Archive of Our Own

Dazai’s arms had gone numb a while ago.

He couldn’t tell exactly when. Time had started doing that thing again, collapsing in on itself like a soft lung, expanding and contracting only when Ranpo touched him. His wrists were crossed and bound behind his back, the rope biting in just enough to keep him from forgetting. His knees were drawn up and forced wide by another knot, ankles hooked around the backs of his thighs, legs spread so shamelessly open he felt more like a thing than a human.

Which, of course, was the point.

“Aw,” Ranpo cooed, voice syrupy and cruel. He kneeled between Dazai’s legs, licking his fingers as if he hadn’t already been using them to stretch him open. “Look at you. All wet already. I haven’t even put anything in.”

Dazai whimpered—or maybe tried not to. The line between the two had long since blurred. His cock pulsed, twitching against his stomach, untouched and furious from being neglected and denied with the little rubber ring around the base. He had started leaking ages ago, sticky and embarrassing, warmth dribbling across his skin. Ranpo hadn’t touched his cock once. Every time Dazai shifted, he could feel how messy he was, slick clinging to his thighs, his hole fluttering pathetically around nothing.

Slow and unceremonious, Ranpo dipped two fingers back in. Dazai jerked, his hips twitching upward automatically.

“God,” Ranpo said softly, “you’re so easy. Didn’t even need lube with how gross you get for this. Just leaking all over yourself, aren’t you?”

Dazai shuddered. His face was already flushed, tears biting at the corners of his eyes. Not from pain, not even really from shame—just that slow erosion Ranpo always brought out in him. Like being praised backwards.

“Ranpo—” he breathed, voice thin, “Please—”

“Please what?” Ranpo tilted his head, the picture of innocence. “You want me to fuck you already? When you haven’t even earned it?”

Dazai shook his head. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he wanted. He just wanted—something. Pressure, permission, silence, to stop thinking, to stop being.

Ranpo smiled like he knew that. “Let’s get you really ready, pet,” he murmured, reaching beside him for the toy.

It was the same one he always used first—not too big, not too small, just enough to hum through Dazai’s spine and make his toes curl. Dazai watched him slick it up with his own cum, his mouth half-open and dazed; Ranpo didn’t even look at him while he did it. Just dragged the toy along Dazai’s rim, smearing his own slick around, laughing under his breath.

“You really are disgusting,” Ranpo whispered, tapping the toy against him. “Leaking this much just from me calling you pathetic? Just from me looking at you like this?”

Dazai made a high, wounded noise. It didn’t even sound human.

Without ceremony Ranpo slipped the toy in. It entered with almost no resistance, which Ranpo noted with a quiet hum of appreciation, twisting it the moment it breached him. Dazai’s back arched just so, his arms pulling uselessly against the binds behind him.

“There we go,” Ranpo murmured, fingers featherlight on the base of the toy. “Nice and loose already. You’d let anything in, wouldn’t you? Even if you didn’t want it.”

Dazai let out a broken breath. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to move. The knot behind his knees was tight, his legs trembling just from the strain of being held open like this. He felt like an offering. Like something mounted and put on display.

Ranpo fucked him with the toy in slow, shallow strokes, barely an inch in, then out. In, then out. Again and again, like clockwork. That same teasing press. Dazai’s body clenched around it every time, desperate for more, for anything steady, and Ranpo just watched, eyes glittering like he could read every twitch of his insides.

Then came his hand. Fingers skimming along the underside of Dazai’s cock, not even wrapping around it—just tracing. Whimpering, Dazai’s hips jerked, the motion pulling the toy deeper with a soft, wet noise that made him burn.

“Uh-uh,” Ranpo chided softly, sliding his hand away again like punishment. “Be still.”

“I—I’m trying—” Dazai mumbled. His breath was catching now. “’m trying, Ranpo, I—”

“I didn’t ask if you were trying,” Ranpo said, casually slapping the side of Dazai’s thigh. “I said be still.”

The sting was nothing. The words were everything.

Dazai bit his lip hard. His cock throbbed untouched, the ache climbing and climbing with nowhere to go. The toy kept moving, just barely. It wasn’t enough friction to get him off, not nearly, but it kept him so close it hurt. Just enough stretch. Just enough fullness. Just enough contact to make his balls draw up and his stomach tighten and his toes curl—and then—

Nothing.

Ranpo pulled the toy out in one smooth motion, and Dazai nearly cried.

“I said still, Osamu,” Ranpo said again, cruel and bright. “You don’t get to cum just because you want to. You cum when I say you can. If I say you can.”

Dazai’s mouth hung open. His face felt wet. Had he started crying already?

“Aw,” Ranpo cooed. “Poor thing. You really are that sensitive, huh?”

He stroked Dazai’s cheek with the back of his fingers, and Dazai leaned into it, desperate, hungry for touch even as it humiliated him further. Then Ranpo was lowering the toy again, slowly, deliberately. He circled it against Dazai’s rim, pressed the tip in, didn’t move.

“Do you even know how many times you’ve almost cum already?” Ranpo asked, quiet and venomous, as Dazai shook. “Haven’t even been touched properly. Just me playing with your messy, pathetic hole and teasing your cock a little, and you’re already drooling like a mutt in heat.”

Groaning, Dazai’s whole body bucked against the ropes.

“That’s not permission to move.”

The toy didn’t go any further; Ranpo just held it there. Dazai could feel it twitching against him, could feel how soaked he was, how badly his body wanted to be filled again. But Ranpo had gone still, a smile on his face.

The emptiness was the worst part. Ranpo stayed low between Dazai’s legs, gazing at him like he was admiring a puzzle. Dazai was still arched, still open, still waiting—his body hadn’t gotten the memo yet that nothing was coming. The air felt too cold against him. Too empty, his hole fluttering around nothing.

“Wow,” Ranpo murmured. “You’re still clenching.”

