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Unwanted desire

The Liturgy of the Leash

The sun rose over the Mendō estate with its usual redundant splendor, but for Shūtarō Mendō, the light was merely a spotlight on his mounting insanity. He sat at his mahogany desk, his head resting in his hands. His eyes were rimmed with the dark circles of a man who had fought a war against his own sleep and lost every single skirmish.

It had been a week since the "incident" in the school infirmary. A week since Lum’s alien device had broadcast his deepest, most humiliating subconscious fantasies to his peers. He had thought that by conquering the giant Dream-Ataru, he had purged the rot from his soul. He was wrong.

The dreams had changed, yes, but they hadn't stopped. They had become more elaborate, more frequent, and—if such a thing were possible—even more degrading. Two nights ago, he had dreamed he was a Victorian maid scrubbing Ataru’s floors while the lecherous peasant lounged in a silk robe. Last night, he was a captive merman in Ataru’s private aquarium, being fed flakes of cheap fish food. And every single time, he woke up to the same damp, devastating evidence that his body was a traitor to his mind.

"It is a physiological impossibility," Shūtarō hissed to the empty room. "I loathe that man. I despise his very cellular structure. Why does my brain insist on treating him like a deity of the dark arts?"

A sudden, sharp *clack* at the window made him jump nearly out of his skin. He whirled around, hand instinctively reaching for his katana, only to find the diminutive, monk-like figure of Cherry pressed against the glass.

"The stench of spiritual corruption is particularly pungent this morning, young master," Cherry said, his voice muffled by the pane before he somehow phased through the glass and landed on the expensive rug.

"You!" Shūtarō barked, though his voice lacked its usual aristocratic bite. "How did you get past the Black Glasses? The perimeter is guarded by heat-seeking sensors and trained Dobermans!"

"Dobermans are easily distracted by high-quality jerky," Cherry replied, producing a small bowl of steaming noodles from the depths of his robes and beginning to slurp loudly. "But your problem is not one of security, Mendō-kun. It is a congestion of the destiny. A blockage in the pipes of your karma."

Shūtarō slumped back into his chair. At this point, even a wandering monk who lived in a tent was a better option than another night of being Ataru’s mental footstool. "You know of my... predicament?"

"The gossip of Tomobiki travels on the wind," Cherry said, wiping broth from his chin. "And that wind currently smells of golden collars and repressed desires. You are suffering from a 'Lust-Lock.' A very rare condition where the more you deny an attraction, the more the universe forces you to confront it in the realm of Morpheus."

"I am not attracted to him!" Shūtarō shrieked, slamming his fists onto the desk. "He is a commoner! A pervert! A man who thinks a date is sharing a single order of takoyaki!"

"The heart is a strange organ," Cherry mused, ignoring the outburst. "It does not care for bank accounts or social standing. It only knows what it craves in the dark. But yours is a special case. Because of the sheer intensity of your rivalry, your subconscious has twisted your hatred into its only available opposite. You have created a mental loop. And there is only one way to break it."

Shūtarō leaned forward, a glimmer of hope in his tired eyes. "Tell me. I will pay anything. I will donate a temple! I will build a golden statue of your face!"

Cherry looked up, his expression uncharacteristically grave. "To end the dreams, you must bring them into the light of day. You must recreate the dream in reality."

The silence that followed was so heavy it felt as though the mansion itself were holding its breath. Shūtarō’s face went through a kaleidoscope of colors—from pale white to a sickly green, finally settling on a vibrant, horrified purple.

"You... you want me to... with Moroboshi?" Shūtarō whispered, the words tasting like poison. "In a collar? In reality?"

"The subconscious is like a spoiled child," Cherry explained, poking at a piece of narutomaki. "It screams because it wants something it cannot have. Once it sees the reality—the awkwardness, the smell of Ataru’s unwashed socks, the sheer pathetic nature of the actual man—the fantasy will shatter. The 'Lust-Lock' will break because the dream will no longer have the mystery of the forbidden. You must play the part of the 'good dog' just once, and your brain will realize how truly disgusting it is."

"I would rather be eaten by a giant octopus," Shūtarō moaned, burying his face in his hands. "I would rather be trapped in a dark, cramped box for eternity."

"Then prepare for a lifetime of wet dreams involving Ataru in various costumes," Cherry said, turning to leave. "I hear tomorrow night’s forecast is 'Ataru as a Roman Emperor.' Very taxing on the silk sheets, I imagine."

"Wait!" Shūtarō cried out. He stood up, his legs shaking. "If... if I do this... it must be handled with the utmost secrecy. No one can know. Especially not Lum-san. If she saw this, she would electrocute us both into cinders out of sheer confusion."

