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osaevsky · 2 months

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a jasmine bubble bath and a tail peeking out from silk pajamas - as the aftermath of your fateful meeting, you and chuuya try to make sense of his will to help you and find out whether you'll bite the hand that feeds.

word count. 3.4k

contents. puppy hybrid fem reader. mild mentions of past abuse/trauma and reader's life on the streets, swearing, brief mention of the flags, brief mention of an animal's death, non-erotic nudity, chuuya brushes reader's hair. minors & ageless blogs do not interact.

notes. i didn't rly plan on splitting part two into two seperate pieces but i also did not see myself going so into detail on their first night together:,) and yet i am weirdly satisfied with this! i wanted it to be soft and hopeful and i hope i did it justice. enjoy your read <3

୨ৎ part two of TO HAVE & TO HOLD series.

“Uh… make yourself at home,” Chuuya speaks, pressing a finger against one of the screens by the front door.

Ambient light switches on overhead, illuminating the sleek corridor opening into a spacious living area. To say you’re overwhelmed would be saying nothing: Chuuya’s apartment is so much more than you could’ve even imagined – all dark marbles, polished floors and zebrano woods, it’s an art-deco showcase of luxury. You stick out like a sore thumb, dripping wet and leaving muddy footprints as you follow the man inside the apartment cautiously.

It felt like an entire eternity had passed by the time Chuuya finally showed up at the wine bar to take you home. It’s what he insisted you call this from now on– unless you turn out to hate his guts, as he put it. Still, the way he said it didn’t leave that much room for a choice, perhaps having sensed that when given any, you’d end up running away immediately, not wanting to trouble him.

Chuuya’s exhausted – it’s clear as day, from the rasp of his voice to the languid blinking as he shows you around the spacious condo. You follow him from one room to another, tail falling between your legs in uncertainty. Barely a few hours ago you were still on the streets, soaked to the bone, your stomach empty for days. Now you stood in the middle of an apartment so luxurious and squeaky clean, you wanted the earth to swallow you whole, feeling like an additional burden on the kind man’s shoulders.

Frankly, you are still wary of Chuuya despite the kindness he’s showered you with so far. Kouyou-san was an elegant, polite woman, smiling at you every so often as she watched you gobble up the meal bought at Chuuya’s expense. You stay on high alert nonetheless. You’ve met all sorts of people throughout your life on the streets- some held an eerie ability to fool you, instincts included, into thinking they’re harmless.

You won’t risk it this time, having seen with your own eyes how everyone gathered at the bar straightened in their seats and gave polite bows to the woman upon you two entering.

You didn’t have it in you to ask who exactly are they, or about their field of work. You could only suppose it’s dirty business, going off the conversation the two held over the phone earlier. Leaving behind bodies, the expensive clothing both Chuuya and Kouyou-san wore… The vision forming inside your head is not a fun one, and leaves you fidgeting nervously from one foot to another, trailing behind like a beat-up dog. (Huh, I wonder why…)

Your guard swirls down the drain once Chuuya successfully ushers you into the shower.

How long has it been since you could indulge in the hot spray, trickling down your flesh, all different sorts of perfumed products pampering your bruised, rough skin? This feels nothing like the rushed showers you managed to sneak every so often at gas stations or local gyms, sometimes having to run out midway once the staff caught you breaking the no hybrids allowed rule. It’s not anything like the times you tried your best to wash yourself clean in the Tsurumi river, the water freezing and sometimes leaving your flesh as soiled as before your dip.

But this – this feels normal. Standing under the overhead spray, you feel like a regular girl your age, just washing away the day’s worries with a nighttime shower. Whether that is school work, relationship drama, or the burden of staying out on the streets for days on end – the water feels just as comforting. For a second, you’re just a girl. Simple, ordinary, and human.

When you reach for one of the bottles and have it slip between your fingers, falling on the shower tiles with a thud, you come back to your senses.

