Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sound of low music fills the space, a gentle backdrop to the murmur of countless conversations. Scattered groups form and dissolve, some sway softly on the edges of the dance floor, their movements fluid and unhurried. The clink of glasses and the occasional burst of sharp, bright laughter punctuate the ambient hum, creating a sense of relaxed revelry. A faint, sweet scent, lingering perfume, a distant, fruity drink mixture, mingles pleasantly in the background.

Satoru surveys the spacious room, a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors and whimsical shapes from the varied costumes on display. Every direction he looks, he spots another familiar character: a wookie sharing a joke with a flapper, a pirate adjusting his eye patch while chatting with a fairy.

"By "an inimate affair," did you mean the entire population of Tokyo?"

Shoko raises an eyebrow at his tone. "Better for you though, right?" she shoots back with a shrug.

Satoru watches the subtle sway of bodies on a makeshift dance floor and the murmur of conversations carried on low music. Satoru isn’t sure about this. "I don’t know about this,” he mutters, his gaze sweeping over the unimpressive crowd. Finding a compatible partner with all these people feels harder than it should. “I’m objectively stunning. This shouldn’t be this difficult.”

Shoko rolls her eyes. "Objectively stunning and entirely unburdened by self-awareness," she drawls. "Quite the package."

Satoru ignores the sarcasm in favor of preening at the compliment. He smooths a hand over his crop top, a self-satisfied grin playing on his lips, and nods his head. The array of costumes blurs into a pleasant hum of movement as figures pass by. A stoic samurai conversing with a glitter-dusted fairy, a mischievous devil laughing with an elegant vampire. The air, faintly sweet with varied perfumes and the crisp tang of open wine bottles, feels comfortably warm and inviting.

"You’re right. So all of this—" he gestures vaguely around the large, rented space—"Is really not necessary. Finding someone will be a cinch." Beyond their immediate vicinity, strings of soft, amber lights crisscross the ceiling, casting a warm glow over a few couples swaying gently to the low music, creating pockets of intimate moments amidst the larger gathering. The scent of sweet pastries, carried from a distant table, subtly layers into the background.

"Okay, stunning-san. Let’s see what happens. You stay here and do as I say or the bet is off."

Satoru groans. Of course Shoko is going to revel in forcing him to play by her rules. He clenches his teeth and tries to smile as politely as he can.

"So hurry up and tell me what to do. The cinch isn’t going to cinch itself."

"Just stay here and look pretty—"

"Please, Shoko. This is my default setting. Try something challenging."

Shoko makes a sound somewhere between a gag and a sigh. "I'm going to send someone your way. And Satoru, this one requires a bit more nuance than your usual approach, so please remember what we talked about."

It’s Satoru’s turn to roll his eyes. "Yeah, yeah." Shoko sighs again, a slight slump to her shoulders, but he doesn’t dwell on it. It’s his bet to win, after all.

With that and nothing more than a hand gesture he is pretty sure was a middle finger, Shoko's already halfway across the room and disappearing into the crowd.

A flicker of unease goes through Satoru as her words belatedly sink in. The bet is on. And the prize isn’t some abstract notion or round of drinks—it's a date. A real one, presumably with someone Shoko thinks can match him. He still isn't entirely sure why he'd agreed. His mind usually races a mile a minute, but this particular proposal had caught him off guard, a playful challenge he’d accepted on instinct.

A cold prickle of doubt works its way into his usually unshakeable confidence.

What if she sets him up with some insufferable bore? Or worse, someone who can't match him at all? The thought of navigating an evening of forced smiles and polite conversation with a stranger fills him with rare, uncomfortable awkwardness.

He finds Shoko in the crowd again, watches her nudge Utahime with her elbow and a soft, conspiratorial grin on her face. Utahime grumbles something back under her breath, a faint blush creeping up her neck.

It’s a familiar scene, the easy banter, the subtle touches; the way Shoko seems to inherently understand Utahime’s every mood, pulling amusement or affection from her with effortless grace. There's genuine comfort between them, shared moments of quiet understanding that transcend words.

A strange pang twists in his gut, a feeling he can’t quite place.

He has money, looks, grades, practically anything he wants—but he doesn’t have that.  But if Shoko, with her uncanny ability to navigate human complexities, believes she can find him something even a fraction as genuine as what she has with Utahime, then maybe this fleeting discomfort is a small price to pay.

Satoru adjusts the straps to his wings and pulls the front part of his crop top down to cover for the slight breeze in the room. If he had known it was going to be so chilly, he would have opted for the baby blue sweater instead of the mesh crop top he donned.

Across the room, Satoru watches as a Frank-N-Furter fills a clear glass with pink liquid. Not only is the man stunning, his legs are long and fill out the mesh stockings. He oozes confidence as he waltzes back over to his huddle of friends on the far side of the wall, each a different character from Rocky Horror.

Satoru frowns and peers down at his outfit. Should he have gone with something more risqué? He originally loved the idea of the play on his attitude versus his actual experience, but now he’s beginning to consider that it might not be nearly as funny as he thought.

As he contemplates breaking Shoko’s one rule, he hears a voice at his opposite side. "Hi. Shoko suggested I meet the ’pretty angel on the couch.’ Naoya. And I have to say, she seriously undersold the whole ’pretty’ situation."

Satoru turns to greet his guest and is pleasantly surprised to see a very handsome Jack Sparrow. There’s a flamboyant pirate hat upon his head, a bottle of rum and trinkets jangling at his side, more belts than a man should know what to do with, and black tights that lead into the biggest cowboy boots Satoru has ever seen. Naoya grins wolfishly and hoists one of his feet up on the sofa next to Satoru to lean his weight on.

The closer Naoya gets, the stronger the smell of his cologne, but Satoru smiles politely anyway because in his peripheral vision, he can see Shoko’s raised eyebrows watching them.

Naoya rests his arm on his thigh and leans his head on his palm as he speaks to Satoru. "How about a drink, gorgeous?"

Satoru smirks and tries to hold back a snicker when he says, "Only if it’s served on a silver platter. My standards, you know."

"Funny guy, huh? I can work with that. Shoko said you’re pretty new to the scene, but honestly didn’t give very many details. That’s okay with me, I’m more than happy to let a pretty little thing like you tell me what you want."

Satoru blinks at the change in conversation. He feels out of place and put on the spot but attempts to cover it with his signature overconfidence. He smiles candidly and nods along, "I’m—I’m new to the scene. She probably didn’t give you very many details because—there just aren’t any."

Naoya’s eyes are locked on Satoru’s lips. Satoru feels like a piece of cattle being watched and inspected for prime status. Naoya lowers his voice, but does not get any closer when he says, "What are you looking for, then, sweet little thing?"

Tamping down on the unease that settles in his stomach, Satoru leans in and notes that the lowered volume was an intentional maneuver to get him closer. Satoru tries to hold his frown as his eyes flick to Shoko across the room. She’s still watching them avidly.

Satoru knows generally that you should have some kind of idea of what you’re looking for, but that was why Satoru had Shoko. She weeds out the losers and creeps and Satoru gets to safely explore what he might be interested in with someone who is "GGG," as Shoko puts it; good, giving, game. He takes a deep breath and decides to just go for it, "I’m not exactly sure. I really have no experience."

"No worries at all, sweet thing. We all start somewhere. How about we uncover those desires together, then? Tell me, what really calls to you? A little bite? The thrill of obedience? Being a community hole?"

Satoru’s solo venture into FetLife was, to put it mildly, a disaster. Shoko hadn’t suggested the platform, but Satoru knew how the internet worked, and where to look for the "good top" she teased him about finding. He was hoping that, much like Shoko seemed to effortlessly understand Utahime, he might stumble across his own person there—someone who would just have that connection with him.

Instead, he found the experience so off-putting that it immediately drove him to seek Shoko’s guidance, practically groveling for her help. It became quickly evident that he was completely out of his element and deeply regretted his attempt to go it alone. The sheer disconnect between his expectations and the reality of FetLife left him feeling lost and misunderstood.

And if that meant that he had to swallow a few bad lines for someone who could give him what he wants in the long run, well—he would trust Shoko’s judgement. He would rely on her experience and temper the antagonistic comment itching to break free. "I don’t think that’s what I’m looking for."

Naoya looks positively gleeful when he responds, "No worries, sweet little thing. There are some things your dominant can just intuit, if it’s easier for you. You want a top, so you must be submissive."

Satoru chokes at the word. Sure, he had considered it when he had seen all the profiles on FetLife. And, of course, the way Shoko talked about submission had, at the time, seemed like something he might want to explore in the future. Satoru’s problem was that when he had considered exploring his potentially submissive nature, he assumed it would be with someone who had a deep synchronicity with him as a person first. Before he can stop himself, he snaps, "I’m not submissive."

Naoya flashes a predatory smile as he places a gentle finger under Satoru’s chin to lift his face closer. "No? You know, I’m pretty good at catching brats, too."

"I’m not a brat," Satoru grumbles, taken aback by the sudden change in temperature from the man in front of him. He looks away, uncomfortable and trying to catch Shoko’s eye. She seems to have vanished from the place where he had last seen her.

"No? Even better. Maybe I can pull it out of you. Why don’t we take this back to my place? I can show you some of my—collection. You’ll be able to learn so much about yourself there."

Satoru clenches his teeth and says rigidly, "I’m not interested."

"I thought you wanted a top? I’m right here, sweet thing."

Satoru thinks he may be the problem. If this was how fast people in the scene moved, maybe this wasn’t something he wanted to explore. The way Shoko had spoken about interactions in the community had not left this sour taste pungent on his tongue. Were all tops this demanding and forward? Satoru didn’t want to be broken or tamed. The idea of submission was exhilarating, but not at the risk of losing who he is as a person.

Naoya did not seem to understand that.

"We just met and I’m not comfortable going back to your place. Please," Satoru pats himself on the back for his quick thinking. If there was one way to manipulate a top, it was to appeal to his dominant side.

Naoya takes the bait almost immediately and coos out, "Oh, sweet thing. I’m sorry. You can trust me though. Shoko set us up, right?"

Satoru jerks away from his touch and plasters on an apologetic smile, immediately gasping out, "I’m sorry! I just don’t think this is working."

"My patience is wearing very thin, Satoru. I only live right around the corner. It’s a five minute walk, at best. Come on, let me make all your dreams come true, sweet thing."

The sudden familiarity of his first name, spoken with such quiet menace, jolts him. He looks up at Naoya looming over him and realizes that this was never going to work. What he at first thought a beautiful man, up close and personal, reveals rigid, strict facial lines. His face is narrow, his body small and surprisingly soft where Satoru is hard and lean.

Satoru is done. "No. I’m not interested."

"What is your problem?"

Before Satoru can even think to answer, he hears a soft, deep voice from behind them, "Obviously, it’s you."

Satoru whips his head to the side to glance at the stranger and his breath catches. Standing behind Naoya, towering over him, is a man whose presence is a stark contrast to Naoya’s smaller frame. He wears dark, flowing robes that fall with a heavy, elegant drape, and over his left shoulder, a gojo-kesa in a similar deep, muted tone. His long, dark hair is gathered in a precise top knot at the crown of his head.

His presence is palpable, a quiet force in contrast to Naoya’s aggressive posturing. His face is serene, almost deceptively placid, and his eyes, though unreadable from this distance, seem to have taken swift stock of the situation. At this moment, though Naoya’s threatening words still hang in the air, the stranger feels like a sudden, unexpected calm.

Satoru does a double and triple take. How had he missed the hot monk and why the hell was he spending his time with this loser pirate? The monk must have come in while he was engrossed in the back and forth with Naoya and for that, Satoru sulks.

He vaguely wonders if the monk is also one of Shoko’s friends and if he can get in on whatever it is that he wants, no questions asked.

Naoya scoffs. "Mind your own business."

Uh oh. The monk does not seem to like that response. Naoya hasn’t spared him half a glance before the monk steps forward and places a hand on his shoulder. Satoru watches as the fingers curl and dig into Naoya’s shirt and twists his face toward him. "He said no."

Naoya’s eyes round out, but he rolls them and jerks out of the stranger’s grasp with a last, "Whatever. He’s a pain in the ass."

Satoru gasps and sticks his tongue out at the retreating figure before plopping back down on the sofa with a little bounce. He lets his head fall back and takes his first breath cologne-free. He hears the stranger snort before he feels eyes assessing him.

"May I sit?"

Satoru lifts his head from the back of the couch and looks up at the stranger again and frowns. Why was he asking? Satoru shrugs.

"I hope that was okay. I did not mean to interfere, but Naoya’s kind pisses me off. They give us a bad name."

Us? Satoru doesn’t answer. He just watches as the stranger continues to speak.

"That isn’t how that works. He knows better, that guy is just an asshole."

Satoru hums but elects not to say anything.

"It’s your decision about whether you’re interested or not. On your timetable, at your discretion."

Satoru sighs and says, "Yeah well. This whole thing is starting to feel like a running gag of which Shoko is the mastermind. Between the loser narcissists online and the pushy pirate, I’m starting to regret all of this."

The stranger’s brows lift in confusion, "Regret what?"

"Everything. The scene. This party. Name it."

"Why the party?"

Did the monk not know? Maybe he isn’t into the scene, then. Maybe Satoru had misjudged him and he just didn’t like the way that man had treated him. Satoru frowns and glances around the room, looking again for the missing Shoko, before his eyes land on hers.

Shoko raises her eyebrows at Satoru and gives him a playful wink before turning to the smaller woman next to her. Utahime is chatting away when Shoko places a hand on her neck and leans down to place a kiss on her lips.

Yuck.

True love.

What the hell had that wink meant, anyway? She sends that shitty pirate over to him and then has the balls to wink at him like his new companion is hilarious? And for what reason, exactly, is the monk so funny?

Well. Satoru intends to find out.

"You know. ‘The party,’" Satoru says as he gestures air quotes.

The monk still looks confused. The gorgeous, polite monk waits for an answer. Satoru notes he does not smell like he bathed in cologne. He has a lovely smell that is just shy of clean laundry with an underlying bergamot.

Should he even explain? It’s more than likely that his knight in monk’s robes is actually not a part of the scene and he will end up just making a fool of himself. On the other hand, whether he is or isn’t really doesn’t matter that much to Satoru when all he can think about is what must be under those robes.

Satoru reaches his hand behind his head to scratch at his undercut and jokes out, "Well. Shoko threw this party to introduce me to the kink scene." Maybe Shoko had invited people that weren’t into the scene and just hadn’t told Satoru.

Shit. The monk’s been quiet for too long.

Satoru whispers, "Uh, do you know what a dominant is?" His face and neck immediately burn hot, and he feels the tell-tale flush reach the very tips of his ears.

The stranger chuckles. "Yes, I know what a dominant is. I wasn’t aware that this was a matchmaking event."

"Well—not—like—totally—" Satoru fidgets in his chair before he continues, "It’s also a Halloween party! It’s not all about me, despite the lies Shoko spouts about my needing to be the center of attention all the time." Satoru can feel himself overexplaining, but for some reason, he just can’t stop himself.

The proceeding silence is deafening. Satoru feels like he could hear the monk breathing if he listened close enough. He thinks through all the things he could be doing at home right now instead of being roped into another one of Shoko’s bets. A new bakery up the street just opened and they stay open late. Perhaps he could still sneak out and run by there before heading home.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

Satoru looks at the monk and shakes his head. "No, thank you."

"Please."

Satoru considers for a moment before he shrugs and acquiesces, "Okay."

Actually, with the monk out of his immediate vicinity Satoru feels a little more clear headed. Where Naoya kept aggressively close, this space gives him time to think about what his next moves are and whether he wants to honestly pursue anything with the stranger or if it is time to pack up and head home.

Before Satoru can make his decision, Shoko and Utahime are there before him. "Lost the bet so easily? Couldn’t handle Naoya?"

"You sent that loser to me on purpose. The bet should be off," Satoru grumbles, but it’s more exasperation than real annoyance.

Shoko laughs. "Sorry. He isn’t usually so pushy and he begged to be introduced. I thought getting one asshole out of the way might do you some good."

"I hate you."

"You love me. It set you up for Suguru, didn’t it?"

Satoru tucks his name into his back pocket. "So he is in the scene?"

Shoko seems conflicted on how to answer.

Utahime’s eyes go wide and she snaps, "Oh he’s in the scene you moron. Just not your scene. Just politely move on from him, he’s too much for you."

Shoko places her hand on Utahime’s head and pets down her hair before gently yanking her back to look at her, "Now, now. We aren’t getting involved, my love."

Utahime goes sugar soft in Shoko’s grasp and her eyes turn molten. Satoru watches in fascination as Shoko leads Utahime away with a simple command and remembers why he asked her to set this party up for him in the first place.

He sighs in resignation.

What the hell had Utahime meant? He can’t handle Suguru? We’ll see about that.

When Suguru comes back, Satoru notes that it is not alcohol in his glass, but sparkling water. "Thank you," he mumbles, impressed and sincerely grateful.

Suguru looks at him again and says, "So you’re looking for a top?"

Satoru clasps his cup a little tighter and hears the crinkle of the plastic. "I mean—I guess." Satoru takes a sip of the water and feels the liquid cool his parched throat. "I should say I was. I have no idea what I want anymore."

Silence again. Suguru is a man of apparently few words. Satoru doesn’t mind, but he feels an incessant need to fill the space. Before long, he catches himself drumming his fingers on his thighs and pressing into his pants. He tries to catch the monk’s interest again, "Very authentic costume."

Suguru’s eyes wrinkle at the corners before he takes a long, pointed glance at Satoru’s entire outfit, his eyes lingering on exposed skin where the wing straps dig into his shoulders. "Likewise."

"Shoko said—she said I should make a statement." It feels like a pretty lame excuse for the outfit now, but it’s much too late to return the words. Satoru has to pay for them now.

"What kind of statement do you want to make, Angel-san?"

Satoru can feel the color rapidly spreading across his chest and the way heat seems to settle in his lower body.

"I’m not some pushover who wants to be used and thrown away."

Satoru watches Suguru consider his next words before he says, "That was Naoya’s mistake. I apologize that was your first experience."

Satoru sighs dramatically. "Honestly, the only thing that interaction did was confirm that ’getting propositioned by a complete ass’ isn’t on my kink list. Now I know."

Suguru hums out a gentle laugh and says, "Well, you at least know what a kink list is."

Satoru doesn’t spare him a look as he feels his face heating up again.

"Relax. I’m not interested in bringing you home to uncover your hidden desires, or whatever other bullshit Naoya is spouting."

Satoru glances back at Suguru again and for a split second, he almost considers being upset before he remembers Utahime’s warning.

Suguru gives him a gentle smile and is quick to add, "Not that you aren’t gorgeous, just that my—ahh, skills are probably not something you’ll want. I generally deal with TPE."

Well. That was the same kind of crap that Utahime had said earlier. What skills are they dismissing so quickly that everyone doesn’t think Satoru can handle? Satoru grows more curious as the minutes tick by, but also more cautious. His run in with Naoya really hasn’t aged well.

"TPE? What’s that, some kind of new cryptocurrency?" Satoru jokes, trying to sound nonchalant, but the words come out a little too quickly.

Suguru’s lips twitch. "No, Angel-san. It stands for Total Power Exchange. It’s a very specific kind of dynamic."

Satoru can infer enough from the description to guess what that means. "Oh."

"Mhm."

Satoru coughs and looks away, imagining what power exchange might look like with Suguru as his dominant. Would he have to bow and kneel before Suguru, kiss his feet in front of others? What kind of power does that entail? Does Suguru want to be worshipped like a god? Does he expect total obedience?

At the thought of obedience, Satoru’s body erupts in gooseflesh.

"You know, though we’re not compatible, I have been in the community for quite some time." Suguru lets the suggestion dangle.

Satoru processes the words and blurts out, "Are you proposing helping me find a top? You don’t even know me!"

Suguru shrugs and explains, "You’re one of Shoko’s friends and I have more contacts than her."

This is a trap. "What’s in it for you?"

"Good karma? I’m a sadist. It would be nice to put something positive back into the universe," Suguru chuckles and Satoru can feel those pesky colors lighting up his pale skin again.

Satoru stares unabashedly at Suguru’s face. He feels like if he could just read one or two more of his ticks, he would be able to find the answers he’s looking for. Suguru’s face, however, gives nothing away.  

Satoru has no idea how this guy is a dominant with a capital D, but whatever. Suguru insists that they aren’t compatible. Satoru can probably deal with that.

Suguru takes his phone out of his robes and says, "Why don’t we exchange contact information for now? You can decide if you want my help or not, no pressure. If you want, ask around about me. My name is Suguru Geto. Ask Shoko or Utahime, we’ve known each other for a very long time. Take all the precautions you need to feel safe."

Satoru contemplates the offer and realizes he hasn’t yet introduced himself. "Gojo Satoru." Satoru grabs his phone from the couch next to him and swaps it with Suguru’s.

"Nice to finally have a name, Satoru. ’Angel-san’ was starting to feel a bit too formal." Satoru watches out of his periphery as Suguru inputs his contact information into his phone and hands the phone back.

Ever the antagonist, Satoru decides to be a little brazen, "You know, you don’t quite look like a college student, Geto-san."

Suguru laughs. "Oh? Am I too old to be here?"

Satoru doesn’t miss a beat, "Well. I wouldn’t know." He polishes his nails in front of his face before he continues, "Are you?"

"Satoru," Suguru says, the inflection in his voice slowing his speech as his voice deepens, "If you are curious about something, all you have to do is ask. The first rule of finding a dominant: no one is looking for a brat and most dominants won’t put up with those who are."

Satoru doesn’t take the hint, though he does file the information away as he watches the slight tick in Suguru’s jaw become increasingly apparent. "Fine." He sighs out the word, extending each syllable. "How old are you, anyway?"

Suguru’s jaw still has that faint tick, but his voice is calm as he answers, "I am forty-one."

"Ah, Utahime’s age." That makes sense as the people at the party look to be mixed ages. Satoru is no college freshman; he just finished his master’s program and is applying for several interesting doctoral programs in physics.

Hot and older? Too bad they aren’t compatible. The thought alone, however, is enough to spark an inferno deep in Satoru’s chest. Imagine the sheer, undeniable force of the combustion they could create together. He nearly chokes on his sparkling water as a vivid image overtakes him: he’s at Suguru’s feet, worshipping him, while Suguru praises and strokes him. A shiver runs down his spine, entirely unrelated to the cool air in the room. He tries to laugh it off, awkwardly.

Suguru’s gaze is sharp, a knowing glint in his eye. "Something amusing, Angel-san?"

"Oh. Uh, nothing, just thinking about something—something funny," Satoru lies, forcing a smile before he goes back to thrum his fingers on his thighs.

"And you don’t want to share?" Suguru’s voice is low, inviting a confession.

Satoru can’t help but swallow the huge lump in his throat. He meets Suguru’s eyes, a challenge and a burgeoning desire battling inside him. "Just—just trying to imagine what kind of person would want to be—" Satoru chokes a little on the word before croaking out, "—worshipped."

Suguru’s eyes darken before he responds, "Do you fantasize about being worshipped, Satoru?"

Satoru flusters at the suggestion, squawking out a quick, "Not me!" And realizes immediately what he has given away.

Suguru’s eyes crinkle again when he laughs, but he kindly changes the subject to inquire about what Satoru is studying.

Before long, Satoru realizes that he and Suguru have been sitting on the couch talking for over an hour. He stretches his long limbs from the couch and reluctantly mutters, "Well, I think it’s way past my bedtime."

Suguru hums thoughtfully. "Please think on what I said, Satoru."

Satoru grins, his blue eyes sparkling. "I’ll think about it. Thanks."

Chapter Text

The thing is, Satoru does think about Suguru’s offer. In fact, it’s the only thing that he can think about. When he’s eating breakfast, he’s picturing sitting at Suguru’s feet. When he’s walking to classes across campus, he’s considering what obedience training might look like with Suguru as his dominant. When he’s at dinner with Shoko for their weekly dinner, he’s picturing himself with a pretty collar adorned around his neck.

Okay, so maybe he went home from the party and immediately researched “BDSM kink list.” He isn’t just curious; a cold, familiar knot forms in his stomach. After the Naoya debacle, the last thing he wants is to be caught off guard again, to stumble and look foolish. Failure isn’t an option, not for him, especially not in a new arena where he feels so utterly out of his element. He needs to understand everything, to predict every dynamic. He thinks being prepared might make the situation a lot less awkward, yes, but more importantly, it might save him from the humiliating sting of inadequacy. His whole life, he’s excelled by knowing too much rather than too little, meticulously planning every move, ensuring every answer is perfect. This is no different. This is just another complex system, and he will master it.

That is what he hopes, anyway.

Now that he is taking the time to look over a real ‘kink list,’ he is somewhat intimidated by everything listed.

Like. Mummification.

He leans into his computer and tentatively googles ‘mummification,’ before quickly closing it, grimacing. It seems categorizing these is harder than quantum field theory. He wants to group them mentally: pain-related, power-related, sensory-related. But then something like ‘mummification’ throws his whole system into chaos. His perfectly ordered mind bristles at the illogical sprawl. He can build a model of the universe, but this—this is just a chaotic mess of human desires. And for all his frantic research, the answers offer no genuine understanding of why people want these things, or how to truly connect through them. He’s accumulating data points, not empathy. He needs more than just definitions; he needs context, nuance. He needs a living, breathing example.

He thinks about Suguru and glances down at his list. The easy answer is to have him help, but Satoru is steadfast in believing that he can at least accomplish this part without having someone else help him. He just—he wants to be prepared himself. He doesn’t actually need someone else to research and tell him whether he likes these things. That has to come from him.

He remembers his disastrous solo venture, how it was so off-putting, and all the losers and creeps. A wave of almost-nausea washes over him. He knows this probably isn’t the preferred method, but he can’t shake the nagging urge to be prepared, to understand everything before he steps into it.

The last thing he wants is to be caught off guard again, to stumble and look foolish. Better to know too much than too little, always. He’s spent his life ensuring every move is calculated, every answer perfect. Failure isn’t an option, not for him.

♡

When the curtains have muted the outside sun and the room glows with the soft morning light, Satoru glances at the clock on his computer.

6:41 a.m.

He’s been staring at vocabulary and academic papers for almost four hours since he returned home from Shoko’s Halloween party. He does not feel any closer to any answers than he did before he started looking at the kink list he downloaded from FetLife.

It’s something that he does not have time to consider now, anyway. In less than four hours, he has to be ready for a fundraising event that he promised to attend. He does the math in his head and assumes he can get at least a couple of hours of shut eye before he has to be up and presentable.

However, what was supposed to be only a nap and a quick turnaround to be awake at a reasonable time to get ready, has left him with only thirty minutes remaining. Satoru scrambles out of bed and races down the hallway to jump in the shower and get out the door as quickly as possible.

This is the reality of his life now: the absolute only reason Satoru is even at this fundraising event is that he is the academic equivalent of the star player of the university’s prize-winning team, trotted out to impress donors. But unlike the star player, he is not cut out for the preening and passing around of his academic capabilities.

He assumes.

He actually has no idea how sports things work.

What Satoru does understand is the unfortunate necessity and importance of these events and their hosts. The physics department, once revered as one of the best in the country, is in trouble. Or, more accurately, Satoru’s specific graduate program is in trouble. It’s a tale as old as time; the dean’s office has been slashing budgets, diverting funds to flashier, more ‘marketable’ fields that bring in more students. Satoru’s own doctoral aspirations hinge on securing external funding. That’s why he’s here, dressed in a tailored suit that feels more like a costume than his angel wings did, playing the part of the charming genius, the poster child for what their struggling department can still produce. Satoru is, after all, the one with the groundbreaking master’s thesis, the one whose name gets whispered by professors in hushed, hopeful tones.

The event, held in the university’s ornate grand ballroom, is a glittering sea of donors, alumni, and university administrators. As it is now, the ballroom is filled with the hum of polite conversation, clinking glasses, and the sparkle from the crystal chandeliers. This is a life Satoru is at least accustomed to, thanks to his upbringing. Satoru had navigated such glittering gatherings before he could tie his own bow tie. He learned the unspoken rules of polite society as others learned how to tie their shoes.

Satoru effortlessly navigates conversations about the latest breakthroughs in theoretical physics, simplifying complex concepts into digestible, intriguing soundbites for the bewildered yet impressed guests. He speaks passionately about his vision for interdisciplinary quantum research, about the need for better lab equipment, about scholarships for promising young minds who might otherwise be lost to better-funded institutions. He answers every question with precision, his intellect shining undeniably.

Satoru is, by all accounts, dazzling.

He sees the nods, the interested looks, the slight widening of eyes as he explains concepts that are beyond most people’s comprehension. A few times, he even sees hands reach for their wallets to pull out business cards.

He’s doing it.

He’s securing the future.

However, despite the constant engagement, the polite laughter, and the admiring glances, a familiar distance settles over him. Satoru is the center of attention, but he also feels—utterly alone. No one here truly understands the nuances of his research, the intricate beauty of the equations that keep his mind engaged and ready. They understand the outcome of his intelligence—but not the material itself.

Satoru observes a group of alumni reminiscing about their college days, sharing inside jokes and boisterous laughter. He watches a couple holding hands discreetly under the table, their shared history palpable, his throat constricting. Satoru even spots a quiet corner where two professors, old friends, are debating a long-solved problem with a comfortable ease that speaks of decades of shared intellectual battles and personal understanding. He feels the want bubble up in him as he watches them. He feels the prick under his skin to live a life like them.

It isn’t even that he thinks it isn’t possible. He knows it is, but he needs someone to challenge him. He can’t just roll over for someone like Naoya.

Gojo Satoru, the academic equivalent of a prize-winning star player, stands tall, radiating competence and charm. He is securing the future of his department, paving the way for groundbreaking PhD programs. But as he delivers another flawless explanation of space-time curvature to a bewildered but stricken guest, he feels the ache of that solitary peak, the quiet hum of a mind always a few steps ahead, but—a few steps removed. The success he craves feels less like shared triumph and more like a solitary victory, echoing faintly in the vast ballroom.

Satoru wonders, briefly, if Suguru’s offer, and those deep, complex dynamics on the kink list—even those that he somehow may not be ready for—might be the only way to truly bridge this intense loneliness that hums through him.

Satoru pulls out his phone and messages Suguru.

me, 12:46 pm

if tpe means totally pondering everything, then I guess you win! your turn

Suguru

Suguru’s face breaks into a wide smile as Yuki Tsukumo strolls into the shodo kyoshitsu. She moves through the space with a quiet grace; every step betrays an intimate familiarity with its layout, as if she’d never been away. Suguru hasn’t had the pleasure of her company in far too long, and her presence is a welcome warmth. Of course, this never goes unnoticed by the Geto family, who have, on multiple occasions, gently reminded Suguru that while Yuki is delightful, they prefer he dedicate his time to ‘more serious considerations’ because they know the two will never wed. The irony isn’t lost on Suguru: his parents adore Yuki—she comes from a famous martial arts house, is straightforward yet kind, and undeniably beautiful. They see her as the perfect match, completely missing the fact that he and Yuki share the exact same proclivities and have only ever seen each other as the closest of friends.

Suguru is already seated on the tatami floor when Yuki walks in and quietly shuts the fusuma behind her. She settles onto the mat, folding her legs into a perfect seiza. It is a posture she’d mastered in childhood, unlike so many others. Suguru feels a wave of contentment.

“You’re back early,” he speaks quietly, his eyes not leaving the hanshi in front of him. He counts his strokes.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Suguru can see the grin spread across her face in his peripheral vision as she replies, “Aw, you missed me!”

Instead of responding, he changes the subject. “You really missed out on Shoko’s get-together.”

Yuki makes a face for a moment, but as quickly as it is there, it’s already gone. “Oh?”

“Mmm,” Suguru says and makes five more downstrokes. He can feel Yuki’s eyes on him as he works.

Yuki sighs. “I love watching you.”

Suguru’s eyebrows raise and his mouth twitches. “Damn, Yuki, don’t let my parents hear that kind of talk.”

Yuki shrugs and sticks her tongue out at him before asking, “Did you finally find a good submissive?”

Suguru falters, his hand shifts up and he catches his brush just in time before it touches down, but Yuki catches it—and isn’t that typical. “Did you know it wasn’t just a Halloween party?”

Yuki shrugs, “When has Shoko literally ever thrown a vanilla party?”

Suguru thinks. Damn. He sort of fell into that one. “You know I have a hard time finding someone who—matches my needs.”

Yuki snorts and stretches out her legs in front of her, breaking her perfect seiza. Suguru is impressed she kept the position as long as she did. He’s pretty sure his legs are actually bent in the direction of seiza.

Suguru lifts the brush to finish his last stroke—fifteen. He inspects the paper and sees the variation in his up-down strokes.

潔 (isagiyoi).

Purity.

Suguru has outdone himself. The brushstrokes are almost perfect, and where he has been accused of being heavy-handed, the end of the strokes are light and well-proportioned. He can see in the hanshi when Yuki arrived, some of the lines—

“I keep telling you. You’re never going to find someone who wants to grovel at your feet for the rest of your life. You need to satisfy yourself with a submissive and then—”

Suguru glares and interrupts, “I have never asked anyone to—”

“See if you can push their limits.”

“And that is just unethical. Why would I string along someone I’m not sure can fulfill my needs in the long run?”