"The monk provides the ritual, not the audience," Cherry said, disappearing into a cloud of smoke that smelled suspiciously of miso.

Two hours later, Shūtarō found himself in the back of his limousine, clutching a small velvet bag. He had spent the morning in a state of dissociative fugue, ordering his most loyal and—more importantly—most tight-lipped Black Glasses to clear out a private warehouse on the outskirts of Tomobiki.

He had sent a message to Ataru. It was a simple note, written on gold-flecked stationery: *Meet me at Warehouse 4. Bring your appetite. I have something for you that is better than money.*

He knew Ataru’s weaknesses. Food and the promise of something mysterious were the only things that could lure the boy anywhere without Lum in tow.

When Shūtarō arrived at the warehouse, his heart was hammering against his ribs like a frantic prisoner. The interior was dimly lit, draped in expensive red velvet to mimic the shadows of his dream. In the center of the room sat a single, ornate chair.

"Mendō? You in here?"

Ataru’s voice echoed through the space, sounding annoyingly casual. The boy stepped into the light, looking around with a suspicious squint. "What’s with the decor? It looks like a cheap set for a vampire movie. Where’s the food? You promised something better than money, and I better not be talking about 'friendship.'"

Shūtarō stepped out from behind a curtain. He was wearing his usual white suit, but his tie was missing. His collar was open. In his hand, he held the golden chain.

"Moroboshi," Shūtarō said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again, adopting the stiff, formal tone he used for board meetings. "I have... an offer. A psychological experiment. If you participate, I will give you a lifetime pass to the Mendō family’s private buffet."

Ataru’s eyes widened. "A lifetime pass? Like, all-you-can-eat? Even the expensive melon?"

"Even the melon," Shūtarō choked out. "But you must follow my instructions exactly. You must... you must play a role."

Ataru crossed his arms, looking Mendō up and down. "A role? What, am I supposed to be your butler? Forget it. I don't take orders from guys who parachute into school."

"No," Shūtarō said, closing his eyes. He knelt down on the cold floor. "I... I need you to be the Master."

Ataru froze. He looked at Shūtarō on his knees. He looked at the golden chain. A slow, terrifying grin began to spread across his face—the look of a predator who had just realized the lion had turned into a housecat.

"Oh," Ataru said, his voice dropping into a mock-baritone. "Oh, I see. The dream wasn't enough, was it, Shūtarō? You want the real thing."

"Shut up!" Shūtarō hissed, his face burning. "Just do it! Take the chain! Call me... call me the thing!"

Ataru walked over with a swagger that made Shūtarō want to vomit. He snatched the end of the chain. He didn't pull it yet; he just let it jingle in the quiet warehouse.

"You know, Mendō, I always knew you were a weirdo," Ataru said, circling him like a shark. "But this? This is top-tier. Okay, fine. If it gets me that melon, I’ll play along."

Ataru took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and tried to look commanding. He gave the chain a sharp, experimental tug. "Uh... good dog, Mendō? Go... go fetch me a soda?"

Shūtarō shivered. The sensation of the weight on his neck in the real world was nothing like the dream. In the dream, it had been a heavy, erotic burden. In reality, it felt cold, itchy, and profoundly stupid. He looked up at Ataru—really looked at him.

He saw the mustard stain on Ataru’s school jacket. He saw the way Ataru’s nose was slightly runny from the cold draft in the warehouse. He saw the frantic, idiotic gleam in Ataru’s eyes that suggested the boy was already thinking about how to use the buffet pass to impress Shinobu.

The mystery was dying. The "Lust-Lock" was beginning to creak.

"You have to say it with more... authority," Shūtarō whispered, desperate to get this over with. "Pull me closer. Like the dream."

Ataru rolled his eyes. "Geez, you’re demanding for a pet. Fine."

Ataru sat down in the ornate chair and pulled the chain with a grunt. Shūtarō was dragged forward, his knees scuffing against the velvet rug. He ended up right between Ataru’s legs, looking up at the boy’s face.

"Okay," Ataru said, trying to look smoldering but mostly just looking like he had a stomach ache. "Sit on my lap, Shūtarō. I have... uh... manly needs. Like, I need you to go buy me those limited edition Jump magazines."

Shūtarō moved to sit, his mind screaming in protest. As he settled onto Ataru’s lap, he felt the bony, awkward reality of Moroboshi’s frame. There was no radiating heat. There was no divine authority. There was just a skinny, loud-mouthed teenager who smelled faintly of cheap convenience store ramen and desperation.

