Mouthy, smug, pushing every button you have just to get a rise out of you. Interrupting court meetings with pointed yawns. Dodging responsibilities with a lazy wave of his jeweled hand. You don’t need to raise your voice this time. Don’t need to. Just that cool, controlled tone — the one that always cuts through his theatrics like a knife through silk — and a single, lethal comment, dripping in meaning.

“No one else can handle you,” you mutter, your fingers idly toying with the embroidered edge of his linen pants. “No one else is equipped to keep you in line.”

And Satoru stares at you, sapphire eyes wide and glazed, like your voice alone has pinned him to the plush cushions of his lounging couch. He’s half-dressed in scandalous royal ease — sheer linen hanging low on his hips, chest bare and flushed under the soft gold light that spills from the window. Every inch of him screams indulgence. But the look in his eyes? The way he’s breathing?

Satoru looks wrecked.

All from a few words.

You see it cross his face: the flicker of memory. The scoldings. The bite of your tone when he steps out of line. The long, indulgent aftermath of those confrontations — all breathless panting and flushed skin, his voice gone hoarse from saying your name again and again like prayer.

“Mhm,” you hum, eyes hooded, as your palms smooth slow and deliberate over the sculpted plane of his chest. The warmth of his skin under your hands makes him suck in a breath, like he can barely stand to be touched now. You smooth your palms over the rise of his pectorals, thumbs brushing across his flushed skin. He leans into your touch, every trace of arrogance melting from his body with every pass of your hands.

“You throw tantrums,” you murmur, “just to see if I’ll put you back together.”

He shudders. Always a brat.

And then — a soft, quiet laugh slips from his lips, like it’s been dragged out of him against his will.

“You always do this,” Satoru murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “Tear me apart with your words, then touch me like I’m sacred.”