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Chapter Text

It all started with yet another challenge.

The afternoon sun bore down on the empty lot behind Furinkan High, heat shimmering off the concrete as Ranma and Ryoga clashed for what must’ve been the hundredth time that month. Dust kicked up around their feet, fists flying, insults hurled with the ease of old routines.

“You’re getting slow, P-chan!” Ranma smirked, narrowly dodging a wild right hook.

“Shut up, Saotome!” Ryoga growled, face flushed with heat and exertion. “This time, I will beat you!”

Ranma lunged forward with a spinning kick, cocky grin in place, but Ryoga twisted at the last second, more by instinct than skill. Ranma’s foot cut through empty air.

Ryoga stumbled, arms pinwheeling—then dropped hard onto his butt on the ground, sending up a puff of dust. Before he could scramble up, Ranma, caught in his own momentum, pitched forward—and landed squarely on Ryoga’s lap. Rear up, to make the tumble even more embarrassing.

There was a beat of absolute silence, no birds chirping, no wind blowing. Just Ranma, sprawled across Ryoga’s thighs, face-down—probably having eaten dirt on the way down—arms splayed out like a discarded ragdoll.

Then, out of nowhere, Ryoga smacked him in the ass, the sound scaring off a flock of birds in the distance.

“Ow! What was that for?” Ranma snapped, twisting to glare up at him.

Ryoga just snorted like it was the funniest thing in the world. “I mean—C’mon, it was right there!” He laughed as if that was explanation enough. “Couldn’t help it—wasn’t gonna pass up a chance to embarrass you more.”

Ranma stared at him for a beat, face darkening—not with anger, exactly, but something dangerously close to mortified. Without another word, he pushed himself up, dusted off his shirt with jerky, frustrated motions, and turned on his heel. “Whatever,” he muttered, stomping off.

Ryoga blinked, watching him go. Then a slow, smug smile crept onto his face. “I’ll take it as I won this time then,” he said seemingly to no one in particular.

Ranma heard him, his shoulders stiffened. But he didn’t stop walking—just clenched his fists and walked a little faster, face burning.

The next time it happened…

Ranma had challenged Ryoga the very next day. No warning, he just showed up at the lot after school, arms crossed and eyes burning with determination.

“You’re not getting away with that cheap win yesterday,” he’d said, already cracking his knuckles.

Ryoga blinked, then grinned. “Bring it on, Saotome.”

They clashed again, trading blows in a blur of fists and footwork. But this time, Ranma wasn’t just fighting—he was calculating. Analyzing Ryoga’s tells, the way he dodged under pressure, the exact timing of his missteps.

‘He shouldn’t have been able to avoid that combo yesterday,’ Ranma thought, ducking a swing. ‘I had him—he should’ve dropped like a sack of bricks.’

So Ranma did it again—same sequence, same tempo, same stance shift. He launched into the combo with perfect form, convinced he’d land it this time.

Ryoga shifted, slipped... And fell back onto the ground, just like yesterday. Ranma’s foot missed... And once again, he landed face-down across Ryoga’s lap.

A breeze blew. Somewhere, a crow cawed.

Ryoga blinked, caught in a sense of déjà vu so powerful it may as well have smacked him in the face.

Ranma sputtered dirt out of his mouth. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Ryoga stared down at him, really looking at the compromising position of his rival. He looked back at the footwork, the timing, and the angle that had made them fall then and again today. “You did the exact same combo as yesterday.” He said slowly, realization dawning.

Ranma stiffened.

“You did!” Ryoga’s voice shot up, half disbelieving, half offended. “You really thought you could pull that cheap stunt again and it would work this time?”

“It’s not a cheap—” Ranma started, before he felt it again—a hard smack in his ass.

“You seriously thought so little of me...” Ryoga barked, his voice rising. “That. You. Didn’t. Even. Bother. To come up. With a new move?!” With each word, each fragment, he struck Ranma’s ass with a force that made Ranma cry out in pain every time. “What am I to you, some kind of training dummy you can land on for practice?”

“Agh!” Ranma scrambled off Ryoga’s lap the second he could, rubbing the pain off his butt. “Again with that? That hurts, you jerk!”

“It’s supposed to,” Ryoga snapped, glaring as he crossed his arms—but the smirk creeping onto his face betrayed just how satisfied he was. “That’s your punishment—so you learn not to underestimate me.”

Ranma didn’t answer. He turned away, slowly. This time, he didn’t stomp off in a huff—he walked fast, shoulders tense, face tight. He could still feel the sting of Ryoga’s hand on his ass, but what stuck more was the sharp tone in his voice. He had really gotten under his rival’s skin this time. And suddenly, Ranma didn’t want to find out how else Ryoga could punish him if he were to keep underestimating him.

He was halfway down the block when Ryoga called after him, voice loud and cutting. “Yeah, you go ahead and cower with your father and the Tendos!”

Ranma flinched, just slightly—but he didn’t look back.

The next time… things couldn’t have been more different.

Some time had passed. Ryoga, true to form, had gotten lost again—somewhere between a goat farm in Okinawa and a deserted hot spring—but by some cosmic joke, he’d stumbled right back into Nerima like he’d never left.

So, naturally, they fought. But this time, Ryoga had the upper hand—it hadn’t even been close. No lucky dodges, no clumsy falls—just raw strength, controlled breath, and quiet precision. Now, Ranma found himself pinned—stomach pressed against a tree, Ryoga’s arm slung around his neck from behind in a chokehold. Ryoga wasn’t cutting off serious amounts of air or blood. He could, if he wanted to—but he wasn’t. Until the amount of time he held his rival like that, felt like he was.

Ranma’s hands scrambled at Ryoga’s forearm for a second longer, but he had no leverage—no real plan, no way out.

Then Ryoga spoke, low and steady, right against his ear. “Yield.”

Every hair on Ranma’s body stood on end. His heart pounded in his chest, whatever little breaths he could manage got caught in his throat. Not in panic, but in something strange and peaceful that he didn’t have a name for. The fight drained out of him, he stopped struggling, muscles relaxed. He went still… he had yielded.

Surprised, Ryoga let go of him. For a moment, he doubted the strength he had applied onto the chokehold—if he had gone too far.

Ranma dropped to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, boneless and silent. He stayed there a moment, head bowed, before pushing himself up to his knees, breathing hard.

Ryoga hadn’t expected that. He had braced for more thrashing, more yelling, maybe a proper counterattack that flipped him against the very same tree. Instead, Ranma was now kneeling in front of him. Kneeling. Looking up at Ryoga with no fire, no snark, no fury.

Ranma just knelt there, frozen, trying to anticipate his rival’s next moves. Ryoga could’ve done anything in that moment—say something cruel, gloat, strike him hard like last time—but he didn’t. Instead, he looked at how Ryoga just stood there, fists clenched, brow furrowed—not with anger, but confusion, or concern—okay no, maybe anger.

“Ranma…” he started, the name heavy in his mouth. Ryoga’s pride made the next words feel like chewing glass. “You okay?”

The answer was no. But Ranma didn’t know why. His body was fine—sore, maybe, but nothing serious. And yet there was a pressure behind his ribs, a twist in his gut, something too raw and tangled to name. Like yielding had knocked something loose inside him that hadn’t settled yet. He swallowed it down.

“’M fine,” he answered despite himself, voice a little too quick, too flat.

Ryoga didn’t press. But the way he looked at him said he didn’t believe it for a second. His jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides. He wasn’t looking at Ranma with sympathy—or worry—but with a simmering, narrow-eyed fury. Not because Ranma had surrendered, but because Ranma had scared him. That slackness, that limp collapse—it had looked too real, too final. Like maybe for a second, Ranma wasn’t pretending. And then he had the nerve to lie about it.

Ryoga’s blood was still pulsing. His body wanted to move—wanted to grab him, shake him, hit him, something. Something to knock that—that—nervous look?—off his face. To make sure Ranma understood what he’d done. But then what? What was he going to do—punch him bloody while he was still kneeling there like that? Like something already broken? Ryoga sneered, disgusted. No, he wouldn't waste his fists on someone looking that pathetic.

So instead, he turned his back and muttered, voice like gravel: “Another win for me.” But this didn’t feel like victory at all, so Ryoga let it go. Chose to let him go—now literally. “Now you go home and leave me alone...”

Ranma didn’t move right away. He’d expected Ryoga to do something—to say more, maybe lash out... But nothing happened.

The silence stretched thin, brittle like glass. Only when he was sure nothing was coming—no words, no hands, no attacks—did Ranma begin to rise. Slowly, stealthily—like prey trying not to alert a predator. As if trying to not make a sound, he turned and began walking away. Slowly too at first—and when there was enough distance—Ranma sped up, running.

And the very next day, Ranma pressed for a rematch. 

No insults, no dramatic entrance, just... showed up. Same empty lot, same time, familiar dust in the air. He stood like he always did—arms crossed, leaning with ease against a fencepost, mouth set in that too-confident smirk. But underneath, he was nervous, and hadn’t even realized it himself yet. Not that Ryoga noticed it. To him, it was the same old Ranma—same swagger, same cocky stare, same unspoken challenge.

Ryoga barely broke stride in his warm-up when he saw him. Just grunted, cracking his neck. “Didn’t have enough yesterday?” he said, tone dry.

Ranma scoffed, rolling a shoulder. “Tch, please! You think that was enough to scare me off?” Oh, but hadn’t he?

And that was that. The unspoken agreement settled between them, as it always did.

Ryoga didn’t see the tightness in Ranma’s shoulders, didn’t hear the slight catch in his breath. Why would he? This was just another fight, another round in their endless game of one-upmanship.

Only Ranma knew this one wasn’t, but he wasn’t about to say it out loud.

Ranma was not holding back. Every movement was sharp, deliberate—no wasted energy, no smirking taunts, no cheap tricks. Just raw, honed aggression. Ryoga was giving it everything he had, digging deep into every technique he knew, and still, he couldn’t gain ground. Ranma was testing him, pulling something out of him. And Ryoga… was falling for it… Getting angrier and angrier at every dodged attack of his, every attack of his rival that connected.

He panted, teeth grit, sweat slipping down his temple. Ranma came in for another strike, fast and clean—but Ryoga ducked under it. He flipped back to gain distance, not to run, but to think. About how just yesterday the tables were turned. How Ranma—pinned, controlled—had gone still. He remembered how it had felt to have him against that tree—solid, quiet, waiting.

Ryoga wouldn’t be able to get a chokehold today. Not with Ranma moving like this, but maybe... maybe something else would work. A long-range attack, it was farfetched, but just maybe...

In one fluid motion, Ryoga yanked a razor-sharp bandana from his arsenal and hurled it skyward. It arched fast and clean—shink!—catching Ranma’s left forearm and pinning it into the rough bark of the same tree from yesterday. His back and rest of his body followed, hitting the tree with a loud thud.

Ranma reacted instantly, twisting his body to free himself, his right hand already reaching up—

But Ryoga was faster, he had closed the distance in two steps. He caught Ranma’s free arm mid-motion, and twisted it behind his back in one smooth, practiced move.

Ranma let out a surprised breath—more shock than pain. Ranma’s feet scrambled beneath him—he was pinned just high enough that he was barely balanced on his tippy toes. His breath hitched, tension coiling through his frame—he was not going to be able to kick his way out of this one.

Ryoga didn’t waste time. With his other hand, he grabbed his cloth bandana—the only non-sharp one he owned, the one always on his forehead—and looped it tight around Ranma’s wrist. And without thinking too hard about what he was doing or why, he tied it... to Ranma’s braid.

Then he let go, and Ranma’s body untwisted from where he’d been struggling, shifting back into place—his spine pressed flush against the tree once more. But now, with his other arm caught awkwardly between his back and the bark.

And in all that, Ryoga hadn’t stepped back. They were close now—too close. With how Ranma had ended up in the tree, they were suddenly face to face, gazes locked in a stare that neither quite meant to hold. There was a beat of silence and stillness. Ranma’s body was tense, but he wasn’t struggling to get out. Ryoga stood just inches away, unmoving. Both of them were breathing hard in the tight space between them, the air thick with something neither wanted to name.

And in that moment, Ryoga realized—he had him. He could beat him up, probably should. His fist wanted to hit something.

So there was Ranma. All in all, held high to the tree by a razor-sharp bandana. If he shifted too much, he risked slipping—losing his balance. And the weight of his body would hang too low against the sharp edge of the bandana, biting into his skin—or worse.

And if he tried to free his other arm, he risked yanking his own hair. He tested it once, a faint movement of his shoulders. The bandana pulled tight across his scalp in warning. So he stilled, just like yesterday. Except today his airways weren’t about to be closed—but that didn’t mean today didn’t come without its own dangers.

Ranma felt it again, that strange sense of peace. No way out, no clever counters, no lightning-fast reversals or smug quips. Just stillness. Stillness, and the quiet fact that he wasn’t getting out of this one. And somehow, that was a relief. He didn’t have to think anymore, didn’t have to be five steps ahead or constantly proving himself. Just sweet, sweet defeat.

And for one long, silent moment, Ranma let himself exist there—suspended in that thin space between surrender and... panic. His feet barely touched the ground, toes straining for balance, for leverage, for anything. But there was none.

Ryoga was right there—close, solid, unmoving. Ranma didn’t struggle—not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know what struggling might provoke. Ryoga had him—trapped, pinned, powerless—and he could do anything. That thought crawled up Ranma’s spine like ice. Ryoga had the best opportunity to mark the moment, claim the win, to make this into more than just a pin. He didn’t know what Ryoga would do next. And that had him on edge.

Ryoga’s heart pounded. He stood there, too close, fists clenched, trying to decide just how far to take this. He thought long and hard—longer than he should’ve—with every second stretching taut. He could hit him—drive a fist straight into Ranma’s gut and end it with bruises—but somehow, that felt cheap. Like it would stain the victory. No, he needed something that would stick. Something that would make Ranma feel it after the fight was over.

And then the answer came—sharp, petty, and perfect.

Ryoga leaned in, voice low but sharp with venomous glee. “You know, Ranma… remember of all those times you’d transform me back from P-Chan in public—threatening to show my naked body to girls nearby—to the world?”

Ranma’s eyes widened, his breath caught in his throat.

“Yeah,” Ryoga continued, grin curling at the edge of his mouth. “Thought maybe I’d return the favor. Show you off a little. Just for laughs.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the fabric of Ranma’s tang suit. The touch was light, almost casual, but it sent a jolt of unease through Ranma’s body. “Y’know, give you some of your own medicine.”

And he smiled, because he told himself it was just a joke. But deep down, Ryoga knew what he really wanted—to humiliate him. To make Ranma feel small. To win in a way fists never could. Without any more explanations, Ryoga began to unbutton the suit, each movement deliberate, each button clicking open with a soft snick that echoed in the stillness.

Ranma’s breath hitched as the fabric parted, exposing his chest to the cool air. His muscles tensed, ready to resist, but the bandana binding his arm to the tree was unyielding, its sharpness a constant reminder of the consequences of struggle. Ryoga’s gaze lingered on the exposed skin, his expression unreadable, before he stepped back, leaving the tang suit hanging loose and open.

“You know,” Ryoga began, his tone laced with a mocking edge, “for all I know, we could be in a forest miles away from civilization. But you say this is just the empty lot beside your school—anyone could walk in on us. On you. Naked.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Whatever little defiance was left in Ranma, it wavered for a moment, replaced by a flicker of unease. This wasn’t what he’d expected. Ryoga wasn’t punishing him—he was stripping away his autonomy, piece by piece.

With a slow, almost leisurely motion, Ryoga slid his hands to Ranma’s waist, his fingers brushing against the waistband of his pants. Ranma’s breath caught in his throat as Ryoga began to lower the fabric, the movement deliberate, almost intimate. The pants slid down his legs, followed by his boxers, pooling at his feet.

Ranma stood there, exposed and vulnerable, his bare skin tingling in the cool air. His mind raced, trying to process the humiliation, the sheer audacity of Ryoga’s actions. This wasn’t a physical punishment—it was a psychological one, a dismantling of his pride, his control.

“I’m just gonna leave you there...” Ryoga began.

Ranma’s stomach dropped, eyes widening. The moment stretched—long, sharp, agonizing. Ryoga could walk away. Could disappear into some random corner of Japan for days, weeks, like he always did. And he’d leave Ranma here—tied up naked, defeated, humiliated, and utterly alone.

“...While I go ahead and take a power nap,” Ryoga finished.

Ranma exhaled. He almost—almost—laughed. Somewhere in the universe, a god of mercy winked at him.

And so Ryoga did. With the most casual air possible, he turned away, slipped into his tent a few feet off the side. And not long after, soft snoring drifted into the quiet air. And that should have been the end of it. But it wasn’t.

Because as the minutes—or was it hours?—ticked by, Ranma felt something strange stirring inside him. Despite the situation, his body began to betray him. His dick, slow and stubborn, wanted to harden, a physical response that only added to his mortification.

It could’ve been the leftover heat of the fight. Or the quiet, sensation of being bound and held. It could’ve been that he lost. No, this arousal was probably because of something else—maybe… fear.

He was counting on—really counting on—this being an odd time of day. He was close enough to Furinkan High’s walls that a stray student, a wandering teacher, anyone could round the corner and see him like this—pinned, restrained, exposed.

The thought made his stomach churn, he squirmed—barely. One bandana tugged at his braid, the other at his skin in warning. Still tight, still inescapable, Ryoga had made sure of that. On top of that struggle, was the one of trying to will his dick down. There was no reason for him to get a hard on in this situation, and yet... Ranma grit his teeth—no one could see him like this—not Akane, not Kuno, not anyone.

With only the sun as a clock and no real sense of time, every second dragged like molasses. The shadows shifted, the light tilted—every breeze, every distant noise set his nerves on edge.

And then—finally—the tent flap stirred and Ryoga emerged. He looked well-rested, a little disheveled, stretching casually like he hadn’t just left his rival tied naked to a tree for what felt like an eternity.

The sheer relief of his torture finally—possibly—about to come to an end hit Ranma so hard, the erection he’s been battling against stood up fully now.

Ryoga’s gaze flickered downward. I mean, it was right there, staring back at him—a little impossible to not notice it first thing. A smirk played at the corners of his lips. “You seem glad to see me,” he remarked, his voice dripping with amused sarcasm.

Ranma’s cheeks flushed, a mix of anger and embarrassment burning in his chest. “Shut up,” he snapped, his voice rough. “You have a dick too, you know they get up at the worst possible times...” He didn’t know why yet, but that was a lie.

Ryoga simply snickered. Not a loud laugh—just a low, satisfied sound that rumbled from his chest as he stood over Ranma, presence unmistakable, looming.

The sound struck a chord deep in Ranma’s gut—a truth he didn’t want to acknowledge. He tensed automatically, a flicker of defiance rising in his body, an urge to wipe off that smirk off Ryoga’s face—but he couldn’t move, not really. The bandanas binding his arms were still in place, tight, unmoving, unforgiving. They stopped him cold—made him remember exactly where he was, kept him from lashing out, from reacting the way he always did.

And Ryoga noticed. He stepped closer—closer still. Until his body pressed against Ranma’s—thighs intertwined, erection inevitably on the other’s own stomach—no space between them but breath. Ranma stiffened instantly.

Ryoga brought one hand up and grabbed Ranma’s face—firm and unrelenting, fingers digging in just enough to make it clear who was in control. “Tch. You still think you can fight back?” His voice was quiet, flat, mocking. “You’re in no position to get back at me.”

Ranma’s jaw locked tight. He glared back, but it was shaky—he could feel it. The fire in his eyes was flickering, unsteady.

Ryoga’s smirk widened, slow and deliberate. “You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood. You know, I thought of doing a hell of a lot worse while you were out here. Had plenty of time to think about it.”

Ranma stopped breathing involuntarily for one second.

“But I didn’t.” Ryoga leaned in just enough for his breath to brush Ranma’s ear. “So maybe remember that next time you get any bright ideas.” He didn’t need to hit Ranma, he didn’t need to humiliate him further. Because in that moment, he’d already won—and it was clear to him that Ranma understood that.

They held each other’s gaze then—locked in a stare that sizzled with heat, tension, something too charged to name. Ranma’s heart thudded wildly in his chest, his dick twitched to his mortification. Beneath his weakening glare, panic twisted tighter and tighter. He didn’t dare to move.

And then, slowly, Ryoga’s hand slid down. Not away, not off—just down. From Ranma’s jaw, to his throat, down his collarbone, dragging with measured weight across his skin. Still watching him, Ryoga reached up Ranma’s arm—past his lose tang suit, but fingers never leaving Ranma’s skin—and dislodged the razor-sharp bandana holding Ranma to the tree.

The moment it gave, Ranma slipped forward—right into Ryoga. He couldn’t catch himself, not with one arm twisting uncomfortably tied to his braid, and his pants and boxers tangling his legs. He stumbled straight into Ryoga’s chest.

