Chapter Text
The alarm clock rang, not loudly, but quietly. A toothbrush is picked up, used, and then put down into its cup. He’s already eaten, so that’s a wrap. Satoru goes to put on his blindfold.
And goes to bed.
Three hours later, it rings once more.
Here we go again.
The toothbrush is picked up before it’s even dried, a razor too from the wall-mounted cabinet, and lastly deodorant and his usual uniform. He teleports to a good bakery close to the school despite the cost on his reserves, because priorities, and is fashionably late by ten minutes.
“Hell-ooo to my little munchkins!”
“Ugh, disgusting…” His cute disgraced Zenin heir groans, an empathetic salmon following right after along with a “morning” from Panda.
He chaperones them on a B-rank to clean up what he thinks might be another enochlophobia-born curse (figures, they are in Tokyo), goes over basic barriers, hand-to-hand when the opponent has a weapon, and then he waves goodbye with a flourish before today’s mission countdown starts and Ijichi drives him around to one-tap whatever pitiful overpowered roach the world needs exterminated today.
Enochlophobia, acrophobia, arachnophobia, ophidiophobia, trypanophobia, cynophobia, astraphobia… When he’s extra bored and the curses go for freeze instead of flight, he sometimes picks his phone up to search for the phobia name of whatever he is killing this time. The fear-based ones are more fun in that aspect compared to the anger-bitterness-regret ones. Those are usually just annoying, moping about and muttering like hormonal ternagers, unless they can talk, in which case they are usually very fun since his creativity is more… appreciated.
He does love it when they beg and run.
Well, of course. The sun is bright, the sky is blue, you eat taco with salsa and Gojo Satoru’s an alpha.
Curse after curse after curse is trounced in the average time it takes to shave one’s armpits. For ten of them, he challenges himself to see how fast he can go (without demolishing whatever place they’re in), until he bores of that too when it means even more time in the car with Ijichi the Itch. He’s almost glad when 8 PM meanders up so he can mess with the old bonebags and embarrass Masamichi.
Lastly, the hill of papers. He considers burning them and giving the ashes for the Itch to sort but gives in when he recognizes some of the titles and that if he sets them on fire something more important will probably also catch fire before the week’s end, like kittens and good bakeries. The screen gives him a headache since he can’t keep on his blindfold given its lack of CE output for him to see. He spams RCT four times, makes up poems in the last three reports and tries out Nanami’s handwriting that he’d copied yesterday to hopefully prank him with in a not so distant future, before his alarm rings, not loudly, but quietly, to handle the headache.
His toothbrush is picked up, used, and then put down into its cup. He’s already eaten, so that’s a wrap. Satoru goes to put on his blindfold.
And goes to bed.
Repeat.
Maki becomes skilled with the chakram he’d taken from the Gojo storehouse, Toge become less shit at blocking, and Panda defies the definition of his namesake more for each day. There’s a café in Sendai that he has waited to visit because it seemed too hyped up, but it ends up making fantastic budapest so he goes there again and again, and…
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Satoru’s enjoying the toasted, nutty sweetness of said budapest when his gums ache.
His gums ache. His hand shoots up to touch his jaw in awe. Did I not use RCT this week? He had never had a cavity in his life. How fun.
That’s when the smell impales him.
His head snaps up to a boy that’s just sat down to order.
Now, it’s not like he never reacts to a pleasant scent here and there. He’s an alpha with extreme amounts of andristerone, the hormone associated with being an alpha, so getting affected by the obvious thylogen outputs of omegas are a given from his built in reproductive needs no matter what Satoru wants, but…
The pup he’s currently boring into with all six of his eyes is as unpresented as they come. Satoru can practically taste the slightly buttery aftertaste of milk on his tongue from the whiff he is getting four tables away, and yet, something in that milky scent is spiking his attention and making his gums pulse angrily. It’s milky, yes, but carries such sweet undertones…
Shit, he realizes. Two things at once.
One: he hasn’t fucked in well over two years now and absolutely needs to tie some poor fucker up soon if he’s considering doing it to a pup.
