Me When A Bad Bitch Tells Me To Do Something

undertale reference

Your Turn to Roll

Sum: It's not like your Saturday hookup is going to show up to DnD right? Right??

FWB!Geto x Reader x Nerdjo

Previous // Next Part // Masterlist

WC: 3.2k

TW: Angst, Love triangle-ish, yearning/miscommunication, friends with benefits, brief smut but there's emotional dissociation during it, MDNI

a/n: apologies if this is a little rough on the edges, ac broke, fridge broke, anddd work was a bit of hell this week <3 next part willl be in one of the boys pov.

You were expecting to play Dungeons & Dragons for the first time with Satoru and his friends tonight. You weren’t expecting his friend to be Geto Suguru.

Lead singer of that indie band whose lyrics you sometimes pretend don’t make you cry. Part-time model. Full-time heartache. Your… complicated situation. Your friends-with-benefits and Saturday night habit.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, and there he was, casually leaning against the back wall, guitar case strapped across his back, dark locks tied in that loose, lazy way that made him even more dreamy than he already was. His eyes met yours - wine-dark irises that always gave your heart trouble - and for a second, time stalled. His lips parted, your name on the tip of his tongue, hushed and slightly disbelieving.

You felt it immediately, the flutter in your stomach. Not quite joy. Not quite dread. Just that familiar, fluttering echo of something you’ve been trying not to name for months.

Your situationship began half a year ago. Six months of quietly gaslighting yourself in the mirror. Convincing your heart that the tenderness was imagined. That you were mistaking comfort for coincidence, affection for habit. That Suguru wasn’t falling for you. That this was nothing more than a pastime for two lonely souls trying to feel full.

(You were wrong.)

Ironically, it all began on a Saturday night. Your friend had an extra ticket. You weren’t even into indie rock like that. Thought the whole “grungy stage presence and sad boy lyrics” thing was a bit overplayed. But the moment Suguru stepped onto the stage, the air shifted.

His voice was sharp and unpolished, captivating in a way that felt accidental, like he hadn’t meant to enchant anyone. A little wild and raw on the edges. When he looked out at the crowd, at the ocean of swaying bodies, outstretched arms, and flickering phone lights, his sharp gaze caught yours. Landed. Lingered.

You could’ve sworn your breath caught, shallow and stuttering. You attempted to laugh it off. Bite the inside of your cheek to hide the curve of your smile as his eyes softened - violet and velvety, like bruised twilight. There was something behind them. Something that reminded you of the stars. Perhaps it was just the way they tinkled from the stage lights.

Though he smiled back.  Shoulders uncoiled. Fingers loosened around the mic stand. The whole world tilted. You thought you had imagined it.  Until the end of the set when the final chord faded and he leaned down, reached for you. Pressing a rose into your palm. A real one. Its petals soft and flushed with a pale pink blush, edges slightly wilted from the stage lights.

His fingers brushed yours. Warm, calloused at the tips from all the practice you imagine he does.  A look passed between you. Not staged or rehearsed like most stars. A look that didn’t speak of lust but of a crush.

You left the venue trying to rationalize it away. While your friends squealed and complained that you should have got his number. Though you were convinced it was just a gimmick. A crowd-pleaser. That’s all. But just as you rounded the corner of the street, laughing with your friend, the sidewalk cold beneath your boots - 

“Wait.”

Breathless. Dark hair a little messy, falling into his eyes. Cheeks tinged with pink, like he wasn’t used to chasing anyone. Like he wasn’t used to trying. Then that smile, the soft, sheepish one that looked like it had been carved just for you.

Suguru handed you a napkin. Crumpled. From the bar, it’s logo branded in gold that clashed against the ink. His number, the edge smudged where his thumb had pressed too hard.

And that was that. Saturday nights became a tradition. Takeout dinners on mismatched plates. His guitar in the corner, never too far from reach. You curled up on the couch together, pretending whatever this was, was casual, laughing at reruns while his hand found your hip and tugged you closer during the commercial breaks.

Friends-with-benefits don’t usually hold your hand when you’re falling asleep. They don’t ask how your midterms went. They don’t kiss your shoulder in the morning before they leave, whispering that your coffee is on the table.

They don’t act like they love you. 

So you told yourself it wasn’t real. That he was just being nice. That the soft smiles and gentle hands and half-sincere words were just habit. That it was easier for both of you this way - safer to pretend than to ask for something that might never be returned.

You believed it. You tried to believe it. Until your thoughts started turning on you. Until they got too loud to ignore, creeping in a few months ago and sinking their claws into you when your friends would ask, are you seeing somebody? 

The act always started the same. When things were soft. When you were laughing together on the couch, sharing bites from each other’s plates. When he leaned back, arms spread, and looked at you like he belonged in your life. Where he wasn’t just a past time on a Saturday night. When his voice dipped low and teasing and press a kiss to your temple, scooping you up like you were something his. Something worth taking care of forever. 

He’d carry you to his bedroom, bridal style, like he always did. As if it was always your first night together. He’d lay you on those dark, silken sheets. The expensive ones that felt cool beneath your thighs. The ones you’d never let yourself ask about. But sometimes - when the light hit just right - you wondered: If they happened to be white, would someone else’s lipstick still be stained into the fabric? Would the color be red? Or a pretty mauve? Or the kind he always complimented you on?

His mouth was on yours before you could think too long, thankfully swallowing every breath that threatened to turn into a sob. The sweet alcohol laced on his tongue tangled with yours, dancing you under a sky no one else could see. Large, calloused hands full of warmth moved across your skin, still learning you, even though you knew he wasn’t. He knew you.

He touched you like muscle memory. Like he’d been here a thousand times. Not realizing you were breaking beneath the surface. Your shirt was lifted, a sharp gasp from his lips when he would gaze down at the soft skin. The slow kiss against your jaw, then down the column of your throat, finally your collarbone, where he would bite down softly. Just enough for you to hide it in the morning.

You tried to melt into him. Into the way his arms wrapped around you, gently, like they always had. Into the warmth of his chest, into the sheets that smelled like him, but still made you wonder if they’d once held someone else. You let your body go limp, your mouth fall open, your breath hitch soft enough to pass as pleasure. Anything to let him believe this was still enough.

But you didn’t feel warm tonight. You felt cold. Hollow. There was a crack running down the center of your chest and every kiss only widened it.

Though nothing has changed. Every Saturday was the same. His touch was always the same - gentle and worshipful. Knowledgeable on how to drag his name from your throat with the curl of his fingers. Knew where to bite so that it hurt just enough to make you scold him as he brought you ice. He knew how to touch you in ways that used to make you feel wanted.