Dazai shuddered at the word. His hips twitched, helpless, instinctive.

“I didn’t even touch you,” Ranpo continued, voice light, observational. “And you’re still doing that. God, you really don’t have any self‑control, do you?”

Finally Ranpo moved, dragging two fingers back through the mess between Dazai’s legs, slow and unhurried. He pressed them against Dazai’s rim again, spreading him open deliberately with his own cum, like he wanted Dazai to feel how exposed he was.

“Look at this,” Ranpo said softly. “So open. You don’t even pretend to close up anymore.”He pushed one finger in. Stopped. Let Dazai breathe around it.

A thin, needy sound slipped out of Dazai’s mouth without his permission.

Ranpo chuckled. “That noise again. Every time.” He slid the finger out. Then back in. Shallow. Controlled. Never deep enough to satisfy, never fast enough to build momentum. Only enough to make Dazai’s nerves light up and beg.

“You’d let me do this all day, wouldn’t you?” Ranpo asked softly. “Just sit here and fuck you open with my fingers while you drip all over yourself like a needy little fuckpet.”

Dazai whimpered, and his cock twitched hard against his stomach, leaking again, aching so badly it felt swollen. He couldn’t think past it. Couldn’t remember what he’d been thinking before.

Ranpo added a second finger. Slowly. Painfully slow. Dazai gasped, his head falling back, arms straining against the bindings again, useless.

“Still no,” Ranpo said mildly. “You don’t get to move.”

The fingers stayed there, stretching him open, unmoving. Ranpo waited until the tremor in Dazai’s thighs turned into a shake. Until his breathing went uneven. Until the ache settled into something hot and desperate. Then Ranpo pulled his fingers out again.

Dazai made a broken, wounded sound. Ranpo didn’t comment on it. He just brought those same slick fingers up to Dazai’s mouth.

“Open.”

Dazai obeyed instantly. Ranpo slid his fingers onto Dazai’s tongue, pressing them in slowly. The taste hit him all at once as he curled his tongue around the sticky digits—salt, musk, himself—and Dazai’s eyes fluttered shut, cheeks burning. His cock throbbed harder.

“Look at you,” Ranpo muttered. “You’re really gonna suck them like you’re desperate for it, huh?” He fucked his fingers into Dazai’s mouth with the same lazy rhythm he’d used between his legs. In. Out. Shallow. Never quite hitting the back of his throat. Just enough to make his jaw ache.

“Taste yourself,” Ranpo instructed softly. “That’s what you smell like when you’re like this. Wet and stupid.”

Tears spilling over properly now, streaking down his face, Dazai moaned around Ranpo’s fingers. He didn’t know why he was crying.

Again Ranpo withdrew his fingers, glistening with spit now. “See?” he said lightly. “You don’t even need me to touch your cock. You’re already wrecked.” Ranpo held the toy up again, still glistening from earlier, and this time—finally—pushed it all the way back inside. He did it in one slow, steady stroke, bottoming it out in a single motion. Dazai’s whole body seized, a strangled gasp ripping out of him as his walls clenched around the intrusion.

“Shh,” Ranpo murmured, placing a hand over his stomach. “What’s with the dramatics? You’ve had this inside you before.”

But it wasn’t just the toy. It was the pressure. The precision. The way the words pushed into Dazai and stayed—unmoving, anchored deep inside, pressing against something awful and perfect. Dazai whined, breath hitching as his cock throbbed helplessly, leaking all over himself again.

He was too close. With no movement. With no friction. Only the fullness, the stillness, the way Ranpo watched him.

“Ranpo,” Dazai breathed, voice breaking. “Ranpo, I—please—”

“Please what?” Ranpo interrupted, completely unfazed. “You want to cum already? You’re pathetic.”

Tears welling again, Dazai shook. The word slid right under his skin and anchored—not a wound, but a confirmation. His knees trembled where they were bound open. He couldn’t move, couldn’t grind against anything, couldn’t even clench properly—all he could do was tremble and twitch while that thing stayed inside him and made him feel too much.

“Fuck,” Dazai choked, “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” Ranpo said calmly, resting his palm over Dazai’s cock without stroking. The heat alone made Dazai whimper. “You just want to cum so badly it’s making you stupid.”

“I—ngh—Ranpo, please—”

“You’re drooling,” Ranpo observed. “And crying. Just from this. I haven’t even moved yet.” He gave the toy the smallest nudge—just a twitch of his wrist—and Dazai jerked like he’d been shocked. His whole body convulsed, and for a moment he thought he was going to—

No.

No, Ranpo took his hand off again.

“No,” Dazai cried, voice high and desperate. “Don’t—nghh—please, don’t stop—”

Mock-concerned, Ranpo tilted his head. “Wow. Did you really just almost cum from that?”

Dazai flushed hard. He tried to deny it, but he couldn’t even form the words. He was panting. Humiliated. His cock throbbed against his stomach, untouched and furious.

Leaning in, Ranpo whispered low and sweet by his ear: “God, you’re such a pathetic little thing. So cute when you’re letting me play with you like this. Are you gonna cum?”

Dazai shook his head violently—or maybe he nodded. He didn’t know. He couldn’t think. He didn’t even know what he was agreeing to.

“You’re so fucking gross for getting off to this,” Ranpo whispered, and Dazai flinched. “What kind of sick little freak leaks this much from being told how useless he is?”

“I’m—fuck—’m sorry, I—”

“You’re not sorry. You’re getting off on it.” Ranpo shoved the toy just a little deeper, grinding it cruelly against Dazai’s prostate. “You like it when I call you that. Don’t you? A disgusting, weak little thing that doesn’t even work right.”

“I—” Dazai whimpered, lips trembling, “I don’t—no—I—I mean yes—fuck—Ranpo—”

“You don’t even know anymore.” Ranpo sounded delighted. “You can’t even lie right now. That’s how deep I’ve got you. You’re really useless like this.”