Two: the pup must be close to presenting without knowing. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be strutting around like meat before predators. One great white starving shark in particular.
Before he can stand up to politely inform the delicious boy that he’s likely going to be jumped if he doesn’t go home within the quarter, something strange occurs.
From the pocket of his pale-yellow hoodie, the omega pup takes out a syringe.
Is he diabetic? His small hand trembles like he’s afraid, every tremor and rapidly pumping blood visible to six eyes gulping it in. Satoru continues his approach, getting closer and closer to the two-person table he’s sat at, before they lock eyes for the first time. Determined, terrified honey-brown eyes meet his in surprise, just as the pup’s small thumb depresses the plunger into his arm.
“S-sir? Can I he-”
The boy faceplants right into his shortcake mid-sentence.
Satoru blinks, surprised despite himself. If diabetic, then probably dehydrated. “Oh crap pup, don’t worry, I’ll get you a glass of…”
As if the kitchen hood had stopped working half an hour ago, sugar and baked goods and the scent of peaches of all things stampede his senses, blasting him face first until he’s salivating to the point he has to swallow, less it starts dripping down his chin. At the same time, his cock is filling rapidly, all of the blood in his brain taking direct rail service to his now air-tight pants. From one second to the next, he’s thinking about diabetic ketoacidosis and blood sugar, and the next the alpha grips the sweet, ripe omega by its nape to bend over, tearing the cloth hiding it from his view and pushing his fingers inside its unresponsive form.
And oh, how perfect it is, this omega, this lush, blooming, honeyed scent. He wants it for himself, spilling all over him, gushing into it until it is more him than it is its own.
His cockhead takes his fingers place, sinking slowly into the toasty, pillowy and cramped pussy.
He groans, gripping the small, unconscious hips of the omega to him, skin turning white underneath his hands.
Peripherically, the alpha knows everything is not as it should be. A heat should not equal an unconscious state, but the omega’s breathing, everything about its scent is pure, healthy, ready, so the nuances can wait. Right now, what’s important is to seize what’s in front before some other unworthy insect does it first.
He starts off slow, savoring the initial almost painful stretch that’s squeezing onto him tight. Scents and voices spike around him, but just like his omega’s unfortunate lack of lucidity, they are not of importance right now. All that matters is the way his skin presses into his omega’s from behind, legs to legs, back to chest, groin to ass, and how its scent spikes in pleased and cloying sweet notes even while passed out. It’s covering everything, saturating the whole building like a dripping film of honey, and he responds with his own, letting the pheromones erupt out of him (finally, finally) like he never has before.
To present his omega with his worthiness. To warn off the useless flies vying for a chance to sink their fangs inside and claim what is his. His toy, his mate, his to breed and love and stuff full of his pups. His speed increases for every scent that vanishes in surrender to his authority, for every unconscious whimper leaving his toy’s parted lips, until he’s rutting into it in a frenzy, biting down on its supple skin wherever he can reach.
He grips the omega’s cute, fluffy hair, flipping it over completely so he can memorize his new favorite hole’s facial features, only to realize with pleasure that they are still covered in the sweet cream it had taken a nosedive into. And damn, that was cute, positively endearing how the vanilla cream degradingly clumped in its eyelashes and covered its freckled nose and cherubic cheeks. His hand, big enough to cover his toy’s whole face, smeared the cream around some more, pushing it into its cotton candy-like pink hair like the sweetest gel, pressing into its velvety mouth.
A little treat for a good boy.
Its body squelched and bounced for his every drive inside, giving and massaging and sucking him in as the poor café table squeaked under them. Small perky tits jiggling, head lolling, two of his fingers oversized in the omega’s soft, precious and unresponsive mouth. It excited him in the most perverse, dark manner, the outline of his cock pressing in and out of the tiny body underneath his, the omega’s helplessness in escaping his savage claiming.
His climax is building up into a crescendo in record time, pleased slick gushing from between the negligible space his cock leaves between itself and the tight walls of his shiny new toy’s pussy.