But tonight - your skin didn’t ignite. It recoiled. Tightened. Like your body finally caught up to what your heart had been screaming for weeks.

This isn’t enough anymore.

You still made the right sounds.

You still wanted this.

You still managed a gasp when he kissed your sternum. Still sighed when his mouth found that spot below your ear, sucking a bruise there like he wanted to leave a mark where no one else could see it, one you didn't have to cover. A hidden claim of sorts. You let your legs fall open for him, let your body move the way it always did, habitual, practiced, choreography you’d danced a thousand times before.

You arched your hips when he pushed inside, dragging out a moan that sounded real enough to pass.

But your eyes stayed open.

You stared past him. Past the ceiling. Past the low hum of the night around you. And in that quiet space between thrusts - where your bodies met but your hearts didn’t - your breath caught. His hands squeezed your waist, trying to mold themselves into your skin. To leave something behind. But all it did was press into a wound that had been bleeding slowly for months.

The thoughts screamed louder than your voice ever could.

The roses he gave to girls at his shows, ones with names he never mentioned afterward.

How his hand lingered on another woman’s waist as she leaned over the barricade, eyes wide with something you used to feel.

The way you waited for him every Saturday night like a dog waiting at the door, always hoping, never chosen.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To shake him and ask what am I to you?

Instead, your body gave him what it always did. He moved deeper, hips grinding into that sweet spot, pulling a moan from you that felt too real for a moment, so real it only made the ache worse.

Because pleasure didn’t mean love. And love didn’t mean anything unless it was said out loud. It only made the lie worse.

Then suddenly - your voice gathered courage as it cracked through the haze. Hoarse. Shaky. Unmistakably real:

"What is this?"

His entire body stilled, the twitch of his cock inside you. Perfect timing for important questions.

Suguru was a master of rhythm. Of pacing. Of knowing exactly when to pull and when to push. But now, he froze. Like you’d struck a chord he didn’t know existed. His breath faltered against your cheek. His eyes, always half-lidded and unreadable, widened just slightly as he looked down at you.

At the way your bottom lip trembled.

The way your lashes fluttered like you were trying not to cry. How your eyes looked up at him - pleading, glassy, afraid.

You looked like a doe staring down the barrel of a hunter’s gun. And he didn’t know how to lower the rifle.

Because the truth: Suguru didn’t know what this was.

He wanted to name it. Really did. He’d almost done it, a hundred times. When you curled into him on the couch, when you laughed at his terrible songs in the kitchen, when you fell asleep drooling on his chest and he stayed perfectly still just to keep you there.

He wanted to say the words. But he didn’t know how.

Suguru Geto had never been good at love. Not the kind that asked for vulnerability. That required you to give more than you take. He knew how to want. He knew how to be wanted. He knew how to hold people at arm’s length and still make them beg to stay.

But this - this aching, terrifying tenderness? This desire to keep someone, not just touch them?

It made him feel like a liar in his own skin. So he did what he always did. Softened his voice. Slowed his rhythm. Brushed his thumb along your trembling lip, pretending not to notice the way your breath hitched beneath him.

“I don’t do labels,” he murmured soft and slow. “But I’d like us to be sexually exclusive. For… safety reasons.” He tried to make it sound casual. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t the only way he knew how to ask you to stay.

But the moment the words left his mouth, he saw it - the shift in your face. The light dimming in your eyes. The way your expression cracked, just slightly, like you were holding back a dam that was always on the verge of breaking.

You nodded. Quiet. Wordless. You didn’t say anything else. You just wrapped your arms around his neck as he pushed deeper inside you, grateful - so pathetically grateful - that you couldn’t see the way his teeth sank into his lip, biting back all the words he couldn’t say.

Eventually, he finished with your name on his lips, his sweat-slicked chest pressed flush to yours like that closeness could somehow patch over what he’d just broken. As if holding you tighter would convince you he hadn’t just let the moment slip through his hands.

Afterward, you curled into him as he tucked a blanket over the two of you. You both pretended that you were okay. Words left unsaid.

You didn't cry, however, your breath caught. You swallowed the knot lodged in your throat. You knew he heard the sound because the arm draped around your waist flinched.

He didn’t say a word. Suguru just laid there, eyes shut, forcing himself to remember the way you looked the night he met you and hating himself for not being brave enough to love you out loud.

Now here you are. Standing in the hallway of Gojo Satoru’s shockingly nice apartment building.

The boy with the guitar stands beside you, casual as his fingers move to brush the small of your back. Like he’s not pretending you didn’t spend last weekend in his bed. As if he hasn’t gone completely quiet on you since you brought up wanting to be exclusive.

And in front of you: the nerd boy. Satoru. Pink cheeks. Bright blue eyes wide and blinking like he can’t believe you’re actually standing there. His gaze flickers to Suguru’s hand. To the smile you offer him. And back again - he’s trying not to connect the dots and failing spectacularly.

You didn’t know they were friends. How could you? Suguru never talked about the rest of his life. Never gave you names, just vague details and late-night stories with no context. No connections.

But you see it now, in the way Satoru pales when he realizes who you’re with. In the way Suguru leans a little closer, voice smooth as honey. “You didn’t tell me your new player was cute.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh… thanks.” A blush creeps up your neck. You hate that it does. Unfair of your body to betray you.

Satoru’s laugh bursts out of him way too loud. A small voice crack before his hand flails mid-wave. “Y-Yeah! I mean! She's great! I mean, yeah, you - dice - yes!” Instead of making a bigger fool of himself. He leads you both inside, still babbling, tripping over his own feet every time he catches your gaze.

Suddenly, you’re wrapped in warmth. The apartment smells like vanilla and cedarwood. There’s a candle burning on the counter. The lights are low and cozy. The snack spread is ridiculous - labels everywhere, little notes in Satoru’s messy handwriting: “Nut-free!” “Gluten-free just in case!!” “Vegan??? Maybe???”color-coded bowls with tiny serving tongs (there's even a sign for no cross contamination). He bought everything you could imagine.

The knot in your chest loosens just a little. Your heart stutters. You shush it. This isn't for you. You're just a guest in the campaign. That's all. However, this place feels… safe. Like someone cared enough to make sure everyone would feel welcome.

You settle at the table beside a woman with tired eyes and a cigarette behind her ear - Shoko, you learn. She flags you down with a muttered, “Thank god it’s not a sausage-fest tonight.”

You manage a laugh. Half forced. Suguru chuckles beside you and drapes an arm over the back of your chair, muttering about how it's cramped here tonight. Your heart does a little somersault, even if your brain is exhausted.

Satoru takes his seat at the head of the table.

