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Unwanted desire

The Voyeur in the Vault

The morning mail at the Mendō estate was usually a tedious affair of stock market reports, invitations to galas Shūtarō had no intention of attending, and the occasional death threat from a rival zaibatsu. However, the thick, unmarked manila envelope sitting atop his mahogany desk this morning felt different. It was heavy, devoid of a return address, and smelled faintly of darkroom chemicals.

Shūtarō Mendō, heir to fifty-one percent of Japan, adjusted his silk tie and slid a silver letter opener through the seal. He expected blackmail. He expected corporate espionage. He did not expect the sheer, unadulterated visual assault that slid out onto the polished wood.

The first photo was of Ataru Moroboshi. He was asleep, his mouth agape in a way that suggested he was catching flies, but his shirt was missing. The lighting was soft, highlighting the lean, surprisingly defined musculature of his torso—a physique built by years of running from high-voltage lightning and angry mobs.

Shūtarō’s breath hitched. He quickly flipped to the next. It was a shot from a high-angle, clearly taken through a frosted window. It was Ataru in the shower. Water droplets clung to his skin, and though the steam blurred the finer details, the silhouette was unmistakably, terrifyingly naked.

"Who… who would send such filth?" Shūtarō hissed, his fingers trembling. "This is an invasion of privacy! This is a localized catastrophe of the highest order!"

He should have burned them. He should have called the Black Glasses Squad to track down the voyeur and have them launched into the stratosphere. Instead, his eyes landed on the final photograph.

It was a candid shot taken through the Moroboshi bedroom window. Ataru was sitting on his futon, a glossy pornographic magazine spread across his lap. His eyes were half-closed, his head tilted back, and his hand was moving in a rhythmic, unmistakable motion. The expression on Ataru’s face wasn't the usual lecherous grin; it was a look of raw, focused intensity.

Shūtarō felt a sudden, violent surge of heat in his lower body. The "Pavlovian response" he had been fighting for weeks roared back to life with the force of a tidal wave. His heart hammered against his ribs, and the pressure in his trousers became an agonizing, insistent weight.

"I am cursed," he whimpered, his eyes glued to the image of his rival in the throes of self-indulgence. "I am a victim of a spiritual rot that has no cure."

He heard footsteps in the hall—Ryōko, no doubt, coming to torment him. With the speed of a man hiding a murder weapon, Shūtarō shoved the photos into his desk drawer and locked it. He spent the rest of the day in a state of dissociative panic, his mind replaying the images in a loop that made his skin feel like it was vibrating.

By that afternoon, the Mendō mansion was host to a most unwelcome gathering. A joint school project on "Traditional Architecture" had forced the group together. Lum, Ataru, Shinobu, and Ryūnosuke were currently sprawled across the tatami mats of the library, surrounded by blueprints and expensive tea.

"Darling, you’re not even looking at the drawings!" Lum complained, her horns sparking. "You’ve been staring at that gold-plated stapler for ten minutes!"

Ataru let out a long, bored groan. "Architecture is boring, Lum! It’s just boxes for people to live in. I want to see if the Mendō family keeps any secret stashes of high-end chocolate. Or maybe I’ll go find Ryōko and see if she wants to play 'hide the grenade' again."

"Moroboshi, stay where you are!" Mendō barked, though his voice was higher than usual. "The library is the only room you are permitted to occupy. My private quarters are strictly off-limits to peasants!"

"Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on, Shūtarō," Ataru muttered, standing up and stretching. "I’m just going to find the bathroom. This tea is going right through me."

Ataru wandered into the labyrinthine hallways of the mansion. He had no intention of finding the bathroom. He was on a mission for sweets, or failing that, something expensive he could pawn. He navigated past suits of armor and Ming vases until he found a door that looked particularly imposing.

"This looks like the jackpot," Ataru whispered.

He slipped inside, but it wasn't a pantry. It was Mendō’s private study. The room smelled of old paper and the expensive cologne Shūtarō wore to mask his insecurities. Ataru began rummaging through the desk, hoping for a hidden box of truffles. Instead, he saw a key sticking out of the top drawer.

"What are you hiding, Master Shūtarō?" Ataru chuckled, turning the key.

He pulled the drawer open and froze. The manila envelope was right on top. He pulled out the photos, his eyes widening as he saw his own face staring back. He flipped through them—the sleep shot, the shower shot—and then he hit the final one.

