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The first thing he notices about Yuusaku is how tall he is—almost absurdly so, like he's something just slightly more than a man. The second thing Ogata notices is his hands. They're proportional to the rest of him, which means they're obscenely large. He's square-palmed and long-fingered, and even his cuticles are neat.
How dreadful, Ogata thinks, but he catches himself watching Yuusaku's hands idly, and he wonders how they'd feel around his throat. Warm, he supposes, and heavy. Steady and tight against the thick beat of his pulse, if he's lucky.
He can't shake the thought of it, once it occurs to him. He watches Yuusaku gesture as he speaks, watches him fidget nervously, watches him straighten his uniform or tug down the brim of his cap. And increasingly, he wants to know. He watches Yuusaku's hands and imagines being choked by him, and something kicks under his ribs. Like laughter, like nausea, like hunger.
What would it take, he wonders, to make him do it?
It seems impossible. There's no violence in him, no simmering malcontent that Ogata can put his hooks in. His good nature is built on that sturdy foundation. The only thing that gives Ogata any hope at all that he might be corruptible is how manufactured it all is. Yuusaku carries himself with the sort of meticulous care that doesn't suit anyone, much less a man of his station. There's something almost wasteful about how unnecessary it is.
No one would blink if Yuusaku were crass and thoughtless and domineering, if he simply took up all of the space that he's afforded. No one would ever dare to think him boorish, to regard him the way they regard Ogata simply for existing.
But Ogata can see him working at it, expending a bewildering amount of effort to behave exactly as he thinks he's supposed to in any given situation. Even when he is stern with his men, or casual with his peers, it feels deliberate. It's only when they're alone, he's finding, that anything about Yuusaku seems genuine. And even then, even at his most unguarded, the thing he's apparently keeping sequestered away like a dreadful secret is that he's nice.
Because with Ogata, and perhaps only with Ogata, he is unfailingly polite. He's reverent even when he has his cock jammed up Ogata's ass, all soft hands and soft murmurs and soft smiles. Like he thinks that makes it any better, like he thinks he's being kind.
Like most things about him, Ogata finds it almost insulting. He would be easier to tolerate, Ogata thinks, if he were less considerate. If Yuusaku would just hurt him, he'd be able to make sense of it all. If Yuusaku would strike him, would order him around, would push him down and kick his thighs apart with no regard for his comfort, it would match the way it feels to be in his presence.
But the symmetry is missing, always, and Ogata finds himself searching for it with morbid curiosity. He wants Yuusaku to understand that he's only using Ogata for his own pleasure, just like any other man who decides to fuck his subordinate. He wants Yuusaku to maneuver him around like so much unthinking flesh and use his body in whatever way so pleases him without acting like it means something.
And more than anything, he's finding, he wants to feel Yuusaku's hands at his throat. He wants to feel Yuusaku squeezing the life out of him as he fucks him. He wants to feel his windpipe crunching under his brother's hands, wants to wheeze and struggle and buck up against him as his awareness dims into nothing. He wants Yuusaku to commit violence, to commit murder, and to know the inexorable truth of it in his own flesh.
When Ogata finally suggests it, he's sitting astride Yuusaku's hips—in his lap, chest to chest, and he's been there for what feels like hours, riding him at a leisurely pace to watch him squirm. It's a measured tease, or it's supposed to be, but Ogata is finding himself increasingly focused on his own pleasure. He's tuning into the decadence of it, forgetting himself in the feeling of being filled and fucked, losing sight of the game he's been playing.
There's something excellent about Yuusaku letting him take what he wants like this, something correct. Yuusaku is panting underneath him, flushed and dumb-struck, staring up at him with hazy-eyed awe.
That, Ogata thinks, is exactly how he should be.
Yuusaku's broad hands are at his waist, fingers sprawling up behind his ribs like they're allowed, spanning over an offensive amount of his back. Ogata doesn't like feeling small, and there's no other way to feel around him—but Yuusaku's cock is thick and warm inside of him, stirring him up so sweetly that he can't think straight. He's so turned on that it's making him stupid, and he knows it.
"Can you do something for me, sir," he says, not quite a question.
Yuusaku makes a vague little noise underneath him, hips twitching up abortively. It's not really an answer, but he's trying. A more charitable man might find it a commendable effort, might find it cute.