And oh, he’s glowing. Flipping through notes he already memorized. Fixing his glasses. Glancing up at you every few seconds. You catch him once, and he practically short-circuits, gives you a lopsided grin like he just rolled a nat 20 in charisma.

You smile back. He looks away so fast he nearly knocks over his water. (You found out through Shoko, he cannot drink for the life of him). Though, he gets up way too fast to make you a “potion.” A drink themed after your character. He even drew a little sketch on the napkin. You try not to let your face get too warm when he hands it to you. While Suguru's fingers are calloused, Satoru's are soft.

Then he dims the lights slightly and cues up a playlist labeled “Tavern (For When She Shows Up, Delete This Note Later).” He didn't. Shoko snorted.

The table quiets. He clears his throat. Suddenly, he’s in it. The way his voice shifts into something lower, theatrical, full of magic and momentum. You’re not sure if it’s the candlelight or the way he describes the flicker of lanterns and muddy roads, but for a second, you actually feel like you’ve stepped into another world.

You look at him - really look.

And you don’t see the flailing boy from the bookstore. You see someone who built this world from the ground up. Who put pieces together just so he could offer them to you.

His eyes meet yours again. A playful, shy smile curls at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s your turn to roll.”

And maybe it is. Maybe this is where the campaign begins. Where you begin. Where you stop hoping someone will choose you in the quiet…and start letting yourself be seen in the light.

tag list: @just-pure-trash, @7haze, @nevvynev, @linaaeatsfamilies, @altgojo, @beereadzzz, @spn-obsession, @bludwrite

For taglist, please have your age in bio otherwise, you will not be tagged! :3 ageless/minor blogs will be subjected to blocking

megumi fushiguro // fic recommendations

note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works

once bitten, twice shy

lost and found

your type?

dark red

pick you up, keep you close

i really (x6) like you

bunny kisses

the flower and the bee

(divine) dog cuddles

off limits

cockblocked by the squad

lover boy.

staring problem

pomegranate problem

conveniently yours

better late than never

you're the only one that's holding me down

takes one to know one

it's fenty

whatever this is

the birthday boy

with you, my fears disappear

hands

diamonds on the skyline

just feel it

laser focus

all my ghosts

making the last sacrifice

see you around

ducky slippers

therefore, i am

chat does he know about marriage

Gojo notices you for the first time on a Tuesday. You’re standing by the lockers, struggling with a key that keeps slipping out of your perfectly manicured fingers, wearing this tiny pink sweater that looks like it belongs in a pop star’s closet.

He’s not trying to stare. He’s really not.

He’s supposed to be flipping through his Digimon forum on his phone, checking on a debate about whether Wargreymon could beat Beelzemon in a hypothetical fight (he totally could). But his brain blanks the second he catches sight of you.

You’re like... a Disney princess if she got dropped into the middle of their ugly beige school hallways.

Lip gloss shining. Hair perfect. Little clueless frown on your face as you poke at your locker.

And maybe it’s stupid, but something about it makes Gojo’s heart thud.

He watches you finally wrestle the locker open with a triumphant little squeak, giggling to yourself. The sound actually makes him smile like an idiot.

(He immediately ducks his head, pretending to be very invested in his phone.)

You notice him, too.

Because how could you not? He’s tall and kind of awkward, standing there with a backpack covered in little Digimon pins and messy white hair falling over round blue-tinted glasses.

You tilt your head, curious. He doesn’t match the hallway’s vibe. At all. Too bright. Too weird. You like it. You give him a little smile—soft, polite, almost teasing.

He freezes.

Actually freezes.

You think he might bolt like a spooked cat, but instead, he lifts one hand in a clumsy, half-hearted wave.

You giggle under your breath and turn back to your locker, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He watches you walk away, feeling like someone just unplugged his brain.

In another life, maybe he would’ve said something. Asked your name. Told you about the Digivice buried in his backpack.

But today, it’s just a glance. A smile. A spark. Something small. Something real. And Gojo thinks— (he hopes) it might not be the last time.

A/n: so... Part two?? or nah.. lol...

gojo reminds me of 2010 justin bieber

they’re literally the same person HELP

CLASSMATE GOJO SERIES!

SYNOPSIS...read the short 4 part series about classmate!gojo and pervy fem!reader all right here

INFO...classmate!gojo x fem!reader, smut smut smut, trading nudes, masturbation, p in v, name calling, and other filth, only a 4 part series

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4 (coming soon!)

ᡣ𐭩 content — fan!gojo x pop-princess!reader. fluff, gojo's kind of a freakk :P

fan!gojo is, delicately put, obsessed. his penthouse apartment? a whole room dedicated to your discography, limited edition vinyls glowing under soft led lights, and walls plastered with every magazine cover you've ever graced. his credit card? permanently swiped for your latest merch drops, holographic posters, and plushie keychains.

fan!gojo who hears about the meet-and-greet raffle from your instagram (he's the first to like the post). panic sets in. a raffle? random chance? this is an affront to his meticulously planned life. no amount of money can guarantee a win.

fan!gojo who has to beg for this stranger on reddit to give them their tickets to him. he lost a little over a million dollars (yeah, okay, in hindsight, that wasn't financially smart — but, this was the opportunity of a lifetime).

fan!gojo who ends up bringing geto with him, since he doesn't want the other ticket to go to waste. out of geto, of all people, he's not sure. geto, the heavy-metal aficionado. their music tastes' are worlds apart, but gojo's doing his best friend a favor.

fan!gojo who spends hours picking out his outfit, to which geto snorts, "it's not like you're going on a fucking date with her."

fan!gojo who huffs, dramatically crossing his arms. "we're taking pictures."

fan!gojo who ends up bring all of your vinyls to the meet-and-greet. every single one. "what?" he asked geto, who was giving him a funny look. "i couldn't decide. they're all amazing."

fan!gojo who's practically bouncing off the walls, when the security guard tells him it'll be their turn, soon. will he be okay? does he look okay? wait, does he smell okay?

fan!gojo who's shoving his to-be-signed merch into geto's hands, cracking his knuckles. after a moment, he snatches them back, hissing, "don't do anything embarrassing, okay?"

"...says the one bringing a whole ass record store."

fan!gojo who is freaking out when he lays his eyes on you. in person. even geto, who's never seen him flustered over a girl, can't help but snicker.

fan!gojo who thinks your voice is even sweeter in real life, if that's possible. you smile, a soft greeting leaving your lips. all he can do is stutter a response. (yes, geto is filming.)

fan!gojo can't tear his eyes off you. you're dolled up in the prettiest shade of pink, and you look gorgeous. your hair rests in soft curls, styled to perfection. though, he'd pop a boner if you showed up with bed-head.

fan!gojo who gets all his merch signed by you, as he grins boyishly, a warm pinking dusting his cheeks.

fan!gojo who musters out the courage to blurt; "i love you! y— your music, i mean," stuttering over his attempted amends. too much courage, it seems.

fan!gojo who practically sighs in relief when you laugh. "yeah?" you ask, handing him his items.

