “Then waffles.”

Satoru blinked. Then barked out a laugh, head tipping back, sharp and loud enough to echo off the tiles. “Yeah, okay. Then waffles.”

His knot pulsed inside Suguru as he laughed, and Suguru smacked his chest weakly, whining through the scarf.

The banging outside got louder. “急げ！” (Iso-ge! Hurry up!). Someone even kicked the bottom of the door. Like that was gonna make his knot shrink. He snorted, completely unbothered, rocking his hips slow and deep just to make Suguru squirm. “Ten more minutes, people!”

Suguru thrashed at him, claws tugging his shirt, mortified, eyes wide like he was gonna die from shame. His muffled

“Satoru!” made it out past the scarf anyway, half-cry, half-whine.

“Shhh,” Satoru soothed, still an asshole, still thrusting just enough to feel the slick squelch, the delicious clutch of Suguru’s body around him. “Don’t worry about them. Just me and you in here, yeah? Always just me and you.”

He kissed him again, forehead pressed to forehead, ignoring the outraged crowd on the other side of the door.

Ten minutes dragged. Suguru trembled, ears back, face hidden in his chest. Finally, finally, Satoru felt the swell of his knot easing, the pressure loosening. With one last roll of his hips, he slipped free with a wet, obscene pop. His cum spilled right out, dripping down Suguru’s thighs in messy streaks, pooling on the tile. He grinned, watching it. Messy and perfect.

Outside, the banging hit a furious crescendo.

Satoru smirked, tucking himself back in with absolutely zero shame, then scooped Suguru up under the thighs, keeping him flush against his chest despite the slick mess. Suguru smacked at him again, weak little hits, tail curled tight around his waist as if to say don’t you dare let go.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing the top of his damp hair, ignoring the chorus of angry Japanese outside, “bathroom, done. Shopping, next. And after that…” He trailed off, voice soft, but his grin was still sharp. “…waffles.”

Suguru’s cheeks flamed hotter, tail smacking him again, but his ears twitched, just a little, pleased.

Satoru pushed the door open into the furious hitogomi, hissing and muttering, faces turning red as they realized exactly why the stall had been occupied so long. He just grinned at them, sunglasses sliding back onto his face, Suguru clutching his scarf tight against his mouth in mortified silence.

“Relax, relax,” Satoru chirped, striding right past them without a care in the world, “you’ll all survive. Promise.”

Suguru buried his face in his chest. And Satoru? He just laughed, carrying him out into the street.

Their baby. Their brat. Their waffles.

Suguru didn’t understand Satoru.

Not really.

He was nice sometimes. Sometimes not nice. Strange, too, in a way Suguru couldn’t name. Not like the people at the Center, who were all the same, gray-coated, rule-book voices, hands gloved when they touched him. Satoru was… handsome, tall, beautiful, but also loud, reckless, careless. A man who smiled too much, talked too much, touched him too much. Suguru scrunched his nose at the thought. Alphas weren’t supposed to be like that. Or maybe they were. Maybe he didn’t know what supposed to meant anymore.

Riko-chan would probably say he was lucky. Lucky to have found someone who held him, who fed him, who kissed his temple when his fever burned. Lucky to have an Alpha like Satoru. But Suguru didn’t feel lucky. He didn’t think he was anything close to lucky. He thought maybe he was cursed.

Because he liked him.

Because Satoru was still an Alpha.

And Alphas were scary.

Suguru curled his hands over his belly now. A baby. His baby. Satoru’s baby. The thought made his stomach twist sharp and tight. He didn’t want a baby. He wasn’t ready for a baby. He was scared of babies, scared of himself, scared of what it meant. The Center had told him Omegas were vessels, tools, holy bodies made for bearing, but he never wanted to be holy. He wanted to be free.

But freedom wasn’t real. His slick reminded him every day.

The problem was worse now. His heat-scent clung to him, dampened every piece of fabric he wore, made his thighs sticky no matter how many times he cleaned. Sometimes he woke in the night already wet, body humming with need, no thought in his head but Alpha. Sometimes he clenched around nothing, shuddering, until his hand found his clit and he ground down on the futon in a haze of shame.

And Satoru noticed. Of course he noticed. The Alpha always noticed.

