Chapter Text
Satoru has always been one with himself. Had been trained to be Whole since his eyes first opened, has always moved through his life with the same undoubted control in his baser instincts that he gives his conscience mind; his technique and his power.
Though sometimes he is more than other, feral is not a word that has ever come so close to him—the absence of wit and tact, of awareness… it is a Primal Phenomenon he has never experienced—not even when he died that one time.
He wonders, now, what it takes for the lapse to occur. What is the change like?
Satoru stands. There’s water running in the room behind him, the fledgling claiming mark of a prime omega buzzing heady and high up on his neck.
Would it be rude to ask him, so soon after it just happened?
Haven’t even smelled him yet, the alpha dismisses the urge for query, instantly reshaping his focus with a nudge of urgency. “Haven’t even introduced myself to him..” Satoru murmurs to himself, thinking of how to proceed. He’d completely intended to wait exactly where he was, unwanting to step away just in case, but the alpha feels that there is more to be done.
Should he not prepare to receive his mate properly into his home? The halls should be tidied to ease the omega’s steps. Food and drink should be readied and served hot. Maybe Satoru shouldn’t have sent all of the staff away?
That last thought disagrees with him as soon as he has it. The omega asked for privacy and thus it will remain absolutely unhindered, and the longer Satoru thinks about it the faster he concludes that it is indeed only right for him to do these things for the omega himself. The alpha simply won’t have anyone else’s intervention concerning his mate’s needs.
If the omega has a desire, any at all, he will be the one to deliver. Anything less than what he deems perfection will be considered as blasphemy otherwise.
Who is he?
What kind of man? What kind of sorcerer?
How forthcoming will he be about their bond?
Is he truly as merciless as his reputation declares?
These are the questions that hoard his whirring mind.
There is a pair of slippers waiting outside of the antechamber door when Kento finally dares to slide it open. Wooden floors gleam underneath as he slowly slips them on, the fine dark oak freshly polished, the pale walls smelling faintly of citrine and soap. Fresh like outside. He leaves the door deliberately cracked behind him as he takes his first steps forward, sweeping his gaze carefully over the gently lit corridors that corner his exit, empty.
He isn’t sure if he’s grateful or concerned at being left unattended. Left or right? Which way should he go?
Tired but determined, Kento tips his nose to the air.
There, down the way of his right, he picks up the tendril of something savory and beckoning. He moves; minds his pace and counts his steps. Takes ultimately nothing, aside from its pristine rustic beauty, of note of the sights of the mansion. The windows are shaded and all of the doors sit closed. A large black painting of golden deva sprinkles the path; an ivory vase depicting tengu and a richly carved coral plate. Old money every few strides.
Nothing to see, Kento resolutely tells himself.
Twenty yards and one corner turn, and the scent of fresh intensifies ahead of him. A growing weight in the air off the nape of his neck—as if someone were standing directly at his back, or watching him from a window, there and then gone as he spies a warmly glowing alcove.
The omega stirs.
Onward, then.
Open double doors frame the archway of the alcove, which turns out to be a very large den. A family den, according to the open kitchenette situated along the back; the table for four and the low mix of multiple lingering scent profiles.
He elects to ignore that slice of information, refusing to even cast discernment on the unknown. He’s here, facing his second Special Grade of the day, and after the quite frankly still reeling results of the first encounter, he genuinely cannot afford to cast off the brain power for anything else.
He can only hope that this time around it won’t end as chaotically.
The shoji and finely embroidered paneling gives away to walls of familiar dark wood and a splash of deep slate stone. Darker drapings cozy the ceiling. Soft and gray, a plush rug centers the room’s floor and a shelf stuffed with matching baskets in the other. This room is dimly lit, too—
—Kento freezes on his way up to the threshold.
He hadn’t been able to see on the angle walking up but now that he’s close he has a completely clear view. The den is larger than he’d initially given thought to, the obsidian kitchenette counters splitting and expanding in the L shape of an island bar.
Gojo Satoru stands there, back turned. Fussing with something.
Gravity defying strands stand as white as the whispers say they do, infamous black blindfold firmly in place. The man is tall, long and lean and burly; deceptively fit underneath the simple cream shirt and dark slacks. He looks.. comfortable, wide shoulders completely at ease despite Kento having arrived at his back—and the fact of that unknowingly draws Kento forward; another step and then another until he realizes that the freshness, the breeze he thought he’s been picking up on, is kin to the very scent blanketing the clothes on his back.
It’s not as thunderous, not as thick and piled, but it’s stormy all the same.
Yes, at this range it’s obvious.
It’s him.
A charge sweeps the air in his lungs; in the very space around his body. None of the rumors say anything about the strongest sorcerer smelling of warm mornings. Of early blooms. Like a gift returned, sweet and cared for.
Fuck. He is not prepared for this, is he? Because how unfair it is for his heart to go and stutter like that. How absolutely terrifying, the way a buzzing warmth presses at the edge of his mind and soul as the man’s presence washes over him.
Oh.
Oh oh oh—
This is—gods. What—what does—? Should he—?
“How do you feel?”
The low, cool voice breaks the silence—through the first curve of Kento’s mental spiral. And yet the buzzing in Kento’s being only intensifies at the cadence, at hearing it clearly and around words instead of a vibrating murmur through hazy scraps of memory.
The omega basks.
Kento stutters for air.
“I—” He hesitates, answering blindly, voice a broken murmur. “I don’t know.”
The man at the counter turns to look at Kento from over his shoulder, silent.
Kento finds it worryingly fascinating how appraised he feels being looked at through a strip of cloth.
Is this what it’s like to be looked at by Six Eyes?
Is this what it’s like to be looked at by—
The warm scent of spring’s breeze in his nose fluxes, cooler and crisper only for a moment—and Kento finds himself brimming with the startling and rapt attention of instinct as the man that is Gojo Satoru starts to move.
Still as stone, he watches as the alpha turns to face him fully, the action notably slow and purposeful. He isn’t sure he tries to stop his gaze from diving down the expanse of his impressive frame, just knows the seeping spread of appreciation humming high and loud somewhere in the back of his senses.
Sharp jaw, sharper collar bones; wide chest snug under soft cream cotton and strong tapered hips. Hands respectfully relaxed at capable thighs. Good.
Exhaling harshly, Kento scrambles to temper his racing pulse and snaps his gaze back up to the blindfold. Just where was he looking?
“Are you hungry?”
The simplicity of the new question throws him, pulls at his attention all over again until he is just as abruptly aware that, yes, he is in fact starving. He hasn’t eaten since his hotel’s 7am breakfast and he hasn’t a single clue as to the hour, now.
His stomach even does him the courtesy of letting out an embarrassingly loud growl.
Kento flushes, but his face heats even more in the next second as the lovely note of the alpha’s amusement reaches his ears.
The man rumbles with a quiet laugh, pearly canines peeking sweetly in the low light, and at once Kento feels off kilter and swept away all over again, wholly unprepared; wholly and horrifyingly defenseless, he realizes; to the entity before him.
“Well,” the alpha hums, “I have food for you anyhow,” he carefully waves a hand into the direction of the table of four indeed set for two, “will you sit with me?”
Kento, drowning, can only agree.