For every thrust, every push and pull, the slide teases his every corner of nerve endings, sparking up the head of his cock to the shaft, across his hips, all through his spine until his whole body is tingling in euphoric pleasure, straining for what is sure to be the orgasm of a lifetime. Inside, out, inside, out, he stares transfixed at the outline of his cock boring its way inside the frail body by force, flexes his right hand’s fingers on the omega’s hip and left hand’s inside its spongy mouth. Its hole is practically begging him in dogeza for him to explode inside, tightening and squeezing and suckling him like a hundred mouths paying tribute to his gasping bliss. The omega’s legs tremble around his hips, until those walls wring him mercilessly, and he’s cumming, fuck fuck he’s cumming, finally, it’s been so long, it’s so good he might cry, whole body spasming on and inside his cute doll, blowing up, painting his insides uncontrollably.
And in a ritual older than civilization, the six eyes, even cursed energy itself… as beyond his power and in his ecstasy a mix between a groan and sob is ripped out of his chest and throat, Satoru's body lurches forward on instinct alone…
…and knife-sharp fangs burrow straight into a scent gland sweeter than cotton candy.
Again, again, and again, he feels his balls emptying all of himself inside that syrupy hole squeezing him dry while he clamps down on the nape of his mate, transferring the natural poison from his fangs into the convulsing body underneath his, until it goes completely and deathly still, as if playing dead, until those sweet pheromones driving him crazy finally, finally mix with the chilling, uncontrolled scent of snow and ice.
It’s during one of those last, mind-numbingly pleasurable spasming pumps of his cock, that his senses tingle…
Danger.
Within a fraction of a second, infinity is up, just in time for Satoru to stop the bullets raining upon them from four separate directions.
Fury comes like a long-awaited tsunami.
How dare they. How dare they, how dare they, how dare they, the absolute arrogance…
With a furious snarl, he bursts their bodies and viscera all across the walls and quaint furniture like blowing up balloons with too much air until pop. Curse-users here, attacking him? There were too many for it to be a lucky coincidence, for them to catch him as he was at his most vulnerable…
Meaning…
Meaning…?
Oh.
Really?
Oh.
“Oh no,” he chuckles in delight, finally registering the now vacated café, before bursting out laughing and turning his gaze to the ravaged, now semi-conscious, cotton-candy haired omega spilled all across the soaked round wooden table and still full to the cervix with his dick, honey-brown eyes watching him dazedly. Probably woken up by the life-threatening pheromones and cursed energy Satoru had just decided to blast the café with. Or the fangs that had just tied the omega to its target for its every, last, remaining, heartbeat.
Turning his gaze to the absolutely precious bait that had literally fucked him, Gojo Satoru, within an inch of his life…
To the curse user who had put his body and life on an actual table for Gojo Satoru’s…
He convulsed with laughter, stomach cramping up, and pushed his nose to his little doll’s to stare into its eyes, gripping supple and drenched thighs, right before taking his erect dick outside and then slamming it inside once more, ramming into the boy’s cervix once again, watching those maybe-aware features shudder with strain.
The audacity.
He lowered himself to the bloody scent gland bearing his brutal mark. Where his teeth had closed, the flesh was crushed and split. Blood oozed from the uneven wound, and the skin around it was already beginning to swell in purple and red. It left the perfect signature of a beast on the omega’s shoulder, but more than the severity of the bite, the scale was what truly stood out. He chuckled again, giddy with the prospect, giddy with the physical manifestation of a final break in his endless cycle.
It wouldn’t heal pretty as his omega grew, grotesquely oversized for now. Grotesquely perfect.
“Bad, bad mate,” he whispered, thrusting in and out in his reawakened lust. “What to do with you…”
He smirked maniacally, then took another big bite of the abused gland, right beside his initial mark. Blood squirted out like a squeezed overripe orange, and the omega kicked out uselessly under him, sobbing pathetically while trying to cover his nape with his pinned hands.
“I wonder… do you know of the term break a horse?”