Master List Link

❅ 𝐳𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞!𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 ❅

Apparently Miles is a JJK fan (in the comics)

If you put these two in a room together I think the result would be adorable 🥺

the sadness in his eyes is saying a lot…

Hi, can I request a yandere ranpo x reader obsessed with puzzles and (ranpo) the reader doesn't stop until the puzzle is finished? But the reader can sometimes be very stupid and absent-minded, for example, that a crossword puzzle or a sudoku is difficult for him and that cooking is difficult for them

Yandere!Ranpo x Reader

Ranpo stared at the board, blinking once. Then twice. His usual smug smirk faltered, the lollipop in his mouth tilting precariously.

"I lost?"

Across from him, you leaned back in your chair, fingers interlaced behind your head. "You did" you confirmed, tilting your head with a satisfied grin. "Fair and square."

The room, once filled with the quiet murmurs of spectators who had gathered to witness the so-called ‘Greatest Detective’ effortlessly crush yet another opponent, had now been reduced to stunned disbelief. It wasn’t just a puzzle contest—it was him against you. And he had lost.

Ranpo’s gaze flicked between the board and your expression, scanning for any sign of trickery, deception, an explanation for this anomaly. But all he saw was the calm confidence of someone who had outplayed him.

The moment you stood up, stretching as if this was just another casual game for you, Ranpo made a decision.

He had to know.

And so, he followed you.

At first, it was subtle—watching from a distance as you went about your day, noting every little habit. The way you absentmindedly traced patterns with your fingers while reading, how your eyes scanned rooms as if cataloging every detail.

By the third day, he was practically glued to your side.

"You're fascinating, y'know that?" he hummed, walking backwards in front of you, hands tucked behind his head. "I've solved cases in minutes, unraveled conspiracies, read people like open books—but you? Hah, you’re like a puzzle I haven’t finished yet."

You raised a brow, adjusting the bag slung over your shoulder

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he beamed. "Hey! Come hang out at the Agency with me! We have tons of puzzles there."

You narrowed your eyes. "You just want to figure me out."

"You are a mystery worth solving, after all."

And Ranpo hated unsolved mysteries.

Walking into the Armed Detective Agency felt like stepping into a room full of people who had just seen a ghost.

"…Ranpo, who’s that?" Atsushi asked hesitantly, blinking between you and Ranpo, who had a triumphant grin plastered across his face.

"My new favorite person" Ranpo announced proudly, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "They’re really good at puzzles."

"You brought them here… just because they’re good at puzzles?" Kunikida adjusted his glasses, already rubbing his temple as if anticipating a migraine.

"Hey! I bring valuable people to the agency all the time" Ranpo pouted. "Besides, they beat me in a contest. Me. That’s gotta mean something, right?"

Dazai let out a low whistle, resting his chin in his palm. "You lost? Now that’s a rare sight."

You rolled your eyes at the attention but smirked at Ranpo. "Told you it wasn’t a fluke."

"You still have to prove it wasn’t luck" Ranpo teased back.

Before the banter could continue, the atmosphere shifted with the sharp ring of the agency phone. Kunikida answered, his expression growing serious.

"A murder case" he said after a moment, glancing around. "And it’s… strange. The police can’t make sense of the crime scene."

Ranpo’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

You could feel the moment he made the decision before he even said it.

"Y/N's coming with me" Ranpo announced, pointing at you.

"Wait, what?"

"You're already here. And you love puzzles. It’ll be fun!"

"That’s not—!"

Too late. He was already dragging you toward the exit, his grip surprisingly firm.

"Ranpo!" Kunikida shouted.

"Don’t worry, we’ll solve it in no time~!" Ranpo sang, waving over his shoulder.

And just like that, you were thrown into a murder investigation.

The crime scene was bizarre.

A locked-room murder, but instead of the usual grim chaos, the place was meticulously arranged. The body lay in the center of the room, surrounded by neatly placed puzzle pieces. Scraps of paper with half-finished riddles were scattered across the table. The walls were adorned with cryptic messages, some in different languages, some in numbers.

