Napping on Ranpo's chest while he plays video games. Kunikida will probably be upset you're sleeping on the clock, even if you finished all your work early, but it's hard to care about that when your boyfriend's heartbeat and the soft clicks of the controller lull you to sleep.
"A bit inconsiderate of you to keep the volume on while they're trying to sleep," someone says.
"They like it. Now hush before you actually wake them up," he replies.
He can't help the small, satisfied grin that finds itself on his face. He takes pride and joy in the fact you feel so comfortable around him. It's just an added bonus when others are around to see it.
Eventually, Kunikida finds something to keep you busy, but it was nice while it lasted. You can always invite yourself over to Ranpo's place and pick up where you left off anyway.
“It’s pathetic how much you’re trying to cling to control,” voice low, your fingers hover over the buttons of his shirt. “Especially when you keep crawling back to me every goddamn time.”
Your gaze slices through the unsheathed bravado, zeroing in on the way Dazai’s breath hitches, that fleeting crack in his confident mask—enough to send a shiver of triumph through you. Shifting in his lap, you hold him in place, and momentarily, his eyes flash, a tell that would go unnoticed by anyone else, but you catch it. He’s slipping, unraveling under the weight of your presence, and you haven’t even begun to dig in.
One by one, you undo his buttons, savoring the deliberate slowness, relishing the burn of discomfort that begins to cling to the air around you. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles pale, but you know—oh, you know—that this facade of restraint is nothing but a thin veil stretched too tightly over something far more volatile. You’re pushing him, probing the limits of his composure, searching for the breaking point where he shatters into something unrecognizable.
“You know I’m right,” your lips brush his ear, warm breath hitching in the space between you. His eyes flutter shut, a futile attempt to block out the heat pooling in his stomach, the magnetic pull he can’t escape. Yet, the evidence is there; muscles tighten beneath your touch, every feather-light caress igniting something primal within him. He wants this, wants you—each moment a descent into madness and desire.
With tantalizing slowness, your hands drift down his chest, fingers grazing the taut skin of his abdomen. Dazai shudders in response, a sharp intake of breath escaping his parted lips as he remains ensnared. Doing so, he allows you to peel away the layers of his defenses, one agonizing inch at a time. And, heavens, he needs you to.
When silence reigns, you dig your fingers into the flesh of his waist. It sends a jolt of heat through him, and rather than recoiling, he leans into it, breath hitching and back arching, desperate. Every inch of him seems to scream for more, yet you hold him there—caught in a tormenting limbo between fierce control and reckless surrender. He wouldn’t fight it. Couldn’t.
Pathetic.
The shirt falls open, and you take a moment to truly see him. Rapid breaths dance in concert with the frantic rhythm of his heart, skin flushed with a heady mix of frustration and something darker, deeper. You pull him closer, inch by inch, and he is letting you. Naturally.
With him, it’s always been the same. Out there, he’s a viper, a reaper, the ice-cold mafia executive everyone fears. But with you? He’s nothing but a mess, ready to get wrecked by the same power he held over others. He never stays long, never talks much—too consumed by his unapologetic needs.
But he always returns.
“You hate this,” you say, voice a whisper but charged with a devastating clarity. “You hate that you need this. That you need me.”
Dazai’s jaw clenches, a silent protest etched on his face before his dark eyes lock onto yours—searching, undone, half-lidded. “You sure do talk a lot.”
Yet, despite his foolishness, the truth, raw and wounding, is this: Dazai does hate it. But not in the way he wants you to believe. He hates that he can’t stop wanting this, wanting you, wanting the sweet release of surrender. He aches for it in a way he can’t express, in a way he’s never allowed himself to feel. Years of cold stone walls, the need for control, and yet they suffocate him, a noose tightening around his throat, while the thought of letting go shatters him anew.
You lean in closer then, tracing the edge of his belted waistband, the final barrier between you and the truth beneath. He doesn’t stop you. No fight left, only an acquiescence that settles heavy in the air. What resides here is undefined, a feral dance of power and submission, untamed and dangerous.
After unbuckling his belt, your eyes never leaving his, your fingers slip beneath his pants. Dazai gasps as he feels your fingers brush against his sensitive skin, the touch tentative yet purposeful, igniting a storm within him. He’s lost, and he knows it—his grip on those carefully crafted emotions fading like whispers in a tempest. You’re unraveling him, thread by thread, and he can do nothing but surrender, over and over again.
“Your body’s betraying your wicked mind, dear,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “Stop holding onto your selfish dreams.”
In response to your words and tightening grip, his hips lift subtly to meet your hand, the soundly inhale that escapes like a confession, the way his chest trembles with each shallow breath. It’s instinctive, a primal response that overrides the sharp precision of his mind, leaving nothing but raw need in its wake. He doesn’t just crave this—he starves for it, the hunger etched into the taut lines of his frame, his skin burning beneath your fingertips like kindling ready to ignite. Every nerve is alight, every inch of him unraveling under your deliberate torment, each brush of your hand pulling him deeper into a haze of helpless desire.
He falters further, a low, guttural sound slipping past his lips as his head tilts back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. His body answers you without hesitation, chasing every flicker of heat, every promise of release. The tension he carried like armor moments ago melts into something molten, spilling into the cracks of his carefully constructed facade. There’s poetry in his surrender, the way his body bows to you as if your touch were both a command and a sanctuary. He is undone, not just by touch but by the cruel truth in your gaze—the knowledge that you hold all the power he swore never to relinquish.
And still, he aches for it, again and again, day by day, for you, for the ruin you carve into him with every devastating touch.
The room throbs with heat, heavy with the remnants of desire and tension. The sheets cling to your damp skin, barely draping over the curve of your hip, yet even that scant barrier feels unbearable to him. Chuuya’s arm tightens around your waist, his hand sprawled possessively across your stomach, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His lips—swollen and red from what just transpired—trail soft kisses along the curve of your neck, each lingering touch a silent claim that mirrors the grip of his fingers.
His mind flickers back, replaying moments etched into the haze of passion. The way his hands roamed over your body, desperate to map every inch of you. His gloves abandoned long ago, he’d let his bare hands glide over the smooth expanse of your back, tracing the delicate dips and curves of your form. Rough yet reverent, his touch had left a trail of yearning in its wake. Even now, the memory only sharpens his hunger.
Desire courses through him, a need far from sated. He has touched, kissed, claimed—but it isn’t enough. It never is. Every soft sound you make, every shiver beneath his fingertips, only deepens the craving that burns within him. He wants more. He needs more.
When you shift, muscles tensing as if preparing to rise, his grip tightens instinctively.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, his gravelly voice sending a tremor down your spine.
You freeze, glancing over your shoulder. His crimson hair is a wild mess, damp strands clinging to his forehead. His blue eyes, usually sharp and calculating, smolder darkly, heavy-lidded and brimming with something raw and unfiltered. In this moment, he looks utterly wrecked—and yet entirely unyielding.
“Chuuya, I need to—”
“You don’t need to do anything,” he interrupts, his tone low, dangerous. His hand slides lower, brushing against your hip, igniting a pulse of heat beneath your skin. “Stay.”
The other hand presses against your stomach, grounding you, pulling you closer. His lips graze your shoulder, trailing down to the sensitive spot where your neck meets your collarbone, plunging you into a sea of sensation.
“This isn’t—” you begin, but your words falter as his teeth scrape lightly against your skin, followed by the warm glide of his tongue.
“I know exactly what this is.” Voice thick with desperate urgency, he adds “And I don’t care. You’re not leaving.”
Your breath hitches as his lips find the pulse in your neck, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. He doesn’t relent, kisses turning into nips, his teeth grazing your skin like he’s intent on branding you, ensuring you’ll remember this.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whisper, though your voice trembles, unconvincing beneath the weight of his touch.
A low chuckle rumbles against your skin, his lips curling into a smirk. “Doesn’t it?” he drawls, his hand sliding up to trace the edge of your ribs. “Then why are you still here?”
Your silence betrays you. His hand moves, brushing the sheet aside entirely, tracing lazy patterns over your bare skin.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, brushing the shell of your ear. “Trying so hard to deny it, but your body’s honest, doll.”
His words melt the last threads of your resolve, the mockery within them tinged with a need he can’t voice.
“Stay,” he repeats, his breath hot and insistent. “Stay with me. Tonight.”
And as his arms wind tighter around you, pulling you flush against him, his silent promise is undeniable: tonight, you’re not going anywhere.