You huff, irritation and hopelessness biting at the back of your eyes. Your hands aren’t always as nimble and deft as an ordinary human’s. Especially after prolonged periods of time, out on the street like a stray dog in the wild, your nature pushes forward different ways for you to use them. You didn’t need your hands when you had no food to tear into, no pen to grip, no shampoo to massage into your scalp in a bath. No hand to hold in yours…

You scramble to pick up the fallen bottle, heart hammering when a pair of solid footsteps can be heard approaching the bathroom. You don’t want trouble. And so, when a knock resonates on the dark mahogany door, an apology is ready on your tongue – but Chuuya speaks up first.

“Oi, you alright?” He asks, voice muffled by the running water. He waits a second, “Do ya, uh… need any help?”

Your voice dies in your throat before the hurried apologies can slip out. Needless to say, you’re already embarrassed and puzzled enough as it is – you’ve weaned away from some human-like routines, much to your dismay. It’s always been a solid foundation of your sense of self, but life on the streets ruthlessly tore it away. It’s one thing to be endlessly thankful for a chance (even while staying cautious), and another to wish to stay independent, despite everything.

“Y-yes- I mean no, no I don’t need any help, Chuuya-san,” You say quickly, heat rising to your cheeks.

You curse under your breath, quickly fiddling with the cap of the shampoo bottle, only for your nail to painfully snap away at the attempt. You yowl, the bottle tumbling to the floor again as you cradle your hand to your chest, then suck away the blood quickly surfacing to the broken edge of your nail, long but brittle.

The man behind the door stays silent for a few more seconds, then sighs. Moisture beads up at the corners of your eyes. It has nothing to do with the shower spray.

“You sure about that?”

Needless to say, it is Chuuya that bathes you that night.

His hands feel warmer than anything else you’ve ever encountered. The initial hesitance you saw in his movements when he first stepped into the bathroom– might have something to do with facing an entirely bare, pretty woman, all soaked wet and at his mercy– disappears quickly by the time he helps you out of the shower and hands you a towel to cover yourself with for the time being.

You don’t have it in you to feel so sheepish anymore, despite the predicament being truly bizarre. You don’t have much choice but to hand all control over to the man, anyway, but perhaps it’s a good thing: you wouldn’t find it inside your heart, still proud despite everything, to ask for help when it comes to something so minor and simple as cleaning yourself. With a little push from your own clumsiness, you feel the invisible wall between you and Chuuya crumble down, slowly but surely.

You wait as Chuuya keeps his gaze anywhere but at your silhouette while drawing you a bath instead. He pours what seems like half the bottle of bubbles in the water, then offers you his hand, helping you inside the bath.

You dip your toes in first, then carefully step inside. You wince at the temperature and Chuuya’s quick to check it with his hand (it’s bare now, you notice, no leather gloves in sight) before switching the stream to a lower setting.

“There ya go,” He praises once you’ve lowered yourself all the way into the rose-tinted water, only your head, shoulders, and tips of your knees peeking out. “You’re doin’ well. ‘s alright now.”

You hang your head, now truly abashed. It’s tough to keep your tail from instinctively swishing around in the water in glee, but making a mess is the last thing you want right now, so somehow, you manage. Still, Chuuya’s treatment makes your heart run rampant. He’s gentle - unbearably so as he lathers a loofah with washing oil and begins to massage it into your flesh, lifting your arm by the hand, holding it so carefully you almost believe you’re made of porcelain. It’s unknown to you so far, regardless of which side you take into consideration; you can’t bring up the last time you’ve been taken care of like this by family or let alone a partner. It’s a blessing in disguise you haven’t experienced such treatment from someone that considered you more of a dog than a human girl, either.

It’s confusing and strange, entirely unfamiliar whichever way you put it. And so, you don’t squeak out a word, scared of what your perplexed state of mind comes up with.

The heightened sensitivity Chuuya noticed on you earlier makes sense as his eyes follow the patches of skin he washes. Littered with shallow cuts, healing scabs and bruises, and abrasions – he bites back a grunt at the sight. You’re helpless, aren’t you? He’s still unsure how to approach you, given the dualism of your nature, but seeing you so weakly and powerless makes the choice a little easier.

