The weight of silk settled on your shoulders, soft against your skin. Satoru sighed dramatically, the scent of ozone and something akin to sugared plums, his omega scent, filling the air. He’s lounging against you, almost draped across your lap, a pout tugging at his usually smug lips. His fingers, long and elegant, are absently brushing through your tail, the rhythmic strokes sending shivers down your spine that you desperately try to ignore. It’s been acting up lately, your alpha instincts, especially around him. You blame it on the spring air.

He's in heat. The air crackles with it, thick and sweet like forbidden honey. It’s subtle, masked as always by inhibitors, but you, his closest friend, can smell it. The knowledge alone makes your palms sweat.

"They want to what?" you finally asked. Satoru's tail flicked irritably. "Arrange me. Like I'm some prize-winning goldfish."

You leaned back against the ornate pillows of his room, the Gojo crest embroidered in shimmering silver thread practically mocking the situation. "But you knew this was coming, Satoru. You're the head of the clan, the strongest sorcerer. They want security, tradition…”

He cut you off with a wave of his hand. "Tradition be damned! I'm Satoru Gojo. I don't need some stuffy, genetically-superior alpha chosen for me. I choose who I want."

He shifted, burying his face deeper into the fluffy expanse of your tail. The scent of heat intensified, making your jaw tighten. He continued to brush, the rhythmic strokes a small anchor in the swirling current of his distress and your own burgeoning...needs.

“They’re being so stupid,” he whined. The heat emanating from him was almost tangible. “Like I don’t know exactly what I want.”

You chuckled, the sound a low rumble in your chest. You knew, of course. You’d suspected for years. The way he lingered near you, the almost possessive way he’d touch your arm during missions, the blatant jealousy whenever you spoke to another omega…it was all there.