Ranpo exists in his own untouchable world, one of brilliance and ease, where the weight of actions doesn’t hold meaning, and consequences are but distant whispers. He’s blissfully unaware of the intoxicating effect he has on those around him—on you, specifically. Why would he question it? He doesn’t notice how your breath catches like a startled songbird when his hand brushes against yours, nor how his mere proximity unravels you, thread by delicate thread. To him, it’s all so simple, so natural. You’re here, by his side, and that’s where he believes you belong. He doesn’t need to ponder why that feel so profoundly right.
He sits far too close on the couch, the soft press of his thigh against yours sending ripples of awareness through you—an illicit thrill, though you both know it isn’t intentional. He doesn’t spare a thought for the way the air between you has vanished, charged with unspoken promises. His attention, as fleeting as moonlight, flits lazily over the file in his lap, fingers flipping pages he’s not truly reading, his mind adrift in its own vibrant sea. The golden glow of the lamp bathes his face, casting light over the unruly strands of his dark hair and highlighting the serene expression he wears like a crown.
You’re acutely aware of him, of the faint scent of sweets that clings to him, of the steady rhythm of his breathing, of every casual move he makes as if they’re notes in a symphony composed just for you. And then, without even lifting his gaze from the file, he takes your hand in his, his grip light yet possessive, as though it belongs there—as if the universe conspired to create a perfect fit between you.
“Hold still,” he murmurs absently, as if you’d moved at all. The deep, velvet softness of his voice rolls over you like a warm tide, pulling you under its spell, and before you can muster a response, his lips kiss your knuckles, warm and fleeting. His touch is tender, unthinking, like a gentle breeze brushing over your skin, yet it sears into your consciousness, igniting you from within. Your chest tightens, heat swirling in your cheeks, but he remains blissfully ignorant of the way you stiffen under the weight of his gaze. To him, it’s nothing—just a moment of thoughtless affection. He shifts slightly, leaning closer into your space, the warmth of his shoulder brushing against yours. His presence is consuming, enveloping you like a silken cloak—so achingly casual that it steals the breath from your lungs.
Ranpo pulls back just enough to allow the air to shimmer between you, eyes still glued to the paper, his thumb now tracing lazy circles along the back of your hand. The touch sends delightful shivers racing down your spine, but he doesn’t even glance up. And then, as if curious about the very fabric of your connectedness, he brings your hand to his lips again. This kiss lingers a heartbeat longer, soft and steady, his breath fanning across your skin, igniting butterflies in your stomach that flutter wildly.
“You’re warm,” he remarks offhandedly, his voice low and almost hypnotic, like the languid murmur of a summer breeze. “Maybe a little too warm.” Finally, he turns to you, and his green eyes twinkle with light amusement, a mischievous edge that makes your heart leap. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”
The words are nonchalant, drifting carelessly through the air, yet they strike you like lightning, leaving you flustered and helpless against the enchanting spell he’s unknowingly woven around you. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that whimsical way of his, completely unaware of the way your resolve crumbles beneath his gaze.
Your cheeks burn as you nervously look away, praying he won’t see the vivid flush spreading across your skin. But he remains blissfully oblivious—of course, he doesn’t notice. He’s still holding your hand, still tracing slow, teasing patterns across your skin, still sitting far too close. He doesn’t realize the storm he’s ignited within you, fierce and unrelenting.
And yet, there’s a softness in the way he stays there, in the gentle cadence of his thumb moving in circles against your palm, in the way he breathes so steadily beside you, each rise and fall a hushed promise. He’s unaware, yes, but there’s an unmistakable thread of intention woven into his presence, buried deep within his unconscious mind.
You glance at him, trying to calm the tumult rage within your chest, but his face is turned back to the file, completely at ease in his world. He doesn’t see the chaos he’s left in his wake, doesn’t comprehend how every touch, every lingering kiss to your hand feels like a revelation, a realization of all the unspoken wishes you yearn to voice. But maybe, just maybe, some part of him knows—some deep, unspoken part of him that draws him close to you, closer than he’s ever been to anyone else.
And so, you let him stay, the warmth of his thigh pressed against yours, his hand loosely holding yours like it’s the most familiar thing in the world. Because for now, this quiet, undefined intimacy is enough. For now, he is more than enough.
a/n: HELLO i am alive, no further comments. idek why i wrote this. and it’s probably highly ooc i‘m sorry (i am not, i need bottom dazai biblically) also, i couldn’t bring myself to make ranpo‘s part suggestive ㅤ:,) yikes but it’s, at least, cute. in a way ?
ılıılı wanting to get ranpo edogawa's attention by making a puzzle
request by: @poorwhayfairingstranger
you know better than to try and trick ranpo - so you don’t. you don’t fake a crime. you don’t commit one either. instead, you carefully craft an ARG: hidden messages, coded letters, riddles left across yokohama, all wrapped in layers of logic, creativity, and harmless misdirection. because ranpo doesn’t need danger to be interested - he just needs to be challenged.
you make sure the first clue finds him at the agency. a note tucked between his snack bags, written in a different style. nothing threatening - just something that starts with: "if you’re as good as they say, you’ll find me before sunset." he grins like a child and says, “finally. something fun.”
ranpo solves the first five puzzles instantly - but he doesn’t stop. he could probably guess where it’s going. but he doesn’t skip to the end. he follows the path anyway, amused, intrigued, and just a little delighted that someone bothered to think this through for him.
the puzzles reflect things he likes - obscure detective trivia, favorite sweets, even an entire stage play reenacted with paper dolls. each layer of your arg is personalized. you’re not trying to outsmart him. you’re trying to connect with him. and he notices.
he talks about the “mystery stranger” constantly. to kunikida. to atsushi. to the air. “they’re clever,” he says, popping a snack into his mouth. “not as clever as me, of course, but they’re trying.” he’s clearly intrigued - and maybe a little flattered.
when he realizes no one’s in danger, he doesn’t mind. most people try to impress ranpo by faking danger or playing victim - but you? you respected his mind without manipulating his empathy. that alone makes him smile in a way that’s almost soft.
the final puzzle leads him to a quiet rooftop café you reserved. there’s a drink waiting for him. a final riddle on the napkin. and you - nervously pacing nearby, hoping you weren’t being too weird. he gets it in three seconds flat, then turns and smiles knowingly. “so you’re the culprit.”
he doesn’t tease you the way you expect. oh, there’s banter - “was all this just so you could spend time with me? you could’ve just asked~” - but there’s also warmth. ranpo’s used to people faking things around him. he’s not used to people creating something for him just because they wanted to see him happy.
he insists you do it again. not because he couldn’t solve it - but because he loved the game. he wants more puzzles. more riddles. more excuses to chase your thoughts and see where they lead. also, he really liked the snacks you hid at clue 6.
after that, he starts hanging around you more - and not just because of the puzzles. ranpo isn’t subtle. he’s always honest. so when he suddenly flops down next to you during lunch and asks, “working on your next mystery yet?” what he really means is: “can we do that again? can i spend more time with you?”
Chuuya thought he was prepared for Valentine’s Week. He was not.
Monday: a basket of heart-shaped cookies appeared on his desk, each meticulously decorated, some with little sugar roses. The tag read:
“For my favorite redhead. Eat one for a smile!”
Chuuya raised an eyebrow, picked one up, and it was… perfect. Too perfect.
Tuesday: a tray of tiny chocolate tarts, each with a different filling. He took a bite and nearly spat it out. “Why is this so good?!” he shouted—half in awe, half in frustration. You appeared behind him, flour on your hands, smirk on your face. “Because I made them for you, silly,” you said, handing him another.
Wednesday: cupcakes. Pink frosting. Sprinkles. And a note: “Try them all… I dare you!” Chuuya groaned. He wasn’t supposed to eat them all. But could he really resist? Not a chance.
Thursday: a stack of macarons with tiny edible messages written in frosting: “You make me melt”… “Eat me and think of me”… “Warning: Extreme fluff inside”. Chuuya’s ears turned pink. “Hey! You’re taking advantage of me!”
Friday: a miniature cake with your signature decoration style—swirls of cream and tiny sugar hearts everywhere. He stared at it, conflicted. Do I eat it? Or do I just stare at how perfect it is? Before he could decide, you were there, holding a piping bag like a weapon. “Eat it, Chuuya!”
By Saturday, Chuuya’s apartment smelled like sugar, butter, and your love. Every flat surface was covered in sweets—some he had eaten, some he had tried to resist. And every time, you hovered, smiling, handing him a tray or a plate with that teasing tilt of your head.
Sunday—Valentine’s Day—you handed him a heart-shaped cake, larger than anything you’d made before. Chuuya looked at it, then at you, trying to suppress the grin that wouldn’t stay down. “You really did all this… for me?”