Before he could react, Ryoga instinctively caught him. Solid hands, like in an embrace. They stayed like that for a second, a moment of stillness. Ryoga didn’t say a word. He simply reached behind, found the second knot without even looking, and with a smooth, practiced flick, freed Ranma’s other arm.

Ranma stepped back the second he was loose—but not far, almost tripping on his clothes.

Ryoga was still staring at him. That glare said everything—no jokes, no teasing—just a quiet, clear warning.

And Ranma didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled down to his feet, hastily pulling up his boxers and pants, his persistent erection making him do extra adjustments. He had no bravado left in him, no smart remarks. Just a sharp, jerky nod—eyes pointed anywhere but Ryoga. Then he turned and left the lot faster than lightning.

Ranma slumped onto his futon—his father playing shogi with Mr. Tendo at the moment—mind still reeling from the events of the afternoon. How he went past the Tendos without any of them commenting on his hard on, he couldn’t tell. But the fact that he got, and still was, hard from it all—from being humiliated—baffled him more than he could really grasp.

He had felt relaxed in the defeat of the fight, he’ll admit as much. But he had chosen to yield—or so he told himself despite not having any other options—today and yesterday. The nerve of Ryoga to pull a stunt like that on him!

Before he could catch himself, his hand had drifted down, fingers brushing against the waistband of his pants. He hesitated, torn between shame and desire. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t normal. He shouldn’t be aroused by this—he shouldn’t—he was pretty sure sane people didn’t got aroused by stuff like this. But there was his cock, demanding attention.

He slipped his hand inside, fingers wrapping around his insistent erection. He couldn’t shake the image of himself, bound and helpless, his tang suit undone, his body on full display. The memory of Ryoga’s hands on him, the way Ryoga had stripped him—of his clothes, of his pride and control—played on a loop in his head. The humiliation of it all only fueled his arousal. He’d swear right now to anything he’d deemed sacred that his hand began to move on its own—long, slow strokes that had him breathing just as long and slow.

What if someone had walked by? What if they’d seen him like that, tied up and exposed? The thought sent a jolt through him, and he quickened his pace, his breath coming in short gasps. He pictured a stranger, a pervert, stopping to take advantage of him, and the idea, as wrong as it was, made his cock twitch in his hand. His mind wandered further, darker. What if he’d been in his girl version? The vulnerability of that thought was almost too much to bear. The idea of being taken advantage of, of being used, sent a shiver down his spine.

And then there was Ryoga, he didn’t know he had it in him... They way Ryoga had taken charge without hesitation, dared to do him wrong, humiliated him as if it was just another prank—it was both infuriating and intoxicating. The thought of Ryoga’s dominance, the memory of being at Ryoga’s mercy, was like a spark to kindling. He closed his eyes, biting his lip as he tightened his grip—strokes becoming faster, more desperate.

He couldn’t believe he was thinking this way. Ryoga was his rival, his opponent, someone he was supposed to defeat, not fantasize about. He was conflicted, torn between his pride and the undeniable pull of submission. Ranma’s breath hitched as he teetered on the edge. He was losing himself in the memory of it all, in the shameful, exhilarating idea of being completely under Ryoga’s control. With a strangled cry, he came, his release hot and messy, his body trembling as he rode out the waves of pleasure.

For a moment, he lay there, breathless and spent, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. Shame washed over him, but it was mingled with something else—a strange sense of relief, of surrendering to a different kind of defeat. He had fought so hard to maintain his defiance, but Ryoga had cracked his armor, exposed vulnerabilities he didn’t know he had in him. And now, here he was, climaxing to the thought of his own humiliation—of defeat.

He wiped his hand on the clean parts of the inside of his boxers, his chest rising and falling as he tried to regain his composure. What was happening to him? He was a martial artist, a fighter, not some submissive plaything. But the evidence was there, in the dampness on his skin, in the way his body still thrummed with residual pleasure. Ryoga had gotten under his skin, and the thought both terrified and excited him.

Ranma had won, again—against Mousse this time, though.

His victory over the Amazon man had all the markings of another expected win—did the whole heroic fiancé routine like it was second nature, people cheered, Akane complained, the sun set. It was the same old script—always winning, always saving the day—even if deep down he’d grown tired of playing the dutiful savior. And Ranma felt nothing, no satisfaction, no pride. Just that gnawing emptiness that came after doing exactly what everyone expected of him. A hollow victory. 

Ranma was left craving that strange, sweet edge of defeat—something real enough to cut through the numbness. And the only one who’d ever managed to give him that was Ryoga. How his rival had won was... questionable, but hey, Anything Goes. And then there was the part Ranma didn’t want to think too hard about, the part of what Ryoga might do to him in celebration... He wasn’t exactly thrilled to find out. Or so he told himself as he still went looking for him anyway.

In the quiet of their usual empty lot, Ryoga moved through his kata with focus—each strike precise, each breath measured. The dust stirred at his feet, the sun catching on his shoulders, bare and sweat-slicked from practice.

Ranma watched from the edge for a long moment before stepping forward. “C’mon, defeat me in a fight,” he said, voice flat, almost dull. Like it wasn’t a challenge—more like a request.

Ryoga froze mid-motion, one arm extended. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Ryoga turned fully now, his expression tightening, brows drawing low. “Sounds like you’re already giving up before we even start.”

There it was—the familiar spark in Ryoga’s words, cutting straight through the air between them. Ranma’s heart pounded; it wasn’t just about the fight. That edge, that danger, that... something. It wasn’t about giving up, it was about being properly defeated. About feeling that raw, unfiltered reality Ryoga had recently brought out in him. And that’s all he wanted, just that, a clean win. Hopefully Ryoga would leave it at that.

“Are you underestimating me again?” Ryoga continued, his voice sharp—angry, offended.

The accusation hit the air like a punch. Because Ryoga knew what that felt like. Being treated like a stepping stone, a predictable loss. And coming from Ranma—Ranma, who pushed him, who respected his strength in the heat of a real fight—it stung worse than a thousand insults.

Ranma winced, words catching in his throat. He remembered the last time Ryoga accused him of that—and the lesson that followed. Those sharp, almost playful, smacks to his ass that stung a bit after impact. And then the other day—when Ranma had the audacity to lose fair and square—Ryoga had pinned him to a tree like it was nothing. He’d laughed it off both times, like it was just a game. But somewhere in there, Ryoga had sounded... serious, angry. Ranma wasn’t sure when the line had blurred—maybe Ryoga didn’t even know himself.

He wasn’t second guessing himself—not at all. He just... didn’t want to make the same mistake again. “H-Hey man,” Ranma said quickly, a little too defensive, “it’s not like I’m not gonna give it my all or anything—”

“Maybe,” Ryoga cut in, low and grim. “But how you ‘challenged’ me, already told me you don’t intend to win this one.”

Before Ranma could respond, Ryoga was on him—quick, decisive, no hesitation. He grabbed Ranma, twisted him, and slammed him face-first into the dirt. The move was clean, practiced, with no wasted motion. Ranma barely had time to grunt before a firm arm hold locked him in place. Ryoga bore some of his own weight across Ranma’s back, pinning him effortlessly. Ranma squirmed out of instinct, but there was no give—Ryoga’s grip was secure.

“So why bother?” Ryoga continued, his voice right near Ranma’s ear now, lower, rougher. “Let’s skip to the part where I have to teach you this all over again.”

The first strike against Ranma’s ass was sharp, echoing like a crack of thunder. He tensed, breath hitching as the sharp sting left a hot trail in its wake. Three or four more smacks followed in quick succession—each one harder than the last, the pain radiating through the fabric and deep into Ranma’s skin. But Ryoga knew he could do better, he could make Ranma feel it even more. With a rough tug, he yanked down Ranma’s pants and boxers, baring his flesh to the open air. The gesture was quick, deliberate. Not just to humiliate—but to make sure the next hit really landed.

Ranma flinched, a sharp inhale slipping past his lips. Not from pain—not yet—but from the realization that Ryoga wasn’t holding back. He wanted him to feel this. Wanted it to leave a mark, to drive the lesson in deeper. Ranma’s body locked tight beneath him, he didn’t speak, he didn’t dare. All he could do was brace himself—held fast under Ryoga’s grip, waiting.

The fifth or sixth strike was worse, because now there was no padding, just skin and sting, and humiliation sizzling up Ranma’s neck, burning in his ears. Before he could squirm or cuss Ryoga out, the seventh or eighth slap landed—full, deliberate, raw. He made a strangled, animal sound and his hips jerked reflexively against the ground. The pain was sharp, precise, almost electric, and he had no time to brace for the ninth or tenth strike.

Ryoga continued the spanking with a relentless, unyielding rhythm. There was no break, no pause, no respite, no mercy. Each strike landed with brutal precision, the sound of flesh meeting flesh reverberating through the empty lot like a relentless drumbeat. Each blow built on the last, deliberate and controlled; even when Ryoga felt some sting on his own palm, he refused to slow or dull the delivery.

He kept going, fueled by years of pent-up rivalry, the humiliation of every loss, every slight, every time Ranma had made a fool of him. Something in him had wanted this for a long time. This was Ryoga’s payback. But not the kind he’d ever imagined giving—no fists, but... control. Measured punishment. He was finally close enough to hurt Ranma in a way that mattered.

At first, Ranma was silent. Then the curses started, spit through gritted teeth. Eventually, the curses died out and there was only the keening, involuntary cries with each smack. One after the other—another, and another one.. Ranma’s ass burned, raw and swollen, every inch of skin alive and throbbing with the stinging. The pain felt endless, measured only in the seconds between smacks—the brief, sick anticipation that was almost worse than the blow itself.

Ranma got caught up in a loop of flinching, whimpering, and twisting involuntarily—body writhing beneath Ryoga’s control. And each time, Ryoga shifted his body weight, grinding just a little too purposefully against him, pressing Ranma further down. He wouldn’t ease on the arm hold either—the type if Ranma struggled too hard, he could dislocate something. The threat of it kept Ranma still as best he could, unable to escape.

He didn’t know when he started to cry. The tears ran hot down his cheeks, he couldn’t wipe it away—he couldn’t move at all. His pride wouldn’t let him beg, wouldn’t let him ask, but he cried anyway. So Ranma gritted his teeth... then howled as another strike landed dead center, sharp enough to make his vision white at the edges.

He should be able to stop it—he was stronger, faster, smarter. But right now, Ryoga was pinning him, bare-assed and burning. The shame of his helplessness brought a distinctive, familiar twitch against the dirt beneath him. Ranma couldn’t believe it, his own body started to betray him with each heavy-handed slap. All Ranma could do—trapped beneath him, breath ragged, nerves alight with searing pain—was take it.

He wanted to hate Ryoga. He wanted to hate him, but that was impossible because the only time Ranma felt true defeat was like this—when Ryoga didn’t just let him go, when Ryoga marked his victory. Ranma had asked for this in some dumb, roundabout way—because deep down he wanted to finally be punished for something, to finally pay for all the times he’d gotten away with it. This was what he deserved, and Ryoga knew it. That was the worst best part.

Eventually, the blows slowed. Ryoga’s breathing came hard and fast. He only stopped when his own hand started to throb, a dull ache crawling up his arm. He looked down at Ranma’s ass—now a vivid red with his strikes, each one a sharp echo of his own precision—and for a moment, something faltered. Had he gone too far?

He muttered a curse under his breath, then turned Ranma to face him in his arms. Ranma blinked up at him, startled—the shift made the cool air brush against his now exposed dick. Without thinking, Ranma covered himself with both hands, cheeks burning. Ryoga didn’t comment, just readjusted his grip and scooped him up without ceremony, carrying him into the tent—holding him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Inside, he set Ranma down carefully onto his unmade sleeping bag. Ranma shifted with a wince, instinctively rolling to his side so the fabric wouldn’t press against the worst of the bruises. Ryoga stared for a moment at the angry red marks across Ranma’s ass—still fresh, already swelling. By morning, he knew, they’d be a brutal black and blue, a harsh map of where he’d landed every strike.

With a quiet exhale, he turned away and started digging through his things. His hands moved fast—muscle memory more than thought—as he pulled out the battered first aid kit. He unscrewed the lid off a small jar of balm—the sharp, minty smell hit the air. He knelt beside Ranma again and dipped two fingers into the jar. The salve was cool, smooth, and Ryoga hesitated for just a second—then pressed it to the skin.

His touch wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t careless, either. Ryoga’s hand—still warm from use, faintly trembling with leftover adrenaline—pressed to the raw heat of Ranma’s ass. The balm spread cool at first, shocking against the angry skin, and Ranma’s body twitched under the contact. But Ryoga didn’t stop. He steadied his hand, and began to move—slow, steady circles.

The pads of his fingers traced over the bruises one by one, finding each spot by feel. Not just working in the balm, but cataloguing the damage he’d done—each red mark, each place Ranma had flinched.

There was nothing clinical about it, nothing detached. His strokes were rough at first—just enough to make Ranma suck in a breath through his teeth—but Ryoga adjusted, slower now, softer. His palm cupped the slope of Ranma’s shoulder to hold him steady as he massaged through just under a butt cheek, fingertips dragging gently across skin. Not soothing, exactly—there was still friction in the motion—but it had a kind of reverence to it. Like he was trying to fix what he’d broken, and not quite trusting himself to do it right.

Ranma didn’t say anything, didn’t move. But Ryoga could feel him—tense, trembling ever so slightly under his hands. Trying to hold himself still—not because it didn’t hurt, but because something else had started to take root in the quiet between them. But Ranma jerked involuntarily, his hips grinding forward ever so slightly despite himself. The pain, the balm, Ryoga’s callused hands working over his battered skin—he could feel everything. It stung and it burned, but it also buzzed, wires running straight up his spine.

Ranma pressed his thighs together, desperate to clamp down on the swelling pressure that was already hardening between his legs. He kept his hands locked over his crotch, squeezing tight, like maybe he could suffocate the reaction before Ryoga noticed, like a schoolgirl caught in the wind. He could picture how pathetic he looked, curled up on his side, naked from the waist down, face hot with a flush that threatened to crawl right to his scalp. He hated how Ryoga’s touch burned, hated how it felt like he was being branded, hated most of all how it made him want more.

Ryoga exhaled through his nose, his gaze lowered. Ryoga did noticed, but didn’t say shit, didn’t speak, didn’t meet Ranma’s eyes. Just kept rubbing in the balm, each stroke lingering a little longer than necessary, tracing bruises like a memory he wasn’t ready to let go of. But he couldn’t pretend any longer.

Ryoga’s fingers stilled, the balm forgotten as he suddenly shifted his grip on Ranma. In one swift motion, he pinned Ranma’s wrists above his head, forcing him to roll onto his back. A deeper shade of red flooded Ranma’s cheeks as he was now, exposed and breathless. The air thickened with unspoken tension, their breaths mingling in the small space of the tent. 

“What’s this?” Ryoga’s voice came out low and almost challenging as he glanced down at where Ranma lay, skin flushed and glistening. His gaze flicked back to meet Ranma’s, brows furrowed over piercing eyes that searched for answers. “Is this the worst possible time again or are you hard because of…?” He didn’t need to finish his question, the implication was clear.

Warmth surged through Ranma, burning brighter than the sting on his ass against the soft fabric of the sleeping bag. Ranma opened his mouth to retort, but all that came out was a breathy gasp as he met Ryoga’s gaze. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, heavy like the heat pooling deep in his core. He couldn’t hide it, not anymore. Not when every flicker of awareness between them felt electric, sparking something primal that ran deeper than he wanted to admit.

He watched Ryoga’s expression shift, the way those dark eyes narrowed slightly as if trying to dissect the truth laid bare before him. It burned—the humiliation mingling with this strange sense of powerlessness, of surrender that made his heart race faster than any fight ever could. The thrill sent a shiver down his spine, stirring something inside that begged for acknowledgment.

“Y-yeah,” he finally managed, voice low and shaky as he pushed the words out, “It’s because of—what you did... what you’re doing now.” There it was—the admission hanging heavy in the air between them, raw and exposed.

Ryoga snorted—a rough, disbelieving sound that curled his lip and tugged the corners of his mouth into a smirk. “Yeah?” he said, tightening his grip just enough to keep Ranma’s wrists pinned. “What about the other day? When I had you up half-naked against that tree and found you hard. Did you even make it home before you did anything about it?”

Ranma’s insides clenched, mortification fusing with that same raw, electric thrill. He spat out a shaky, “Shut up,” but the words had no weight, no heat behind them. Ryoga’s knee pressed on top of one of his thighs, not quite touching but close enough to make Ranma’s hard-on twitch with anticipation.

Ryoga just grinned wider, eyes narrowing in satisfaction. “Did you jack off to that?”

Ranma grit his teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, but his dick was already doing the talking. He tried to shift, to angle himself away, but Ryoga’s hands was a vice on his wrists, and his body was heavy and immovable above him. He thought about lying, about spitting out some insult, but it seemed Ryoga saw right through him.

“And don’t lie to me now.” He had leaned in close, breath hot against Ranma’s cheek.

Ranma didn’t bother trying to deny it now. He just stared up at Ryoga, breathing hard, and let himself nod.

Ryoga barked a laugh—short, triumphant, and not at all surprised. “Pervert,” he said. But there was nothing cruel in it, just an odd, rough pride. He let go one of Ranma’s wrists, but only to seize his face, fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing Ranma to meet his gaze. “So do it.”

Ranma blinked, not sure he’d heard right. “What—”

“Do it right now.” Ryoga’s thumb pressed against Ranma’s jaw, steady and inescapable. “If you like it so much, show me.”

The words landed like a punch—every cell in Ranma’s body seemed to spark like a live wire. It didn’t feel real, not at first—a joke, a test, another round of humiliation. But Ryoga’s grip was ironclad on his other wrist, and he knelt on his other thigh too now, watching, waiting for Ranma to prove him right. Ranma swallowed. His mouth was dry, tongue thick with fear and shame and something else, darker, stickier, that curled up from his gut and dared him to do it.

He started slow, his only free hand barely moving at first. It was a struggle, the muscles in his arm refusing, locking, but Ryoga was so close, so impossible to ignore, and the heat of it, the certainty that there was no escape, that Ryoga wanted this—wanted to see him—overpowered every last defense. Ranma gripped himself, stroking slowly, his palm slick with adrenaline sweat. He tried not to make a sound, but the friction sent a stinging rush straight up his spine, and the first choked grunt escaped anyway.

Ryoga’s eyes didn’t leave him. The smirk faded, replaced by a weird, sharpened focus—his jaw flexed like he was clenching down on some secret. Ranma wanted to look away, wanted to close his eyes and pretend he was alone, but Ryoga’s other hand on his chin kept him from doing so, kept him rooted in the moment. Every movement was amplified—his own breath, the obscene wet sound of his stroking, Ryoga’s faint exhale every time Ranma’s fist sped up.

Ranma felt his shame burning through his body, hot enough to blur everything else. He stroked harder, faster, barely thinking anymore, just chasing the heat that built at the pit of his belly and exploded behind his eyes. Ryoga’s grip tightened, fingers digging into Ranma’s wrist, and every instinct screamed at him to resist, to punch or kick or run, but his body didn’t listen. It only wanted to obey, to show Ryoga exactly how much he’d gotten under his skin.

Ranma’s hips jerked forward, thighs trembling under Ryoga’s knees, and he started panting, ragged and desperate. He could feel Ryoga’s gaze on every inch of him, memorizing every twitch and gasp. The humiliation warped, flipped over into something jagged and sweet, and he lost himself in it, in the rhythm and the certainty that he was exactly what Ryoga wanted to see.

Ryoga leaned in, hovering inches away. “Keep going,” he said, all gravel and hunger.

Ranma couldn’t have stopped if he tried. Even if the command was something he was already doing—the edge came fast, blinding and brutal, rougher than anything he’d ever let himself feel alone. His vision sparkled, went gray at the edges. When he came, it was all at once—sperm pulsing out of him, coating his stomach, every muscle locked in a shivering, perfect agony. He sagged back, blinking hard, unable to process anything except the crash of his own pulse and Ryoga’s heavy, satisfied breath against his cheek.

Ryoga let go of his wrist, the touch lingering for a beat before he pulled away. He sat back on his heels, silent, then turned and crouched by his pack. He rummaged through the mess with slow, deliberate movements until his fingers closed around a battered old hand towel—creased. He wiped off the mess off Ranma’s belly—motion brusque but not careless—just efficient, practical, like this was something they did all the time. 

Ranma watched, numb and still shaking, as Ryoga pulled up Ranma’s boxers and pants with the mechanical focus of someone bandaging a wound. It was only after that—after Ryoga had put him back together, after he’d wiped the last of the balm from his fingers—that he finally met Ranma’s eyes, searching for something. Ranma waited for the punchline, the taunt, the gloating, some offhand comment to cheapen what just happened. But Ryoga only scoffed and turned away, tossing the towel aside like it didn’t matter.

“Go home,” he muttered—quiet, but firm. Like a door shutting.

Ranma blinked. The cold shift stung more than he wanted to admit. But he didn’t push, didn’t argue. He knew better than to poke the bear twice in one night.