"yeah," fan!gojo says, breathy. "huge fan."

you tilt your head at him, thoughtful eyes. "i can tell." fan!gojo's cute, you think. as they're heading out, you stop him, watching his brows knit in confusion.

"we can take a picture, just us," you suggest. "if you'd like."

if fan!gojo would like? fuck, yeah, he would.

fan!gojo who's beaming, waiting for the click of the camera, when you catch him off-guard — pressing a kiss to his cheek.

fan!gojo who's eyes widen, and he's sure that photo came out odd on his end, but god, he'll keep it forever.

fan!gojo who thinks his life can't get any better, but you're sliding off your bejeweled, pink bracelet and slipping it on his wrist. eyes twinkling, you wave him out.

it's not until he gets home, placing his merch back where it belongs (on what normal people would call a shrine, but fan!gojo prefers the term collection), that he notices something on his vinyl, not just a signature.

it's your number, with, right below it; for my biggest fan.

fan!gojo who's breath hitches. he's won.

like it

megumi fushiguro x reader, smut

megumi couldn’t wrap his mind around why.

why you were here, in his dorm room, in his bed, on his lap.

he never would’ve imagined the night turning out like this. you, the girl from his intro to psych class, walking back with him after a house party.

and now, you were on him—fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer. his hands gripped your waist, guiding your body against his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he swore he was dreaming.

but he could feel every soft inch of you and that’s how he knew he wasn’t.

your parted lips released soft breaths as his brushed your neck, just below your jaw. you made the prettiest sounds and he never wanted them to stop. but it was hard to focus when your fingers tightened in his hair like you needed him closer, like the space between you wasn’t small enough.

megumi’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. he wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to wanting like this. every shift of your hips made it harder to think, and thinking was already near impossible with the way you were looking at him, like he was the only thing that mattered.

was this really happening?

were you, the girl he’d been obsessed with since freshman year, really staring at him like he was the only guy in the world?

he couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

but one thing was crystal clear—he couldn’t fuck this up.

and if this was all he’d get—just tonight, with you—he was going to give you everything.

his mouth met yours in a heated kiss, all urgency and need, like he’d been holding back for years—and maybe he had. his hands roamed your body like he was trying to memorize every inch, every curve, every tremble you gave him in return.

your legs were straddling his waist, thighs snug against his hips, so when he shifted—spreading his legs slightly for better balance—yours parted with them, effortlessly, instinctively. the motion was subtle, but the tension it created crackled in the air between you.

he paused for a second, pulling back just enough to look at you—really look. your lips were kiss-swollen, parted just slightly, chest rising and falling a little too fast. but it was your eyes that got him—pupils blown wide, almost swallowing the color of your irises. hungry. dazed. needy.

yea, that told him everything.

you were probably soaked already, and the thought alone had his fingers twitching at your waist, craving more contact, more of you.

then he kissed you again, deeper this time—like he was trying to say what his heart had been screaming for years, every quiet feeling that had built up, all poured into the press of his mouth against yours.

and while you were caught in it—lost in the heat of him, in the way his lips moved with yours—his hands drifted lower. slow, careful, like he didn’t want to startle you. until finally, they slipped between your thighs.

your breath hitched—you gasped, body tensing for a split second.

but megumi didn’t let you pull away. he swallowed the sound, kissed you through it, deepening the moment with a hunger that left no room for hesitation. like if he kissed you hard enough, maybe he could keep you a little longer. maybe you’d stay.

his hands gripped you beneath your short black skirt, fingers splayed wide as if trying to hold on to every inch of you. his palms were warm, grounding, almost completely covering your waist like he was made to fit you there. one thumb rested just above your pubic bone, teasingly close—close enough to make your breath catch.

just the smallest shift of his hand, the faintest pressure of his thumb, and you were unraveling in his lap. your body trembled, heartbeat thudding so loud it drowned out everything else. your fingers, still tangled in his hair, began to shake, struggling to hold on—not just to him, but to the moment, to your own slipping composure.

megumi felt it—all of it. the way your body responded, the way you melted into his touch like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

“sensitive, huh?” he whispered against your lips, the corner of his mouth twitching with something between awe and smug satisfaction. “I barely touched you.”

“shut up,” you huffed, pushing him away playfully. but despite your teasing demeanor, the way you looked—eyes half-lidded, breath coming in soft, shallow gasps—it was driving him insane. he wanted more. needed more. and judging by the way you rolled your hips against him in response, so did you.

and if you wanted something, he’d give it to you. he’d give you everything.

his eyes never left your face, locked onto every shift in your expression as his thumb drifted lower—slow, deliberate—until it was pressing gentle, teasing circles over the fabric covering that sensitive spot between your legs.

he watched, completely entranced, as your eyes fluttered shut and your teeth sank into your lower lip, trying—and failing—to hold back a moan.

megumi refused to blink. he wasn’t about to miss a second of this—of you—your gorgeous face twisting in pure, unfiltered pleasure, all because of him.

his thumb moved in slow, steady circles, applying just enough pressure to drive you insane but not enough to give you relief. he could feel the way your thighs trembled, the way your hips shifted instinctively toward his hand, chasing more.

“you like that,” he murmured, almost to himself, voice low and reverent. “I can feel it.”

“megumi,” you whined, your voice thick with need, every syllable soaked in desire.

“please,” you breathed out, barely more than a whisper—but it was enough. enough to make his control slip, to make his pulse spike, to make him ache.

hearing you beg—for him—nearly undid him.

his jaw clenched, muscles tensing as he fought the urge to just take. you had no idea what you were doing to him—how your voice alone had him harder than he’d ever been, straining against the fabric of his sweats like it physically hurt.

“fuck,” he muttered under his breath, hand flexing at your waist. “you don’t even know what you do to me.”

but the look in your eyes told him maybe you did. maybe you knew everything. everything he felt about you.

but before he could get caught up in his own thoughts, your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. that desperate little sound you made—it was doing something to him, unraveling every thread of restraint he had left.

megumi’s gaze darkened, something primal flickering in his eyes.

“let me show you,” he said, voice low and rough, like a promise.

he shifted beneath you, one hand moving to grip the back of your thigh as he leaned in to kiss you again—slow this time, deliberate, as if he was savoring the taste of you. his other hand kept working slow circles against you, pressure building, teasing you right at the edge.

you whimpered into his mouth, the sound so soft, so wrecked, it made his hips buck up into yours before he could stop himself.