“Of course,” you said, brushing flour from your hair. “It’s all for you, Chuuya.”
He pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead, cheeks warm. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, voice soft but full of affection. “I love it… I love you… and I love all of this chaos you call Valentine’s Week.”
You giggled, wrapping your arms around him. “Good. Because I’m not done yet.”
And Chuuya? He didn’t mind. Not even a little.
RANPO EDOGAWA જ⁀➴
Valentine’s Week with you is… intense.
Ranpo knew he was in trouble the moment Monday rolled around and the first box of handmade chocolates appeared on his desk. He looked down at the little tag:
“For the world’s greatest detective. Solve the flavor!”
He carefully unwrapped one, expecting something ordinary—but inside was a perfectly shaped, tiny heart of dark chocolate with a hint of chili. “Interesting,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “Suspiciously interesting.”
Tuesday came with a small tray of heart-shaped cookies, each decorated with intricate patterns he didn’t recognize but somehow found brilliant. Wednesday brought tiny cupcakes with riddles written in frosting: “What melts in your mouth but not in your hands?” He stared at the frosting, then at you, who was leaning over the counter with flour dusting your nose. “Is this a trap?”
Thursday was worse. There was a stack of pink macarons in his favorite flavors—and a note: “Eat one and tell me how it feels. I dare you.” Ranpo sighed, but the corners of his lips tugged into a smile. Of course he would do it. Of course he would.
Friday, a miniature cake with a tiny magnifying glass made of sugar on top arrived. He raised an eyebrow. “You are relentless,” he muttered, cutting a slice. The frosting was soft, sweet, and perfect, and he realized… he didn’t mind at all.
By Saturday, the agency smelled faintly like sugar and cinnamon. Ranpo found himself looking forward to each new treat, each small puzzle, each little note. And each time, you were there—smiling, flour on your cheeks, insisting he try just one more thing.
Sunday—Valentine’s Day itself—he had a small mountain of sweets in front of him. But he didn’t care. He didn’t need to solve mysteries today. He just needed to look at you, tired and triumphant, and say:
“You know… this might be the best case I’ve ever solved.”
You grinned. “That’s because it’s the only case where the prize is me.”
Ranpo laughed softly, finally letting himself relax into the sugar-fueled chaos. Valentine’s Week had been overwhelming—but also perfect.
SFW (mostly, theres some rlly suggestive parts of Yosano's), not rlly any warnings, just Fluff
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫
While talking with Mark Twain in the guild you might've forgotten about your sensitive boyfriend who was sitting next to you two. Karl yips and falls onto Poe's lap to comfort his owner who was always on the verge of tears, but now especially.
Why is he here..? It was supposed to be a date...Poe thinks solemnly to himself. The restaurant he picked was incredibly fancy, with marble flooring and red carpets, not to mention the private room he rented. Yet your gaze was still not on him! It was infuriating, all the poor man wanted was all your attention.
When Mark left you finally turn back to hm. "Sorry I was just catching up w-" You cut yourself off when you see his trembling shoulders, tears falling down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry baby..!" You stand and rush to his side, studying his wet face.
"Hic... Sniff... Why was he here?" Poe cries softly, guilt washing over you, each wave of it stronger than the last.
"No-no-no, baby its okay, I love you-I only love you." You hug him tightly, his head falling onto your shoulder. "M' so sorry," You whisper again.
"It's okay." Poe mumbles.
"No it's not! You rented out this whole fancy place just for me to neglect you. I want you to hate me and demand some extravagant apology this instant!" Your thumb wipes away some of his ears, bangs now stuck to Poe's forehead.
A small pause ensued before he says quietly, "C-can I get a kiss?"
It wasn't someone Ranpo was jealous of, it was rather something that happened to captivate your attention over him.
A cat, it was curled up on your stomach where his head should be! And how Ranpo's of pouting and huffing, he doesn't care that he got to name it. He cares about how its nose is resting on your thigh. You just met the furball for goodness sake! Why do you care for it more than your own boyfriend!?
You hear stomping and whining outside the door, grumbling and jumping on the floorboards to get your attention. Taking out your phone you text him;
"Honey? What in gods green earth are you doing outside that door?"
No response, but the stomping sure did get quieter from Ranpo's mortification.
"Sweetie, just come in the room, you can share for just this once."
More stomping is heard before Ranpo bursts in the room and koalas himself around your leg. The cat meows loudly and Ranpo responds with a very, very, adult answer.
"Mow" he meows back. "Mow-"
"Ranpo stop meowing at the kitten, she's scared... and I kinda am too." All that got was for Ranpo to hiss and the cat swats at him with her nails.
It was a...wonderful experience
"Why don't you strangle me with these beautiful, dainty, hands of yours?" Dazai touches your hand despite you pulling away, cupping it to his cheek before he feels the presence of Yosano behind him. She yanks his hand back and studies it, pressing her finger against a scab-reopening it and causing Dazai to grunt.
"You know... these are pretty easy to open and get infected. Perhaps I should treat you?" Yosano's grip gets stronger and he suddenly had a very important 'task' to do and rushed away.
Yosano collapses next to you on the chair that originally was Dazai's. "Tch-his fingers would've been cut off if I didn't know him."
"Yosano? Darling?" You study her bitter face. "Sorry, I wasn't flirting back with him-I swear!"
"I know you weren't, that maniac is just so much in all the wrong ways." Her nails rake up your thigh causing a shiver to flood down your spine.
"Oh-uhm-exactly! Right!" You stammer out, cringing as you face heats up. A chuckle is heard from her.
"I do hope you didn't use up your break yet." Yosano's hand is now cupping you're back as she leads you up and into her operating room, marking the door as 'busy'.
IN A WINTER WONDERLAND
. ۫ ꣑ৎ . christmas activities w’ them
(˶ ˘ ³˘)ˆᵕ ˆ˶) warnings. fluff、fell-hard boys、gn!reader、established relationship、mild mention of burial [dazai]、minor ooc maybe .. [ jouno + atsushi]、vulnerability(?) ໒ ᩧ꒱ characters. akutagawa ryunosuke、dazai osamu、atsushi nakajima、ranpo edogawa、jouno saigiku、tetcho suehiro ♥ made with lots of love! / wc 3.1k
AKUTAGAWA RYUNOSUKE + MOVIE MARATHON
you knew akutagawa’s density of his general health and specifically his lungs is somewhat weak, he has a sensitive health so it’s bad for him to go outside when it was such cold weather and air. he still insists he has a strong health, he doesn’t want you to view him as weak or incapable.
putting that into thought you recommended a movie, though he actually enjoyed the thought. he urge you pick the movie and he can make the snacks, cue being he asks you what food or snacks you want and he gets or makes it.
you get a little conflicted about which movie you would choose, akutagawa notices this and suggests a random Christmas movie in which you hastily agree to choose and start playing it.
he doesn’t even know what the movie even is, he just overheard his coworkers talking about it T^T..
you both started watching the movie with your arms intertwined and a blanket on the both of you as you lean onto akutagawa’s shoulders, the snacks laid out on the coffee table in front.
you tilt your head up slightly to see akutagawa watching the movie with a blank expression, you know that stupidly cute doe-eye face he makes in bsd wan? he’s making that one.
you tried to fight the urge to ask him if he’s enjoying the movie or not, you let the question slip unfortunately and you’re replied by a strangely flustered akutagawa protesting he enjoys it, picking one popcorn and eats it
“are you…enjoying the movie ryu?” “I AM.”
he was caught off guard when you giggled and squeezed his arm once more and leaned back on his shoulder, the movie catching your attention again. he bites back a sigh and rests his head on yours.
when the movie is over—and his snarky comments—the credits starts rolling out in the screen; signaling you to get up, akutagawa is strangely quick to gently pull your arm back with a silent wait. you look surprised, mouth and eyes go slightly agape, he is also himself but doesn’t show it physically.
the small gesture was unusual for akutagawa. you’d think he isn’t fond of physical touch, maybe from others, but you’re not them. the thought is probably the reason why he likes your cozy touch so much, giving him the relaxation he never quite had since forever.
the words i love you flew out of his lips before he can stop it, he hates how his voice almost cracked. there was slight vulnerability in his voice if it was silent enough. his eyes that were once firm soften only-so-slightly, he bite the back-inside of his cheek on habit. the way your smile and eyes softening gets him every time.