So he got up—slow, stiff, every muscle around the gluteus tender and sore. The ache moved with him, deep and blooming, not just in the bruises Ryoga left on his skin but somewhere under them. Somewhere harder to reach. Each breath stretched his ribs too tight. His behind burned in places where balm hadn’t quite erased the sting. And still, beneath all that rawness, was something else—light, sharp, unsettling. A quiet buzz in his chest—not quite comfort but not pain either—something in-between.

Ranma stepped outside onto the grass, the night air bit at his skin. No sound came from behind him, no call to wait, no explanation. Just go home, Ryoga had said.

So he walked—aching, buzzing, confused—heart somewhere between his throat and stomach.

Chapter Text

Ryoga had been walking along a dry riverbed all day, the trail twisting and doubling back like it wanted to mock him. He couldn’t even remember the last train station he’d passed—he was so far from Nerima, from anywhere, he might as well have punched through to an alternate dimension. By the time he found a patch of ground to throw his tent on, he wasn’t even sure where he’d meant to go.

Maybe back to Ranma.

The thought hit him as soon as he sat down in the darkness of his tent—it made his whole body tingle. It made him want to find his way back even if he had to tunnel under the world to do it.

He dug through his pack, pulled out whatever jerky was left, and chewed without tasting, his hand shaking just slightly. His body was still wound tight, strung out on the memory of that day—the way Ranma always fought him at every turn until Ryoga had pressed harder, faster, sharper, until he’d forced him still. Until Ranma had obeyed.

He rolled out his sleeping bag, ready to call it a night, but the memory wouldn’t leave him alone. The frantic desperation in Ranma’s voice as he struck him, the involuntary little twitches Ranma’s body gave as he applied the balm, the incredulous look on Ranma’s face when he commanded him to masturbate... and he did so anyway... The more he tried to think of something else—the way the moon had looked that night, the smell of wet grass, the stupid crow cawing in the next tree—the more he kept going back to Ranma. And the way Ryoga had felt power singing in his own veins, sharp and perfect, as if he’d taken everything from him.

He kept telling himself it was about revenge. About finally, finally getting the upper hand. But that wasn’t it, not really, and he knew it. He could’ve keep going, keep striking him until Ranma would’ve struggle too hard against the hold and broken his arm, but he hadn’t.  A shiver ran through his spine. He’d had Ranma—Ranma, his impossible, infuriating, rival—right where he wanted him. No guard left, no walls, just him—pliant and within reach.

It was more than a win. It was control. Complete, unshakable control.

Ryoga closed his eyes and felt the rush again, pounding through his veins like a second heartbeat. The weight of dominance, the knowledge that he could make Ranma listen, that he could take all that fire and bend it under his hands—it was intoxicating.

He couldn’t help it. His dick was hard, twitching against his boxers, demanding attention. His teeth caught his lower lip, a shiver of anticipation running through him. This was new territory—thrilling, forbidden. He was a martial artist discovering a different kind of power. And the more he acknowledged it, the hotter it burned. He pressed a hand down and started to stroke, slow at first, then faster, chasing the friction and the heat. All he could see, in his mind, was Ranma—stripped, bound, glaring up at Ryoga and daring him to go further.

He bit his tongue to keep from making a sound, breath hissing out through his nose. He imagined Ranma there in the tent, bound up with bandanas, his mouth gagged, his body helpless. He imagined pushing Ranma’s face into the ground, making him squirm, making him beg. He imagined the look on Ranma’s face when Ryoga finally let him come—shocked, grateful, ruined.

Ryoga’s hand moved faster. He was so close, so close, and when he came, it was a bright, blinding rush, the world going white behind his eyes. He sagged in the sleeping bag, panting, the aftershocks running up his spine. For a long time, he just lay there, limp, staring at the tent ceiling.

He wiped his hand on the inside of his undershirt, then fished a rag out of his pack and cleaned himself up as best he could. His chest hurt, but in a good way—a way that meant he was alive, that he still had something to fight for. He closed his eyes, let the exhaustion drag him under, and made a silent promise.

Next time, he’d do it better. Next time, he’d make Ranma beg for it. And next time, he’d stick around to see what happened after. Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was dangerous. But more than anything, it was addictive.

And now that he’d had it once, he wasn’t sure he could stop himself from chasing it again. He just had to find his way back to Nerima first. But for once, the prospect didn’t seem so impossible.

In Ryoga’s absence, Ranma was all sharp edges. His and Akane’s usual spats soured into something meaner, the kind of arguments that left both of them simmering long after they’d walked away. He didn’t care.

At school, he couldn’t focus. Even in gym class—his one guaranteed win—he lagged, missing the ball, reacting a half-second too slow. Every fumble dug deeper under his skin. Sparring in the dojo was worse; his timing was off, his footwork sloppy, and more than once Kasumi glanced over when he cursed after a missed strike.

The restlessness clung to him. At night he lay awake, sheets tangled around his legs, unable to shut off the gnawing in his chest. His muscles ached from the tension he couldn’t shake, the phantom echo of resistance that Ryoga used to give him.

Without that familiar weight of defeat, he was adrift again in the endless sea of expectations—his father’s voice hammering that he had to be strong, society’s glare saying he had to come out on top, always, every time. Winning wasn’t just expected—it was demanded.

But nobody had ever told him how freeing losing could be.

Ryoga had. Not in words, but in the way he’d taken him apart, stripped him down to nothing but obedience, and made it feel—against all reason—safe.

Ryoga had earned that right.

And with him gone, lost in who-knows-where, there was no one else Ranma trusted to take it from him. No one else he could afford to lose to.

Ranma needed an out. Needed to disappear the way his rival always managed to—slipping off the radar without a trace. Even if just for a weekend. So he grabbed his pack and went solo, heading for the forest skirting the edge of Nerima.

He’d been hiking for hours, the weight of his pack settling into his shoulders, the steady crunch of gravel and dirt underfoot the only sound for miles. The air had cooled, the sky bleeding gold and orange as the sun began to sink behind the tree line. Shadows stretched long and thin across the path, and the forest’s edges seemed to swallow the light whole.

That’s where he saw him.

Ryoga. Standing in the middle of the path, scowling at a map like it had personally wronged him.

For a second—just a second—Ranma’s chest eased, some deep knot loosening at the sight. But relief curdled fast. Annoyance surged instead, sharp and hot, mutating into something closer to anger. All that mess from last time… it must’ve been a fluke, a bad trip, a nightmare he’d woken from.

He called out, voice dripping with insult. “Well, well. If it isn’t bacon-breath, still can’t tell up from down. You been wandering in circles all week?”

Ryoga didn’t even flinch. “At least I’m moving. You’re the one still standing in my way.”

Ranma snorted. “Your way? You’re in Nerima, genius. My turf.”

“Funny,” Ryoga said, folding the map with deliberate care, “I don’t remember you owning the dirt under my feet.”

“Oh, I do. Every inch of it. And the air too—so I’ll be taking back the breath you owe me from last time you ran your mouth.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across Ryoga’s face. “Last time? You mean when you were down eating dirt?”

Ranma’s temper flared instantly, his ears burning. “That was—!” He cut himself off, fists tightening. “You caught me before I even squared up!”

Ryoga stepped forward, fighting stance loose, voice low. “Square up then.”

They clashed, the fight sparking to life like it always did—but Ranma’s movements were different this time. Wilder, less controlled, the desperate thrash of prey that couldn’t afford to lose.

He lunged in fast, a spinning kick that Ryoga blocked on his forearm with barely a grunt. Ranma followed with a flurry of jabs, forcing Ryoga back a step—but Ryoga’s eyes never left him, steady and locked, the way a wolf watches a deer tire itself out.

A sharp feint, a low sweep—Ranma ducked it, springing back with a grin, but Ryoga was already there, cutting off his escape with a punch that grazed his jaw.

Ranma shook it off, teeth bared, and dove in again. His fists hit air. Ryoga sidestepped, pivoted, and caught Ranma’s arm mid-swing. The momentum yanked Ranma forward, off balance, and Ryoga drove his shoulder into Ranma’s chest, sending him sprawling in the dirt. The world tilted. Ryoga loomed over him, breathing steady, not a scratch on him.

Before Ranma could scramble back up, Ryoga’s foot planted firmly on his chest, pinning him to the ground. Not crushing—just enough pressure to make it clear who wasn’t moving unless Ryoga allowed it.

Ranma twisted, kicked, grabbed for the ankle—Ryoga didn’t budge. If anything, the smug curl of his lips deepened.

“Still think you can take me?” Ryoga asked, voice a calm, dangerous purr.

“Get off me, pork—”

Ryoga shifted his weight just slightly, forcing a hiss from Ranma. “Say it again. Louder. Convince yourself.”

Ranma froze for half a second. His pride screamed at him to throw Ryoga off, to fight until he won—yet something deep in his chest loosened. The pressure holding him down was steady, controlled, certain. Nobody else ever fought him like this, no taunting audience, no wild chaos. Just power, absolute and sure, bearing down until the only option left was to surrender.

And damn it, it felt good.

Ryoga leaned forward, not enough to crush, just enough to make Ranma feel the inevitability of losing. “Now Ranma, what do you think the punishment for your little tantrum should be?”

Without breaking eye contact, Ryoga reached behind him and grabbed his backpack, fingers deftly pulling out the rope he always kept for his camping gear. He moved with calm precision, looped the rope around Ranma’s wrists, pulling tight until they were bound overhead. With a swift motion, he flipped Ranma onto his stomach, the ground rough beneath him. Without hesitation, Ryoga pressed the knot firmly to the earth with the sharp end of a tent pike, anchoring Ranma in place.

Ranma’s pulse hammered, but the wild panic in his limbs dulled into something heavier, something that made his hands slacken against Ryoga’s foot. He hated this. He hated that he liked this.

Ryoga grabbed Ranma by the braid and yanked his head up, forcing a hiss through Ranma’s teeth. “No suggestions?” Ryoga asked, not bothering to mask the satisfaction in his voice.

He ran his hand down the line of Ranma’s spine, feeling the frantic, contained shiver beneath skin and fabric. He slid his fingertips beneath the hem of Ranma’s tang suit, letting the fabric catch against his knuckles as he inched it upward. The small of Ranma’s back emerged, pale and vulnerable, goosebumps rising in the cool forest air. Ryoga traced one finger along the newly exposed skin before hooking his thumbs into the waistband of Ranma’s pants and boxers. He tugged downward with deliberate slowness, savoring each centimeter of flesh revealed, until the fabric bunched around Ranma’s ankles—a final restraint to complement the bindings at his wrists.

Ranma thrashed, but couldn’t get purchase—he was stuck, half-naked, ass up, every inch of him tight and twitching with rage and a heat he didn’t want to name. The ground bit into his chest.

Ryoga scanned the edges of the forest, looking for something, and his eyes landed on a stand of bamboo shoots just over the tree line. He grinned to himself and rose, walking calmly towards the cluster and returning a moment later with a thin, green stalk in his hand—medium-length and a level thicker than a chopstick, springy and flexing under his grip.

“I think I know exactly what your punishment should be,” Ryoga said, voice steady and slow. He ran the cool tip of the bamboo down the cleft of Ranma’s ass, drawing a line from the base of his spine to the backs of his thighs. Ranma tensed but didn’t speak. Ryoga could hear the change in Ranma’s breath—faster, uneven. The anticipation was almost worse than the fight itself.

Without warning, Ryoga drew the stick back and carved a line of fire across Ranma’s ass. The sound it made—a thin, slicing whistle—came a split second before the pain did.

Ranma made a strangled, inhuman noise, fists clenching and unclenching until the rope cut into his wrists. The pain was nothing like Ryoga’s hand—this was sharp, raw, a focused heat that seemed to sear through meat straight to the bone. Ryoga paused, watching the red welt rise on pale skin, then traced it gently with the tip of the bamboo, making Ranma jerk again. He did it once more, a little lower this time, and again, each time waiting until the first sting had sunk in before laying down the next.

After only five or six strikes, Ranma was shaking hard enough his entire body vibrated against the earth. Ryoga let the moment breathe, listening to the ragged sounds Ranma made—grunts, gasps, the occasional muffled curse. He wondered if Ranma would ever truly give in, if he’d ever hear him beg for mercy. Maybe not today, but someday.

Ryoga struck out in a wide arc, the bamboo cane slicing the air and snapping against Ranma’s outer thigh. The pain bloomed hot and immediate, nerves lighting up his leg. Another swipe, this time across his left side, just above the hip, the sting somehow sharper, more personal. Ranma ground his cheek into the dirt, jaw locked. He wouldn’t beg. Not now, not ever. But each fresh line of fire Ryoga laid down scraped away another sliver of pride, another layer of invincibility.

Ryoga worked his way up and down, never predictable, sometimes doubling back to mark the same spot he’d just struck, sometimes feinting a blow only to catch Ranma off guard with a sharp flick to the back or the tender ridge at the base of his ass. He fell into a rhythm, almost meditative, each strike followed by a slow, savoring pause. Listening, watching how Ranma’s body tensed and recoiled, how the muscles bunched and leapt under his strikes. Satisfied, but never quite sated.

It hurt—hell, of course it hurt—but the sharpness had blurred somewhere along the way, melting into a slow, rolling heat that spread through Ranma like the echo of an impact. Every strike of the bamboo stick drew him deeper, and the fight bled out of him in pieces he barely noticed losing. He hated the idea of giving ground, of yielding —but there was something he liked even more than the act of losing itself. It was when Ryoga made sure he knew he’d lost. When there was no doubt left, no shred of “maybe I could’ve turned it around.” Ryoga had a way of pinning that truth down until it burned hotter than the sting in his back.

That thought alone made heat rise in his face hotter than the sting in his back. This wasn’t him—wasn’t how he was supposed to be. He’d trained his whole life to win, to push through pain, not lean into it like it was some kind of lifeline. And yet, the pain tethered him, kept him exactly here, exactly now. No schemes, no expectations, no need to measure up to anything. Just the steady thrum in his muscles and Ryoga’s voice—low, unhurried—threading through the haze. He almost didn’t want it to stop, and that scared him more than anything.

Then Ryoga did something Ranma hadn’t expected. He let the bamboo rest lightly, almost gently, against the inside of Ranma’s thigh, where the skin was thin and hypersensitive. Even before the blow landed Ranma shuddered, dread knotting under his ribs. Ryoga drew the tip up the length of his thigh, stopping dangerously close to where his balls pressed against the dirt. The anticipation was a slow, sickening burn—worse than anything Ryoga had done so far.

The strike, when it came, was surgical. It landed just shy of the most vital parts, perfectly measured, a white-hot line that made Ranma’s spine arch and a raw, panicked sound rip out of his throat. Panic, not just pain. Instinct screamed at him to shield himself, to curl up, to run. But the rope and Ryoga’s presence left him with nothing—nowhere to go, nothing to do but take it.

Ryoga let him breathe again, but only for a second. He ran the cane up the other thigh, slow, measuring, then snapped it down with the same uncanny precision. Again, Ranma jerked, toes digging trenches in the ground, vision swimming with sudden tears. The humiliating sense of helplessness was absolute—Ryoga could do anything he wanted, and Ranma was powerless to stop him.

The third time was worse, because Ranma knew it was coming and still couldn’t brace for it. Ryoga paused with the stick hovering, close enough that Ranma could feel the air shift with every tiny movement. Then a final, merciless stripe, landing so close to the base of his dick that Ranma felt the shock all the way down. He gasped, and the sound that came out was thin, wrecked, not even a curse.

“Are you ready to drop that cocky attitude you have with me?” Ryoga’s voice cut through the haze of pain, low and triumphant.

Ranma’s throat worked silently, pride warring with the raw, throbbing reality of his situation. His eyes, wet at the corners, fixed on a single pebble inches from his face. After what felt like an eternity, he managed a single, jerky nod—the movement sending fresh waves of fire across his marked skin. His lips parted, but no sound emerged beyond a ragged exhale that carried the ghost of surrender.

Ryoga then stopped. The forest was silent except for the low, uneven drag of Ranma’s breathing and the soft rustle of leaves overhead. Ranma’s body trembled, nerves jangling in the aftermath. His skin was a map of swollen, angry welts, each one burning with clarity.

He set the cane aside and left Ranma tied there for a moment, stepping back without a word. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Ranma’s breath hitched—not from pain now, but from the sudden, raw ache of being utterly helpless, abandoned in the open like prey left to wonder if he’d ever be freed.

From the edge of his vision, Ryoga was rifling through his backpack, quietly setting up his tent with practiced ease, completely unhurried. Ranma’s heart slammed as he realized how little he mattered in that moment.

At the last step, Ryoga returned. Without a word, he knelt down and unpinned Ranma’s wrists from the ground. He needed that final tent pike to hold the fabric taut against even the faintest breeze. His touch lingered just long enough to remind Ranma—he was still entirely at Ryoga’s mercy.

Once the tent was secure, Ryoga didn’t waste a second. He hoisted Ranma’s half-naked body over his shoulder effortlessly. Ranma’s face burned as Ryoga carried him inside like he weighed nothing, seemingly unbothered by the intimate contact that left Ranma acutely aware of his naked parts.

Inside, Ryoga untied Ranma’s wrists without much ceremony, his movements brisk and businesslike. He half-shoved Ranma back onto his stomach on the sleeping bag, not waiting for any protest or thanks.

For a moment, Ryoga stood back, arms crossed, keeping his distance like it was just another chore. Then, grabbing the first aid kit that was already open, he knelt down beside Ranma and started applying the balm.

Ryoga’s fingers moved deliberately over Ranma’s back, tracing each angry red mark as he spread the balm.

Ranma’s breath hitched again, caught somewhere between pain, relief, and something unspoken neither of them dared name.

The rough care in his touch was a quiet contradiction to the coldness he’d shown just moments before. The new bruises marred more skin than last time—longer trails of redness, deeper impressions. Ryoga paused for a moment, fingertips lingering on a particularly darkened patch.

Power had thrummed in the act—he had Ranma pinned, under his control. It was exhilarating, intoxicating even. But a flicker of doubt crept in, soft and unwelcome. How far was too far? How much pain could Ranma take before it stopped being a challenge, and became something else entirely?

Ryoga shook the thought away, pressing the balm in with renewed focus. He liked this balance—the edge of dominance without crossing into cruelty. But for the first time, he wondered if he truly knew where that line was.

“W-was... was that too hard?” The words came out lower, tighter than he meant, almost reluctant to admit the worry behind them.

Ranma half-glared over his shoulder. “I’m not a porcelain doll.”

“Tch. You haven’t learned how to speak to me, huh?”

Ranma hated how easy it was. How quickly the urge to squirm away melted into something else. Something heavier, lazier. Ryoga’s palm followed the line of a stripe on one of his sides, thumb pressing just enough to coax the balm into the skin.

Ranma let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He should’ve been cataloging every ache, keeping score of every hit, plotting his payback. But instead, the quiet between them was seeping into him like hot water into cold bones.

And that’s when it happened. That treacherous little spark. That dizzy pull toward the warmth of Ryoga’s presence, toward the steady rhythm of those careful hands. Not the comfort of an ally, not even the challenge of a rival—something far more dangerous. Something that made his throat tight and his heartbeat stumble.

He was hard, of course he was, and of course Ryoga noticed. Ranma moved a hand, instinctively, to hide the evidence, but the second he shifted, Ryoga’s palm caught his wrist and pressed it flat against the sleeping bag. Ranma tried to twist away, but Ryoga just adjusted his grip, shifting his own weight to pull Ranma upright, back pressed against Ryoga’s chest, tang suit lowering just enough with gravity. The heat of him, the slow grind of his thigh against Ranma’s ass, the way every inch of him screamed dominance—Ranma was drowning in it.

“This again,” Ryoga’s tone was almost bored, but his hand snaked down and grabbed Ranma’s dick without hesitation, fingers wrapping around the shaft like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Ranma froze, breath stuttering. He couldn’t look at Ryoga, wouldn’t, so he closed his eyes and let the feeling take him—rough skin, a grip just slightly too tight. Ryoga started to stroke, slow and mechanical at first, then faster, almost vicious, like he was trying to squeeze every last humiliating drop out of him.

Ryoga’s breath hit the back of his neck. “What exactly do you get out of all this?”

The words rumbled through Ranma’s spine. “I—I don’t know,” Ranma managed, and even he could hear how pathetic it sounded. “I just—” He couldn’t finish the thought because Ryoga’s grip on his cock tightened, the motion so purposeful it short-circuited every word.

“You just...?” Ryoga’s tone dropped, slow and deliberate, each word a push. “No stammering. Say it, Ranma. All of it.”

Ranma shut his eyes, chest tightening, and the truth clawed its way up before he could stop it. “I just know that—being at your mercy…” He drew a shaky breath. “…I can finally let go…”

“So, all this time,” Ryoga whispered, his voice a conspiratorial murmur, “the secret to defeating you was to pin you good and hard...” With a swift, powerful motion, Ryoga clamped both of Ranma's wrists in an iron grip with one hand as if in demonstration.