“feel that?” he murmured against your lips, breathing ragged. you nodded, eyes glazed, mouth parted as you struggled to catch a breath. your whole body was trembling, caught somewhere between desperation and disbelief. he knew exactly where to touch you—how much pressure to apply, how slow to move. and it was maddening.

you were already so close, too close, and all he’d used was one hand.

“megumi,” you gasped, your voice breaking as your hips bucked into his palm, chasing friction, chasing that release he was expertly keeping just out of reach.

his eyes were locked on your face like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. his thumb circled tighter, lower, and your back arched. a sharp cry left your throat, muffled as he caught your lips in another searing kiss, swallowing every sound you made.

“let go,” he murmured against your mouth, thumb never faltering. “come on, baby. i’ve got you.”

your fingers clenched around the fabric of his shirt, nails digging into his shoulders as the tension coiled tighter and tighter inside you, ready to snap. his voice—low, coaxing, almost reverent—pushed you closer to the edge with every word.

and then it hit you all at once—a wave of heat and pleasure crashing over your body so hard it stole the breath from your lungs. you gasped, cried out his name, your whole body going rigid before melting into him. your thighs trembled around his waist, your grip in his hair loosening as your head dropped to his shoulder, overwhelmed.

megumi held you through it, his hand gentling but never fully stopping, dragging out every last ripple of your high. he pressed soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“atta girl,” he murmured, voice thick, almost in awe.

you could barely respond—your body still twitching with aftershocks, chest heaving against his. but still, you lifted your head, eyes meeting his, and leaned in.

the kiss you gave him was soft—unrushed and tender. a quiet confession. your lips moved with his in a way that felt intimate, like you were letting him in deeper than before.

you hadn’t meant for it to turn him on.

but oh it did.

the moment your mouth brushed his, megumi’s blood surged, pulse roaring back to life. your kiss might have been sweet, but to him, it was addictive. dangerous. the kind of kiss that made him want to lose himself in you all over again.

his hands gripped your hips tighter, thumbs digging in slightly as he shifted beneath you, the pressure between you both undeniable now.

he surged forward, capturing your lips in a kiss that was nothing like the last. this one was hungry, urgent, all sharp edges and raw need. he pushed until he was above you now. his hands slid up your back, under your shirt, desperate to feel your skin again—like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t have enough of you.

you gasped into his mouth as he rolled his hips into yours, the friction sparking heat straight through your core, even after everything he’d already given you. it made your nails dig into his shoulders, your thighs tightening around his waist.

“take this off,” he said against your mouth, tugging gently at the hem of your shirt. his voice was low, wrecked, filled with a kind of reverence that made your heart stutter.

you nodded, breathless, pulling the shirt over your head and tossing it aside without a second thought. the second it was gone, his hands were on you again, roaming your sides, your back, cupping your chest like he was trying to memorize the feel of you.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, each word pressed into your skin as his lips trailed down your jaw to your neck, then lower. every kiss burned. each one a silent confession—I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted you.

and he didn’t stop there.

his mouth moved lower, slow and intentional—over your collarbones, across the swell of your chest, down the soft curve of your stomach—leaving goosebumps in his wake.

“wait,” you panted, fingers gripping his shirt in an attempt to stop him, but he intertwined your fingers and pinned your hands to the bed instead.

then he continued his path downward, until he was there, kneeling between your thighs, his hands letting yours go to grip gently but firmly, spreading you open for him.

his eyes flicked up, meeting yours—dark, focused, filled with something close to worship.

“still with me?” he asked, voice husky, thumb brushing circles into your inner thigh.

you nodded, lips parted, breath coming quick and shallow. “yes.”

“good,” he said, more to himself than to you, and then he lowered his head, mouth meeting you over your soaked underwear.

the groan that rumbled from his chest vibrated against you, and you gasped, back arching slightly.

“taste even better than I imagined,” he muttered, and before you could even process the words, he was pulling the fabric to the side, tongue sliding over you slow and sure—like he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

and to him, he did. he would worship you for the rest of his life if you let him.

the first slow drag of his tongue had your breath catching in your throat, hips twitching beneath his grip. megumi held you steady, thumbs pressing gently into your thighs, grounding you as he worked—patient, precise, like he was learning you by taste alone.

he groaned again, deeper this time, like he couldn’t believe this was real. like you were real.

“fuck,” he breathed against you, lips brushing your skin. “you’re so wet for me.”

you whimpered, fingers threading through his hair, tugging instinctively. he took it as encouragement, diving back in with more pressure, more purpose. his tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, circling your clit before flicking lightly, then repeating the motion, building you up piece by piece.

your thighs threatened to close around his head, but he just tightened his grip, keeping you open for him, keeping you his.

he glanced up at you, eyes hooded, mouth glistening. “you gonna come for me again, pretty girl?”

you couldn’t even form words—just a shaky nod and a breathless moan as he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue rolling over it like he was already addicted to the way you tasted, the way you reacted.

and he didn’t let up. not even as your body started to tremble, your moans getting higher, breath getting shorter.

“come on,” he murmured, voice dark and low, lips brushing your soaked skin. “fall apart for me. I need to feel you lose it again.”

and with the next swirl of his tongue, you did—your whole body arching, a cry ripping from your throat as the pleasure crashed over you, raw and consuming.

your back arched off the bed, fingers clutching at megumi’s hair like it was the only thing tethering you to earth. his name spilled from your lips in broken gasps, over and over, as your body shook beneath the weight of it all.

and megumi didn’t stop.

even as you trembled, even as your legs tried to close around him again, he held you open—his mouth relentless, greedy, pulling every last wave of pleasure from you like he couldn’t get enough. like the sound of you falling apart was his new favorite song.

only when your body sagged back into the mattress, chest rising and falling in uneven, ragged breaths, did he finally lift his head. his lips were slick, chin glistening, eyes dark and half-lidded as he looked up at you.

“look at you,” he whispered, breathless. “still so fucking beautiful when you come.”

you tried to speak, to say something, but all that came out was a quiet, shaky laugh—completely wrecked, completely blissed out.

megumi crawled back up your body, kissing his way up your stomach, your chest, your neck. he hovered over you now, but his eyes didn’t meet yours. almost like he was turning shy again.