Dazai moaned, his whole body seizing again. He felt something twist low in his stomach at that—not shame exactly, but recognition. Like the word had always been waiting somewhere in his chest and Ranpo had simply reached in and pulled it out.

Useless was simpler than trying to be anything else.

“’M gonna—mff—can’t—please, please let me—”

“No,” Ranpo said simply. “You’re not gonna cum.” He ignored Dazai’s cock, pressing the toy deep inside until it nudged against his prostate with an unbearable pressure and held it there, one hand planted heavy on Dazai’s trembling hip. “Be good and take it, Osamu.”

Dazai sobbed, a quiet, broken thing. The ropes were slick with sweat now. His face was wet. His thighs shook.

“You’re my worthless little fuckpet,” Ranpo whispered, brushing damp hair from Dazai’s face, and the name hit deeper than his own name ever could. Something primal curled up and went still. “And you don’t cum until I say so,” Ranpo went on, the words pitched low and not up for dispute. “Understand?”

Dazai nodded weakly. His cock twitched; he couldn’t stop leaking.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” Dazai whimpered, sniffling. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” Ranpo kissed his cheek. “Now stay there and be disgusting for me a little longer.”

Disgusting.

Dazai’s thoughts swam, hazy and fragmented as the word floated through his mind.

Gross.

Like he liked it. Like he liked me like this.

Don’t know what that means.

Don’t know who I am.

But it feels—

Ranpo kept one palm firm on Dazai’s hip, the other lightly gripping the base of the toy, holding it there like a reminder. Dazai could feel the pulsing inside him, his body clenching down around it over and over again, involuntary, desperate, like if he could just grip hard enough maybe he could make something happen. Maybe he could cum. Maybe—

“Mm-mm,” Ranpo warned, voice still maddeningly soft. “Don’t you dare.”

Dazai let out a strangled sob. “I wasn’t—I didn’t—” he tried to say, but it didn’t matter. His voice cracked on the words, coming out wet and uneven. His thighs were trembling so badly now he thought he might cramp.

“You were,” Ranpo said simply. “You were trying to squeeze around it. Were you hoping that’d be enough to make you cum? You really are a mess.” He leaned forward again, lips brushing the shell of Dazai’s ear, voice sticky-sweet. “Aw, you poor thing,” he cooed. “Do you even remember what it feels like to cum? Or is it all just leaking and crying now?”

Soft and broken, Dazai whimpered again. His brain was slipping. Thoughts scattered. He couldn’t string together anything past sensation. The rope. The stretch. The ache between his legs. The want. It felt like need was clawing its way out from under his skin.

“Ranpo—please—’m sorry, I’ll be good, I—”

“You’re not good,” Ranpo said, biting his ear. “You’re pathetic. You’d say anything right now if it meant I’d even brush your cock.”

“Need it,” Dazai begged, breath hitching. “Please, please—I’ll do anything—”

“You already are doing anything,” Ranpo murmured. “And I’m still not giving it to you.”

Dazai’s head lolled back. He was crying harder now, tears sliding down his face, dripping into his hairline. His throat ached from whining. His arms were useless behind him, bound tight and cramping, and his legs had stopped shaking in bursts without him noticing and gone to a dull, full-body tremble. He wasn’t even thinking anymore. He was just feeling. Floating and full and empty and raw and ruined.

Ranpo reached down again and gave the toy one subtle twist. Dazai keened, the sound high and humiliating—a soft, bitten-off noise, thin and aching, like something inside him had cracked.

“Shhh,” Ranpo soothed, petting his stomach now. “You’re okay, Osamu. That’s it. That’s where I want you.”

Dazai was gone. Just breath and heat and the fullness inside him. His cock was still untouched. So swollen it hurt. But he wasn’t begging anymore. Not coherently, anyway. He couldn’t. He didn’t even remember how.

Ranpo kissed his cheek. His temple. Slid his fingers back into Dazai’s mouth and watched his lips wrap around them obediently, soft and mindless. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Good boy.”

Dazai whimpered around Ranpo’s fingers, drool slipping down his chin.

“Good and stupid now, aren’t you?” Ranpo whispered. “All dumb and wet and ruined. Just how I like you.” He pushed the toy deeper against Dazai’s prostate one last time, and Dazai whined like it hurt, high and distant.

Ranpo smiled. “Let’s see how long I can keep you like this before I even think about touching your cock again.”

Ranpo didn’t correct him when the thank you slipped out. It came out wrong anyway—slurred and breathless, tangled up with a sob, like Dazai hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.

“Th-thank you—”

Ranpo hummed softly, almost pleased. He leaned in instead of pulling away, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of Dazai’s mouth to make his breath hitch and his head tip forward on instinct alone, chasing it. “Oh, you poor thing,” Ranpo murmured. “You don’t even know what you’re thanking me for, do you?”

Dazai shook his head weakly. His thoughts were syrup‑slow now. He felt heavy and light at the same time, like he was sinking into the ropes instead of being held by them. Ranpo kissed him again—his cheek, his jaw, the sensitive spot just below his ear. He lingered there, mouth warm, breath brushing his skin, and Dazai made a small, helpless sound. Ranpo smiled against his neck.

“You don’t even know how embarrassing you look and sound right now,” he whispered. “That noise you make when you don’t know what’s happening anymore.” He sucked gently at the skin—not enough to bruise yet—and Dazai’s whole body jerked. The toy inside him felt suddenly too present, his hole clenching hard around it as his cock twitched uselessly against his stomach. Ranpo dragged his teeth lightly along Dazai’s throat where the bandages were starting to unravel, then soothed it with his tongue.

“You’re shaking like a weak little thing who can barely take being fucked like the needy pet he is,” he observed. Then, mockingly, “Do you want me to stop?”