Ranpo let out a low whistle, crouching near one of the riddles. "Whoever did this really went all out. Trying to turn a crime scene into a game?" He glanced at you, a slow smirk forming. "Sounds like your kind of thing."

This wasn’t just some puzzle game—it was a murder. But you couldn’t deny it: the challenge intrigued you.

"This is gonna be fun."

And for the first time since stepping into this case, you couldn’t help but agree.

The room felt suffocating.

Even with the windows open, a chill clung to the air, heavy with something wrong. The crime scene had long since been cleared of the body, but the echoes of violence remained. Blood had soaked into the wooden floorboards, forming patterns.

You and Ranpo sat in the center of the room, surrounded by dozens of puzzle pieces.

Each piece was a fragment of a Polaroid, stained at the edges, some speckled with blood. A single letter was scrawled on the back of each in spidery handwriting. The police had given up, calling it ‘incomprehensible.’ You and Ranpo? You lived for this.

Your hands trembled slightly as you connected another corner. A distorted image was beginning to take shape.

A face.

Or at least, what used to be a face.

The photograph showed the victim’s head—stitched together, their mouth twisted into an unnatural grin, eyes removed and replaced with buttons.

"This is sick."

Ranpo, sitting cross-legged beside you, popped a lollipop into his mouth, eyes fixed on the puzzle with unsettling fascination. "It's art," he mused. "A very, very deranged kind, but art nonetheless."

"That’s not funny."

"But it’s true," he said simply. Then he tapped at the letters forming a rough circle around the grotesque image. "Now, what do you make of these?"

You hesitated, scanning the pieces. Your mind worked instinctively, arranging and rearranging in your head.

"It’s an anagram"

Ranpo leaned in as you rearranged the letters in your head, mouth moving silently before you whispered the answer.

"Find the next piece."

Ranpo grinned. "Oh-ho~ This just got way more interesting."

By the time the case was wrapped up, you were exhausted.

Days of unraveling cryptic messages, following trails that led to dead ends, and confronting the kind of darkness most people spent their lives avoiding had taken its toll.

You barely managed to stumble into your apartment before collapsing onto your bed, not even bothering to change. Sleep pulled at you instantly, mind clouded with half-formed riddles and the echo of Ranpo’s voice teasing in your ears.

The Armed Detective Agency was unusually quiet the next morning.

"Has anyone seen Ranpo?" Kunikida asked, flipping through his notebook with an exasperated sigh.

Atsushi frowned. "He wasn’t here when I came in…"

Dazai, leaning back in his chair, grinned lazily. "Maybe he found something more interesting to do."

Fukuzawa, usually calm, let out a small sigh. "Knowing him, he’s up to something."

And they were right. Because while the ADA was wondering where their detective had gone, Ranpo was already at your front door.

With a bag of snacks in one hand and a smirk in place, he knocked.

"Oi~ Open up! I know you’re in there."

You groaned, shoving a pillow over your face.

He knocked again. "C’mon, don’t make me deduce my way inside."

You threw the pillow aside with a sigh.

Ranpo just grinned wider as you cracked the door open, eyes still groggy with sleep.

"Morning, bestie~!"

You stared. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He held up a bag of your favorite snacks. "Bribing my way into your apartment. I figured since we bonded over that lovely murder, we should hang out more!"

You groaned, rubbing your temples.

And yet… as much as you hated to admit it, the idea of pushing him away didn’t even cross your mind.

Ranpo had made himself far too comfortable in your apartment. Feet propped up on your coffee table, his bag of snacks nearly empty, he was lazily tossing random questions your way—questions that, in your half-asleep state, you barely registered.

"What do you think is the best way to disappear without a trace?"

"Mmh."

"Do you think Dazai would look better in a detective hat or a clown wig?"

"Sure."

"Okay, but if you had to choose between getting locked in a room with a serial killer or letting me eat the last of your snacks, which would you pick?"

"Whatever."

Ranpo pouted. "Rude."

You barely reacted, eyes fluttering shut as you curled deeper into the couch. He clicked his tongue, scanning your bookshelf before suddenly perking up.