“Baby, you’re leaking again,” he’d tease, grin wolfish as he crouched in front of him, two fingers brushing along Suguru’s soaked trousers. Suguru would hiss, ears flat, tail lashing against the floor, but his hips betrayed him, twitching toward the touch, shame and need tangled together.

Horny. That was the word. Satoru had taught him that word, laughing when Suguru repeated it back, pink-eared, uncertain. Horny. Constantly horny. Even now, sitting on Satoru’s lap in the living room while the TV flickered cartoons he didn’t understand, Suguru could feel it. The slick damp against his thighs, the pulse in his stomach, the way his nipples ached when Satoru’s arm shifted too close.

人混み (hitogomi) moved outside, muffled by the apartment walls, cars passing, the occasional vendor shouting “焼きそばいかがですかー！” (Yakizoba ikaga desu ka! Anyone for yakisoba?). The city went on. People laughed, argued, lived. Suguru stayed in here, wrapped around an Alpha, wet between his thighs, belly warm with something he didn’t want.

And still—still—he couldn’t keep his hands away. Couldn’t stop.

His fingers crept, traitorous, to the hem of Satoru’s shirt, clutching the fabric, needing the press of him. His face pressed into his chest without thought, inhaling that scent. His body ached for it. Even as his mind whispered danger, danger, Alpha, Alpha, he clung tighter, thighs shifting restlessly over Satoru’s lap.

Satoru chuckled, big palm smoothing over his spine.

“Needy, huh?” His tone was soft but teasing, “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you. Always take care of you.”

Suguru hissed, bratty, muffled against his chest. But his claws didn’t loosen on Satoru’s shirt. He didn’t let go.

Because he couldn’t.

Because he didn’t understand him. Because he liked him. Because Alphas were scary. Because he was pregnant. Because he was horny. Because he was everything at once, knotted up, tangled mess, heat-slicked and trembling and wanting and afraid.

Suguru buried his face deeper into the Alpha’s chest. Satoru’s laugh rumbled against his ear.

Lucky, Riko-chan would say.

Cursed, Suguru thought.

And he couldn’t tell the difference.

.

..

..

“Here, lemme help,” Satoru murmured, guiding Suguru’s hips down and slipping the pad into place in his underwear. His fingers brushed against his hip bone, knuckles careful, and then he was stroking his hair, ruffling the damp strands with easy affection.

Suguru swallowed hard. His throat ached with the effort of holding it down, the knot of fear, the burn of humiliation. He let him. He let him, even though every part of his body screamed no, because it was easier than fighting, easier than tearing away. His ears pressed flat to his skull, tail tucked low. Scared. Scared. Scared.

He clung. Clung. Clung claws catching fabric, his nose against Satoru’s collarbone.

He didn’t want a baby. He didn’t want it, didn’t want this body changing under him, didn’t want mornings full of bile and sour spit and the way his stomach twisted.お腹… his belly, not his, never his, carrying something that wasn’t him.

He hated vomiting.

He hated it more because it felt too familiar. The sting in his throat, the acid tears in his eyes, the way his ribs clenched, desperate to get everything out. The Center had made him do it. Over and over. Forced fingers down his throat until he retched, until he heaved. Told him Omegas who ate too much would get fat, ugly, unwanted. That no Alpha wanted a weak vessel. He’d learned to hold his breath, to swallow instead of gag, to curl his hands into fists behind his back so they wouldn’t shake.

And now it was happening anyway. Every morning. Puking into the toilet until he trembled, ears flat, tail limp, slick clinging to his thighs. He thought he’d left it behind. He thought he’d escaped. But it followed him, even here.

“Shhh.” Satoru’s voice was low, warm against the crown of his head. Fingers scratched lightly behind his ear, and he hated that his body purred, traitor, hated the heat crawling up his neck. “You’re okay, baby. I got you.”

He wasn’t okay.

His chest squeezed tight, and he clutched harder, burying himself against that scent, sweet sugar and sharp winter air. His claws hooked into Satoru’s shirt, fabric pulling, and he didn’t let go. Couldn’t.

Satoru’s hand shifted lower, rubbing circles on his back, careless hum under his breath. “Morning sickness, huh? Guess it’s part of the package deal. Should’ve read the fine print.”