“...to crush that towering pride of yours—” he growled, as his other arm coiled around Ranma’s neck like a constrictor, squeezing tighter with each second, “—or drive it completely into the ground...” His hold on Ranma’s neck tightened mercilessly.

Ranma’s eyes widened in shock, breath catching in his throat as Ryoga’s arm coiled around him like a vice. Panic surged through him, bright and blinding, but it was quickly undercut by an unexpected thrill that spiked his heart rate. The constriction felt both terrifying and exhilarating, a rush of adrenaline that sent shivers racing down his spine.

“...and then there’s a little extra satisfaction in it for you, huh?” Ryoga released Ranma’s wrists, his hand moving with deliberate intent to continue stroking his rival’s arousal.

Ryoga pumped him, merciless, and Ranma’s hips bucked involuntarily. He hated it—how he couldn’t fight back, how it felt like Ryoga was carving his will right into his flesh. But he loved it too, the shuddering heat, the way each touch burned through all the numbness. Ryoga’s chokehold dictated everything—the pace, the pressure, even when Ranma could draw breath as tension built mercilessly in his core until Ranma was panting, grinding, leaking in Ryoga’s hand.

Ranma’s face burned. He tried again to twist away, but Ryoga’s chokehold tightened with a ferocity that signaled real danger. Ranma gasped, the sound high and strained as his hands struggled against Ryoga’s forearm. His back arched sharply, his entire body tense like a drawn bowstring. Ryoga’s hand moved with a rough insistence, stroking with a relentless rhythm until Ranma’s entire body quaked violently with mounting anticipation.

“C’mon,” Ryoga said, mouth close to his ear. “Don’t hold back now. Show me how much you like it.”

Ranma didn’t have a choice. He was so close, every nerve ending screaming, and Ryoga was unyielding, merciless, expertly driving him to the precipice.

Just as he reached the peak, Ryoga’s arm clamped down like a vise around Ranma’s throat, cutting off his air completely. The world narrowed to a pinpoint, darkness creeping in at the edges of Ranma’s vision as his lungs screamed for oxygen. In that suspended moment between consciousness and oblivion, something primal and electric surged through him—a terrifying surrender that intensified every sensation tenfold.

The intensity hit Ranma like a jolt—his entire body tensed, muscles seizing as he erupted in Ryoga’s grip, hot streaks painting his own tang suit, dripping between fingers, splattering onto the sleeping bag below in messy, uncontrolled bursts that seemed to go on forever while Ryoga held him so tight he couldn’t even collapse from the aftershocks.

Ryoga released the chokehold, yet continued to maintain his grip. He held Ranma there, coughing in his arms, until he was only panting. Ranma slumped back, sweat stinging the welts on his back and ass, the world gone shaky and bright.

Ryoga fully let go now, the sudden loss of pressure making Ranma collapse forward, catching himself on shaking arms. He didn’t get a second to recover before Ryoga gripped his shoulder, spun him around kneeling in front of him—making Ranma’s head reel, and his blood thunder behind his ears with the action. 

Ryoga knelt up, wrestling with the drawstring of his pants. “You know, it occurs to me I’m doing most of the work here.” He shoved down pants and boxers in the same movement, leaving his dick out, hard and bobbing, already glistening at the tip. He planted a hand in Ranma’s hair and yanked his head down. Ranma smelled sweat and the sharp, musky tang of Ryoga’s arousal. It left no room for misunderstanding.

“Figure you can show some gratitude, Saotome?” The question was rhetorical—Ryoga had a way of making everything sound like a dare, like backing down would be the most cowardly act in the world.

Ranma stared at it, then up at Ryoga. No sneer for once, no smartass retort. Just sweat on his temples and a hollow, itchy feeling in his gut. His mouth was dry, but Ryoga’s grip on his braid made it clear this wasn’t up for debate.

Ranma wanted to protest, to kick or punch or bite, but instead he opened his mouth and took Ryoga in. His lips felt numb, his jaw aching from the angle, but Ryoga’s hand kept his head steady, fingers splayed wide over his scalp. Ranma tried his best, tongue working around the shaft, using his hand at the base when he couldn’t fit all of it. He closed his eyes, shut out the rest of the world, and let himself focus on the taste and the heat and the feel of Ryoga’s cock in his mouth.

He could feel the little shudders in Ryoga’s thighs, the way his hips jerked forward in spite of himself. Ranma took pride in that, in the way he could make Ryoga lose control even for a second. He hollowed his cheeks, sucked harder, dragged his tongue along the underside. Ryoga’s grip tightened, then loosened, a silent rhythm that told Ranma when to slow down, when to go faster, when to hold still.

The next time he looked up, Ryoga was watching him, expression caught between fury and something softer. Ranma didn’t look away. He kept going, lips stretched tight, saliva dripping down his chin and onto his hand.

Ryoga grunted, the sound harsh and hungry. “You’re not half-bad at this,” he said, voice strangled. “Maybe I should’ve tried this a long time ago.”

Ranma glared up at him, eyes narrowed, but kept bobbing his head, using his tongue the way he thought would feel best. He focused on the work, on the heat and the pulse of it, determined to power through. He tried to tune out the humiliation, the raw ache in his knees.

Every so often Ryoga would let out a sharp, involuntary noise and tighten his grip, making Ranma choke for a second before letting up. There was a pattern to it, and Ranma learned it as he went, reading the cues in Ryoga’s hands and hips, in the way his thighs tensed under Ranma’s palms. Ranma could sense Ryoga getting closer—the little tremors in his legs, the way his voice hitched, the subtle swelling at the tip. Ranma braced for it.

When it came, Ryoga’s hand buried itself in Ranma’s hair, holding him down as he came in hot, stuttering pulses. The first hit smacked the back of Ranma’s throat, bitter and impossibly salty. He tried to pull back, but Ryoga wouldn’t let him, so he swallowed, some of it leaking out the corner of his mouth anyway.

Ryoga finally let go, hand falling away as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Ranma rocked back onto his heels, breathless, coughing. He wiped his lips with the back of his arm, glaring up at Ryoga with the little dignity he had left.

Ryoga’s gaze lingered, heavy and dark, before he reached out and brushed a thumb across Ranma’s cheek, smearing away a stray drop of cum.

“Aren’t you a sight,” Ryoga said. It wasn’t cruel, or mocking. Just... matter-of-fact. Ranma hated how his whole body responded to the words—how his face flamed, how his chest soared and sank together. How he wanted to do it all again, right then and there.

Ranma glared up at him, eyes burning, but he stayed where he was. He licked his lips, tasting the aftershocks, and realized his dick was twitching, threatening to harden again. He hated that. Hated that Ryoga could reduce him to this, that he was waiting for a command, for any sign of what happened next.

Ryoga flopped onto his back, staring at the tent roof, silent for a while. Ranma sat there, knees digging into a corner of Ryoga’s sleeping bag, watching him breathe.

Finally, Ryoga spoke. “Next time,” he said, voice ragged but content, “maybe you’ll think twice before mouthing off.”

Ranma ducked out of the tent. The air outside was cool, the last traces of daylight already gone. He told himself that was the only reason he didn’t left—and he should, should’ve grabbed his things and run. But instead, he snagged his backpack that’d been left outside and slipped back in, unrolling his own sleeping bag besides Ryoga’s. The slow, even sound of Ryoga’s breath filled the silence. He waited for Ryoga to get bored, to push him away, to tell him to go home.

But Ryoga just closed his eyes, and after a while, so did Ranma.

Morning crept in with pale light seeping through the tent seams, and Ranma woke to find Ryoga already outside, rolling up his sleeping bag. They exchanged a few clipped words—something about the weather, something about the trail ahead—neither daring to mention the night before. When Ryoga slung his pack over his shoulder, he just nodded toward the path.

“See you around.”

“Yeah,” Ranma said, watching him disappear into the trees. He stood there a while, hands in his pockets, before turning the other way.

It wasn’t going to be the last time.

Ranma could already feel the crash settling in as he watched Ryoga disappear down the trail, the warmth bleeding out of him with every step Ryoga took away. Irritation seeped back in before he’d even set foot near the Tendo household. Why’d he let him go? Why didn’t he drag him back to Nerima, to their same old empty lot by the school? Now he’d have to wait—days, maybe weeks—until Ryoga’s awful sense of direction brought him back again.

By the time their paths finally crossed again, the restless itch under Ranma’s skin had built into something almost unbearable. Every hour without Ryoga’s maddening steadiness felt like sandpaper dragging along his nerves. So when the familiar yellow blur finally stumbled into view, Ranma’s mouth was already working faster than his brain—taunting, boasting, daring Ryoga to rise to the bait. It wasn’t clever, not really. But it was better than admitting the truth, he’d missed him—or he missed whatever was what they were doing.

Ryoga didn’t so much as blink. He just let Ranma burn himself out with jabs and feints, absorbing the insults like stones thrown into a pond. And when they did fight, it was almost worse. Ranma came in hot, reckless, his footwork a little too wide, his guard a little too high. Maybe he was testing Ryoga. Maybe he was just sloppy. Either way, Ryoga had started to read those openings like a book. He no longer lunged blindly for an advantage—he waited, sidestepped, let Ranma fall into his own mistakes.

When the moment came, it was clean. A pin against the ground. A forearm braced across his chest. Sometimes rope, sometimes just the weight of Ryoga’s body keeping him still. The struggle burned itself out faster now, like Ryoga knew exactly how much pressure to apply and where. And then came the punishment—that slow, deliberate hand, or the blow of another bamboo stick or a random plank of wood—delivered with all the focus in the world. Ranma would bite his lip to keep from giving away too much, but the fight was already gone from him at that point.

Afterward, Ryoga would patch him up with the same quiet efficiency, sometimes even offering water or a bite to eat like nothing had happened. Then Ryoga would give Ranma his reward, whether for being well-behaved or for enduring his discipline with grace. And then, in the most intimate fashion, Ranma would ‘say’ his ‘thank you’ to Ryoga for granting him the sweet release he so intensely craved. And Ryoga—damn him—always looked almost smug, like he’d figured out some private formula for keeping Ranma in check.

Maybe Ranma was a slow learner. Or maybe his pride was just that much of a problem—too big to let him walk into a fight already half-beaten, too fragile to admit Ryoga had him figured out. But with every encounter, something shifted. A notch less defiance in his voice. A fraction less bite in his insults. His resistance wore down not in a dramatic collapse, but in steady, grudging inches.

Until one day, he didn’t bother posturing at all. No drawn-out fight, no messy grappling. He just dropped to his knees when Ryoga appeared, like he had been trying to instill into Ranma for some time now. His eyes flickered up once to gauge his reaction, if he did good, before settling into stillness—waiting. For the bondage, for the strike, for whatever Ryoga decided he’d earned that day. And Ryoga—calm as ever—never rushed it.

Ryoga stepped closer, shadows cutting sharp across his face. “Where are we, Ranma? Are we in the middle of nowhere or are we at the local park?”

Ranma swallowed, voice barely steady. “W-we’re… in the middle of nowhere…”

Ryoga’s expression darkened, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Ah... then, remove your clothes.”

Ranma blinked slowly, an uncertain flicker in his eyes, before his fingers began to delicately unfasten the buttons of his tang suit. With deliberate care, he slid the suit off his shoulders, letting it cascade down his arms. He paused, then raised his hips gracefully from his heels, allowing the fabric of his pants and boxers to whisper down his legs. His shoes slipped off effortlessly, freeing the garments to glide completely away. He settled back into the kneeling position, a gentle exhale escaping his lips.

“Good,” Ryoga said, his voice dropping to a lower register. “From now on, whenever we’re alone like this, kneeling is just the beginning. Your clothes stay off until I say so.”

Ryoga searched through his backpack, his fingers sifting past various items, looking for a long-forgotten object he rarely used—a belt. His hand closed around it, and pulled it out slowly, the leather unfurling like a secret being revealed. He held it above Ranma’s head, allowing his rival to piece together the significance of his find.

Ranma’s eyes widened at the sight of the belt, his pulse quickening in a way he couldn’t quite name—fear or something else entirely. A protest formed on his lips, then died there. He’d knelt without being told, stripped bare without complaint—wasn’t that enough? Yet beneath his indignation lurked a treacherous thought—maybe he deserved this, maybe he needed it. The leather dangled between them like a question.

“Just for good measure,” Ryoga said, his voice low and steady, “so the lesson sticks for the next time.” He knew exactly what he was doing—pushing the edge, being deliberately unfair. Testing whether today would finally be the day Ranma dropped the act and begged for mercy.

Ranma’s fingers curled against his thighs, caught between the urge to flee and the strange, burning desire to stay exactly where he was. There was always something more with Ryoga—another test, another threshold. Part of him wondered if these punishments would ever end, while another part dreaded the thought of bypassing them altogether. Because the reward—the rare gentleness, the pleasure, the release that followed—only came after the sting. And maybe, deep down, that was what he craved most—not escape, not even mercy, but the certainty of being dragged through the fire first, just to earn the cool relief on the other side.

“Do I have to bother tying you up?” Ryoga’s voice cut through the air like a blade against stone.

Ranma’s eyes locked on the belt, the leather suddenly seeming to writhe in Ryoga’s grip like something alive, and he swallowed hard. Every muscle in his body screamed to run, yet he remained frozen, heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. He knew—with absolute certainty—that the moment that leather touched his skin, he’d thrash, he’d twist, he would break. And Ryoga would only tighten the lesson. No, he wouldn’t be able to hold still. And Ryoga wouldn’t forgive disobedience. So instead of mouthing off, Ranma gave the smallest nod, shame prickling hot in his chest.

Ryoga sighed as though the answer were obvious, as though this ritual had already become routine, and pulled the rope from his pack. He looped it around Ranma’s wrists, tugging them forward over the curve of a medium boulder. With practiced efficiency, he stretched the line taut and drove a tent pike into the dirt on the far side, anchoring the knot so Ranma had no leverage to pull free. His positioning settled in—Ranma was exposed, ass up and vulnerable, and completely at Ryoga’s mercy.

Bent over the stone, arms drawn out and pinned to the ground beyond his reach, Ranma’s heart raced, his bare skin prickling as he could only hear what would come next. Ryoga’s shift of his weight, the scrape of shoes against stone, the sound of knuckles cracking. Unable to see, Ranma tensed, incapable of predicting where or when the cracks would land. The waiting was its own punishment—every second stretched thin, trembling with dread and a treacherous thread of anticipation.

The first strike was like a lightning bolt—hot, immediate, sharp—he couldn’t even brace for it. It sizzled across his bare ass with a crack that echoed through the clearing, and the sound alone was enough to make every muscle seize. It was worse than any slap or stick; it was mean, leaving a burning line that felt like it might never cool.

He didn’t even have time to breathe before the next hit came, lower and harder. Ranma jerked against the rope, body spasming, the pain so pure it blanked out every other thought. His vision went white at the edges, and he bit his tongue so he wouldn’t scream, but the third strike forced the sound out of him anyway.

The sound of the cracks the belt made Ryoga hesitate, the sharpness echoing in the tense air. So he took it slow, so painstakingly slow, each strike measured as he gauged the amount of damage each new crack made. The silence between strikes stretched and stretched, making Ranma twitch with anticipation, nerves raw and exposed. Ryoga watched him closely, studying his rival’s reactions, weighing the balance between punishment and pain, wondering if this was maybe too much.

Ranma screamed after each strike, the pitch higher than Ryoga had ever heard from him, a sound that cut through the silence. Yet still, he didn’t beg for mercy, pride holding firm against the onslaught. So Ryoga reveled in the power he felt as he delivered each blow, the thrill of control coursing through him.

The cracks were coming in fast now, like Ryoga was emptying the pain out of himself and into his rival. Ranma sobbed, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes, and for a wild second, he thought he might pass out if Ryoga didn’t slow down. Without fully realizing it, Ryoga kept landing the belt in the same spot, striking the tender skin over and over. The rhythm became hypnotic, and in his focus, he lost track of the damage, caught up in the intensity of the moment.

It wasn’t until the sharpness turned into something deeper that Ryoga noticed the crimson lines he was leaving broke skin. A bead of blood welled up and trickled down on one of Ranma’s ass cheeks, like a silent acknowledgment of the consequences of their twisted dance.

Ryoga stepped back, breathing heavy, and looked at what he’d done. He let the belt fall from his hand, the slap of leather on rock loud and final. He stopped cold, no hesitation—rope loosened, knots undone, Ranma’s arms freed in a rush. The first aid kit was already in his hands before Ranma could even blink through the tears. 

Ranma hated himself for it, for the way he broke down bawling as Ryoga maneuvered him into place—sprawled facedown across his lap, just like those first humiliating defeats at the start. Only now Ryoga’s hands weren’t pinning him to the dirt, they were steadying him, gentling him, tending to him. The sensation of being so exposed, his bare skin sliding against Ryoga’s grip, sent a shiver of vulnerability coursing through him. He sobbed into his own forearms, body heaving, while Ryoga held him there and murmured nothing at all, just letting the weight of his arms be an anchor.

Ryoga’s movements were clipped, almost frantic, as he checked the damage and applied pressure to the wound as fast as he could, jaw set tight. He fumbled open the first aid kit, poured antiseptic onto a cloth, barely pausing before pressing it against Ranma’s wounds. The sharp sting made Ranma wince, but Ryoga didn’t hesitate, his focus intense. With quick, almost jerky motions, he wrapped gauze around the injuries, fingers flying to secure each layer tightly.

And then he just… stopped. The kit slipped closed at his side, and instead of pulling back, Ryoga shifted closer, gathering Ranma into his arms with a kind of careful firmness—as if Ranma might shatter all over again if he held too tight. Ranma pressed his face into his rival’s shoulder, still shaking, still furious at himself for crying this hard, and Ryoga said nothing. He didn’t demand words or excuses, didn’t lecture. He only sat there, silent but steady, his warmth and heartbeat anchoring Ranma while the storm worked itself out. 

After what felt like forever, Ranma finally drew back, eyes swollen and red, glaring through the mess of it all. His voice came out ragged, but still edged with that impossible pride. 

“I still want my reward.”

Chapter Text

“I still want my reward.”

It was Ryoga’s turn to slump forward, his forehead pressing into Ranma’s shoulder in sheer relief. His arms were still around Ranma, holding him straddling his lap, mindful of the area he just patched up. “You demanding little shit! You don’t realize I hurt you for real this time?”

Ranma shifted slightly, just enough to glare down at him, eyes red but defiant. “You don’t care about that when you put me on holds that can break arms—or that time when you choked me!”

“I knew what I was doing!” Ryoga snapped back, too loud, hands tightening instinctively on Ranma’s thighs—then forced himself to breathe. “And if you didn’t like any of that, why didn’t you say anything?!”

Ranma shot him a scowl. “Why do I have to say anything? Why didn’t you check with me before you did any of that?”

That landed. Hard.

It hit Ryoga all at once—that as much power as he had over Ranma, Ranma held just as much over him. How much of this Ranma let him do. If Ranma really wanted out, he could flip the script in a heartbeat—a punch to the jaw, a sweep to the legs, and it would all be over. But something told him that was exactly what Ranma was sick of. Always fighting, always clawing out a win no matter how impossible.

Ryoga’s voice dropped. “...Okay. Fair.”

Ranma blinked. “Wha—?”

“I’ll ask beforehand—” Ryoga said, words grinding past pride, hands sliding slightly up and down Ranma’s outer thighs as if to ground himself. “—If you think you can take the punishment I decide you deserve. But if I start and you change your mind, you have to tell me.” So long to hearing Ranma begging.

Ranma shifted again on Ryoga’s lap, brows furrowed, fingers absently twisting into Ryoga’s shirt at his shoulders. “Okay, but... wouldn’t that—” He hesitated, almost shy now that Ryoga’s eyes were on him. “Wouldn’t that kinda break the whole thing?”

Ryoga swallowed hard. “Well, it should,” he admitted, one hand cupping Ranma’s hip almost protectively. “I don’t wanna—” His voice cracked before he forced it steady. “...seriously hurt you.”

Ranma studied him for a long beat, then asked softly, “What do you get out of this?”

Ryoga barked a laugh that sounded a little too sharp. “Are you kidding? I get to have my revenge on my infuriating rival over and over again!”

That was what he said. What he didn’t say was how much steadier he felt with Ranma bound in front of him, how every shiver and twitch belonged to his hand alone. Or how the closeness—the sound of Ranma’s breath, the heat of his body, the way he yielded—cut deeper than any grudge. Or how the best part wasn’t breaking him down, but knowing he’d be the one to pull him back together. This ritual they concocted was intoxicating in a way Ryoga couldn’t put words to, not even in his own head. So he smirked, as if revenge were the only answer.

Ranma raised an eyebrow in disbelief, like he’d just caught Ryoga slipping. Revenge made sense, Ryoga had plenty of reasons to want payback—at first. But now, with the way his voice caught, the way concern edged into it, threw Ranma off. He didn’t quite understand what was that about, so he left it alone.