“I love you too, ryunosuke”
DAZAI OSAMU + PLAYING IN THE SNOW
you firstly wanted to spend more time with you boyfriend, it’s the winter time so what’s more better than messing around with him in the snow?
apparently it seemed like dazai enjoyed it at first, he even went out of his way to find a way to annoy kunikida. which is to put—stuff—snow in kunikida’s locker (probably threw one or two snowballs at him when he’s caught), gets behind you when kunikida chases him out of the agency because he’s literally covered in snow ( he did so many snow angels, even one on the road? ) and made little puddles.
dug in the snow and made a literal burial, makes it dramatic and tells you he has a surprise and shows you it with a cheeky smile on his face, also does that thing when you revealing something with your arms and waving your hands. while you’re there looking like you’re sulking at your boyfriend he’s rambling on how great his creation is…
“feast your eyes belladonna!—” then there’s white noise for you after that…
you two did a snowball fight and he may or may not literally climbed on the tree like a animal. he’s basically holding the thick tree branch for his life, he looks so stupid.. whines in a dramatic tone how you’re torturing him..?
after some time, unfortunately, he’s now being more dramatic about being cold and faking his chattering teeth, lot of “my belladonna hates me. she wants me to die in the cold.” emphasizing the hate and die in the sentence while his hands are on both sides of his upper-arm as like he’s trying to warm himself with a pout on his face and a slightly red nose and cheeks.
you couldn’t help but chuckle at him, how couldn’t you when he looks so cute? (you tried to press on both of his cheeks when your hand was somewhat covered by snow and then he swats your hand away like it was hot iron) he looks at you with fake offense and starts whining about how you’re mocking him.
catering his needs, you both went inside. it was almost immediately when he tries to shake off the snow and make a brrr sound accompanying it, earning a major side-eye from you
(un)fortunately you found yourself later sandwiched between a clingyzai and the soft mattress, the cuddling would’ve been a warm moment if his weight wasn’t crushing on you. squeezing you more if you try to get up, you feel as if you’re dying, literally.
your hand found his soft, but moist, hair and started to caress his head. he leans in your hand more and visibly gotten more relaxed (and loosely let his vice grip on you)
you found sleep somehow and you both rested, when you woke up he’s snoring in your ear and drooling on you? you also had to wake him up because he was literally suffocating you.
ATSUSHI NAKAJIMA + BUILDING A SNOWMAN
atsushi had wanted to play in the snow since his childhood, he knew how childish it was, it’s because the orphanage didn’t allow for children to play out in the cold while it or after it snowed. the rule prevented the children to get sick but also leaving them yearning to do something simple like playing in the snow.
so, it was no surprise atsushi still wanted to do the activity, it’s even better when you’re with him. you both could see your own breaths, atsushi offers you his coat since he can use his ability to prevent him from freezing.
the two of you started rolling the snow and it slowly starts to pile on each other, it takes awhile but you swore it was longer than it felt.
atsushi (after awhile tried to do something to maybe impress you idfk ) tried to, like, form it with his tiger hands like it was sand?? T-T it was contrary to what he thought it would be like. it came out ok, but really bulky with lot of bumps and, okay it was not ok it was misshaped; it looked like a oval
kinda got embarrassed from that with you consoling him “it looks good babe, don’t worry!” and that got him feeling better but somehow more embarrassed? ( possibly from the pet name… )
the body was complete (and looked like a disaster) and it was just the head, atsushi was in charge with trying to find rocks and two sticks for the arm, face and buttons. you were making the head which looked like a gigantic snowball.
and then, wallah, the snowman is done! atsushi wanted to put his scarf and hat on it, being the good partner you were like “aren’t you gonna get cold?” and he was puzzled for a millisecond “yeah, you’re right..” you swore that was the most accidental dramatic sigh he let out
news-flash he still did and he got a cold the next day
RANPO EDOGAWA + BAKING COOKIES
ranpo was really just hungry and wanted an excuse to spend time with you, there’s many options to choose from when he needs both of these needs to be taken care of… then the very awesome idea crashed down at him, he was going to make christmas-y cookies with you!
ranpo really sometimes judges how things taste based the way they look, if a cookie is extraordinarily decorated he’ll assume it’ll taste as good as it looks, but simple goods as glazed donuts he enjoys so it doesn’t imply this for all sorts of baked goods, just perfectly in the middle…
he brought up the idea towards to you, and who knew, you of course would liked to! key word, liked.
most of the time you were the one baking it and he was… rambling about all of the cases he’s solved, poe’s recent mystery novel, the people that he called out as the perpetrator declining it idiotically and whatever comes to his mind.
while he was doing that, he ate most of the snacks he gotten yesterday and this morning, sometimes holds the chip bag in front of you as an indication for you to take one if you’d like, same with his half-eaten and wet lollipops…? which met him with a scrunch of your nose as an ew, he casually shrugs and puts it back in his mouth.
oh also eats the cookie batter when you’re away, when you caught him he declares it as taste testing as he takes another scoop of it with his finger and licks it ..
he eventually got bored of the routine and made (badly attempted) hot chocolate, it was a bit bitter than you expected but you’re glad it’s not overly sweet that your teeth would fall off… he putted those sweeteners in his cup
it was awhile when you two were chatting while the cookies were in the oven, the conversation was ranpo mostly doing he talking… per usual maybe? then gets the very bright idea to play in the snow… that may or may not be the best choice.
seconds later after your agreement he literally dashed to get his jacket, snow boots, mittens and hat (also yours dw). impatiently waits by the door tapping his feet while you’re putting on your jacket… “any day now” smh
he goes dashing out with your hand in his in the snow, literally trips and brings you down with him… makes so many snow angels with you it’s hardly countable, comes screaming to you later showing you his snowman, unfortunately … “looks like frosty the snowman’s child if it had a birth defect”
ranpo has the urge to check the cookie again, and again, and again until it was finally done. gets too distracted by the beep of the oven he forgot to put those oven gloves on and gets it anyways without it, but you literally slapped his hand away and handed them to him T_T.
defiantly eats the majority of them when your both done decorating, he also made one that he attempted to look like you and takes a fat bite out of it..?
theres many opportunities that ranpo could do this honestly, he just never found that much of the motivation or point if he got the store-bought ones, but he thinks the way you made it, even if the batter and all came from a recipe, he thinks yours is better than any pastries he tasted
JOUNO SAIGIKU + GINGERBREAD HOUSE
jouno’s eyes twitch in annoyance and grumbles when he got frosty on the wrong place again, he hates this. why would you choose out of any oh-so-festive activities out there in the world? he continues to let out a soft dramatic sigh every so often.
you wanted to spend some time with your boyfriend on christmas, he hates the snow (because it messes up his senses and his hair or something… and you make him do all the snow shoveling) so you recommend such a fun activity to do even though you had the possibility he would hate it, what a good partner you are!
the ugly sweater you basically asked ( forced ) to wear itches at his skin, he keeps shuffling on the wooden seat he’s sat at, uncomfortable. from the radius he’s at from the fireplace that’s no farther away than seven feet, he’s practically sweating from his sensitive senses. it’s taking his all to not ripe himself out of that hand-made sweater you made specifically for him…
you notice this, and he knows that. he pretends to imply he hate this, in result you feel a little guilty for making him do this, even if you ask him about it he’ll dismiss it anyways for whatever reasons…
having such-a soft spot for someone like he has with you is something he never experienced, his tone changes when taking to you compared to his companions, his smile ever so widening and being softer if you look close enough when he hears your familiar heartbeat and smell.
even if it takes all of the strength in his body to protest what you ask of him, he couldn’t bring himself to.
unfortunately, he got frosting over his sweater… shit, guilt and annoyance tugging at his soul, he furrows his eyebrow, he ignores the feelings and tries to wipe it off with a nearby napkin. grimaces slightly when he hears your snort, looking back up at you like a mad kitten, only fueling you more to laugh.
he ends up taking off the sweater, leaving him in the plain white t-shirt, matching the frosting that he was outlining the house with.
there was no doubt that his house looked like a disaster, the white frosting sprawled everywhere on the architectural creeks. the way the house look so… silly made you giggle in your seat as you reach out to get another house set up and put it in front of him.
you sat closer to jouno, shoulders brushing each-other. you leaned in closer, basically sitting apart of his seat, your hands ghosting over his as you rest your head on his shoulder blade. instructing him silently for him to follow your movements.
you didn’t notice the way he tensed up when you brush your fingers against his and whisper in his left ear “just follow my lead, m’kay?” the mhm and nod of his head was slow and untimed.
there weren’t many, actually, no times where jouno was nervous, this was an expection. his heart quickens the way you’re so close to him, he forgot about this stupid gingerbread house making. all he’s focused on is you, only you. not the way you tried to push the plastic bag for the white frosting, only the way you intertwined your hands with his while doing it.
it feels shorter than it actually was, unfortunate for jouno. he grimaces silently when you let go of his hand, returning them back to your lap as you sat up, looking over slightly at the almost-decent gingerbread house, he made—no, you both made together
he lets out a snarky remark and sighs, leaning on the table with the backside of his hand. “are we finally done with this” he says, turning his head to you. you huffed, the yes you let out indicates him something, he gladly lets out a relieved-dramatic sigh, again.