Suguru’s ears twitched flat, nose scrunching.

“Don’t,” he muttered, voice hoarse, bratty, but his fists didn’t loosen. He didn’t mean it. Or he did. Or he didn’t know.

Satoru laughed anyway, “Don’t pout. It’s cute.”

Suguru hissed, soft, muffled against his chest. His tail flicked once, sharp. Cute. He wasn’t cute. He was disgusting, broken, a vessel stuffed full, slicking too much, puking every morning, body betraying him at every turn. Cute wasn’t real.

Satoru tilted his head down, pressed his nose into Suguru’s hair, and sighed. “Baby, you gotta eat. Even if it comes back up, you gotta.”

Suguru’s stomach churned at the thought. He remembered being forced, remembered the sharp sting of punishment when he couldn’t keep it down. His claws trembled against fabric. “No.”

“Yeah,” Satoru said, simple, unconcerned, “I’ll cook. Something light. Rice porridge. I’ll even put a stupid smiley face in it if you want.”

Suguru wanted to snarl at him. He wanted to tell him he wasn’t hungry, that he wasn’t cute, that he didn’t need stupid porridge, that he didn’t need him. But he stayed quiet, pressing closer instead, because the scent was grounding even when it was overwhelming, because the warmth was steady even when it scared him, because his body betrayed him again and again.

Scared. Scared. Scared.

Sometimes he thought about being big and tall like the Gods the Centre made him worship. 仏陀 Butsu-dō, 観音 Kannon, 阿弥陀 Amida, all those names pressed into his tongue until it went numb. Kneeling on his knees until they bled against the wooden floor, palms pressed in 合掌 gasshō, spine bent low until his shoulders shook, reciting 般若心経 Hannya Shingyō over and over until his voice broke, until his throat burned raw. They told him obedience was the only way to salvation, that 三毒 sandoku—greed, anger, ignorance—were the Omega’s curse, and his body was born to burn them away.

His body. Always his body.

He remembered the way incense curled through the air, heavy smoke catching in his lungs, making his eyes sting until tears streamed down. Remembered the bells, the endless rhythm of wood clacking together, his knees on stone, his lips repeating words he didn’t believe. He remembered thinking if he were tall enough, strong enough, if he could climb up like the statues carved in towering stone, maybe he’d escape it. Maybe he’d look down on them instead of up.

But he wasn’t a God. He was an Omega.

And now he was here, clinging, clinging, clinging, ears flat against his skull, tail flicking weakly, trembling against Satoru’s chest while the Alpha stroked his hair and whispered soft things “Shhh. Baby. You’re safe.”

Safe.

Suguru’s claws curled into fabric. He wasn’t safe. He never would be. His knees still ached when it rained, phantom pain from hours kneeling until the skin split, until blood ran sticky down his shins and soaked into his white uniform. He hated white. He hated purity. He hated the word clean because it always meant punishment.

He remembered chanting: 南無阿弥陀仏 Namu Amida Butsu. Over and over. The words had no meaning anymore. They were just syllables carved into his bones. He thought of them now, dizzy, whispered against Satoru’s shirt without realizing: “南無阿弥陀仏南無阿弥陀仏…”

Satoru stilled. Then huffed a laugh, confused but not mocking. “Babe, are you praying or cursing me? Can’t tell.”

Suguru hissed softly, throat hot. He wanted to say both.

But he stayed quiet.

Because his knees still remembered the stone. His throat still remembered the bile. His chest still remembered the weight of statues taller than men, taller than mountains, staring down with cold carved eyes. Kannon with a thousand hands. Fudō-Myōō with a sword. Dainichi with the whole universe in his halo. He used to think they were watching. Now he thought maybe no one had been watching at all.

“Hey,” Satoru murmured, fingers curling under his chin, tilting his face up. “You’re here. Not there. Here. With me.” His grin softened, “With your idiot Alpha who’s totally gonna burn the porridge, but will at least try.”

Scared. Scared. Scared.

Suguru whimpered, pressing his face into Satoru’s stomach, hiding there.

