Naoya Zenin shouldn’t be on the floor.

Cursed bindings hold him fast at your feet, not just restraining him but deciding for him. Every instinct screams to rise, to snarl, to assert, but his body stays where it’s been placed. Still. Waiting. The realization crawls under his skin before he can crush it.

This is humiliation.

And the arousal coils tighter for it.

Being bound strips everything away: status, authority, the endless demand to dominate. There is nothing expected of him here. No performance. No command. Just obedience enforced by circumstance, and the unbearable relief of not having to fight it.

He looks up at you, glare faltering into something sharper, needier, infuriatingly quiet. His breath steadies, not with control, but with acceptance.

“…Don’t get the wrong idea,” he mutters, voice low, brittle. The words lack conviction. He doesn’t pull at the bindings again. He knows better now. Resistance isn’t defiance, it’s indulgence.

So he stays still.

At your feet.

Aroused by the fact that he doesn’t get to choose anymore.

Naoya hates himself for it.

Hates that part of him is listening. Waiting. Ready to remain exactly where he’s been put.