Ataru, feeling the awkwardness of a rival sitting on him, started to fidget. "Hey, you’re heavier than you look. What do you eat, bricks? And your hair is getting in my mouth. Move over."

Shūtarō froze. He looked at Ataru’s face from inches away. In the dream, this moment was a crescendo of forbidden passion. In reality, he could see a stray hair growing out of a mole on Ataru’s chin.

"This is..." Shūtarō started.

"Awkward?" Ataru finished, his bravado failing. "Yeah. It really is. I feel like I’m holding a very expensive, very depressed sack of potatoes."

Suddenly, the warehouse doors creaked open. A sliver of moonlight cut through the darkness, illuminating the two of them in their compromising position.

"Darling?"

The voice was like a thunderclap. Shūtarō and Ataru both bolted upright, the golden chain clattering to the floor.

Lum was hovering in the doorway, her hair glowing a violent, neon green. Beside her stood Shinobu, Ryūnosuke, and Sakura, all of whom looked like they had just witnessed a multi-car pileup.

"I knew it!" Lum cried, her voice vibrating with electric tension. "I felt a disturbance in the Darling-force! Mendō-kun, you really *did* kidnap him to play house!"

"It’s not what it looks like!" Shūtarō screamed, scrambling to his feet and desperately trying to hide the collar behind his back. "It’s a ritual! A spiritual cleansing! Cherry told me to do it!"

"Cherry?" Sakura stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she took in the velvet drapes and the golden chain. "Mendō, even for you, this is a pathetic excuse. You’re using my uncle’s insanity to justify your... hobbies?"

Shinobu looked like she was about to burst into tears. "Mendō-kun... I thought the dream was just a fluke. But you actually bought the props? You had a set built?"

Ryūnosuke just turned around and started walking back toward the street. "I’m done. I’m leaving Tomobiki. I’m going to go find a mountain and live as a hermit. At least the bears don't have golden collars."

Ataru, sensing the impending lightning strike, tried to point at Mendō. "It was his idea! He promised me melon! Lum, honey, I’m the victim! I was being held against my will by the power of high-end catering!"

"DARLING!" Lum shrieked, the electricity finally snapping. "YOU LIKED IT! I SAW YOU SMIRKING!"

"NO, I DIDN'T! IT WAS ITCHY!"

A massive bolt of lightning tore through the warehouse, illuminating the red velvet in a blinding blue strobe. Ataru and Shūtarō were lifted off their feet, their skeletons momentarily visible as the Oni’s wrath coursed through them.

They collapsed into a charred heap on the rug, smoke rising from their singed hair.

Shūtarō lay there, staring at the ceiling. His body ached, his pride was a smoldering ruin, and he was fairly certain he would be the laughingstock of the Mendō Zaibatsu for the next three generations.

But as he looked over at the twitching, blackened form of Ataru Moroboshi, something strange happened. He didn't feel the urge to serve. He didn't feel a hidden spark of desire. He felt a deep, profound sense of revulsion.

The image of Ataru’s mole-hair was burned into his retinas. The smell of the singed school uniform was a perfect antidote to any lingering fantasy.

"It worked," Shūtarō wheezed, a small, hysterical laugh escaping his lips. "The curse... it’s broken. I hate him. I truly, deeply hate him again."

Ataru coughed up a cloud of smoke. "Can I... can I still have the melon?"

"Die, Moroboshi," Shūtarō whispered with genuine, heartfelt sincerity.

Lum landed on top of Ataru, pouting. "If you want to play 'good dog,' you have to play it with me! I’ll go buy a collar tomorrow!"

"No!" Ataru and Shūtarō shouted in perfect, terrified unison.

As the girls dragged the two boys out of the warehouse, Cherry appeared on a nearby roof, finishing his bowl of noodles. He watched the group disappear into the night, a small smile on his face.

"The pipes are clear," the monk mused. "But the bill for the warehouse rental is going to be quite substantial."

That night, Shūtarō Mendō slept in his dark, cramped bed. He didn't dream of collars. He didn't dream of laps. He dreamed of a giant, glorious octopus that lived in a world where Ataru Moroboshi had never been born.

He woke up the next morning, checked his silk pajamas, and found them perfectly, blissfully dry. He walked to the window, looked out over his vast estate, and let out a triumphant cry.

"I AM FREE!"

"Shut up, brother!" Ryōko’s voice drifted up from the garden. "I’m trying to train the Dobermans to wear these new gold-plated muzzles I bought! They look just like you!"

Shūtarō’s smile faltered. He looked down to see his sister holding a leash, looking up at him with a grin that promised a whole new kind of nightmare.

"The war," Shūtarō sighed, reaching for his katana, "never truly ends."