Come to think of it, he does remember taking care of a stray mutt back in the day, not long after joining the mafia. The pup lingered around the entrance of Old World, sometimes helping itself to some littered scraps of food on the other side of the street, but more often happily padding after whichever member of The Flags happened to be walking into the bar. For some reason, Pianoman was the one to catch its attention the most, which, along with its black and white coat, quickly led to the dog getting named after said almost-executive.

Chuuya did almost close to door on it once – perhaps it was the first time he’s fully grown aware of the dog’s presence, or an awakening of an unconscious will to make up for almost shutting the door on the poor thing.

It didn't matter. Whatever the reason, since that day Chuuya often found himself bringing the pup in the back, using the gentlest wash he found in his bathroom to clean the stray up. The rest of the group was just as enamored with the animal, but it was clear Chuuya felt some weird sort of responsibility over the pup. Chuuya never really had a pet, but the skinny, frail stray visiting him and his friends at the old billiard bar gave him an insight of what it meant to take care of a living being, dependent on him only. It lasted for a while, a time Chuuya remembered fondly despite never really admitting it to anyone. (Everyone he shared the memory with are dead now, anyway.)

It was abruptly cut short one traitorously sunny day. One morning, Chuuya found the poor pup by the curb, ran over and barely breathing.

White fur he so carefully washed clean off dirt numerous times, soaked with crimson– he hated the sight, and remembers it clear as day now, for some reason. Little whimpers and yelps of pain eventually drifted to silence as soon as the boy cradled the twisted, battered lump of limbs, as if the poor thing waited until the familiar, warm touch embraced it again before drifting off to sleep forever.

Chuuya’s unfit for an owner. The life he lives is not anything another living, feeling creature deserves to be wound up in. The pup didn’t have to be targeted to end up like it did – being a part of Chuuya’s life, more or less constant, was enough of a reason. And yet, despite everything, a few hours ago he got this naive feeling that perhaps this time it could be different.

And so, Chuuya handles you, the best way he knows how.

You watch the man and the furrow in his brows as he massages the foam into your ears, gently and carefully. The aura falling around Chuuya’s persona is so unfitting to how he treats you, sharp blue eyes attentive to any potential signs of discomfort, large hands delicate but thorough on your skin.

(Is this how dogs feel when groomed? Handled so carefully, soft hums of praise by your ear…)

He fills what looks like an expensive whisky glass with the bathwater and rinses the soapy suds out, then meticulously repeats the process with your tail, despite the heat rising to his cheeks when you have to switch positions and allow him better access. You feel like there’s truly no need for any further icebreakers after this.

A short while passes and finally, Chuuya helps you out of the water and wrap you up in the fluffiest towel you’ve ever seen. You silently watch as he cleans up the bath, then let him put you up on the countertop (not without yelping when the strange cherry glow first sparks on your skin, though – what even was that? and why is he chuckling under his breath at your surprised sputtering?).

You watch the repetitive action of cutting your nails, sharp but now clean, with utmost interest and surprise. It should feel different – like he’s ridding you of a way to defend yourself, but you simply can’t bring yourself to it when he’s doing it so carefully, face calm but focused.

He pulls one of the drawers open in search of something. It would be the time to dress you in something, but you’re not forward enough to even wish for it. Chuuya looks kind – he is, so far – but wouldn’t it be more logical to order you to stay bare for the night, provide him with something to look at? Perhaps show your gratitude for taking you in…

Chuuya eventually turns around to face you again, holding up a what seems to be a satin pajama set. His gaze flickers between the clothes and your towel-wrapped figure.

“Hope it fits,” Chuuya mumbles under his breath. You could only guess the garments were his. “I don’t really have anything else at hand, so that’ll have to do,”

Chuuya knew it would fit you without a problem. While drying you down earlier, he easily caught sight of your ribs sticking out, stomach hollowed in. He wonders if he could wrap his hands around your waist if he tried. Probably, yeah – the knowledge stings him, somewhere. What would’ve happened to you had he not stumbled upon you that night?

