Dohko was a man of great strength, yet with you, that strength was always tempered by an unmistakable gentleness. He had a habit of handling you like you weighed nothing at all—lifting you off the ground effortlessly when you were too slow to follow, pulling you into his lap when he wanted you close, or tossing you over his shoulder just to hear your startled gasp.

Even when he was being playful, there was always a layer of care beneath it. If he carried you somewhere, his grip was steady, secure. If he pinned you down during training, his hold was firm but never bruising. And when he pulled you into an embrace, arms wrapping around you with undeniable possessiveness, you knew there was nowhere safer than right there in his grasp.

It wasn’t just about control—it was about trust. The way he could move you so easily yet never once made you feel powerless. The way his touch could be both commanding and comforting at the same time. With Dohko, being manhandled wasn’t just a show of strength—it was a silent promise that he would always hold you, always protect you, and never let you fall.