“thank god, thought we’d be doing this forever” empathizing the thank god. he hastily gets up from his seat, tugging the hand of yours on his left, leading you to your shared room. “maybe we could if you would like?” “fuck no”
TETCHO SUEHIRO + MAKING S’MORES
tetcho was the one who actually asked you if you both could make s’mores. fukuchi left the group take a well-deserved day off after their patrol, being delighted by this, tetchou went to you immediately. he forgot to change out of his military uniform when visiting your apartment, he ended up wearing the clothes he left at your apartment a few times when coming over, or kept it on… he doesn’t mind, really.
due to his work, he’s determined to keep the city peaceful and safe, so on days when he gets the day off he doesn’t really know what to do and just patrols around the city some more… same goes with expenses, ends up buying useless trinkets? buys oddly perfect wrapped gifts for his coworkers with the random-est things inside.
once bought jouno those cheesy best-friends necklaces that haves magnets inside and stick on the side. in the corner of the room there’s teruko who was trying to stifle her laughs with an awkward tachihara on her side, an confused fukichi because he doesn’t know what he walked into, and an irritated jouno in front of him slapping his hand so the necklace with the words best engraved on it would fall.
“jouno, i got us best friend bracelets. they magnetize together.” … “we are not best friends, idiot, I hate you” “but we work together a lot?”—“against my will! and you’re so useless in missions, you’re no use until we’re at the enemy, ugh!” … “PFFF-tetcho is such an idiot, tachihara!” “teruko…” “jouno you could use a few friends” … “captain!?”
there wasn’t really a chance where tetcho would spend with someone, of course he didn’t mind this, he didn’t consider himself a lonely person but there’s times.
(anyways back to s’mores)
it was at a popular and crowded campsite, it already had that s’more-y setup that only needed to be lighted. you both sat at the same wooden bench, getting the (sanitized) wooden sticks out and putting the marshmallows on the tip then stabbing it in.
he didn’t knew how it worked; burnt it once, twice, then five times. he got a little frustrated but then perfected it after you helped him time it correctly.
since you didn’t specify when you asked for chocolate, he got the white Hershey ones, not ideal but it would work… until you thought wrong, he sprinkles salt on his s’more and eats it with his usual blank face.
made another (slightly failed attempted) s’more but gives it to you, encouraging you lightly to try it. he didn’t pressure you though, he knows his taste wasn’t suited for most majority of people (may or may not be from the hard way..)
you loved him too much to decline it… expecting the worse, it wasn’t that bad as you thought, or your taste buds are messed up as his. nevertheless his little smile grew a little more wider when you did, if you look close enough.
you tried to bribe him to try it without the salt, with no offense possible, he surprisingly took the chance, taking the s’more you had without a moment of hesitation with a sure, takes a bite out of it without a moment later. his eyes widen like he didn’t expect it to be delicious.. or decent?
“it’s tasty” “…thought it was gonna be poisonous?” your joke earning an airy-laugh and smile from tetcho as he nods his head, playing along.
May I request another Ranpo fic hehe :3,,, May I ask pre-relationship Gn! Reader x Ranpo where they're having a sleepover at Ranpo's house, just talking about random things until late at night and they when they sleep (Ranpo has his own Futon but he kept an extra one for reader and placed next to him), what he didn't know is that reader is a cuddle bug, and unfortunately he doesn't have any body pillows for them to hug. So what did they do instead? They slept like a bear and unconsciously scooted to Ranpo's Futon and cuddled him instead, poor Ranpo, his brain stopped working and he was bright red T^T!!!! It didn't help that in the morning, you didn't know what you did as you both wake up on different sides and when you two finished dressing up, reader noticed Ranpo can NOT tie his tie correctly for the life of him, so you came to him and did it instead, leaving Ranpo froze at the proximity. Reader was do oblivious that after they left, Ranpo literally was weak on the knees and flushing red <33 -from da 🍮anonie!!!
Case of the Cuddly Culprit
synopsis: When a casual sleepover with Ranpo turns into an accidental cuddle-fest, the world’s greatest detective finds himself completely undone by your unconscious affection—and worse, realizes he might actually like it. Now hopelessly touch-starved and flustered, Ranpo’s only solution is to march to your door in the middle of the night for more… research.
content/warnings: Ranpo Edogawa x reader, fluff, -4.951 words
The soft hum of a movie played in the background, the dialogue nearly drowned out by the loud rustling of snack wrappers. Ranpo's living room was exactly what you expected: cluttered, chaotic, very Ranpo. Manga stacked unevenly on the floor, detective novels poking out from under the kotatsu, half a dozen empty candy wrappers scattered like fallen leaves. And in the middle of it all—Ranpo, sitting crisscross on the floor, happily munching on a bag of caramel popcorn like it was oxygen itself.
You sat next to him, leaned against the slightly lumpy couch, legs tucked under yourself, balancing an open bag of gummies on your knee.
"Okay," you said, pointing dramatically at the TV, "plot hole number fifteen—why would anyone go into a creepy abandoned house at night just to get a stupid necklace? Who does that?"
Ranpo didn't even glance at the screen. "Idiots," he answered through a mouthful of popcorn, crumbs on the corner of his mouth. "Besides, I would've solved the whole thing in five minutes. Tops."
"You say that like you wouldn't just nap in the corner until someone brought you snacks."
"Wrong." He stuck a finger up smugly, "I'd nap after solving the mystery. With snacks on me. Obviously."
You snorted, flopping dramatically sideways across the couch, head hanging over the edge. "Of course. How silly of me to forget your advanced detective strategy: solve crime, nap, eat sweets."
"See? You are learning."
A gummi bear bounced off his forehead before plopping into his lap.
Ranpo blinked down at it, then slowly looked at you with the flattest expression imaginable. "Assault. With sugar. How dare you."
You burst into laughter as he picked up the candy and immediately ate it with an exaggerated crunch.
It was comfortable like this—half talking nonsense, half watching the movie, mostly ignoring the plot in favor of making fun of the characters. Every so often, you'd toss a snack his way, and Ranpo, being Ranpo, caught most of them with almost offensively perfect reflexes.
Eventually, the movie became just background noise, replaced by random conversations about childhood games, favorite candies, weird dreams, and how Ranpo swore up and down that he once solved a case in his sleep. (You're still not sure if he was serious.)
By the time midnight rolled around, Ranpo finally stretched his arms over his head, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Alright. Detective genius needs his beauty sleep."
"You have beauty?" you teased, grinning at him over your shoulder.
"Excuse you, I am an icon of intellectual and physical beauty. Just ask anyone. Even Dazai's jealous."
"Dazai's not jealous—Dazai's unhinged."
"Exactly."
He stood up and disappeared for a moment into the back room, returning with two futons under his arms. He dropped them on the floor next to the couch, one right next to the other, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Got an extra. Obviously. Detective planning skills," he said with a wink.
"You knew I'd crash here?" you asked, raising a brow.
"Of course. I deduced it." He tapped the side of his head. "Genius, remember?"
"Right, right…" you grinned. "Thanks, Ranpo."
The casual thanks was enough to make his confident smirk falter just for a second, a faint pink creeping onto his cheeks, though he quickly masked it with a yawn.
"Whatever. Just don't snore."
"Don't drool."
"Never."
The playful banter dwindled as the futons were unrolled, pillows plopped into place, lights turned low. The last thing you remembered before your eyelids got too heavy was Ranpo settling down in his futon beside you, munching on one last piece of chocolate.
"G'night, Y/N," he mumbled softly, voice drifting lazily into the quiet.
"Night, Ranpo…"
Neither of you knew yet that Ranpo's night of peaceful sleep was about to be completely obliterated.
The apartment was quiet now, save for the occasional crinkle of a snack wrapper shifting when the night breeze from the open window drifted by.
Ranpo was already dozing, one arm lazily flopped across his pillow, his breathing soft and steady. For once, his sharp mind wasn't racing to solve mysteries or clever schemes—it was just still. Peaceful.
Or at least, it was peaceful.
At first, it was subtle. The faint rustle of fabric. A soft sigh. Barely noticeable.