The silk is heaven against your skin and, unsurprisingly, fits loosely, allowing the warm bathroom air to cling whenever a patch of flesh peeks out from underneath. It’s a deep, gorgeous shade of maroon, and you can only imagine how well it compliments Chuuya’s sun kissed strands of hair when he wears it. You know he does — though obviously freshly cleaned and dried, it still carries a scent of his cologne and warm, coal-y notes.

“Thank you,” you mumble, moving to pull the waistband up but suddenly encountering an issue neither you nor Chuuya thought of beforehand.

Your tail sticks out from under the hem, water soaking the material where it meets the base. You clumsily fix it by pulling the pants lower until they fit more around the swell of your hips. With a sheepish glance, you meet Chuuya’s gaze. It’s neutral, but you can tell he’s putting effort not to show what he’s thinking. You know pity, though, caught on the receiving end too many times, and it looks like he’d finally realized what the deal with hybrids was.

Where there is humanity, there is your animal counterpart. One cannot exist wthout the other – your eyes can’t soften with disappointment without the flop of your ears; you cannot allow yourself to fully relax, always on high alert, surrounded with the city’s tiniest noises, so loud to your sensitive senses.

The world is unkind – to everyone, really. It’s dark and broody regardless of race or status– he’s seen it with his own eyes, after all, having climbed up the social ladder. But when it came to creatures like you, it was unfair starting from something so minor and fundamental as fucking clothes.

(Kind of a dark and serious realization to come to, all because of a pair of pajamas and a floppy tail, isn’t it?)

In the back of his mind, Chuuya’s already wondering whether he can find something tailor-made, or get it done by tomorrow night.

In the end, it proves to be nothing a little adjusting couldn’t fix. Yet, you find yourself feeling even smaller than you initially were upon first walking through the apartment door. Though you still weren’t aware of Chuuya’s true intentions, an ugly fright of him changing his mind bounces around your chest.

It’s an ugly, bitter feeling, choking you from the inside out and slipping between all the crevices of your ribs. To you, there is no possible upside of keeping someone like yourself - even more so doing such kind things for them. He could want to make you his wife, or a maid, slave, even – it wasn’t unheard of, the mistreatment and abuse other hybrid girls would face. Your people faced such actions since their early days on this earth and it was only fair it would happen to you, too, sooner or later.

But maybe you are naive, in a way dogs are, or too hopeful for your own good – because when you look up at Chuuya and meet his cerulean gaze, you truly cannot see an ill intention behind it.

“Why are you doing this?”

Chuuya should’ve known this would be the first thing to fall from your mouth since taking you home. He still snickers in his usual lax fashion, not stilling the movement of his hands whatsoever as he gently maneuvers you around and away from facing him.

“Don’t you have any better questions to be askin’ me?” He snickers, grabbing a hairbrush from its place on the counter next to you. “Fair enough. Bet you’re a little scared, aren’t ya,”

The joke’s lighthearted and you even smile a little, but the question still stands. Chuuya pauses and you don’t push. Though unable to see him, currently facing the now drained and cleaned bath you sat in barely minutes ago, you can tell there’s a thought process running through his head.

You allow it, stripped off any remaining impatience. As long as he gives you an honest answer and puts your mind to rest, you can wait.

(Is there anything else you have left?)

“You and I have something in common,”

Chuuya speaks eventually, separating the tangled strands of your hair before beginning to brush one out, starting from the ends. Your ears, up to that point stood in a neutral position, now perk up in interest. From his spot behind you, it’s the only reaction he’s able to see from you.

“I wasn’t supposed to be in that alley tonight, ya know? And I don’t really believe in fate or any of that shit– it’s fucking bullshit for all I know– but seeing you there…” He bites his tongue. A knot gives way from the bristles, and then another. Soon, Chuuya can brush your hair from root to ends, gliding smoothly. “I can help you. ‘nd I will. That’s all there is to it, pup.”