“But seriously,” Ryoga said again, quieter, letting his forehead tip forward until it rested again on Ranma’s shoulder. “Even if you’re embarrassed... please tell me when you’ve had enough.” He felt Ranma’s fingers still fidgeting with his shirt. “If plain old ‘stop’ ruins it for you, fine. Say something random—something so out of place it’ll make me freeze.”

Ranma hummed, resting his chin on Ryoga’s shoulder as a caterpillar inched across the grass nearby. “Okay... but it’d work better if you knew the word too.”

Ryoga’s gaze softened. “Sure. Got anything in mind?”

Ranma tilted his head, almost picturing the butterfly the caterpillar would become. “How about ‘caterpillar’ if I just want you to do something else... and ‘butterfly’ if I want you to stop the whole thing.”

Ryoga gave a slow nod. “Okay. Fair.”

They stayed like that for a little while—Ranma draped over Ryoga’s lap, Ryoga’s hand tracing lazy circles across the welts and gauze, not quite apologetic but gentler than before. The breeze had cooled the sweat on Ranma’s bare back, and the air was so thick with unspoken things it could’ve been cut with a knife. Footsteps somewhere in the undergrowth made both of them tense, but it was only a bird or a squirrel, and the silence swallowed them again.

Ryoga was the first to move. He squeezed the meat of Ranma’s thigh, and when Ranma didn’t flinch, let his hand slide up to rest on the curve of his bandaged ass. “About that reward,” Ryoga said, deliberate, as though the words cost him something. “Since you’re hurt, I’ve got an idea.” He shifted his legs, bracing Ranma with one big arm, and Ranma felt his own pulse spark in his neck.

Ryoga’s tone was too casual, which only made it worse, “But I don’t know if you’ll be up for it.” He was already moving Ranma, gentle but unyielding, guiding him back down across his lap until Ranma’s cheek met the ground again, ass up. The grass beneath was sun-warm and soft. Ranma’s breath stuttered. Being back at this position was humiliating now that he wasn’t being tended to. But that he wasn't being punished in it kept him there, curious about how Ryoga was going to reward him.

Ryoga slobbered his fingers in his mouth—no ceremony, just practicality—and ran his fingers up the inside of Ranma’s thigh, dragging a trail of saliva up to the center. He worked his way through the cleft, slow, cautious, pausing at the tight ring of muscle and gliding a fingertip over it.

“Ever wondered how it feels like back here?” Ryoga’s voice was low but not mocking—just a question, like he was offering a dare.

Ranma wanted to snap back, to say he’d never thought about it, but the words caught. Instead, he just shook his head no, the motion stiff.

“Curious now?” Ryoga taunted, the intensity of his voice vibrating through the air, making the tension between them even thicker.

Ranma didn’t trust his mouth anymore, so he nodded, face blazing so hot he could feel the sunburn coming on.

Ryoga’s finger pressed—it was barely anything, not even the length of a knuckle. It gave less than Ranma expected, the sensation far more strange than painful, almost clinical. But then Ryoga circled, massaging the rim, letting the saliva slick the way. The pressure built, and Ranma’s hips jerked involuntarily. He tried to set his jaw, to keep the noises in, but the first surprised gasp slipped out anyway.

That made Ryoga pause, “You can say either word for this too.”

“N-no,” Ranma gasped, not sure whether he meant it as a protest or a plea. “Keep going.”

Ryoga pressed again—this time, worming the whole length of his finger in. Ranma felt it everywhere, a shock of sensation that chased up his spine and straight down to his cock, which, traitorously, was starting to stir despite the slight pain and the humiliation.

He worked slow, patient, coaxing his finger in with a rolling motion, twisting just enough to make Ranma shudder. It wasn’t comfortable, not at first, but the discomfort bled into something else—a fullness, a pressure, then a weird, pulsing heat that grew with every shallow thrust of Ryoga’s hand. Ryoga’s other hand came up, splayed across Ranma’s lower back, holding him steady, thumb rubbing slow circles into his skin.

The intrusion stole the breath from Ranma’s chest. He forced himself to relax, to let it happen, and the pain lessened, replaced by a dull, insistent ache that left him trembling over Ryoga’s knee. He could feel Ryoga watching him, gauging his every twitch, but it only made him clench harder, determined not to give more away.

“Does it hurt?” Ryoga asked, and for once there was nothing behind it—no taunt, no challenge, just the question.

Ranma shook his head no. “It’s... weird. Not bad.” The truth came out before he could stop it, and Ryoga grunted, satisfied.

Ryoga slipped his finger out, let more saliva roll out of his mouth onto it, then pushed back in, this time going deeper. Ranma bit down on his lip, but his hips bucked again, unable to hide the shiver that ran through him. The motion stretched him, slow but steady, and he almost yelped when Ryoga’s finger curled inside him, searching for something.

Then Ryoga found it. A bolt of sensation shot through Ranma, electric and bright, making him gasp—louder this time, raw and sharp. Ryoga did it again, then again, and Ranma’s vision blurred at the edges. He could feel his dick hardening, pressing against Ryoga’s inner thigh, and the humiliation of it—of being fingered by his rival, of liking it—sent a fresh wave of heat over his skin.

Ryoga worked him, slow and deliberate, never rushing or rough, but never letting up. He twisted his wrist, and another jolt hit Ranma, this one so intense he had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from crying out. He rocked his hips against Ryoga’s finger, chasing the feeling, the friction of his cock against Ryoga’s pants making it even worse.

“You like that?” Ryoga’s voice was thick now, heavy with something Ranma didn’t want to name.

He wanted to lie, to deny it, but couldn’t. “Yeah,” he whispered, barely audible.

Ryoga huffed out a laugh, but it wasn’t mocking anymore, more like astonished. “You little slut,” he muttered, but his tone was almost fond. He felt a rush of heat coursing through him, a confusing mix of wanting to bring Ranma down a peg and desire that made his own body react in ways he hoped it wouldn’t.

As he watched Ranma squirm beneath him, caught between pain and pleasure, Ryoga couldn’t deny how intoxicating it felt to have that kind of power over him. It was a moment that showed the blurred lines of their rivalry, leaving him breathless and aware of just how dangerously their dynamic had changed.

The rhythm built, the pressure mounting with every push. Ranma’s whole body was tight now, straining towards something he didn’t have a name for. He was so close—closer than he’d ever gotten from just his own hand—and the shame of it made it burn even hotter. Ryoga must have noticed, because he moved his other hand underneath, wrapping it around Ranma’s cock and stroking in time with the thrusting of his finger.

It was too much. Ranma’s body jerked, and the orgasm hit so hard it doubled him over, his vision going white at the edges. He came in hot, messy spurts, dripping onto Ryoga’s hand, and splattering onto the fabric and grass below. The convulsions wracked him, and every aftershock was amplified by Ryoga’s hand still working his ass, finger never stopping, dragging out the pleasure until it was almost pain.

When it finally ended, Ranma slumped forward, breathless and shaking. Ryoga slipped his finger out, wiped his hand on the grass, and pulled Ranma upright into his arms. For a long minute, neither of them spoke. Ranma’s body was a mess of afterglow and soreness, skin tingling where Ryoga touched him.

Ryoga tried to keep still, but his own body betrayed him—dick hard, pulse wild. The soft, exhausted slump of Ranma in his arms, the sweat streaking his neck, the heat radiating where their skin touched—he’d lose his mind if this kept up. Ranma shifted, as if noticing the problem, and drifted his hand down, hovering just above the waistband of Ryoga’s pants. The intention was clear as day.

Ryoga caught his wrist before anything could happen. He squeezed, not letting go. “Don’t,” he said, voice hoarse. “You can put your clothes back on now.” He tried to make it sound like an order, but it came out strained, almost pleading.

Ranma looked up at him, confusion flickering across his face. “What about you?”

The question was so simple, so sincere, it made Ryoga want to punch a hole through the nearest tree. He could have Ranma—right there and then—but if he started, he wouldn’t stop. And he didn’t trust himself, not with the way Ranma was looking at him, not with how badly he wanted to shove him down and fuck him senseless, bandages and gauze be damned.

“I hurt you bad today,” Ryoga latched onto that as an excuse to mask the turmoil inside him. “You get to walk away from this one.”

Ranma’s eyes narrowed. “But I want to—”

“Go home, Ranma.” Ryoga’s grip tightened, not letting Ranma finish.

Ranma’s face pinched, like he’d been slapped. He jerked his hand out of Ryoga’s and got to his feet, gathering up the tangled heap of his clothes. He wanted—no, needed—the other Ryoga right now. The Ryoga who had cradled him like something precious while patching him up. Even the Ryoga who punished him with ruthless precision somehow left him feeling warmer than this cold dismissal. This Ryoga felt like a stranger, shutting the door before Ranma could even knock. He got dressed in silence, ignoring the grass stains and the way his hands shook buttoning the suit.

Once fully dressed, Ranma glared down at Ryoga one last time, jaw tight. Then turned on his heel and stalked away, the sound of his shoes crunching the dirt louder than it needed to be. He didn’t look back, for once not wishing for Ryoga to get up, chase after him, and walk back together to civilization.

And yet, his chest ached when the footsteps never came. Ryoga hurt him twice.

The ache transformed into something else the more distance he put. It crawled under his skin, a restless itch that spread through his veins, making him shift his hands, clench and unclench his fists, even bite down on the inside of his cheek just to keep moving. It was infuriating, like his body wanted Ryoga’s touch again—harsh, healing, or sexual—it didn’t matter which. Every step without it only made the gnawing sharper, an emptiness that grew louder the farther away he got.

When the Tendo gate came into view, Ranma shoved it open, scowl firmly in place. He slipped inside without a word, ignoring whoever called out to him, and went straight upstairs.

In the quiet of his room, it hit harder. His skin still buzzed, his muscles wouldn’t loosen, and his chest burned with that same empty pull. He paced the length of the room, dragged a hand through his hair, growled under his breath. It was ridiculous. Ryoga could bruise him, make him feel good, and shove him away all in the same breath—and here he was, twitching like he’d been denied air.

Withdrawal, that’s what it felt like. And damn it all, he hated himself for wanting more.

Ranma gently lay down on the futon, then scowled at the ceiling when his injuries complained. None of that stopped him from being curious still. If anything, it lit the fuse. He shifted to his side, knees curled to his chest, replaying every detail. The memory of Ryoga’s finger working him open left a phantom ache, like a bruise on the inside. Ranma couldn’t get comfortable; his body felt too full, too electric, every nerve in his body lit up and demanding what he couldn’t have.

He reached down, half in anger, half in desperation, and pressed a finger against himself. It didn’t even take much. The skin was still tender, but the pressure made him shudder, hips rolling forward, a gasp tearing out before he could bite it back. He pressed deeper, learning the rhythm Ryoga had used, the circling, the slow in-and-out, the way the world sharpened when he curled his finger just so. He found the spot almost by accident, and when he did, his whole body tensed, toes curling against the sheets.

He did it again, and again, until sweat ran down his spine and his breath came in ragged, embarrassing little moans. His cock was hard, leaking onto his belly, but he waited. He wanted to draw it out, to see how far he could go. Every push of his finger brought a new wave, pain melting into pleasure until he couldn’t tell the difference, and when he finally stroked himself, he did it the way Ryoga had—quick, brutal, no patience at all. The climax left him shaking, the sheets beneath him damp, his hand slick and shaking as he pulled it out and rolled onto his stomach.

Ranma’s gaze drifted over the tatami pattern, tracing the lines as if they might ground him. Huh, he came twice in one day—now that was new. But the restless burn under his skin only sharpened, until the truth of it settled like a stone in his gut. The withdrawal wasn’t just from the peace of defeat, or from being pinned under Ryoga’s dominance. It was more than that.

It was what came after—after being put back together. The quiet, careful touches, the release after the pain. Each one sweeter than the last, each one making him crave the next level like water in the desert. And maybe, just maybe, it could lead to Ryoga fucking him. There. He could admit it, at least in the dark, at least to himself. He hadn’t known he could desire something like that.

The better he behaved, the greater the reward. Or maybe not—maybe the real trick was when the punishment didn’t fit the crime at all. When Ryoga doled out pain and comfort as he saw fit, leaving Ranma reeling, never sure where the line was. The worse it stung, the better the reward. Maybe… maybe he’d have to find a way to push Ryoga. To make Ryoga lose his patience, make Ryoga punish him harder, even when he hadn’t done anything wrong. Even when he had behaved.

He understood he was playing with fire. Ryoga’s strength, his temper, the raw power in those hands—it all always felt safe. But as he lay there with his chest aching, his body still humming, Ranma realized he was willing to get burned. To test how far Ryoga would go, how much he could take, how much Ryoga would still give him afterward. If it meant to be fully claimed by Ryoga.

Ryoga hadn’t turned up in weeks. Weeks. Long enough that Ranma had worn his shoes thin pacing the city, long enough that he’d “accidentally” gone on half a dozen training trips to the middle of nowhere, hoping the wilderness would spit Ryoga out again like last time.

But it hadn’t. So he came back snapping at Kasumi over dinner, picking fights with Akane over nothing, sulking so hard that even Nabiki told him to give it a rest. No one could understand what his deal was.

Then, one afternoon, the gate creaked. And there he was, Ryoga Hibiki, bright as anything, lugging a ridiculous bundle of souvenirs like some overgrown pack mule. Trinkets and sweets, all of them for Akane, of course. Ranma’s breath hitched. All those weeks biting at his insides, every night spent replaying the ache—and Ryoga just shows up.

He wanted to lose it. To yell, to hit him, to make Ryoga feel every ounce of his frustration. But then he remembered—if he wanted that sweet, sweet release, he couldn’t snap first. He had to be good. He had to make Ryoga the one who cracked.

So Ranma swallowed it all down, plastered on the most innocuous smile he could muster and... dropped to his knees right there at the Tendo gate.

The gravel dug into his skin, the position too submissive by half, but he held it anyway— back straight, eyes lifted, expression maddeningly serene—waiting, daring Ryoga to react. As if he wasn’t making a spectacle of himself right there where Kasumi could step out any second with the laundry.

Ryoga’s face went red for reasons that had nothing to do with the sun. “Wh—what the hell are you doing? Get up!” His voice cracked, but the second the words left his mouth, he steadied himself. His next order came out low and firm, allowing no argument. “Now.”

Ranma only tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Why? Don’t you like it when I behave?”

Ryoga’s teeth ground together. He could feel eyes everywhere—the neighbors, the stray cats, anyone could walk out and see this—Akane could see—

And Ranma knew it, that infuriating smirk was proof enough. Without giving him the satisfaction of another exchange, Ryoga seized Ranma by the arm and yanked him up. “Not here, idiot,” he barked, voice like iron. “Move.”

Ranma’s grin widened as he was dragged around the gate and down the narrow path between the houses. Ryoga’s grip never loosened until the noise of the street faded behind them and they were swallowed by the shadows of a small grove. Only then did he release him, shoulders tense, jaw tight.

“Are we far enough that no one could bother us?” Ryoga asked. His tone was deceptively flat, but Ranma heard the truth beneath it—this wasn’t really a question. It was an order.

“Hold on.” Ranma smirked, and before Ryoga could snap at him, he darted deeper into the woods. He vaulted over a fallen log, scaled a low ridge, went through paths he knew regular people couldn’t come through.

Ryoga followed, muttering, but the fire in his eyes gave him away. By the time the forest floor leveled out into a patch of bare earth, stripped clean of grass or leaves, Ranma knew this was far enough. Just hard dirt, undisturbed and quiet, perfect.

“Now we are,” Ranma said simply.

Ryoga’s gaze swept the clearing, then settled back on Ranma. “Good. Then start over. You know the drill.”

Ranma’s fingers trembled slightly as he undid each button of his tang suit, the fabric sliding off his shoulders with a sense of finality. With each layer he removed—shoes, pants, boxers—his heart raced, a thrilling mix of fear and anticipation coursing through him.

Once standing naked in the clearing, he dropped to his knees on the ground, thighs spread slightly, posture tense yet charged with excitement. His breath quickened as he fixed his gaze on Ryoga's face, a silent plea mingled with eagerness, waiting for the next move.

Ryoga didn’t move at first. He shifted the strap of his pack off one shoulder, rummaging through the overstuffed thing. For a second Ranma thought maybe he was stalling. Then Ryoga pulled out a necklace woven with flat leather cords, plain but sturdy, with a single knotted loop at one end.

“I picked this up near Hakone,” Ryoga muttered as if it were nothing. “Some roadside stand. Wasn’t even for you. But since you look like you need reminding…” He leaned forward and looped it snug around Ranma’s throat, tying it with careful fingers. “Now you won’t get any ideas of running off before I’m done with you.”

Ranma swallowed. The leather warmed against his skin, heavier than it looked.

Ryoga sat back and jerked his chin toward the camp gear. “Start with the tent.”

And Ranma did right away. The tent pegs bit into the dirt with every strike of Ranma’s fist. His naked skin felt the cool breeze, heightening his awareness of just how exposed he was as he hammered the pegs into the ground. He could’ve driven them down in one blow, easy, but Ryoga’s low voice cut across the clearing.

“Even. Don’t rush.”

Ranma’s jaw ticked, but he adjusted the angle, pressing each stake down carefully instead of slamming. The leather choker shifted against his throat when he bent, like it was watching him too.

“Better,” Ryoga said, approving but not praising.

When the tent stood square, Ryoga didn’t give him a chance to admire the work. “Firewood next. Not twigs—good pieces. Dry.”

Ranma vanished into the trees, bounding and leaping, irritated that it took him longer than it should. When he returned, arms full, Ryoga didn’t lift a finger, didn’t offer a hint of help—just watched, silent, letting Ranma exhaust himself entirely. So Ranma had to set aside the bundle to scrape a pit bare of leaves and debris. Then stacked the wood with maddening precision, resisting the urge to toss it all down in a pile just to see if Ryoga’s voice would finally crack.

“Flint’s in the bag,” Ryoga said, chin jerking towards it.

Ranma knelt again, striking flint after flint. His nudity heightened his vulnerability, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the task at hand while Ryoga sprawled across a log, eyes half-lidded, the image of relaxed control. Every motion Ranma made was scrutinized, every misstep silently noted. When the fire caught, the glow danced on the collar at his throat. He looked up automatically, waiting.

“Dinner,” Ryoga said finally, “hunt or forage. Whatever it takes. Don’t come back until it’s done.”

Ranma groaned but took off, scouring the forest for anything remotely edible. The choker around his neck a constant reminder, while Ryoga remained unmoving, enjoying the spectacle of his nude rival working entirely under his command.

He knew of a small stream not too far from the clearing, where fish were easy enough to catch with just his “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” technique. He moved so fast over the water that he didn’t even get wet—except for one rogue splash that caught him just wrong. In an instant, he changed into his female form, leather collar now a bit lose.

He came back to camp a girl, awkward and fully exposed, but clutching a few squirming fish. Ryoga’s eyes lingered over his female form for a beat, the faintest edge of arousal in his gaze. It never crossed his mind he’d see this side of Ranma in this context—ever. And as much as this is still Ranma, his insufferable rival, he could not bring himself to inflict half the stuff he, by now, got used to do, on her.

Though, if Ranma ever wanted to be rewarded in that form… He stepped forward, voice dropping to a husky whisper. His hand reached out, hovering just inches from Ranma’s bare shoulder. “Will you let me—?”

Ranma flinched backward, clutching the fish tighter against his breasts. He didn’t need to hear the full question; something flashed across his face—not just embarrassment, but a deeper discomfort. He couldn’t help but think of the few times he had explored this body. Ranma got flustered, it had felt good, all right, but he could never shake the feeling that this wasn’t him. His eyes darted away.

That reaction was answer enough. Ryoga withdrew his hand, his tone softening. “Okay, fair.” He grabbed the fish from Ranma, gently putting them onto a fresh leaf. Then he reached for a bucket and pressed it into Ranma’s hands. “Then, go get some water from the stream. We’ll heat it here so you can change back.”

Ranma caught the shift instantly—Ryoga was gentler with him like this, almost careful, but he shoved that thought aside and just obeyed. He trudged to the stream, muttering under his breath, filled the bucket, and carried it back. Sitting cross-legged by the fire, he waited for the water to heat, then poured it over himself, letting the steam roll off his skin as he shifted back into his male form.

The moment he was a boy again, Ryoga lounged with arms behind his head, his voice snapping back to authority like a whipcrack. “Actually, bring some more. Just in case.”

Ranma groaned at the thought of making the trek again, but the now fitting choker around his neck reminded him that he was supposed to be playing nice. With a reluctant sigh, he headed back to the stream, filled the bucket once more, and returned to camp, setting it down with quiet resignation.

By the time Ranma did all that all over again, the only thing Ryoga had bothered to do all evening was cook the fish. He plated his own portion neatly in a bowl, picked up his chopsticks, and without a word, slid Ranma’s portion onto a large leaf on the ground.

“Eat. No hands, no nothing.”