Desperately, Dazai shook his head, faster this time. “N-no—mfgh—please—”

“Please what?” Ranpo asked quietly, still kissing him, still gentle.

“I—” Dazai swallowed. His voice barely worked. “Please—don’t—don’t go—”

Ranpo’s hand slid down his side then, nails grazing skin where Dazai’s bandages had loosened and slid away. The touch was feather‑light, almost absentminded, but Dazai gasped like it burned. His skin felt too sensitive, too exposed. Too aware.

“Aww,” Ranpo cooed softly. “You’re sensitive here too.” He traced one exposed line of skin slowly, nails barely pressing, watching Dazai squirm. Watching his breath go uneven. “You’re just a bundle of nerves right now, aren’t you?” Ranpo murmured. “Nothing protecting you. Nothing holding you together.”

Dazai whimpered. His head lolled forward, chin dipping to his chest. He was crying softer now, quietly, endlessly—tears slipping down his face without any real emotion attached to them anymore. “Can’t,” he whispered again, like it was the only phrase he had left.

At the word, Ranpo shifted his attention downward. He adjusted his position between Dazai’s legs, spreading them just a little wider with his hands. Dazai’s hips twitched reflexively, needy, hopeful—and then froze when Ranpo leaned in and pressed a kiss to the head of his cock.

Dazai made a sharp, broken sound. His body strained hard against the bindings, instinct screaming at him to get away and get closer at the same time.

“Oh no,” Ranpo laughed softly. “That was enough to make you jerk like that?”

He kissed it again. Lingering. Wet. Slow.

Dazai whimpered in a way that sounded almost pained, and Ranpo responded by wrapping his lips around the head just long enough to suck gently, hollowing his cheeks—then pulled away immediately.

Crying out, Dazai’s hips bucked helplessly at the loss of sensation. The cock ring at the base of his shaft made the ache throb, made every aborted touch echo back on itself. He couldn’t escape it. Couldn’t calm down. Couldn’t cum.

“God, look at you,” Ranpo breathed like he was in awe, voice gone low and delighted. “Trying to crawl out of your own skin just from that.”

He sucked again. Just the head. Just enough to make Dazai’s vision go white around the edges.

Then he stopped.

Dazai thrashed weakly, shaking his head, making small, desperate noises—not even words anymore. His body was pleading on its own.

“Too much?” Ranpo asked sweetly, and Dazai knew even through the haze that too much was exactly what Ranpo wanted. “Poor thing.” He dragged the tip of his tongue along the slit once, slow and obscene, then pulled away again. “You’re so fucking gross for getting off to this,” Ranpo whispered. “All tied up, crying, shaking like you want to run—and still dripping for me.”

Dazai’s only answer was a broken whine, his brain flickering through shame, disgust, arousal, and then nothing at all. Ranpo straightened, one hand still loosely holding Dazai’s cock, thumb brushing nowhere important, just enough contact to keep him trembling. Then he shifted back, lining himself up—and instead of relenting and fucking Dazai’s hole like he was desperate for, he rubbed the head of his cock slowly against the rim.

With a gasp, Dazai’s body went rigid. His hole fluttered uselessly, empty around nothing but the desperate need to have Ranpo’s cock deep inside him.

Ranpo dragged himself away again. “No,” he denied calmly. “You don’t get that yet.”

Sobbing shamelessly, Dazai slumped down in the restraints, ruined and boneless. Ranpo only kissed his shoulder.

“Stay right there,” he murmured. “You’re doing such a good job being pathetic, Osamu. So, so good for me.” He stayed there, mouth close, breath warm against Dazai’s throat, one hand still loosely holding his cock like it was something mildly interesting he might drop at any moment.

“You’re crying harder now,” Ranpo observed quietly. “Is it because you want to cum, or because you know how embarrassing this is?”

Dazai shook, a sob tearing out of him. His face burned. His chest felt tight and hollow at the same time. “I—I’m sorry,” he whispered, the apology tumbling out automatically. “’M sorry, I can’t—”

“Sorry for what?” Ranpo asked, cruelly patient. “For being like this? You should be. You’re a mess.” He leaned in again, lips brushing Dazai’s ear. “You can’t even hold yourself together when I’m not touching you. Look at you. Crying, drooling, shaking—all because I won’t let you cum.”

Knees trembling uselessly against the restraints, Dazai made a small, broken sound.

“You don’t deserve relief,” Ranpo continued softly. “You’re too needy. Too stupid. Too easy. I barely had to do anything to turn you into this sloppy mess.”

“I know,” Dazai choked. “I know—ngh—sorry, ’m sorry, please, I can’t—”

“Oh, you weak little thing,” Ranpo murmured. “You’re not sorry. You need this. You need me to tell you how pathetic you are so you don’t have to think anymore.” He brushed his thumb over the head of Dazai’s cock again—just once—and Dazai made a guttural sound, hips jerking forward helplessly.

“See?” Ranpo said, like that proved it. “You’re already far past gone.”

Without warning, his hand slid down, fingers hooking under the cock ring. Dazai barely had time to gasp before it was gone. Then Ranpo shoved deep into him with no mercy.

Dazai came immediately.

It ripped out of him like his body had been waiting for permission it never got. His whole body seized, back bowing hard, a strangled cry torn from his throat as he spilled over himself, messy and humiliating and completely out of control.

“Oh, wow,” Ranpo said, pulling back just enough to look at him with something like disgust and judgement tangled together. “Did you really just cum the second I put it in?”

Shaking violently, Dazai sobbed. “I—I didn’t mean to—please, Ranpo, ’m sorry—nghh—”

Ranpo laughed. Delighted. “That’s it?” he said. “Hours of teasing, and you couldn’t even last a second?” He pulled out slowly and then pushed back in all the way, dragging it out deliberately this time. “You really are useless.”