His nails caught in fabric, fist tight, ears pinned flat. He could still smell it though—the sharp note of fear dripping off him, bitter as 苦茶 ku-cha, mixing with the thicker, heavier sweetness of pregnancy slick. And of course, of course, that was the scent that overpowered everything else. Not scared. Not trembling. Not small. Just Omega. Just carrying.

Satoru thought it was cute. Baka Alpha.

“Aw, you’re clingy this morning, huh? Guess I’m making porridge with an extra tail accessory.” He didn’t even try to pry Suguru off. Just moved around the kitchen with one hand free and one Omega glued to his stomach, dragging across the tatami floor, step by step. Rice clattering into the pot, water hissing as it boiled.

Suguru choked, knees weak, his claws scrabbling at Satoru’s shirt. His bladder gave way before he realized it, a hot, shameful trickle down his legs, soaking the floor. He froze. His body froze, his mind froze, everything inside him screamed no no no no no—

Satoru blinked down, spoon half raised. “Eh?”

Suguru’s face went hot. He pressed harder into Satoru, ears flat, scarf slipping loose around his throat. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. Humiliation. Humiliation worse than kneeling on stone until blood slicked his knees. Worse than reciting 南無阿弥陀仏 Namu Amida Butsu until his throat cracked. Worse than the centre telling him he was dirty, cursed, unworthy—because now Satoru would know.

His body betrayed him. Again.

“Oi, oi, baby,” Satoru said lightly, crouching without hesitation, not even glancing at the mess soaking the tatami. His hand cupped Suguru’s cheek, thumb brushing hot damp skin. “Didn’t even notice, huh? That scared, huh? Daijōbu, sweetheart. It’s fine.”

Suguru’s teeth clicked shut. His breath shuddered.

Too much. Too much. Too much.

His body wanted to fold in on itself, vanish into the floorboards, disappear back into incense smoke and punishment halls where at least humiliation was familiar, at least shame had a shape. His lips moved without sound, muttering—仏陀, 仏陀, 南無阿弥陀仏—

Satoru just laughed. Not cruel. Never cruel. Bright and stupid, head tipping back, grin splitting his face. “Suguru, you’re such a brat. Even when you piss yourself, you still look like you’re daring me to laugh at you.”

“Stupid,” Suguru croaked, voice muffled against his chest.

“Yeah, yeah. Baka Alpha, your stupid Alpha.” He kissed the top of his head, fingers threading through messy hair, tugging the scarf back up to cover Suguru’s face.“You think this scares me? Baby, I’ve seen you bleed, seen you pout so hard I thought the earth would split. This—” he waved vaguely at the wet floor, still smiling—“this is nothing.”

Suguru trembled. His throat worked. His eyes stung.

“Shhh,” Satoru murmured again, softer now, stirring the pot with one hand and holding him with the other I’ve got you. Always got you. Even if you piss on the floor while I’m making breakfast. Even if you chant Buddha sutras under your breath like you’re trying to banish me. Even if you glare with those brat eyes. Still mine. Still my Omega.”

Suguru pressed closer, desperate and humiliated and helpless, because his body wouldn’t stop clinging.

Satoru cleaned the floor without fuss, humming some dumb tune under his breath, sore wa yume, sore wa koi— ridiculous. The Alpha was ridiculous. He grinned while he did it, that same too-wide stupid grin, but Suguru smelt it—smelt it, the twist beneath. Worry. Sharp, bitter, acrid under all the sugar-sweet of Alpha satisfaction. Worry was rare on him. Suguru had never seen Satoru worried at all.

It made his stomach lurch.

Satoru tossed the rag aside, flicked the TV on with a flourish. Cartoons spilled into the room, all noise and bright colours, nonsense voices chattering.

“Ta-da!” he said proudly, striding back over with the remote. “Entertainment, courtesy of Gojo Satoru. Suguru-kun, don’t say I never spoil you.”

Suguru curled tighter into the couch cushion, arms crossed. “...hmph.”

“Eh? That’s gratitude? Harsh,” Satoru said, flopping down beside him, one long arm immediately looping around his waist, pulling him in.

His scent pressed closer, flooding over the sharp edges of Suguru’s fear, covering it, drowning it.

Still. The worry lingered. Suguru hated it.

He glanced up, scowled at the ridiculous strip of black silk tied across Satoru’s face. His meitou—the stupid blindfold. Always covering. Always hiding.

