He’s tense and stressed - he hides it well, but I’ve known him too long and in too many ways to be fooled. He’s clever about it, but I’ve learned.

"Seunghyun-ah," I call him softly by his given name from where I sit. I place my book in my lap as he runs his hands through his hair, shaggy curls tumbling over his fingers in a very distracting way.

On purpose, of course.

I sigh. “Lee Seunghyun, come here,” I say firmly, and this time he complies, leaving off hovering in the doorway to my office and shuffling towards me, bright smile in place.

"Yes, noona?" he chirps, giving me a cheeky look. "You need something?"

I level my most no-nonsense look at him and pitch my voice lower and softer. “No, I don’t. You do. Kneel, please.”

The reaction is instantaneous, which is a welcome change from the first few times - where he’d been all about pushing and challenging me. Now, though, he knows the benefits of compliance, and he kneels in front of me, hands folded in his lap, head bowed.

"What am I going to do with you?" I huff fondly, running my own fingers through his unruly mop. "Why do you always wait so long? You know it just makes things harder for you, and it doesn’t need to be that way."

He bows his head further, but that isn’t what I want. I cup his chin and guide him to look me in the eye.

"You know I love you, right?" He nods. "You can come to me when it starts to get bad, okay? You don’t have to pretend, not here." Another nod, and I decide to leave off further talk of this until after - his expression is too tight, the line of his mouth too firm and grim for him to be truly listening.

Ruffling his hair once more, I leave him kneeling there and go to the bottom right drawer of my desk - what would have been a filing drawer had I any desire to file things. I didn’t, really, and it was handier to repurpose it for these sessions. I take out what I’m going to need (nothing severe, not this time, this is therapy, not fun), and I keep my eye on him as I shut the drawer. The sound of it seems to drain a bit of the tension from his shoulders, and I smile.

"You know the position," I say as I unfold the first item.

Nodding, he scoots until he’s kneeling to the right of the chair, hands still in his lap. Crouching down, I slip the blindfold over his eyes and tighten the strap in the back, running my fingers around the edge to check that it’s firm against his face, but not too tight. He leans into my fingers with a little sigh, and I can’t stop myself from grinning like a lovesick doof.

"Such a good boy," I whisper to him, because it’s true, and because I know he needs to hear it.

The second item is somewhat bigger, and takes a moment to untangle, but once I get it sorted out, I press at his shoulder. He automatically reaches back and grasps his feet, and I bind his wrists to his ankles, against running a finger along the bindings, checking the fit. It should be fine - we use these often - but I feel I can never be too careful.

His breath is slow and deep in my ear, and just from pressing a palm to his upper arm, I can feel that he’s still far too tense. I’m curious, suddenly, about what had been going on that had gotten him to this point, but I know it’s probably just the stress of another solo project. I press a kiss to his ear as I lean back, reaching for the third item.

This one was the one that he’d protested against the most that first time, jokingly, but also with some trepidation. It had almost ended this little project in its infancy, because I was loathe to try this in any kind of half-measure - his personality alone meant half-measures would be completely ineffectual, or perhaps even counterproductive - but I wasn’t about to try it when he wasn’t sure about it, either. That…would have been worse. It had taken time, and also some reciprocal demonstrations, to get him to trust in me enough to go ahead with it. It had been worth it, though, and now we both know the experience wouldn’t be complete without it.

Touching his jaw lightly, I wait for him to open his mouth and slip the ball-gag in, effectively silencing him. As always, he raises his head a little, communicating humor and mischief with just the tilt of his chin. ‘You love this part, don’t you?’ his posture says. ‘Now you get a few minutes of quiet, finally.’ I brush my fingertips down his nose, over his cheekbone, and he settles back, reassured. He’d never admit to it, but I know he worries sometimes that he burdens me. Silly man.

I pull the final items out of their little box and cradle them in my palm as I reach out with my free hand again, pressing my hand against the pulse at the side of his neck. “Two hours, Seunghyun-ah. Tap out if you need to,” I add, as always, and he nods. Then I slip the earplugs in, isolating him completely.

Taking my seat again, I pick up my book and turn the page, leaving him to sit in darkness and silence, adrift. I know from experience that he’s trying to count out seven thousand two hundred seconds. I also know that he’ll give it up before sixty.

I reach out, touching his shoulder, and he twitches into it, leaning a little, seeking contact. I indulge him for only a moment, and then take my hand away. He tenses when my touch disappears, only to jump a bit and lean in again, almost unconsciously, when I brush his hair from his forehead.