“i’ve never wanted anyone like this,” he murmured, voice raw. “not like I want you.”

oh.

his confession made you finally find your voice. soft and hoarse, you whispered back, “then have me.”

that pulled his gaze back to you, eyes locking with yours as a bright, almost boyish smile tugged at his lips. your cheeks flushed under the intensity of it, warmth blooming across your face as his eyes drank you in like you were the most stunning thing he’d ever seen.

which you were.

your blush deepened under the weight of it, and megumi couldn’t tear his eyes away.

he couldn’t believe this—you. you, lying in his bed, looking at him like he was something special. like he was wanted. chosen. it didn’t make sense in his mind. you were out of his league in every way—so far out he’d never even let himself fantasize about this, not really.

you were the kind of girl people noticed when you walked into a room. confident. gorgeous. charismatic. funny. the kind of girl who had options—so many options—and somehow, you were here, looking at him like he was the only one that existed.

“quit looking at me like that.” you whispered, voice soft, playful.

he leaned down, brushing his nose against yours, lips ghosting over your own but not connecting. “I like looking at you.”

you scoffed, giving his chest a playful shove.

“yeah, you look,” you said with a teasing smirk, “but you never say anything.”

his brows shot up, clearly caught off guard. he blinked, lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite figure out how.

you noticed?

had he really been that obvious?

sure, maybe he stared a little too long in class, maybe his eyes found you at every party, maybe he lingered in conversation just to hear your laugh—but he didn’t think it showed.

but apparently , it did.

megumi ran a hand through his hair, suddenly a little flustered.

“I didn’t think it was that obvious,” he muttered, half to himself.

you laughed softly, the sound making his heart stutter. he groaned, hiding his face in your neck for a moment, his cheeks burning.

you grinned, fingers playing with the ends of his hair. “no. it was kind of cute, actually.”

that made him lift his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “cute?”

“mhm,” you said with a smirk. “like you were crushing. hard.”

he rolled his eyes, but the small smile on his face gave him away. “yea, well… maybe I was.”

“was?” you echoed, arching a brow.

his smile turned softer, more serious. “still am.”

and something about the way he said it—quiet, certain—hit you right in the chest.

suddenly, all the teasing faded, replaced by something warmer. something foreign to you.

sure, you’d had plenty of guys confess their feelings before—sweet words, nervous smiles, hopeful eyes. And you’d always let them down gently, kindly, because it never felt right.

but megumi… this was different.

this feeling was new—deeper, quieter, heavier in your chest. Like it had been building for a while, waiting for the right moment to make itself known.

And now that it was here, you weren’t sure you ever wanted it to leave.

he wasn’t just a fling. not just a night. he felt like more.

you didn’t say anything right away—just looked at him, really looked at him, and let the weight of his words settle between you.

still am.

your fingers traced a slow line down his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. it was calm now, no longer frantic, but steady—strong. just like him.

you leaned in and kissed him gently. it was sweet, passionate. no longer fueled by lust.

his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close until there was no space left to fill. and as sleep crept in, your bodies tangled together under the sheets, he let himself believe—maybe just for tonight—that this was the start of something real. that you’d still be here in the morning.

Request!! Can you prettyy please do a Ranpo x masochist reader? It can be to whatever degree you interpret it as: romatic & sexual, or a platonic pass-time to cut up a monotonous day. Go crazy w it. Physical or emotional, I'll eat up anything you put out. Feel free to ignore my dumbass, luv you! 𓆟

Yandere!Ranpo x Masochist!Reader

Another day at the Armed Detective Agency, the sun filtering through the wide office windows, the sound of papers shuffling, the occasional clatter of Fukuzawa’s tea set. Everything was normal.

At least, on the surface.

You were a new recruit—diligent, polite, attentive—the kind of employee everyone liked. You followed orders without complaint, kept your workspace tidy, and never seemed to cause trouble. Nothing about you was particularly suspicious.

But Ranpo noticed things.

The first incident.

It was entirely his fault, of course. He’d been slacking off (as usual), leaning lazily in his chair while balancing a cup of hot tea on his knee. Someone called his name, he turned too fast—

Ah, shit.

The cup tipped, spilling a few hot drops over your fingers before you managed to pull away.

"Ah—!"

Ranpo blinked down at the mess, lazily dragging his gaze back to you. You didn’t flinch. You just… turned your head slightly to the side, as if inconvenienced, as if this wasn’t worth reacting to at all. You wiped your hand on a napkin, casual as ever.

"Ahh, sorry, sorry~! Guess I got too excited" Ranpo said, dragging out his words in a sing-song tone.

"It’s okay" you replied easily, already moving on.

Ranpo squinted at you.

"Huh. That didn’t hurt?"

"Not really." You smiled

Hmmm.

The next time, he did it on purpose.

It was lunch time, the office mostly empty as everyone scattered to grab food. You were focused on your work, fingers gliding over the keyboard, too absorbed to notice Ranpo creeping up behind you.

"Boo!"

You didn’t jump.

You barely reacted at all. Your shoulders stiffened for half a second before you forced yourself to relax. But Ranpo saw it—the tension in your fingers, the way your breath hitched before settling into something controlled.

Not fear. Not normal startlement.

No—you were suppressing something.

Ranpo leaned on your desk, grinning. "Wow, you’re no fun. Didn’t even scream."

You smiled, but your grip on your pen tightened.

"You startled me a little."

"Liar~," Ranpo hummed, tilting his head. "That wasn’t ‘a little startled,’ that was a ‘I’m used to sudden things happening but I have to act normal’ kind of reaction."

Your fingers twitched. He saw that too.

The crowded hallway.

Yosano brushed past you while walking by, nothing more than a casual nudge of shoulders. You jerked ever so slightly, fingers curling, tension visible for half a second before you forced it down again.

Ranpo, watching from across the room, narrowed his eyes.

It wasn’t normal. The way you reacted to sudden movement, casual touches, heat, pain—it wasn’t the reaction of someone simply uncomfortable.

It was someone who wasn’t used to things being this light.

Ranpo popped a candy into his mouth, still watching you closely.

"Ne, ne~" he called lazily, "You sure are sensitive, huh?"

You glanced at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Dunno," he hummed, tapping his chin. "People brush past you, and you act like you’re bracing for something. But it’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t notice."

Ranpo grinned. "You don’t like pain, do you? You like it a little too much."

Your breath caught. Gotcha.

And from that moment on, Ranpo was hooked.

This was going to be so much fun.

It was too easy to pretend.

You kept your head down, listened well, followed orders. Everything about you was perfectly normal—on the surface. No reason for anyone to look too closely. No reason for anyone to suspect that beneath all that obedience was something much, much uglier.

Unfortunately, Ranpo wasn’t just anyone.

He didn’t act right away.

So instead, he watched. Quietly.

Every time you flinched—he noticed. Every time you suppressed a reaction—he noticed. Every time you acted a little too unaffected by something painful—he noticed.