Ogata smiles down at him, as slow and as easy as he can manage with his heart pounding suddenly in his throat. "I want you to choke me."
And Yuusaku stills underneath him. "What?"
Ogata circles his hips, slow and insistent, and he watches Yuusaku's lips part as he gasps. "Choke me," he repeats.
Yuusaku lets Ogata pull him by the wrists, fitting his huge, warm hands against the curve of his throat. His fingers curl reflexively against Ogata's skin, holding him, but not applying any pressure. Not at the front, not where he needs it.
"I couldn't," he says, carefully, voice halting. His expression is uncomprehending, like he's trying to puzzle out what's happening.
Ogata presses his hands over Yuusaku's, fingers tucked between his own, and squeezes. It's a poor imitation of being strangled, but the suggestion alone is exciting. The feeling of it trips down his spine to his toes, and he grinds down on Yuusaku's cock, harder and quicker. Yuusaku's hands are slack underneath his own, but Ogata can pretend. Ogata can press his hands over Yuusaku's and shut his eyes and imagine that it's real. So he does, and Yuusaku lets him, but it isn't enough.
Yuusaku is already an overbearing presence—following him everywhere, too-close and dogging his footsteps, towering over him and bulling him up against walls and kissing him breathless. He puts his massive hands all over Ogata's skin like he can never, ever get enough, touches him everywhere and fucks him so thoroughly that it feels like being flayed open and hung out to dry.
Ogata already can't breathe. He's already smothered by Yuusaku's mere existence, already trapped under the shape they make and going delirious with it.
What's a little choking, Ogata thinks, compared to that?
But this is where Yuusaku draws the line of unkindness, apparently. It would be funny if it weren't driving him insane.
"Ani-sama," Yuusaku says, uncertainly, pulling his hands away.
And Ogata thinks, how dare you. How dare you deny me even this.
"Don't you like me, sir?" Ogata asks hollowly, and he watches something like horror bloom in Yuusaku's gaze.
"Of course I do," he says, crowding in close. "I—Ani-sama, I—"
Ogata kisses him before he can say anything stupid, and Yuusaku melts into his touch, the nervous tension bleeding out of him at the easy press of their mouths.
"Can't you do this for me, then?" he asks, and the tension comes back all at once.
It's something to behold, the way Yuusaku's mouth tucks into a little frown, the visible conflict in his face. Finally, with something like determination, he sets a hand against Ogata's neck of his own volition and stares at the shape of it there. He strokes his thumb against the column of Ogata's throat, unspeakably careful.
"Would that make you happy?" he asks, quietly, and Ogata laughs.
"Is that what you want, sir? To make me happy?"
Yuusaku chews his lip thoughtfully, like he doesn't hear the derision in it, and after a moment he lifts his gaze to look Ogata in the eye, slow and almost shy. "Yes," he says.
And it shouldn't feel—it shouldn't feel like anything to hear him say that. But something about it clenches in his belly, hot and satisfied.
"Then yes. Be a good little brother," Ogata says, and Yuusaku flushes prettily at that, "and make me happy."
Yuusaku swallows carefully. "Okay," he says.
"Both hands," he instructs, and Yuusaku obeys, thumbs criss-crossed just underneath his larynx. "When I want you to stop, I'll tap twice." He reaches up and taps the back of Yuusaku's wrist. "Like this."
"Okay," Yuusaku echoes. He doesn't look sure, but that's all right. Ogata doesn't need him to enjoy it; Ogata just needs him to do it. He rocks his hips encouragingly, and Yuusaku seems to appreciate that, at least. Yuusaku takes a steadying breath, and then he's squeezing Ogata's throat shut, and that's—
It hurts almost immediately, pressure in his throat stabbing up to his head and down into his lungs. He knows instantly that Yuusaku's never been choked in his life, because if he knew that it felt like this, he wouldn't be doing it.
And fuck, fuck, it feels good. His head spins, and his chest burns heavy and sharp, and he squirms against Yuusaku, and the delirious, dying part of his brain stutters yes yes yes I need this I need you yes.
But then Yuusaku is loosening his grip, peering up at him with worry.
And it's a nice, warm feeling, the blood rushing back to his head, but Ogata is nauseatingly tired of nice. He rasps uncontrollably as his vision comes back into focus, and he doesn't want to see the way that Yuusaku is looking at him.
