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–Suguru smelled of dew; an early morning after a storm, fresh cut-grass. Innocuous and easy, blending into the back of ones senses compared to other, more abrasive scents. Once his rut hit, however, his pheromones could only be described as the stench of death. Mold and rot, mildew festering under his skin, wafting off of him and making it all too obvious even in the days leading up to it that he was approaching his rut.
And, maybe, that made Satoru a freak. For liking it. How he smelled, reeked like a bloated waterlogged corpse.
No, yeah, he definitely is a freak for that, no doubt about it.