Ataru’s face went from pale to a vibrant, horrified red. "That… that’s from last Tuesday! I thought I heard a branch snap outside!"

His stomach did a slow, sickening somersault. He looked at the photos, then at the room. Mendō had these. Mendō had been looking at these.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. Mendō was coming.

"Crap! Crap, crap, crap!" Ataru panicked. There was nowhere to go. The windows were barred, and the desk was too small to hide under. In a moment of pure, unthinking desperation, he dove into the large walk-in closet against the far wall, pulling the heavy oak door shut just as the room’s main door creaked open.

Through the slats of the closet door, Ataru watched as Shūtarō Mendō entered the room. The aristocrat looked haggard. His tie was undone, and he was breathing heavily, as if he had just run a marathon.

Mendō didn't look around. He didn't check the closet. He walked straight to the desk, his hands shaking as he unlocked the drawer. He pulled the photos out and spread them across the desk like a perverse tarot reading.

"I can't stop," Mendō moaned, his voice a ragged, broken whisper. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him. I see that mouth. I see those hands."

Ataru, watching from the darkness, felt a chill of pure terror. He watched as Mendō reached for the lock on the study door, clicking it shut. Then, the heir to the Mendō Zaibatsu turned back to the desk.

Mendō’s hand went to his belt.

"No," Ataru whispered into the darkness of the closet. "No, please, anything but this."

But Shūtarō was beyond the point of reason. He gripped the edge of the desk, staring at the photo of Ataru masterbaiting. His eyes were glazed, shimmering with a mix of self-loathing and agonizing desire.

"Ataru…" Mendō gasped. It was the first time he had used the boy’s given name without a sneer. "Ataru, you… you wretched, beautiful peasant. Why do you do this to me?"

Mendō began to move. His breath came in jagged, wet hitches. The sound of shifting fabric filled the quiet room. He wasn't just jerking off; he was shaking, his entire frame vibrating with the intensity of a man who had been holding back a flood for far too long.

"I want to rip them off," Mendō hissed, his eyes fixed on the shower photo. "I want to tear those rags off your body and… and make you look at me. Only at me."

Ataru felt his knees turn to jelly. The reality of the situation was hitting him like a physical weight. Mendō wasn't just a rival. He wasn't just a weirdo with a collar fetish. He was a predator. A high-class, well-funded, obsessed predator who was currently using Ataru’s image to satisfy a dark, pulsating need.

"He wants to rape me," Ataru thought, his mind screaming in a high-pitched frequency. "He’s going to find me and he’s going to do exactly what he’s saying."

Inside the closet, Ataru’s balance failed. The combination of the blue-tinted terror and the sheer, overwhelming awkwardness of the scene made his head swim. He leaned back, hoping to steady himself against a shelf, but his elbow caught a heavy winter coat.

The coat slid off its hanger, taking a wooden shoe tree with it.

*THUMP.*

Mendō froze. His hand stopped. His breath hitched in his throat. He turned slowly toward the closet, his face a mask of primal, interrupted lust.

"Who’s there?" Mendō demanded, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register.

Ataru tried to hold his breath, but his heart was pounding so hard he was sure Mendō could hear it through the wood. He tried to shift his weight, but his foot slipped on a loose floorboard.

The closet door, which hadn't been fully latched, swung open.

Ataru tumbled out, landing in a heap on the expensive rug. He scrambled to his feet, his face ashen, his eyes wide as saucers. He looked at Mendō, who was currently standing there with his trousers partially lowered and a handful of secret photos clutched in his trembling hand.

The silence was deafening. It was the kind of silence that precedes a supernova.

"Moroboshi," Mendō whispered. The blush on his face was so intense it looked like he was bleeding.

"Mendō," Ataru squeaked. He looked down at the photos on the desk, then back at Mendō’s hand, then at Mendō’s face. "I… I was looking for the bathroom."

Mendō’s eyes darted to the photos, then to Ataru. The realization that his rival—the man he had been fantasizing about for the last twenty minutes—had seen everything was the final straw. His aristocratic composure didn't just break; it evaporated.

"You," Mendō growled. He took a step forward, his eyes burning with a dark, unhinged energy. "You saw."