"Did I say you could stop?" he snaps, and something shutters in Yuusaku's gaze.
"No, Ani-sama," he says, and his voice is hollowed out and finally, finally relieved of its softness. It isn't the way he addresses his brother; it's the way he addresses his superiors.
When he closes his hands around Ogata's throat again, there's nothing tentative in his touch. If there's one thing Yuusaku can do without hesitation, it's following orders. He squeezes again with a kind of mechanical precision that Ogata doesn't expect, and fuck, he's strong. Yuusaku could kill him like this; he's sure of it. Never mind choking him to death, Yuusaku could snap his neck.
He ruts against Yuusaku encouragingly, and the feeling of it is electric. He feels stretched thin, pain expanding inside of him and pushing pleasure to the surface. Everything feels closer, sharper, vivid. There's an animal terror worming its way up his spine, instinctive, taking root in the back of his brain in response to being so utterly overpowered.
This, Ogata thinks, is exactly how he wants to die. Slow and excruciating, with his blood roaring in his ears like this. With Yuusaku looming over him, unsmiling at last.
He wants to be the first person Yuusaku ever kills, wants to rob him of that first like he has all the others.
Ogata comes embarrassingly quickly, and harder than he expects. His hips move of their own accord, uncontrolled, and he scratches up Yuusaku's forearms, thighs shaking around Yuusaku's hips. He feels doughy and weak, so sensitive that the mere feeling of skin on skin is overwhelming, and he pushes faintly at Yuusaku's chest.
Yuusaku doesn't budge.
Dim alarm rises in him as he realizes that he can't actually throw Yuusaku off, that Yuusaku is too strong. He squirms and struggles and Yuusaku is staring at him with an utterly unreadable expression, fingers still unflinchingly tight around his throat.
And finally Ogata remembers, that's right, he's already reprimanded Yuusaku once for letting up too soon. For all that Yuusaku needs coaching, he's a quick study. Ogata has never seen him make the same mistake twice. Part of him wonders how far he can push it. Would Yuusaku stop if he passed out? Would Yuusaku strangle him to death like this, thighs kicked apart, cum streaked up his belly?
The thought of it is exhilarating.
It's with some regret—and some difficulty—that Ogata reaches up and taps his fingers against the back of Yuusaku's hand, and the grip on his throat goes instantly slack. It would be disappointing, but there's the hot rush of relief, so stark and overwhelming that it feels like coming all over again. His head is throbbing, vision blurred, his thoughts foggy and unshaped. He registers vaguely that Yuusaku is gentling him down onto his back and turning away, and Ogata feels suddenly exposed without him there. He wants to be trapped underneath him, wants to be held down and smothered and fucked.
He coughs and rasps, bright spots swimming in his vision. It's a long moment before he catches his breath, and he's lost in it, light-headed and reeling, soft and sated and shaking despite himself. When he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, it comes away disgustingly wet. He hadn't noticed he was drooling all over himself, but it only makes sense. That does tend to happen, he thinks, with faint amusement.
He must be a sight, he realizes. Men go dreadful colors when they're choked.
Yuusaku must have been horrified to see him like that, eyes bloodshot and bulging, purple-faced, twitching and drooling. That he kept going anyway is almost sweet. He glances over to see that Yuusaku is curled away from him, and Ogata assumes he's jerking himself off, at first. But as his head clears and the buzzing fades in his ears, he recognizes the quiet hitching of Yuusaku's breath as something else entirely.
Ogata sighs. He doesn't want to deal with this, but he supposes he ought to, if he wants Yuusaku to ever touch him again.
"Are you crying, sir?" he asks, as neutral as he can manage. His voice comes out scratchy and rough, and there's a long moment of mortified silence.
"I'm sorry," Yuusaku mumbles, finally.
How exhausting it must be, Ogata thinks, to be sorry about everything all the time. He rolls up behind Yuusaku, mouthing at his trembling shoulder.
"Don't be sorry, sir," he says, going for a sultry murmur this time to disguise the hoarseness of his voice. It only works so well, but at least Yuusaku doesn't freeze up at the sound of it this time. "I had a very good time. Didn't you?"
"No, Ani-sama," Yuusaku says, quiet and halting and wet. "Please don't make me do that again."