Yuki shrugs again. “It’s not unethical, it’s just a little—push in the right direction.” Suguru’s phone buzzes in his back pocket and Yuki raises an eyebrow. “Please, don’t let me stop you.”

gojo satoru, 12:46 pm

if tpe means totally pondering everything, then I guess you win! your turn

Suguru cracks a smile at his phone and Yuki makes a noise under her breath that sounds very much like interest. Suguru waves her away, replying immediately.

me, 12:50 pm

ah, you figured me out. and here I thought I was being subtle.

gojo satoru, 12:52 pm

subtle? please. i’ve done my research on all these terms.
this is all child’s play
i’m ready for anything you throw my way now.

me, 12:55 pm

is that so?
 that is a big claim, Satoru
 especially when I haven’t even decided if you’re worth the effort

gojo satoru, 12:59 pm

oh?
“worth the effort” you say?
that sounds like a challenge
and i love to win

This is the unfortunate moment when Yuki finally gets tired of waiting and glances over Suguru’s shoulder. She raises her eyebrows to her hairline and jabs Suguru with her elbow.

“So you did meet someone at Shoko’s party.”

“He’s new to kink.”

“So, you could train him right from scratch.”

Suguru flusters at the images that cross his mind at that comment before he shuts them down. “No. It’s not that kind of relationship. He doesn’t want my brand of kink.”

Yuki laughs.

Suguru shifts uncomfortably. Satoru needs someone to watch over him, not become another Naoya. He isn’t trying to get into Satoru’s metaphorical pants, he genuinely wants to help him. And despite what he had professed at the party—he would love to interest Satoru in some of his less mainstream activities.

Suguru had already thought of training him himself before he discarded the idea. It wouldn’t be fair to Satoru as their kinks didn’t align.

Probably.

Technically, Suguru doesn’t know anything about Satoru yet.

“You want him, though,” Yuki says as she pokes his chest a few times for emphasis.

“He’d be better off with anyone else.” Suguru hears Yuki cackle, and nudges her with his arm before giving her a look about time and place.

She waves him off. “You need to do something for yourself every once in a while. Being so damn giving is gonna put you in an early retirement home, gramps.”

me, 1:25 pm

why don’t you be a good boy and fill this out for me
 if you have any questions, we can go over any things you might not understand
 [experience_curiosity...49_28.pdf]

The reply is almost instantaneous.

gojo satoru, 1:26 pm

i toooooooold you
this is kid stuff
[bdsmcheckli…_satoru.pdf]

Suguru thinks he blacks out for a moment, but he can distantly hear Yuki in the background encouraging him to open the file. When he doesn’t respond for several moments after staring at the text message, Yuki leans over his shoulder and touches the link to Satoru’s PDF.

Satoru has scribbled annotations on the side of the PDF like it’s a research paper and marked checks and exes under the columns for each item. He has further notes to explain certain terms that he obviously did not understand and he drew colorful happy faces on the ones he especially liked. He drew faces with their tongues sticking out next to the items on his ‘no’ list, which Suguru could only assume were meant to be ‘frowny faces.’

Yuki is ‘mhm’ing her way through his list and scrolling the page up over his shoulder as Suguru is momentarily stunned to realize that they do have many things in common. More than should be acceptable if he were really only trying to help him find a dominant that was not him.

When Yuki is done scrolling through Satoru’s list, her face is sly as she utters, “I don’t really see the problem, Su-gu-ru,” emphasizing each character in his name in that obnoxious way of hers when she knows she has him beat.

Suguru turns his phone off and immediately regrets not responding to Satoru, but he figures he can respond later—after he has dealt with his good-for-nothing best friend.

♡

Sukuna walks into the trendy, upscale coffee shop looking like a tool. Between the older-than-dirt shirt he wears and jeans that are more hole than jean, he looks like he’s going through his mid-life crisis and having his eighteenth birthday next week. He’s been going through an ugly breakup with someone he’d been seeing for over three years, and Suguru keeps waiting for him to get back on the horse, so to speak.

Sukuna is a good guy. He was Suguru’s first choice for Satoru, so he set up this date to see if he could mediate a match between them.

When he sits, his expression is less than enthusiastic. Suguru tries to temper the situation with a quick, “Did I mention he’s hot?”

Sukuna gives a bark of a laugh and only replies, “If he was hot, he wouldn’t have trouble finding a top. You’d be bangin’ him.”

Suguru flinches at the word choice. “Sukuna, you know me. Would I fuck anybody just because they’re hot?” Suguru taps on the table at the bar code indicating the café’s menu. “As for Satoru, if he were into what I was into, it wouldn’t even be a discussion. And yet, here we are. He’s hot, smart, and looking for someone to introduce him to kink that isn’t an asshole.”

They both type away on their phone for a few minutes to order their drinks and Suguru lets his remarks settle. A few moments later, a young-looking waiter appears with their drink orders, tall, lean, and obviously well-kept. Suguru watches out of the corner of his eye as Sukuna stares unabashedly at the waiter, who places their drinks and walks away.

Maybe Sukuna is a mistake. His last few submissives had nothing but high praises and he only ever heard positive, affirming things from them. But it’s obvious that his last breakup had been rough.

Suguru starts to doubt his match.

“So if he’s so awesome, why aren’t you trainin’ him yourself? Ain’t you—without a submissive yourself?”

A twinge of annoyance sets him on edge. “I could, but he’s just starting out, and I don’t want to steer him toward my specific tastes. It feels a bit like taking advantage, especially if his preferences end up being completely different. And honestly, I don’t have the patience to guide someone through all that only to discover we’re incompatible.”

“What about workin’ him up to it slowly?”

Seriously. Are all his friends discussing this behind his back?

“Stealth training?” Suguru shakes his head. “That’s not exactly consensual. I’m not going to subtly brainwash him. He seems to be very into submitting, but he has a strong sense of what he wants.”

A refill to Suguru’s black coffee arrives, along with the young, admittedly hot waiter who Sukuna takes no time to ogle. Suguru isn’t sure if he should stay or if he should allow Sukuna and Satoru to have a private conversation themselves. Suguru wants to be there for anything that Satoru needs, but that seems to just be the issue.

After extensive re-reads of Satoru’s kink checklist, Suguru feels much like the fox guarding the hen house. Not only is it a bad idea for Satoru to be here, but it’s a bad idea for the fox himself.

Through the large, storefront windows, Suguru watches as Satoru adjusts his sunglasses on his face and tidies his shirt before grabbing the handle of the door to walk in the establishment.

Satoru strides in, radiating an almost arrogant chic. Satoru donned a crisp, light blue marinière for the occasion, not a casual, striped cotton but obviously a fine linen blend. The way it’s tailored to fit Satoru should be criminal as it highlights his lean build and fit frame, tapering precisely at his waist. He’s paired his expensive shirt with a pair of trousers that hug his long, lean legs, in a blindingly white fabric that looks expensive and clean.

Suguru watches as Satoru walks over to their table, his bright blue eyes sparkling and a grin spread across his face.

Sukuna isn’t good enough.

“He’s here, be nice.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Sukuna’s gaze lands on Satoru walking over and a low whistle makes its way from his throat. “Are you sure you don’t want him for yourself? Damn. Look at that perfect, unmarked skin, and he ain’t even wearin’ a collar or nothin’.  What a shame.”

Suguru grits his teeth and tries not to let Sukuna’s words weave themselves through his mind as he struggles, and ultimately fails, not to imagine Satoru at his feet, a collar snug around his beautiful neck. Tears in his eyes. Begging for release.

Suguru closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

The night he received Satoru’s checklist he finally admitted to himself he wanted Satoru for himself. He caught himself glancing over at his phone several times during the day just to catch any conversation Satoru might try to engage.

Whether it’s that Satoru had opened up to him so easily, or that he’d thought of how he could help him learn all about the kink he is so readily interested in, Suguru found himself often thinking of Satoru.

Or maybe it is just Yuki and her constant teasing that kept Satoru firmly at the forefront of his mind.

He isn’t mine.

Suguru and Sukuna stand to welcome their guest and Satoru mumbles some quick “hello”s before sitting down between Suguru and Sukuna at the end of the table.

Sukuna immediately turns toward Satoru and says, “Very nice to meet ya, Satoru. Suguru has told me a lot about ya.”

Satoru turns his head to look quickly at Suguru before he shoots a charming smile back at Sukuna. Suguru wills his jealousy down and reminds himself again that Satoru isn’t his.

“He told you all about me, huh? Suguru, that is mildly embarrassing, I must say.”

“Oh, darlin’, there’s nothing wrong with being new to the scene.” Sukuna takes a long sip of his iced coffee and lays it on thick, “I’d be happy to show you the ropes, as it were.”

Suguru inwardly groans in annoyance. The predatory glint in Sukuna’s eye is unmistakable, and the casual, almost proprietorial way he offers to ‘show the ropes’ grates on Suguru’s nerves. It reduces Satoru to a project, a conquest, rather than the complex, curious individual Suguru knows he is. Before he can break up the conversation, the waiter arrives and places some kind of sugary abomination in front of Satoru that looks like something his younger sister would order. Satoru smiles brightly at the waiter and mutters a thank you before taking his straw between his lips and sucking.

Suguru is definitely capable of paying attention to the important things that Sukuna and Satoru are talking about and not the way Satoru’s lips are suctioned to that straw.

Suguru tears his eyes away from Satoru to watch Sukuna speak.

Sukuna leans forward slightly, his demeanor shifting from casual to instructive. “So, Suguru tells me you’re looking to explore the scene. That’s good. It takes guts to admit you’re a sub, and even more to seek out a proper dominant. What are you hoping to find?”

Satoru takes another slow sip of his drink, his bright blue eyes fixed on Sukuna. “I’m looking to understand the dynamics, primarily. I’ve been doing some research, but theory only goes so far. I’m deeply curious about how these relationships function, the nature of power exchange, and how individuals navigate that space.”

Suguru feels a brutal pull of desire in his gut. Satoru isn’t just talking about curiosity; it’s the raw, unbridled hunger of a mind that demands to dissect, to master. He can already taste the moment those brilliant, questioning eyes will finally glaze over, heavy-lidded and yielding, as Satoru’s formidable intellect bends to Suguru’s every command. The fantasy sends a tremor through him, intoxicating and compelling.

Sukuna nods, a self-satisfied expression on his face. “Right. It’s about control, Satoru. The dominant takes it, the submissive gives it. Simple as that. A good dominant provides direction, and a good submissive… well, they follow. No need to overcomplicate it with ‘dynamics’ and ‘functions.’”

Satoru’s smile remains, but it lacks the same warmth as earlier. “I suppose that’s one way to frame it. But don’t the subtleties of that exchange—the why behind the choices, the nature of consent, the psychological nuances—contribute to the depth of the experience? For me, understanding the intricate workings of a system is paramount to truly engaging with it.”

A low hum of possessiveness starts in Suguru’s chest as Satoru speaks, dissecting Sukuna’s shallow worldview with such precision. This isn’t simple obedience Satoru is seeking; he wants a deeper connection, a challenge to his own command that would make the eventual submission infinitely more satisfying. The thought again of bringing such a fierce, questioning intellect to its knees, purely by will and earned trust, makes his blood sing.

Sukuna waves a dismissive hand. “Subtleties are for academics, Satoru. This is about instinct, about primal connections. You feel the pull, you obey. You want to please your dominant; you do what they say. Overthinking just gets in the way of the natural flow.”

“But surely the choice to obey, the deliberate surrender, is more profound when it’s informed?” Satoru counters, a flicker of his characteristic intellectual intensity beginning to show. “If I’m not allowed to question, to explore the boundaries of my own understanding, then is it truly my submission, or simply blind adherence?”

Sukuna scoffs, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed. “Blind adherence? That sounds like resistance, Satoru. The point is to let go of that need to understand everything. It’s about trust. Trust that your dominant knows what they’re doing, that they’ll guide you. It’s a cleaner, purer connection without all that mental clutter.”

Looking at the subtle tightening around Satoru’s expressive eyes, the almost quiet shift in his posture, Suguru had no idea how he ever thought that Satoru of all people would want someone like Sukuna. Satoru craves intellectual stimulation, a challenge, not simply an echo chamber for someone else’s ego.

“…and that’s why, really, the best subs aren’t the ones who think too much, but the ones who just do. Do you think you could be a good boy for me, Satoru?” Sukuna leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a confident smirk on his face as he directed his gaze squarely at Satoru. “So, you’re more of a doer, Satoru?”

Satoru raises his chin, a subtle challenge in his bright blue eyes. “When I choose to be.” The edge in Satoru’s voice, the way he frames ‘choosing,’ makes Suguru shift in his seat. Suguru wonders how Sukuna will respond to that particular brand of stubbornness, to Satoru’s inherent need to assert his agency even while exploring submission.

Sukuna, however, seems oblivious to the nuance. Sukuna beams at Satoru. “Well, generally, submissives choose to just do what their dominants want. It makes for a happier relationship all around, believe me.” Sukuna takes a long sip of his iced coffee, emphasizing his point with a slow, deliberate swallow.

Satoru’s smile tightens, his eyes flickering towards Suguru for a fraction of a second. “Real guidance comes from understanding, not just guessing. To assume you know what someone wants without bothering to ask isn’t just arrogant; it’s careless.”

Sukuna’s lips press into a furious line, his eyes narrowing. The confident posture slumps slightly.

“So, maybe we should just take a breather and—”

“Nah, no need.” Sukuna waves a dismissive hand at Satoru, as if washing his hands of the entire interaction, effectively ending the possibility of a match. “Better not to play footsie about all this rather than in the long run find out he ain’t for me.”

Satoru nods his head in agreement. “Yeah, I don’t think it’ll work. It was nice to meet you, though, Sukuna!”

Sukuna snorts at Satoru. “You’re definitely… a lot, Satoru. Too many questions for my taste. Good luck finding someone who enjoys untangling all that.”

With that final, condescending remark, Sukuna turns on his heel and strides out the door, the bell above it chiming his departure. Satoru remains seated, his gaze following Sukuna’s retreating back with an unreadable expression. His posture is rigid, the very air around him seeming to hum with suppressed thought. He picks up his half-touched sugary drink, swirling the straw idly.

“Well—” Suguru starts, his voice carefully neutral.

“Awful,” Satoru interrupts, his voice clipped, devoid of its usual effervescence. He sets the drink down with a soft thud. “Honestly, that guy is a prime example of everything I hope to avoid. His entire premise is fundamentally flawed.”

Suguru sighs, a low sound of resignation. He turns fully towards Satoru, his expression serious. “Part of that was you, Satoru. You were challenging him from the moment he opened his mouth. I’m not saying Sukuna handled that well at all—he was kind of a jackass—but you need to own your own part in the dynamic.” Suguru’s eyes narrow speculatively, observing the faint tremor in Satoru’s hand.

Satoru’s mouth opens and closes a few times, his vibrant blue eyes flashing with a mixture of indignation and self-awareness. Finally, he shuts his mouth with a snap and pulls his gaze from Suguru’s, fixing it on some distant point beyond the cafe window. He’d gone from sharp indignation to a rare, frustrated introspection in the span of just a moment.

“I’m sorry,” Satoru mutters, almost to himself. “I know what I want—at least mostly. But when someone tries to dictate without earning the right, or expects blind acceptance, it just makes me shut down. My whole life, I’ve craved challenges, needed to truly grasp concepts and conquer systems. It’s hard to reconcile that with the idea of… of simply falling in line.” He gestures vaguely with a hand. “What’s the point if you’re not thinking? In my world, that’s just... useless.”

Suguru nods slowly, his expression softening into understanding. “I get what you’re saying, Satoru, really. But that’s something you’re going to have to work through if you want to explore submission. It’s not an easy road for someone who’s fiercely independent and intellectually driven. You have to learn to differentiate between genuine power exchange and coercive control. This kind of power exchange is consensual, by its very definition. Most dominants aren’t trying to fight you for your critical thought; they’re looking for someone who chooses to give in for their own satisfaction.”

Satoru’s pretty blue eyes are troubled, a rare vulnerability clouding their usual brilliance. It bothers Suguru that this isn’t something he can fix for him with a logical explanation. As he watches Satoru’s silent, internal struggle, Satoru slowly seems to become aware of Suguru’s intense focus on him.

“What?” Satoru asks, a brief hesitation in his voice.

“Shh. I’m reading your mind,” Suguru offers, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

Satoru lets out a short, surprised laugh, and playfully shoves Suguru’s arm. An answering growl in Suguru begs to respond—a possessive instinct to assert his own dominant nature with Satoru, but Suguru pushes it down.

Not mine. Not mine.

“I don’t have to read your mind to figure out what you’re thinking,” Satoru says, recovering quickly. “You wouldn’t normally let a… an acquaintance get away with that kind of physical contact, am I right?”

“Not if he was mine,” Suguru corrects gently, his eyes fixed on Satoru’s face.

Satoru’s eyes go wide, shining with a sudden, intense curiosity. “What would you do?”

Suguru leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low, resonant whisper. “I’d remind them of their place. Very thoroughly.”

With growing interest, Suguru watches as Satoru’s breathing becomes deep, almost hypnotic, his pupils subtly dilating.

The transformation is breathtaking.

Imagining something intensely intriguing from just a small cue, a mere suggestion? Satoru’s submissive nature is there, running just below the surface of his formidable intellectual facade, so close that Suguru is certain he could draw it out without much effort.

He feels the strong, almost overwhelming temptation to test his theory.

Not mine. He is not mine.

“We should go over your checklist, together. You can ask any lingering questions you may have and we can discuss who may be a better fit for you.”

“That would be great. And maybe… maybe you could give me some pointers? For next time?” Satoru worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Well, you have to listen to me for it to work,” Suguru says sternly.

“Yes, sir!” Satoru mocks, mischievous.

Suguru narrows his eyes. It’s hard not to find humor in the situation, even if Satoru is being a brat. “I’m starting to think you’re just a brat by nature.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow and whispers, “Who’s going to make me be good?”

Not mine. This guy is not mine.

Suguru tries to play it off as if he’s indifferent, but something in the way Satoru’s eyes sparkle tells him he may not have been as successful as he hoped. “That’ll be up to whoever you choose. If you’re worried you won’t be able to mind your manners long enough, I could help you remember.”

“You think you could teach me to behave? I don’t know.” Satoru taps his finger against his lip, and Suguru’s eyes linger on the plump, glossy shape for far too long. “You’re almost too nice, I think. Are you sure ‘sadist’ is your whole shtick? I’d probably walk all over you and then you’d be begging me for a tpe contract as your top.”

Brat. Satoru needs a few of Suguru’s handprints on his ass.

“I could teach you to behave, angel,” he growls.

Chapter Text

Satoru’s eyes lift, tracing the familiar lines of Suguru’s gojo-kesa, the deep violet of its fabric almost black in the dimness, draped with exquisite weight over his broad shoulders. He lays his head quietly on Suguru’s thigh, feeling the incredibly soft, richly warm fabric. The simple weight of him, pressed against that solid muscle, offers a profound, aching comfort.

Suguru’s hand descends. Its gentle, deliberate weight sets Satoru's skin humming. His fingers thread through Satoru’s hair, not pulling, but claiming, each slow, rhythmic caress stealing his breath. Every strand feels impossibly sensitive, tingling with a raw, delicious awareness. Satoru leans into it, a silent, needy sigh escaping him that only dream Suguru hears.

In response, there’s a whisper, deep and resonant, vibrating through Satoru’s head where it rests on Suguru’s thigh: “Good boy, angel.” His eyes glaze over, unfocused, his vision blurring, lost to everything but the sensation, the quiet surrender, the intense, consuming ecstasy of just finally letting go. Satoru takes a moment to let the feeling wash over him, soaking in the immense quiet.

When he turns his head to look at Suguru, he sees a faint smile on his face and he’s murmuring something low, quiet, but Satoru can’t hear it. Before he can ask what he said, there’s a loud metal clink and a heavy weight that settles around his throat. Satoru reaches his hands toward his neck and feels the leather collar there and frowns.

He’s trying to speak to Suguru, but Suguru attaches something—a leash—to another part of the leather collar and yanks Satoru up where Suguru is now sitting on a bed. “Crawl to me, angel.”

Satoru has never been more turned on in his life. He can feel his body obeying before he can stop himself. He’s on all fours, slowly crawling toward him, before he stops at the edge of the bed in front of Suguru.

Satoru’s head is down. He feels how heavy it is and he knows he doesn’t have the will to move it up to look up at Suguru.

Suguru reaches down to Satoru and hauls him into his lap, face down. Satoru recognizes the fresh smell of Suguru; the hint of bergamot. He feels safe, even as he twitches in anticipation. Satoru feels his body relax in Suguru’s grip, knowing that he is safe with him. Suguru is mumbling more words but Satoru can only make out some of them, “...been very bad…” Satoru frowns and focuses on the words out of Suguru’s mouth. “I’m going to spank you now, Satoru. I want you to count each one out loud. If you mess up the count, we’ll start all over again. Do you understand, angel?”

This is all wrong. He doesn’t want to be spanked. He hasn’t done anything to deserve it!

However, he doesn’t get a chance to reply because a hand lands squarely on his sit bone. Satoru tenses, grits out, “One!” The phantom sting on his ass echoes as Satoru wakes with a gasp.

His body jolts, taking in the familiar sight of his own room.

Dark gray sheets twist around his legs, his black dresser stands solidly against the wall, and the door to his bathroom is slightly ajar. Across the room, his desk sits in the corner, the last paper he pulled up on JSTOR still staring back from the screen. He scrambles for his glasses on the nightstand, heart hammering against his ribs, and pulls them on. A deep, ragged breath shudders out of him, then another, as he forces his eyes to track the mundane details, willing his pulse to slow.

The room is dim, the window showing the deep, bruised purple of early evening, not the soft glow of dawn. An eerie quiet hangs in the air, the city noises muted. His stomach growls, a sharp, physical reminder that the dream is over. He glances over at the clock on his nightstand and sees that it’s 6:30 PM.

Shit.

A cold dread washes over Satoru.

Suguru is coming over. In thirty minutes. For their ‘kink list discussion.’

Satoru throws the covers off, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His entire body feels charged, buzzing, a primal thrum of raw horniness that has nothing to do with hunger. He looks down at his crotch, and sure enough, his cock is thick and hard, a painful testament to the dream’s intense pull.

Satoru could definitely get off, quickly, before Suguru arrives. Just a few minutes, enough to take the edge off. He reaches for himself, his fingers brushing his soft sleep pants. He’s already dripping precome. He pulls himself free, shivering as the cold air touches his dick, and gives himself a few sloppy strokes.

“Good boy, angel,” whispers in his mind, and Satoru shuts his eyes, getting in rhythm. He still feels dream-fingers in his hair, the safety, the weightlessness, the complete surrender. “You’ve been bad, Satoru,” murmurs dream-Suguru, even as Satoru inhales sharply, gathering precome.

He shakes his head, muttering, “No, no, I’m good,” but his body screams a different story, vibrating with the dream’s lingering touch—a collar’s phantom snugness, the promise of discipline.

Satoru shudders, so close—

A sharp, insistent rap echoes from the front door.

Satoru freezes, eyes wide.

Suguru is here. Satoru’s mind races: of course he’s early.

Satoru looks down at his dick and curses, a frantic energy seizing him. He grabs a tissue from the nightstand, wipes his hand, and shoves his dick into the waistband of his boxers to hide the evidence. He tosses the tissues in the waste bin before scrambling out to the living room, calling out quickly, “One—one second,” he’s clearly out of breath, but at this point there’s just nothing he can do about it.

Satoru runs a quick hand through his hair and takes a deep breath in before he pulls the door open. “Hi!”

Suguru is stunning. The monk’s clothes did not do him justice. It isn’t just how the dark, fitted short-sleeve shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and biceps, or how his light wash jeans hug his thighs before falling loosely over minimalist sneakers. It’s the whole picture; the way this casual outfit highlights his powerful physique and easy confidence, making him undeniably captivating.

The severe bun is gone. His hair now falls in soft waves, a departure Satoru immediately registers. Suguru's even added a sleek, dark industrial bar to his upper ear cartilage—a stark line of metal that draws Satoru's eye, a striking contrast against his calm features.

Satoru watches as the smile on Suguru’s face is replaced almost immediately with suspicion when he opens the door. As Suguru narrows his eyes and takes in a breathless Satoru, he doesn’t respond to the greeting.

Satoru flushes, his gaze snagging on his own disheveled state in the mirror next to his dresser. He knows he looks quite a mess, but Suguru's sheer, unimpressed look makes him feel even more exposed than his t-shirt with holes for sleeves, which leaves little to the imagination.

Thankfully, in high school he had been taught by one of his classmates about how to hide his hard-on when he became a little too—excited about one of the teachers. The waistband trick has served him well.

Or, well.

It seemed to have served him well until Suguru was standing in front of him, inspecting him from top to bottom like he knew—something.

Satoru coughs. “Sorry, I just woke up from a nap.”

“Sure,” Suguru speaks carefully, suspiciously, as he steps into the condo.

Satoru curls his toes on the hardwood floor and cringes. “I’m just going to grab a pair of socks real quick and I’ll be right back!” He dashes out of the living room and makes a retreat toward his bedroom. “Just make yourself comfortable!” He yells from the bedroom, grabbing the first pair of warm socks he sees in his drawer.

His reflection startles him in the standing mirror, and he curses under his breath. No wonder Suguru had given him a strange once over. His face is bright red, his hair is sticking to his forehead, and a sheen of sweat over his obviously flushed chest comes into view. He looks like he was doing exactly what he had been doing—jerking off while fantasizing about Suguru.

Shit.

Satoru rushes to the bathroom and splashes some water on his face and wills his dick to listen to him. For once.

Satoru re-enters the living room, and there’s Suguru, already at ease on the couch, watching him. “Is everything alright?” he inquires, a knowing tilt to his head. “You look a little worse for wear.”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Damn. He can’t even look over at him without picturing that spot at his feet where he’d like to place himself. Satoru shakes his head and forces himself to meet Suguru’s eyes.

The knowing look in Suguru’s eyes comes as no surprise. Satoru wills his head to clear and says brightly, “Would you like something to drink? I’m sure I have something other than calpis.”

Suguru smiles, and says, “Water will be fine, thank you.”

Satoru walks over to the kitchen, willing his body to take the hint and settle. He grabs two glasses and fills one with water and the other with calpis. As he walks back over to the living room where Suguru sits, he takes a few calming breaths.

“Why don’t you sit? You look exhausted.”

Satoru tries to keep the flush from his face, but he can feel the heat rise up his neck as he declines. “I’m okay.” Instead, Satoru sits in the oversized chair nearest the door and watches as Suguru rolls his eyes.

Suguru leans back and asks, “How will we go over your list from all the way over there? I don’t bite, you know.” A smirk appears on his face, “Well, without consent.”

Satoru swallows the thick ball of anxiety that has settled in his throat. Will he be able to handle sitting right next to him after being only moments away from coming earlier? He does a dick check discreetly: no, he’s still as hard as he was when he was jacking off.

Satoru makes a quick decision and slides down to the floor next to the coffee table. Now he can see the kinklist clearly, and Suguru is the one inconvenienced, forced to lean over. Only after he is settled does Satoru realize his mistake: he’s put himself in a far more precarious spot than he’d intended.

Right at the feet of Suguru.

Satoru coughs as he looks up at Suguru and rushes to ask, “I put down ‘light to moderate submission’ as a starting point. What does that typically entail for a dominant? Like, what kind of commands, or how much relinquishing of agency, are generally expected in that range?”

Suguru leans back on the couch, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee. He lets his gaze linger for just a moment on Satoru, a subtle assessment in his amber eyes, before answering. “Good question, Satoru,” Suguru says, his voice a low hum, soft but commanding. “Light to moderate submission—it’s a wide spectrum. But generally, it means your dominant isn’t looking to completely overhaul your life, just guide certain aspects or take charge in specific situations.”

He pauses, then slowly, deliberately, extends one hand, palm up, towards Satoru. His fingers are long, relaxed, a silent invitation. “Think of it as consensually handing over the reins for agreed-upon moments.” His hand remains still, open, patient.

Satoru watches, mesmerized, his breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t move.

Suguru’s lips curl into the barest hint of a smile, a knowing glint in his eyes. He doesn't retract his hand. Instead, his voice drops, even softer now. “Sometimes, it’s as simple as an instruction you follow without question.” His eyes flick to Satoru’s knees, still bent on the hardwood. “Like if a dominant were to say…” he holds Satoru’s gaze, “...move closer, Satoru.”

Then, almost imperceptibly, his open hand twitches, a subtle beckoning curl of his fingers. The movement is tiny, barely there, but the implication is immense.

Suguru holds Satoru's gaze, his own eyes unwavering, and adds, “You understand what I mean?”

Satoru’s breath hitches, eyes locking on Suguru’s extended hand, then snapping back up to meet his knowing gaze. A prickle of heat spreads across his cheeks, betraying his carefully constructed nonchalance. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, the implication settling deep within him. “Yes,” he manages, his voice a little rougher than he intends, the word barely escaping his lips. “It—clarifies the scope. Your example makes it pretty clear.”

Satoru clears his throat and drags his finger down the page, trying to concentrate on anything other than how hard his dick still is. “I—I included—‘praise’ and even ‘light degradation.’ What’s the goal of those from a dominant’s perspective? Is it about reinforcing behavior? What kind of language is usually effective without crossing into just being cruel?”

“Ah, did you?” Suguru murmurs, a faint, perceptive smirk playing on his lips as his gaze follows Satoru’s finger on the page. He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, closing the distance just a fraction. “The goal, Satoru, is multifaceted. It’s absolutely about reinforcing behavior—rewarding what you want to see, or correcting undesirable ones, yes.”

Satoru’s brow furrows, a silent prompt for Suguru to continue.

“But it’s also about emotional impact,” Suguru continues, his eyes locking onto Satoru’s. “It can pull you deeper into the moment, make you feel incredibly seen, incredibly known.” His gaze drops to Satoru’s mouth as he speaks, watching him lick his now chapped lips. “When it comes to praise,” he begins, his voice softening, “it’s about acknowledging the surrender, the effort. Making you feel that warmth, that deep satisfaction when you’ve given yourself over completely.”

He pauses, a faint smile playing on his lips, almost tender. “Like when you follow an instruction perfectly, and a dominant might tell you ‘you’re doing so well, Satoru. Such a good boy.’” The words are a soft caress, a direct echo of Satoru’s dream.

Satoru shifts, a soft exhale escaping him.

Suguru’s voice takes on a subtly deeper timbre. “‘Light degradation’ isn’t about cruelty at all. It’s about vulnerability. Stripping away the layers, breaking down that composure just enough to access something raw and real.” He rumbles, “It’s about reminding you of your place, or perhaps just how much you desire to be in it. A dominant might say, ‘look at you, all flushed and desperate at my feet.’”

Suguru’s eyes rake over Satoru’s face, lingering on the hot flush that blooms across his cheeks. A faint, satisfied hum escapes him. “The line, as you say, is crucial. It’s about knowing your limits, Satoru, and a good dominant always finds that edge without breaking trust. Does that make sense?”

Satoru lets out a sharp, unnatural laugh, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Oh, yeah, absolutely! Very effective examples, Suguru. You really—paint a picture.” His voice, too high and rough, betrays his attempt to sound detached. He clears his throat. “So, the key is the context, right? And the—the consent. Always consent.” He grasps for the intellectual framework, trying to avoid the raw emotional content.

Suguru raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say I could quiz you on all this and it was ‘child’s play’?”

“Shut up,” Satoru blurts, then immediately regrets it. He is treating Suguru like a friend, a pal—like Shoko.

But—

Suguru’s role here is different. It’s rude to speak like that to someone who has been giving him all his time to help him.

“Be glad you’re not mine,” Suguru says, his expression unreadable.

“Wh—why?” Satoru asks, feigning confidence. “You aren’t friends with your—submissives?” Had they spoken about what Suguru calls his submissives? All his research online indicated there are several different titles that can be given to dominants. Sir. Daddy. Master.

“I think it depends on the dominant. But, no, Satoru. It isn’t about whether my submissive is my friend. It’s about respect.”

Satoru licks his lips, his curiosity piqued. “So—you’re really strict?” Satoru winces—had that come out too quickly? Did he sound too interested?

Suguru shrugs. “Some things are always negotiable, but I don’t think I’d ever be okay with my submissive telling me to shut up.”

“I mean—I bet I could make it respectful. You know. If I wanted.” Satoru studies his face out of the corner of his eye as he makes his bold claim.

Suguru, interested by Satoru’s overconfidence once again says, “Oh yeah?”

“Shut up, sir.” Satoru subtly raises his chin and crosses his arms. “See?”

Suguru is laughing as he gets out, “Brat. If anyone needs to be spanked, it’s you.” Satoru’s jaw clamps shut, his ‘shut up, sir’ still ringing in his ears, now followed by Suguru’s teasing pronouncement. A fresh wave of heat floods his face, making his ears burn.

He uncrosses his arms abruptly, then shoves his hands into his pockets, trying to appear casual. “Haha, very funny, Suguru,” he says, his voice a little too tight, a little too high. He doesn’t meet Suguru’s gaze, instead focusing intensely on a loose thread on his pants. “No spanking. That’s, uh, not on my list.” The unspoken ‘yet’ hangs heavy in the air between them.