What you don’t know doesn’t hurt you. It doesn’t give you a sense of false hope, one he’s weirdly scared to let down. It can’t be multiplying questions and doubts inside his head, either– just as long as he doesn’t voice it and speak it into existence. The longing and the invisible, eerie pull that keeps his heart hammering ever since finding you earlier tonight. He’s got an idea or two on what it might be and it’s scaring him, to some extent.

Was he ever the one to back down, though?

The dawn has come, Yokohama slowly waking from its slumber. It’s too late to be doing this– thinking of things that might irreversibly change your lives forever. Chuuya leaves it out. Maybe once he finds out how to articulate the different things your wide eyes and thumping tail did to his heart, he’ll tell you. Right here and right now, stood behind your fragile frame, admitting this infatuation is far out of his reach.

But to you, that’s more than enough.

Silently, you curl your legs up to your chest, much like you did back in the alley, the position giving comfort in moments of overwhelm. Help, you think. This is much more than that – more than you could’ve dreamed of.

The idea of lying down on a couch tonight, dozing off to sleep without fear of being mauled or assaulted – how could you ask for anything more, so used to hurt, mistreatment, and shame for most of your life?

Chuuya doesn’t expect an answer, not when your shoulders curl in on yourself and jerk in a telltale motion. Watching as the dampened fur comes back to life, now fluffed up and feathery, he brings the hairbrush up to your tail and brushes all remaining knots and dirt out, inch by inch.

Holding back tears, you let him.

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osaevsky · 2 months

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"mahou shoujo // trick or treat" Ranpo + fem reader ~2.9k words warnings: 18+ content, minors dni notes: does this count as subby Ranpo? ao3.

“Is Halloween as big a deal here as it is back home?”

Ranpo tilts his head at your question, soft hair brushing his face as he meticulously arranges his Skittles by color. “Yeah, you could say that,” he hums without looking up; he is, as usual, more interested in his candy than a conversation. A smile twitches across his mouth. “Obviously it’s a big deal to me,” he says, stating something that you could’ve guessed on your own. Then he regathers his Skittles back into a rainbow and tosses them all into his mouth.

Your face lights up at that. When you lean back in your desk chair, it rolls across the office’s hardwood floors, wheeling you over to Ranpo’s side at his lone island. “We should do a couples costume!” The closer you get, the further he slouches over his remaining pile of Skittles, a vain attempt to shield them from your sticky fingers. You do manage to snatch at least one before he can hide them.

“Hey!” He sticks his tongue out at you and bats your hand away before you can snatch any more. “Couple’s costumes are stupid,” he grumbles; you can’t tell if he actually means that, or if he’s just trying to get back at you for the stolen Skittle. “—besides, I’ve already got a costume planned.” Resting his chin in the palm of his hand, a smirk lazily floats across his face, a familiar tint of mischief sparkling in his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll love it when I show you.”

It’s not uncommon for Ranpo to play games like this; he loves knowing things you don’t, occasionally treating your relationship like a chess game where one unlucky player— often you— doesn’t actually know the rules. All day at work, no matter how much you’d whine or plead or bat your eyes, Ranpo refused to budge, seeming proud of his little secret.

Until you got home.

Rolling a hard candy between his teeth, Ranpo drags you into his bedroom, nudging you to perch yourself on the edge of his mattress. Even on the walk to his apartment he hadn’t given up any information— but now, he’s almost bouncing on his toes the closer he gets to revealing something as simple as a Halloween costume. You can’t help being suspicious when he’s like this. With an order of “Stay here, I’ll be right back,” he disappears into his bathroom and shuts the door.

The lock audibly clicks into place. You’re left with nothing but your thoughts and the suspicious rustle of fabric that drifts through the wood.

Of course your mind wanders; he seems more excited about this than you are, and you can’t help but wonder what kind of outfit would have Ranpo Edogawa, of all people, so giddy. In the entire time you’ve known him, he’s never shown even a passing interest in fashion— that’s the entire reason he’s so enamored with his damned cape, after all.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the door swinging back open. Ranpo steps out into his bedroom, his eyes studying your face as you study his ‘costume.’