Ranma sighed but bowed down anyway to reach the food. He ate in silence, letting the fish’s hot, clean taste carry him through the moment. Oil ran down his chin; he licked it off, stubbornly refusing to so much as glance up at Ryoga, who watched from the log, every inch a mountain of silent expectation. The ground was cold. He shifted his weight, getting dirt on his knees, and the collar bit into his skin with every swallow. He still couldn’t get used to the feeling of being so exposed, his skin prickling with every breath of evening air, every flicker of Ryoga’s gaze.

Ranma licked the last trace of fish oil from his fingers, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and knelt upright again. His pulse thudded hot in his ears, but he made himself look calm—almost lazy—as he tilted his head up, just enough to catch Ryoga’s eyes.

“So…” His voice came out lighter than he meant, playacting disappointment. “Is there anything else my master needs, or is that all?”

The words dripped off his tongue like a tease, not quite mocking, not quite respectful. He even bowed his head a fraction, but the sly curve at the edge of his mouth gave him away. It was submission, yes—but performed, sharpened into something that dared Ryoga to push harder.

Ryoga gave him a long, sidelong glance, suspicion flickering across his face. “You’re oddly compliant today…” His tone was low, thoughtful, as if he didn’t quite buy it. Then, sharper, “I don’t think it’s real. I think you still need to be punished.”

Ranma’s heart leapt, screaming internally ‘yes yes yes!’ but he plastered on a wounded expression instead, leaning forward on his hands. “But why? Didn’t I do good?”

Ryoga’s mouth quirked, “What did you expect? A pat on the head? Praise?” He actually laughed—short and humorless. Then leaned back on his hands, voice dripping with derision. “A reward? Just like that, for doing what should honestly be your chores when we meet like this?”

The leather collar around Ranma’s throat seemed to tighten with every word, digging in hotter than the fire crackling between them.

“You should know better, Ranma.”

Ryoga dragged Ranma by the braid, snagging his backpack on the way, past the tent and straight to the first tree at the tree line. With each step, the rough dirt brushed against Ranma’s bare skin, scraping in places it normally wouldn’t if he were dressed.

Ryoga rummaged through his backpack, looking for his camping rope, but his hand brushed over the stack of razor-sharp bandanas instead. He remembered the last time he’d had Ranma pinned against a tree and smirked. This would do.

He tied the ends of one bandana around Ranma’s wrists, knotting them tight. Then he pulled them higher—higher still—until Ranma was straining on the tips of his toes, the fabric already biting at his skin.

Ryoga searched again for something to anchor the bond. His hand closed around his hand axe. He let Ranma get a good look at it first, holding it up with deliberate menace, before slamming it between Ranma’s wrists with deadly accuracy. The bandana was pinned flat against the tree. The impact rang out sharp, scattering a flock of birds into the dusk sky.

Ranma froze, breath shallow, pulse thundering. Beyond the game he was trying to play—provoking Ryoga, hoping for the ultimate reward—he had missed this. Being held still, no escape, the delicious terror of surrender. Being fully exposed heightened the thrill; the feeling of the bandana digging into his skin made him acutely aware of every inch of his nudity.

Something white fluttered down nearby—a feather. Ryoga’s eyes followed it as it settled on the dirt. He glanced back at Ranma, stretched taut on his toes, wrists bound high above his head, straining against the sharp bandana. A thought struck him.

But first, he tugged the bandana off his own forehead—the one without the blade’s edge—and stepped forward. Without a word, he wrapped it tight across Ranma’s eyes, knotting it firmly at the back. Ranma tensed, the sudden darkness pulling his breath short. Now he had nothing but the press of fabric, the ache in his shoulders, and Ryoga’s presence circling close. The possibility of someone stumbling upon his pinned naked body washing over him like a wave.

A corner of Ryoga’s mouth lifted as he watched Ranma’s shoulders stiffen, the tiny shiver that ran through him. He was beautiful like this—helpless and taut, every twitch a testament to his tension.

Only then did Ryoga stoop, pluck the feather from the ground, and let its soft edge trail down Ranma’s side, the sensation of the feather brushing against his bare skin sending a jolt through him.

Ranma stiffened. The world was black. He only had the strain in his arms, the sharp bite of fabric digging at his wrists, and the sound of Ryoga moving somewhere just out of reach. Ryoga’s eyes roamed over the subtle arch of his back, the flex of muscles under taut skin, the small, quivering gasp that escaped without Ranma realizing.

Something soft brushed his ribs. Ranma flinched instinctive, but the bindings cut deeper if he moved. The sensation was maddening, light, teasing. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t brace for it. Ryoga leaned closer, admiring the way Ranma’s fingers curled and uncurled, the tight jaw, the way his toes pressed into the dirt.

Another flick traced down to his other side, across his stomach. Ranma sucked in air through his teeth. Ryoga caught the little tremor in his torso, the subtle twitch of his shoulders, and the slight hitch in his breath.

Ryoga’s low voice came from near his ear. “Don’t squirm.”

From the corner of his visionless world, Ranma registered the sensation—light, teasing, a whisper-soft tickle that could only come from a feather. Ryoga’s grin widened as he watched the little gasps slip out despite Ranma’s best efforts. Each twitch of his hips, each minute shudder, told him exactly how much this was getting under Ranma’s skin.

Ranma’s breath stuttered out. He clenched his jaw, refusing to give the satisfaction of a sound, but his body betrayed him with shivers and short gasps. The feather ghosted upward, teasing one of Ranma’s armpits. Ryoga leaned in close, voice dropping low. “You’re too sensitive for your own good.”

Ranma bit down hard on his lip. Every nerve screamed with helplessness, every brush an electric jolt. Ryoga’s grin deepened at the small twitch of his nose, the almost imperceptible shake of his hands. Beneath the ache in his arms, beneath the rush of his heart, one thought burned bright in Ranma’s chest, ‘I want more—worse.’

The sudden brush of the feather behind one of his knees nearly broke him. He jerked instinctively, only to hiss when the bandanas cut sharper into his skin. Ryoga’s eyes followed every jerk, every twitch, every micro-reaction. He drank it in—the control, the little betrayals of Ranma’s body—and couldn’t help the low, satisfied hum that escaped him.

Ryoga’s gaze lingering on Ranma’s tensed form. The low light through the tree line behind them cast shifting patterns over Ranma’s skin, highlighting the strain in his bound posture. “Hold still,” Ryoga murmured, almost gently.

Ranma’s voice was laced with anticipation, strained against the tightness of his bindings. “You can do worse.”

The corner of Ryoga’s mouth twitched up, his eyes darkening with a mix of challenge and amusement. “How much worse you want it, Ranma?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, the feather pausing in its torment.

Ranma swallowed hard, the leather of the choker feeling tight against his throat. “I—I actually did not mind the blood... or wh—when you choked me...” His confession hung between them, charged and heavy.

“That bad, huh?” Ryoga’s voice softened, a rare flicker of concern passing through his eyes, quickly masked by a darker intent. “Well, I won’t go there ever again... But, I still have ideas...” He straightened, setting the feather aside, and dug through his backpack with deliberate slowness. Ranma’s breath hitched as he stopped feeling Ryoga’s presence hovering over him. Ryoga pulled out his hunting knife, the metal gleaming ominously in the dim light.

Ryoga held the knife, feeling its weight in his hand, the cold metal a stark reminder of the power he wielded. He gently pressed the flat of the blade against one of Ranma’s pectoral, the chill sending a jolt through Ranma’s body, the leather collar around his throat tightening with every heartbeat. “You know what I’m holding against you, Ranma?”

Ranma’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, anticipation swirling within him as he shook his head no, unable to identify the cold hard object pressed against him. The blindfold stripped away his vision, leaving him acutely aware of every sensation—the quiet crackle of the air, the weight of the mysterious object, the pulse of his own heart racing in response.

“My hunting knife.” Ryoga’s voice was a whisper, dangerous and thrilling. He slid the knife flat down along Ranma’s abdomen, letting the cold steel trace a path of goosebumps in its wake. “Is this okay with you?”

Ranma’s response was a low, almost shy nod. “I trust you,” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper, the collar feeling heavier against his skin as he surrendered to the moment.

“Oh yeah?” Ryoga’s tone was skeptical but intrigued, as he continued to slide the knife over Ranma’s body.

The flat of the blade pressed just firmly enough to dimple the skin without breaking it, glinting in the fading light as it traced the contours of muscle and bone. From the sharp ridge of his collarbone where sweat had pooled in the hollow, down through the shallow valley between his heaving pectorals, the knife’s flat edge pressed just enough to leave a momentary white trail that flushed pink seconds later.

Ranma squirmed slightly at the cool touch, every hair on end as he felt the metal glide against him. It followed each individual rib like piano keys, and with each delicate stroke, he gasped softly, unable to suppress the little twitches of his body. The motion sent shivers down his spine, the coolness of the blade contrasting sharply with his feverish skin, heightening his senses.

As the knife dipped into the perfect circle of his navel, it lingered, rotating slightly, and another gasp escaped his lips, his abdomen contracting beneath the threatening point. Every sensation left him breathless, amplifying the thrill of the moment as he struggled to hold still, caught between the terror of the blade and the intoxicating pleasure of surrender.

Ryoga’s hand remained steady, his breath controlled, as he navigated this dangerous game—a delicate dance where the slightest tremor or miscalculation could draw blood. The knife’s weight became an extension of his intent, a physical manifestation of the power dynamic between them, testing the boundaries of Ranma’s trust and Ryoga’s control.

He let the knife wander lower, pressing the flat of it against one of Ranma’s inner thighs, dangerously close to the base of Ranma’s cock and balls. “How much do you trust me?” he challenged, watching Ranma’s face closely for any sign of real fear.

Fear ran through Ranma’s spine, his entire body tense and waiting in the suffocating darkness of the blindfold. He felt exposed and vulnerable, yet the thrill of the moment fueled his resolve.  “Well, I haven’t said either word...”

The words were a challenge, a defiance against the fear that threatened to consume him. He was determined to drive Ryoga to do him wrong, to push the boundaries while still behaving his best, teetering on the edge of what felt dangerously exhilarating.

In a swift motion, Ryoga stood, pulling the knife away and pushing the bandana from Ranma’s eyes up to his forehead, exposing his gaze. The sudden exposure made Ranma squint, his eyes darting immediately to Ryoga’s face, seeking some clue to his thoughts. But Ryoga was unreadable, his features set in a stern mask as he observed Ranma’s reactions closely.

They stared at each other, a silent conversation in the space between them. Ryoga remembered too well the last time things had gone wrong—the tears, the scramble for the first-aid kit, the hollow drop in his gut when he realized he’d crossed a line. And now here Ranma was, practically daring him to go further still.

But Ryoga couldn’t just give in to that recklessness. He had to watch, to measure every flinch, every breath. He had to be sharper than Ranma’s bravado, because if he lost focus, if he forgot that line even for a second, then he really would be nothing more than cruel. And he wasn’t cruel.

“Don’t take that lightly,” Ryoga warned at last, voice low and edged with steel.

“I’m not,” Ranma replied quickly, his voice firm despite the vulnerable position he was in. “I’m serious, you can do worse on me...”

Ryoga clenched the knife at his side, considering. The campfire light was dimming, shadows dancing wildly around them. Doing more in this fading light would be reckless—dangerous. He let the knife drop to the ground with a dull thud. His fingers then worked quickly to remove the hand axe pinning Ranma’s wrists to the tree, and he began to untie the knot that held Ranma’s hands together. As the bindings loosened, Ryoga’s touch lingered just a moment longer than necessary, a silent acknowledgment of the trust Ranma had placed in him tonight.

Without a word, Ryoga grasped Ranma by the braid, pulling gently but firmly, guiding him back towards the campfire. The bandana remained around Ranma’s forehead, as if it belonged there. Ranma’s bare feet stumbled over the rough terrain, the small stones and twigs biting into his skin, reminding him painfully of his naked vulnerability.

They reached the circle of light thrown by the dying embers. Ryoga released his hold on Ranma’s hair, pointing instead to the dim glow. “Rekindle it,” he commanded, his voice low, carrying a weight that had Ranma obeying without a thought.

Ranma moved to the woodpile, his hands selecting pieces with care, arranging them meticulously to coax the fire back to life. The warmth that began to lick at the logs was a small comfort against the chill of the night. The leather collar it’s own fuel to his desire to please Ryoga.

Meanwhile, Ryoga was busy at the edge of the clearing, pulling a sturdy branch from the underbrush. He returned to the fire, wielding the branch like a makeshift pole, which he drove into the ground with a few well-placed kicks.

“Lay on your back and grab hold of the pole,” Ryoga instructed, his voice betraying a hint of urgency now, as if driven by a need Ranma couldn’t quite understand. Having Ranma lose like that was fine for what he had planned next; he didn’t want him restrained for this.

Obediently, Ranma laid down, his back against the cold, hard earth. He reached up, grasping the pole tightly, his hands clenching around the smooth wood. Ryoga took a moment to appreciate the sight before him—Ranma stark naked on his back, arms raised high, exposing everything. The way the leather collar hugged Ranma’s throat made it seem like he was his property, like a possessive mark that sent a thrill through Ryoga.

The bandana that adorned Ranma’s forehead, a remnant of the earlier disciplining, looked surprisingly good on him, adding to his allure and vulnerability. It was as if Ranma wore it just for Ryoga, a visual declaration of submission that deepened the sense of ownership Ryoga felt. In that moment, the power dynamic between them was unmistakable, each detail amplifying the thrill of control and intimacy.

Ryoga plucked a twig from the now thriving fire, its tip alight with a small, dancing flame. Approaching Ranma, he held the fiery twig just above Ranma’s bare chest, close enough that Ranma could feel the heat without the flames actually touching his skin. “Since you seem to be wanting to play with fire…”

Adrenaline surged through Ranma, his heart pounding wildly, his grip on the pole tightening, sweat dampening the bandana on his forehead. He nodded, part of him thrilled by the challenge, another part terrified of what he had agreed to.

Ryoga’s expression was hard to read in the flickering light, but he seemed slightly on edge as he pulled out the first aid kit, keeping it at the ready. He skimmed through it quickly, heart racing as he saw the bottle of isopropyl alcohol. An idea sparked in his mind; the liquid evaporates fast enough that it could work well for what it occurred to him.

But he wasn’t about to execute it without some further precautions. Glancing over at the bucket of water Ranma had fetched earlier, Ryoga made a decision and moved to retrieve it. From the backpack, he pulled out a hand towel, wetting it before wringing out the excess carefully, mindful of the amount so as not to trigger his own transformation. He laid the damp towel beside him on the ground, within easy reach, readying himself for the task ahead.

Ranma observed what Ryoga was doing, a flicker of realization sparking within him as he connected the dots of Ryoga’s intentions. His swallows had the collar tightening against his throat, anticipation had him twitching, gripping the pole tightly as he braced for what was to come.

Returning his attention to Ranma, Ryoga dabbed some gauze with the alcohol. He moved deliberately, running the alcohol-soaked gauze along Ranma’s abdomen, tracing a line against his skin. Then, with careful precision, he brought the burning twig to the trail of alcohol. A line of fire ignited along Ranma’s skin, startlingly bright against the night, but it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind a trail of warmth that bordered on pain.

Quickly, Ryoga ran the cool, damp towel over the path the fire had taken, extinguishing any lingering heat. “Is this worse enough for you?” he asked, his voice strangely tight.

Ranma, caught in the rush of fear and exhilaration, could only nod. His body was alive with sensations, from the raw heat where the fire had touched him to the cool relief of the towel.

Ryoga repeated the process only a few more times, each line of fire drawn with meticulous care. Across one of Ranma’s pectorals, the flame left a trail of pink that pulsed with his heartbeat. Down his sternum, fire carved a path between taut muscle, the skin there tightening into goosebumps. At the curve where hip meets torso—that hollow valley deepened with each breath, the flame lingering just long enough to make Ranma arch upward.

With each quick flame, Ranma couldn’t help but let out a soft moan, a sound that betrayed the mix of fear and excitement coursing through him.

Then, with a steadier hand than his racing pulse should allow, Ryoga guided the flame along the quivering inner thigh, close enough that Ranma’s skin prickled with goosebumps yet far enough to preserve what lay between. Another involuntary moan escaped Ranma’s lips, a testament to the intensity of the moment as he grappled with the overwhelming sensations.

Each path of flame was followed by the cool swipe of the towel, measured and precise, leaving behind faint pink trails that mapped Ranma’s vulnerability. With each cycle, Ranma found himself sinking deeper into the sensations, the fear giving way to a dark thrill.

Finally, Ryoga set down the twig, his hands trembling slightly as he did so. His own breathing ragged under the adrenaline coursing through his veins, lungs burning as if he’d run for miles—not just traced fire across another man’s skin. The intoxicating power of what he had done mingled with the danger of it, leaving a dizzying thrill in its wake.

Sweat beaded along his hairline, trickling down his bandana-free temple in a slow, warm path, a reminder of the intensity of the moment. He stared at the patterns he’d etched into Ranma’s skin—delicate pink lines that shouldn’t look so beautiful on his rival’s body—and swallowed hard against the knot in his throat.

“Good Ranma,” Ryoga murmured almost under his breath, a reluctant acknowledgement that felt more like a concession to the mounting tension than genuine praise. But it was the closest thing to approval Ranma was going to receive.

The words still went straight to Ranma’s dick. “Does that mean I get my reward now?” Ranma’s voice was thick with hope and something darker, edged with need.

Ryoga’s gaze flickered down, unmistakably noting Ranma’s erection. A smirk played at the edge of his lips as he leaned closer, his presence overwhelming. “If you want it so bad, do it yourself,” he challenged, his voice a low drawl that sent a shiver down Ranma’s spine.

Frustration flared in Ranma’s eyes, a flash of anger that masked the deeper disappointment beneath. He wanted—needed—Ryoga’s touch, but faced with no other choice, he complied. Ranma reached down, his hand wrapping around his own length. Laid on his back on the cold ground, the leather collar around his throat served as a constant reminder of his submission, intensifying the weight of the moment.

Yet, the bandana on his forehead felt oddly comforting, and it only heightened his need to be watched. He started stroking himself, his movements initially slow and deliberate, each stroke drawing out the tension as he fought to navigate the tumult of desires within him.

In a bid to tempt Ryoga, Ranma wet the fingers of his other hand in his mouth, deliberately letting his tongue play over each digit with a lewdness that he knew wouldn’t go unnoticed. Then, with a provocative moan, he reached further down from where he was still stroking himself, fingers probing at his entrance. He pushed a finger inside, his body tensing at the intrusion but eager to exhibit just how much he could take.

Ranma made a show of himself. He spread his legs wider, his hips bucking into his hand, his moans growing louder and more desperate. Ryoga watched, transfixed for a moment by the raw display of obscenity and blatant desire. The sight of Ranma so wanton, so open, stirred something within him—a surge of both protectiveness and a darker, carnal hunger.

But Ranma was getting close too fast for his liking. So Ryoga reached out, his hand closing around Ranma’s wrists, stopping their movements. He held them firmly, waiting for the wave of imminent climax to subside, watching Ranma’s frustrated yet lust-blown expression with a mixture of glee and anticipation.

Ryoga released his grip on the wrists. “Grab hold of the pole again,” He ordered, voice steady and commanding.

Ranma complied without hesitation, instinctively reaching up and gripping the smooth wood tightly, eagerly waiting for Ryoga’s touch.

And Ryoga made him wait, all right. He rummaged through his things for the bottle of oil which he cooked the fish with. The silence stretched between them, thick with tension, as he observed the way Ranma’s breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping his lips. Step by step, Ryoga uncapped the bottle and poured a generous amount onto his own fingers. He could feel the urgency building, the desperation in Ranma’s body radiating like heat, each slight movement a testament to his need for release.

Only when he felt Ranma’s desperation notch up further, the one slicked hand found its way to Ranma’s asshole. Ryoga resumed the abandoned task with his own touch, one hand jacking Ranma’s dick off and fingers of the other slipping easily against the sensitive skin, delving deeper with each motion.

Yet, just as Ranma seemed on the brink of release, Ryoga paused, withdrew slightly. The tension built but did not crest, leaving Ranma panting, hot and bothered, but curious to where Ryoga was going with this.

He went at it again. Ryoga’s calloused fingers curled inside him, finding that spot that made Ranma arch off the ground, his spine lifting clean off the cold dirt as a strangled “Fuck—” tore from his throat. Then Ryoga withdrew completely, leaving Ranma clenching around nothing but empty air, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips.

This pattern repeated, a maddening cycle of build-up and deliberate denial, pushing Ranma to the edge of endurance. But he still did not dared to let go of the pole.

When the touch returned, it was slower, more deliberate—Ryoga’s rough thumb circling the sensitive, glistening head of his cock, spreading the pearly bead of precum in torturous spirals until Ranma’s thighs began to tremble uncontrollably beneath him—then nothing but the cool night air against his burning skin.

The frustration, the need for release grew unbearable. Ranma’s breaths came in ragged pants, his body quivering with each denied orgasm. He questioned whether he should just let go and finish himself off, but he feared he might not get that ultimate prize he was aiming for.