“...why?” Suguru muttered before he could stop himself, ears twitching flat.

“Hm? Why what?”

“...your face,” he said, more bite than he meant, “stupid. Why cover it?”

Satoru blinked. Or at least, Suguru thought he blinked—the tilt of his head, the pause of his grin. Then he laughed, obnoxious as ever.

“Aw, does Suguru think I’m handsome? You’ve been staring, huh? Knew it.” He leaned down, nose brushing hair, teasing, scent thick. “Admit it.”

“I wasn’t,” Suguru snapped, tail flicking hard, traitorous heat rising under his skin.

Satoru only grinned wider, teeth sharp.

“You sooo were. Can’t blame you though—ore-sama is objectively gorgeous. It’s unfair to the world.” He tilted his chin, mock-posing, eyelashes fluttering ridiculously. “Long lashes, perfect nose, jawline sharp enough to kill a man. Tragic that you can’t enjoy the full view.”

Suguru scowled harder, which only made his ears flatten more, which only made Satoru’s grin stretch wider.

His lashes were long though. Too long for a man. White hair falling into them sometimes, tickling his cheekbones. Suguru’s stomach turned. His stupid conscience whispered pretty, whispered beautiful, whispered don’t cover them, and Suguru wanted to throttle it, wanted to bite it bloody.

Satoru poked his cheek. “Ne, ne, tell me honestly—you like me better with it off, huh? You like my eyes?”

Suguru froze. His heart lurched. He hated that question. Hated that he wanted to say yes. Hated that it sat in his throat, raw and hot, pressing against his teeth. He pressed his face into Satoru’s shoulder instead, refusing to answer.

“Aw, silence. That’s basically a yes,” Satoru teased, obnoxious, pleased. His hand slid up, carding through Suguru’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp. “My brat’s weak to my eyelashes. Kawaii.”

“Urusai,” Suguru hissed, muffled against fabric.

But the worry didn’t leave.

He didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t know how to fight it. Alphas weren’t supposed to worry. Alphas were supposed to be steady, cruel, unshakable. That’s what the Centre taught. That’s what the gods demanded when he knelt until his knees split on stone, chanting sutras to Dainichi Nyorai, Amida-sama, until his throat bled. Alphas didn’t bend. Didn’t waver. Didn’t—

But Satoru did. For him.

Scared. Scared. Scared.

Suguru clutched his shirt tighter, trying to press the worry away, trying to ground himself in the thrum of Satoru’s chest, the obnoxious sound of cartoons chattering nonsense, the stupid warmth of a too-long arm dragging him close.

Satoru tilted his head, resting his chin on top of his. “Oi, don’t make that face. I’m not going anywhere. You, me, dumb cartoons, porridge that’s definitely burning by now. That’s all that matters.”

Suguru trembled. His stomach twisted. His eyes burned. His tail flicked once, slow, before curling around Satoru’s thigh without permission.

“See?” Satoru grinned, smug. “Told you. You’re already obsessed.”

Suguru hissed, but he didn’t pull away.

And they just… stayed like that. For a while. Sitting. Watching.

But Suguru’s mind wouldn’t quiet.

The baby. He thought about it constantly. If Satoru wanted it. If Satoru wanted him. If this whole suffocating kindness, this relentless ii ko da ne, brat-chan, this steady hand stroking his hair and whispering porridge recipes was just a trick, a performance before the inevitable. Sell him to the jōsōbu, the higher-ups. Maybe that’s why Satoru was being so nice. Too nice. Suguru wasn’t stupid. Nobody gave kindness for free. Nobody.

His claws flexed against fabric. He wanted to tear. He wanted to bite. He wanted to ask—will you keep me, will you keep the baby, or will you throw us away?—

Beside him, Satoru yawned loud, obnoxious, arm squeezing him tighter.

“Oi, don’t pout like that, you’ll get wrinkles. Then how will I show you off, huh? Suguru with frown lines—tragic.” He poked his cheek, light, playful.

Suguru twitched, glaring up at him with fever-bright eyes. Suguru looked away first.

“...you’ll sell me,” he muttered under his breath, words catching.

Satoru blinked. Tilted his head.