“—oh.”

At your timid reaction, Ranpo’s pretty face curls into a Cheshire-cat grin.

Shoulders bared. A cleavage window for the subtle curve of his flat tits. The skirt, already short enough, made even shorter by the layers of fluffy petticoats underneath. Garter belts on both thighs, held closed by moon-shaped charms, large and reflective enough to betray a glimpse of the lacy fabric just barely hidden beneath his tiny skirt. Thigh-high stockings that dig into the plush of his thighs, such a bright, innocent shade of white that they contrast with the sheer smug on his face. A fucking magical girl outfit.

“Seems like y’like it,” he purrs. Your voice escapes you— as Ranpo makes his way towards your lap, he sways his hips, the fabric of the skirt twirling around his pale thighs like his body is casting a very successful spell. His delicate hands bunch in the petticoats to hike up the skirt as he swings his way into your lap, arms eventually coming to rest around your shoulders to keep himself upright. “—you do like it, right?” He bats his long lashes at you— Ranpo is already well aware of the answer, but he wants to hear you say it. Always gives him a thrill when you confirm his suspicions.

“Looks good on you,” you mumble, eyes continuing to rake up and down his body on display, perched in your lap. Your hands land firmly on his hips, only to dip lower and lower, gently squeezing the soft curves of his ass through the layers of ruffles.

You’re hesitating. Ranpo huffs.

“I didn’t put this on for you t’hold me like a doll, y’know,” he pouts at you, arching his back to press himself further into your touch.

You snicker at his clear impatience and press a quick kiss to his mouth as your hands finally delve underneath the hem of his skirt. Your movements are slow, dragging your nails up his thighs— it makes his skin tingle through the thin fabric of his stockings, and he can’t fight the electric shudder that pulses through him. Your fingers continue their exploration, still moving even lower; the digits slip under the soft silk of his garters and tug them up just a bit before you let go. The elastic snaps back into place, and he squeals at the brief sting. He opens his mouth to tell you off, but doesn’t get the chance— you silence him with another kiss and slip your tongue into his mouth. Ranpo groans, but when your nails graze the thin lace that separates the two of you, you gasp, and it’s his turn to grin against your mouth; all at once you shove his skirt further up his hips to get a proper eyeful.

“Lace?” Your voice is breathy. The panties are already thin enough, but with his precum beginning to drip through and soak the fabric, they’re practically see-through. Ranpo grins and waggles his eyebrows at you until you giggle.

“If you don’t ask any questions, I’ll get you a matching set.” Ranpo lifts his hips enough for you to drag the lacy panties down his thighs, finally freeing his half-hard cock. A contented sigh drifts from his throat as you continue to feel him up, although his mood quickly begins to shift, even as your hands explore, squeeze his thighs or tug his skirt— you’re not touching him enough.

As if you’d heard his impatient thoughts— or at least, noticed the way his swollen cock was tipped with a painful shade of red— your hand closes around his shaft, and Ranpo moans as you give him a few experimental strokes. You’re just teasing him at this point; your grip on his cock is loose, and when he glares at you, you take the hint. You brush your thumb over his slit as you pump his cock, smearing precum down his shaft and making him shiver.

“Just— ah—” Ranpo lets out a shaky breath as he bucks his hips up into your hand. “Just like that—”

“Awful demanding of you,” your free hand digs into the fullness of his thigh, sharp nails leaving scarlet crescent-moons across his milky skin. Your grip on him begins to loosen up, as if to scold him for mouthing off already.

Ranpo huffs again. One eye slides open, glaring defiantly at you with that gorgeous shade of green, as he brings his own hand to clutch at your wrist and keep you from pulling away. His firm grasp holds your hand in place as his thrusts grow erratic. “Maybe,” snark on his sharp silver tongue, “if you’d give me what I need—”

Ah, a challenge.

Ranpo’s voice cracks before he can finish his insult. His eyelids flutter and he groans softly, his head falling forward, chin to his chest. “‘m gonna—” A full-body shudder races up his spine, and Ranpo is whining as he cums, still sloppily thrusting into your warm hand.