The umpteenth time, Ryoga pushed deeper, the stretch and burn of a third thick finger making Ranma gasp. He stroked faster, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet forest, bringing Ranma right to that golden precipice where coherent thought dissolved into white noise—then Ryoga’s grip tightened around the base of his cock like a vise, hard enough to make Ranma sob, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

It was clear Ranma was not going to get what he wanted. He got to a point where any release would do. He got to the point where he was willing to give up getting fucked by Ryoga and concede his rival yet another win. His voice trembled with desperation as he gasped.

“Ryoga, please, let me cum.”

Chapter Text

“Ryoga, please, let me cum.”

“So you can beg, huh?” Ryoga’s voice was low, a taunt that hung like the campfire smoke in the air between them. He knew exactly what he was doing, pushing Ranma to his limits, testing the boundaries of his rival’s ego and desire.

Ranma suddenly remembered he had some pride he had to project to the world. So he looked away, almost pouting, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. ‘Did I beg? That wasn’t—I did, didn’t I? I totally begged...’ Ryoga had a way of breaking down his walls, of making him forget his stubbornness in the face of such intense pleasure.

Ryoga’s calloused fingers resumed their slow, torturous dance. One hand wrapped around Ranma’s cock, stroking it gently, while the other delved lower again, teasing his asshole, a finger just circling the ring of muscle for now. “All those brutal punishments I put you through, all I wanted to hear was you begging for mercy. And this is what makes you beg, huh?”

Ranma whimpered, his body arching into the touch, even as his mind rebelled against the words. The leather collar felt tight around his throat, intensifying the confusion swirling within him. He wanted to deny it, to claim that this was different, that he wasn’t begging out of weakness but out of a desire so intense it left him no choice. But the truth was, Ryoga had him exactly where he wanted him, and Ranma knew it.

“Ryoga...” he gasped, the name escaping his lips like a plea, but the weight of his pride held him back. He wanted to, but he couldn’t do it again—couldn’t beg again. Instead, he clung tightly to the pole overhead, his knuckles white with the effort, as if it could allow him to better hold onto the idea that, eventually, Ryoga would give him the release he craved but had been cruelly snatched away. This hope fueled his determination, urging him to endure the torment a little longer as the flickering flames reflected the turmoil within him.

Ryoga’s movements were deliberate, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. His thumb smeared pre-cum across the head of Ranma’s cock, circling the ridge agonizingly slow while his middle finger leisurely pressed inside Ranma’s ass. He was discovering new buttons to push on Ranma, how to drag out the pleasure until it became almost unbearable, and he was enjoying every minute of it. “C’mon, Ranma,” he goaded, his voice a challenge. “You can do it. Beg.”

Ranma closed his eyes, focusing on the slick sounds of Ryoga’s hand sliding up and down his shaft, the occasional brush against his hole that never quite penetrated. His cock throbbed painfully, leaking more fluid that Ryoga used to further lubricate his strokes. He could feel Ryoga’s gaze on him, waiting, expecting. Part of him wanted to refuse, to prove he wasn’t that easy to break. But another part, growing stronger with each half-clench of his balls, wanted nothing more than to surrender, to feel those thick fingers finally thrust deep inside him while that rough palm jerked him to completion. But the little pleasure Ryoga was offering wasn’t going to be enough.

“Ryoga, please...” he relented, his voice a hoarse whisper against the backdrop of the quiet night. “Make me cum...” The admission was one of defeat, and as he spoke, a rush of embarrassment flooded through him, tightening his grip on the pole overhead. He still held on as if it were his lifeline, a physical manifestation of his struggle between pride and desire.

Ryoga’s grin turned malicious as he rammed his finger knuckle-deep inside Ranma, twisting it to find that sweet spot while his other hand pumped Ranma’s throbbing cock like he wanted to milk it dry. Ranma’s balls drew up tight, ready to explode, his whole body a live wire of raw need as the cum boiled inside him, ready to shoot in hot, messy spurts.

And just when Ranma’s cock started to erupt, that mind-blowing orgasm turned into… barely something. Ryoga had stopped everything, yanked his finger out of Ranma and released his throbbing dick completely, leaving it to twitch and pulse pathetically in the open air. With every bit of stimulation gone, Ranma’s hot cum dribbled weakly from his swollen cockhead instead of shooting in powerful jets. His balls were still heavy and aching, desperate to empty properly as his asshole clenched around nothing. What should’ve been an explosive surge of pleasure was reduced to a mere trickle of sensation.

Frustration flashed through Ranma, twisting his gut as the ache of need still consumed him. His body trembled from the underwhelming climax, muscles taut and yearning for more—something better. Damn it, he earned it—he deserved it, he didn’t almost literally get burned for these crumbs. He gasped, a mixture of shock and disappointment flooding his senses, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. The campfire crackled softly besides them, the warmth contrasting sharply with the chill of discontent that settled over him.

“What the fuck was that?” Ranma snapped as he released the pole, voice hoarse and raw. His arms trembled as he shifted to rest on his elbows.

Ryoga’s smirk widened, his gaze unwavering. “You came, as you wanted,” he replied, his tone laced with mockery and power. The words stung, not just because they were true, but because they highlighted the cruel reality of their dynamic. Ryoga was in control, and Ranma was at his mercy, whether he liked it or not.

Ranma glared, his chest heaving as he fought the urge to just up and go. But his anger faltered when Ryoga leaned closer, his breath warm against Ranma’s ear.

“Wanna cum again?” he whispered, his voice low and teasing.

Hope flickered in Ranma’s eyes, unbidden and unwanted. He nodded, barely perceptible, his pride crumbling under the weight of his need. ‘Is… Is Ryoga finally gonna fuck me?’ The thought raced through his mind, a desperate plea masquerading as anticipation. But as Ryoga pulled back, his expression unreadable, Ranma’s hope dimmed.

“Don’t make me tie you up to the pole.” Ryoga’s voice dropped to a growl, low and dangerous.

Ranma’s eyes widened. He quickly obeyed, muscles tensing then relaxing as he settled back into position.

Instead of moving to free his own cock, Ryoga resumed the same relentless rhythm that had been driving Ranma mad all night. His fingers, slick with the oil, slid effortlessly between Ranma’s legs, teasing the sensitive flesh of his hole. Ryoga’s other hand gripped Ranma’s cock, stroking it with a rhythm that was impossibly precise, pushing him to the brink.

“Fuck…” Ranma groaned, his body arching off the ground as he tried to chase the pleasure that always seemed just out of reach. He was resigned yet desperate, his defiance worn down to nothing by Ryoga’s relentless control. His body tensed as Ryoga pushed him toward another orgasm, his fingers working in tandem to overwhelm Ranma’s senses.

Ryoga smirked, his grip tightening on Ranma’s cock as he drove him harder, faster, until Ranma’s body shook with the force of his climax.

Before Ranma could process he had cum again, and right this time, Ryoga had leaned in close again, grin widening, malicious and hungry. “Wanna cum again?” he whispered, his voice a low purr that sent shivers down Ranma’s spine.

Ranma, still dazed and overwhelmed from the previous orgasm, could barely process the question. His body felt like it had been wrung out, every nerve ending raw and exposed. But the promise of another climax, however fleeting, was too tempting to resist. He nodded weakly, his pride warring with his desire.

Without hesitation, Ryoga resumed his relentless ministrations. His fingers curled inside Ranma, deliberately avoiding his spent cock that now lay soft and tender against his thigh. Ranma gasped as Ryoga’s touch against his prostate sent electric jolts through his exhausted body, pleasure and pain intertwining in a dizzying dance. His dick twitched weakly, unable to harden fully despite the waves of sensation flooding him.

When Ryoga’s fingers found that perfect spot and pressed mercilessly, Ranma’s back arched off the ground, his mouth open in a silent scream. His body convulsed as he climaxed again, but only a few pathetic drops of fluid leaked from his softened member, his depleted balls clenching painfully as they struggled to produce what wasn’t there anymore.

But Ryoga showed no mercy. Without pause, he continued his relentless assault, fingers curling inside with surgical precision. Ranma’s body convulsed with each dry orgasm, his cock twitching painfully with nothing left to give. His balls ached, hollow and spent, contracting uselessly with each wave. He was lost in a haze of sensation, his mind foggy and unfocused. He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, could only feel.

The pleasure now came laced with sharp, cramping pain that radiated from his groin up through his abdomen. Through tear-blurred vision, he watched his own limp cock jerk pathetically against his thigh, not even a drop escaping despite the violent spasms wracking his body. Still, Ryoga’s fingers found that spot again, and again, forcing responses from flesh that had nothing left to surrender. He felt like he was drowning, his senses overwhelmed, he didn’t know how much more he could take.

Pride kept him from begging Ryoga to stop, from admitting defeat. But as the orgasms piled up, one on top of the other, Ranma felt himself losing his grip on reality. He didn’t know who he was, didn’t know where he was. He was just a body, a vessel for Ryoga’s pleasure.

In a moment of clarity, as Ryoga’s fingers attacked the sweet spot inside him, Ranma’s mind flashed to the words they agreed upon. “Butterfly,” he gasped, his voice barely audible, a faint whisper in the charged air. The word hung between them, a fragile thread of resistance in the face of Ryoga’s overwhelming dominance.

Ryoga froze. Everything stopped. His hands, his breath, the pressure of his presence—he pulled back all at once, retreating like he’d been burned. Even so, the world still crashed in too loud, too much. Suddenly achingly aware of his own nakedness, Ranma curled in on himself, arms clamped tight across his chest, trying to hide as much skin as possible. He drew his knees up, desperate to shield himself from Ryoga’s gaze and the exposed chill of the night, even though the fire still crackled right next to him.

Ryoga glanced around, searching for where Ranma’s clothes ended up, but they were nowhere in sight. So, without hesitation, he stripped off his yellow shirt and put it on Ranma, leaving himself with just his undershirt. The fabric hung loose on him, Ryoga’s build broader, heavier with strength. It dwarfed Ranma a little, the hem brushing lower than it should have, sleeves slipping past his wrists. Then, Ryoga noticed his bandana loose on Ranma’s neck instead of on the other’s forehead. He gently untied it real quick before continuing tending to Ranma.

Careful as if Ranma might shatter, Ryoga lifted him and carried him into the tent. Ranma didn’t resist—he clung for just a second longer, burying himself against Ryoga’s warmth until the shift in air told him he was no longer outside, exposed to the world.

Only then did he let go. The weight of the moment crashed down on him, and his eyes darted around the tent, landing on the winter blanket Ryoga always kept neatly folded by his sleeping bag, just as he always arranged it. Ranma seized it, dragging it over himself in a heap. He wrapped the blanket around every inch, cocooning tight into it until there was nothing left of him but a mound of fabric and the sound of his own breathing. The blanket made him feel, just for a moment, as if he could stop existing to the world altogether.

Without Ranma in his arms, the only thing left in one of Ryoga’s hand was the bandana. He hesitated, suddenly aware of how strange it felt not to have it on after all this time. With a sense of relief, he slipped it back onto his own forehead where it belonged, settling back into himself as he watched over Ranma in the hush of the tent.

Ryoga crouched close, reaching out instinctively to check him—only for Ranma to flinch and bite out, “Don’t touch me!”

His hand snapped back. “I—I’m not sure how to help you,” Ryoga stammered, throat dry. “What d’you need?”

“Everything just… feels too much, okay?” came the muffled reply from inside the blanket.

Ryoga froze, torn between the urge to do something and the nagging sense that anything more might only worsen it. He nodded, even though Ranma couldn’t see it. Instead, he shifted, half rising, thinking to grab his backpack and Ranma’s scattered clothes.

“Don’t go anywhere!” Ranma’s muffled voice cracked, sharp from inside the cocoon. He couldn’t see Ryoga at all through the layers of blanket, but still nailed him like he’d read his mind.

Ryoga stopped, caught, sheepish in the dark. Slowly, quietly, he lowered himself onto his own sleeping bag besides him. Careful not to touch, holding himself still, barely even breathing. He understood now—Ranma didn’t need fixing, not right now. He just needed Ryoga there. A steady weight in the silence, not demanding, not pressing—only present.

The minutes stretched. The tent filled with nothing but the sound of the dying campfire outside, the faint rustle of blanket as Ranma shifted deeper into it. Slowly, his breathing evened, hitching less with every cycle, until it softened into the rhythm of sleep.

Ryoga waited, long after; until he was sure. Only then did he move, careful and quiet, slipping out to gather their things and bring them inside. By the time he returned, Ranma was still curled deep in his cocoon, hidden from the world.

Ryoga lay down again, exhaustion pulling at him, though sleep came reluctantly. It wasn’t until his breathing unconsciously matched Ranma’s, steady and unbroken, that his eyes finally closed.

But throughout the night, Ranma didn’t let him rest. The cocoon unraveled little by little—first a hand slipping free, then a foot, until the blanket lay half-kicked aside. It wasn’t winter yet, but the night air carried just enough chill that Ranma shifted closer in his sleep, seeking warmth instinctively.

Ryoga woke to the weight of him pressed against the edge of his sleeping bag, clinging without knowing it. He exhaled slowly through his nose, staring at the tent ceiling. He could shove him off, he should. But instead, with a sigh that was more defeat than annoyance, he tugged the bag open just enough to let Ranma slip inside.

The space was too tight for two grown martial artists, shoulders brushing, legs tangling awkwardly. Ranma murmured something incoherent and promptly settled, curling into the heat like it belonged to him. Ryoga lay stiff for a long moment, the heat of Ranma’s body burning through the thin barrier of his shirt. Eventually, his tension eased—not because he was comfortable, but because, against all reason, Ranma was.

Sleep found him again, reluctant but inevitable, with Ranma tucked against him as though he’d never meant to be anywhere else.

Ranma woke to warmth that wasn’t the heavy cocoon he’d wrapped himself in. His cheek was pressed against something solid, his limbs tangled in something tighter, closer. It took him a moment to realize he’d ended up inside Ryoga’s sleeping bag, plastered against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

For a second, he didn’t mind. Ryoga’s steady breathing was warm against his hair, grounding in a way Ranma would never admit out loud. But the longer he stayed there, the more it gnawed at him. His brain caught up, piece by piece, replaying the entire day before. The labor Ryoga had piled on him, the tickling, the knife against his skin, the lines of fire burning off his skin. The endless edging—release promised, release denied, release overload, until pain blurred into pleasure and back again. And even with all that, Ranma still couldn’t lure Ryoga inside him, filling him completely.

Had there ever even been a real reward waiting for him? Or had Ryoga just been playing him all along? The whole thing felt like one long punishment, and there was never an intention to reward him. His gut twisted with something that felt like betrayal.

Ranma slipped carefully out of the sleeping bag, biting back a curse when Ryoga shifted but didn’t wake. He spotted his own clothes neatly folded at the edge of the tent. So Ryoga had gone out in the night after all, left him alone, even if just for a while. Somehow, even that stung. Ranma yanked off Ryoga’s shirt and started to put on his own anyway, teeth grinding.

“Who told you you could put your clothes back on?”

The voice cut through the tent like a blade. Ryoga hadn’t even opened his eyes all the way, still half-buried in sleep, but his words were low, rough, and possessive enough to stop Ranma in his tracks.

“I’m leaving,” Ranma snapped, yanking the last button of his tang suit closed.

In a flash, Ryoga was out of the sleeping bag, hand catching at the leather collar still snug around Ranma’s throat. “Who said you were free to go?” His fingers absently played with the braided leather, as if pointing out that as long as it was there, it meant Ranma is his for Ryoga to do with him whatever he wanted.

Ranma’s fingers brushed the collar too, the slight pressure of it against his neck making him remember how it somehow helped him endure the whole of yesterday willingly. He kind of saw it now—it was like proof of his submission, the choker marked him as Ryoga’s possession. But before he could further dwell on it, he swatted Ryoga’s hand away—a seemingly small, defiant reclaim of his autonomy.

“Tch. Forget it. I’m outta here. You’re never gonna give me what I actually want, so what’s the point stickin’ around?” He turned for the tent flap.

“Wait—don’t go. Not like this.” Ryoga’s hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist. His tone had shifted, softer now, coaxing where moments ago it was sharp.

Ranma froze at the change. A scoff broke out of him, half bitter, half startled laugh. “Oh, so now you care? You always let me walk off—no, order me to walk off. Never once tried to stop me.”

Ryoga’s grip only tightened, his jaw set. “Last night you said the word to stop me. I take it you weren’t enjoying yourself. Let me make it right.”

“Last night you also strung me along,” Ranma shot back, teeth gritted. “Made me think I was gonna have the cum of my life. How do I know you’re not about to pull some shit like that again?”

Ryoga faltered, eyes dropping, he realized now he betrayed Ranma’s trust. There was a sacred order on this ritual they concocted and he fell out of line. “I’m sorry…” his voice was rough with regret.

Ranma’s eyes widened, he didn’t thought Ryoga was capable of apologizing.

“I promise, this time I’ll make you cum so hard you’ll be set for the next few months.”

“But I don’t want more of your hands or fingers,” Ranma muttered, frustration cutting sharp. “I’m over it. I want something more—” He cut himself off abruptly, realizing too late what he’d almost admitted.

Ryoga tilted his head, eyes narrowing as if he could hear the words Ranma had swallowed back. He smirked as he stepped forward, nudging his half-hard cock against the curve of Ranma’s ass through the thin fabric of his pants. “You demanding little shit, all you did yesterday was ask for more, more, more. You’ve got something in mind, don’t you?”

Heat rose up Ranma’s neck, his face flushing scarlet as he felt Ryoga’s cock hardening against him. He bit his lower lip hard enough to hurt, eyes fixed on the ground while his own dick started to stir.

“Say it,” Ryoga commanded, his voice a predatory growl against Ranma’s ear. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

“I—I want you to...” Ranma swallowed, his throat working visibly against the leather collar. He tried to salvage his pride, but his need refused to remain unacknowledged; he couldn’t hold back any longer. “I want you to fuck me raw. I want your cock inside me.”

Ryoga’s laugh was cruel and knowing as he grabbed Ranma’s hips, grinding his thick erection deliberately against the cleft of his ass. “You think you’ve earned this cock?” He thrust harder, making Ranma gasp.

Ranma twisted his neck, meeting Ryoga’s gaze with defiant eyes. “Yes,” he said, the word carrying the weight of the autonomy he managed to muster earlier.

“Was that so hard?” Ryoga let out a small chuckle. “If you don’t ask...” He yanked Ranma away from the tent flap. “You shall not receive.” Without loosing a beat, he shoved him face-down onto the sleeping bag, the impact forcing a gasp out of Ranma.

Ryoga’s weight settled over him, knees spreading Ranma’s thighs apart. The sound of him rummaging through his backpack made Ranma’s cock throb against the sleeping bag. The cap of the cooking oil bottle clicked open and Ryoga lowered his pants just enough. Ranma held his breath as he heard the slick sounds of Ryoga coating himself, imagining the thick shaft glistening with oil.

When the blunt, slippery head of Ryoga’s cock pressed against his entrance, the pressure was immediate and overwhelming. Ranma’s body tensed, his hole clenching instinctively against the intrusion.

“R-Ryoga, wait...” Ranma’s voice cracked, his body trembling beneath Ryoga’s bulk.

Ryoga stilled instantly, his breathing heavy against Ranma’s ear. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, his voice husky with restraint. “I’m gonna go slow, easy.” He pushed forward slightly, testing, but Ranma’s body refused to yield.

With a frustrated grunt, Ryoga flipped him over, their faces now inches apart. He figured just telling Ranma to “relax” wouldn’t magically make him so. “You said you didn’t want any more of my hands or fingers,” Ryoga said, pressing the oil bottle into Ranma’s palm. “So prep yourself for me.”

And so Ranma did, hands trembling as he slicked his fingers with oil, spilling more than he meant to in his nervousness. He tried to keep a normal face, forcing himself to appear neutral as he felt Ryoga’s intense stare boring into him. Inside, his heart raced, anxiety bubbling just beneath the surface at the thought of what was to come. This was precisely what he wanted—yet the anticipation got him all the more on edge. He hesitated before spreading his legs, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of that gaze.

The first finger slid in easily enough, and he bit his lip to suppress any sounds, trying to maintain control. But when he added the second, he winced, his breath catching in his throat. His cock lay half-hard against his stomach, the stirring arousal a confusing mix of anticipation and fear that clouded his desire with the stark reality of what was about to happen. It was thrilling, yet the nerves coursing through him threatened to overwhelm. When he tried to add a third finger, his muscles tensed involuntarily, a reflex as he subconsciously pushed to show off how much he could take.

Ryoga finished removing his pants and boxers, his thick cock jutting forward as he stared, mesmerized. Ranma’s shirt still blocked the view just so. “Strip,” he commanded, voice rough with authority.

Ranma’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of his tang suit, the fabric parting to reveal flushed skin in jerky increments. He wiggled it awkwardly off his shoulders, the material refusing to free him from it, until finally he lay there completely naked, spread open and vulnerable.