Then—shuffle. A soft weight brushing against his side.
Ranpo blinked awake groggily, brain still fogged with sleep. Huh? He glanced sideways.
You were closer now. Still completely out, your breathing even, face relaxed in the soft glow of the streetlamp in front of the window. Your futon had become…more of a suggestion than a boundary. Somehow, without even noticing, you had gradually migrated toward him in your sleep like a heat-seeking missile. Your hand was now brushing against his arm.
He froze.
"…………….."
Another soft shift, another rustle of blankets—and then it happened. Your arms wrapped around his torso, face pressing gently against his shoulder like he was the world's warmest, softest pillow.
Like a koala latching onto a tree.
Ranpo didn't move. Couldn't move.
Brain: error.
His eyes were wide open now, pupils dilated like someone had just whispered the answer to a world-class riddle in his ear.
Wha—what—? Why?? Are they—?? What's happening???
His genius-level deduction skills? Gone. Vanished. Useless.
Mystery: unsolvable.
His thoughts were racing, but his brain was simultaneously short-circuiting: okay okay okay THINK, Ranpo. What's the protocol for this?? What chapter of the detective handbook covers accidental midnight cuddling? Wait. WHY don't I have a handbook for this???
Your breath was warm against the fabric of his shirt. He could feel the steady, gentle rise and fall of your chest against his side. You mumbled something incoherent in your sleep, brow twitching slightly, nose brushing against the crook of his neck like you were getting comfortable.
That was it.
Critical hit.
Ranpo.exe has stopped responding.
His face flushed such a violent shade of red that it was honestly impressive. Bright scarlet, ears burning, lips slightly parted in stunned silence.
And he stayed like that. Stiff as a statue. Arms hovering awkwardly midair, unsure if he should move, return the hug, or just ascend to another plane of existence entirely.
Normally, he'd be smug. Teasing. He'd call you clingy or make some ridiculous flirty comment.
But now?
Ranpo, self-proclaimed greatest detective, reduced to one malfunctioning idiot by unconscious cuddling.
Seconds ticked by.
Minutes.
Your grip only seemed to tighten slightly, a small, happy sigh leaving your lips like this was exactly where you belonged.
And Ranpo?
He remained frozen, staring at the ceiling, red-faced, suffering in silence, wondering if he would ever recover from this. Probably not.
"…I'm gonna die here," he whispered, too quietly for you to hear.
And maybe…maybe that wasn't the worst way to go.
The first soft glow of dawn was beginning to creep in through the half-closed curtains, painting Ranpo's cluttered living room in muted hues of pale orange and soft gray. Dust motes floated lazily in the early morning light, dancing above stacks of books and unopened snack bags.
Ranpo stirred, his eyelashes fluttering slightly before his eyes cracked open.
For a moment, he didn't remember why his back felt weirdly tense or why his heart felt like it had been running a marathon in his chest all night. Then the events of a few hours ago crashed back into him like a stack of unopened case files.
The cuddling.
Right.
His breath caught.
But when he glanced to the side—
You were gone. Well, not gone—just back on your own futon, on the opposite end like a respectable, polite, definitely-not-cuddling person. You lay curled up under your blanket, your face soft with sleep, completely unaware of the war Ranpo had been waging inside his head for hours.
And him?
Flat on his back, hair messy, pillow half off the futon, one sock missing (when did that happen?), and a blanket half kicked off.
A normal person would have been relieved.
Ranpo let out a quiet breath, closing his eyes again for a second. Good. Great. Perfect. This is what I wanted. That was unbearable anyway, all that heat. No sane person could sleep like that, glued to someone else. Right?
Right?
Then why…
Why was his chest feeling kind of…empty now?
Why did the cool air around him feel wrong?
And why—WHY—did he miss the press of your body against his, the steady warmth, that absent-minded way you'd sighed into his shoulder like you were safe with him?
Ranpo furrowed his brows, annoyed—not at you, but at himself. What the hell's wrong with me? he thought bitterly. Since when do I care about things like—
He stopped.
Had he ever…cuddled someone before? Like that? Properly? Warm, tangled limbs, soft breathing, innocent closeness—not just casual shoulder-bumps on the couch or lazy sprawls at the Agency?
…No. No, he hadn't.
He'd always teased people, always been the one poking fun, leaning over desks with that smug, catlike grin. But real closeness? Comfort? That wasn't something Ranpo Edogawa knew how to handle. And now, one accidental cuddle, and suddenly his brain was flipping through imaginary manuals trying to find a chapter on what-the-hell-to-do-when-you-want-to-be-cuddled-again.
Pathetic.
A faint flush crept over his cheeks again, and he buried his face halfway in his blanket to try and hide it from no one in particular.
And then—
"Mm… morning…"
Your sleepy voice broke the silence, soft and thick with drowsiness as you sat up, stretching your arms above your head with a little groan. Hair messy, eyes squinted, you looked over at him and gave a lazy smile. "Did you sleep okay?"
Ranpo flinched slightly, snapping his gaze away and shoving his face harder into his blanket like a turtle retreating into its shell.
"Y-yeah. Fine. Obviously. Why wouldn't I?"
"Okay," you said with a yawn, completely buying it, completely missing the way his ears were bright pink. "Cool. Do you have tea or something? I think I'm crashing from all the sugar."
"Yeah—kitchen. Whatever."
You dragged yourself up with another groan, trudging toward the kitchen like a zombie, leaving Ranpo still curled up in emotional confusion on his futon.
His heart was still racing.
This is stupid. I'm stupid. They're stupid. Why do they smell so good in the morning—NOPE, abort, brain, shut up—
He peeked over the edge of his blanket again, watching you shuffle around his messy kitchen in his oversized slippers, completely unaware of the storm you'd accidentally unleashed in the mind of the greatest detective in Yokohama.
And for the first time in a very, very long time… Ranpo didn't want to solve this mystery.
He just wanted to feel it again.
By the time both of you had finished with tea, the apartment looked slightly less like a snack crime scene. Slightly. You had pulled your spare clothes from your overnight bag—a clean, crisp outfit.
You were standing near his full-length mirror now, adjusting the knot of your own tie with practiced ease, focused, sharp, the picture of casual confidence.
Meanwhile…
Ranpo sat on the floor behind you, legs crossed, fumbling awkwardly with his own tie, brow furrowed, mouth pulled into a tense line.
Normally, tying it was annoying but manageable. But today?
Nope. No good. Total garbage. His fingers weren't cooperating. The tie twisted the wrong way, then slipped through the knot completely wrong, ending in a sad, floppy mess against his shirt. Again.
It definitely had nothing to do with the fact that his brain was still doing barrel rolls from earlier. Definitely.
You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch him glaring at the offending piece of fabric like it had personally committed treason.
A grin tugged at your lips. "What's wrong, Detective? Crashed from the sugar high already?"
His eye twitched. "No."
You snickered. "Sure. Looks like your hands are shaking."
"They're not shaking," Ranpo muttered defensively, tugging at the tie again, somehow only making it worse. "It's defective. I'm being sabotaged."
You let out a soft laugh, stepping away from the mirror and brushing imaginary dust off your shirt. "I knew it. The Great Edogawa Ranpo, brought down by breakfast pastries."
His retort was halfway out of his mouth when you did something he wasn't prepared for at all—
You knelt down right in front of him. Close. Closer than before. Practically between his knees. The warmth of your body hit him first, then the faint scent of your shampoo, then the light brush of your fingers against his shirt collar as you lifted the tie gently from his hands.
"I got it. Hold still."
Ranpo stopped breathing.
He physically stopped. His entire body stiffened like you'd hit him with a tranquilizer dart. The heat of you kneeling there, hands moving smoothly to fix his ridiculous tie mess like it was nothing—it was too much.
His brain short-circuited all over again.
They're close—they're REALLY close—why are they this close?? Hands. Touching me. I should be making some dumb joke right now. Why can't I think?? ERROR. ERROR. ERROR—
Meanwhile, you were utterly oblivious to his meltdown, focused entirely on making the knot symmetrical, neat, sharp.
"There," you murmured softly, brushing the fabric flat against his chest. "Perfect."
Perfect.
Great. Wonderful. Now Ranpo was ninety percent tie, ten percent sentient embarrassment.
You looked up, finally meeting his eyes—those bright green eyes now wide, almost glassy, with an unreadable expression on his face. His mouth was slightly parted like he wanted to say something but forgot how speaking worked.
"…What?" you asked with a laugh. "It's just a tie."
Just a tie.
Right.
"R-right," he croaked, voice cracking like a teenager. "Tie. Sure."