Dazai was still twitching, still oversensitive, still leaking—and Ranpo didn’t stop. He set a steady rhythm immediately, shallow thrusts that dragged against every raw nerve.

“No—” Dazai cried, voice breaking. “Ranpo—please—it hurts—”

“Aw,” Ranpo cooed. “Already? That didn’t take long.” He leaned over him, mouth at his ear again. “Looks like I’ll have to punish you for cumming without permission.”

Tears pouring, Dazai shook. “Please—please—can’t—too much—”

“I know,” Ranpo said gently. And kept fucking him anyway.

The overstimulation hit fast and brutal. Every thrust felt too sharp, too much, like Dazai’s nerves were screaming. He thrashed weakly in the restraints, sobbing openly now, begging incoherently.

“’M sorry—’m sorry—I’ll be good—please—”

Ranpo’s hand slid up to cradle his jaw, forcing him to look up. “Oh, Osamu,” he said softly. “Being good was never the point.” He kissed him—slow and tender and devastating—and kept fucking him without remorse.

The second orgasm didn’t come fast. It came slow—clawing its way through resistance and pain and overstimulation. Every thrust made Dazai twitch and sob, the raw head of his cock dragging against the air, against his own stomach, against nothing. His nerves were frayed. It hurt. It hurt so bad. And Ranpo didn’t stop.

“Still hard,” he murmured, glancing down between them. “God, you’re disgusting. You’re crying and begging and shaking like a little whore, and you’re still hard.”

Dazai whimpered. His arms, still tied behind his back, were useless and numb. His whole body was one continuous tremble, and his skin felt too tight, hole fluttering helplessly around Ranpo’s cock, stretched and bruised and slick with everything he’d already lost.

“Please,” he gasped, “please, Ranpo, I—I can’t—”

“You can,” Ranpo said. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t scold. He just told him, and Dazai’s body obeyed.

Because he never had to guess with Ranpo. Every cruel word landed exactly where it was supposed to; every thrust and jab had a target; every denial had an end. Dazai didn’t need to think. He didn’t need to be anything. He just needed to break on cue. That was enough.

Shifting his angle slightly, Ranpo’s hips rocked in that maddening, deliberate rhythm again, hitting deeper now, nailing Dazai’s oversensitive prostate each time. Every thrust sent sparks through Dazai’s spine, and not the good kind. He shook his head wildly, tears streaming, hips jerking like he could escape.

“You’re making the worst noises,” Ranpo said, breath warm against his throat. “Are you even listening to yourself? You sound like an animal.”

A high, broken, ugly sound ripped free from Dazai’s throat, and Ranpo groaned, his cock pulsing inside Dazai. “God, that one. That’s the sound you make when you’re just about to lose it again.”

“No—no, please—please don’t make me—”

“You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you?” Ranpo whispered, dragging a finger along the underside of Dazai’s cock. “That’s what you’re trying to fight, right? But it’s building. I can feel you clenching.”

He didn’t want it. He didn’t want to cum again. But his body didn’t believe him anymore. Ranpo was right; the heat was building in his spine, sharp and hot and wrong, pressing up through the pain and the exhaustion and the shame. Dazai didn’t want it. He didn’t want it.

“Don’t want to—please, Ranpo, don’t make me—”

Ranpo kissed his cheek as Dazai sniffled and tried to writhe away. “That’s the whole point, Osamu. Making you.”

He slammed in again, faster now. The slap of skin against skin made the last of Dazai’s thoughts fray—the obscene drag of Ranpo’s cock inside Dazai’s sore body, the heat, the smell, the sound of himself panting and whining and apologizing—

Dazai cried harder as he came again against his will, awful and inevitable, half-coughing and drooling. The orgasm ripped through him like a faultline splitting, left him twitching and sobbing, his cock spurting against his own stomach with nothing but pain and humiliation behind it.

It didn’t feel good.

It felt like failing. Like being watched while failing, and then being told yes, that’s exactly what you are.

Still Ranpo didn’t stop. “Oh my god,” he breathed, laughing against Dazai’s ear. “You came again a lot faster than I thought you would. You’re unbelievable. That’s two already, and I’ve barely started fucking you.”

“I’m sorry—” Dazai was crying, barely able to see through the tears now, wrecked and red and gulping air like he’d been drowning. “Please stop—can’t—I can’t—”

“You can,” Ranpo said again. He kissed Dazai’s temple. His hips kept moving.

Dazai moaned, low and pitiful. His thighs were shaking uncontrollably. His cock was still hard—or trying to be—twitching against his stomach, so raw it felt burnt.

“Why are you still hard, sweetheart?” Ranpo asked mock-gently. “You said you didn’t want to cum again. So why’s your body begging for it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He pressed two fingers to Dazai’s throat and felt his pulse stuttering there. “You’re a fucking mess,” he whispered, pushing deeper. “My mess.”

Dazai sobbed. “Mph—yours—please—”

“Mm,” Ranpo hummed. “You sound like you want to cum again.”

“No—no, please—I can’t—Ranpo—”

“I think you can,” Ranpo said, slow and smug. “I think you’re going to. And I think it’s going to hurt.” He reached between them again, finally giving Dazai’s cock the lightest stroke, and Dazai keened in pain.

Ranpo didn’t hurry him there. He kept fucking him, but slower now—measured, almost careful—like he was testing how much Dazai could still take before he snapped completely. Every thrust dragged against nerves that already felt rubbed raw, every shift of his hips making Dazai flinch and cry out with more of those thin, breathless sounds, those pitifully worn‑down noises.

“Listen to yourself,” Ranpo murmured. “You don’t even sound like you’re begging anymore. Have you finally accepted that this is all you’re good for? Getting used like you’re nothing but a pathetic fuckhole desperate to be degraded?”