“You’re so pretty,” you hum, pressing open-mouthed kisses up his neck. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t last long; you got a show, and that’s the important part. Ranpo squirms in your lap and grumbles as you continue to gently pump his cock and smear his cum up his shaft.

Ranpo sighs as his eyes flutter back open. The heat that blossoms across his face matches the heat in his gaze. “C’mon,” he says; even as his cock softens in your grasp, he bucks his hips again, his own wandering hands moving to squeeze and grope you through your own clothes. “I know that can’t be the only thing you wanted t’do to me in this outfit.”

“You talk too much.” Your hand leaves his cock, and he groans at the loss as you gather thick drops of his cum on your fingertips. “Open that pretty mouth again, Ranpo.”

It’s in Ranpo’s nature to be defiant. He can see right through your intentions with his crystalline eyes. He scowls, instinctively opening his mouth to tell you no, he doesn’t follow orders— but you know him too well. That’s exactly what you were expecting. You press your fingers into his mouth, against his tongue, and a soft whimper immediately leaves his throat. Ranpo’s eyes slip closed again, the tension visibly leaving his body as he swirls his tongue around the digits, lapping at the pads of your fingers as you press down again.

It’s kinda pathetic, actually.

You nudge against the very back of his tongue and Ranpo gags, throat constricting around your fingers as he instinctively bites down. Can’t really blame him for that one, but you’ll remember it.

Despite being a bit bigger than you, Ranpo is lightweight. Withdrawing your fingers from his mouth— and ignoring his pathetic little whines at the loss— you dip your hands under his plush thighs and tip him backwards into bed.

“I think these might be my favorite,” you sigh, settling yourself between his legs. You press a feather-light kiss to the soft fabric of his stockings, your eyes trained on his face for his reaction. His gaze follows your every movement, watching you press those tantalizing kisses up his thigh, his cock twitching back to life each time you dig your teeth in.

Ranpo’s eyes widen and his face flushes an even deeper shade of red; he’s not sure if he’s embarrassed by your position, or if he’s circling around to being embarrassed he gets flustered that easily. Then he huffs, face twisting in impatience instead. “If you’re between my thighs,” he grumbles, “you’re not on my dick. Where you’re s’pose to be.”

“Oh, is that what you’re wanting, Ranpo?” Your tongue lathes against his thigh to soothe the sting of your teeth— to watch him squirm. “For someone so demanding, you’re not very good at telling me what you want.”

Ranpo groans loudly, an irritated sound that usually pushes you to do what he wants. The greatest detective in the world does not beg. He doesn’t. He doesn’t. He does.

“—fuck me already,” he bites out. He tilts his head back and slams his eyes shut; he doesn’t have to see your face to know that you’re grinning down smugly at him, and his pride can’t handle that. “Don’t wanna wait tonight. Wanna feel you.”

You just hum, resting against his thigh, teasing him by running your nails against his stockings but refusing to acknowledge his desires. He knows exactly what you’re waiting for.

“—please.” It’s barely a breath out of his mouth. He can feel himself wilting; the first time is always the hardest. After that it becomes natural. “Please,” he whines again, “I just wanna be inside you— can’t stand it, please—”

Even if he is just putting on a show, he always knows exactly what you wanna hear.

“And how hard was that, Ranpo?” You shift until you’re hovering above him, taking as little time as possible to drag your pants off, only shoving your panties to the side enough to tease his swollen cock against your slit.

“Stop teasing,” he demands, pointedly bucking his hips in a vain attempt to feel you. His tip catches on your hole, but you click your tongue and pull back. An exasperated noise leaves his throat before dying into another feeble whine. “Please.”

You hum and lean forward to press a kiss to his chapped lips before granting him any mercy— pumping his slick shaft once, twice, before finally lining him up with your entrance and sinking down on his cock.