Suguru raises an eyebrow and says, “It isn’t?”

Satoru fumbles and quickly glances over to Suguru, unaware if he’s being serious or trying to make a point. “N-no.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

Satoru considers it. “I—guess?”

“When you completed this list, were you thinking with your mind or your body?” Suguru asks, tapping his fingers on his thigh, impatient.

Satoru inhales and then exhales quickly, “Well, obviously I think with my head—”

“Stop. That’s your problem. You think too much.”

Satoru vehemently disagrees. If he listened to his body, he would have jumped Suguru already the moment he walked through the door to his condo. But, Satoru is still interested in what he might learn from Suguru.

So he takes a chance.

“Close your eyes. I’m going to read the list to you and I want you to feel each one of these.” Satoru closes his eyes and Suguru responds, “Good. Now take a deep breath.”

Satoru takes a breath and feels some of the earlier tension drain away.

“Do not think. Feel.” Suguru leans down to where Satoru is placed at his feet and leans close to Satoru’s ear. Satoru can smell the bergamot invading his senses and the warmth from his body the closer he gets. “Do you want to be spanked, Satoru?”

Satoru’s mind immediately shutters back to his earlier dream. The betrayal he felt when he was told that he was bad and the impending correction of being spanked. He remembers what his body felt like when he was told what was going to happen and the intense moment of pleasure when the strike landed on his ass. Satoru feels his dick twitch in his pants. “I—I think so.”

“Good boy,” Suguru whispers, and before Satoru can say anything he continues, “Do you like the idea of being punished when you need to be corrected?”

Satoru can feel his breathing grow heavy and anticipatory. He can taste Suguru’s bergamot cologne in his mouth as he swallows down his nervousness. Satoru shudders and when he opens his mouth to answer Suguru, it ripples through him.

A soft hum vibrates from Suguru, a sound Satoru feels more than hears. It’s a silent acknowledgement of Satoru’s flush and his sudden self-consciousness. Suguru doesn’t move, doesn’t close the small distance between them but his gaze sharpens, locks onto Satoru’s face.

“You don’t need to speak, Satoru,” Suguru murmurs. “Your body is quite articulate.”

Satoru’s breath hitches. He feels entirely exposed, the flush on his cheeks burning hotter. He tries to force his gaze away from Suguru, from those all-knowing eyes, but he finds he can’t.

“Tell me,” Suguru continues, his voice soft, but with an undeniable edge of command, “what is it your body is craving right now?” Suguru doesn’t wait for an answer. Satoru watches as his eyes drop, tracing the tense line of Satoru’s throat, lingering on the visible fluttering of his Adam’s apple, before moving lower, a deliberate slow sweep across Satoru’s chest. “I see how flushed you are, Satoru. And,” his voice drops to a near whisper, a predatory amusement lacing the word, “I see exactly what that twitching in your pants is telling me.”

Satoru freezes, every muscle locking.

A gasp catches in his throat, and his entire body flares with heat, a wave of mortification washing over him. He didn’t think it was visible, had tried so desperately to hide it, but Suguru’s gaze left him nowhere to conceal himself. The sheer directness of Suguru’s observation is a revelation, a complete shattering of Satoru’s carefully constructed nonchalance, leaving him utterly exposed. Satoru can only stare, wide-eyed and undone, his breath shallow.

“So, Satoru,” Suguru says, his voice a low thrum of satisfied power, “Should we continue this discussion, or would you rather skip ahead to show me exactly what you’ve been imagining? Perhaps we can begin by adding ‘punishment’ to your preferred activities?”

Satoru’s usually chaotic mind goes completely still. The teasing, the dream, the ‘good boy,’ the collar, the spanking—all of it.

It isn’t just about kink, or a list.

It’s about this: Suguru seeing him, dissecting his every unknowable desire, his own body screaming agreement, demanding he give in.

Oh.

Suguru

Suguru watches the exact moment Satoru’s brain catches up to his body. It’s a familiar scene in new submissives. That initial shock, the denial, and then—the flood of acceptance. Satoru, despite his bluster, is no different.

His eyes, usually so sharp, now glaze over, a hint of genuine awe replacing the panicked bewilderment. He takes a sharp breath, his body stilling, a symphony of burgeoning submission.

Suguru knew, of course. From the moment Satoru opened the door, flushed and disheveled, reeking of sex, Suguru read him like an open book. Satoru’s excuse of ‘a nap’ was ridiculous, but Suguru played along. Then, Satoru’s attempts to distance himself, to sit on the floor rather than next to him, his constant need to intellectualize their discussion—Suguru observed it all, each movement confirming what he suspected.

Satoru is desperate.

He is a tightly coiled spring of unacknowledged wants and now he’s finally come to truly see them for what they are.

Suguru holds Satoru’s gaze, letting the silence stretch, letting Satoru drown in the implications of his own realization. When Suguru finally speaks, his voice is calm, but heavy with weight, “You do want it, Satoru. All of it. Your body knows, even if your mind is still fighting.” Suguru pauses, a faint, rueful smile touching his lips, “You’re fighting yourself, Satoru. You’re resisting what your body craves.”

Satoru flinches at Suguru’s words, a direct hit that seems to knock the breath from him. He opens his mouth, then closes it, a visible struggle playing out across his face. Suguru watches the shift in his expression, the tightening around his eyes suggesting a mix of shame and frustration that he can’t immediately intellectualize away.

Satoru drags a hand down his face, rubs at his eyes. “Yeah,” he finally mumbles, his voice rough, “Yeah, I guess so. But I don’t know how to fix that. How do you just stop overthinking something like that?” Satoru’s eyes shine with a raw vulnerability that Suguru hasn’t seen from him before.

Suguru glances at the kink list again. He softens his expression slightly, but his gaze remains pointed, piercing. “You don’t stop overthinking it, Satoru,” he explains, leaning forward just enough for Satoru to feel his warmth. “You learn to feel. To surrender to pure sensation.” He taps the list. “That’s where things like overstimulation and edging come in. They’re tools. With enough practice, a good dominant can learn to turn you on and off like a switch. Flip that little internal switch from ‘off’ to ‘aching need’ and back again, all with a touch, a word.”

Suguru watches a flicker of understanding light in Satoru's eyes. “A switch?” Satoru whispers, a breath escaping him. “You mean they can make you feel it, then stop it?” His gaze darkens, a hint of frustration in his voice. “Because with Naoya, Sukuna—they just left me cold. They couldn't even find a spark, let alone flip anything.”

Suguru’s eyes deepen, a glimmer of something intense passing through them before he banks it. He leans forward, just a fraction, his voice dropping to a whisper meant to encourage Satoru. “Oh, Satoru,” he breathes. “Some men just don’t know how to truly see what’s waiting. Don’t have the vision for where the real pleasure lies, much less the ability to call it out.” His gaze drops to Satoru’s lips, lingers, then drifts lower, to the pulse beating faintly at his throat. A fractional pause, a barely perceptible tightening in his jaw. He pulls his gaze away with a visible effort, straightening slightly, and gestures vaguely at the kink list. “But we were discussing your list.”

Suguru clears his throat and taps his leg as if to move the conversation forward physically. “Edging,” Suguru continues, “is exquisite cruelty. Taking you right to the brink. Over and over. Denying release until you beg. Desperate. Mindless.” Suguru feels the air between them thicken, a subtle but distinct shift in the very quality of Satoru’s attention, as if the raw truth of the words bypasses his intellect and sinks directly into something deeper. It’s the brief, undeniable sensation of Satoru’s usual defenses briefly faltering. He watches the need bloom in Satoru’s face as Satoru pictures it, begging for him. The thought sends a tremor through Suguru, a compelling ache.

“But to push someone to ‘mindless’?” Satoru’s voice is thin, a bare thread. “And then to not give them relief? That’s unsustainable. Logistically impossible, surely.” Suguru hears the desperate curiosity beneath the feigned academic query, a sudden raw need for validation that this level of control is indeed achievable. It’s the sound of Satoru’s carefully constructed world for a moment tilting, acknowledging a force he cannot yet categorize or dismiss.

“Impossible?” Suguru echoes, his voice a low, steady current. “You mistake control for limitation, Satoru. It works because it defies your logic. A truly surrendered submissive wants that edge, that denial. It’s about trust, not logistics.” Suguru knows his words hit, bypassing Satoru’s logic. He sees Satoru’s mind grasp for a framework, finding none.

“So, a matter of will, then. Not physics.” Satoru says, the words a strained acknowledgment. Suguru sees the grudging acceptance settle, a pragmatic pivot in Satoru’s mental landscape. The moment of uncomfortable intellectual dissonance passes, replaced by a restless drive to categorize the next unknown.

Suguru does not correct him, but he stores the thought for later.

Satoru’s will.

“What about things like ‘caning?’” Satoru asks, “Or—‘temperature play?’”

“Those are the more impactful sensations,” Suguru murmurs. “Caning. Sharp, focused impact. A sting that captures every bit of your attention, clearing the mind.” His voice carries the low hum of memory, a phantom pressure in his palm that anticipates the precise crack against skin, the immediate, involuntary intake of breath.

“How would you do it?” Satoru asks, his voice surprisingly quiet.

“It’s about precision,” Suguru states, his voice sharpening to a fine edge. “The right tool, in the right place, with the precise force to command attention. Each stroke carries intent, a singular imperative that burns away everything but the present moment. There’s no room for thought, only sensation. "Only what I give you.” Suguru discerns the profound shift in Satoru’s internal landscape as his words land, transforming abstract concepts into an immediate, instinctive reality. He watches Satoru's awareness tighten, an invisible current pulling at his thoughts, causing him to yield mental space without conscious effort as the impact takes hold.

“A-ah.” Satoru says, a sound of choked comprehension. Suguru discerns the lingering impact, the quiet reverberation of Satoru’s mind attempting to re-engage its analytical functions against the sheer force of the implied experience.

To keep the momentum, Suguru continues, “And temperature play is about control through sensation.”

“How does that—control?” Satoru asks, the words a quiet probe into the unknown.

Suguru rises smoothly, moving towards the small kitchen area built into the room. He opens the freezer, reaching in. The slight hiss of the freezer door, the faint clink of ice, carries through the space, a sudden, sharp clarity in the quiet. He extracts a single ice cube, its edges sharp and defined in his grip. He turns back, the cube held between thumb and forefinger, letting the cold seep into his skin, a deliberate test of his own limits before offering it. “Cold,” Suguru murmurs, his voice dropping, “Heat. Pushing limits until all those intellectual distractions are stripped away. Pure sensation.”

Suguru feels the chill of the cube even through his fingers, a controlled, precise bite that ensures absolute focus when applied. He notes Satoru’s awareness sharpens, drawn by the simple, tangible presence of the ice, a new vector for the intense, singular focus Suguru vows.

Suguru steps closer, then lowers himself slightly, bringing himself to Satoru’s level on the ground. He lets the condensation slick his thumb as he rotates the cube. The cold deepens in his own grip, a tantalizing prelude. He brings the ice cube into Satoru’s immediate space, not touching, but close enough for the barest whisper of chill to carry on the air, an invisible, compelling touch. “It’s about total immersion,” Suguru continues, his words, sharp as the ice itself, drilling past Satoru’s defenses to a core recognition. “The shock, the burn, the impossible contrast. Until the only thing that exists is what I choose for you to feel. And then, only what I permit you to not feel.”

A deep, primal urge surges within Suguru, insisting on action. The restraint he usually maintains, precise and absolute, frays at the edges under the intense draw of Satoru’s vulnerable attention.

He can’t help himself.

With a controlled grace, the ice cube touches Satoru’s skin, a sudden, searing cold against the pulse point at his throat. It’s a deliberate invasion, the unfiltered sensation momentarily eclipsing all other thought, achieving the singular focus Suguru had sworn to deliver.

Satoru reacts immediately, cursing, “Shit!”

The cold is a shock, raw and unyielding, cutting through the usual storm of his mind with efficiency. Satoru’s eyes flutter close—to focus? To analyze the situation? To regain the upper hand? Suguru doesn’t know.

And yet still, Suguru observes the vast, sudden silence where Satoru’s usual mental clamor existed. All thought, all analysis, all resistance simply ceases, engulfed by the absolute, insistent cold at his throat. There is only the sensation, a stark, singular point of burning clarity, just as Suguru intended.

It’s a forced surrender, one Suguru is more than happy to administer to make a point. Satoru seems to grasp this, even as he fights against it, struggling for words before finally crying out, “More.”

The single word is a raw, involuntary demand, utterly stripped of his usual resistance. Suguru understands its intensity, a clear indication of Satoru’s mind overwhelmed by the burning cold. All pretense, all intellectual defense, collapse with that single, compelling utterance. The power of it hums through Suguru, a vivid, intoxicating truth, a thrill that promises to bind them deeper.

Satisfaction washes over Suguru.

Satoru’s demand for ‘more’ is an open invitation, a clear path into something unfamiliar, yet undeniably alluring. He feels an answering surge, sharp and immediate, an instinctual pull to meet that plea. The ice cube, still pressed to Satoru’s throat, suddenly feels inadequate, too static for the hunger it’s awakened. Suguru’s gaze lingers on Satoru’s face, still seeking that confirmation.

“Eyes open, Satoru,” Suguru demands, cutting through the silence. “Look at me. Stay still.” The command forces Satoru to break any last vestige of independent thought.

Satoru’s eyelids, once heavy and drawn, flutter open, the blue pools locking onto Suguru’s face, a familiar haze covering them. The depth and concentration in those eyes is devoid of Satoru’s usual analytical defiance. Instead, Suguru recognizes the deep impact his words are having, the simple absolute yielding of will.

Satoru’s will. Satoru’s bending to his.

Suguru could bask in the feeling, but that nagging in the back of his mind reminds him still of his place in Satoru’s world.

Satoru is not his.

Suguru lets that sink in and forces himself to refocus on Satoru. He sees no sign of lingering resistance, only complete, transparent immersion.

A dark, pleased smile still touches Suguru’s lips. He leans in, his voice a low, velvet murmur against Satoru’s ear. “See, Satoru?” he whispers, the words a soft, concentrated caress. “Right on point. That inner switch responds to my hand, to my word. Off with the thoughts, on with the craving.” Satoru’s breathing catches, a faint, sharp sound, as the absolute truth of Suguru’s words slams into him.

Every fiber of his being affirms the chilling nuance of Suguru’s statement, the total relinquishment of his control. This undeniable capitulation tethers him more powerfully than any physical restraint.

Suguru’s gaze holds Satoru’s own. He pauses, allowing the cube’s coldness and the heated pressure of his palm to linger, drawing out the heightened tension. With a slow, intentional movement, Suguru lifts the ice cube, removing it from Satoru’s skin. He observes how the abrupt absence of the icy contact leaves Satoru visibly unsettled, a stark absence where it once scorched him. Satoru’s body spasms, sharply, a fierce protest against the loss of contact. Every muscle strains, stiff, an immediate demand for the return of the stimulus that Suguru might grant.

A soft, victorious exhalation escapes Suguru. “Gone,” he says, keeping his voice low in Satoru’s space. “And just like that. See how quickly I can take it? See how needy you become for its return?”

Suguru lets the moment stretch, drawing out the anticipation. He watches Satoru’s chest rise and fall with his frantic heartbeat.

This is it. This is the raw submission Satoru is looking for.

That Suguru pulls out of him.

Suguru pulls his hand from Satoru’s space, letting the warmth fade, creating another void. He hooks his fingers into the collar of Satoru’s shirt, just below the still-damp skin. With a single, fluid motion, he yanks the fabric downward, stretching the material to expose skin. The shirt hangs open, exposing the upper part of Satoru’s chest to the cool air and Suguru’s view. Suguru watches gooseflesh arise instantly, not from cold, but from the unexpected sensations.

“Good,” Suguru praises. He lets his gaze travel over the expanse of Satoru’s bare skin. Though he tells himself to take it slow and be gentle with the gift before him—it’s difficult when unfiltered access to Satoru is laid before him. He knows Satoru feels the exposed air, the reality of his new state, and the stark surrender to Suguru.

And Satoru’s body craves him.

Suguru can see it. His complete vulnerability to the chill in the air, to Suguru’s hands only fractions away from him.

“All that intellect, stripped away,” Suguru intones, his thumb brushing lightly over Satoru’s pulse point, still feeling the frantic beats against his skin. “No thoughts, only sensations. But what if your body, too, was entirely mine? No resistance, no choice, simply held?” He pauses to let the idea settle in the space between them. “Have you ever considered physical restraints, Satoru?”

Suguru feels a subtle tremor ripple through the body beneath his touch. The question clearly lands, igniting a new fascination in Satoru’s receptive state.

Suguru presses his thumb to Satoru’s throat before his fingers drift down the column of Satoru’s neck, tracing the now exposed part of his clavicle. The movement forces Satoru’s focus, holding him captive to the subtle, intense touch.

The idea of physical restraints, of being utterly bound, is new territory for Satoru’s highly analytical mind, yet his body is already reacting with instinctive acknowledgement.

“They’re not about force, not fundamentally,” Suguru explains, answering the unspoken question in Satoru’s tremble. “They’re about focus. About stripping away every last distraction until there’s only the immediate, undeniable reality of my control. Imagine it, Satoru. Every limb secured. Every struggle made moot. Just you, completely mine—feeling everything I allow, unable to move unless I permit it.”

He feels a faint tension build in Satoru, a new kind of energy that isn’t resistance, but a coiled anticipation. Satoru’s eyes are closed, but the slight furrow in his brow indicates that he’s grappling with the sheer scope of the experience. Suguru knows he’s visualizing the complete, helpless scenario. The thought sends a thrill through Suguru, a deep satisfaction that his words alone can conjure such vivid, gripping imagery in Satoru’s responsive mind.

“It’s about trust, Satoru,” Suguru stands from the floor where he was kneeling with Satoru. He walks back to the couch as he watches Satoru slowly open his eyes, tracking Suguru’s movement. “Trusting me to give you everything you need, everything you didn’t know you craved, even when you can’t ask for it.”

Satoru opens his mouth to speak, but only a whimper comes out. An embarrassed flush rises on his cheeks and he bites his lip, barely whispering out, “Mmm.”

Choosing to ignore the reaction of Satoru’s body to lessen his embarrassment, Suguru continues, "Restraints are just one way to bind you, of course." Suguru’s gaze drifts down Satoru’s body, taking in the exposed chest, the soft line of his throat, the bare skin revealed by the stretched shirt. "But true control goes deeper. There are other ways to transform you. To strip away the familiar, and mold something entirely new within you. A more fundamental unveiling, Satoru.”

Suguru holds his breath, waiting for Satoru’s response.

Instead of a verbal response, Satoru’s body shudders, a deep, involuntary tremor that starts at his chest and courses through his entire body. His breath hitches, a series of short, starved gasps as if he’s re-learning how to breathe. The raw vulnerability of his open shirt, the lingering chill on his skin, and the light flush still high on his cheeks a silent testament to the struggle.

Minutes stretch, thick with Satoru’s labored breaths and the lingering echoes of sensation. Suguru watches Satoru’s body slowly settle, his breath evening out. His eyes, heavy and unfocused at first, slowly clear, seeking Suguru’s face. His gaze is still distant, but there’s a new, fragile spark of awareness in their depths.

“Tr-transform?” Satoru’s voice is a whisper, raspy and thin, the words still struggling to form. He blinks slowly, reorienting himself. A faint furrow appears between his brows, the barest hint of his intellect stirring. “‘Feminization’? Challenging gender roles through—through a uh, performative lens?” He breathes out, huffing through the last bit of haze in his eyes. “I assume for a potentially heightened state of vulnerability or power dynamic subversion?” Even in his still-disoriented state, his mind still clings to its need for definition, trying to categorize this profound new unknown.

Suguru feels a familiar flicker of amusement, a quiet satisfaction at Satoru's predictable, analytical approach, even in this weakened state. He leans in closer, his voice a low, knowing counterpoint to Satoru’s hesitant query. “That's one way to frame it, yes. A rather detached, clinical way, wouldn't you say?”

He sees Satoru’s subtle flinch at the gentle prod, a small victory.

“For us,” Suguru continues, “It’s about the fundamental shift. It’s about dismantling your ego. It strips away layers, leaving you exposed, and—mine.” He lets the raw possessiveness of his words land immediately, without softening the blow with abstract theory.

If Satoru notices, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he forces out through gritted teeth, “So, you’re saying—what you do—you flip that switch in me? Because right now, it feels—” Satoru cuts himself off.

“As a dominant, nothing is more satisfying than absolute trust and adoration. There’s a high that comes with being given that power. A dominant owns a submissive for the time they’re together, or in a scene, or in the bedroom and it ends there.”

He pauses, deliberately, letting his words sink in, watching Satoru.

“For me,” Suguru continues, “there’s no off switch, no time limit. They’re mine. And when they agree to be mine, they’re placing everything they are in my hands and trusting that I’ll keep it safe. In return, I give my submissive pleasure, I protect them, but I also give them pain and demand they take it from me.”

Satoru hums in affirmation, waiting for Suguru to continue.

“I take a lot, but I give more. There’s no bond stronger. Not marriage, not some silly matching tattoos, and no vows. Nothing,” Suguru says vehemently.

“So,” Satoru begins, “You’re talking about not just a dynamic, but a complete way of life for your submissives. A total surrender of self, not just in specific moments, but—always. And that trust builds a bond even stronger than traditional commitments?”

“You speak of definitions, Satoru,” Suguru shakes his head, “But your body understands a different language. It speaks of the thrill of true surrender, the quiet hunger for someone to finally take the reins. It yearns for the only bond that can truly encompass someone as overwhelming as you are. And while that might not be my brand of kink, your body yearns.”

Satoru laughs, a harsh, almost frantic sound. “Right,” he says, “But that kind of implicit trust seems, well, dangerous. Unhealthy, even. I mean, giving someone that much power, over everything? And besides,” he adds, “I’m just not into servitude. Not really my thing.”

Something deep in Suguru clenches, but he reminds himself now is not the time to batter Satoru into agreeing with him. Suguru reminds himself he isn’t here to sell Satoru on his brand. He’s here to help him. “Hm,” he responds, neither confirming nor denying any of the things Satoru has said.

“Okay,” Satoru says, “So, what do I do? How do I actually do this? How do I stop overthinking and just flip that switch, like you—di—said?” Satoru twitches where he sits still on the floor at Suguru’s feet. Suguru tries not to let a thrill go through him at the stutter. “How do I even figure out what I truly want, beyond just this list?”

“You’re right,” he says, “Reading a list is one thing. Experiencing it, learning to trust your instincts, learning to surrender that’s entirely different. It requires guidance, and a safe space to explore. What you need is not just a dominant, but someone to help you understand your own unique submissive landscape. To help you build that muscle of feeling instead of analysis. To give you the tools to truly be in the moment, to explore your limits and desires with intention and consent.”

Satoru gestures vaguely between himself and the list. “So, is this something someone can actually teach me? Like, maybe something you could teach me?”

Suguru’s eyebrows raise at the question. “I told you what I’m looking for, Satoru.”

“But you said you’d give me tips. Maybe you just—take it a bit further and help me out. Teach me about what dominants want and don’t want.” Satoru sits up on his knees and places a hand on Suguru’s knee, “You could—train me? I could—I could pay you.”

Suguru snorts. “I’m not someone who can be bought.”

“Oh, yeah—of course.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t take your money,” he clarifies, then pauses. “The idea isn’t bad, though. Structured exploration. Learning the signals, understanding the headspace, getting comfortable with vulnerability and release, without the constant internal debate you’re struggling with. This would be temporary, of course. To get you started on the right foot and prepare you for finding your long-term match.”

Satoru stares at him, his gaze fixed. “You’d—you’d do that?” Satoru asks.

“I would,” Suguru confirms, “But this would be different. This wouldn’t be a casual conversation. This would be an explicit contract, Satoru, an agreement built on clear terms. You’d commit to the process, to following instructions, to genuine self-exploration. And I would commit to guiding you, pushing you where you need to be pushed, always within negotiated boundaries.” He pauses, his gaze dropping to Satoru’s hands, then back to his eyes. “No more ‘shut up, sir,’ unless it’s with explicit intent. Are you interested in that kind of formal arrangement?”

“Yes,” he rasps, “Yes, I am.”

“Good,” Suguru says, “Then we’ll start your first dedicated session. A true exploration of control, crafted for your education and understanding. How about next Tuesday?”

“Tuesday,” Satoru repeats, “Okay. Tuesday.”

Suguru notes the wide, unfocused gaze, the stillness of his body.

Satoru remains on the floor at Suguru’s feet, a deliberate choice of position that now takes on a new, raw significance. His head is slightly bowed, offering Suguru an unobstructed view of the racing pulse at his throat, a silent, frantic beat. Suguru lets his gaze linger there, then sweeps slowly down Satoru’s form, taking in the trembling line of his shoulders, the subtle clench of his fists against his thighs. Satoru is utterly exposed, radiating a palpable blend of apprehension and electric anticipation.

Suguru leans back, a faint, possessive smile curving his lips as his body hums with a pervasive ache. His fingertips brush the edge of the coffee table just above Satoru’s bowed head—a silent, restrained gesture that thrums with unspoken want, thickening the air between them.

Suguru savors the exquisite agony of the moment, warring with the fierce instinct to claim Satoru, to pull him up, to mark him as his own.

And then, the sharp, cold knowledge settles: Satoru isn’t truly his.

Chapter Text

The blue light from his phone, constant and almost jarring, sliced through the muted opulence of his penthouse. Satoru's gaze remained fixed on Suguru’s latest message, a remark so precise and cutting it drew a low, private sound from him—a huff of amusement, a flicker of recognition. Unlike the predictable echoes of his usual companions, Suguru’s words were sharp and analytical, each a calculated provocation that forced Satoru’s mind into patterns both unfamiliar and thrilling.

And their ‘sexy talk’ isn't soft whispers or sweet nothings; it's a complex intellectual game, each carefully chosen phrase designed to dismantle him, to push his boundaries. He has never encountered a mind that can so consistently outmaneuver his own. His fingers, almost independently, fly across the screen, crafting a response before he even fully processes it.

Even as he sends the message, his thoughts snap back, as they always do, to their last conversation. He recalls Suguru's stark, unflinching discourse on kinks, on power dynamics, on submission. The memory pulses like a raw, insistent throb just beneath his skin. He tells himself, with an energy both familiar and almost frantic, that tpe isn't what he wants. Still, the inescapable, sheer idea of Suguru, the lingering charge from that utterly exposed moment between them, transforms into a consuming current.

He drags his gaze, tearing it away from the screen, forcing himself to acknowledge the muted thrum of conversation, the clink of ice against crystal, the subtle aroma of expensive perfume that fills his penthouse. The guests, a curated collection of Tokyo’s elite, move like elegant shadows through his peripheral vision. He can feel the silent, watchful eyes of his clan’s representatives, reminders of the delicate leash that binds his academic pursuits to these endless, suffocating obligations. To defy them, even in small ways, means risking everything he’s meticulously built outside their direct influence. The performance, therefore, is not optional.

He moves through the room with effortless grace, a polite smile fixed as a guest drones about their latest acquisition—a rare tea bowl or a prime piece of Minato real estate. Satoru offers a perfectly tailored response, witty yet insightful enough to earn a brief, admiring laugh. But the words feel hollow, a script well-rehearsed and delivered on demand. He's performing, as always, for an audience that sees only the façade: the compliant scion of the Gojo clan. His gaze drifts past a truly genuine ukiyo-e print on the wall, settling instead on the vibrating screen in his hand. Suguru.

me, 7:09 pm

another evening of polite smiles & meaningless boasts
ud think accumulating wealth somehow confers wisdom
it doesn't

suguru, 7:11 pm

on the contrary it often just deepens the delusion
the higher the pedestal
the more profound the fall when the truth finally asserts itself
are you finding it suffocating, Gojo?
perhaps a little…
constricting?

Satoru’s fingers hover over the screen, a restless energy buzzing under his skin. The word constricting from Suguru had sent an unexpected shiver down his spine—a sudden, almost electric awareness of his own trapped form in this room. He pushes the unsettling feeling away, focusing on the texts in front of him.

me, 7:15 pm

only if breathing requires this much forced civility
the air here is thin with inherited expectation, not oxygen
u enjoy watching the show i assume?

suguru, 7:17 pm

ah yes
the required societal pantomime
it’s always so refreshing to witness the sheer dedication to mediocrity isn’t it?
but even a gojo must find that air thick with pretense and obligation

me, 7:19 pm

refreshing is a word for it
numbing
u understand right?
this particular brand of performance
some of us don’t have the luxury of merely observing

His thumb traces the edge of his phone, a strange heat starting to bloom in his chest.

Numbing.

That’s exactly it. But Suguru’s words, his quiet understanding, cut through it, sharp and unwelcome. It’s a recognition that pricks at something deeper than annoyance.

suguru, 7:20 pm

luxury?
that’s a quaint term, gojo
some of us simply choose to engage with the world on our own terms rather than be trapped by them
I find my work provides lots of opportunities for both observation
and
a certain kind of necessary intervention
and it is certainly never dull
unlike your current engagement, perhaps?

me, 7:21 pm

quaint yeah
almost as quaint as veiled threats
& vague claims of existential freedom
u sound suspiciously like someone who is trying to sound mysterious
what is so fascinating that it’s never dull?
i’m intrigued by ur lack of boredom

Intrigued is an understatement. Satoru can feel a restless current building beneath his skin, a pull towards where Suguru is pushing him. He types faster, trying to regain the upper hand of the conversation, if not his own body’s sudden, unsettling responsiveness.

suguru, 7:22 pm

not mysterious
just outside your gilded cage you’ve come to know as ‘normal’
but it’s simple: things that refuse to be neatly categorized
unlike your impeccably managed schedule
And my lack of boredom gojo
stems from encountering precisely the kind of raw honesty you keep so carefully locked away
is it really so intriguing?
or just a reflection of your own hidden desires for something genuinely…
unpredictable?

Satoru’s breath hitches. Unpredictable? Hidden desires? The words strike too close, setting off an alarming flutter in his stomach. He’s upset, yes, but it’s a desperate kind of anger, a shield against the tantalizing truth Suguru’s words suggest. He grips his phone, knuckles white, the screen hot under his frantic fingers.

me, 7:24 pm

dramatic, geto
& projecting
i merely operate on a diff plane of existence than ur
unpredictable endeavors
& anyway
my interests lie in demonstrable facts
not vague psychological guesswork
& u still haven’t answered what u do tho
what exactly requires you to delve into so much
‘honesty’
that it’s never dull?

suguru, 7:26 pm

projecting?
or maybe getting too close to what you truly are
some truths don’t require empirical evidence
they simple are
like the way you unravel
when faced with genuine unpredictability
you’ve felt it
as for what I do
it’s a pursuit of purity
a kind that requires quiet discipline
and a steady hand

me, 7:30 pm

that sounds
unimaginably tedious
or maybe
uve just run out of actual answers
& my body deals in wtv i tell it to
unlike some of us
my logic adheres to what’s observable
not vague
self-important guesswork

suguru, 7:31 pm

some truths are not told to the body
or observed
they’re just felt
you know exactly what I mean

Satoru’s heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of his room. He’s shaking, faintly, with a mix of fury and something else entirely, something hot and undeniably alluring.

me, 7:35 pm

how poetic
& so convenient
for avoiding actual, quantifiable arguments
u merely enjoy provoking a reaction
don’t pretend it’s anything more profound that that
Geto Suguru

suguru, 7:38 pm

my, my
did I hit a nerve?
if a mere observation from me
elicits that kind of reaction
Gojo Satoru
maybe some truths are indeed felt
and not argued
and certainly not controlled
just as I suspected

Suguru’s final message lingers, bringing with it the echo of a smirk—smug, knowing, and almost audible. Frustration claws at Satoru, a surge that's sharp and unwelcome, tightening his jaw.

He knew.

Knew exactly what he’d touched.

Satoru's effortless mask threatens to crack for just a moment. With a snap both decisive and almost violent, he locks his phone, shoving it deep into his pocket as if severing a live wire. The clink of glasses and the drone of polite conversation rush back in, a distraction both unwelcome and necessary. He won't give Suguru the satisfaction of imagining a visible unraveling, not here.

With a new, steely resolve that hardens his gaze, Satoru returns to the charade. The tea bowl conversation resumes, and he engages with a renewed, almost aggressive charm, his wit sharper, his laughter a little louder. He’s calling the shots. His phone vibrates subtly in his pocket, a phantom throb, but he ignores it. Suguru might think he’s won this round, might believe he’s exposed some deep truth, but Satoru will ensure that perception remains confined to a two-inch screen. The only truth that matters, he reminds himself, is the one he chooses to present.

Yet somehow now, the eyes of his clan’s representatives—silent and watchful—feel even more oppressive. Suguru’s words echo the resentment Satoru feels about his “gilded cage” of a life, one he's constantly forced to perform.

Satoru finds the conversations even more shallow and irritating. He can’t seem to let go of Suguru’s words and they wash over him like a bad dream. He clenches his jaw, his normal polite indifference taking a back seat to a more uncomfortable and raw feeling.

Satoru sucks in a breath and tries to force himself to stop clenching his jaw. He smiles at least politely to the group he’d been addressing and excuses himself from the conversation.