You stood, patting him on the shoulder lightly as you moved back toward your bag to finish getting ready. "You're acting weird. Must be the sugar crash."
Ranpo sat there, still kneeling, staring blankly at your retreating form, utterly betrayed by his own nervous system.
He tugged absently at the knot you'd just tied. Perfect. Of course it was.
And the worst part?
He could still feel the ghost of your fingers on his collar, soft and careful and way too nice.
He was doomed.
The Agency was unusually lively that morning. Yosano humming softly while sharpening scalpels she definitely didn't need right now. Kunikida furiously scribbling in his notebook about order and structure, none of which anyone was following. Atsushi avoiding eye contact with helpless Junichiro, who was currently being latched onto by his sister, her arms around him in a dramatic display of (weird) sibling affection that left everyone—including the orange-haired man himself—deeply uncomfortable.
And Dazai?
Dazai was watching.
More specifically—Dazai was watching Ranpo.
To the untrained eye, Ranpo looked as he always did: slouched in his chair, lollipop tucked lazily between his lips, wearing that usual cocky half-lidded expression like he owned the place.
But to Dazai's eyes? Oh, this was gold. There was a subtle stiffness in Ranpo's posture, the rare flush still barely present on his cheeks that had nothing to do with heat or embarrassment over snacks. His tie, for once, was actually tied properly, but Ranpo kept fidgeting with it, tugging at the fabric like it had personally offended him.
And then there was you—sitting at your desk, rolling a pen between your fingers, utterly unaware of the way Ranpo's eyes kept accidentally sliding your way before snapping back like he'd been caught stealing candy.
Dazai's lips curved into a slow, wicked grin.
Oh yeah. Something happened.
And, being the absolute menace he was, Dazai wasn't about to let that go unchecked.
He leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh, tearing a scrap piece of paper from the corner of Kunikida's notebook ("Dazai, don't you dare—" rip), scrunched it into a tight little ball, and took aim like a sniper.
Fwip—thunk.
Direct hit. Right on Ranpo's hat.
"Oi—!" Ranpo shook his head, twisting around. His expression was more irritated than confused, but Dazai just gave him an innocent smile.
"Must've been the wind," he mused, resting his chin on his palm.
Ranpo narrowed his eyes, about two seconds away from launching an office supply at him when—
"Hey, hold still a sec."
You were already moving, standing and stepping over toward Ranpo, brushing crumbs from your lap as you approached.
And then—
You leaned down.
The scrap of paper stuck gently in Ranpo's brown hat, tangled with a few loose threads. Your hand came up, brushing over it softly to retrieve it. Absentminded. Casual. No big deal.
Except it was a big deal. To Ranpo, it was catastrophic.
Critical hit. Weakness: affection.
His whole body locked up as your fingertips ghosted along his hat before plucking the paper away. Your face was right there, close enough that he could smell your shampoo again, see the faint warmth in your eyes.
You were completely, blissfully unaware of how close you were.
Ranpo, on the other hand, was experiencing internal combustion.
His ears burned scarlet. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair like his life depended on it. His brain screamed in three different languages, none of them coherent.
Steam. Actual steam, if the laws of anime physics applied here, might've been curling out of his ears by now.
"Got it," you said cheerfully, holding up the offending paper ball, totally oblivious. "Looks like someone's making a mess again."
Ranpo could barely make a noise beyond a strangled "Mm—" sound in response.
Dazai watched the whole thing like a spectator at a fireworks show, chin in hand, delight practically radiating off him. He twirled another piece of paper between his fingers, wondering just how much further he could push this.
Oh wait, he didn't have to wonder. He would push it.
And then he moved.
Before you could walk back to your desk, Dazai appeared beside you, draping himself over your shoulder like a bored cat, his chin resting dramatically near your neck, breath exaggeratedly close.
"I'm so bored," he drawled, eyes half-lidded with faux sadness. "Won't you entertain me, Y/N? Surely you won't let me die of boredom here, will you?"
Your eye twitched. "Dazai…"
You knew this game.
Ranpo knew this game too.
The glare Ranpo shot Dazai could have ignited pure flame. It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was murderous. If looks could kill, Dazai would've been ashes on the carpet by now.
But of course, Dazai only smiled more sweetly.
Interesting.
Now this was getting fun.
And poor Ranpo? Sitting there, fists clenched in his lap, trying desperately not to combust in the middle of the office. He wanted to shout, Get off! That's MY personal space they're supposed to be invading!
But no words came. Just a dark, dangerous glint in his green eyes.
Dazai winked at Ranpo behind your back.
Evening came, bringing with it the soft orange glow of sunset spilling through the office windows. One by one, the Agency members filtered out, stretching tired limbs, gathering coats and bags, ready to call it a day.
You were one of the first to leave, waving cheerfully at everyone as you slung your bag over your shoulder. "See you tomorrow!"
Ranpo didn't even look at you as you left. Not because he didn't want to—but because if he did, he was sure the heat in his cheeks would've given him away immediately. Instead, he stayed slouched dramatically in his chair, spinning idly in slow, sulking rotations.
And of course, because the universe hates him, Dazai stayed behind too.
It didn't take long before they were the only two left.
Silence.
Ranpo sat with his arms crossed, still fiddling with the tie you had fixed for him earlier, scowling like a kicked cat.
Dazai, leaning back lazily on one of the desks, finally broke the silence. "Soooooo…"
Ranpo glared at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. "What?"
Dazai's grin was slow, shark-like. "Something you wanna tell me about Y/N?"
Ranpo's jaw clenched. "Tch."
"Oho~ That's a yes, isn't it?" Dazai chuckled. "Come on, Ranpo—what's this all about? You've been acting strange ever since you two walked in this morning. Blushing. Fidgeting. Practically malfunctioning when they leaned in close."
Ranpo kicked at the floor with the heel of his shoe, spinning his chair half a rotation away, arms crossed even tighter now. "Wasn't even a thing."
Dazai's brow rose. "Really? Because it looked like a thing."
Ranpo grumbled something under his breath. Too soft to hear.
"What was that?"
"—Only cuddling…" Ranpo finally muttered, cheeks burning pink again, scowl deepening. "That's all. They were just cuddling me."
Dazai blinked. "…Cuddling?"
"In their sleep, okay?! They didn't even know. It's not like—I didn't ask for it—they were just—" He gave up on explaining with a helpless gesture, slumping lower into his chair like gravity itself was bullying him. "Forget it."
Dazai blinked again, then smiled slowly. "Awww. So that's why you've been pouting all day."
"I'm not pouting."
"You're absolutely pouting."
Ranpo shot him a sharp glare, the flush creeping back into his ears. His next words came out in a stubborn whine:
"They're only allowed to cuddle me."
That silenced Dazai for a beat.
Ranpo wasn't even sure why he said it. It just came out—like a petulant child hoarding their favorite toy, except the "toy" was you and the possessiveness was a little too raw, a little too real.
"They're mine. Not yours."
Dazai blinked, then leaned back with a soft, surprised laugh—not mocking, not teasing this time, but genuinely amused.
"Well, well… interesting."
Ranpo didn't respond. He just sat there, sulking, sulking harder, cheeks hot, ears red, glaring furiously at his knees like they'd betrayed him too.
Possessive. Touch-starved. Completely lost and hating how vulnerable he felt.
But one thing was clear: the idea of you being close to someone else? Especially someone like Dazai?
Unacceptable.
Only him.
Ranpo should have been asleep by now.
Normally, he was the type to pass out the moment his head hit the pillow—or futon, in this case—with a stomach full of sweets and a mind smugly satisfied from solving unsolvable cases.
But not tonight.
He was awake. Wide awake.
Laying flat on his back, arms sprawled out, eyes boring holes into the ceiling. His cape was thrown haphazardly across the room, his beloved hat tossed nearby. He was practically kicking his legs like a restless cat, sheets rumpled in frustration.
And the worst part?
It wasn't because he wasn't tired. He was. He wanted to sleep.
But something was missing.
Something infuriatingly warm and soft that clung to him like a damn koala.
You.
Ranpo rolled onto his side, huffing loudly, cheeks flushed in frustration—not embarrassment, no, definitely not embarrassment.
"This is stupid," he muttered into his pillow. "I don't need that. I don't need them here."
And yet—he shifted again, curling around nothing, arms awkwardly hugging a pillow that was too flat and too cold and smelled wrong.
But now? After one night of you unconsciously pressing up against him like it was your life source?
Now he felt cold.
"This is your fault," he grumbled under his breath, voice tight and petulant, cheeks growing warmer. "All your fault…"
How dare you, waltzing into his life with your random kindness and warmth and stupid sleepy clinging. What gave you the right to just rewire his entire sleep pattern with one unconscious cuddle?