And most importantly? He noticed the way you always made sure other people were around.

Because when people were watching, nothing could happen to you.

It was instinctual, the way you hovered just close enough to the others, safety in numbers, an unspoken barrier. But Ranpo was smarter than you. He was smarter than everyone.

And the moment he realized you were avoiding being alone with him?

That’s when he decided it was time to change the rules.

"You should stay late today."

He said it so casually. A lazy request, stretched out in a bored drawl, as if it were nothing important.

"You don’t mind, right? Just a little longer~? I could use the extra help with this case."

It was nonsense. Ranpo never needed help. And everyone in the ADA knew it.

You hesitated. But what could you say? No? That would be suspicious.

So you smiled, pretended it was fine. "Sure."

And with that, the office emptied out.

One by one, the others left. Atsushi, Yosano, Kunikida—all of them disappearing through the doors, their voices fading into the night. The agency lights dimmed, the usual buzz of conversation died, and soon...

It was just you and him.

Ranpo didn’t immediately pounce on his curiosity.

At first, he actually pretended to work—lounging back in his chair, half-heartedly flipping through files, occasionally tossing you some meaningless task just to keep you still.

Then, when he was sure the moment was right, he spoke.

"So… you don’t feel pain, huh?"

You froze.

It was so, so small. A brief pause in your breathing, a millisecond of tension in your fingers—but Ranpo saw it.

"What are you talking about?"

"Ohhh, don’t play dumb~." He propped his chin on one hand, watching you squirm. "I noticed, you know. You’re real good at hiding it, but I’m better at noticing things."

"I really don’t know what you mean."

Ranpo sighed dramatically, stretching his arms over his head. "Well, if you won’t admit it… should I prove it?"

Before you could react, he suddenly reached forward—

And flicked you hard on the forehead.

It wasn’t much. A childish, meaningless flick—something Atsushi would have yelped at, something Kunikida would have scolded him for. But you?

You didn’t move. Didn’t swat his hand away. Didn’t blink. Didn’t react at all.

"See? That’s what I’m talking about."

He leaned forward, too close now, too knowing. His elbows rested on his knees, posture casual, but his eyes—those sharp, all-seeing eyes—were locked entirely on you.

"That didn’t hurt, did it?"

"Don’t even try to deny~."

The office felt smaller than before. The empty desks, the dim lighting, the utter silence surrounding you both. Your heartbeat, the shift of your breath, the scrape of Ranpo’s chair as he leaned just a little closer—

It was suffocating.

"You’re really good at faking normal," he mused, tapping his chin.

His smile stretched, playful and lazy, but something dangerous lurked beneath it.

"But see, I’m kinda a genius? So stuff like that doesn’t really work on me."

He reached for his candy jar, popping one into his mouth as if this were just another conversation. As if he weren’t pinning you in place with nothing but words.

"So let’s play a game, okay?" he said cheerfully, unwrapping another candy—a deliberate pause, a build-up, forcing you to wait. "You tell me what’s up with you, and I won’t have to figure it out myself."

The candy clicked against his teeth. His smile didn’t fade.

"I mean, I’ll figure it out either way~."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Ranpo hummed. "Liar."

Another flick—this time, to your wrist. A harmless little tap, one that shouldn’t even be worth reacting to. But the expectation behind it? The way Ranpo was watching, waiting, calculating?

It made something twist inside your stomach.

"It’s weird, y'know?" he continued. "Most people have all sorts of little tells when they feel pain. They wince, they pull away, they rub at the sore spot, even just instinctively."

He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

"But you? Nothing."

"Ohhhh~." His tone lifted into something mockingly amused. "Wait. That’s not it, is it?"

Your fingers curled—Ranpo saw.

"You don’t ignore pain, you like it."

"What I don’t get," he mused, tapping a finger against his temple, "is why you try so hard to pretend otherwise."

He moved. A slow shift, resting his chin in his palm, his elbow propped against the armrest—lazy, relaxed, but watching you like a cat with a cornered mouse.

"What’s the point?"

You swallowed.

"I don’t—"

"Nuh-uh." He cut you off, "No more lying~."

Then, Ranpo sighed dramatically. "Okay, fine. If you won’t say it, I’ll just have to test it myself."

And before you could process what he meant—

His fingers suddenly tightened around your wrist.

A simple touch, his thumb pressed lightly against your pulse, fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist.

But the implication was what made something cold coil down your spine.

Because Ranpo didn’t touch people.

Not unless he was stealing snacks or draping himself over Fukuzawa like a spoiled housecat. But this?

This was deliberate.

Ranpo hummed. "Ah, see? I can feel your pulse picking up~."

"That means you’re nervous," he went on, "But not scared. Which means—"

He squeezed.

Ranpo studied you for another long, agonizing moment before suddenly—letting go.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms with a yawn. "Welp~! That’s all I needed to know."

Ranpo smiled.

"You’re really bad at hiding things, y'know? But that’s okay!" His tone was cheerful. "I don’t mind playing with you a little."

Ranpo reached for another candy, lazily unwrapping it with one hand. He didn’t look at you, but you could feel the weight of his attention.

"Just so you know~," he drawled, popping the sweet into his mouth. "I’m not letting this go."

"And the fun part? You can’t stop me."

That much was clear.

Ranpo knew your secret.

----

Wherever you went, cases followed.

Murders, disappearances, odd incidents—the kind of things that required his presence, much to his displeasure.

Ranpo had noticed the pattern early on.

It wasn’t just coincidence. It wasn’t just bad luck.

You were like a grim reaper in disguise.

And for the first time in a while—Ranpo wasn’t bored.

"You attract the fun kind of trouble."

"Tsk, tsk~." Ranpo clicked his tongue, rocking back on his heels. "You really know how to keep me busy, huh?"

Another crime scene. Another case that wasn’t even worth his full brain power.

Blood soaked the alley floor. The body was still warm. And yet, Ranpo barely spared it a glance, instead letting his sharp green eyes drift to you.

You were used to this.

"You know, I almost feel bad," Ranpo continued, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Wherever you go, someone dies. How tragic~."

You sighed. "I don’t cause it."

"Mmm, debatable."

Ranpo grinned, but there was something sharper behind it.

"You're always at the scene. Always nearby. Even when it doesn’t make sense for you to be."

A slow step forward.

"Almost like you enjoy it."

He got bored so easily. That was the problem.

Most cases weren’t worth his time. Most people were predictable.

But you? You were different.

Ranpo licked his lips, thoughtful. "Ne, ne~. Do you think the killers know?"

"Know what?"

"That they should be more scared of you than me."

There it was. That little, tiny slip of hesitation.