Satoru navigates the remaining clusters of guests with practiced ease, each polite nod and murmured farewell feeling like a physical weight. The air, thick with expensive perfume and unspoken expectations, seems to press in on him, amplifying the stifling feeling Suguru had so accurately articulated. He catches the eye of one of his clan's older advisors—a look both knowing and appraising that makes his stomach clench. The leash, indeed.

He finally reaches the double doors to his private study, a sanctuary of silence, cool and deep, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling books. The moment the latch clicks shut behind him, his polite smile drops, leaving his face feeling stiff and unfamiliar. His hand automatically slips into his pocket, fingers brushing against the phone, now cold and inert. Yet, the ghost pulse of Suguru’s last message still thrums against his skin. He crosses the room, collapsing onto the leather couch, rich and plush, eyes fixed on nothing, his mind caught in a loop of Suguru’s words that refuses to break.

A soft knock, then the door opens before Satoru can even respond. His mother, immaculate in a silk kimono that seemed to absorb all ambient light, steps into the study. Her presence is a contrast, stark yet elegant, to the chaotic buzz of his thoughts. He forces his jaw to relax, and his smile snaps back into place—practiced, polite, and a little too quick.

“Satoru,” she begins, her voice smooth as polished stone, “I trust the evening has been fruitful. Though I confess, I found your recent preoccupation with that device rather impolite.” Her gaze flicks to his pocket where the phone rests.

Satoru offers a slight bow of his head. “Okaa-sama. Forgive me. Urgent business.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “Business that can’t wait for proper company. Such a modern habit. But we’re not here to discuss your social graces.” She walks over to his large mahogany desk, picking up a stray physics textbook, her lips pursed. “Tell me, Satoru. This hobby of yours. Physics, isn’t it? When exactly do you intend to conclude this extended playdate and assume your rightful responsibilities?”

Satoru’s smile tightens. “It’s hardly a playdate, okaa-sama. My research is—”

“A diversion,” she cuts in, setting the book down with a soft thud. “A very expensive diversion, at that. Your clan expects more, Satoru. Our allies expect more. Tsukumo-sama’s granddaughter, for instance. A suitable match, intelligent, well-versed in clan politics. I’ve arranged for you to meet her Tuesday.”

Satoru blinks. “A blind date? Okaa-sama, I hardly have time for—”

Her eyes, cold and unwavering, fix on him. “Time is a luxury you currently afford yourself through the clan’s benevolence. Don’t mistake this for a request, Satoru. Your allowances, your research grants, your very comfortable apartment—they are all contingent upon your cooperation. And your understanding of where your true loyalties lie.” She pauses, allowing the words to sink in. “Unless you’ve found an alternative source of income for your educational pursuits?”

The question hangs in the air, a silken noose tightening around his throat. Suguru’s words about the "gilded cage" sting with a truth both fresh and bitter. There's no alternative. Not yet. He swallows, resentment a burning ember in his gut, hot and persistent.

“No, okaa-sama,” he replies, the words stiff, “I haven’t. Next week, then. I look forward to it.”

He hopes the lie doesn’t betray him.

As his mother fixes a cool smile on her face, she turns and without so much as a ‘goodbye,’ leaves as quietly as she came.

Satoru picks his phone out of his pocket and opens it back to Suguru’s messages.

me, 8:45 pm

change of plans
r u busy monday?

suguru, 8:46 pm

I could make myself available
what’s happened?

me, 8:50 pm

my owner has come to check on her caged pet

suguru, 8:51 pm

ah, the leash of expectation
still chafing, I see
does the pet yearn for a different hand, Gojo?
one less…
predictable?

me, 8:52 pm

predictability is a comfort, geto
sometimes
but cages r for those who can’t fly
what makes u so certain i’m not merely observing ur leash?

suguru, 8:53 pm

and yet a bird that pretends its cage is a choice
still beats its wings against the bars doesn't it?
you can't observe my leash gojo
because I choose where it leads
unlike you
is that truly the control you crave?
or merely the illusion of it?

me, 8:55 pm

u sound suspiciously like ur trying to sell me something, geto
some sort of
unregulated freedom
& i’m not in the market for abstract theories
just bc u pick ur chains
doesn’t mean ur not bound
don’t project ur own limitations on me

suguru, 8:56 pm

perhaps I am selling something gojo
a perspective
the freedom found not in the absence of chains
but in choosing the hand that holds them
and yours
it seems
is quite eager for a new grip
your aversion to ‘abstract theories’ belies a very visceral reaction
tell me
does the bird truly hate the cage
or merely the bars it cannot choose?

me, 8:58 pm

that’s rich coming from u, geto
always so keen on psychological dissection
i’m not eager for anything
i’m looking for a distraction
a new experience
not some existential crisis wrapped in leather
and my reactions are merely a byproduct of your incessant need to provoke
it’s not profound
it’s predictable

suguru, 9:00 pm

is it?
your ‘distraction’ has certainly become rather all consuming hasn’t it?
a ‘byproduct’ that has you responding with such delightful intensity
and as for predictable
did you predict your body’s current response to our conversations?
to the simple idea of being truly
unequivocally claimed?
that gojo
is not an abstract theory
it’s a truth your body already knows
monday still works for your ‘new experience’
and perhaps
a new kind of freedom within those chains

me, 9:02 pm

all consuming is a bit dramatic
don't u think?
& my body does what I tell it to geto
always has
u merely misunderstand the nature of my curiosity
it's scientific
empirical
& as for claimed
sounds terribly tedious
just try to keep ur profound observations to urself
i'm interested in experience
not ur personal philosophy

Satoru shoves his phone under a silk pillow, as if hiding the source of his current affliction. “Personal philosophy,” he mutters, the words tasting like ash.

Satoru dismissed Suguru; he won the last word, but the silence that descends is anything but victorious. Instead, it feels heavy, charged, a tense resonance left behind by their exchange—recent and cutting. He stalks into his bathroom.

The cool marble underfoot offers fleeting comfort. A quick, cold splash of water on Satoru’s face does not clear the heat. He towels off aggressively, as if he can scrub away the lingering sensation of Suguru’s gaze, Suguru’s words. “Truth your body already knows.” The phrase digs in, relentless. He glances at his reflection, noting the sharp lines of his jaw, the slight flush on his cheeks.

Satoru looks agitated.

Restless.

Annoyingly so.

Back in Satoru’s bedroom, spacious and hushed, he strips down to nothing. The familiar weight of expensive sheets offers no solace as he slides into bed. He presses his face into the pillow, trying to breathe evenly, to impose a rhythm on his racing pulse. The lingering buzz from Suguru’s messages keeps him acutely awake when he should be exhausted from playing the charming son, the perfect bird in his clan’s gilded cage.

But sleep feels impossibly far.

Satoru’s mind isn't his own. Every time he nears the edge of quiet thought, Suguru’s voice breaks through—a murmur both low and knowing. He sees the phantom image of Suguru’s eyes, dissecting him, seeing past the layers Satoru has so carefully constructed. He feels the ghost of that dream from earlier, the deep comfort of kneeling, the unbearable pleasure of being called “Good boy, angel.” The memories aren't just thoughts; they're physical sensations, hot and insistent.

A tight, familiar tension now coils in Satoru’s gut. It’s not fear, he reminds himself; it’s a helplessness, absolute and irritating. He twists, punching the pillow. He hates this. He hates that a series of text messages, a mere conversation, can turn his body into a live wire, humming with a current he cannot switch off. He is supposed to be in command, in charge of his own reactions. This throb—raw and needy, a companion constant since Suguru’s initial offer—is a betrayal. It is a response he never asked for, unwanted and unsolicited, manifesting outside the designated lines, clean and sharp, of a potential structured dynamic.

Satoru closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, but it only makes the phantom sensations sharper. He can feel the ghost weight of a hand, not quite on his skin, but in the air around him, claiming. The idea of tpe, which he has so vehemently dismissed, now whispers through his veins. It is not an abstract concept, but a throbbing, physical ache.

Satoru is frustrated—immensely frustrated, that he cannot simply turn off the switch.

Satoru is irritated that Suguru, with just words, has found a way to bypass his intellect, bypass his defenses, and touch something so visceral that Satoru cannot master it.

Satoru’s family’s expectations, the tight leash of his inheritance, that suffocating golden cage—all of it coalesces with this lack of autonomy, new and intensely personal. He's now trapped in his own body too, a prisoner of a reaction he didn't invite and can't escape. There's no outlet, no off-ramp. He's just on. And the hours until Monday, long and dark, stretch before him, promising no respite from this consuming heat he never wanted.

♡

Satoru doesn’t sleep.

He tosses and turns, the expensive sheets tangling around his legs like a net. Satoru’s mind, usually a fortress of logic, is an unyielding loop of Suguru’s words, each phrase a fresh spark igniting the current beneath his skin. He tries meditation, a technique he usually masters with ease, but his focus splinters, pulled apart by the insistent throb. He tries reading, but the words blur, his mind conjuring images of Suguru’s knowing smile, the subtle possessiveness in his gaze from that afternoon.

Satoru finally gives up trying to sleep as the first pale light of dawn seeps through his penthouse windows. He feels like he’s been wrung out, every nerve ending frayed. The way his body automatically responds is no longer just an idea; it’s a living, breathing torment. Every mundane sensation seems amplified, tinged with a perverse eroticism that traces back to Suguru. The soft brush of his shirt against his skin, the warmth of his morning tea, the subtle drone of his refrigerator—each mundane detail twists into an irritating reminder of his heightened state.

The weekend is a blur of restless energy he can’t shed.

Satoru attempts to work, to bury himself in his physics equations, but his concentration is shot. He can’t escape the lingering awareness, the low, persistent current of arousal that has settled beneath his consciousness. Satoru catches himself biting his lip, pacing his study, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm on his desk, all involuntary movements that betray his inner turmoil.

Satoru hates it.

Satoru hates this loss of agency, this thrumming that’s constant and low-grade, making him feel like he’s living outside his own skin. An agonizing resentment builds towards Suguru, and a bitter contempt for his own inability to rein himself in.

Satoru tries to ignore the insistent ache, the way his frame vibrates with need. He could just get off. He’s a grown man.

Satoru’s perfectly capable of handling his own needs.

But the thought of it—giving in to the very urges Suguru has so effortlessly provoked, feels like another surrender.  A concession. Satoru doesn’t want to give Suguru that satisfaction, even in his own private moments.

Satoru doesn’t want to admit how deeply he’s been affected.

Satoru attempts to work, to bury himself in his physics equations, but his concentration is shot. He can’t escape the lingering awareness, the low, persistent current of arousal that has settled beneath his consciousness. His carefully constructed defenses, his intellectual disdain crumble under the pure, unadulterated need.

Satoru paces, clenches his fists.

Satoru takes cold showers that only offer momentary reprieve before the heat returns, more intense than before. It’s an intense torment that promises no relief until—well, Suguru.

When Satoru finally gives in—it’s in the dead of the night. He’s on his bed, aching and leaking. He reaches for himself with a desperate, almost violent need. He closes his eyes, trying to conjure anything other than Suguru, but it’s useless. The images that flood his mind are of Suguru’s knowing eyes, his low voice, that phantom touch of the ice cube at his throat, and the idea of being ‘claimed.’

The dream from earlier, the collar, the “good boy, angel,” whispers, they all crash over him. It’s absurd that even in his private act, Suguru has still found his way to his very core.

Satoru pushes harder, faster, desperate for the oblivion of release, for the switch to finally flip.

When it comes, it’s not the clean, satisfying climax he usually experiences. It’s ragged, almost violent, an expulsion of tension that leaves him feeling less relieved and more—wrung out.

Empty.

Satoru feels and tastes the presence of Suguru who still clings to him—bergamot and quiet power. He lies there, utterly spent, but still humming with a residual, unsettling energy. The switch didn’t turn off. It merely reset, waiting for the next provocation.

Monday arrives with a crushing weight.

Satoru feels brittle, stretched thin. His snark is sharper, his patience shorter, a desperate attempt to create distance, to keep anyone from seeing how truly off he is. He showers, lets the hot water run over him for too long, as if trying to wash away the pervasive sensation, but it clings, a second skin. He dresses mechanically, preparing for another day of feigning normalcy.

Then, his phone buzzes with a new message.

It’s from Suguru.

Satoru opens it, a mix of dread and a sickening lurch of anticipation tightening his chest.

suguru, 10:00 am

wear a plain white t-shirt
comfortable pants
no undergarments.
absolutely nothing worn beneath.
shoes that slip on/off easily without socks
see you soon, angel.

Satoru sighs, a long-suffering sound that could curdle milk. “Of course. Because subtle manipulation is so last century. My esteemed partner prefers direct orders, apparently.”

Satoru glances at the time.

10:00 AM.

Suguru certainly doesn’t waste time, does he?

Satoru walks to his walk-in closet, a sprawling space usually dedicated to suits tailored with impeccable precision and designer streetwear. Now, he's hunting for a tee plain and white. "Revolutionary," he mutters, pulling out a cotton shirt pristine yet ridiculously soft. "Breaking all the fashion rules, I see." He tosses it onto his bed, then rummages for pants he considers "comfortable." His eyes land on joggers sleek and dark. "Comfortable, yet still aesthetically pleasing. I draw the line at sweatpants, Suguru, even for your grand experiments."

Then comes the real directive. “No undergarments. Absolutely nothing worn beneath.” Satoru stares at his neatly folded stacks of silk boxers and designer briefs. A scoff escapes him. “Oh, the audacity. The sheer, unadulterated audacity.” His mind immediately conjures Suguru’s smug face, that infuriatingly knowing smirk. He can almost hear the man’s low chuckle, envisioning Satoru standing here, debating the merits of defying a simple instruction. “Fine,” he grumbles, grabbing the joggers. “If he wants to play this particular game of ‘how exposed can Satoru get?’ then so be it. It’s merely an empirical test of his influence, after all. Nothing personal. Absolutely not.” The way his skin already prickles with a strange mix of apprehension and something undeniably hot belies his nonchalant internal monologue, but he ignores it.

Satoru pulls on the t-shirt, the fabric a familiar comfort that now feels alien without anything underneath. The joggers slide on, soft and loose, allowing a freedom of movement that feels both liberating and alarmingly vulnerable. “Shoes that slip on/off easily without socks.” He rolls his eyes. “Because zippers are apparently too much commitment for a casual Monday morning subjugation.” He retrieves a pair of sleek, black loafers.

Perfect.

Easy on, easy off.

The implication isn’t lost on him, and a fresh wave of that unwelcome heat washes over him. He tries to dismiss it as irritation, pure and unadulterated.

He checks his reflection one last time. Plain white tee, dark comfortable pants, no visible lines of—anything. His usual carefully curated image of power and untouchable cool is stripped down, leaving him feeling raw, exposed, and utterly ridiculous. “This is fine,” he tells his reflection, which, annoyingly, seems to be grinning back at him. “Just a new variable in the experiment.”

Satoru grabs his wallet and phone, shoves them into his pockets, and strides out of the penthouse. The city outside is a blur of predictable traffic and ordinary commuters, each one blissfully unaware that one of Tokyo’s most eligible bachelors is currently sans undergarments, heading towards a dubious “new experience.”

Satoru grabs his wallet and phone, shoves them into his pockets, and strides out of the penthouse. The city outside is a blur of predictable traffic and ordinary commuters, each one blissfully unaware that one of Tokyo’s most eligible bachelors is currently sans undergarments, heading towards a dubious “new experience.”

Satoru contemplates calling his usual driver, then scoffs. “As if. The last thing I need is Mother’s spy network reporting my itinerary to a certain ‘Mr. Geto’s residence.’ Some secrets are best kept from the family-mandated chauffeurs.” Instead, he flags down a random taxi, sliding into the anonymous backseat with a sigh. As the car snakes through the familiar streets, Satoru leans his head against the cool window, watching the city go by.

Satoru’s mind, despite his best efforts, keeps circling back to Suguru. The instructions, the ease with which he’s followed them, the subtle shift in power already evident. He mentally prepares his opening line, something cutting and dismissive, anything to reclaim a sliver of the advantage he feels so precariously balanced.

He is Gojo Satoru.

He dictates the terms.

Even when he’s wearing Suguru’s chosen uniform.

The taxi pulls away from the main avenue, turning into a quieter, tree-lined street that feels abruptly, unnervingly serene after the city’s constant thrum. Satoru glances out the window, expecting some imposing modern gate, perhaps a flashy sign of Suguru’s supposed "unregulated freedom." Instead, the taxi slows before what appears to be a seamless extension of the wooden fence that sits high and is meticulously crafted that defines the property line. It's not flashy at all. It's simply there, blending into the natural contours of the expertly pruned landscaping.

“Seriously?” Satoru mutters, his monologue practically inaudible. “No neon sign? No flashing ‘Dom-Zone’ welcome mat? Suguru, you’re slipping.”

The taxi stops before a set of wooden gates, dark and heavy, almost imperceptible within the fence. They’re old, Satoru can tell—the kind of cedar, hand-carved and ancient, that whispers of generations, not just wealth. There's no buzzing intercom or flashy camera, just a pull-cord, simple yet elegantly rustic, next to a plaque, small and discreet, bearing a kanji character rendered to perfection. Calligraphy, of course.

Satoru’s eyebrow twitches.

Subtle.

Too subtle.

Satoru prefers his wealth to announce itself with a trumpet fanfare and a confetti cannon, thank you very much.

As the taxi driver hesitates, seemingly unsure if he’s even at a residence, the gates glide open silently, revealing a narrow, stone-paved path flanked by moss impossibly green and pine trees, gnarled and ancient. The air immediately feels cooler, cleaner, as if he’s stepped through a portal into a Tokyo that's different, much older.

“Well, well, well,” Satoru muses, stepping out of the cab. “Look at Mr. ‘Not Trapped by Convention,’ living in a forest primeval, miniature in scale. Does he meditate under a waterfall before making his little whips?” He pays the driver, who looks slightly bewildered by the serene entrance that’s almost hidden before the taxi pulls away, leaving Satoru standing alone on the pathway, hushed and almost reverent.

The path curves gently, leading not to a manor grand in scale, but to a series of structures low-slung and dark-wood nestled amongst the trees. It’s a Japanese estate, traditional and impeccably maintained, so understated it almost screams "wealth beyond measure, generations deep, and no need to prove it." Paper screens glow softly from within, hinting at interiors spacious and uncluttered. The craftsmanship is insane; every joint, every stone, every pebble placed to perfection in the raked gravel garden whispers of centuries of dedication and an upkeep that's simply obscene.

This isn’t just a house; it’s a statement.

A statement subtle, utterly unyielding, of generational wealth and an appreciation for things that last, utterly unlike Satoru’s own glass-and-steel penthouse.

“Of course,” Satoru sighs, a grudging admiration seeping into his tone despite himself. “He’d live somewhere that smells like old money and good incense. Probably forces his subs to rake the gravel daily.” He adjusts the t-shirt, plain and white, feeling the freedom, strange and unaccustomed, of no underwear. The apprehension that had been a hum, dull and distant, now begins to prickle more insistently, a physical manifestation of the anticipation tightening in his gut.

This place, so calm and deceptively simple, is a perfect reflection of Suguru himself.

And for some reason, that makes it all the more unsettling.

Satoru takes a measured breath, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag, a last-ditch effort to appear unbothered. The stone path, so pristine and serene, winds deeper into the property, curving around ancient trees whose branches seem to reach out like skeletal fingers. The silence is pervasive, broken only by the soft crunch of his loafers on the gravel and the distant, almost imperceptible murmur of the city. It’s unnerving. He’s used to being announced, to grand entrances, not tiptoeing through someone else’s perfectly manicured quiet zone.

“Right,” he mutters to himself, the sound swallowed by the oppressive calm. “Because of course Suguru lives somewhere that requires a full sensory deprivation chamber just to reach the front door. Probably tests your patience before he even lets you in.”

Satoru walks slowly, almost too slowly, taking in the absurd perfection of the landscape. Every rock seems precisely placed, every patch of moss impossibly green. It smells faintly of damp earth and something vaguely floral, an expensive kind of peace that probably costs more than his entire penthouse floor plan to maintain. His “nothing personal, absolutely not” mantra starts to feel increasingly flimsy.

The path eventually opens onto a wider area, revealing the main entrance. It's not grand or imposing like one might find on a Western mansion, but a sliding door, wooden and heavy, flanked by more of those glowing paper screens. There's no doorbell, no visible intercom, nothing obvious to press or pull. A lacquered post, small and dark, stands to one side—perhaps a place to leave calling cards, or what? He resists the urge to scoff, or to scan frantically for a hidden button. This is a test, he reminds himself. A test of his composure, his adherence to unspoken rules.

The traditional Japanese way? Satoru vaguely recalls some historical drama where visitors clap or clear their throats, but that feels utterly ridiculous and undignified here. He won’t be bellowing “Yoo-hoo, Gojo Satoru has arrived!” into the serene garden. He’s not a country bumpkin.

Satoru simply stands there, for a moment, in the designated space before the door. The stillness stretches, thick and expectant. His pulse, which he’d been trying to ignore, starts to pick up speed. He can feel the subtle prickle of his skin, the almost imperceptible warmth that confirms his body, the traitor, is entirely too aware of where he is and what’s about to happen.

Satoru forces himself to breathe deeply, to look nonchalant.

He’s Gojo Satoru.

Satoru waits when he chooses to wait, not because some cryptic old-money sadist demands it.

Just as Satoru’s about to grudgingly consider a soft, polite tap on the wooden frame, or maybe, just maybe, an experimental thump just to irk Suguru, the door slides open. Not with a dramatic flourish, but quietly, smoothly, as if sensing his presence.

And there he is.

Suguru.

Standing just inside the threshold, framed by the soft glow of the interior, looking entirely too composed, entirely too knowing. His usual dark attire feels almost monastic in this setting, accentuating the hushed power of the place. Satoru fights the sudden urge to adjust his comfortable, undergarment-free pants.

“Satoru,” Suguru says. His voice, low and resonant, is both balm and a challenge. “You’re prompt.” Suguru’s eyes sweep over Satoru, lingering for just a fraction too long on his bare neck. They drift down his chest, then lower to his waistband and the line of his comfortable pants, before finally rising to meet his gaze. A smirk, faint and almost imperceptible, plays on Suguru’s lips. “Do come in.”

Satoru’s carefully constructed nonchalance wavers.

He didn’t even have to announce himself.

Of course not.

Suguru had known he was there all along. The game, it seems, had already begun. And Satoru, irritatingly, had already lost the first subtle round.

As Satoru steps over the threshold, the first thing he notices is how quiet the place is, inside and out. Satoru would have expected—servants? Family? Some kind of noise, but there is only the soft click of the sliding door closing behind him. The air inside is cooler, infused with a faint, clean scent of cedar and aged paper, completely unlike the recycled air of his penthouse or the oppressive perfume of clan gatherings.

“Well, this is certainly—zen,” Satoru murmurs, his voice feeling unnaturally loud in the still space.

Satoru stands on a dark wood floor, polished to a sheen, in what he recognizes as a genkan, spacious and inviting. To his right, a display of river stones, low and meticulously arranged, along with a bonsai tree, singular and ancient, sits in a recess, bathed in light soft and indirect from a hidden source. To his left, a series of shoji screens, papered intricately, extend down a hallway, their patterns delicate and hinting at rooms beyond. There are no shoes on the floorboards, highly polished as they are, of course. His gaze drops to his own loafers, already a modern note, discordant in this symphony of serene elegance. He slips them off, neatly aligning them on the lower step of the raised floor, just as his mother would've insisted. For once, he doesn't feel the rebellious urge he usually does to kick them aside. The weight of Suguru’s expectation, subtle yet undeniable, hangs in the air, thicker than any instruction.

The interior design is a masterclass in luxury that's quietly understated. Every detail, from the plaster walls, subtly textured, to the dark, gleaming wood of the support beams, speaks of quality and meticulous care. There isn't a superfluous item, nor are there any gaudy displays of wealth; just an almost austere beauty that makes his own, flashier penthouse feel suddenly juvenile.

This isn’t just money; this is history.

Taste.

This is generations of inherited discipline manifested in architectural form.

Trying to impress me with your minimalist chic, Suguru? Satoru tries to conjure his usual dismissive critique. But the thought feels hollow, swallowed by the pervasive calm. The quiet is starting to grate on his nerves, emphasizing his own lack of powerlessness, the uncomfortable bareness beneath his clothes. He’s hyper-aware of the simple t-shirt and comfortable pants, the absence of his usual layers and accessories that serve as his armor. Here, in this space, pristine and stripped-down, he feels utterly exposed, exactly as Suguru intended.

Satoru takes a hesitant step further into the house, drawn by the soft glow emanating from deeper within. Each movement feels amplified, each breath too loud. He can’t hear anything. No footsteps, no distant voices, no whir of appliances. Just complete silence. It feels like he’s walking into a trap, a beautiful, perfectly designed, utterly inescapable trap.

Suguru, having watched with amusement as Satoru discreetly entered the house and arranged his shoes, starts walking down one of the hallways and doesn’t look back to see if Satoru is following.

Figures.

Satoru quietly pads along behind Suguru, his feet hitting the wood beneath pleasant and calming in a way. When they arrive at a room with traditional zaisu fitted with what look to be overly large, comfortable cushions, Suguru speaks to Satoru again. “How are you feeling?” Suguru asks, his voice soft, almost too casual as he gestures toward the zaisu.

Satoru stops just inside the doorframe of the room, taking a moment to survey the space. It’s another study in perfection; minimalist but rich. A kakejiku, singular and exquisite, hangs in the tokonoma alcove, its calligraphy bold and precise. He can’t quite make out the character from here, but the brushstrokes reveal an unquestionable authority.

He glances at the zaisu, noting how invitingly soft the cushions appear.

Almost like a trap, dressed up in silk.

He turns to face Suguru, forcing a careless shrug. “Feeling? Like I just walked into a silent film, Suguru.” He tries to infuse his voice with his usual cutting sarcasm, but it sounds a little too brittle, even to his own ears.

The truth.

The truth of how he’s feeling, inconvenient and prickling, is too close to the surface. His skin tingles, and the space between his body and his clothes is an ever-present reminder of why he’s here. “And surprisingly calm, actually. For a walking psychological experiment, I mean.”

Suguru quirks his lip before he replies, “You aren’t a psychological experiment, Satoru. There is a reason I demanded you dress this way.”

“Oh? More than to humiliate me, you mean?”

Suguru raises a brow, “I thought we had agreed to leave this sort of talk back when I agreed to help you. If you continue to misbehave, I can only take that to mean you are ready to receive your first correction.”

A correction.

The word hangs in the air, a tangible weight. It’s not a threat, not in the way he usually perceives them. There’s no anger in Suguru’s tone, just an unnerving calm and a statement of fact.

It’s a consequence, laid out as clearly as a physics equation and Satoru, despite his instincts, finds himself calculating the variables. Satoru’s been pushing Suguru. Pushing for a reaction. But—this isn’t the one he expected.

Satoru can feel the heat radiating from his skin, a traitorous blush he fights to suppress. The empty space in his joggers suddenly feels even more, amplifying his vulnerability. He takes a small, almost involuntary breath, forcing himself to meet Suguru’s unwavering gaze. His tongue feels thick and the witty retort he usually has ready dies on it.

The amusement has drained from Suguru’s eyes. In its place, is a deep, knowing look that makes Satoru feel thoroughly dissected.

Suguru isn’t playing a game now. He’s establishing the rules of his game and Satoru is already behind. This isn’t about humiliation: this is about control. And Satoru has a sudden realization of where he stands on which end.

“Correction,” Satoru repeats, tasting the word on his tongue—foreign, and strange. It slips out before he can stop it, an echo too raw to be safely contained. He hasn’t meant to give it shape or weight, but of course, Suguru hears it.

Suguru tilts his head, a subtle acknowledgement rather than a nod, maintaining that maddening composure. “Yes,” he says softly, with the certainty of someone reading a script he wrote himself.

Suguru steps slightly closer, his presence a warm weight in the hushed room. “Before we proceed, Satoru, we must establish a safeword.” His voice drops, calm and unwavering. “This word, and this word alone, will halt all activity instantly. It is your ultimate veto, your absolute stop. There is no negotiation, no hesitation, no judgment when it is spoken. Do you understand its purpose?”

Satoru’s throat tightens. He tries to nod, but his head remains locked, his muscles unresponsive. No sound escapes him. The concept is brutally clear; the reality of needing it feels heavy, choking.

Suguru’s gaze, sharp and unyielding, intensifies. “A nod is insufficient, Satoru. Consent, particularly in these moments, demands clarity. I require your words. Do you understand?”

A shiver runs through Satoru. The demand for his voice, for that explicit admission, pushes a new wave of raw vulnerability through him. He struggles, the word caught, then forces it out, raspy and barely audible. “Yes.”

“Good,” Suguru affirms. “Now, I need your word for it. Do you have a safeword in mind, or should I provide one?”

Satoru hesitates, his mind scrambling, caught off guard. He thinks of complex scientific terms, then dismisses them as absurd. The simplicity of a single word, spoken aloud in this charged space, feels powerfully significant. He swallows, forcing his dry tongue to move. “Mochi,” he rasps, the word a mix of defiance and utter humiliation.

“Mochi,” Suguru repeats, the word resonating with a soft finality, yet his eyes hold Satoru’s with an unwavering intensity. “Remember it, Satoru. It’s yours. Now,” his eyes, dark and impossibly discerning, lock onto Satoru’s, “are you ready for this inspection to begin?”

“Yes,” Satoru responds quietly, reverently. He remains still, legs heavy and arms loose at his sides, his mind screaming defiance even as his body, traitorous and alive, remains rooted. He feels the insidious tug, pulling him deeper into a current he no longer commands.

Chapter Text

The silence around Satoru expands gradually, broken only by the soft snap of fingers as Suguru gestures toward the cushion at the room’s center. “Kneel.”

The command is neither yelled nor demanded; there is no performance in the word, no seductive undertone or cruelty, only a truth spoken like a given. Satoru, who has never obeyed without question, hesitates. Kneeling isn’t how he operates. It isn’t a part of how Gojo Satoru exists in the world. Yet, beneath the plain white cotton shirt Suguru made him wear, his skin burns. The joggers are loose, but every movement whispers exposure. Every breath Satoru takes reminds him there’s nothing underneath. Dressed, but not covered—not where it matters.

So Satoru kneels.

Not because he understands why, not because it feels safe. But because Suguru said it without expectation—like he knew Satoru would. That certainty crawls under Satoru’s skin and settles, heavy and unshakable.

It isn’t graceful or smooth, but cautious. Like Satoru is approaching a delicate calculation. He lowers himself slowly, with sharp angles and too much thought; left knee, then right, palms resting on thighs. His back is straight, because posture is all he has left.

Suguru watches without expression. His gaze is steady, deliberate—unflinching in its precision.

Then a single word falls. “Posture.”

The command arrives without explanation, and Satoru freezes. He doesn’t quite know what it means here, not exactly. He knows how to sit for a tea ceremony, how to kneel before elders and lie through his teeth while doing so: that posture, that training.

So he defaults.

His knees tuck tighter, spine lifts taller, shoulders pull back with conscious control. He shifts into something closer to seiza, refined and balanced, the pose of someone used to being watched and judged for how they hold their frame. It isn’t submission, at least not the kind he assumes Suguru expects, but it is presentation, precision, the closest he can manage.

Suguru croons quietly, a sound Satoru recognizes as approval. His form responds automatically—a prickle of awareness tightens his skin. “Better,” Suguru murmurs. “Hands behind your back.” The shift pulls his shoulder blades tighter and outlines his chest through his thin cotton, exposing him.

Vulnerability through symmetry.

It’s absurd how easily the command lands; how naturally his body listens, and how unnatural that feels.

Suguru moves, barefoot steps across the tatami. Satoru feels him more than hears him, like a shift in air pressure. He catches the faint, clean scent of cedar and Suguru’s personal bergamot, a dizzying mix that tightens his chest. Satoru doesn’t turn his head or speak. He breathes, listens, and waits. When Suguru stops behind him, the silence thickens. A heartbeat later, two fingers trace the back of Satoru’s neck, slow and maddeningly light. The brief touch makes Satoru shudder, like something inside him resets, a button pressed too gently to ignore.

“No visible tension,” Suguru comments, “but you’re holding it in your jaw. And here.” His fingers skim lower, past the curve of his spine, stopping just above the joggers’ waistband. “In your hips.”

Satoru stiffens. “I’m not,” he starts, but stops.

“Shhh.” Suguru’s voice is soft, but firm, a calming correction. “You are here for this,” he continues, crouching low, eyes level with Satoru’s. “Not to perform, not to argue. To be read.” The words settle deeper than Satoru expects. For one terrifying second, he flinches, not visibly, but enough for Suguru to notice.

“Good,” Suguru says, a quiet satisfaction in his tone. He rises slowly, unhurried, and declares simply, “Inspection begins.” This isn’t assessment; it’s unraveling. Suguru dismantles him with quiet precision. His gaze moves with calm gravity, cataloging details that matter. He starts at Satoru’s collarbone, where fabric stretches over skin, drawing one fingertip down the visible bone, slow enough to catch Satoru’s breath but never sharp enough to feel dominant.

“Too clean,” Suguru explains, “You changed.”

“I followed your instruction.”

“Yes, but not comfortably.” His eyes flick upward; for a moment, Satoru thinks he sees amusement, a fleeting spark of dark pleasure. “Not instinctively.”