“Eh? Sell you? Who’d pay for a brat like you?” His grin widened immediately. “Though, I mean, you’re cute enough someone might. Black market bidding war. Million yen minimum.”

Suguru’s stomach twisted. His ears flattened. He hated him. He hated him so much.

Satoru must’ve seen something—maybe the flick of his tail, maybe the tightness in his jaw—because the teasing grin faltered, just a fraction.

“...Suguru,” he said, softer now, almost serious. His thumb brushed under his chin, tilting his face back up, forcing glassy eyes to meet the blindfold. “I’m not selling you. I’m not giving you to them. You’re mine. Got it?”

Suguru swallowed. Heat burned behind his eyes.

“Mine,” Satoru repeated, almost a growl this time, Alpha curling in his chest, scent flaring rich and heavy. “Baby too. Both mine. The jōsōbu can choke on their scrolls if they try.”

Suguru shivered. His body pressed closer again, instinct overriding pride, need outweighing fear. His lips trembled around words that wouldn’t come.

Satoru chuckled, easing the weight, flopping dramatically back into the couch. “See? Obsessed. Totally whipped for me already.”

Satoru was right. He couldn’t hold them off forever. Those wrinkly, crusty, decrepit, papery-skinned, half-dead fossils with their quivering old-man hands and their reeking stink of mothballs. Ugly, crooked teeth, sagging skin, stupid wheezing voices echoing down the long hallways of the jōsōbu. A parade of corpses pretending they still had power.

And, of course, eventually, they called him in.

The summons wasn’t a polite request either—it was bombardment. A flood of messages, aides pounding at his door, sharp slips of paper shoved under the wood with scrawled ink, “Gojo Satoru, report immediately.” He ignored the first three. Even the fourth. But by the seventh, even he knew the jig was up.

“We know,” one of them croaked.

Satoru tilted his head, grin lazy. “Know what, ojiisan? That your wig’s crooked? That you smell like a nursing home?”

Another leaned forward, veins fat and purple under paper skin. “The Omega. He’s pregnant.”

“Tch,” Satoru clicked his tongue, swaggering further into the room, hands in his pockets, pretending his pulse hadn’t just spiked. “You old bastards really are nosy, huh? What, jealous no one wants to fuck you anymore?”

The muttering started immediately—disgusted, “Disrespectful!” “Insufferable!” “The Gojo heir sullies himself—”

“Save it,” Satoru cut in, voice sharp, grin even sharper. “You don’t get to talk about him. Not his name, not his body, not his baby. Nothing. That’s mine. Mine, you hear?”

Their eyes narrowed further, the one in the middle—the ugliest, saggiest of them all—wheezed, “You endanger the clan. An unbound Omega—pregnant, untrained—”

Satoru laughed. Sharp, bright, too loud in the dust-thick chamber. “Unbound? You think Suguru’s unbound to me? You really think any Alpha could lay a hand on him while I’m alive? Please. Don’t make me laugh harder.”

But inside, his throat was tight. Because they weren’t wrong. Suguru wasn’t bound, not formally. The Centre’s papers said so, their chains said so. Satoru hadn’t given the ceremony, hadn’t inked their vows, hadn’t tied him in the way society would accept. And that left them an opening, didn’t it? Left them space to argue Suguru didn’t belong to him.

And if Suguru didn’t belong to him—then he belonged to them.

A low growl almost slipped from his throat, Alpha bristling hot in his chest. He bit it back, barely. Because Satoru Gojo didn’t get angry. Not like that. He was the Strongest, which meant he had the luxury of being smug instead of furious, untouchable instead of desperate. Anger was for people who didn’t already own the whole damn board. But right now—right now the board was tilted against him, and if he snapped, if he let his temper slip, if he killed them here—

He could. Oh, he could. It would be easy. But he couldn’t. Not really.

Because those decrepit corpses were still the Council, the jōsōbu, and if he slaughtered them, the clans would riot. The higher-ups would dig their claws deeper into his students, into the kids. Megumi, Nobara, Yūji—they’d pay the price. Worse, Suguru would pay it. The leash would yank tighter, the Centre would take notice, the “pregnant Omega” would be dragged into custody in the name of “stability.”

And that—no. That wasn’t an option.