Ogata isn't going to apologize, but he thinks he ought to reward Yuusaku for being so cooperative. Positive reinforcement, he thinks, like training a dog. He ought to teach him how nice it can be, to do as he's told.
"You did so well for me," he murmurs, nipping at Yuusaku's ear. He slides his hand around Yuusaku's front and finds that his erection has flagged considerably, but that's all right. It isn't hard to work him up; it never is, and Ogata has long since stopped trying to parse out if it's pathetic or flattering or both. He licks behind Yuusaku's ear as he touches him, a tender spot that makes Yuusaku whimper softly.
"You did exactly what I asked, sir," Ogata says. "That made me very happy."
Yuusaku shivers and tips his face up, his cock filling quickly in Ogata's grasp. "You—ah—you make me happy, too, Ani-sama," he says, with unerring obedience, but Ogata knows that it's true.
Something desirous grips in his belly, viscerally pleasing. No one else has gotten to possess Yuusaku like this, he thinks, and no one else ever will. This is his.
He kisses the slope of Yuusaku's neck, a little reward for his cooperation. "We can do what you want, now," he offers. "Fair's fair, sir."
Yuusaku doesn't respond. Maybe he's thinking about it, calculating his options, or maybe he's just blissed out from barely being touched. It could be either, with him.
"Whatever you want, sir," Ogata prompts, giving his cock a squeeze. It's warm and heavy in his hand, and Yuusaku makes a soft little noise, pushing helplessly into his grip.
"Could we," Yuusaku mumbles, and out of the corner of his eye, Ogata can see him blushing terribly. "Could we kiss? Please?"
Always this, he thinks with some exasperation, but there's no harm in it. He climbs over Yuusaku, pushing him onto his back and fitting their mouths together, and Yuusaku pulls him in reflexively. One huge hand fitted at the slope of his back, the other stroking up the length of his spine to cradle the back of his head.
Yuusaku kisses sweetly, always, but there's an edge to it, too. It's clear that he wants so badly, but doesn't quite know how to take. He's never quite figured out how to let go.
Yuusaku whines against his mouth and licks at him, a little messier than usual, a little desperate. Hands sliding all over his skin, touching him like it's an indulgence. He kisses like he's looking for something—some reassurance that Ogata is okay, maybe, that they are okay. Maybe he just wants to be sure that he's still allowed to have this, that he can slide their tongues together slow and firm like a declaration and Ogata will let him.
"Do you want my mouth?" Ogata prompts, pulling back far enough to look at him. "My ass?"
But Yuusaku shakes his head, fingers sliding up to pet at Ogata's bristle-short hair. "Just like this," he says. He catches Ogata's gaze, and he smiles shyly even as he pushes his cock, huge and already obscenely hard, into Ogata's fist. "Please?"
For fuck's sake, Ogata thinks, but he doesn't argue.
Yuusaku pulls him back in, kisses getting sloppier, making sharp little noises in his throat as Ogata jerks him off. All Ogata ever has to do is give him the slightest quarter, and he acts terribly spoiled.
That part, at least, Ogata understands. Of course Yuusaku is a needy little brat, he thinks. It makes more sense than anything else about him. He thumbs over the head of Yuusaku's cock—and he's so wet already—and Yuusaku gasps, hips twitching up.
"Ani-sama, I'm—oh—"
And Ogata smiles against his mouth, pleased at reducing him to this, at baring this raw and unguarded thing.
"Can you come for me, sir?" he purrs, and Yuusaku's cock jerks in his grasp.
Yuusaku leans up to kiss him again, mouth demanding and sure, hands drawing him in. Mouthing desperately at him, going uncoordinated and slack as he comes messily in Ogata's hand.
Cum drips over his fingers, slow and thick, and Ogata keeps working him, gripping tightly. He squeezes his cum-slick hand tight as he slides it up over Yuusaku’s over-sensitized cock, and Yuusaku shudders underneath him. "Ani-sama," he gasps, as Ogata bites at his mouth. "Ani-sama—"
Yuusaku trembles and twitches his hips and bears it until Ogata decides he’s had enough. If nothing else, Ogata supposes, they can make use of how well-behaved he is. How determined he is to do well, how much he’s willing to endure.
And if he's lucky, he thinks, he'll get Yuusaku to kill him in the end. They can still work out the details on that one, he thinks.
They still have time.