"Oh? What’s this?"

You cracked one eye open just in time to see him holding up a small, intricately designed puzzle box.

Your drowsiness evaporated instantly.

"Wait, where did you get that?"

Ranpo grinned, spinning it in his hands. "It was just sitting there, waiting for me~ You like these, huh?"

You barely heard him, already snatching it from his grasp. Your fingers traced the carvings along the edges, the weight of it familiar.

This was a real puzzle. A mechanical challenge, gears hidden beneath the surface, secrets locked inside.

You were hooked immediately.

Ranpo watched, scowling as you became utterly absorbed, twisting and turning the pieces, eyes gleaming with focus.

"Oi."

No response.

He poked your cheek. "Hellooo?"

Still nothing.

"You’re ignoring me," he muttered, arms crossing. "I brought that for you and now you won’t even look at me?"

You mumbled something incomprehensible, fingers still working at the puzzle’s hidden mechanisms.

Ranpo sulked. He had specifically come here to spend time with you. You. Not some dumb wooden contraption!

He was starting to hate that box.

And yet, as evening crept in, you still hadn’t solved it.

Ranpo’s mood lightened when you finally sighed and set it aside, stretching with a groan.

"Okay," you mumbled. "I need a break. I’ll cook something."

Ranpo blinked. "You can cook?"

"...I can try."

What followed could only be described as culinary carnage.

Ranpo watched in horrified fascination as you fumbled with the ingredients, nearly set something on fire (twice), and somehow managed to make instant noodles taste like regret.

"You’re a genius at puzzles but this is beyond you?" he snickered, dodging the halfhearted attempt you made to smack his arm.

"Shut up, I don’t do this often!"

"Clearly."

Just as he was about to tease you further, his phone buzzed.

Ranpo sighed dramatically before answering.

"Ah, what is it this time?"

"Ranpo, we have a problem."

A gleam of excitement flickered in his eyes.

"Perfect timing. I was getting bored."

Before you could even process what was happening, Ranpo had already grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward the door.

"Wait—what about food?!"

He waved off your concerns. "Who cares? Side quest time~!"

"I care!"

But it was too late.

With an empty stomach and a very bad feeling, you found yourself dragged into yet another mystery.

You had been expecting something serious.

A murder. A kidnapping. Some complex conspiracy that only Ranpo could unravel.

What you hadn’t expected… was a missing cat.

"You dragged me out for this?" you panted, hands on your knees.

The old woman who had called for help wrung her hands nervously. "I-I'm sorry for the trouble, but my dear Momo has never run off before! She’s a precious girl, so well-behaved, I just—"

Ranpo cut her off with a lazy wave. "Yeah, yeah, no worries, ma’am. We’ll find your little furball."

You shot him a glare. "We?"

He grinned. "Obviously. You’re part of the team now!"

You groaned.

The search turned out to be far more exhausting than expected.

Momo was no ordinary house cat—she was an absolute menace.

She had led you both through alleyways, rooftops, and somehow, at one point, an underground bar (don’t ask). You had climbed over fences, gotten chased by an angry shopkeeper after Ranpo ‘borrowed’ some fish, and nearly faceplanted into a pile of garbage when Momo darted out of reach.

By the time you finally caught the tiny devil and returned her home, you were done.

"Never again" you wheezed, leaning against a lamppost, trying not to collapse.

Ranpo, perfectly fine, patted your head like you were some exhausted puppy. "Good job, partner~"

"I hate you."

"No, you don’t."

"…Give me five minutes, and I might."

He only laughed.

The night air was cool as you sat at a small food stall, finally finally getting something to eat.

You slumped over the counter, barely able to hold your chopsticks.

Ranpo, as lively as ever, happily slurped his noodles. "Y’know, for someone so good at puzzles, your stamina sucks."

You sent him a half-hearted glare. "Not all of us are built for running an obstacle course for a cat."

"Excuses, excuses."

Despite his teasing, he nudged an extra skewer toward you.

You took it with a grumble, too hungry to argue.

That was when you felt it.

A prickle at the back of your neck.