Suguru circles again; this time his hands join the inspection. His palms glide over Satoru’s shoulders, as if reading him by touch. One finger slips beneath the sleeve’s hem, trailing along the soft underside of his arm. The shirt shifts, goosebumps rising. A flush blooms, heat coiling low beneath the cotton.

“Responsive,” Suguru breathes quietly, “but still fighting it.”

Satoru grits his teeth. “I’m in control,” he says quietly, tense.

Suguru leans close, speaking into his ear, his breath warm and his words precise. “No. You are in resistance. That is not the same.” The words strike low and deep, and Satoru hates how his body reacts—visceral, hot, unwilling to be reasoned with. Breathing feels difficult, his skin feels tight.

Suguru places a hand at the small of his back, not to push, but to ground him, reminding him he is held. “You will be touched. You will not speak unless instructed. You will answer when asked. And you will breathe.” A pause follows, long enough for the question to gather weight. “Do you consent to continue?”

Satoru’s throat is dry and his breath is shallow, but he manages the word, “yes,” barely audible, but real.

Suguru’s hand withdraws, and for a moment, Satoru misses it.

The inspection resumes. This time, Suguru uses both hands. Slow and methodical, he skims down Satoru’s sides, brushing ribs, pausing at pressure points, testing balance and response. He avoids the obvious, never touches where Satoru aches, never offers the easy comfort of pleasure. This is more than evaluation: it’s a deconstruction. Satoru is being read and rewritten simultaneously, and Suguru works with the confidence of one who has done this before.

“You’re overheating,” Suguru says eventually, fingers passing lightly along the outside of Satoru’s thigh.

Satoru exhales. “Because you’re touching me.”

The silence that follows is far from empty; it carries a sharp, undeniable judgment. Suguru steps back into view, meeting Satoru’s eyes calmly and clearly. There’s no need to raise his voice when he says, “I told you not to speak.” It is a simple, unyielding truth.

Satoru swallows. “Right,” he mutters.

Suguru holds his gaze, crouching again, steady and close, “Was that instinct?” he asks, “or are you asking for your first correction?”

Satoru says nothing, refusing to break eye contact. Suguru smiles faintly, knowingly. “Then we continue. Quietly.” A pause. “Inspection resumes.”

Suguru eventually stops, not in front, but slightly to Satoru’s side. His shadow falls long across Satoru’s hip. He remains standing, his head tilted subtly as he observes. Satoru’s peripheral vision is entirely consumed by the dark fabric of Suguru’s attire, the solid line of his leg so near Satoru’s shoulder. Heat washes over him. Suguru’s closeness presses in, demanding a reaction. He feels the faint tremor start in his thighs, betraying the coiled tension he struggles to suppress. From this angle, the silent assessment feels more penetrating, more demanding, as if Suguru dissects his very bones.

Suguru’s hand finally rises, not to Satoru’s body, but to the neckline of Satoru’s shirt. With exquisite slowness, his thumb and forefinger catch the thin cotton, pulling it taut. Just enough to accentuate the stretch across Satoru’s chest. Satoru feels the subtle friction of the fabric against his skin. It amplifies the sensitivity of his nipples, which are already beading. The calculated act, a minor adjustment, feels monumental.

“This is the first lesson in yielding, Satoru,” Suguru’s voice murmurs, low and steady. It’s close enough that Satoru feels the vibration more than hears it. “To present yourself. To accept the scrutiny. A submissive does not hide what is asked to be seen, even by a glance. This prepares you for the true surrender, for the understanding that your entire being becomes open to your dominant’s will.” His fingers briefly brush the fabric over Satoru’s strained abdomen, a fleeting, almost accidental contact. It still sends a shiver through Satoru. “Every physical reaction, Satoru, speaks volumes. A dominant perceives all.”

Suguru’s touch shifts.

Suguru’s palm slips under the waistband of Satoru’s joggers, settling flat against Satoru’s bare abdomen, a firm weight that feels simultaneously grounding and incendiary. Satoru gasps, a sharp intake of breath. The heat of Suguru’s hand, direct on his skin, anchors him in the storm of his accelerating heart. It isn’t overtly sexual—but the intimate press steals his air. He can feel the subtle ridges of Suguru’s palm, the warmth bleeding into him, and a strange sense of completion settles in his gut. This is what his body has been craving, a definitive contact, a tangible confirmation of Suguru’s power.

Suguru’s fingers splay slightly, not moving, just being there. “A submissive learns stillness, Satoru,” Suguru says softly. “And stillness, under a dominant’s hand, becomes pleasure.” Satoru feels the raw truth of the words settle, bypassing his intellect entirely. He is acutely aware of the stark contrast: the cool air of the room against his exposed skin, the burning heat where Suguru’s hand rests. It’s a precise, overwhelming sensation that eclipses all thought, leaving only this moment, this touch. A deep, needy ache spreads through him, both unwelcome and utterly consuming. His body, once so defiant, begins to soften, almost imperceptibly, leaning into the pressure.

Then, a sudden, almost uncontrollable surge of his inherent defiance flares.

This is absurd.

This tease, this performance, is a game. And Satoru finds it insulting. He can’t help himself. A sharp, mocking laugh escapes him, a brittle sound that cracks the tense silence. His head snaps up, eyes flashing. “All this just to make me squirm, Suguru? I thought you were supposed to be training me. This is just—tedium.” The words are out before he can stop them, laced with a derisive edge, a blatant challenge to the carefully constructed authority in the room. His jaw tightens, a rebellious instinct overriding the soft surrender of moments before. He waits, pulse roaring, for the inevitable consequence.

A quiet huff of air escapes Suguru’s lips. He pulls his hand from Satoru’s abdomen with a sudden, decisive movement. “Fine,” his voice rumbles, now edged with a dangerous impatience Satoru has never heard before.

Suguru rises, turning sharply towards one of the shoji screens. His hand shoots out, seizing a handful of Satoru’s hair at the nape of his neck, the grip firm and uncompromising. He pulls, harsh and swift, dragging Satoru forward. Satoru stumbles, his knees protesting, forced to follow Suguru’s lead. He is hauled through the newly revealed doorway, down a short, dimly lit hallway where the polished wooden floor feels cold beneath his bare feet.

The air here is heavier, charged.

Suguru pushes open another screen, revealing a simple, traditional bedroom. A futon is neatly laid out on the tatami, a thick, plush mattress suggesting comfort amidst austerity. Suguru releases Satoru’s hair with a sharp shove that sends him reeling slightly into the doorway. Suguru walks directly to the futon and sits, his back ramrod straight, his gaze fixed on Satoru, who stands, panting, in the doorway. “Place yourself across my lap, face down, Satoru,” Suguru commands, his voice a low, unyielding rumble that brooks no argument.

The command hangs in the air, heavy and absolute. Satoru’s mind rebels. This isn’t just an inspection; it’s an abrupt, total surrender of posture, of dignity, of every last shred of his carefully guarded autonomy.

Satoru stiffens, muscles locking.

Yet, beneath the raging protest in Satoru’s mind, his body is already betraying him. The cool air of the doorway suddenly feels drawn-out against his skin, amplifying the blush that creeps from his chest to his cheeks. A deep throb pulses low, his body responding to Suguru’s unshakable control. He hates it, hates that his body seems to understand a language his mind actively rejects.

A ragged breath hitches in Satoru’s throat. He finds himself moving. It isn’t a graceful or willing movement, but a stiff, almost wooden compliance driven by a chaotic mix of raw, aching desire and a strange, desperate curiosity. He takes a single, awkward step, then another. Each movement feels exact, every muscle tensed, as if he can intellectualize the act, compartmentalize the humiliation. The polished tatami feels impossibly slick beneath his bare feet. He focuses on the small distance between them, on the precise angle he needs to assume, anything to avoid fully internalizing the act of being physically placed. The air thins around him, stolen by his frantic pulse, leaving him breathless, his vision blurring slightly at the edges as he finally reaches the futon where Suguru waits.

Satoru reaches the futon, hesitating for a final, excruciating second at Suguru’s feet. The dark eyes, unwavering, bore into him, a silent pressure that makes the air thick and heavy. He feels the inevitable pull. With a stiff, awkward motion, he begins to lower himself, not quite graceful, but compelled. His left knee scrapes lightly on the tatami beside Suguru’s legs, then his right. He shifts, pushing forward, the strange intimacy of draping himself over another person’s lap a sudden, overwhelming reality. His joggers, thin and loose, bunch slightly as he moves, exposing a sliver of bare skin on his lower back. He tries to keep his shoulders squared, his posture defiant even in this vulnerable position, but the angle forces him to bow his head. The warmth of Suguru’s thighs against his stomach is unexpected, searing even through the fabric, anchoring him. He is facedown, his cheek pressed into the soft cotton of Suguru’s jeans, the scent of bergamot now intensely concentrated around him. Every breath feels like a struggle, his lungs constricting under the weight of his own sudden, absolute surrender. A hot flush consumes his entire body, and the furious thrum in his groin intensifies, a raw, undeniable ache that overrides all thought. He waits, utterly exposed.

A hand rises. Not yet for the strike. Suguru’s voice, low and precise, cuts through the ringing silence. “You will receive five strikes, Satoru. You will count each one aloud. If you miss a count, we start again from the beginning. Do you understand?” The question is not a request; it’s a cold, clear expectation. Satoru feels his throat constrict, a knot of nervousness tightening, but his body understands the demand. “Yes,” he manages, the word barely a whisper, a stark admission of his new, vulnerable reality.

The first strike lands. A sharp, flat crack sounds in the hushed room, snapping Satoru’s attention entirely to the searing heat blooming across his right sit bone. He gasps, a sharp, choked sound, his spine arching instinctively against the shock. “One!” he forces out, the count a raw exhalation. But even as the sting blossoms, a dizzying jolt, a current distinct from pain, shoots through him. It’s a shocking, almost pleasurable release of the coiled anticipation, an intoxicating rush that floods his senses. The rigid tension in his body loosens, replaced by a strange, humming warmth. Shame washes over him, swift and hot, at the undeniable thrill that follows the sting. He hates that he feels it, hates that his body betrays his mind so completely.

The second strike follows swiftly, a precise echo on the left side, bringing with it a deeper glow, a deeper vibration. “Two!” Satoru manages, his voice a little steadier now, a little softer. He focuses on the impact, allowing it to clear the last remnants of defiant thought, leaving only sensation. The sharp burn spreads, chasing away the chaos in his head, pulling him deeper into the singular moment. He wants more. A desperate, wordless plea begins to form in his mind, echoing the raw need his body already screams.

The third strike, harder than the last, makes Satoru clench his teeth. “Three!” he calls out, the word strained. His rear throbs, a pulsing heat that spreads through his thighs. The sensation is overwhelming, undeniable. He feels stretched taut, poised on a precipice of exquisite discomfort and a burgeoning, forbidden pleasure. His breath hitches, shallow and quick, as his hips subtly rock into the next expected impact.

A fourth strike, stinging and hot, draws a soft moan from him. “Four!” The word escapes, ragged and involuntary. His mind is a blank slate, filled only with the rhythmic sting, the spreading warmth, and the heavy weight of Suguru’s legs beneath him. The shame of enjoying it is almost entirely eclipsed by the raw, undeniable craving for the next.

Suguru’s hand pauses, not moving for the fifth strike. Instead, his palm settles, large and firm, directly onto the center of Satoru’s throbbing rear. He begins to rub, a slow, intentional circular motion, kneading the already heated skin, pressing firmly into the bruised flesh. A guttural moan escapes Satoru, deeper and more helpless than any sound before. The unexpected fondling, so explicitly acknowledging his enjoyment, sends a shockwave of pleasure through him, a white-hot sensation that travels directly to his straining cock, which gives a violent, undeniable twitch. “Oh,” he breathes, the sound utterly lost, his head burying itself deeper into Suguru’s thigh.

The last strike lands with a resolute thump, firm and definitive, leaving a widespread burn across both cheeks. For a long, intense moment there is no sound. Satoru descends into the quiet inside his head and his usually racing thoughts dissolve into a hazy warmth. The sting on his ass changes, transforming pain into an overwhelming rush of sensation. A strange, but deep contentment washes over him—as though he is exactly where he is meant to be.

“That was five, Satoru. Do try to keep up.” The hand lifts abruptly. Suguru’s voice, a low, deep rumble that is impossibly sexy, vibrates directly into Satoru’s ear as a single finger traces the inside of Satoru’s inner thigh, brushing dangerously close to the burning apex of his erection.

“Five!” Satoru gasps, the count escaping on a shuddering exhale, a beat too late. His body tingles, alive with the lingering heat, his rear throbbing pleasantly. The silence that follows is immense, thick with the aftermath of sensation. He lies there, utterly still, adrift in the dizzying blend of lingering sting and surprising contentment.

Suguru’s hand lifts entirely, the abrupt absence of weight leaving Satoru’s rear feeling suddenly cool and exposed. “You did so well,” Suguru’s voice states, calm and unwavering, yet carrying an undertone Satoru can’t quite decipher. “Stand up, Satoru. Undress.”

Satoru stiffens, his mind scrambling to process the abrupt shift. Undress? Here? His body, still humming from the strikes, protests this new, unexpected demand for vulnerability. He feels a fresh flush creep up his neck.

“Then, you will get back in position,” Suguru continues, his voice cutting through Satoru’s thoughts like a blade. “But this time, you will learn how a submissive truly waits. Legs tucked beneath you, back straight, hands resting on your thighs, palms down. You will not move until instructed. You will be still, present, and prepared for whatever your dominant deems necessary. Do you understand, Satoru?”

Satoru’s internal defiance, though weakened, flares briefly, protesting the immediate stripping away of his remaining layers. The audacity of it, after just being laid bare by Suguru’s hand. Still, a current of excitement surges through his veins, tightening his already aching cock. He bristles at the blush that creeps up his neck, how his body answers with such undeniable longing.

He pushes himself up, muscles stiff and protesting from the forced position, a subtle tremor running through his limbs. His gaze flicks from Suguru’s unwavering eyes to the simple futon, then back to Suguru’s face, searching for any hint of negotiation.

When Satoru sees none, he tries to move quickly, following the precise instructions. He drops his head as he makes a sharp, quick nod to acknowledge Suguru’s command. A swallow works its way down his dry throat. He drops his eyes to his hands, then his thin joggers, already feeling exposed.

Satoru fumbles with the drawstring of his joggers—clumsy, his fingers uncooperative. He tries not to think of the full exposure now imminent, under Suguru’s unwavering gaze. He’s sure that this is another test of Suguru’s and he has no intention of proving any further of his points. He pushes the fabric down, slowly, over his hips, feeling the soft cotton slide past his bare thighs and pool around his ankles. The rush of cool air is an immediate shock against his exposed skin, amplifying every sensation. He leans down and steps out of the pants and folds them quickly, pushing them to the side.

His shirt is next.

Satoru pulls the white t-shirt over his head, the familiar fabric briefly muffling his senses before sliding away. He stands, utterly bare. His dick, painfully hard, leaks precome, a thick bead clinging to the tip before slowly rolling down, threatening to drip onto the polished floor. Every inch of his skin screams with sensitivity. A wave of scalding heat rushes through him, a mortification so intense it burns, mixing with the raw, exhilarating ache that floods his cock.

Satoru’s hands twitch, an instinctive desperate urge to cover himself. An undeniable need to hide the evidence of his body’s betrayal, but there is nowhere to go—no modesty left to claim.

Slowly, his movements stiff with a mix of defiance and involuntary obedience, Satoru begins to lower himself. The naked contact of his knees against the cool tatami is a sharp, grounding sensation. He folds his legs neatly beneath him, pushing his hips back until he sits on his heels. Every fiber of his being strains to keep his spine ramrod straight, his shoulders pulled back, exposing the full expanse of his chest, his throat. His hands settle on his thighs, palms pressed flat against the heated skin. He fixes his gaze straight ahead, not daring to meet Suguru’s eyes.

Satoru holds the pose, every muscle screaming with the effort of stillness. Suguru’s presence looms, a silent, all-consuming force. Satoru feels the cool air of the room against his skin, a stark contrast to his internal heat. He feels completely laid bare, not just physically, but emotionally, under Suguru’s unyielding gaze. There is no escape from this scrutiny, no corner of himself left unexamined.

The silence stretches, heavy and charged, filled only with the frantic beat of his own heart.

A subtle shift in Suguru’s weight signals his movement. He rises from the futon, his bare feet soft on the tatami, and begins to circle Satoru. It’s an unhurried visual inspection. He feels the intensity of Suguru’s eyes rake over his shoulders, down the line of his spine, lingering on the flushed curves of his rear, then slowly, methodically, over his thighs. The controlled lack of touch is almost more torment than contact, allowing Satoru’s imagination to fill the void, to conjure the feel of those hands, those eyes, on every sensitive inch of his exposed body. He feels a fresh bead of precome escape, a hot, undeniable trickle against his inner thigh, confirming his body’s utter surrender, even as his mind screams defiance.

Suguru eventually stops, positioned directly behind Satoru. The sudden proximity is a physical shock, raising goosebumps on Satoru’s skin. A warm breath ghosts over Satoru’s nape. “Excellent stillness, Satoru,” Suguru’s voice murmurs, low and pleased. The quiet praise, so utterly unexpected in the midst of his raw vulnerability, sends a shiver through Satoru, and his erection responds with a fresh, insistent throb.

Suguru says nothing further. He moves, not towards Satoru but the far wall of the room. With a quiet grace, he slides open a set of shoji doors, revealing a small, meticulously manicured private garden bathed in the muted afternoon light. The fresh, cool scent of damp earth and greenery immediately drifts into the room. Suguru steps into the opening, then sits against the sturdy wooden pillar of the doorway, his silhouette framed by the tranquil scene.

His gaze drifts out into the garden.

Satoru remains kneeling, completely bare. His hard dick stands exposed to the empty air. He waits in drawn-out silence, no longer commanded, no longer observed, simply left to stew in his raw, unaddressed vulnerability. Beyond the open doors, the sky stretches, vast and uncaring, a silent witness.

After a moment, Suguru reaches to his side. From a wooden shelf, low and polished, built into the pillar, he selects a book with a slim, leather binding. He opens it, the pages rustling softly, then settles. His eyes drop to the text.

Satoru watches, fixed in his unmoving pose. Seconds stretch into minutes. This disregard is a torment, willful and excruciating. His initial shock gives way, slowly, to a prickling frustration that crawls beneath his skin. His muscles, already tight from the demanding posture, begin to tremble with suppressed agitation. He longs to move, to shout, to demand attention. Yet, the rigid instruction to remain still paralyzes him.

The silence, once heavy with anticipation, now feels deafening in its indifference, and Satoru’s suppressed fury coils tighter with every ignored moment.

A subtle shift starts deep within Satoru. The rigid stillness begins to grate, a dull throb in his ankles, tucked under his body for too long, growing to a persistent ache. His knees protest the weight. Boredom, sharp and unwelcome, joins the physical discomfort, sparking a restless energy that pulses through his limbs. Unconsciously, almost imperceptibly, he twitches a finger against his thigh. Then, a sway moves through his core, slight and faint. It's a minute adjustment of his weight, seeking relief.

The soft fabric of Suguru’s attire, glimpsed from his peripheral vision, becomes a cruel reminder of the warmth and contact he craves. Every second stretches into an eternity. He craves direction, any direction, to break the suffocating inertia. His fury, once a tight coil, now boils with a furious resentment. An almost imperceptible trembling starts in his entire body, his forced stillness strained to its absolute limit. His gaze blurs on the tatami. The air feels too thin; the silence, too loud. This perfect, drawn-out inaction is something he can't maintain much longer.

“Is there a problem, Satoru?”

“I’m bored!”

“That’s not my problem. This is something you desire to learn. Right now, I am busy, so I’m not going to entertain you.”

“I’m not a patient person. And what if I don’t want to be—entertained by you?” Satoru’s voice had tripped over the last part. “Maybe this is a mistake.”

“I don’t care what you want. You have a safeword to use, but other than that, you’ll do as I say. If you don’t want to be here, you know where the door is.”

Satoru lets out a low grumble, “The least you could do is give me something to do.”

Suguru puts his book down and stands up. “I’m sorry, Gojo-sama. Let me make sure I’ve properly entertained you.” Suguru crosses the tatami, each barefoot step silent, until his shadow falls entirely over Satoru’s kneeling form. A jolt, sharp and electric, races through Satoru. He braces instinctively, every nerve ending screaming. Without a word, Suguru’s hand clamps onto Satoru’s shoulder, a grip of absolute authority. Then, his other hand sweeps down, firm and possessive, circling Satoru’s waist. Satoru’s naked body is weightless, effortlessly lifted from his seated position. Suguru pivots, repositioning him, pushing Satoru’s face down onto the cool tatami mat. His hips arch automatically, forced high into the air, presenting his rear in a deep, completely vulnerable curve. Stripped and humiliating, his very posture acts as an invitation. It showcases his body, flushed and quivering in every vulnerable inch.

Suguru’s other hand appears. With exacting precision, he places a cool, leather-bound volume directly in front of Satoru’s bowed head. It’s open to a page filled with dense, abstract text, a silent challenge to his very intellect. Satoru feels the familiar pressure of text, demanding focus, but his mind is a chaotic mess of sensation, his body humming with the raw anticipation of what comes next.

“Stay.”

Satoru feels the sudden absence of Suguru’s presence over him. He doesn't dare look up. A faint rustle of fabric, the soft pad of bare feet on tatami, indicates Suguru is moving away. Satoru remains locked in his humiliating arch, his face pressed against the cool mat, exposed. He imagines Suguru returning to his spot by the garden doors, settling back down. The thought of his own naked ass, presented so explicitly, now undeniably in Suguru’s line of sight, sends a fresh wave of heat through him. Satoru feels a faint shiver course through his lower back, his exposed hole shuddering in the cool air, an instinctive response to the sheer defenselessness of his position. He knows, without looking, that he is being observed, his form laid bare, his submission absolute.

He hangs in the degrading arch, face pressed to the cool tatami. Shame washes over him, a burning tide that stains his skin. How quickly, how completely, he’s been brought to this. Just days ago, Suguru was a stranger, an intriguing figure at a party. Now, Satoru is naked, ass high, stomach pressed into his thigh, exposed to this man whose eyes, just a week prior, he merely found ‘impossibly discerning.’ The very thought makes his body clench.

A raw insistence settles in his burning dick, mocking his deep shame with its ache. His swollen length is wet with precome, pearling and dripping onto the tatami below him. This isn’t just about punishment; it’s about being seen, irrevocably, by someone he met less than a week ago. Every nerve ending in his body screams with a heightened sensitivity, amplifying the cool air against his skin, the pressure of the floor, the silent, overwhelming fact of Suguru’s presence, even when ignored. His mind, a fortress of logic, is a chaotic mess of pure, visceral sensation.

“Do you have any idea of how beautiful your body is, Satoru?” Suguru asks, his voice murmuring, both low and intimate. A light finger traces down Satoru’s exposed thigh, pressing gently at the back of his knee. Satoru jolts at the unexpected touch. He hadn’t heard Suguru move, his senses so consumed by his own inert state. The sensation of that single finger, a delicate pressure against his skin, sends a ripple of electric awareness through him. “You have the sexiest legs I have ever seen.”

A wave of heat, independent of his flush, burns through Satoru. The praise, so direct and unexpected in this position, sends a confusing spark of pleasure through him, immediately followed by shame. He struggles to contain the physical response, the subtle tremor that runs through his muscles, the renewed ache  in his cock. His mind scrambles for a retort, but his tongue feels thick, useless.

The silence stretches, thick with Satoru’s unvoiced defiance, before Suguru’s hand moves. Suguru lands a quick smack to one ass cheek and reprimands, “Satoru, I complimented you. What do you say when someone compliments you?”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Thanks, I guess? I don’t need to be told how beautiful I am, I’ve been told all my life.”

“Wrong answer.” A sharp, stinging crack splits the air, landing squarely on Satoru's stinging ass.

He gasps, a choked sound, spine arching instinctively. “Ow!”"

The burn spreads across his ass as he awaits the second blow that never comes. Satoru thinks for a moment and pouts, it feels like the blow landed in the exact spot as the first. Didn’t he have to spread those smacks around or something? This is why Satoru didn’t want to put spanking on his list, really, but the pain is a reminder of who is in charge.

Satoru moves his face toward Suguru and opens his mouth to say something, and stops. He watches Suguru raise an eyebrow at him, and he closes his mouth again.

“Good boy,” Suguru praises, the intent of it going straight to his dick, “remember that talking back will get you more correction.”

The single word, “Yes, sir,” escapes Satoru’s lips almost without thought, a raw, instinctive response to the demand for compliance. The moment it leaves him, an unexpected stillness descends upon the room, a silence deeper than before.

Suguru freezes.

Satoru feels the sudden cessation of any subtle movement from the man above him. The air crackles with an unseen energy. He can’t see Suguru’s face, but he imagines the shock, the surprise, the absolute stillness from him. A confusing mix of apprehension and a strange, almost illicit thrill sparks through Satoru. He didn’t mean to say it, not like that, not so readily. Yet, the word resonated within him, its resonance shocking and completely unfamiliar.

He wonders what he has done. He lies there, utterly still himself, his own heart hammering against his ribs, waiting for Suguru’s reaction to this unexpected, automatic compliance. His body thrums with the aftermath, his dick a painful throb, every nerve ending alive.

A sharp intake of breath sounds from above him, followed by a slow, measured exhale. It’s barely a sound, a mere whisper of air, yet Satoru feels it, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Satoru senses the immense effort of control, the power in that withheld reaction, and the weight of what his word has unleashed.

“Now what do you say when someone gives you a compliment, Satoru?”

“Thank you for complimenting my legs—sir,” Satoru snarks, now more than ever aware of the power he holds.

Satoru can’t be sure, but it sounds like Suguru grits his teeth when he responds, “Better.” Suguru continues the exploration of Satoru’s thigh with his fingertip, circling back around to the inner part and just barely grazing near where Satoru’s dick is leaking, having made a puddle beneath him.

Suguru’s finger pauses, hovering a hair’s breadth from the slick, sensitive skin. Satoru’s breath hitches, his entire body straining toward the phantom contact, desperate for it to land. He feels the excruciating proximity, the heat radiating from Suguru’s hand, it’s a torment that eclipses the lingering sting on his back.

“Such a responsive body, Satoru,” Suguru states, his voice a caress, dark and low. The words vibrate through the tatami, through Satoru’s very bones. “It yearns for attention, doesn’t it? For a dominant’s touch. For my touch. Even when your clever mind tries to deny it.” Suguru’s finger finally traces a finger lightly down Satoru’s exposed dick, then lifts, leaving Satoru gasping, a raw sound caught in his throat. The fleeting contact is a cruel tease, leaving him throbbing, desperate for more. “You even have a lovely cock,” Suguru purrs, a quiet patience in his voice.

Satoru knows now what is expected of him. “Th-thank you, sir,” he voice shakes as he speaks. Satoru shakes his ass just a little trying to expel the tension that sits high in his body, as if a single twitch could dispel the hunger singing in his blood.

A crack resounds across Satoru’s ass. “I told you to stay.”

Satoru breaks, his mind a mess as he twitches from the pain. Only a faint finger on his dick and Satoru feels like he could topple over that edge if Suguru were to just—

“Are you going to come, angel?” Suguru whispers mockingly, the condescension in his voice a match to light Satoru’s longing.

Satoru whimpers. He understands that he’s lost control but the string of control he held onto is gone, and all he can do is cry out, “P-please, sir. I-I need to—to come, sir.”

Suguru growls down at Satoru, voice cold and cutting through Satoru’s haze. “Is that the proper way to beg for release, Satoru? Is ‘sir’ truly the address I deserve, given your state? Think, Satoru. What does a submissive call the one who holds their pleasure in his hand?”

Satoru’s mind, a chaotic mess of pain and desperate arousal, scrambles. He cycles through the terms he’s researched, the titles he’s read about. Sir. Dominant. Daddy. None of these feel right, not in the face of Suguru’s absolute power.

Then, a word surfaces, heavy with implication, resonating with the raw truth of his position.

The ultimate surrender, a deepest acknowledgement.

“M-master,” Satoru chokes out, the word tearing from his throat, involuntarily, “P-please, master. I-I need to—to come!”

“You don’t need anything but me, little angel. You want to come—when I give you permission. However, I don’t yet feel as though you’ve earned it after your earlier brattiness.”

Satoru’s entire body buckling, his knees barely holding him up. He’s swimming in the deep end and only his mouth is free to breathe. He feels the rest of his body screaming with an unbearable unaddressed longing. His dick throbs, a relentless ache, demanding a release that is now explicitly, cruelly, denied.

A choked sob crashes through Satoru. His vision blurs, not from tears, but from the sheer overwhelming force of sensation and denial. He feels nothing but emptiness; a sudden, dizzying drop in his core, even as his body remains hyper-alert, brutally alive. The air feels suffocating around him. He wants to curl in on himself, to hide, but he’s so completely exposed, his posture still arched, his ass offered, his arousal a glaring testament to his failure and his Suguru’s absolute control.

Still, he doesn’t use the safeword. Not because he’s too proud—but because something in Suguru’s hands feels inevitable. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s finally found someone who knows how to touch him and mean it.

Suguru’s voice, low and dangerously calm, echoes through the small room “You may come, Satoru. But only when I give you permission, and only when you prove you understand who controls your pleasure.” A subtle shift in the air, a predatory gleam Satoru feels more than sees. “You will touch yourself. You will bring yourself to the edge. And each time, before you fall, you will tell me exactly what you are feeling, what you are begging for, and to whom you belong.”

Satoru’s mind reels, a fresh wave of heat washing over him. His hands, trembling, instinctively reach for his swollen cock. The first touch is excruciating, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through him. He begins to stroke, slow and clumsy at first, then with desperate, accelerating rhythm, his eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming need deep in his core. His body screams, his hips bucking subtly against the tatami as he gets closer to the brink.

“M-master,” Satoru chokes out, his voice raw, barely a whisper. “I’m—I’m so close. I’m b-begging to come for you, master. I belong to you.” The words rip from his lips, humiliating, but undeniably true.

Not even a moment later, Suguru’s voice, a silken promise and a cruel taunt, cuts through the haze. “Show me, angel. Show me how desperately you crave it. Show me who you belong to, with every desperate stroke.”

Satoru’s hips buck subtly, a raw, involuntary response. His vision swims, blurring the dense text of the book before him into an incomprehensible mess. All he sees, feels, is the burning pressure of his own hand and the relentless friction against his cock. He hears his own ragged breathing, a desperate, gasping sound that fills the suffocating silence.

“I—I belong to you—m-master,” he chokes out, the words ripped from his throat, humiliating and true. His fingers tighten, squeezing, pulling, driving himself closer. He’s so close, a hair’s breadth from the precipice, his entire body quivering with the effort of holding back, of obeying. Every nerve ending is screaming, demanding the release that hovers just out of reach. The precome drips more steadily now, helping lubricate his strokes.

“Still whimpering, angel?” Suguru’s voice, a low, contemptuous purr, ghosts over Satoru’s exposed back. “Does it feel good to finally embrace the pathetic whore you are, begging like a desperate slut for a release I keep from you?” Satoru’s head instinctively bows lower, pressing his cheek further into the cool tatami. A wave of white-hot mortification clashes with the insistent throb of his cock. The words cut, but his body trembles with a desperate, burgeoning desire that defies his pride. He can’t speak, can only gasp, his hand a blur against his straining erection, pulling himself closer to the edge he craves.

A single, firm finger traces the vulnerable line of his spine, a light, teasing pressure that makes Satoru shudder violently. “Not yet, angel,” Suguru murmurs, his voice laced with dark amusement. “Not until you truly earn it. Hold that feeling. Let it consume you. Show me how much you crave my permission.”

The command is a physical blow, snapping Satoru back from the edge. His hand falters, his hips lock, and he clenches his jaw, trying to contain the overwhelming sensation. The denied orgasm pulses through him, a searing pull that makes his muscles twitch. He hangs, suspends in excruciating limbo, his cock painfully hard, leaking, every fiber of his being focused on the unbearable build-up.

He can barely breathe.

His vision dims and he feels himself teetering on the edge of conscious thought, consumed by the raw, insistent demand of his body.

“P-please, master—” Satoru cries, a broken desperate sound torn from deep within his chest. His hips begin to buck again, faster now, a frantic, mindless rhythm as his hand pumps relentlessly. “I—I can’t—can’t think. I n-need to—to come! Please! For you! I’m begging! I’m—I’m your whore. Your desperate whore, master, please!” Tears sting his eyes, an absolute surrender of pure self. He’s shaking uncontrollably now, on the very edge of crumbling, his body arching higher into a desperate plea. Every breath is a ragged gasp, every stroke an drawn-out step closer to the edge.

A low growl rumbles from Suguru, a sound of deep satisfaction that vibrates through the futon, directly into Satoru’s core. “Come, Satoru,” he commands, the single word a sharp undeniable release.

Satoru shatters.

A guttural cry erupts from his throat, loud and raw, as his body spasms violently, pitching forward. Satoru’s vision explodes in white, then bursts of color, as a torrent of hot cum surges from his cock, painting the cool tatami beneath him. His hand clenches, then slips, unable to hold on as his entire body convulses with the overwhelming force of the orgasm.