Dazai shook his head weakly, tears still slipping down his face. His eyes wouldn’t quite focus. Everything felt far away—the ropes, the ache in his shoulders, the heat between his legs. Even Ranpo’s voice felt like it was coming through water.

“I—” His mouth moved, but the word didn’t come. He swallowed and tried again. “Ranpo—”

“I know,” Ranpo said, not unkindly. He leaned down, pressed his forehead briefly to Dazai’s, and kept fucking him, relentless even as Dazai sobbed softly beneath him. His cock was still twitching, overstimulated and angry, but it barely felt good anymore. It felt too tight. Too sensitive. Every accidental brush of his cock against Ranpo’s stomach made him whine and try to pull away.

“Fuck, look at you,” Ranpo groaned, almost fond, even as his own arousal bled through, hips stuttering and snapping. “You’re trying to run from it now.”

“Hurts—” Dazai whispered. His voice was wrecked. “Stop—please—”

“Shh,” Ranpo murmured, brushing his thumb along Dazai’s jaw. “You don’t have to want it. That’s not your job.”

He adjusted again, making it so that he was hitting that same spot deep inside Dazai over and over, slow and maddening. Dazai’s body clenched around him on instinct, helpless.

“There,” Ranpo soothed quietly. “That’s the one.”

Dazai made a broken sound as he went limp, as his breathing went shallow. His body stopped fighting and started floating. The ache dulled into something distant and heavy as his cock twitched.

Ranpo clocked the shift immediately. “Oh,” he murmured. “You’re finally slipping.”

Eyes half‑lidded now, unfocused, Dazai’s mouth hung open. Another quiet apology fell out, barely audible. “Hurts… sorry…”

Ranpo slowed. “Hey,” he said softly, pressing his lips to Dazai’s temple. “There you are.” He kept his thrusts small, controlled motions, watching closely as Dazai’s body stopped bracing and started accepting.

The third orgasm crept up on him. A slow, humiliating loss of control. Dazai gasped as it crescendoed, hips twitching weakly as his cock pulsed once, then again—thin spurts spilling down the side, messy and unimpressive, dribbling over his skin. He whimpered through it, barely there.

Ranpo watched it happen with open interest. “…aw,” he said. “That’s all you had left?”

Dazai didn’t even moan this time. He just let out a small, shaky sound, eyes glassy, body slack in the restraints.

“So fucking pathetic,” Ranpo continued quietly, something like adoration buried under the degrading words. “Cumming like that. Can’t even do it properly anymore.” He leaned in, kissed Dazai’s cheek again—slow, intentional. “And look at you,” he added, softer. “You didn’t even fight it this time.”

Dazai sagged as much as the ropes allowed. His breathing evened out, shallow and floaty, and he nodded faintly, like he understood something but couldn’t explain what. Ranpo’s hand slid to his hair, fingers combing through it once.

“Good, Osamu,” he murmured. “That’s it. That’s the place I wanted you.”

The quiet noise Dazai made was neither pleasure nor pain—he was just gone, and Ranpo smiled.

“Such a useless little creature,” he whispered. “You’re behaving so well.”

The moment Ranpo called him a creature, Dazai stopped trying to think.

Creatures didn’t have to speak.

Creatures didn’t have to explain why they needed to be touched, or punished, or held down until the crying turned to stillness.

Dazai wasn’t a man in that moment. Not a detective. Not a person.

He was a body, a pet, a thing to be used, a thing that trembled when Ranpo looked at him.

Time was an endless, blurry thing. Dazai’s body wasn’t marking it anymore. It just existed—raw, emptied, full, aching. His arms were still bound behind him, shoulders stiff. His thighs had gone from trembling to weak little jolts every time Ranpo moved. And Ranpo was still moving.

Slower now. He hadn’t stopped fucking him. Had settled into deep, steady strokes, dragging out the friction until it blurred into something Dazai couldn’t process.

It hurt.

It hurt so much.

“Ranpo…” Dazai breathed, soft and barely audible.

“Mhm?”

“It… hurts...”

Ranpo exhaled hard through his nose. Aroused. “I know, my poor thing,” he murmured. “You’ve been so good for me, haven’t you?”

Dazai nodded, or tried to. His cheeks were wet. His eyes were too heavy to keep open.

Shifting forward, Ranpo’s hips pressed harder, deeper. Dazai gasped, more reflex than anything else, and his cock gave a weak, useless twitch. He had nothing left. Just that dull pressure, the sticky dribble of overstimulation, the humiliating way his body refused to stop.

Ranpo groaned. “God,” he muttered, voice low, finally breathless. “You’re still squeezing me. Still so tight. How are you still—” He cut off with another thrust, a little less controlled, and Dazai whimpered sharply.

“Please—I can’t—” he whispered. “Ranpo—it’s—”

“I know,” Ranpo soothed again, but he still didn’t stop. He rocked into Dazai harder, hands gripping his hips tight enough to bruise, fingers digging into pale, marred flesh to guide the motion. “You’re so fucked out,” he breathed. “So stupid and messy. So good.” He was panting now. Dazai could feel it against his shoulder. Feel how hard Ranpo’s cock still was inside him, throbbing and hot and steady, dragging in and out of his overstretched hole.

And worse—Dazai’s hips were moving too. Pathetic little pushes, back into Ranpo, like his body still remembered what to do even as it desperately wished to escape it.

“Aww, look at that,” Ranpo groaned. “You’re still fucking yourself on it. You like it. Even now.”

Dazai whimpered again. “Nn—hurts—”

“I know it does,” Ranpo whispered, thrusting harder. “That’s why you like it.”

A wrecked little exhale slipped from Dazai’s mouth as his cock pulsed at the words. Nothing came out but another dribble down the side, slick and useless.