When we’d started this, he’d laughed it off as a game. It had been something new, something for him to try - ual, clearly, it must be, what else could submission be? Even as I’d explained it, he’d tried to push, to make it ual. I had understood. ual submission was probably the only sort he’d thought he’d enjoy. After all, it’s just another game to play in the bedroom, right? A role to put on when you take your clothes off, and to take off when the clothes go back on. That was fine by him, but anything else - anything that means submitting emotionally, or submitting for real..well, that wasn’t so fine.

The first time I’d broached the subject seriously, though, had been after a particularly harrowing experience with an antifan. He’d been strung tighter than a bowstring, fingers tapping nervously, tossing in his sleep. It had been unpleasant for everyone, but Seunghyun had worried me. Genuinely worried me. He’d been working himself into a fitful sleep, never home, never even going out like he sometimes would when he was trying not to think about something. He’d gotten thinner, and sharper, and careless.

Things had come to a head when he’d nearly wandered into traffic one night, bleary-eyed and absentminded. It had taken a lot for me to reassure myself that it had been accidental, that was how bad it’d gotten. Enough is enough, I had decided. After twelve hours of enforced sleep and two full meals, I’d sat him down and explained that this was not going to stand. We were going to do something about it, together, and immediately. And thus, our sessions were born.

The problem with my lover is not his attitude, per say, or his ego that makes it so hard for him to admit he needs help. It’s that his brain never shuts off. It always seems to be running with worries, ideas, and more often than not, self-recrimination. It never seems that way to those who don’t know him, but no one in the world is harder on Lee Seunghyun than he is on himself. He has this image of being lazy, of being cocky and self-assured, and it’s all so much image and so little truth. He works hard to prove he’s as good as his hyungs, as worthy of love and admiration, and he feels every perceived failure like an arrow to the back.

As I see it, his main trouble is with control. All of that doubt and anxiety manifests itself in such a need for control that he often takes to subtly playing with people, moving them like chess pieces, just to reaffirm his ability to do so. He’s tried it with me many times. He’s learned that I do not react well to it, but it hasn’t stopped him entirely. The sessions help with that, too, and I’ve found that a sort of balance has been restored to our previously rocky relationship.

The giving up of control to another is a powerful thing.

As I reach out periodically in uneven intervals, touching and petting and anchoring him, he gradually stops tensing when my touch leaves him, stops twitching and moving when it returns. He relaxes, slowly and as I’d known he would, as he always does, and stops. Stops thinking about the outside world, stops anticipating my next touch, stops worrying and wondering. I know he’s reached that warm, blank space, that sort of psychological white noise, where all there is, is existence. His world is not one of deprivation, but one of peace and trust. I know - I remember from my own experiences just how releasing it can be.

I close my eyes, letting my book fall back into my lap, and let myself drift, as well, to the sound of his soft, almost sleep-like breathing, the warmth of his skin under my fingertips, the comfort of knowing he trusts me enough to let me help him like this easing my own tension and my own fears. It’s a different kind of peace, this warm, affectionate silence. A quiet moment where it’s only him and me, taking and giving. It’s the sweetness, the strength of moments like this that remind me of how much I love him - my wayward submissive.

When the two hours are up, I run my hand through his curls, gradually increasing the frequency of touch, easing him back out of his sub-space, back to reality. He nuzzles my hand, and I slide out of my chair and kneel in front of him again. Taking out the earplugs, one after the other, I tweak his earlobes between my fingers playfully. “Such a good boy,” I whisper fondly, pressing a kiss to his forehead as I reach back, wrapping my arms around him to undo the bindings at his wrists and ankles. He rests his head on my shoulder, and even after he’s freed, I hold him a while longer, rubbing his back.

"Shh," I soothe him. "Better now?"

He’s still gagged, so he can only nod. I reach for the straps to the gag, undoing it and prying it from his mouth carefully, wiping his face with my sleeve as he swallows a few times. I kiss him at the corner of his mouth, knowing his jaw must ache a little now, and undo the blindfold.

He looks at me, features relaxed, eyes half-lidded as though he may fall asleep, and he rests against me again, hands moving to get between us and grasp at my belt loops like a child afraid of getting lost in the mall, face pressed against my neck with a contented sigh.

It’s a long while before I get him standing, wincing at the pins and needles in his feet, and lead him into the kitchen. I hold his cup for him as he continues to hold on to my belt loops, letting him have a few sips of water, reveling as much in this, in the aftercare, as I do in the act itself. I let my other hand find one of his, the back of his hand with my thumb, waiting patiently for him to be ready to let go and stand on his own again.

When he does, it’s slowly, reluctantly, and he stands straight, shoulders squared, ready to face the world again. He reaches out for the cup, still thirsty, and with his other hand he cups my cheek, his thumb over my cheekbone with a small smile.

Smiling back, I loop my arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss.

"You’re welcome."