Pleasure, so intense it borders on pain, consumes him, leaving him trembling, breathless, completely spent. Satoru’s body is still twitching with aftershocks, every muscle weak and boneless. Satoru’s cheek presses firmly into the cool, damp tatami, the slick, sticky warmth of his own cum clinging to his skin, a stark, undeniable testament to his complete breakdown. The scent, metallic and musky, fills his nostrils, amplifying the hot glow that spreads over his body. His chest heaves, each breath a foreign, shuddering gasp that barely fills his aching lungs.

He is a pathetic, shuddering mess, laid bare and ruined in the aftermath, utterly unable to move, trapped by the weight of his own spent body and the heavy reality of his absolute surrender.

That’s when Satoru hears it.

A faint, pleased sound stirs the air behind him. Suguru moves, and Satoru feels it like a change in pressure. He doesn’t need to look up to recognize it. Suguru’s presence gathers around him, silent and overwhelming, an invisible weight that locks him in place. The heat of Suguru’s gaze slides across his bare skin, lingering on the fresh stain on the tatami, the proof of Satoru’s loss of control.

A shiver travels down his spine, not from the cooling stickiness clinging to his skin, but from the knowledge of what he’s done, and the way Suguru is watching him because of it.

The shadow over him deepens. A breath escapes from Suguru, low and unhurried. Then a hand presses to the small of Satoru’s back, warm and solid, just above the curve of his ass. It doesn’t comfort. It grounds him. It brands him.

Suguru leans in. The sharp scent of bergamot and sweat fills Satoru’s nose, richer now, laced with heat. Fingers slide up his back, settling at the nape of his neck. Suguru applies pressure, firm and slow, guiding Satoru’s head back down until his face touches the floor, into the wet warmth of his own release.

A soft noise escapes him, breath catching in his throat. Shame and arousal flood his system all at once. He stays where he is, still shaking, as Suguru’s hand moves again. Two fingers pull away and sink into the mess on the mat.

When Suguru lifts his hand, the air on Satoru’s back feels cold in its absence. He shivers.

Then a slick fingertip presses under his chin. Satoru’s jaw locks instinctively. Suguru’s thumb rises to meet it, steady and patient, applying just enough pressure to ease his mouth open. Satoru exhales shakily as the cum-coated finger slips inside.

The taste is immediate. Salt, metal, heat. Suguru’s finger moves with quiet control, gliding along the inside of Satoru’s cheek, then sweeping across his tongue. Satoru moans low in his chest. His body softens into the floor. The taste spreads across his senses, anchoring him in the moment, stripping away anything that isn’t this.

Suguru’s thumb traces a slow line along his jaw. Once. Then again. The touch is soft, almost gentle. Another breath leaves Suguru, something like approval, quiet and full.

Satoru opens his eyes, blurred and unfocused. They find Suguru’s face. His gaze is steady and intense. A slight smile curves his lips as he draws his finger from Satoru’s mouth, leaving a glistening trail behind. He lifts it to his own lips and licks it clean, unhurried and precise, his attention never wavering.

Then Suguru lowers his hand once more, dipping it back into the now-cool mess between them. Satoru holds his breath. He watches Suguru’s fingers rise again, wet and gleaming.

This time, the hand doesn’t reach for his mouth. It moves behind him instead. Satoru’s stomach clenches. He stays frozen, arched and exposed, held in place by Suguru’s unspoken command.

A slick finger finds the tight ring of muscle between his cheeks. Satoru flinches, a sharp tremor running through his body as instinct and desire crash together. His muscles tense, but there’s a yielding at the center of it all. A quiet give.

The finger slides in, slow and steady, the intrusion hot and wet. It settles inside him like it belongs. A breathless, half-choked sound slips from Satoru’s mouth—raw, wounded, overwhelmed. His hips jolt forward against the tatami, a helpless response to the shocking intimacy.

Suguru holds still, the finger resting just inside, anchoring Satoru in the spiraling chaos of his senses. Every breath is shallow. His body vibrates around the presence. Suguru begins to move, exploring with quiet precision, coaxing sensation out of Satoru like a secret he’s already guessed.

Then the pressure shifts.

Suguru finds the spot. The one that lights up Satoru’s spine, that bypasses thought and lands straight in the center of his cock. The throb there is maddening, so much worse than before, a hunger that feels like it could devour him from the inside out.

“Feel that, angel?” Suguru’s voice is low and gravel-edged, thick with pleasure. The finger presses again, just right, and Satoru gasps. “That ache, buried deep. That untouched part of you. Now, it’s mine.”

The finger moves again, more confident now, dragging another sound from Satoru's throat. Suguru leans close, his breath warm against Satoru’s ear.

“Tell me what you want. Beg for it.”

The demand slices through what’s left of Satoru’s control. His mouth opens, but words won’t come. Only a broken gasp escapes, a sound too raw to be language. His head drops. His body bows further, offering itself without conscious thought.

A second finger presses in, joining the first with a slow, stretching burn. Satoru sucks in air through his teeth, body clenching tight. The pressure builds again, raw and insistent. When he finally adjusts, a third finger follows, slick, deliberate, slipping in inch by inch. He breathes through it, trembling, the ache blooming wider. By the time Suguru is buried to the knuckles, Satoru’s focus has narrowed to the relentless pulse of sensation and the heat curling low in his gut.

The fingers press deeper, finding that hidden place again and again. Satoru moans, high and broken.

Satoru’s body convulses, quivering uncontrollably. He’s still pulsing from the last orgasm, nerves raw and frayed, but the stimulation hasn’t stopped. It’s too much—too much, and not enough. Each thrust sends him lurching forward, jaw slack, breath caught somewhere in his throat. His vision swims. The edges of the room blur. He’s dizzy with it, floating and sinking all at once. He tries to brace himself, to find something solid to anchor to, but his limbs won’t obey.

Everything slips.

He can’t think.

Can’t breathe right.

All Satoru knows is the burn of being stretched open, the pressure mounting again, faster this time, sharper, like it’s bypassing his skin and hooking into something deeper. He shouldn’t be this close already. It hasn’t been long enough.

There should be time between, space to recover, but there’s nothing but sensation now, endless and consuming. Satoru’s thighs twitch. His back arches. The tremble in his belly tightens into something unbearable.

Satoru bucks against the floor, uncontrolled and frantic, chasing the inevitable with the desperation of an animal. And when it comes, it tears though him like a live wire—too sudden, too hard, too much. All he can do is ride it out, helpless, wrecked, undone.

“This is all me, Satoru,” Suguru breathes. His voice is sharp with hunger, his words sinking directly into Satoru’s core. “Every twitch, every breath, every drop. Mine. Because of me.”

Suguru’s fingers press harder. He doesn’t just stroke that sweet spot—he assaults it. Satoru cries out, a piercing scream that shatters the air. His back arches clean off the mat. His ass drives back into Suguru’s hand, seeking more of the merciless rhythm.

He comes again, untouched—hotter, harder, helpless. It hits the tatami in uneven bursts. He collapses, cheek to the mat, twitching through the aftershocks. But Suguru’s fingers don’t stop.

What was pleasure twists. His nerves are already raw. Every push now is too much. Every brush against that spot inside him is sharp, like a wire pulled tight.

Satoru sobs out a plea. “W—wait. It—it h-hurts. I,” he stammers as pain flashes up his spine, “I can’t. Please, please!”

His voice breaks. He’s begging, and he knows it. Tears pool at the corners of his eyes, and still his hips rock forward, still chasing, still needing.

Suguru lowers himself to the floor and presses his body against Satoru’s back. His voice is quiet, mocking.

“Are you giving up, little angel?”

Satoru shakes. His trembling grows worse, overtaking him in waves. The scent of Suguru—warm skin and bergamot, now thick with sweat and heat—fills his lungs. His thoughts scatter. Only sensation remains.

He grits his teeth and forces out, “No—l-love—love it. N-need it.”

Suguru’s laugh is dark, rough, satisfied.

His breath brushes Satoru’s neck. His grip tightens. “This is your ‘too much,’ angel,” he murmurs, savoring every word. “The moment you fall apart. The switch I flip. You break. And you beg.”

The rhythm doesn’t stop. Suguru’s fingers move with relentless pressure, finding that place inside Satoru again, again, again. Satoru sees nothing—his eyes squeezed shut, his focus narrowed to sensation. His spine arches reflexively beneath Suguru’s weight. His hips chase the contact, helpless. His cries are raw, broken open with need.

Another wave hits.

His body locks, taut and trembling. His cock throbs, desperate and denied. It isn’t release—it’s something sharper, a convulsion of overstimulated nerves that crashes through him. He jerks forward, overwhelmed, riding it out.

He slumps forward with a low groan, panting hard, bracing himself on shaking arms. His thighs tremble beneath him. Sweat clings to his skin. His thoughts blur but don’t vanish; he holds onto the weight of Suguru’s body behind him, grounding him in the aftermath.

His breath comes ragged, but steady. He doesn’t feel empty—he feels wrecked, used, and aching for more.

Suguru

Suguru inhales once, slow and deep, and lets his hand fall quiet.

Satoru tips forward in a loose collapse, still trembling yet making no move to withdraw; he lies exactly where Suguru placed him, breaths shallow against the futon. One broad palm rests at the center of his back, fingers splayed to anchor, not restrain.

“Steady,” Suguru says, voice pitched low. “You’re safe.”

A sharper inhale. A longer exhale. Then another. Suguru waits, tracking each faint shift in muscle and breath until the worst of the tremors pass. He brushes damp hair from Satoru’s temple and seals the gesture with a brief kiss.

“You did well,” he murmurs, letting the words settle before adding, softer, “exactly what I asked.”

Only then does he reach for the towel he laid out beforehand. Preparation is habit; it carries its own reassurance. He moves without hurry, wiping sweat and slick from Satoru’s skin in measured strokes that hold their quiet rhythm. No suggestion of haste. No hint that the scene is slipping away. His hands move like they already belong, and although he never says it, the conviction lies beneath every touch: Satoru is not just being cleaned—he is being kept.

When the cloth grazes the tender skin at Satoru’s thigh, a twitch ripples through him. Suguru stills the reaction with a warm hand to his hip and a calm, “Only me.”

The towel is folded aside; a light blanket settles over cooling skin. Instead of rising, Suguru lies down behind him and draws him close, slotting their bodies together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He should get water. He should give space. But the instinct to keep Satoru exactly where he is—warm, pliant, his—makes it impossible to move. One arm slides beneath Satoru’s head; the other loops low around his waist, palm pressed over his heart.

“You don’t even know how good you were for me,” he murmurs, voice low against the curve of Satoru’s neck. “Begging. Calling me master. Saying you belonged to me—like you meant it.”

Satoru doesn’t answer, but his body sinks deeper into Suguru’s chest, loose and quiet, like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“That wasn’t just submission,” Suguru says, even softer. “That was control. You had it. And you gave it to me.”

He could stop there. He should. But the thought has already taken root.

Satoru resists structure. Resists authority. Fights every inch of what’s being offered. But when he yields—when he finally lets go—he’s devastating. That raw obedience, dragged out piece by piece, is more beautiful than anything polished.

And Suguru wants to keep it. Wants to break it down, rebuild it, make it permanent.

He could train Satoru. Teach him how to kneel properly, how to serve without hesitation, how to fall into protocol until it becomes instinct. He could turn this wild, reckless power into something sharp and sacred—and entirely his.

Suguru exhales slowly, mouth close to Satoru’s skin.

Not yet. Not now.

But the wanting doesn’t go away.

He reminds himself: Satoru doesn’t want his brand of kink, insists on autonomy beyond the scene. And yet, when Satoru settles more firmly in the circle of his arms, loose fingers resting over Suguru’s wrist, the possessive ache in his chest deepens.

A quiet kiss lands at the nape of Satoru’s neck.

“I’m not asking for more than this,” Suguru tells the hush—though he knows it’s only half-true. The idea of Satoru with another dominant is intolerable. But taking him wholly would cross a line Satoru has drawn.

For now, he chooses neither path. He simply holds him, breathing in tandem with the steady rhythm beneath his palm, and lets the silence thicken around them as his mind weighs restraint against the temptation of something far more permanent.

Chapter Text

Suguru

The cane glides between Suguru’s gloved palms, its lacquered length whisper-smooth against leather. He isn’t polishing it for shine; he’s testing flex, weight, balance, imagining its bite across flawless skin. A thin line of oil glints where his thumb pauses. The room still smells faintly of Satoru: sweat, heat, the barest trace of fear laced into arousal. Suguru inhales it deeply, without meaning to.

The house is quiet, insulated by thick walls and a hush born of discipline. Implements rest on the low cedar table: a slim bottle of lubricant, a coil of hemp, two narrow lengths of birch trimmed to finger-width. Everything is clean, ordered, methodical, but the usual anticipation doesn’t settle. Tonight’s stillness feels unfinished.

Suguru sets the cane down and unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall, the fabric pooling soft across the cushion beside him. His body still hums with recent intensity—heat stored low, tension curled under skin. He rolls his sleeves, methodical. It should be enough. It always has been.

The first time his phone rings, it goes ignored. Then the second. Then the third. On the fourth, he exhales—sharp, flat—and crosses the room. It’s Kamo Choso.

Suguru swipes to answer, voice quiet. “You’re persistent.”

“You’re hard to get a hold of,” Choso says, and the sound of his voice smooths something rough along the edges. “You home?”

“Where else would I be?”

“Wanted to hear something solid. I miss you.”

Suguru eases down onto the cushion, phone cradled to his ear. “Where are you?”

“Kyoto. New exhibit. They have no idea what they’re doing.”

“Still letting curators ruin your work?”

“Letting them try.” Choso laughs, low and worn. “They hung the water study too high. Nobody can see the brushwork.”

Suguru closes his eyes. “I told you not to sell that one.”

“I didn’t. Yuki did.”

He huffs out a breath. “Of course she did.”

Choso’s voice softens. “She still hates Kyoto, right?”

“With a passion.”

“She used to sulk every train ride there. Said the temples were too symmetrical. Even the gods looked bored.”

Suguru hums. “She’s gotten worse. Complains about the air now.”

“She says the food’s too clean,” Choso adds, amused. “Told that to a chef once. Nearly got us kicked out of a soba shop.”

It’s too easy, falling back into rhythm, and Suguru lets himself be drawn in. There are only a few people in the world he allows that kind of ease, and both are in this conversation. Choso, by voice. Yuki, by memory. Always both, just beneath the surface.

Suguru thinks of the three of them—small, wild, chasing cicadas through the overgrown fields behind the primary school. Yuki, always leading, her knees perpetually scabbed, laughter loudest. Choso, a quiet shadow, quick to anticipate Yuki’s next dare or Suguru’s cautious pause. They were an unlikely trinity, bound by shared secrets and a fierce, unspoken loyalty that never fractured—not through adolescence, not through adulthood.

Those early years were hazy warmth, a foundation laid deep. While other friendships splintered with time or distance, theirs solidified. He remembers Yuki once, maybe seven years old, declaring they were a “pack,” glaring down any classmate who suggested otherwise. Choso had just nodded—quiet, firm—already the grounding force between Yuki’s recklessness and Suguru’s care. It was simple, then. Simple and unbreakable.

“I walked past the old riverbank last night,” Choso says. “That spot where she dared you to jump in.”

Suguru smiles, faint and private. “I did.”

“Fully clothed.”

“In November.”

“She laughed so hard she fell off the railing.”

“She cracked a molar.”

They share a breath of silence, full of teeth and cold water and youth. Suguru tips his head back and lets it stretch.

Choso eventually says, “It’s weird not having her here. It’s like the place doesn’t work the same way.”

“You mean you don’t work the same way.”

“Maybe.” The answer comes too quickly, too lightly. Suguru doesn’t chase it.

“She’s supposed to be in Tokyo this week,” Choso adds. “You seen her?”

“No.” He thinks of the text she sent the night before—something about a blind date arranged by her parents. No details. Just a dry you owe me, followed by a middle finger emoji and a photo of her drink.

Suguru pauses. A different kind of thought rises, unexpected. He pictures Satoru: wide-eyed after a session, breath soft and shallow. The image is vivid. Insistent. “Speaking of Tokyo,” he says, voice too casual, “I met someone.”

“Oh?” Choso’s tone shifts, amused. “Met someone, huh? Casual or—a project?”

Suguru huffs. “It’s a project.”

“Figured.” Choso chuckles low. “New submissive, then? That explains why you sound less like you’re contemplating the universe’s failings and more like you just got laid.”

Suguru lets out a quiet, surprised laugh. “It’s not like that. He’s just raw talent. Needs work on discipline. Self-control.” He aims for detached professionalism, but something in him warms at the thought—at the flush on Satoru’s throat, the tightness in his jaw. “He’s very high-energy.”

“High-energy,” Choso echoes, savoring it. “You love a challenge. Especially one that pushes back.” A pause. “So—is he giving you hell, or is he exactly what you needed?”

“He’s—engaging,” Suguru admits, a smile tugging at his mouth. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking: that Satoru’s unpredictability wakes something in him that’s been dormant too long. He doesn’t say that it is what he needed.

“I bet.” Choso laughs. “You sound good. You needed this.”

Suguru exhales a breath that’s nearly laughter. “Just keeping sharp.” It’s a deflection, and Choso knows it. Suguru can almost see the smile on the other end of the line. “She’ll call you.”

“She always does.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It never has been.

“You don’t have to keep checking in,” Suguru says.

“I know.”

A beat.

“I want to.”

Yuki and Choso have been his foundation for as long as he’s had one. Yuki, sharp and instinctive. Choso, drifting across cities like permanence might burn him—but calling whenever the quiet stretches too long. And Suguru, steady at the center, not realizing how much he wants someone to pull him off it.

“I miss you too,” he says.

They talk a little longer. Nothing urgent. Just the rhythm of presence, breath shared across distance, the reminder that the thread between them has never broken—only stretched and reshaped.

When they hang up, Suguru doesn’t move. The house is quiet again, but no longer empty. The air still holds the scent of oil, the suggestion of rope, the lingering trace of sweat on clean cotton. Across the floor, the table remains—everything in its place, waiting.

But the mood has shifted. Something old has stirred at the edges, thick with memory. Not longing, exactly, but weight rediscovered. Like a familiar coat slipped on again after too long.

He doesn’t realize how tightly he’s gripping the cane until the lacquer creaks beneath his fingers. Slowly, he sets it down.

It’s not just that Satoru submits—it’s that he wants to. He doesn’t know how yet, but the desire is there: restless, angry, disguising itself as control. He resists on principle, not instinct. No one ever taught him how to be taken apart properly.

And Suguru wants to teach him.

Not just to kneel. Not just to open when asked. That part is easy. Any halfway competent dominant could polish him into display perfection. But Suguru doesn’t care about polish. He wants the edge. The part Satoru hides. The part starved for something nameless and afraid to ask. That’s the part he wants.

He leans forward, elbows to knees, rubbing his knuckles with the heel of one hand. The flush he raised last time had already faded within minutes. No marks left. He should have gone harder. He wanted to.

This isn’t his usual want. It’s not just the heat of skin, the thrill of command, the clean arc of obedience. It’s the aftermath. That silence between them. The way Satoru breathed—slow, heavy, like movement itself was too much. Like the floor was a refuge he didn’t want to leave.

Suguru knows what that means. He knows that shape of silence. It’s not love—he wouldn’t call it that. But it’s something deeper: recognition.

He’s known plenty of submissives. Some eager, some shy. Some who wanted obedience as a transaction. But Satoru is different. He’s all brilliance and chaos, a mind that refuses to yield before it understands—and yet a body that already does. His submission isn’t performance. It’s not obedience for praise. It’s raw, unfinished hunger.

Suguru doesn’t want obedience born of pressure. He’s seen how quickly fantasy breaks under the weight of real structure. How desire turns brittle when met with his precision. He doesn’t want someone to tolerate his dominance. He wants someone to want it. To meet him in it, again and again, even when it hurts.

Satoru feels like the possibility he shouldn’t want. He means his resistance. It isn’t a game. He’s drawn his lines with care, and Suguru has heard him. But still—there’s something in the way he braces. In the way his body yields first. The hunger is there. Unnamed. Untrained. But there.

It would be easy to mistake that for permission. Easy to shape him too soon. But Suguru doesn’t want surrender born of confusion or exhaustion. He wants it clear. Offered. Undeniable.

He stands, slow, unlocking each joint in sequence. Walks to the table. Brushes rope, cloth, oil he didn’t use. He should be planning. Positions. Commands. The usual script.

Instead, he stands still, remembering how Satoru blinked up at him—dazed, mouth open around a breath that hadn’t finished forming. Suguru presses his thumb into the table’s edge.

He has to be careful.

This was never supposed to be about him.

Satoru

Satoru remembers his mother's voice—cool, unwavering—as she laid down the ultimatum just last week: go to the omiai or she would yank funding for his experimental physics lab, effectively cutting off his doctoral project. The threat is real, and she knows exactly which levers to pull.

Satoru is annoyed.

A sharp annoyance eats away at him in the pit of his stomach as if something digested poorly.

Satoru stands before his closet, hands sunk in his pockets, gazing at a line of impeccably tailored suits. Not his usual vibrant casual wear, but the uniform of a good heir playing his part. Charcoal grey, maybe? Or navy? It doesn’t matter. He runs a hand over his hair, still damp from a quick shower. Usually, he lets it hang however it will, but, tonight, he has a weirdly petulant urge to look overly perfect–just to spite the whole insulting archaic spectacle.

He cannot fool his mother.

She knows him too well. Knows he’ll be there, knows he’ll be well-behaved, knows he’ll make a show of trying to put on a good impression on behalf of the family name, even if he doesn’t actually care. That’s the real annoying part.

The restaurant is one of those in Ginza that is hushed and discreet—dark wood, low lighting, all set up to conduct quiet negotiations or for discreet introductions. Satoru forwards the hostess his full name and is shown to a private room. A woman is there—not waiting in a stiff way, but lounging with an indolent kind of grace. One hand lies lightly on the table; the other pushes a shower of striking blonde hair back from her face. She looks up as he comes in, quick and bright and clever and the look on her face is direct, unapologetic, and appraising.

It isn’t rude. Just curious.

She is dressed in a plain dark kimono, but it appears more for comfort than necessity.

“Gojo-san?” she asks. Her voice is unexpectedly deep and laced with dry irony as if she already sees the whole thing as ridiculous. She offers a hand; her handshake is startlingly strong.

“Tsukumo-san,” Satoru says, and returns his grip, curt, precise, a mute protest against the role they’re supposed to act out. He perches on the cushion opposite her, the sour taste of responsibility still bitter on his lips. “My mother forced this meeting to happen,” he says. “As a matter of fact, I was given an ultimatum.” He pauses as he lets that hang for a moment. “Doesn’t that sit poorly with you, Tsukumo-san? To be here under such a forced pretense?”

She looks him in the eye, and laughs. Not a polite chuckle, but a genuine laugh, unladylike and unashamed. It’s low, somewhat scratchy, and totally charming. “Gojo-san, you’re certainly direct. But no, it doesn’t bother me. I appreciate the honesty.” She leans back, the gesture loose and casual despite the kimono. “Is this your first omiai by coercion? I’ve lost count of mine. My parents are convinced the next one will finally ‘tame’ me.” She waves a hand, dismissive. “I usually disqualify myself quickly. People don’t like a woman who says exactly what she thinks. Apparently, I’m ‘brash,’ ‘loud,’ and ‘too independent’ to be a proper bride.”

There’s pride in her smile, even as she mocks the words.

Satoru finds himself captivated despite himself. The flicker of admiration is real—her candor is refreshing, a far cry to the tightly wound performances he’s used to. This isn’t the demure heiress he’d been expecting. This is someone unapologetically herself, even here, in a setting meant to confine. “I see,” he murmurs, a faint, genuine smile ghosting across his lips. “So we’re both unwilling participants.”

“More or less,” she agrees, her eyes sparkling. “Though you’re the first to actually say it out loud. Most pretend this is perfectly normal.”

Satoru studies her—really studies her—and the knot in his chest begins to loosen. The oppressive silence of the room no longer feels like pressure but rather like permission. The conversation flows easily, stripped of veiled questions and obligatory charm.

Satoru leans back slightly, watching her. Her gestures are open, animated. Not stiff, not restrained. Her hair glimmers in the soft light, spun gold. He notices that her eyes are blue—vivid and bright, like the directness of her words. And when she laughs again, he finds himself laughing, something genuine and un-primed that seems to vibrate through the private room, laughing here in a low, private decibel.

“Well, Tsukumo-san,” says Satoru, voice casual now, “What’s your preferred way of escaping these things, then? Other than “brash” and “too independent"?" He does air quotes with a comic flourish.

She grins, white teeth, wide smile. “Oh, I have tricks. At times, I say I’m training to be a pro wrestler. Most other times, I wax philosophical about the futility of human connection. You would be stunned by how quickly some decide they don’t want a lifetime of existential dread.” She winks. Satoru is charmed.

Satoru leans in, genuinely amused. “A professional wrestler, huh? I might steal that. Though I suppose a theoretical physicist obsessed with quantum entanglement might be more believable for me.” He waves his hands vaguely, miming subatomic particles.

Tsukumo-san brightens. “Quantum entanglement? Now that’s interesting. Far better than discussing bloodlines and tea ceremonies.” She pauses, gaze lingering. “You know, for someone forced into this, you’re remarkably tolerable.” Her smile curves.

Satoru laughs, full, honest, and unguarded. “And for someone who supposedly frightens off suitors, you’re surprisingly charming.” It slips out before Satoru can consider it, but he doesn’t regret it. The bitterness is gone now. In its stead is something quieter. Anticipatory. The soft lighting feels warmer, the dark wood less forbidding. He sinks down farther into the cushion, no longer trying to figure out where the emergency exit is. At the very least, for the first time of the day, he feels present.

Her smile softens, never vanishing, but changing. Her eyes reflect the light and appear to retain it. She doesn’t answer immediately. She just stares at him, placid and curious. The clink of silverware, the hum of long-distance conversation, the faint drain of traditional music around them blurs into nothing. It’s the two of them, the two of them only, floating in an act of silent rebellion.

Satoru watches her fingers trace absent patterns on the table, subtle, unconscious, almost shy. A contrast to her earlier bravado. He wonders if she feels it too—that odd relief of meeting someone just as unwilling to play pretend.

“So, Gojo-san,” she says at last, softer now, her teasing edged with sincerity. “What do you usually do, when you’re not charming reluctant omiai participants?”

Satoru leans back again, tilting his head. He could give her the curated answer. But something about her, the way she listens, makes honesty feel worth it.

“I spend most of my time in a lab,” Satoru explains, a little inflection of childlike glee sneaking in. “Trying to figure out the universe, one particle at a time. It’s messy. Frustrating. And completely captivating.” He smiles faintly. “When I’m not doing that, I’m likely either in pursuit of the city’s most ridiculous desserts, or getting my butt kicked by middle-schoolers in insanely challenging video games.”

She listens, genuinely. There’s a tug at the corner of her mouth, a wry, thoughtful smile. “A scientist and a sweets theorist,” she muses. “Much more interesting than golf handicaps and stock portfolios.”

Another quiet stretches between them. This one is light. Easy. The room is weighted differently in the air—light, almost. The hostess hasn’t returned. His mother’s voice is no longer in his head. There isn’t pressure to direct the conversation. No need to perform.

Satoru glances at her over the table, shrewd eyes, rapid mouth, candid honesty. A fellow exile in tradition’s costume.

♡

The city’s steady hum outside his penthouse windows is the only sound breaking the evening’s quiet as Satoru arrives home. He navigates on instinct, keys landing in their tray, shoes kicked off, lights flicked to a low glow. Everything is exactly as it should be, clean, ordered, expensive, the kind of place designed to impress effortlessly.

Satoru knows his thoughts should center on the omiai, on how surprisingly tolerable it turned out. Tsukumo-san was sharp, disarming, completely unlike his expectations. Yet, as her face briefly flashes in his mind, it instantly dissolves, replaced by the persistent echo of Suguru’s voice. Not so much the words as just the low, precise, steady cadence of it. The kind of sound that lingers for some reason.

Satoru walks into the kitchen, pours a glass of water he never lifts to his lips, and leans against the counter, fingers tight around the rim. He attempts to remain still, to cling to rationality, but it’s hopeless.

All Satoru can really manage to think about is Suguru’s eyes. The purposeful way he waits for Satoru to catch up, never rushing ahead. The memory of Suguru’s hand curling around the back of his neck during their last encounter, firm but without force, sends a jolt through him, making his knees nearly buckle from the sheer intensity. He hadn't meant to respond so avidly, so eagerly, but it had only been his iron restraint that had kept him from following that touch and asking for more.

Satoru repeatedly tells himself this is merely curiosity, an experiment. It is something to study, to understand, to test against his preconceived notions of desire. He knows the theoretical goal; he has observed its quiet gravity in individuals he trusts. But this feels profoundly different. Suguru offers a depth of control that one cannot simply “dip a toe into.” It arrives with a significant weight, with an unspoken expectation, leaving no place to hide behind academic theory.

Satoru finds his hand reaching for his phone without intent. He opens the messaging app, staring at the stark blank screen. Every potential word, every carefully constructed sentence, takes shape and then dissolves before he can even fully articulate it.

Finally, Satoru types the only message that feels true in the moment.

me, 4:34 pm

when r u available for our next practical?
ready when u r

suguru, 4:40 pm

so eager, satoru?
tell me
do you want the lesson
or the consequence

Satoru’s gaze remains fixed on Suguru’s reply, the words suspended on the screen. A flush rises up his neck, a heat that isn’t entirely unwelcome. It’s a jab, a playful twist of the knife, and it proves that Suguru gets the unsaid potency of Satoru’s message. He notices the eagerness, accepts it, and in so doing, adds to and amplifies the craving.

Satoru’s thumb hovers, a million comebacks flashing through his mind. He could deny it, play it cool, or launch into a convoluted academic explanation. But none of that feels right. He needs to find something to signal his actual genuine desire without entirely ceding the intellectual ground he has occupied.

me, 4:42 pm

observation needs presence

There is a rhythm to this, one Satoru never quite concedes to having joined. He does not smile as he sends the message, but still feels the tug of it, shallow and reflexive. His body is still pulsing with what Suguru said—the question camouflaged as a threat—and this, this drawn-out dance of subtext beneath sterile, screen-light.

Satoru doesn’t wait long.

suguru, 4:43 pm

it’s not observation that’s needed
focus can crack you open
unspoken pressure makes you give up secrets
before I even ask

Satoru breathes in, shallow and uneven. He reads it again, slower, as if repetition might temper the effect. It doesn’t. The words drag under his skin like heat blooming low in his belly, sharp enough to curl his spine. He shifts in his seat, trying to ease the coil building behind the button of his pants. His body’s too attuned, tuned to every shift.

me, 4:46 pm

u think i’m that easy?

suguru, 4:47 pm

not easy
just honest
at least when I’ve got my hands on you

The memory is immediate—Suguru’s palm pressing low, fingers knowing, voice rough against his ear while he gave in, inch by inch. Satoru exhales hard and flops back on the bed, knees bent, heels digging into the mattress. His skin prickles with a tension he can’t rationalize away.

me, 4:48 pm

u say that like
i didn’t try to stop u

suguru, 4:49 pm

you did
but not with your hands
and definitely not with your hips

Satoru bites the inside of his cheek. Heat unspools in his belly, electric. He doesn't want to give Suguru the satisfaction, but his body remembers all too well how it felt to be opened slowly, deliberately—and watched from start to finish.

me, 4:52 pm

i didn’t stop u
u just didn’t go far enough

Satoru tosses the phone aside again, face down. The words weren’t meant to be serious, but they sit there like an admission. His hand drifts to his waistband, not pressing, not quite yet. He shifts, then shifts again. Each motion firmer than the last.

suguru, 4:54 pm

next time
I won’t stop when you get loud
I’ll stop when you go quiet
when your body forgets how to lie to me

The sound Satoru makes isn’t laughter. It’s low, caught in his throat, somewhere between disbelief and want. His hips twitch upward. His pants are too tight. He palms himself over the fabric—light, not enough—and it still leaves him reeling.

Satoru answers with sharp fingers.

me, 4:55 pm

u sound pretty confident for someone who didn’t finish the job

The buzz is immediate.

suguru, 4:56 pm

you were already ruined by the time I stopped
what was left to finish?

Satoru groans and drops his head back again. He peels off one sock, then the other, like it’ll help cool him down. It doesn’t. He rubs a palm down the front of his thigh. His fingers curl again, then release. Nothing helps.

me, 4:58 pm

u just got lucky

suguru, 5:00 pm

lucky?
no
you surrendered to me
called me master
begged like you belonged to me
did you need a refresher, satoru?

Satoru’s cock twitches at the memory. His body responds too fast, too easily. He grits his teeth and thumbs the keyboard with shaky purpose.

me, 5:03 pm

ur not that memorable

Satoru doesn’t mean it. Suguru knows he doesn’t mean it. He hates that he’s the only one who doesn’t get to pretend otherwise.

suguru, 5:06 pm

hmm
funny, you cried out for me like you’d die without it

Satoru’s breath hitches. The words hit a place too deep, where Suguru’s fingers landed—so carefully, so cruelly, with intent. He raises his hips more, slow glide against the mattress, slow on purpose. He has one hand on the hem of his shirt, the fabric twisting. He lets his knuckles graze the shape of his cock and swears softly.

me, 5:07 pm

keep dreaming

suguru, 5:08 pm

I don’t have to dream, satoru
I have vivid memories of you
begging me to finish you

Satoru drops the phone and looks back up toward the ceiling, jaw clenched, spine curling off the bed just enough to push into the ache.