Ranpo cursed under his breath. “Fuck, ’samu,” he muttered. “You’re so good. So pathetic. You’re—fucking—perfect like this—” His rhythm picked up. Sharper. Deeper. The kind of thrusts that would’ve knocked Dazai over if he wasn’t tied open and limp.

Whining, Dazai moaned, whimpered again. He felt it rising, against his will. Slowly, like static crawling up his spine, like his body was going to betray him one more time.

“Ranpo—” he whimpered, high and shaky. He didn’t even know what he was trying to communicate.

“I know,” Ranpo cooed. “I know. Give it to me, Osamu.”

Dazai cried out as his cock jerked once, twice, and another weak, humiliating spurt drooled out of him, slow and pathetic. He couldn’t do anything but cry with how far gone he was, how humiliated and overstimulated and fucked out past the point that he could take it. Ranpo groaned and drove in harder.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it, such a pretty little thing. Cum for me, Osamu, just like that—God—you’re—” He shoved in deep, sharp, full.

Dazai gasped as Ranpo came inside him, hot and thick and so much, the sensation pushing him into another full‑body shudder. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t stop clenching. Ranpo stayed buried through the aftershocks and even after they subsided, breathing hard, one hand braced on Dazai’s hip, the other stroking his sweat‑damp hair.

“You’re—fuck,” Ranpo muttered, “you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect and pathetic like this. So useless, Dazai, God.”

Dazai nodded faintly.

He wasn’t sure when words stopped fitting right in his mouth. They just did. He wasn’t talking anymore. He was only twitching, trembling, panting softly—and none of it meant anything. He didn’t need to think. He didn’t need to exist. Ranpo would do all the deciding for him.

Breathing hard against Dazai’s neck, Ranpo stayed buried, his fingers splayed across Dazai’s trembling stomach like he needed a moment to come down himself. Then, slowly, he shifted his weight back and slipped free.

Dazai whimpered, different than all the ones that had come before. It was a tiny, broken sound, high in the throat, like the loss of pressure hurt more than the fullness ever had.

“Shhh,” Ranpo murmured. “I know, I know. That’s the worst part, huh?” He leaned in and kissed Dazai’s temple, sweat-slick and flushed. Then another kiss to his cheek. His jaw. His shoulder. Each one a counterpoint to what had come before—no longer weaponized, just affection.

“You did so good,” Ranpo whispered. “My sweet little thing. Look at you.”

Dazai didn’t respond save for a cracked little whimper. Couldn’t. He couldn’t recognize himself in names like that, and he felt the confusion of it like an ache. His face was still wet with tears, lips parted, breath soft and shallow. His cock had finally softened, lying spent and sticky and slick against his thigh, every twitch long past pain. He wasn’t really here anymore.

Ranpo began untying him. Slow. Methodical. No yanking. Just fingers working gently at the knots, loosening the rope where it had dug in and pressed deep into the skin behind his knees, across his hips, around his thighs and his wrists. The moment his arms came free, Dazai whimpered again, an overwhelmed instinct he couldn’t mask in this state.

“Easy,” Ranpo said, rubbing slow circles into Dazai’s forearms. “I’ve got you, ’samu. It’s okay.”

The ropes left red grooves across Dazai’s pale skin, some raw, some faintly bruised. Ranpo touched each one gently, soothing the marks with his thumbs, kissing a few of them, murmuring nonsense under his breath.

“Poor thing,” he said softly. “You took it all so well, even when you were crying and it hurt. So obedient for me. So pathetic and pretty.” He kissed the inside of Dazai’s wrist. Then the crook of his elbow. “So well-behaved.”

The breath Dazai let out was small, wet—something like a moan, or a whimper, or nothing at all. Moving up the bed, Ranpo pulled Dazai into his lap, carefully, slowly, cradling him close like he weighed nothing. He reached for the blanket and drew it over them both, folding Dazai into warmth.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Dazai curled into him automatically. His eyes were unfocused, glassy; he didn’t speak. His fingers twitched like they were trying to reach for something but hadn’t remembered how. Ranpo pet his hair gently, combing through it with his fingers, tugging the damp strands away from his face. He kissed Dazai’s temple again, then the tip of his nose, then his mouth—just barely.

“You made such pretty noises,” he hummed against his lips. “So soft, so pathetic. I loved every one.”

Dazai whimpered, and Ranpo smiled.

“My perfect little toy.”

He kissed him again, deeper now, and Dazai finally made a gentler sound, soft and breathy, like it surprised him.

“You’re safe,” Ranpo whispered. “I’m here.” His arms curled tighter around Dazai’s back. Dazai sank into it like water, floating, weightless, all the pain washed out and left with nothing but warmth.

“Such a good boy,” Ranpo murmured. “My favorite little mess.”

Being called good didn’t make sense. Not after everything. Not with how gross and wet and weak Dazai was. But Ranpo said it anyway—said it like he meant it—and Dazai felt something inside him go soft and slow, like a heartbeat underwater. He didn’t believe it, but he needed it.

Eventually, the tears slowed. Not stopped—not really—but softened. Dazai lay slumped against Ranpo’s chest, his breath evening out in little shivery inhales and exhales, body limp and pliant, held up entirely by Ranpo’s arms and the blanket swaddling them both.

Ranpo kissed his hair. “You still with me?”

Dazai made a noise that might have meant I think. His lips parted, then closed again, too soft to form anything real. Ranpo didn’t press him. Instead, he stroked his side gently, then down to his hip, hand lingering at the spot where the rope had left the deepest welt.

“Okay,” he murmured. “We’re gonna clean you up, yeah?”

Dazai didn’t react, only able to let out another tiny, sated sound, barely a breath. Ranpo took it as permission. He kissed him once, slow and warm—not to arouse or to tease him this time, but simply to have him for a second longer. Dazai blinked sluggishly, his eyes flicking up to Ranpo’s like he wanted to say something but forgot how.