"I didn't see anything!" Ataru yelled, backing away toward the locked door. "I’m blind! I have a medical condition! I don't even know who you are!"

"You saw me," Mendō repeated, his voice rising in volume. "You saw what you do to me! You saw how I… how I need you!"

Mendō lunged. He didn't draw a sword. He didn't call for the guards. He threw himself at Ataru, pinning the boy against the locked door. The smell of Mendō’s sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of his arousal were overwhelming.

"Stay away from me, you freak!" Ataru shrieked, trying to squirm out of Mendō’s grip. "I’m calling Lum! I’m calling the police! I’m calling your mother!"

"Call whoever you want!" Mendō roared, his face inches from Ataru’s. "They won't get through the door in time! You’ve been in my head for weeks, Moroboshi! You’ve been haunting my dreams, making me crawl, making me beg! Now it’s your turn!"

Mendō grabbed Ataru’s wrists, pinning them against the wood. He was stronger than he looked, fueled by the sheer, desperate adrenaline of a man whose secrets had been laid bare.

"Look at me!" Mendō commanded, his voice shaking. "Look at what you’ve done!"

Ataru looked. He saw the raw, terrifying hunger in Mendō’s eyes. He saw the way Mendō’s lip was trembling. And for the first time in his life, Ataru Moroboshi was truly, deeply afraid of a man.

"Mendō, stop," Ataru whispered, his bravado completely gone. "This isn't you. You’re a gentleman. You’re the heir to fifty-one percent of Japan."

"I am a man who has been pushed to the edge!" Mendō screamed.

He leaned in, his forehead thumping against Ataru’s. He was sobbing now, a strange, dry sound that grated against Ataru’s ears.

"Why you?" Mendō moaned. "Why do I want you so much? You’re a loser. You’re a lecher. You’re a bottom-feeding peasant. And yet, I would give every yen I own just to have you look at me the way you look at those girls in the magazines."

Ataru felt a strange, uncomfortable pang in his chest. It wasn't pity—it was something closer to recognition. He knew what it was like to want someone who didn't want you back. He knew what it was like to be driven crazy by a face. But he had never seen it directed at *him*.

"Mendō," Ataru said, his voice steadier now. "Let me go. If you do this, there’s no going back. You’ll never be able to look at me in the hallway again. You’ll never be able to draw your sword without thinking of this room."

Mendō froze. He looked at Ataru—really looked at him. The madness in his eyes flickered, replaced by a sudden, crushing wave of shame. He released Ataru’s wrists as if they were made of red-hot iron.

He backed away, falling into his desk chair. He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of his silent weeping.

"Go," Mendō whispered. "Get out. Take the photos. Burn them. Just… go."

Ataru didn't need to be told twice. He snatched the manila envelope off the desk, his hands shaking so much he almost dropped it. He unlocked the door with a frantic click and burst out into the hallway, running as if the hounds of hell were at his heels.

He didn't stop until he reached the library. He burst through the doors, gasping for air, his face ashen.

"Darling!" Lum cried, flying over to him. "Where have you been? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!"

"I… I have to go," Ataru gasped, clutching the envelope to his chest. "Lum, we’re leaving. Now."

"But the project—" Shinobu started.

"Forget the project!" Ataru yelled, his voice cracking. "We’re going! If I stay in this house another minute, I’m going to lose my mind!"

As Lum flew a bewildered Ataru out of the mansion, Shūtarō Mendō sat alone in his study. The photos were gone. The witness was gone. But the air in the room still felt heavy with the scent of his own desperation.

He looked at his hands. They were still shaking.

He reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a single, spare photo he had hidden under a pile of reports. It was another shot of Ataru, this one from the school festival, smiling at something off-camera.

Mendō closed his eyes and pressed the photo to his lips.

"I hate you," he whispered to the empty room. "I hate you so much."

But as the sun set over the Mendō estate, the heir to fifty-one percent of Japan knew that the hate was just a lie he told himself to keep from drowning. The truth was much simpler, and much more dangerous.

Shūtarō Mendō was a prisoner. And the only person who held the key was currently flying home, clutching a manila envelope and praying to a god he didn't believe in that he could forget what he had seen in the closet.

The order of the Mendō estate remained. The stones were still precise. The servants were still silent. But in the master study, the order had been replaced by a chaotic, pulsating hunger that no amount of money could ever satisfy.