Satoru swallows hard. His cock is straining against his hand. He’s anxious to be smug, to act like he’s in control of the silence, but his body betrays him before he has a chance to think. He makes another slow drag of his hips into the mattress, his zipper catching, pressure. His eyes flutter shut. He doesn't answer.

Satoru can’t. Not yet.

Satoru’s hips roll down again, slower this time, drawn by a pulse that isn’t thought so much as need—steady, low, dangerous. The friction is barely enough, but it’s not nothing. His legs part a little more. His thighs tense. The pressure behind his zipper sharpens into something mean and perfect, something that makes him groan quietly into the crook of his elbow.

Satoru keeps one hand twisted in the hem of his shirt, the other pressed flat over the outline of his cock. Not inside his pants. Not yet. Just enough to feel the heat, the dull, rhythmic throb through his pants. Every breath comes faster. His body is doing this on its own now, chasing sensation, rocking up into the heel of his hand like it means to make a mess of him before Suguru can even get his hands on him again.

Another minute slides by. The phone is out of reach, face-up this time. The message still glows at him from where he left it on the sheets:

suguru, 5:20 pm

so quiet
no response?
should I take it as surrender

Satoru’s teeth sink into his bottom lip. He doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or curse. Maybe both. The way Suguru knows—how he can feel Satoru unraveling through silence alone—is humiliating and electric. A fresh wave of heat rushes through him, cracking whatever composure he thought he still had.

Satoru presses his palm harder against his cock, grunting into the pillow, once more. The grinding isn’t subtle anymore. It’s sharp, erratic, barely restrained. He swears softly down into the mattress when his fly gets caught—when he at last pulls his phone from his pocket.

Fingers fumbling, eyes hazy, breath uneven.

me, 5:32 pm

u wish

The moment Satoru hits send, he regrets the phrasing. It’s too thin. Too brittle. There’s sweat on his chest, heat burning under his skin, and the only reason he hasn’t undone his pants because he doesn’t want to give Suguru the satisfaction.

Too late.

The typing bubble appears before Satoru can even drop the phone. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t breathe.

suguru, 5:34 pm

more than 10 minutes, sweetheart
you’re usually faster
is your hand slowing you down?

Satoru mutters a curse aloud.

Satoru’s hips twitch without permission, jerking up sharply once before he slams them back down into the mattress. He’s already wet through the front of his trousers. He can feel it—sticky, clinging—and Suguru isn’t even here. He’s not touching him, not speaking aloud, not doing anything but knowing.

And that’s the worst part.

The accuracy. The ease. The intimacy of it.

Satoru lets his phone fall onto the pillow and closes his eyes, throat working hard. He rocks forward again, mouth open, beginning to pant. There’s no point pretending anymore.

Suguru’s already won.

Suguru doesn’t allow him a moment’s peace. The next message arrives, a quiet, precise strike aimed directly at Satoru’s weakness.

suguru, 5:40 pm

does it feel better to pretend I’m not in your head?
like you’re doing this alone?

The sound Satoru makes is half-swear, half-whimper, the sound barely audible over the rustle of sheets. The phone slips from his grip, landing somewhere near his shoulder, forgotten for the moment as his hips lift from the mattress, dragging friction through the thin, sweat-damp cotton of his briefs. The pressure is relentless, unkind. His body moves with a rhythm he can’t seem to control, chasing something he refuses to name aloud. His hand fumbles across the bed, not for relief, but for balance. There’s nothing grounding him now. Nothing to hold onto but the memory of Suguru’s mouth and the sound of his name spoken like a verdict.

suguru, 5:42 pm

you can rub yourself into the sheets all you want
it’s not going to feel good
not really
because you know you’re only getting wet for me

suguru, 5:43 pm

don’t stop now
this is the part where you beg

Satoru moans, a noise pulled from somewhere deep, the kind he never makes unless he’s already too far gone to pretend. His shirt rides high on his torso, twisted around his ribs like a binding, the fabric doing nothing to cool the flush spreading across his chest. He doesn’t touch himself directly—he hasn’t, not really—but he’s moving against the bed like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to his own skin. His thighs tighten. His breath shortens. Each press of his hips builds on the last—relentless, involuntary.

suguru, 5:47 pm

how close are you
be honest, beautiful boy
grinding into your pillow
pretending it isn’t my name you’re moaning
like you’d be this desperate for anyone else

It’s too much. It’s perfectly timed. The words settle against Satoru’s body like hands—unseen, unbearable—and the worst part is how accurately they strike. Suguru doesn’t ask for surrender. He doesn’t demand it. He simply names what’s already happening, what’s always been happening, and forces Satoru to see it for what it is. He’s trembling, strung tight with need, the edge pulling taut beneath him.

suguru, 5:52 pm

don’t get ahead of yourself, satoru
your body begged
your mouth called ME master
your release is mine now
try to take it
and you’ll regret every last desperate pulse

Satoru grabs the phone like it’s something he can throw, something he can use to shield himself from how exposed he feels, but all he can do is type with fingers that barely obey him.

me, 5:55 pm

u sure have a lot to say
say it to my face if u mean it

suguru, 5:57 pm

don’t worry
you’ll be begging me to stay soon enough

Satoru’s thumb hovers. Drops. He opens the message field, then stares at it like it might fill itself, like the words he refuses to say might come out on their own if he just holds still long enough. But nothing comes—nothing except the dull, aching heat between his legs and the slow, involuntary grind of his hips into damp fabric, the rhythm shameful in its persistence. He types something. Deletes it. Types again. It’s not what he means. It’s not what he needs. But it’s what he’s willing to say.

me, 5:59 pm

u must be real proud of yourself

Satoru hits send before he can rethink it, jaw tight, shoulders tense like he’s just taken a hit that he doesn’t want to show hurt. It’s not an answer. It’s not even clever. It’s the closest thing to armor he has left—cheap and brittle and barely holding shape, but still something to hide behind.

Satoru doesn’t say he’s begging. He doesn’t say please. He doesn’t say come over. But his body is already saying it for him, over and over, without mercy.

suguru, 6:01 pm

still pretending
and still mouthing off
go on, sweetheart
let’s see how long you can keep lying to me

me,6:04 pm

ur the one still texting
maybe ur the desperate one

suguru, 6:06 pm

oh, sweet thing
you think this is mutual
do you even know what you’re doing?

Satoru reads the message once. Then again. His thumb hovers, screen still glowing, heart beating so hard it shakes his breath loose from his chest. He shouldn’t be this far gone—not from words on a screen, not from a man who isn’t even here—but his pants are soaked through, and his cock is aching, and his body won’t stop moving. Not even now. Not even when there’s nothing left to grind against but sweat-slick cotton and the shame of being caught in the act without ever being seen.

The message sits there like a hand on Satoru’s throat, firm and unshaking. Are you humping your pillow, sweetheart? Of course he is. He’s been doing it for twenty minutes, hips slow and helpless, cock throbbing through fabric while he tries to pretend he still has choices left.

Satoru doesn’t. Not anymore.

Satoru types with both hands, because he’s shaking too hard to use just one. His fingers keep slipping. He doesn’t bother with punctuation. He doesn’t reread.

me, 6:10 pm

please
please just come over
i need u
i can’t do this without u
please

Satoru doesn’t get a reply—no typing bubble, no buzz, no sound to break the silence he’s made for himself except for the low, uneven rasp of his own breath and the soft, rhythmic drag of fabric against cotton where his hips won’t stop moving, slow and compulsive, like friction is the only thing tethering him to his body. The message sits there untouched, humiliating in its clarity, and he stares at it with eyes wide and hot, throat tight, fingers twitching where they hover over the screen like they might take it back.

But Satoru doesn’t delete it. He doesn’t send anything else. Not yet.

Instead, Satoru opens the security app with a hand that shakes enough to make him miss the icon twice. His thumb smears across the screen, sweat-damp, unsteady, and then—finally—he gets the keypad open. It’s not a lock he ever thought he’d give away. It’s not a code he ever planned to share. But he types it out anyway, without punctuation, without context, without even a breath to brace against it—just the four numbers and the hollow ache they carry.

me, 6:15 pm

please
come over
the code is 0006
just use it
please

Satoru hits send before he can second-guess it, and the moment the message leaves his hands, something inside him caves in completely—not the kind of break that happens all at once, loud and final, but the kind that unspools beneath the surface, slow and devastating, like a wire pulled taut until it frays. He doesn't move. He doesn't dare. His legs are trembling. His cock is aching. There’s a wet patch spreading beneath the button of his trousers, dark and clinging and painfully obvious, and still he’s not touching himself, still he’s holding out for something he’s too far gone to name.

The silence stretches.

And then Satoru hears it—the distant click of the building’s entrance unlocking, a soft mechanical release barely audible through the quiet hum of the intercom, but unmistakable all the same.

Then the elevator.

Then the slow, measured fall of footsteps in the hallway.

Satoru should get up. Should run. Should fix his clothes, wipe his hands, pretend he has anything left to recover.

But Satoru stays where he is—half-curled around a pillow, shirt bunched beneath his fists, hips still shifting with quiet, unconscious urgency as the front door slides open and shuts again without ceremony, without hesitation, without a single word of warning.

He doesn't need to see Suguru to know he's here. The air in the room, already thick with Satoru's own desperate need, now prickles with an almost electric awareness of another presence.

Satoru's eyes are wide and hot, staring at the doorway. Suguru steps into the room, his presence immediately fills the space. He moves with that familiar, unhurried grace, eyes falling directly to Satoru on the bed. Satoru is sprawled, almost splayed out, his hips still rolling in a slow, compulsive rhythm against the damp fabric of his clothes. His shirt is twisted around his ribs, high on his torso, doing nothing to hide the flush spreading across his chest. He isn’t touching himself, not directly, but the insistent grind of his hips is impossible to control, an open display of his unraveling.

A low hum fills the room, Suguru’s voice, closer now. “Look at the state of you, Satoru.” His voice drops, a caress of sound, laced with a familiar, dangerous amusement. “Wet through your expensive clothes, aren't you? What a shame. All that silk, ruined for me.” Satoru’s breath hitches, a small, caught sound. He feels Suguru's gaze sweep over him, lingering on the damp patch spreading on his trousers. “Barely touched, and already dripping.”

Suguru’s hand finds Satoru’s chin, tilting his head gently. “Look at me, Satoru.” Satoru’s eyes, wide and hot, fix on Suguru’s, even through the haze of unfulfilled desire. “Good boy.”

A soft rustle of fabric. He knows immediately what it is: the silk scarf he had thrown over the armchair. He feels the cool touch of slick silk against his forehead as Suguru tightly knots it over his head, the darkness leaving his eyes completely engulfed. “There. Now you can focus.”

Satoru is enveloped in shadow, all senses heightened. He hears the subtle shift of air as Suguru moves closer, the soft rustle of his clothes. The soft, familiar hint of Suguru’s cologne fills his nose, overwhelming the heavy vestige of his own scent.

“Your body forgets how to lie to me,” Suguru whispers, his fingers brushing over Satoru’s chest, just above the straining fabric of his pants. Satoru lets out a shaky breath. His nipples, already pebbled and prominent against the thin cotton of his shirt, prickle under Suguru’s gaze.

Suguru’s hands move to Satoru's shirt, finding the twisted fabric bunched around his ribs. With deliberate slowness, he unbuttons it, one by one, each button releasing with a soft slide in the sudden quiet. The cool air of the room brushes over Satoru’s flushed skin as the shirt is finally pulled free, pooling softly beside him on the cushion. Now, he’s fully exposed, chest heaving, nipples hard and vulnerable.

Satoru listens to the click of a distant metal sound from a closet nearby. Suguru is on the move, but Satoru can’t sense where. He hears another click, then the soft scraping sound of metal. Suguru’s fingers stroke across his chest again, cool and gentle, barely just tipping the stiff points of his nipples. The longing is a crushing pain low in his ribs, a breathless waiting. Suguru then gingerly clamps one clip on each nipple. The sudden sharp pinch is so raw, such a painful burst through Satoru’s middle, that he gasps, a staccato, choked thing as his spine arches up instinctively from the bed.

“You like that, sweetheart?” Suguru’s voice is dangerously soft, laced with amusement. “The way something so small can make you so loud?”

A new rustle of silk. Satoru hears the telltale sound of expensive cloth sliding, from his dressing gown he’d tossed carelessly over the foot of the bed. He hears the soft tug as Suguru pulls the long, silken belt free.

“And now,” Suguru continues, the silk sliding smoothly through his fingers, “to ensure you don’t get ahead of yourself.” Satoru feels the edge of the bed dip as Suguru sits. His wrists are gently guided together. The silk feels soft, almost gentle, against Satoru’s skin, yet completely restrictive as Suguru ties his wrists loosely but firmly. Then, with a subtle shift, his bound hands are tucked under his body, pressing against the mattress, further pinning him to the bed.

Satoru is blindfolded, his nipples clamped, and his wrists bound beneath him. The world narrows to the immediate pressure of the clips on his chest, the dull ache of his wrists pressed into the mattress, and the heavy throb between his legs. Each breath he takes is shallow, uneven, caught somewhere in his throat as his body betrays him, hips twitching upward again, a desperate, involuntary movement against the sheets. He feels powerless, suspended between the undeniable hunger of his body and the absolute control Suguru now exerts over every inch of him

“No, Satoru,” Suguru says, a low growl in his throat, his hand pressing down on Satoru’s hips, stilling the movement. “Not yet. You’ve been a very bad boy, getting yourself this worked up without permission. That cock of yours is throbbing for me, isn’t it? Tell me, Satoru. Tell me what you’re feeling, right now.” A hand presses flat over Satoru’s straining erection, applying just enough pressure to make Satoru groan.

Suguru leans in, his breath ghosting over Satoru’s ear. “You begged me to come over. You gave me the code. Now, what was all that for, hmm? You think you can just summon me and take what you want?” He pulls lightly on one of the improvised nipple clamps. Satoru moans, a choked whimper.

Then, the weight of Suguru’s hand lifts. Satoru hears the soft scrape of Suguru rising from the bed, the rustle of his clothes as he steps away. The scent of his cologne, which had been so close, begins to recede, fading subtly into the vastness of the penthouse. Satoru strains to hear, but there are only the muffled sounds of the distant city and his own ragged breathing. Suguru is gone from the room. The silence stretches, heavy and deliberate, leaving Satoru alone in the dark, bound and aching, waiting.

The minutes crawl, each one an eternity. Satoru’s skin prickles, hyper-aware of the cool air, the bite of the clips, the silk binding his wrists. His cock throbs, an insistent, burning demand that he can't address. He tries to calm his breathing, to find some semblance of control, but it's useless. His body trembles, a low, persistent shiver that has nothing to do with cold. He wants to move, to shift, to alleviate the unbearable pressure, but even that is denied. He's trapped in his own heightened senses, every nerve screaming for a touch, for relief that only Suguru can give. The humiliation of his helplessness burns, yet beneath it, a deeper, hotter craving pulses. He hears nothing, sees nothing, but the image of Suguru, precise and knowing, burns behind his eyelids.

This is the training, Satoru realizes with a jolt that’s half a shiver, half a thrill. This painful suspension, the deliberate withholding, the forced self-confrontation in the dark. It’s not about the pain of the clamps, or the binding, or even the unreleased ache in his cock. It’s about the absolute dismantling of his self-control, the shattering of the illusion that he holds any power over his own body or his own desires. He always thinks of it as an experiment, a theoretical goal to understand, but this isn’t theory. This is raw, immediate, and designed to strip away every defense. Suguru wants the edge, the part Satoru hides, and he’s finding it, patiently, relentlessly, by simply stepping away and letting Satoru drown in his own need.

Satoru’s breath chokes on a sob he refuses to let escape. He squeezes his eyes shut, though it hardly matters in the darkness. Every muscle in his body clenches, straining against the invisible bonds of his own desire. He attempts to concentrate on something, anything, beyond the relentless throb between his legs, the sharp pull on his nipples. He tries to recall a physics equation, a complex theory, anything to ground himself in the intellectual fortress he usually inhabits. But it’s all static, broken. Only Suguru’s voice, Suguru’s touch, Suguru’s absence remains. A small sound, a frustrated whimper, escapes him then, despite his best efforts. The silence of the room seems to absorb it, making his helplessness even more profound. He can’t even pretend defiance anymore. He just waits, utterly exposed, for whatever comes next.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed since Suguru stepped out of the room. It could be seconds, or it could be an hour. There’s only the insistent quietness of his surroundings, punctuated by his own ragged breathing and the frantic pulse of his blood. The absence stretches, a heavy, suffocating blanket in the dark.

A sudden, warm brush of air ghosts over Satoru’s exposed chest. He stills, every muscle tensing, breath catching. No footsteps, no creak of floorboards—just a presence, a heat, materializing out of the oppressive quiet. A whisper, low and intimate, strokes his ear, making the fine hairs on his skin stand on end.

“There you are, my sweet thing,” Suguru’s voice, a velvet rasp. “Lost in it, aren’t you? Letting go.” A soft touch grazes a clamped nipple, making Satoru jerk. “I like this, Satoru. This edge you’re finding. This beautiful breakdown. It’s exactly what I came for.”

Suguru’s hand, cool and firm, settles on Satoru’s forehead, pressing him gently deeper into the pillow. “Such a good boy to wait. So eager. So ready to be taken apart properly.” His thumb brushes over Satoru’s temple, then moves to trace the sharp line of his jaw. “You’re trembling, Satoru. Does the quiet get to you? Or is it knowing that I’m here, watching, seeing every shiver?” He pauses, the pressure of his touch unwavering. “Your body remembers. It always does.”

Suguru’s presence shifts. Satoru feels the faint friction of fabric, then a light pressure against his hip. Suguru is moving him, positioning his legs, pushing them wider. The damp cotton of his pants clings, a constant reminder of his state. A long, slow drag of cool air brushes down Satoru’s inner thigh, making him clench. Suguru’s fingers, feather-light, begin to tease the fabric of Satoru’s pants, just at the waistband, near his aching cock. He feels a subtle shift, then the unmistakable slide of a zipper being lowered, excruciatingly slow. The pressure on Satoru’s erection intensifies, then lessens, then returns, a maddening game of push and pull as Suguru works his way down. Satoru groans, a helpless sound trapped in his throat.

Then Suguru’s hand is there, finally, tracing the length of his now exposed cock, still warm and wet beneath his briefs. He doesn’t touch the head, only trails his fingers along the shaft, teasing, testing. “So hot, Satoru,” Suguru murmurs, his voice closer now, right by his ear. “And still in that miserable cotton. You’re desperate, aren’t you? To be free?” He presses his thumb down, just once, on the hard, sensitive head, before pulling away, leaving Satoru panting, utterly undone.

A long moment passes. Satoru feels Suguru’s weight shift. The bed dips. Suguru is sitting down next to him, near, warm body giving off heat. There’s a muted metallic clink, then a soft scrape, as if something being set down on a polished surface. Satoru pays attention to the sound as he looks around the dark room trying to place it. It is the rustle of a small, soft packet, then the faint tear of plastic. He feels something cool and oily press against his ass. It's lubricant—not from a bottle—but something softer, a packet.

Suguru’s fingers, now coated, begin to work. One finger pushes slowly, steadily, a gentle pressure that yields to a deep, internal stretch. Satoru gasps, his hips tightening with instinctive resistance before easing back, ceding control to Suguru. Each inch of surrender is a relief—scalding, aching, impossible to resist. Then Suguru adds a second finger, slowly, deliberately pushing past Satoru’s clenching resistance.a second finger easing in with deliberate slowness, breaching Satoru’s clenched resistance. Pressure builds—deep, insistent—until a low moan spills from Satoru’s throat, a sound torn from him despite himself.

“There it is,” Suguru whispers, satisfaction lacing his tone. “That sweet, needy moan. You enjoy this, don’t you, Satoru? This delicious burn of being opened, stretched, every fiber of you screaming for more even as it hurts.” The flick snaps across his left nipple, precise and merciless, driving the clamp deeper into tender flesh and tearing a choked cry from Satoru’s throat. Suguru works his fingers, slow and methodical, preparing him, stretching the tight muscles, making Satoru pant with each expanding pressure. He pushes another finger in, stretching Satoru wider, deeper. The pressure is insistent, undeniable, breaking down every last resistance. Satoru feels his muscles tremble, his core clenching around Suguru’s fingers, an involuntary embrace.

“Look at you,” Suguru murmurs, his voice a low, dark caress, his fingers still pushing deeper, finding Satoru’s internal pulse. “Pliant. Open. Just as you were made to be.” He pulls his fingers back slightly, then thrusts them in deeper, and Satoru’s breath catches on a sound that breaks halfway between a gasp and a moan, torn from him before he can stop it. “Every tremor, every gasp, it all tells me the same thing, doesn’t it? You crave my control deep inside you.”

Satoru’s hips twitch, an involuntary spasm against the bed, a silent plea for more, for less, for something. He is blindfolded, nipples clamped, wrists bound, and now, utterly open. His body thrums like a live wire, stripped bare and trembling, a vessel brimming with need so intense it swallows thought and smothers resistance.

A small sound escapes Satoru. A whisper, barely audible, “Please.”

The single word hangs in the air, a fragile offering in the sudden stillness. Suguru’s fingers, deep inside Satoru, pause, then begin to slowly, teasingly, pull back. Satoru groans, a desperate, protesting sound. The withdrawal is almost unbearable, a new form of torment. He feels the coolness of air against his stretched insides, the raw edges of his desire.

“Please?” Suguru's voice is a low, satisfied purr, close to his ear. “Please what, Satoru? Be specific. What is it you’re begging for?”

“Please . . . I need you—” Satoru’s voice trails off, choked, the words refusing to form properly. There’s a long agonizing pause, filled only with his ragged breaths, “. . . master.” The last word, ragged and raw, is a complete capitulation.

A low chuckle vibrates against Satoru’s ear, rich with triumph, but it quickly deepens into a firm, unyielding tone. “Ah, ah, ah, Satoru. You called me here. You gave me the code. Your body is begging. Tell me exactly what you need from me.” Suguru’s fingers, which had withdrawn, press back inside, deeper than before, causing Satoru to gasp, a sharp, choked sound. The sensation is overwhelming, designed to strip away any remaining pretense.

Every muscle in Satoru’s body pulls tight, an entire war fought in every straining muscle. He is gasping for breath, quick and shallow. He makes an attempt at words, anything that will appease Suguru, but his brain is a jumble of raw need and pained resistance. He can feel the persistent, pulsing throb of his cock between his legs, the hot, lazy dribble of precum as it soaks his tender tip. He knows Suguru sees it, hears it, feels it. This isn’t merely saying the words, it’s shedding every last stitch of the meticulous control he built. He stifles a moan, jaw clenching so tight his teeth hurt. A sharp, stinging flick against his right nipple and the clamp bites more viciously, drawing a choked-out sob from his throat, pressing the air from him.

“Please,” Satoru finally chokes out, his voice raw with desperation, “Please . . . I need your cock. I need your cock inside me. Now.” The words are a broken torrent, forced from him by the exquisite torment, the ultimate surrender.

“That’s a good boy.” Suguru’s fingers withdraw completely, leaving Satoru aching and hollow. A moment of intense, breathless suspense follows. Satoru’s hips jerk, a helpless grind into the sheets, his body chasing relief without knowing whether it wants contact or escape.

Then, Satoru feels the unmistakable warmth and hard press of Suguru’s cock, slick with lubricant, nudging against his entrance. The pressure is agonizing, a promise held just out of reach, a torment designed to stretch his already frayed self-control to its absolute limit. Suguru doesn’t rush. He lets the tip of his cock circle Satoru’s entrance, each slow motion drawing out friction so slick and searing it makes Satoru writhe against the bed, hips shifting as a fractured noise escapes him and catches, thin and raw, in his throat. The exquisite sensation of being poised right at the brink, stretched and ready, but still denied, is almost unbearable.

“My pleasure, Satoru,” Suguru whispers, his voice thick with desire, the words a dark benediction. “But you can't come yet. You've been a very bad boy lately, haven't you? So much defiance—resistance. You'll wait your turn. You'll come only when I say so.”

A click snaps from the device at Satoru’s chest, and the vicious pinch on his left nipple disappears. The loss of pain hits harder than expected—startling in its clarity, as if the absence itself carries weight. Sensation floods the stripped skin, nerves flaring to life with a bright, stinging heat that pulses outward across his chest and pours warmth into veins that had clenched tight around the pressure. Every nerve ending lights up, desperate for stimulation, while the memory of the clamp’s bite lingers over the exposed peak. The shock of relief travels through his core, intensifying the ache that throbs low and deep, pulling his attention with painful precision to the fullness pressing at his entrance. Blood surges back into overworked flesh, making his nipples throb with unbearable sensitivity, each pulse coaxing out a need too sharp and consuming to name.

Just as the wave of sensation crests and recedes, something heavier follows—pressure building low and sure, impossible to ignore. He feels the first stretch as Suguru’s head presses against his entrance, the motion slow and steady, each inch deliberate, each advance meant to consume. The push forward is exacting, drawn out with cruel patience, and it sends Satoru’s muscles into a spasm, clenching in a futile attempt to resist. He whimpers, instinct flaring, but his bound wrists hold him in place, denying even the illusion of retreat. The fullness grows with aching slowness, every second forcing him to register each new inch, each unbearable moment of being filled.

As Suguru sinks deeper, stretching him to the limit, Satoru feels his body yield—heat blooming low and spreading in a wave he can’t control. Another click breaks the quiet, sharp against the tension, and the clamp on his right nipple is finally released. The flood of relief that follows, echoing the first, draws a gasp from him, then a moan torn rough from his throat as Suguru’s cock fills him completely. The sensation crashes through him, so total and forceful it robs him of breath. Pressure builds everywhere at once, unbearable and precise, until Satoru cries out Suguru’s name—a sound stripped of pretense, broken open by need. His hips buck upward without thought, finally freed to meet the rhythm of Suguru’s possession.

Suguru starts to move, each thrust deliberate at first, building a rhythm that sinks deep into Satoru’s body. He feels the force of Suguru’s hips pressing flush against his own, the solid tension of his torso above, the faint drag of hair brushing his cheek as Suguru leans in. Breath grazes his ear—heated, uneven, shaped by effort. Satoru can’t see, but he feels everything: the stretch of every inch, the shift of muscle driving each motion. He tries to press back, his body responding on instinct alone, but his efforts are clumsy, unfocused. He has no control now, caught entirely in Suguru’s hands, moved by need more than thought.

“That’s it, angel,” Suguru whispers, his voice low, guttural, a dark current against Satoru’s ear. “Feel how perfectly you take me. You’re so tight. Just a perfect little vessel, aren’t you? Made for this. Made for me.” Each thrust pushes the words deeper, rubbing them raw against Satoru’s over-sensitized skin. “You try to be so clever, don’t you? To use that genius brain. But look at you now. All instinct. All body. Just a whimpering mess for my cock.” He deepens a thrust, eliciting a strangled cry from Satoru. “No more lies, Satoru. Your body tells me everything it wants. Everything you’ll ever be for me.”

Suguru is a relentless force inside him, stretching him impossibly wide, filling him to a burning capacity. Satoru feels the head of Suguru’s cock scrape against something deep within him, a tender point that makes him buck and cry out. His thick cock glides in and out, slick and hot, rubbing against his prostate with every measured retreat and advance. The rhythm takes over, raw and instinctive, driving out every coherent thought until nothing remains but sensation. His own cock, still hard and heavy, rubs uselessly against his stomach with each of Suguru’s thrusts, a reminder of the denial that still hangs over him. The friction builds, hot and wet, a desperate pressure that vibrates through his entire body. He feels the raw, exquisite fullness of being stretched, used, claimed from the inside out.

There’s no space left in him for anything but Suguru.

The rhythm intensifies, Suguru's thrusts growing faster, harder, pushing Satoru closer and closer to the edge. Satoru's breath comes in desperate gasps, his hips bucking wildly, chasing the friction. His cock aches, heavy and swollen, throbbing with a painful readiness. Every cell in his body screams for release, for the glorious, consuming relief he knows is just beyond reach.

“Wa-wait,” Satoru whimpers, a desperate, broken sound. “Wait, please. I’m so close. Please, I’m gonna come. It feels too good. Too good, I can’t hold back, please!” He grinds his hips up, a frantic, mindless plea for the culmination.

A low, amused laugh rumbles from Suguru’s chest, vibrating through Satoru. “Oh, no, Satoru. Not yet. You’re not enough of a mess. You’ve been a very bad boy, craving this. You have to wait. You can wait on my command, like a good boy. You’ll come when I say so. And not a moment before.” Suguru’s rhythm slows abruptly, a cruel, measured pace that tightens the unbearable coil of Satoru’s desire, leaving him desperate and panting, suspended just shy of the precipice.

Satoru's breath hitches, his body trembling uncontrollably as Suguru pulls back, holding him suspended on the very edge. The sudden loss of friction reshapes the ache in his cock into something sharper, a need that burns and tightens with unbearable urgency. His nipples, still hypersensitive from the clamps, sting with every shallow breath, the lingering phantom pinch a constant, sharp reminder of their recent abuse. He feels Suguru’s hips pressed firm against his own, the weight of his body holding him still, but the movement has stopped. Satoru whimpers, the sound small and broken, thick with frustration that coils tight in his chest and refuses to ease.

Suguru shifts his weight slightly, a subtle adjustment that changes the angle of penetration, hitting Satoru deeper, rubbing against a new, sensitive spot that makes him gasp.A low, satisfied hum moves through Satoru’s body as Suguru settles into a rhythm, slow at first, each thrust controlled and teasing. He hovers just shy of Satoru’s climax, every movement calculated to prolong the tension without offering relief. He feels Suguru’s breath hot and heavy on his neck, the soft brush of his hair. Satoru's hips begin to twitch again, a desperate, involuntary plea for speed, for mercy. Every muscle in his core tightens around Suguru, begging.

Then a pinch lands hard on one of Satoru’s nipples, the skin still tender from earlier abuse. Pain flares fast and bright, flooding his chest with sensation that borders on unbearable. Satoru cries out, a choked sound of shock and agony that’s half a moan, his hips bucking reflexively against Suguru.

“Come for me, Satoru,” Suguru commands, his voice a low, fierce growl directly in Satoru’s ear, cutting through the haze of pain and pleasure. “Show me who you belong to. Come for me. Now.”

The command, coupled with the searing pain on Satoru's nipple, shatters any last vestige of Satoru’s control. His vision, already darkness, explodes with white-hot stars behind his eyelids. His body convulses, caught in a surge he can’t contain, and his cock, no longer denied, releases in pulsing waves that tear through him without mercy. He arches against Suguru, muscles locking, a primal scream tearing from his throat, echoing nakedly in the room. A powerful orgasm rips through him, hot and overwhelming, making him shake violently. He can feel the hot, sticky gush against his stomach, a raw, humiliating testament to his absolute surrender.

Suguru doesn’t slow. He holds Satoru tight, riding out the tremors of Satoru’s climax, each thrust deeper, more punishing, milking Satoru’s last pulses even as Satoru’s body goes limp and heavy beneath him. Suguru’s own breath hitches, his grunts growing rougher, deeper. The bed groans under the relentless, driving force of his hips. Satoru, still reeling from his own release, feels the intense, shuddering contractions of Suguru’s body as he pushes relentlessly. The friction builds to a fever pitch, Suguru’s cock swelling inside him, filling him.

“Mine,” Suguru growls, the word raw, strained with his own nearing climax, “All . . . mine.” Suguru growls, the sound low and ragged with effort, as he thrusts deep, burying himself completely as his body tenses, shudders, and finally breaks. He spills inside Satoru in heavy pulses, warmth filling him in thick surges that mark the depth of Suguru’s claim. Satoru feels the pulsing gush, a final, overwhelming act of possession that leaves him spent, pinned beneath Suguru’s heavy, panting form.

The silence that follows is thick, broken only by their ragged, echoing breaths.

Suguru eases his weight from Satoru, but doesn’t pull out, leaving Satoru to fully bear the heavy, stretching fullness inside him. He shifts, settling more comfortably above Satoru, one hand coming up to gently, almost reverently, cup Satoru’s still-trembling jaw. His thumb strokes Satoru’s cheekbone, a stark contrast to the rough command that shattered him moments before. Satoru’s blindfolded eyes flutter uselessly beneath the silk, his chest still heaving, heart hammering against his ribs.

Satoru is boneless, every ounce of resistance drained, leaving him raw, aching, and—completely filled.

Chapter Text

The sound of the ice-maker cycling in the refrigerator is the only proof the world still exists. The penthouse—once a fortress of cold order—feels tonight like nothing more than a shell for the heat radiating from Satoru’s core, sheer and liquid, impossible to ignore. The marble gleams; chrome fixtures catch the light sharper than ever, but they register as scenery now, irrelevant beside the ruin of his body, exquisite in its undoing.