Subtle, but unmistakable.

Someone was watching you.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your chopsticks.

You scanned the street casually—nothing seemed out of place. Just pedestrians, workers, and the occasional couple enjoying the evening air.

You barely turned your head, but Ranpo noticed.

He took a casual sip of his drink before murmuring, "Don't react. Just act natural."

"So I am being watched" you muttered under your breath.

"Oh, absolutely," he whispered. "And whoever they are… they’re not just a random stalker."

Your grip on the skewer tightened.

"Guess this means the real game is starting~"

The next morning, the eerie sensation of being watched was gone.

Just the usual bustle of the city, people moving about their lives as if nothing had happened.

But something still felt off.

Maybe it was the fact that Ranpo was being even more insufferable than usual.

"You're walking too far ahead" he complained, suddenly grabbing your wrist and pulling you back beside him.

"Since when do you care about walking distance?"

He huffed, swinging your arm slightly as he held onto it. "Since you started getting distracted by other things when I'm right here."

You scoffed, shaking him off. "You're acting clingy."

Ranpo gasped dramatically. "Me?"

"Yes. You."

He pouted "Well, maybe someone should appreciate how much I care."

The agency had already noticed his shift in behavior.

Ranpo was always eccentric, but today?

If anyone so much as greeted you, he would cut in.

Atsushi had tried to ask about the case from yesterday? Ranpo answered for you before you could get a word in.

Dazai had made a casual joke about inviting you out for lunch?

Ranpo laughed, but the way he stepped in front of you was anything but playful.

Even Yosano, who usually didn’t care for Ranpo’s antics, raised an eyebrow when he quite literally dragged you away from Kunikida’s work desk before the man could assign you anything.

"Ranpo, I can talk to other people, you know."

"Nope."

"…Nope?"

"You’re mine today."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me~"

You stared at him, waiting for some kind of follow-up. Maybe a joke, maybe a smug ‘just kidding.’

But no.

He just continued on, casually snacking on some sweets, as if what he said was perfectly normal.

----

The morning felt... strangely peaceful.

No Ranpo clinging to your side. No smug remarks. No insistent dragging to whatever nonsense he decided was your business too.

For the first time in days, you could actually breathe.

Maybe he got busy.

Maybe he finally got bored of shadowing your every move.

You weren’t sure if that idea was relieving or unnerving.

Either way, you decided to take advantage of the rare moment of freedom—grabbing coffee alone, wandering through the city without someone constantly pulling at your sleeve, and even stopping by a bookstore to browse puzzles at your own pace.

But that peaceful feeling shattered the second you got home.

The door was slightly ajar.

You knew you had locked it before leaving.

Slowly, cautiously, you pushed it open.

Your apartment was exactly how you left it. No overturned furniture, no broken windows, nothing missing.

You stepped inside, heart pounding as you scanned every inch of your space.

Drawers had been opened.

Books had been shifted.

Your desk, usually neat, had its contents disturbed—papers moved just slightly out of place.

Whoever had been here wasn’t after valuables. They weren’t looking for money.

The police arrived quickly, investigating the break-in with their usual procedure—dusting for fingerprints, asking if you noticed anything strange.

"Nothing was stolen?" One of the officers asked, flipping through his notes.

You shook your head. "Not that I can tell."

"That’s... unusual," he admitted. "Break-ins like this typically have a motive."

"So, what? This was just to send a message?"

The officer exchanged glances with his partner.

"We can’t say for sure, but… be careful. If anything else happens, let us know immediately."

As they left, the unease in your chest didn’t fade.

You tried not to dwell on the break-in.

Nothing was stolen. Nothing was damaged.

The police had done their part, and aside from the unsettling feeling that someone had been there, there was nothing else you could do.

So, life went on.

Eventually, you decided a fresh start would be best.

A new apartment. A quieter part of town.

For a while, things were… peaceful.

You didn’t avoid Ranpo, exactly. But he had stopped appearing in your daily life like an ever-present shadow.

Maybe he finally lost interest.

Maybe he had other mysteries to chase after.

It was better this way.

Until the night everything changed.