Ryoga couldn’t just stand there watching anymore. He lowered himself onto Ranma, pressing their bodies flush together, his face buried in the crook of Ranma’s neck where he inhaled deeply. The scent of sweat and arousal filled his lungs. Going by feeling, he positioned himself, the slick head of his cock nudging against Ranma’s prepared entrance. He pushed forward with excruciating restraint, feeling the tight ring of muscle resist. Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes before he felt the first subtle give. Another heartbeat, another fraction of an inch.

“Fuck,” Ranma gasped, voice breaking as the crown finally breached him, stretching him wider than his fingers ever could, the burn of it radiating through his entire body.

Ryoga tore off his remaining undershirt with a grunt, the fabric had been clinging to his sweat-slicked muscles as he continued to press forward. He felt Ranma’s body yield little by little until the final resistance gave way, and he sank completely inside. Their bodies were fully joined now, his hips flush against Ranma’s trembling thighs.

Ranma’s eyes widened as the full length of Ryoga filled him completely, stretching him in ways he hadn’t imagined possible. His breath caught in his throat, suspended between pain and something deeper—a fullness that bordered on overwhelming. In the brief stillness of it, he noticed Ryoga’s stark nakedness—this was the first time Ryoga wasn’t wearing any clothes in their meetings like this, skin against skin with nothing between them. After so many sessions of him being the only one exposed, the sight of Ryoga’s bare body above him almost made him look like he was equal to Ranma in their established power dynamic.

Ryoga began to move with agonizing precision, each thrust deliberately slow and deep. He angled his hips until Ranma’s back arched off the sleeping bag, a strangled cry escaping his throat as Ryoga’s cock dragged across that perfect spot inside him. Ranma’s nails dug crescents into Ryoga’s back, scratching red lines down his shoulder blades. The pain only spurred Ryoga deeper, harder. Yesterday’s marks on Ranma would fade, but these—these clawing, desperate scratches—would be Ryoga’s to bear, proof that for once, Ranma had marked him as thoroughly as he’d been marked.

As Ryoga picked up speed, his cock dragged against Ranma’s tight inner walls with each thrust, the slick friction making his balls tighten. Sweat dripped from his chest onto Ranma’s heaving torso as he drove deeper, harder, their flesh slapping together in a rhythm that grew more frantic. It felt strange without their usual warm-up—no teasing, no punishments first, even if they happened the day before. They were just two bodies tangled together now. He liked how Ranma’s fingers dug into his skin, but something was missing. The sex felt good, but he missed the power game they usually played before getting to this part. He couldn’t help but think that they were fucking as themselves, instead of as—what?—master and… demanding little slut?

The pet name made Ryoga chuckle, a low, rough sound that vibrated against Ranma’s chest. But as Ryoga lifted his head, his gaze met Ranma’s, and the world seemed to slow. The sudden urge to kiss him was intense, overwhelming, and completely foreign. What the fuck? The last thing in the world they were was lovers. They were rivals still—adversaries, two warriors locked in a cycle of dominance and submission. But in this moment, with their bodies intertwined and their breath mingling, the lines blurred.

Ryoga’s lips hovered inches from Ranma’s, the tension between them crackling like a live wire. He could feel Ranma’s heart pounding against his chest, could see the mixture of fear and desire in his eyes. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the air thick with unspoken emotions.

It wasn’t lost on Ranma how close their lips were. And only in that moment, when he was finally receiving what he’d been craving, is that he realized this is what he’d been needing all along. Not just the release, not just the pleasure, but the intimacy—the acceptance, the acknowledgment that this was more than just an escape from reality.

Ranma made a tiny move to close the gap between them, but Ryoga hid again in Ranma’s neck. Pushing that urge deep down only made him fuck Ranma even harder, each thrust driving into him with a ferocity that left Ranma gasping. He could feel Ranma at the edge, teetering on the brink—thighs trembling against his hips, breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps. With a final, powerful drive that buried him to the hilt, he twisted his angle just so, grinding against that perfect spot that made Ranma’s eyes roll back, and pushed him over.

Ranma came powerfully, the force of his orgasm shuddering through his body like a storm breaking loose. Ropes of white splattered across his stomach and chest, smearing between their pressed bodies. His chest heaved, breath hitching in sharp, erratic gasps. Ryoga’s rhythm faltered, his own pleasure forgotten as he stared down at the sticky evidence of Ranma’s release painting them both.

Ryoga didn’t push further, didn’t chase his own orgasm. With a slow, careful movement, he pulled out, his cock slick with sweat and oil, glistening with the filtering morning light through the tent. He could have taken more, demanded more, but something in him hesitated. The memory of Ranma’s overstimulated senses last night lingered, a quiet reminder of the fine line between dominance and cruelty. He was satisfied enough that Ranma had gotten what he’d so desperately craved.

The intensity of the moment lingered, heavy and unspoken, as their bodies slowly cooled. Ranma lay sprawled, still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling like he’d just lost a fight. Ryoga shifted away, searching his backpack for a towel to wipe them both clean, while Ranma remained still, his eyes unfocused, his expression a mix of satiation and something deeper, unspoken. The air between them was thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and oil, a raw reminder of what had just transpired.

Silence stretched, neither knowing what to say. The morning was still a little chilly, the air cool enough for Ranma to shiver. That, more than anything, broke the trance.

“…We should probably wash up,” Ryoga muttered, voice rough.

Ranma gave a single nod, slow, like he didn’t trust his voice either. The spell between them hadn’t broken—only shifted, settling into something quieter.

They moved wordlessly, the easy, hard-drilled traveler’s habits softening the edges of what had just happened. Ryoga worked his way putting the tent down while Ranma began packing, the occasional clink of cookware or rustle of fabric filling the space where words didn’t fit. Every now and then their eyes met—brief, unreadable glances that carried too much and not enough.

By the time the campsite looked untouched, the morning mist had thinned. Ryoga shouldered his backpack, the silence still heavy but not hostile.

The trail back towards the residential area they disappeared from felt longer than usual. Ranma led, retracing their path with deliberate care. Each step made him aware of just how sore he really was—hips, shoulders, even the tips of his fingers. Still, he kept his pace steady, determined not to let Ryoga see him limp.

Ryoga followed a few paces behind, watching Ranma’s gait—the slight hitch he tried to hide, the stiffness in his stride. A flicker of pride tugged at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t need to say anything, the proof of his handiwork was right there in the way Ranma moved.

When the rooftops of the Tendo dojo finally came into view, Ranma exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire way. The sun was already high—late morning, judging by the quiet hum of the neighborhood. Ranma slid the door open as quietly as he could, hoping to sneak past anyone. No such luck on such a crowded household.

“Boy!” Genma’s voice barked from the washitsu before Ranma even made it two steps inside. “Where the hell were you all night?”

Ranma winced, caught mid-sneak. Ryoga, right behind him, froze like a guilty accomplice.

“Last minute training,” Ranma said quickly, shoving Ryoga’s backpack, making the other stumble, as if that explained everything. “Y’know—discipline, focus, mastery of body and mind, that sorta thing.”

They stepped inside past Ranma’s father and he grimaced. “You two smell like you sparred around in a pigsty.” Genma turned to Ryoga. “Did you at least showed him how it’s done, Ranma?”

There it was again… it took all but two minutes and already the weight settled on his shoulders—that familiar, suffocating expectation to always win was there again.

Ryoga crossed his arms, the picture of smug satisfaction. “I totally kicked his ass,” he said, loud enough that the whole house could hear.

Ranma froze mid-step, color flooding his face before he could even muster a comeback. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, glaring at Ryoga instead. The heat creeping up his neck said more than words ever could.

Genma’s eyes went wide. “You let Hibiki beat you?”

“It wasn’t—” Ranma started, but the protest came out weak, tangled, and not at all convincing.

Ryoga’s smirk deepened, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough to show he was enjoying this.

Kasumi appeared then, calm as ever, drying her hands on a towel. “You both missed breakfast,” she said kindly, though her nose crinkled a little. “I’ll draw a warm bath for you.”

“Thanks, Kasumi,” Ranma mumbled, still pink around the ears.

Genma folded his arms, grumbling. “My own son, bested by Hibiki… disgraceful!”

Ranma clenched his fists but couldn’t bring himself to look either of them in the eye. “I—I’ll go wash up.”

Ryoga leaned against the doorframe, smug as ever. “Guess I’ll wash up too. Wouldn’t want my victory smell lingering too long.”

Ranma shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel and stomped off toward the washroom, muttering something that sounded a lot like “stupid pig.”

Kasumi’s voice floated from the hall. “Towels are on the stool. Don’t make a mess!”

Genma shook his head, muttering to himself as they disappeared down the corridor. “Training, huh. Smells like shame to me.”

The bathroom was humid, the kind of heat that clings to skin even after you submerge it. The tub was already brimming by the time they reached it, steam curling in lazy arcs toward the ceiling. Ranma shrugged off his tang suit, careful not to look Ryoga in the eye, and stepped in first, sinking down until the water covered his collarbone. He hissed softly, not expecting the sting of heat against the raw, faintly pink lines on his skin—reminders of the night before. Ryoga followed, lowering himself with more deliberation, taking up space as he settled on the other end.

They sat in silence, the only sound the slow drip of condensation from the tiles above and the dull, underwater thud of their own shifting limbs. Ranma was acutely aware of how the water seemed to amplify every nerve ending, every tiny scrape from the knife and burns—a record of their whole, tangled rivalry. His breath slowed as he let the heat soak through him, but the constant, faint tickle of pain made it impossible to fully relax.

Ryoga watched him, eyes sharp but uncharacteristically soft. He reached across the tub and, without warning, caught Ranma’s wrist in a strong, wet grip. “Get up,” he said, voice low enough that it barely carried over the water. “Sit on the edge.”

Ranma tried to pull back on instinct, but Ryoga’s hand found his bicep, guiding him upward with surprising gentleness. Water cascaded down Ranma’s body as he carefully sat on the tub’s edge, suddenly self-conscious under Ryoga’s scrutiny.

“Last night you didn’t let me check you,” Ryoga said, his tone serious as he regarded Ranma with a furrowed brow.

Ryoga’s fingers traced along his ribs, down to his hip bone, searching for injuries only he seemed able to see. His touch lingered over Ranma’s inner thigh, where the faintest pink line—barely visible even this close—marked where he might’ve gotten carried away. Ranma bristled, ready to snap, but Ryoga ignored the protest, turning back up to Ranma’s torso to inspect each muscle and tendon, as if cataloging every thin mark.

Ranma let him. For once, he didn’t squirm away, didn’t try to deflect with jokes or insults. He closed his eyes, and for a brief, impossible moment, leaned into the contact. It was a tenderness he’d never admit to needing, but now that it was here, he found himself clinging to it. Ryoga’s hands were rough, too large for the delicate task, but they worked with a patience that undercut every memory Ranma had of their fights, their punishments, their games.

Ranma said nothing, but the way he relaxed told Ryoga that there was no pain, no injury to address. Satisfied with that realization, Ryoga eased his inspection. His eyes landed on Ranma’s neck, noticing the leather collar still circled his throat. Ranma stiffened. He’d forgotten it was even there, but now, in the bright light of day, it felt impossibly conspicuous. He expected Ryoga to yank it off, maybe with a snide comment about obedience, but instead Ryoga paused—just two fingers hooked under the edge, as if weighing whether to remove it at all.

“Let me take that off,” he muttered, not unkind. “The leather’s gonna rot if you keep it on in here.” Ryoga finally unfastened the collar, sliding it free in one slow, deliberate motion. He didn’t toss it aside or throw it back in Ranma’s face. He just set it gently on the tile beside the tub, where it stayed, coiled and patient.

Ryoga hesitated, then shook his head. “It’s yours… if you want it.” He didn’t look up, but the words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. “You earned it.”

Ranma’s fingers hovered over where the collar had been, tracing the indentation it left in his skin. He caught Ryoga watching him out of the corner of his eye—half challenge, half concern. The memory of Ryoga’s cock inside him, the fullness and force of it, kept replaying in his mind. That memory alone was almost enough to start him getting hard again, even now, even in the bath, even with Ryoga sitting two feet away and dripping with water like a dog just out of the rain.

But then something clicked in Ranma—Ryoga hadn’t gotten off this morning, he never even got close. The memory flickered, vivid as a punch—Ryoga had pulled out, left himself hard and unsatisfied, all for Ranma’s sake. Ranma tightened his jaw, something about that bugged him. Maybe it was pride, maybe it was gratitude, maybe he hated the idea of Ryoga walking around with all that pent-up energy when he, was floating on the best afterglow of his life.

He got back in the water, and Ryoga startled as Ranma reached out and grabbed him by the wrist.

“What are you—”

Ranma didn’t answer, he just sat Ryoga down on the wet edge of the tub—just like he had done to him moments ago. Ryoga looked down at him, confused, but guessing where the other was getting at. Ranma was kneeling under the water, droplets dripping off his hair as he spread Ryoga’s knees apart.

“You didn’t… y’know… finish,” Ranma said, voice so low it barely carried over the gurgle of the bath water.

Ryoga went stiff, but shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “Didn’t have to. I’m not the one who needed a reward.”

Ranma rolled his eyes. “Then, let me thank you.”

Ryoga tried to respond, but Ranma had already taken him in hand, the words dying in his throat. He was half-hard, as if his body had been waiting all morning for permission. Ranma didn’t hesitate, he leaned forward and took Ryoga’s cock into his mouth, the sudden heat making Ryoga jerk and hiss.

The sensation was overwhelming—a raw, slick heat that made Ryoga’s head drop back, his hand clutching at the edge of the tub until his knuckles went white. Ranma worked him with a steady, determined rhythm, lips tight, tongue relentless. He didn’t care about technique, didn’t care about being careful, he wanted Ryoga to feel it, wanted to drag him to the edge and over.

Ryoga bit down on his fist to keep from groaning aloud, the threat of being caught by Mr. Tendo or someone else lurking just beyond the thin sliding door. The risk only made it sharper, more intense. Ranma glanced up, eyes gleaming with mischief and challenge, and Ryoga felt a thrill like panic race through his veins.

Ranma sped up, using his hand at the base, twisting his wrist as he bobbed his head. He could feel Ryoga’s thighs tensing, the way his whole body coiled like a spring. Ranma dug his nails into Ryoga’s hip, holding him in place, refusing to let him pull away even as Ryoga’s hips jerked up in helpless reflex.

Ryoga choked out a muffled groan, barely contained, as his balls drew up tight. Ranma could taste the sharp, metallic tang of pre-cum, could feel every tremor running through Ryoga’s body. He didn’t let up, not for a second, and when Ryoga finally came, it was in a sudden, violent surge.

The first pulse hit the back of Ranma’s throat, hot and salty. He swallowed, refusing to let any of it go, even as Ryoga’s whole body shook with the force of it. It seemed to go on forever—pulse after pulse, Ryoga’s hand tangled in Ranma’s hair, holding him close until the last shiver faded and Ryoga slumped back, completely spent.

Ranma pulled back, catching his breath. A single drop had escaped the corner of his mouth—he caught it with his thumb, then brought it to his lips without thinking, tongue darting out to taste the last of Ryoga. He looked up at Ryoga, who was still shivering, breathing hard, eyes glazed but focused on his every move.

Ryoga’s gaze lingered on Ranma’s mouth, where a moment ago his cock had been. There it was again… a need to close that distance between them, despite knowing exactly what lingered on those lips. He swallowed hard and chose words instead of action.

“Good Ranma,” Ryoga praised, eyes shining with approval. A genuine warmth in his voice that contrasted the reluctance from the last time he said those very same words.

Ranma felt a rush of warmth at the praise, his heart fluttering in response to Ryoga’s sincere tone. For a moment, he was taken aback, the words washing over him like a balm. It was the same acknowledgment as yesterday, but this time it struck deep, filling him with a sense of validation he hadn’t realized he craved.

He tried to mask the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Thanks,” Ranma managed, his voice barely above a whisper, tinged with shyness.

They climbed out of the tub one after the other, water streaming down their bodies in rivulets. Ryoga reached for a towel first, patting himself dry with deliberate care before handing the second one to Ranma. They dressed in silence, each movement measured—buttons fastened one by one, fabric smoothed with lingering palms, neither rushing nor meeting the other’s eyes.

Ryoga was the first one to step out of the washroom, but Ranma stayed behind a moment longer. He touched his throat where the collar had been, feeling the ghost of leather and the weight it had carried. He wondered if Ryoga was serious about him keeping it. He wondered if he’d ever want to wear it again.

He supposed it didn’t matter. The point wasn’t the collar, or the games, or even the punishments. It was the way Ryoga could make him forget himself, could make him drop every shield and just feel. It was the way they kept pushing each other, past every limit, until there was nothing left but the truth.

Ranma grabbed the collar from where Ryoga had left it, the dark leather still warm and supple between his fingers. He hesitated for just a moment before looping it twice around his wrist, securing it snugly like a cuff bracelet. The worn leather felt different against his wrist than it had against his throat—less commanding, more like a private reminder.

When they finally made it back to the washitsu, everyone was already gathered. Kasumi looked up from setting the table, her voice as gentle as ever. “Oh my, you two sure took your time washing off. You’re just in time for lunch.”

Ranma mumbled something noncommittal and sank onto his zabuton, careful not to wince. Ryoga followed, setting his backpack beside him. He seemed… lighter. Less guarded than usual.

“Oh right,” he said suddenly, unzipping the pack. “I got something for everyone.”

He handed Kasumi a neatly wrapped bundle—local sweets from wherever he’d ended up this time—then smaller trinkets to Soun and Nabiki. Even Genma got a paper charm that Ryoga claimed was for “patience in training,” which earned a snort from Ranma.

Then he turned to Akane, his tone softening almost imperceptibly. “And for you…”

He pulled out a small wooden box, polished to a rich sheen. Inside, nestled in a bit of folded cloth, was a delicate hairpin shaped like a plum blossom—carved bone inlaid with a single drop of red glass at the center. It caught the light beautifully.

“I, uh… found it at a market on my way back,” Ryoga said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought it’d suit you.”

Akane’s eyes widened. “Oh, Ryoga, it’s beautiful! You didn’t have to—”

“It’s nothing,” he cut in, flustered. “Just something that reminded me of you.”

Ranma watched the exchange, expression unreadable—though his fingers twitched against his wrist, brushing the band of leather there.

“And even my rival got one this time,” Ryoga added after a moment, recovering his grin as he nodded towards Ranma’s wrist.

Ranma froze mid-bite. The leather ‘bracelet’ gleamed faintly against his skin where he’d looped it earlier. He tried to play it off, but the heat creeping up his neck gave him away.

Kasumi tilted her head, smiling politely. “Oh, that’s lovely, Ranma. Did you make that yourself?”

Ryoga’s grin widened. “Nah, some random roadside stand. Can’t even remember where I picked that up from.”

Ranma shot him a warning look, then winced slightly as he shifted in his seat, his body still carrying the tender memory of how completely he’d surrendered himself to Ryoga only hours before.

Ryoga leaned back, arms crossed, eyes glinting. “What, Ranma? Can’t sit straight?”

Ranma’s face went crimson. “Shut up, pork butt!”

The others barely paid attention to the outburst—just another round of their usual bickering, as far as they were concerned. But between them, under the table, Ranma’s hand brushed the leather at his wrist—a quiet reminder of something only the two of them would ever understand.

The laughter and clatter of dishes faded once Kasumi cleared the table. The others drifted off—Soun and Genma to their shōgi board, Nabiki upstairs with her ledgers, Akane disappearing to her room to try the hairpin in her mirror. That left the washitsu strangely still.

Ryoga sat near the open shōji, sunlight cutting sharp lines across his face as he adjusted the straps on his backpack. He looked ready to go, the way he always did—half here, half already gone.

Ranma hovered near the doorway, arms crossed, pretending to inspect a loose thread on his sleeve. “You leavin’ already?” he asked, too casual.

Ryoga nodded, cinching the last buckle. “Yeah. Can’t stay long. Gotta keep moving before I lose track of the road again.”

Ranma snorted softly. “Like you ever had it.”

“Hey, I made it here, didn’t I?” Ryoga shot back, grinning.

Ranma didn’t answer right away. His gaze slipped to the leather wrapped around his wrist. The color was darker now, the edges soft from warmth and wear. “...Guess you did,” he said finally, voice low.

For a heartbeat, it felt like neither wanted to move first—Ryoga with his backpack half-slung, Ranma with his weight leaning toward the door but not crossing it. The air between them still hummed with something that wasn’t quite rivalry anymore.

Ryoga looked down, noticing where Ranma’s thumb rubbed the leather band. His smile turned a shade quieter, “That looks good on you.”

Ranma glanced up, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes. He wanted to say “stay,” or maybe just “don’t vanish again,” but the words jammed in his throat. Instead he huffed, turning slightly away. “Yeah, well… try not to get lost for too long this time.”

Ryoga shouldered his backpack. “No promises.”

The door slid open. A breath of warm air swept through the room as Ryoga walked away. Ranma stood there for a long while after he was gone, the ‘bracelet’ heavy on his wrist, the silence heavier still.