Satoru lies prone on the bed, vast and low to the floor. The sheets, smooth and expensive, have twisted into ropes around his ankles, dragged loose from the corners as though the bed itself had been punished with him. Sweat sheens across his skin, cooling to tack against the linen, cut through by faint traces of lube. Every muscle hums with collapse—oddly pleasant, stretched open and satisfied in a way that feels obscene in its inevitability. When Satoru shifts, the linen cracks softly, the sound foreign in the silence. The pillow beneath his cheek still carries Suguru’s scent—bergamot laced with musk, faint yet undeniable—and Satoru knows it will be gone by morning, scoured away by detergent and sterile air.

His thoughts don’t spiral; they drift, heavy and unhurried, carried on a current of chemical fulfillment. Suguru’s weight still lingers in memory, the growl of “mine” raw in his ear, the claim that followed undeniable. It hadn’t been just sex; it had been a reordering, his system dismantled and rebuilt in a breath.

The memory lingers with its own gravity. After the final release shuddering through both of them, when the air was thick with panting, Suguru hadn’t pulled away. He had shifted carefully, easing his weight but leaving the fullness of his claim deep inside, as if permanence mattered more than relief. He had smoothed the sheets with deliberate care, small gestures that made the sterile room feel suddenly intimate. His hand had lifted then, cupping Satoru’s jaw, thumb stroking the hard line of bone. The rasp of his voice against Satoru’s ear—be good—was softer, more devastating than any command.

A self-mocking smile touches Satoru’s mouth, thin and fragile. He knows himself too well to pretend otherwise. He enjoys the break, the shatter, the moment when his body stops answering to his will—and enjoys even more the tenderness that follows, when Suguru puts him back together with a word. The cost—the begging, the humiliation, the surrender he swore he’d never give—has become nothing more than the price of admission to this kind of satisfaction.

He rolls onto his back, eyes closing as euphoria washes over him in a tide that lingers, but even as it spreads warm through his limbs, it sharpens into something darker: need. A terrifying certainty hums beneath his skin with the inevitability of breath.

Suguru is not just a partner. He is a fix.

The thought lands with weight, terrifying in its clarity. Already the warmth of that claim fades; the ache settles into memory; the scent on the pillow thins in the air. Satoru can’t bear it. He cannot sit in this silence, not when it threatens to peel everything back to cold marble and order. He needs to secure the next moment before the weight fades, before the voice dims, before he convinces himself he can go without.

His hand slides across the nightstand, knocking against his watch and a glass of water before closing on the rectangle of his phone, smooth and cold. The urgency makes the movement graceless. He doesn’t scroll, doesn’t reread, doesn’t think about the pride that once mattered or the lies about his control. All of that has burned away.

He unlocks the screen and opens the message box, breath shallow, thumbs already hovering. This isn’t negotiation or play. It isn’t about winning. It’s maintenance. It’s survival.

The words come stripped down, precise.

me, 2:05 am
can’t sleep.

Two words, flimsy enough to deny but heavy enough to drag the air out of the room. He doesn’t add the truth clawing at his throat. He waits, phone heavy in his palm, watching the seconds stretch, knowing Suguru will read him clean through.

The silence grows unbearable. He stares at the screen until his eyes sting, flips the phone facedown, flips it back again, desperate for the vibration that won’t come. Each breath feels too loud, every muscle tuned to anticipation, to the knowledge of what he’s already given away.

Then the vibration hits, sharp as a snapped wire. The sound breaks the stillness, raw enough to make his stomach flip. The screen glows brighter, a new message waiting. The time stamp: two minutes after. Long enough to make him feel the weight.

suguru, 2:07 am
Two words?
You used to give me paragraphs about your control.
You were certainly more expressive two nights ago.
Try again, Satoru.

The vibration rattles against his hand. He fumbles the phone up to his face, heart thudding too fast for something he swore was nothing. Two words? His stomach knots, heat crawling up his neck. Of course Suguru would remember the paragraphs, the bravado, the flimsy posturing.

You used to give me paragraphs about your control.

His flush deepens. It’s humiliating because it’s true, and worse, because Suguru had read every line for exactly what it was—bravado, flimsy as paper.

You were certainly more expressive two nights ago.

His body betrays him instantly, heat pooling low at the memory. Every nerve remembers what it felt like to beg, how his voice had broken apart until he barely recognized it as his own. Suguru hasn’t just remembered—he’s writing it back to him.

Try again, Satoru.

The words hit square in the chest. Permission wrapped in humiliation. His thumbs twitch. He wants to fire back something sharp, something bratty, but the words come fractured.

me, 2:10 am
paragraphs r boring
u already know what I want

He stares at the screen, unsatisfied, chewing the inside of his cheek. His chest feels too tight. The cursor blinks, patient, merciless. He types again, harsher this time, daring Suguru to call his bluff.

me, 2:11 am
but if u need to hear it,
then make me say it to ur face.

The reply comes quickly. The buzz jolts his palm, the air instantly charged with anticipation.

suguru, 2:13 am
make me say it to your face?
you could barely string words together two nights ago.
now you manage two, and think that’s enough?
if you want me to touch you again, you’ll crawl through my door and remember how to beg properly.

The words land like a blow. Suguru hasn’t refused—he’s accepted, but only on his own terms. Distance itself becomes part of the leash.

His body floods with heat, addictive and unstoppable. Humiliation evaporates against the singular clarity of need. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t even reread.

me, 2:15 am
fine.

The single word feels like defeat and triumph at once. He drops the phone, his body already buzzing. The lights in the penthouse fade into background as he swings his legs from the bed. Order dissolves; only the road matters. His hands close on the denim he shed earlier, and he stops, a sharp memory of Suguru’s last request overriding the action: soft pants, nothing underneath.

He throws his jeans onto the bed and moves to the dresser, pulling out a pair of joggers. He forgoes his boxers altogether. He makes sure to grab the softest t-shirt he owns before heading to the exit.

He’s dressing not for the city—but for the claim waiting at the other end of it.

Suguru

Suguru’s phone rests on the low cedar table, the screen still illuminated by Satoru’s final, single-word concession: fine.

The phone remains untouched; Suguru doesn’t need to. He’s already won. The urgency felt earlier—the slight, nagging tension—has entirely dissipated, replaced by a deep, satisfied calm.

From the zabuton cushion, Suguru rises, crossing the polished wood floor and moving past the subtle elegance of the sliding paper screens. The scent of aged wood and damp earth from the meticulously maintained garden hangs faintly in the air, a constant reminder of the house’s quiet discipline. This is a place of history and rigid expectation.

Into a heavy glass, Suguru pours a measure of Yamazaki 18-Year. One large ice sphere drops in with a clean, deliberate clink—the only sound left in the room now that Satoru’s silence has been definitively broken. Lifting the glass, Suguru appreciates the deep amber color of the whiskey in his palm. “Good boy,” he whispers into the quiet. The praise is a silent, possessive claim.

Glancing at the message thread one more time, Suguru confirms the single, final word, “fine,” again. Satoru chose immediate need over pride and distance. Now, he is making the visible pilgrimage across the city, the physical effort of the journey itself serving as his first payment.

The brief flash of headlights cutting across the shoji screen in the hallway, quickly extinguished, is the first indication of the presence.

A moment of intense silence follows, broken by the unmistakable click of the genkan door locking behind him. Then comes the predictable, muffled thud of shoes being tossed aside—the ritual of his arrival completed.

The sound draws something low and quiet from Suguru’s chest, closer to satisfaction than surprise. The silence is allowed to settle. Suguru wants Satoru to feel the stillness the way he does—the way it presses against the ribs and measures patience.

It is a perfect, flawless quiet, and its perfection is entirely Suguru’s making. He can practically feel the restless, coiled energy gathered just beyond the door—the physical reality of Satoru’s need, momentarily stalled and forced to beg with its very existence. The waiting confirms the hierarchy: Suguru is the still point Satoru must finally break himself against, the only barrier he cannot simply surpass.

But beneath the sheer force of this control lies a deeper, more private pleasure. Suguru isn't just satisfied that Satoru is waiting; he is satisfied that Satoru is learning how to wait. He hasn't broken through the door, he hasn't resorted to a desperate, unthinking knock. Satoru knows, instinctively now, that to earn true access, he must mirror Suguru’s stillness.

This is the sweet reward: the proof that his quiet, relentless pressure—the molding of Satoru’s habits—are taking root. The moment is a testament to Satoru's subtle, growing dedication, and the realization that Satoru is already anticipating his needs brings a rush of possessive pride.

When Suguru finally moves, it’s with intention. The door slides open a fraction, just enough for the air to change between them. The lamplight spills through, cutting a narrow line across the floor and catching Satoru in its glow. The figure is already kneeling in perfect seiza—spine straight, palms resting face-up on his thighs, head slightly bowed.

No instruction.

No hesitation.

The sight of Satoru kneeling makes something break in Suguru's chest—a feeling that’s almost like worship. The kneeling is not a requirement, yet Satoru performs it perfectly, offering visual proof of his defeat. Satoru is trying to shortcut the process, but the time belongs entirely to Suguru.

“You made good time,” Suguru says finally, his voice mild. Suguru pauses, deliberately. He watches the tiny muscles in Satoru's neck strain with the effort of holding the pose, enjoying the control he has over the physical tension.

Then, almost lazily, “Tell me, did you sprint from the station? Or did you bribe the driver to ignore the lights?”

The words come out smoother than intended, a little too easy. Suguru is pleased; there is no need to raise his voice when Satoru’s posture does the work for him.

Satoru’s head lifts slightly, eyes flicking up—bright, uncertain, already defensive. “Neither.”

Suguru hums, the sound soft but cutting. “No? Then you just can’t wait.”

That earns Suguru the smallest tremor in Satoru’s hands. He notes the small, involuntary failure of control; that is the true currency of the encounter.

“Shoes off?” Suguru asks, though the question is more habit than necessity.

“They’re at the door.”

“Good.” The approval slips out automatically. What Suguru really feels is something sharper—an inward pull, the recognition of how well Satoru remembers what is his. The removal of the shoes is the shedding of the public man, the final step into Suguru’s private sphere.

Suguru slides the shoji fully open and steps through, his shadow falling over the kneeling figure. “Close it,” he says.

The command is immediate and absolute. Satoru has to obey from the floor. He shifts his weight, unfolding from seiza only enough to crawl forward on his knees. This motion brings his bowed head directly beneath the line of Suguru’s waist, his hip and shoulder brushing against Suguru’s thigh. The fabric of his loose clothes is barely a suggestion of a barrier, and the contact is fleeting but electric, a sudden wave of heat and awareness Suguru feels against his leg. Satoru follows the line of Suguru's standing body to the door frame, his hand sliding the shoji closed.

The scent of cedar, faint rain, and something unmistakably human hangs in the air, intensified by the brief, close contact. The air is thick with Satoru’s suppressed movement, the heat of his haste, and the primal, unfiltered threat that the close obedience has stripped away all pretense.

Suguru studies him for a moment, observing the way Satoru holds himself: so careful, so close to trembling. The distance between them is small, but Suguru closes it by a fraction, planting his foot near Sastoru's knee.

Suguru doesn’t move it away. Instead, slowly, deliberately, he slides the edge of his shoe across the thin, loose fabric covering Satoru's groin, a nonchalant, predatory caress. Suguru holds the contact, feeling the hard line of Satoru's immediate response press against his sole. He presses down just enough to confirm the reaction, the pressure a cruel, exquisite test. Satoru remains perfectly still, his head bowed, but the effort makes a muscle in his jaw twitch visibly.

Suguru lifts his foot, completing the caress, and takes a slow step back, creating a vacuum where the contact just was. He lets Satoru feel the sudden absence, the lingering heat against the thin fabric. This is the true reward.

Suguru enjoys watching him in that space—waiting, trying to be perfect. The vulnerability is intoxicating. Every small, compliant action Satoru takes is a deliberate, silent invitation Suguru accepts.

Suguru wants to see the performance crack, to see the sheer need override the pride. Satoru has rushed here, only to freeze at the finish line, and that perfect stillness is the highest form of chaos. The moment Satoru acknowledges that fact, he is entirely Suguru’s.

Suguru steps closer, slow and deliberate, breaking the tension only to remake it stronger. When he finally speaks again, his voice is level, conversational, as though they’re discussing something trivial. “Better,” he says, letting the pause hang. “Now, let’s see if you remember how to ask properly.”

Satoru doesn't speak. Instead, he shifts his weight, lowering his head until his forehead rests against the cold polished wood, his body held perfectly still in a posture of complete surrender. The angle exposes the entire length of his neck and spine to Suguru’s gaze.

Suguru inclines his head, his gesture final and uncontested. The permission is a reward, rich and earned. “Stand up, and turn.”

Satoru obeys instantly, unfolding his long frame from seiza. He is taller than Suguru, but the moment he stands, his posture slumps instinctively into deference, neck slightly craned forward, acknowledging the hierarchy.

Suguru steps forward, closing the last of the distance between them. He doesn't move immediately to touch him; instead, he stands close enough for the subtle heat radiating off Satoru's body to meet the cool air surrounding Suguru. The lingering scent of rush—sweat mixed with expensive cologne—is sharp.

The inspection begins at the neck. Suguru's fingers are cold and exacting as he traces the line of Satoru's spine, pressing firmly at the base of the neck, confirming the tremor that runs down his back.

He moves his hands to Satoru's shoulders, spanning the width of the muscle before sliding down the outside of his arms. Suguru pauses at the elbows, flexing his grip, then continues down to the tense, open palms. Satoru remains perfectly still.

Suguru steps to Satoru's side, his presence demanding stillness. He runs a hand across Satoru's chest, feeling the accelerated beat of the heart through the thin shirt, then trails it down the abdomen, pausing just where the shirt tucks into the joggers.

Suguru steps back slightly, then moves to the thin, soft fabric of the joggers. The material is damp in patches from Satoru's exertion. His palms rest flat against the small of Satoru's back, then trail possessively down over the curve of his ass. Suguru feels the warmth of Satoru's skin directly beneath the thin cloth; there is no break, no seam, no resistance. The knowledge floods Suguru, hot and possessive: Satoru came entirely naked beneath his clothes, offering total, preemptive surrender. That is the purest form of victory.

He moves his hands around Satoru’s thighs, confirming the tension there, before sliding them down the hamstrings and ending the contact just above the back of the knees.

The inspection reaches its deliberate end. Suguru's right hand covers Satoru's erection, palm pressed firmly over the joggers, while his left hand drops to cup the curve of Satoru's ass, his thumb grazing the centerline. This is the total verification: the heat and the rigid proof of Satoru's need is palpable. Suguru holds the position for a prolonged, punishing beat. He owns this moment—the heat and the ultimate stillness.

Suguru steps back fully, breaking the intense contact. The abrupt loss of touch leaves Satoru reeling, every nerve ending exposed.

“The payment is verified,” Suguru confirms, his voice a low hum of satisfaction. “Remove your clothing.”

Satoru processes the command with agonizing slowness. His gaze remains anchored to the polished wood floor, a visible shiver of eagerness running down his back. This forced obedience is a deliberate, necessary delay.

He reaches for the t-shirt, his hands trembling. He lifts the material slowly, stretching the movement out, giving Suguru ample time to watch the exposed skin of his midriff and chest emerge. The fabric pools over his head, and he drops it, the sound dull against the wood. Suguru accepts the silent offering.

Next, the joggers. His fingers are clumsy on the drawstring, pulling the knot loose with a slight friction that Suguru hears clearly. Satoru pushes the waistband down inch by inch, hesitating just above his hips. The sudden shock of the cool air on his abdomen causes a shiver that rolls visibly down his back.

He is forced to break his stance entirely, awkwardly bending and stepping out of the trousers, his back momentarily arched, entirely vulnerable. When he straightens, he does not look at Suguru. He is completely naked, the lamplight laying bare every ridge of muscle and every frantic, shallow breath.

“Thank you,” Suguru says, his voice a low, intimate acknowledgment of the exchange. He sets the whiskey glass on the wooden threshold between the tatami and stone. The click of glass on wood is loud in the quiet. “This is the final confirmation of your promise. Now, the inspection begins. Turn around.”

Satoru's compliance is instant and total. He pivots on the balls of his bare feet, the motion fluid yet desperate. He locks his gaze forward toward the cold, dark stone of the genkan wall, presenting his back—a long, pale expanse of skin—to the light pooling from the inner room. He holds himself perfectly still, waiting.

Suguru steps across the threshold, the warmth of the tatami yielding to the cool, polished wood of the genkan floor. He closes the distance Satoru was forced to maintain, standing close enough now to feel the minute tremors running through his shoulder blades. The air around Satoru is hot from exertion and need, rapidly cooling.

Suguru's fingers are sharp and precise as he traces the line of Satoru’s spine, starting just beneath the nape of the neck. Suguru traces the familiar line of bone, confirming the tension held throughout Satoru's body. Every taut muscle in the back is a silent shout of his pride breaking.

Suguru's touch moves slowly, charting the smooth, damp skin, lingering on the width of his shoulders before sliding down to the small of his back. He uses a careful, authoritative pressure, letting Satoru feel the weight of his attention. This is a moment of absolute, silent control, verifying the depth of the sacrifice. Suguru claims the visible proof of the effort it takes for Satoru to be this still, this exposed.

After confirming the static perfection of the pose, Suguru steps back slightly, the withdrawal of contact causing a visible shudder.

“Not bad,” Suguru murmurs, his voice barely breaking the silence.

“But the payment is not finished. I want to see you yield completely.” Suguru reaches out, his cold index finger resting on a single bead of sweat just above Satoru’s hip, tracing its path downward. “Show me how heavy the waiting is. Bend forward.”

The new command is heavy, demanding not just obedience but a physical display of his current weakness. Satoru executes it flawlessly. He does not hinge abruptly, but bends slowly, consciously elongating the curve of his back. His legs remain straight, the effort making the muscles in his thighs visibly strain, confirming the weight of the seiza he endured and the long journey. He anchors his hands just above his knees, but the fingers do not grip; they merely rest, offering no real support.

Suguru steps in close again, standing directly behind the vulnerable arch of Satoru's back. The lamplight throws the shadow of Suguru’s head and chest over the figure, cloaking Satoru in darkness. This is the height of his vulnerability, and Suguru intends to consume it.

The final inspection now begins in earnest. Suguru’s hands rest first on Satoru’s hips, confirming the angle and the submission of the low, unprotected position. He then begins his ascent, fingers trailing up the deep channel of the spine. The slow touch maps every ridge of bone, every twitching muscle fiber under the skin. Suguru's gaze follows his hand, appreciating the visible flush of heat that spreads across Satoru's skin in the wake of the cool touch.

The ascent is deliberate, claiming, ending when his thumb hooks firmly beneath the bone at the base of Satoru’s neck. He holds him there, captive.

“Perfect,” Suguru confirms, the word a low, resonant approval spoken against the sensitive skin of Satoru’s upper back. He holds the posture for a beat longer, absorbing the sensation of total control before withdrawing his touch entirely. This claimed silence is better than any cry of need.

The sudden loss of contact, coupled with the strain of the pose, causes Satoru’s shoulders to slump slightly, a clear physical collapse that Suguru permits.

“The wait is over,” Suguru murmurs. “Now, kneel and crawl.”

Satoru drops to his hands and knees immediately, his descent onto the wooden threshold quick and practiced. The crawl is slow, demanding, and visible. It is a final, physical act of penance and desire. He crosses the shikidai and moves onto the soft give of the tatami, a subtle relief and a clear boundary crossed. Satoru crawls the final short distance until he is positioned directly at Suguru's feet.

“Look at you, crawling all the way back,” Suguru murmurs, the words laced with cold, possessive admiration. “You are perfect when you’re naked and silent at my feet.”

Suguru does not wait for a response, confirming that the time for words and games is over. He deliberately lowers himself to the tatami, shifting his weight with slow, quiet control. The movement brings him onto Satoru's level, mirroring the intimate posture but still positioning him as the one entirely in command.

He reaches out, and the contact is agonizingly light—fingers tracing the damp, tense skin of Satoru's side, moving up to the sharp curve of his jaw. The touch is both a final claim and the initiation of the reward.

With a slight, proprietary pressure, Suguru lifts Satoru's head, forcing their gazes to lock. Satoru's eyes are wide, dark with exhaustion and need, finally meeting Suguru's own without the barrier of shame.

Suguru leans in, the sudden warmth of his breath a shock against Satoru's lips, eliminating the final distance. The air is too charged for any more words. He takes. The first, long, deep kiss is the final, complete answer to Satoru's surrender.

Satoru’s control shatters instantly. The shock of the touch is immediately consumed by a desperate, guttural hunger. He pitches forward, abandoning the rigid posture of his back, his hands clumsy as they reach up to grip the fine fabric of Suguru's trousers. The kiss is deep, messy, and urgent—a torrent of raw need finally released, trying to consume the air and contact all at once.

Suguru meets the desperation, but only to redirect it. He maintains the strong, cold pressure on Satoru’s jaw, forcing the angle, ensuring that even this first shared sensation is performed entirely on his terms. He tastes the shame, the heat, and the sweet, raw need that has been building up since the first text. The tension in Satoru’s shoulders releases, but only because his entire focus shifts to the immediate reward.

Suguru breaks the kiss first, the separation sharp, a brief, deep noise of satisfaction leaving his throat. He pulls back just enough for their lips to drag apart, the air hissing between them.

Suguru’s hand slides down, gripping the back of Satoru’s neck possessively, the action pulling him close enough to whisper directly into his mouth. “Good boy,” he confirms, the soft, low praise now thick with actual fulfillment. “You came here because you needed this.”

Suguru doesn't wait for Satoru to answer the taunt. He tightens his grip on Satoru's neck for a long moment, savoring the deep shudder that runs through the kneeling man's exposed body. He then lets go, the sudden loss of contact leaving Satoru swaying slightly, the scent of spent adrenaline sharp in the air.

Suguru slowly rises to his full height, his shadow lengthening over the vulnerable, naked figure. His eyes drift toward a low, polished stand set beside the wall, where the promised cane rests. It is a thin, dark length of polished wood—retrieved by Suguru earlier and placed with meticulous, absolute intent, and now waiting. The entire room has been prepared for this specific culmination.

“You were promised a consequence for your surrender, Satoru,” Suguru’s voice is soft, but the intimacy is chilling now. “There are many ways to make you submit, but I choose this one. You need to remember exactly what your effort bought you.”

Suguru crosses the tatami without haste. The soft whisper of his steps fills the quiet, each measured movement extending the tension between them. He stops before the stand, fingers hovering just above the cold, polished wood. The cane rests where he left it—gleaming, patient, inevitable.

When Suguru lifts it, the faint swish of air sings through the stillness, a sound clean enough to make the skin prickle. Suguru turns back toward Satoru, the length of dark lacquer balanced easily at his side. The appeal of the cane is its cold, clean efficiency, maximizing sting over blunt force—a psychological shock that will break the mind before the body yields. The air shifts around them; even without contact, the weight of what’s coming claims the room.

“This is a new procedure, Satoru,” Suguru commands, his tone shifting back to cold, total authority. “Get up. Place your hands on the mat. Hips high, back exposed. Now.”

The command lands like a blade, cutting through the last thread of stretched-out stillness. Satoru freezes for a beat—brief, visible, devastating. Suguru watches the confusion flicker across his face, that quick tremor of hesitation before obedience takes over. He knows Satoru hates the unknown, and this ritual demands the absolute surrender of dignity and expectation.

Then Satoru moves. He pushes up onto his knees, rising slow, mechanical, the air seeming to catch in his throat. His palms brace against the tatami, fingers splayed, the fine tremor in his arms betraying how hard he’s fighting to stay steady. When his hips lift, the light catches on the long line of his back, pale skin drawn tight, exposed, offered.

Suguru lets the silence hang, admiring the perfect tension of it—the moment when resistance dies and ritual takes over.

Suguru walks until he is right behind Satoru, the dark cane resting lightly against the small of Satoru's back, a chilling promise.

“Ten strokes, Satoru,” Suguru murmurs, the sound of his voice dangerously close. “For making me wait. Is that the cost of your indulgence?”

Suguru can hear Satoru swallow in trepidation, but the assent is immediate and absolute. “Yes. Clear.”

Suguru delivers the final, cruel command: “Then count them out for me, Satoru. Every single one. If your count falters or fails, the whole scene is invalid and we start again.”

The silence after the command is heavy, vibrating with the promise of impact.

The first stroke comes without warning, swift and accurate, landing with a clean, devastating snap across the softest part of Satoru's rear. The sound is loud in the quiet room. Satoru’s entire body convulses, the air roaring out of his lungs in a sharp, choked cry before he manages to force out the word: “O-one.” The breaking has begun.

Suguru doesn't pause for the pain to fully bloom. He delivers the strokes with a controlled, furious rhythm. He needs this pain to be sharp, focused, and unforgettable—a physical demarcation line between Satoru’s past defiance and his present, earned surrender. The pain is the fuel for the need he knows Satoru is about to unleash.

“Two.” The muscle tightens under the wood, and Satoru’s breath hitches around the count.

“Three.” The first thin line of bright red appears, and Satoru forces the word through clenched teeth.

“Four.” The count is a sharp, desperate whimper that is pure submission.

“Five.” He hears the desperate need in the way Satoru’s voice cracks as he continues.

“Six.” The skin is hot now, flush with color and trauma, the count a desperate, low groan.

“Seven.” The pain is intensifying, making Satoru’s whole frame vibrate with a low, desperate sound, and the count comes out broken and ragged. Suguru recognizes the physical trigger—the line between agony and need is dissolving.

“Eight.” A choked, broken plea for him to stop, or to continue—the distinction doesn't matter—but the number is forced out.

“Nine.” He aims low, maximizing the sting, and Satoru screams the number.

“Ten.” The final, punishing snap lands, and Satoru collapses slightly, his arms losing tension, his breath tearing in and out of his lungs, the final number left unspoken, absorbed by the climax of the pain.

It’s done.

Suguru admires the raw, raised pattern of punishment on Satoru's skin—it is the signature of his control, guaranteeing the intensity of the reward: the final, absolute physical release that the pain was engineered to fuel and intensify.

Suguru drops the cane onto the tatami mats—the sudden clack signaling the abrupt end of the disciplinary phase. He moves in, his large hands replacing the cold sting of the wood with demanding, claiming heat. He grips Satoru's hips, confirming the painful, visible marks left by the cane. The answer surges into his palms: the pain is the guarantee. Now, every touch—slow or fast, gentle or violent—is an agonizing grace, confirming that only he can possess the ruin and provide the release he created.

Suguru leans in close to Satoru's ear, his breath hot against the cool sweat forming on Satoru's neck. “You’ve earned the change in focus, Satoru,” he murmurs, his voice low and possessive. “Now give me the rest of your control.”

Suguru does not rush. He shifts his weight just enough to retrieve the small, cool bottle of lubricant from a low drawer—the chilling slickness a promise against the burning heat of the body beneath him. He applies the lubrication with slow, deliberate strokes, his hands unyielding, treating the body beneath him with a dark, meticulous intimacy.

The preparation begins with a single, slow finger. Suguru moves with agonizing precision, focusing on the stretch, ignoring the strained, high-pitched sounds Satoru makes as his finger pushes in. He adds a second finger, and this one finds its mark instantly. He curls his hand just enough to press against the sensitive wall, striking Satoru’s prostate with a deliberate, brutal intensity. He watches Satoru’s hips convulse sharply against the tatami mats as the shocking wave of acute pleasure tears through him, overriding the previous sting of the cane. He feels the seismic shiver and knows the pain is already transforming into need.

“Beg for the pace you need, Satoru,” Suguru commands, the sound a low, sharp taunt. “Ask for what I am about to take from you.”

The body beneath Suguru is shaking from the buildup and the sting, its submission complete. The raw, guttural plea that finally rips from Satoru is his necessary assent—the sound of his body commanding more. “Pl—please.”

Suguru grants the request by removing his fingers, allowing the air to sting the newly abused skin, and positioning himself behind Satoru. He pulls his trousers down, freeing himself quickly, and drives his hardness between Satoru’s cheeks, the searing contact against the reddened marks a possessive demand. When he pushes between Satoru’s legs, the inner thigh muscles twitching, Satoru whimpers.

Suguru initiates the entry slowly, deliberately, driving into Satoru with agonizing measure. The sensation is absolute—the deep, full stretch, the searing friction, and the total physical occupation. The raw, choking gasp Satoru makes against the mats is the sound of his control shattering under the dual assault of pain and pleasure.

Suguru pauses once fully buried, settling his full, heavy weight over the hips. He holds a moment of crushing stillness, the deep, intense contact confirming the surrender. He forces Satoru’s face up, demanding eye contact.

“Look at me,” Suguru commands, his gaze cold and consuming. “This belongs to me. Every shuddering inch of it is my property.”

The tempo begins slowly, heavily. Each thrust is deep, measured, and agonizingly slow, focused on depth and friction. Suguru watches Satoru fight for speed, driven by the urgency of release, but he denies him, moving with cruel, measured precision. He observes the intense need and frustrated fury in Satoru’s eyes, using the slow pace as a deliberate, exquisite torment.

“Not yet,” Suguru breathes against Satoru’s ear, the raw control in his voice absolute. “You will appreciate the obedience you earned.”

Suguru grants the final plea not with mercy, but with devastating, necessary speed. The slow, deep rhythm shatters, replaced instantly by the hard and fast pace Satoru had been agonizingly denied. The force is brutal and precise, the impact of their slick bodies heavy and loud against the mats. Every urgent thrust is a final, primal assertion of his claim, devouring Satoru's focus until his own climax is nothing more than a desperate, choked sound of complete physical release, immediately followed by the possessive weight of his own shattering control.

The rhythm breaks—and everything goes still.

The body beneath Suguru seizes once, then falls open, the tension dissolving all at once. For a heartbeat, Suguru doesn't move. He just listens to the sudden quiet, to the faint, hollow drag of Satoru’s breath flattening against his collarbone. The skin under his palms feels too cool now, the pulse too shallow.

Suguru moves instantly—slowing, shifting, adjusting without fully breaking contact. The air around them hums with spent heat. Satoru’s eyes are open, unfocused, lashes clumped with sweat; his lips part soundlessly, his breath catching like it’s forgotten how to function. The proud, impossible man who had burned under him moments ago is gone—this body feels emptied, stripped down to its smallest, most owned shape.

“Breathe,” Suguru says, his voice a low drag against Satoru’s ear. “Match me.”

Suguru’s palm presses firmly against Satoru’s sternum, feeling the stuttering, arrhythmic thud beneath the skin. He breathes with him, slow and intentional, matching the fragile pull of air until Satoru’s lungs follow his rhythm by instinct. The tremors under his touch are small but constant; his skin is slick, cooling too fast.

Suguru drags the crumpled sheet up around them, the fabric whispering against raw skin. The movement is deliberate—slow, smoothing, controlled—covering Satoru’s body like a gesture of ownership disguised as care.

Suguru leans in, the scent of him still everywhere: sweat, musk, faint leather, the heat of sex fading into something metallic and clean. Suguru finds the space behind Satoru’s ear, lets his breath move against the damp skin there.

“You’re safe,” Suguru murmurs, the words steady and heavy, not a comfort so much as an order. “You did well.”

The sound Satoru makes in reply is faint—barely a voice, more a shiver turned to sound. It hits Suguru like a spark in the dark: helpless, involuntary, a noise he’s never heard from him before, confirming the absolute break.

Suguru shifts his weight again, pulling Satoru’s body tighter to his own until their skin aligns. The weight is grounding, the tremors slowly dulling under the steady pressure. Suguru’s hand trails lower, across the lattice of fresh welts, the faint indents left by rope. He traces each line with the soft drag of his fingertips, cataloging them—where Satoru had strained, where he had yielded, where he’d finally broken open.

Satoru’s breath stumbles again when Suguru’s hand reaches his lower back. The sound is small and sharp, halfway between need and surrender. Suguru keeps his touch steady, his voice lower now, rough with something he doesn’t bother to name.

“You gave me everything,” Suguru says, his tone halfway between praise and promise. “Every part of you I wanted.”

Suguru feels Satoru exhale into his chest, the faintest tremor of sound slipping out with it. His fingers clutch weakly at the sheet, grasping at something just to stay tethered. Suguru bends, his mouth brushing the edge of his temple, the kiss almost imperceptible but deliberate.

“Good,” Suguru murmurs, the single word weighted and slow. “That’s it. You’re here.”

Suguru keeps one hand at the back of Satoru’s neck, thumb rubbing small, steady circles against the damp hairline until the shivers start to fade. His other hand traces the curve of Satoru’s shoulder, mapping him back into coherence. Each touch is methodical, coaxing him into his body again.

When Suguru finally speaks again, his voice is softer, quieter, but the command beneath it hasn’t lessened.

“Now breathe for me,” Suguru whispers. “Slow. Deeper. Good—just like that.”

Suguru feels the obedience in the breath that follows, the way Satoru’s chest rises against him. The control slides naturally back into place—his to hold, his to release.

“That’s my good boy,” Suguru says, low enough that the words barely reach air. They vibrate more than sound. “You did exactly what I wanted.”

The sentence lands like touch, and for the first time since the drop, Satoru exhales fully—breath deep, body slackening, surrender turning into safety. Suguru holds him there, the two of them caught in the soft pulse of shared rhythm.

The silence that follows is not empty.

It hums, full of breath and body and quiet ownership—the still, perfect aftermath of breaking something precious and knowing exactly how to put it back together.