Ranpo grinned. “Be right back.” He got up slowly, carefully disentangling himself from Dazai’s boneless weight, setting the blanket back in place like it was a shield. Then he disappeared into the bathroom.

Dazai didn’t move while he was gone. Couldn’t. His body was still pulsing faintly—not with arousal anymore, not even with pain, but with that ghost of pressure, oversensitive and raw. When Ranpo came back, it was with a warm, damp washcloth, steam still rising faintly from it. He sat down again, pulled the blanket down, and kissed Dazai’s shoulder.

“All right, pretty thing,” he murmured. “Let’s make you less gross.”

He started with his stomach—slow, gentle passes, wiping up the slick mess that had dried sticky across Dazai’s skin. Dazai hissed a little at the warmth, but didn’t protest.

“Still twitching,” Ranpo observed, almost amused. “Didn’t know you had anything left in you.” He worked his way lower, across Dazai’s inner thigh, which made Dazai’s legs tremble like they were anticipating more.

“You okay?”

“Mph,” Dazai managed, barely. His voice was paper-thin. “Jus’—sensitive.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ranpo grinned again. “That’s my fault.” He dragged the cloth lower, finally cleaning around Dazai’s cock. The skin was red and puffy, raw with friction and dried tears of cum. Dazai whimpered again, half-pained, half-shy.

“Still making those noises,” Ranpo said softly. “You’re trying to kill me, huh?”

Dazai made a garbled, pleading sound. Ranpo just laughed under his breath and kept going.

Then came the final part—between his legs, slow and careful. Ranpo shifted Dazai’s thighs apart just enough to reach, brushing the cloth along his entrance, where Ranpo’s cum had started to slide out in slow drips. The moment the warm cloth touched him there, Dazai whimpered, full-bodied and broken.

“…Fuck,” Ranpo muttered, breath hitching. “I could blow you right now. Or fuck you open all over again. You’re a mess.”

“No—” Dazai whined, voice so soft it barely came out. “Please, Ranpo—no more—”

With a laugh, Ranpo smoothed his thumb over Dazai’s hip bone. “Relax. You’re not getting cock again until you can spell your name without crying.” He leaned in and kissed Dazai’s knee. “Cuddles and pets for the next twelve hours,” he declared. “Doctor’s orders.”

Flushing, Dazai’s nose wrinkled and his lip twitched, clearly about to protest. But all he could manage to mutter was a small, tired, “…’m not a baby.”

Ranpo grinned, wide and unrepentant. “Mmm, sure.”

He kissed Dazai’s hip, then went back to cleaning him, soft and steady. Dazai twitched and whimpered with every gentle pass of the cloth, those same breathy, overstimulated noises slipping out—helpless, lovely things that Ranpo wanted to bottle and save forever.

But he didn’t tease him for them. He just wiped Dazai clean, kissed him again, and tucked a clean blanket back up to his chin.

“All done,” he whispered. “Good boy.”

At the praise, Dazai made a tiny, pathetic sound, not quite a whimper, but moreso that thin, breathy noise he always made when something landed too deep. His thighs shifted under the blanket, and Ranpo smiled.

“Yeah?” he murmured. “You like being called that?”

Dazai’s face flushed even redder, and he made the sound again—softer this time, more ashamed.

He didn’t deserve this. Not the warm cloth. Not the blanket. Not the hand stroking through his hair. He should have been left like that.

Ruined. Sticky. Leaking.

Humiliated.

That was how it had worked before. That was what came after punishment.

But Ranpo didn’t leave.

Ranpo was still here.

Still holding him.

Still petting him.

Dazai made another small, embarrassed noise as he tried to shift closer, and then, quietly, voice barely above a whisper:

“…Come back.”

Ranpo blinked. He was still kneeling beside Dazai on the bed, washcloth crumpled in his hand, eyes drinking Dazai in—the gaze blown dark, unfocused and glassy, the pink flush across his chest, the disheveled bandages, the dazed way his lips were parted like he didn’t remember how to close them.

“Thought you weren’t a baby,” Ranpo teased gently.

Almost pouting, Dazai made a small, sullen noise. He didn’t take it back.

Dropping the cloth and the dirty blanket unceremoniously on the floor, Ranpo climbed back into Dazai’s space and gathered him up; Dazai melted instantly—curled in, soft and slow, like something pliant and heavy in Ranpo’s arms. His head tucked into Ranpo’s shoulder, and his hand, still trembling slightly, fisted weakly into Ranpo’s shirt.

“There you go,” Ranpo whispered, petting the back of his head. “You did so good for me, Osamu. Took everything I gave you. Came for me so many times, took it all even when you thought it was too much.” He kissed Dazai’s temple. “Made such sweet, pathetic noises for me.”

Dazai nuzzled closer, letting out a low, contented hum that sounded almost like a purr. His breath was slower now, his jaw slack, and his eyes flicked half-shut, blinking lazily, like he was watching Ranpo through water.

“Good boy,” Ranpo murmured again, letting the words settle into Dazai’s skin like warmth.

He didn’t say it out loud, but Dazai knew that Ranpo knew—knew what Dazai thought he deserved. Knew Dazai believed that not being left to piece himself back together after being wrecked and stripped down to nothing was for people, and Dazai wasn’t a person anymore.

Just a fucked thing. A used thing. A pet to be set down when the game was over.

But Ranpo never set him down. Ranpo wrapped him in soft things and whispered praise and razors in the same breath like nothing about him was shameful.

And in some ways, the kindness was worse than the cruelty. It settled into Dazai like salt into raw skin. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t punish himself more—for once he let himself be held. Let his breathing slow. Let his eyes drift shut, lips parted, still blushing faintly but too far gone to hide it, too far gone to want to.

Fingers soft and slow, Ranpo kept petting his hair. And Dazai stayed there, a warm and empty thing, his head finally—finally—gone quiet.