So he smiled instead. Grinned wide enough to show teeth, because that was what they hated most, wasn’t it? His insolence. His refusal to bow. The white-haired brat with the god-eyes who never once bent to their stupid traditions.

“We’ll make this clear,” one croaked, voice rusted with age. “The Omega belongs to the Centre until a formal release. His condition compromises neutrality. If the clans unite—”

“Neutrality?” Satoru barked a laugh, tipping his head back. “You mean your neutrality. Don’t twist your wrinkly tongues pretending this is about balance. This is about control. Always has been. What, afraid my baby’s gonna be prettier than your entire bloodline?”

“Do not mock us.” Another leaned forward, veins bulging purple at his temple. “This is politics, Gojo. Not your playground. Every Alpha is bound by law. Even you.”

“Every Alpha except me.” His grin sharpened. “That’s what makes it fun.”

Their silence stretched long, thick with their reeking disapproval. One finally rasped, “You jeopardize us all. A war between clans—”

“War?” Satoru tilted his head. “Cute. You think anyone else can even touch me? Try it. Go on. Stir up your war. See what happens.”

He meant it. Every syllable laced with the dangerous thrill of truth. Because he could burn them to ash, he could take Suguru and disappear into infinity, vanish into mugen where no nose could sniff, no leash could tighten, no politics could reach. He could.

But he wouldn’t.

Because Suguru wanted waffles. Because Suguru wanted cartoons. Because Suguru, bratty and broken and brave, was just starting to taste freedom after years of being told he wasn’t allowed birthdays, wasn’t allowed softness, wasn’t allowed want. And if Satoru ran now, if he burned it all down, Suguru would never get to live outside of fear.

So he swallowed the growl and let his smile drip mockery instead. “Listen, ossan. You can talk politics all day, but the reality is simple: Suguru stays with me. End of story. You want to contest it? Come try. Bring your whole wrinkly army. I’ll even give you a handicap.”

They glared, brittle and furious, but they didn’t move. They wouldn’t.

“...Fine. Compromise,” one of them croaked, “The Omega stays with you. But—” The pause was deliberate, heavy, meant to choke him with the weight of their “wisdom.” “—a child must be raised under clan authority. Not merely one. More. At least three, Gojo. You will sire them. The first to prove loyalty, the second to secure bloodline, the third for succession.”

Satoru blinked. Then laughed. Sharp and loud, echoing off paper walls until it stung their ears. “Ohhh, that’s rich. You wrinkled fossils really think you can micromanage my sex life? What’s next—scent schedules? Ovulation reports? Should I send you videos to make sure I’m doing it right? Kimo.”

The oldest leaned forward, liver-spotted hand gripping his cane. “Do not mock us. This is precedent. The Gojo heir will not be raised in secrecy. And the Omega’s… condition… is no trivial matter. You’ve destabilized equilibrium already, Gojo. Balance demands cost.”

Suguru. Pregnant, feverish, fragile in ways he’d never admit. Suguru, who still cried into Satoru’s shirt at night, tail flicking bratty even as he whispered alpha alpha alpha. Suguru, who had never once been allowed to choose what he wanted, and now they wanted to chain him again, body and womb and blood all wrapped in their filthy claws.

Satoru’s fingers twitched.

“Alright,” he said, casually, “three kids. No problem. I’ve got the stamina, after all. You should’ve made it ten. Maybe twelve.”

Their disgust was delicious.

“Get out,” one snapped, voice cracking with the strain of control. “We will be watching.”

“Oh, I know,” he purred, bowing low in mockery, coat sweeping the floor. “Try not to choke on your tea while you spy on my bedroom, yeah? Creeps.”

Their glares cut across him, but he didn’t waver.

Instead, he turned, blindfold slipping just enough to flash his god-eyes, and strode for the sliding doors. He didn’t look back. Couldn’t look back.

Because if he did, he might not stop himself from ripping the whole chamber apart.

The doors slid open, the corridor yawning dark and endless, cold wind slipping through. He stepped out, grin plastered back onto his face, already rehearsing the joke he’d tell Suguru when he got home, already pretending this didn’t matter, that the walls weren’t closing in.

But as he reached the end of the hall, his phone buzzed.

One word from Shoko.

“Emergency.”