Ranpo grinned.

"Don’t worry, I won’t tell."

For the first time in ages, solving cases wasn’t boring.

Because you were there. Because you reacted in all the wrong ways.

Because you weren’t normal, and Ranpo loved breaking things open just to see what spilled out.

"I think I’ll stick close to you~" he hummed, nudging your shoulder as the sirens wailed behind you both.

"After all—" he turned, smiling like a child with a new toy.

"—I wouldn’t wanna miss the show."

It was getting ridiculous at this point.

The Agency had been busier than ever since you joined.

Accidents. Murders. High-profile cases that should’ve been one-in-a-million coincidences—yet somehow, wherever you went, another incident cropped up.

Fukuzawa hadn’t said anything outright, but you knew he’d noticed. Kunikida was constantly scribbling in his notebook, muttering about “statistical anomalies.” Even Dazai had joked about how you were the unluckiest (or maybe luckiest) person they’d ever hired.

And Ranpo?

Ranpo just grinned like he already knew the answer.

"Maybe you’re cursed."

You had shrugged. "Maybe."

Ranpo hummed, popping a piece of candy into his mouth. "If you are, I kinda like it."

And that had been the end of that.

"Tch—! Atsushi, focus!"

You barely ducked in time as the enemy’s blade sliced through the air.

This case was supposed to be hard. A brutal serial killer—one with connections to the Port Mafia, one who had managed to evade capture far longer than expected.

Which was why Atsushi had been sent with you.

"I got him!" Atsushi growled, dodging a strike before slamming his claws into the enemy’s ribs—only for the bastard to twist away at the last second.

A few feet behind you, Ranpo yawned loudly. "Ahhh~. You guys are taking too long."

"Then help—!" Atsushi snapped, but Ranpo waved him off.

"Nah, I already solved it."

"…What?"

Ranpo grinned. "Yup! Figured it out ages ago. He’s got an old knife wound in his left side, see? From a previous fight. That’s why he keeps avoiding right-handed attacks—his muscles are weaker there."

Atsushi stared.

"Then—then why didn’t you say anything sooner?!"

"Because you were having fun~," Ranpo said simply, stretching his arms over his head. "And it’s not like I was ever in danger."

The second Ranpo spoke those words—the moment he revealed that he was the one who had figured everything out—The killer moved.

He must’ve known the Agency would catch him eventually. He must’ve known this was the end.

So if he couldn’t escape…

He would at least take one of you with him.

And he knew exactly who to target.

Ranpo—the brains of the Agency.

The knife swung for him.

And you—because you were you—reacted immediately.

Atsushi shouted. Ranpo’s eyes widened.

But neither of them moved fast enough.

Because you were already there.

You stepped into the blade.

Pain blossomed.

A sharp, beautiful thing.

The knife sank deep, slicing across your side, the force of the attack knocking the breath from your lungs. Blood soaked through your clothes, warm and spreading, but the moment the blade left your skin—

Your lips curled into a smile. That was amazing.

"Oi—!!"

Ranpo’s voice was sharper than you’d ever heard it.

He caught you just as your knees buckled. His usual lazy demeanor had vanished—replaced by something much, much darker.

"What the hell was that?" he hissed.

You swallowed, heart pounding. "Keeping you alive."

"That wasn’t your job."

"Well, it is now."

Ranpo’s expression shifted.

Something visibly snapped behind his green eyes.

Atsushi roared—his tiger form tearing into the culprit, rage and panic fueling his attack. The sound of metal hitting the floor, the sickening crunch of bones breaking—none of it mattered.

"You shouldn’t be able to smile like that."

His fingers dug into your wrist.

"You’re bleeding."

The moment you collapsed into him. The moment he realized you had taken a wound that was meant for him.

The game had shifted.

Ranpo wasn’t bored anymore.

"I don’t like that." His voice was light, but his grip on you was too firm. "I don’t like that at all."

And then—Ranpo smiled.

A slow, terrifyingly amused thing.

"Guess I’ll just have to keep a better eye on you, huh?"

---

The first thing you noticed was the lack of pain.

You should’ve felt sore, at the very least. That knife wound had dug deep, and yet— When you shifted, there was nothing. No sting, no ache—just the softness of a futon and the unmistakable presence of another person.

Ranpo.

Sitting cross-legged beside you, sucking lazily on a lollipop.

He was watching.

"Ohhh~." His voice was mockingly sweet. "Look who’s awake~."

You sat up slowly, glancing around. Yosano’s doing. You had been expecting that.

"Completely healed" he said, stretching. "Ain’t that nice? If it were anyone else, they’d probably still be out cold for another day or two. But since it’s you~"—he wiggled his fingers—"poof! Good as new."

You stared.

Then, cautiously, side-eyed him.

Ranpo giggled.

"What? You don’t trust me?" He pulled his lollipop from his mouth with a dramatic pout. "That hurts, y'know~."

You didn’t respond.

Ranpo hummed, twirling the candy between his fingers before suddenly holding it out to you.

"Here. Wanna taste?"

You glanced between him and the half-melted candy.

Slowly, narrowing your eyes.

Ranpo’s lips twitched.

"Haaah~. So rude." He rolled his eyes, stuffing the lollipop back into his own mouth before reaching into his pocket.

Crinkle.

A fresh one.

He unwrapped it for you, flashing you a mockingly indulgent smile as he held it up—

And just as your fingers brushed against it—

Ranpo leaned in.

And licked it.

Smirking as he pressed it right against your lips.

"Here~" he purred. "Open up."

"C’mon," he teased, voice dripping with amusement. "You’re not gonna waste it, are you?"

You could still see the way his tongue had just been on it.

The heat of his breath, the lazy grin, the unmistakable enjoyment dancing in his green eyes—

This was a game.

And he was waiting to see if you’d play along.

You didn’t play along.

Ranpo pouted dramatically.

"Maaaan" he sighed, tilting his head. "You’re no fun."

The lollipop hovered at your lips. Sticky. Sweet. Still carrying the warmth of his mouth.

You stared.

It was a battle of patience now.

Ranpo watched, waiting for you to crack.

You waited for him to get bored.

"Fine, be that way~."

You almost sighed in relief

Until his teeth sunk into your finger.

Not hard. But enough. Sharp canines pressing down—just the right amount of pressure— Your lips parted, a sharp inhale slipping through before you could stop it.

And in that moment of weakness—

Ranpo took his win.

With an obnoxiously pleased hum, he pushed the lollipop past your lips.

"See?" he cooed, leaning back with a mockingly triumphant smile. "That wasn’t so hard, now was it?"

You glared at him over the candy.

Ranpo just giggled.

He had won.

This time.