He sat up sharply.
No. Nope. Not happening. This was unacceptable.
Five more minutes of glaring at the wall, and then—
The cape was thrown over his shoulders with a dramatic flourish. The hat was jammed onto his messy hair.
He stomped toward the door, socks thumping against the floor.
What was he going to do when he got to your place? He didn't know.
Was he going to yell at you for breaking him? Maybe.
Was he going to make you fix it? Definitely.
Thudding through the dim streets, his mood only worsened by every step. The cool night air did nothing to soothe his simmering frustration.
Before he could fully think it through, Ranpo was already standing in front of your door, fist raised, banging against it with unreasonable force for someone showing up uninvited past midnight.
"Y/N!" he hissed sharply through clenched teeth, cheeks flushed with a dangerous combination of anger and mortification. "Wake up!"
Another few loud knocks. He didn't care if he looked crazy. You had done this to him, and now you were going to deal with it.
"Open up! I can't sleep without—!"
He cut himself off, lips snapping shut, teeth clenched. No way was he going to say it.
But the damage was done. His heart was racing, his cheeks practically glowing, and he was glaring at your door like it personally owed him an apology.
What was he supposed to do now?
A beat later, the door creaked open, and there you were—hair a mess, blanket slipping off one shoulder, eyes sleepy and confused, like a cat someone woke up from a nap too soon.
Ranpo froze for a second. You looked… soft like that. Warm. Sleepy. Way too inviting for his sanity.
"…Ranpo?" you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Am I dreaming…?"
"Tch." His scowl deepened immediately, defensive. "No. You're awake. I'm awake. All because of you."
You stared at him, eyes bleary, expression not matching the chaos in his chest at all.
"…What?"
"This is your fault," he snapped, as if you had dragged him here against his will. "I can't sleep."
You blinked slowly. "…Okay?"
Ranpo huffed, eyes darting to the side in frustration, refusing to meet your gaze. "I can't sleep. Because of your stupid cuddling. You're a menace. You ruined everything. You did something to me. My whole system's broken now. I hope you're happy."
Saying it out loud made his ears burn. He hated it. Hated that he sounded like some whiny kid complaining about their toy being taken. Hated that the moment you stopped pressing against him, his whole body felt wrong in a way he didn't know how to describe.
You just… yawned. Like you'd heard this complaint a thousand times before. "So… you can't sleep because I cuddled you…?"
"Obviously!" he barked, frustrated, cheeks pink. Why weren't you taking this seriously?
Another shrug. Another yawn. "Then come to bed."
Ranpo blinked. "What?"
"Come to bed. Cuddle me if you want."
And just like that, you turned around—like it was nothing—and wandered back to your bed, crawling under the blanket, leaving the door wide open behind you.
Ranpo stood there in the doorway, utterly, completely fried.
His brain—brilliant detective that it was—did not know what to do with this. He had cracked murders. Solved crimes no one else could even begin to understand. But this?
Your sleepy voice, your messy hair, the soft sound of blankets rustling as you burrowed back into warmth… offering him a place there too—
No. Nope. Unfair. Illegal, even.
"This is all your fault," he muttered one last time, voice quieter now, almost sulky, as if repeating it would somehow fix whatever catastrophic emotional failure was happening in his chest.
And yet—
His feet betrayed him.
He stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him, and padded after you like a grumpy, overgrown cat.
What had you done to him?
He stood next to your bed like a criminal caught red-handed, cape still around his shoulders, hat slightly askew. You were already curled up on one side, blanket pulled messily over yourself, clearly waiting for him like it was the most normal thing in the world to invite someone over for emergency cuddling.
Ranpo clenched his jaw, fighting the burning in his ears. Fine. Whatever. He was here now.
With all the grace of a man facing execution, he lowered himself onto the bed beside you. Stiff. Straight as a board. Not touching you. Not breathing. Muscles locked, like a plank of human frustration.
This was fine. He could do this. Totally normal. This was normal.
Then you sighed.
"…You're so tense it's making me stressed," you muttered, half into your pillow, voice raspy with sleep. "C'mere."
Before he could argue, you moved—scooting closer like a sleepy, determined animal on a mission, reaching out—
And latched onto him.
Just like last night.
One arm flopped lazily over his chest. A leg hooked lightly around his. Your face pressed warm into the crook of his neck, the tickle of your breath making his pulse spike like he'd just been pushed off a building.
His entire body locked up, eyes wide, mouth dry, thoughts scattering like marbles across a tile floor.
You sighed again. But this time it was soft, content. Like being pressed up against him was exactly where you wanted to be.
Ranpo wanted to die.
He also wanted to never move again.
His hands twitched, unsure of what to do with themselves. He should probably move. Probably make some smug comment. Probably breathe—
And yet… warmth started creeping up through his limbs, fatigue creeping in behind it, dragging him down like slow-moving syrup.
Maybe he could sleep like this. Maybe this wasn't completely terrible. Actually, his eyes were already drooping—
It was fine.
Everything was fine.
Just before he drifted off, your sleepy voice murmured, amused, barely audible against his throat:
"…Did you really just walk all this way in your socks just to demand cuddles?"
Ranpo isn't used to being uncertain about things, in fact, there is nothing in the world that he is less accustomed to. He always has things figured, it's always taken him seconds and it somehow takes him Even Less Time to blabber out the answer.
But that certainty comes from cold hard facts. Feelings are far, far, faaaar trickier.
So obviously. Instead of figuring out a way to put his feelings into proper words and going through the grueling feeling of vulnerability and heat rushing into his face and down his neck.
He makes you do it.
Eventually, you won't be able to keep quiet about your feelings and he knows this. But at the rate you're going, it's going to take ages. So he's going to help speed up the process! Because someone needs to confess.
And its certainly not going to be him. For obvious reasons.
So heres now it goes:
- All up in your space. He knows you get flustered when he's near. Filing some paperwork? He's sitting on your desk. Taking a break on the couch? He's sitting down and draping his legs over your lap. You're taking your lunch break? He's hungry too!!! Buy him a treat!!!
- Makes you accompany him whenever he gets sent out. It doesn't matter if you can drive or not, he'll tell you everything he's already figured out about the case on the way there regardless! He's basically figured it all out already anyways. Isn't that impressive? Isn't he the best? Praise him, please and thank you.
- Compliments you. Indirectly. All the other members of the ADA always mention how highly Ranpo seems to think of you. It's clear that he values your input, he finds you incredibly dependable as well, y'know, he's even mentioned that you're pretty easy on the eyes. Don't tell him they told you that, though. (It's all part of his master plan.)
- Shares. His supply is dwindling even faster because of you! You should feel honored. Or maybe not. He doesn't actually mind, don't feel bad for taking anything. Hurry up and eat the damn thing already.
- Listens to you. Actively. He makes sure to show that he's paying attention to you because he knows that you appreciate it. He doesn't really get it, he's always listening even if it looks like he's busy playing around. But feelings are weird and fragile. He'll be a little extra careful with yours.
- Makes an effort to not insult your intelligence. Not that he ever actually means to, his wording is just off. Which is why recently you've found him growing quiet in conversations for a few seconds. A small pout on his lips as he considers his words before snapping right back into place and continuing whatever tirade he was going on. All without throwing out an indirect jab. It's cute, and also very thoughtful.
- Minimizes the opportunities you have to get hurt in his plans. Obviously some things don't come together as neatly as one might hope but damnit if he isn't finding a way to keep you safe. You can be useful And out of harms way.
He's obvious, he doesn't trust you to not brush off his vaguer advances as him simply being friendly. He wants you to get the hint. Needs you to, really, because he's sick of pining just as much as you are.
When you do eventually ask to speak to him privately, invite him into your space and sit him down, his heart pounds.
Ranpo knows the outcome of this, he's set it in motion for weeks, maybe even months, but theres still Doubt.
He can't see the future.
He can infer it, maybe. Can imagine a future where you and him are happy, where everyday, the two of you lay in bed together, and you smile at him as you run your fingers through his black hair and his mind grows muddy.
But this isn't like any simple murder case. He knows some facts, yeah, but none of it will ever, ever be enough to be Certain. Certain of you and him. Together. It scares him.
But when you take his hands in yours, a little clammy from nerves, and whisper your feelings to him, he can't help but surge forward and press his lips to yours.
A wide smile. A simple, "I know."
You can feel his quiet laughter on your face.
He's lucky he didn't wheeze it out, with how tight his chest feels from pure giddiness.