Ranpo keens. His eyes roll to the back of his skull, hands scrambling from the bedsheets to your hips, frantic to pull you as close as possible now that he finally gets to feel you. You let out your own shaky sigh, hands splayed across the bright fabric that covers his chest, curling into the expensive satin and feeling it stretch in your grasp. Heat blossoms across Ranpo’s face and spills all the way down his neck. His eyes slide open, and his glassy gaze has warmth pooling in the pit of your stomach.

You roll your hips flush against his and let out an airy moan. He fills you perfectly, as always.

“I changed my mind,” you mumble, “this is my favorite. Feels like you were built for me.”

Ranpo’s eyes flutter shut again, long lashes dusting against his pretty face as his head lolls back into the pillows. Weight braced against his chest, you slowly lift yourself onto your knees before sinking back down. The sensation of his cock filling you pushes all the air out of your lungs. He groans happily as your gummy walls envelop him, his grip tight on your hips and thighs as he feels himself drowning in your warmth. He’s still sensitive— and with the way you’re already clenching around him, he’s not sure he’ll last.

You’re already positively dripping, and he’s coated in the filthy combination of your wetness and his own cum, each movement up and down his shaft filling the room with slick noises that have his face burning. Ranpo’s cock twitches against your walls and he whimpers.

Giggling at how easy it is to reduce him to such pathetic noises, you lean forward and press yourself chest-to-chest with him, resting your forehead flush against his. The change in position had just been so you could peer into his heart-filled eyes as you split yourself open on his dick— but the change in angle also has his cock hitting deeper, nudging at a sensitive spot inside you, forcing a moan out of your throat. You can feel every inch dragging against your walls.

“Feels so— ah— so good, Ranpo—” your voice shakes as hard as your thighs burn, “y’always fill me so well— and you’re so pretty like this too—”

Even simple praise has Ranpo’s eyes rolling back into his head. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, his hips jolting upwards to meet your own thrusts. His arms encircle your waist, intent on holding you still as he sets his own pace now, sloppily thrusting up into your eager cunt. His pretty face is tense with the effort it takes to stave off his impending orgasm. He’s already gotten what he wanted tonight— it’s your turn. He can at least do that much.

“Wanna feel you cum around me,” he breathes out. Ranpo finds himself nuzzling into your neck, nipping and kissing his way across your jaw. When his teeth graze against your pulse, you shudder, and the way your walls squeeze him at that is heavenly. He’ll never get enough; one hand leaves the plush of your hips so he can brush his thumb over your clit, and the resulting mewl paints a lazy smirk across his face. His eyelids drop closed again for a moment as he loses himself in you.

His thrusts are sloppy, and he draws circles against your clit in time with his pace. His other hand squeezes your hips before dipping down to grab a handful of your ass, pulling you down on his shaft at a new angle that presses him deeper than ever. His eyes flicker back open— he’s gazing up at you with sheer adoration in those bright green pools, and the pure love in his eyes has you whimpering, your entire body tense as you finally come. Your warm cunt clenches around Ranpo and he quickly follows; head dropped back against the pillows, his eyes roll as he cums, his deceptively delicate hands holding you firm on his cock as he pumps you full.

You slouch limply against Ranpo’s warm chest. Even with him still sheathed deeply in you, you can already feel his cum starting to drip out and down your thighs, but cleanup is a problem for future you. The racing of his heartbeat against your ear serves to lull you into relaxation. One of his hands comes up to prod at your face, poking your cheek and pulling your hair until he gets you to tiredly look up; as soon as you lift that pretty face of yours, he surges forward and slams his mouth into yours, all tongue and teeth, not ready to let go of you yet. His other hand finds yours, still curled tightly in the fabric of his costume; something seems to cross his mind, and he nudges you upright so he can prop himself up on his elbows.

A frown crosses his swollen lips as he catches sight of the blue satin; it has been stretched out, and the skirt is sopping with the combination of your slick and his cum. “Damn,” he sighs, “I was hopin’ I could save this thing enough for trick-or-treating.”

I started this on his birthday and wanted to have it up by Halloween, and I'm glad I finished it just in time!! thank you for reading, let me know what you think!!

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