A frantic knock shattered the silence.

You glanced at the clock—past midnight.

No one visited you this late.

Approaching the door cautiously, you hesitated before unlocking it.

The second you cracked it open, Ranpo shoved his way inside, slamming it shut behind him.

"Lock it!" he ordered, breathless.

You startled but obeyed, twisting the bolt shut.

"Ranpo, what the hell—?"

His usual smug, lazy demeanor was gone. His clothes were slightly disheveled, his hair messier than usual, and his chest rose and fell rapidly as if he had been running. His eyes darted around your apartment before finally landing on you.

"You need to leave. Now."

"What? Why?"

Ranpo grabbed your wrist, "We need to go."

You had never seen him like this.

"Ranpo." You yanked your wrist free, stepping back. "Tell me what's going on."

He exhaled sharply, frustrated. "There's no time!"

"Then make time!"

For a split second, his eyes locked onto yours, then just as quickly, he was moving again—grabbing a chair, pushing it up against the door.

"Someone is after us," he muttered, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "I don’t know how they found you so fast, but—"

knock

Both of you froze.

Three soft raps against the wood.

Ranpo inhaled sharply through his nose, and for the first time since he’d arrived, you saw it.

Fear.

You didn’t want to look at the door.

Didn’t want to move.

But your body betrayed you.

Step by step, you approached it, barely able to hear over the pounding in your ears.

Then—

A piece of paper slid under the door.

A single, neatly folded note.

The knock had stopped.

You hesitated, then crouched down, hand trembling slightly as you picked it up.

Unfolding it carefully, you read the single line scrawled across the page:

"You solved my last puzzle. Now solve this one."

Ranpo was beside you in an instant, snatching the paper from your hands.

His lips pressed into a thin line, eyes scanning the message with a look you had never seen before.

"I should’ve known they'd come for you next."

"Who?"

He crumpled the note in his fist.

"Someone who doesn't play fair."

Another knock.

This time, harder.

Ranpo grabbed your wrist again, yanking you toward the back door.

"No more questions. We're leaving. Now."

And this time, you didn’t argue.

Ranpo practically dragged you out the back door, the cold night air bit at your skin as you stumbled onto the empty street, your mind racing.

Whoever had left that note—whoever had been knocking—was still inside your apartment.

“Where are we going?” you demanded, struggling to keep up.

“Somewhere safe,” he muttered, barely sparing you a glance.

The city blurred past as he led you down alleyways, side streets, weaving through the darkness like he had planned this route a thousand times before.

“Ranpo, slow down—”

“Can’t.”

“Damn it!” You yanked your arm free, chest heaving. “What the hell is going on? What was that note? Who’s after us?”

He turned on you fast. His eyes gleamed in the dim streetlights, something unreadable swirling in them.

“Why do you keep asking questions you don’t want the answers to?”

Hours Later.

The safe house was an old building on the outskirts of the city, abandoned and isolated.

Ranpo had led you inside, locking the doors, checking the windows, making sure no one had followed.

And now, you sat in the dimly lit room, your pulse finally slowing, trying to piece it all together.

Everything that had happened.

The break-in.

The missing stalker.

The note.

Your entire life had been upended in a matter of days.

A creeping unease slithered into your thoughts.

“Ranpo. You never answered me.”

“About what?”

“Why were you running?”

The pieces were coming together, whether you wanted them to or not.

“You knew exactly where to go”

Ranpo didn’t reply.

“And that note—” Your fingers clenched into your sleeves.

“Ah,” he murmured, tilting his head. “And here I thought I’d get to play just a little longer.”

“Ranpo,” you said, “What did you do?”

He sighed, stepping forward, completely relaxed, as if this was just another game to him.

“Did you really think some random stalker was after you?” he mused. “That some unknown threat was breaking into your home, following your every move?”

“You never even questioned why I was always one step ahead.” he continued.

“It was you.” Your voice was barely audible. “It was always you.”

“Of course it was.”

“Why?” The question escaped before you could stop it.

“You wouldn’t stay,” he murmured, “You kept slipping away. Distracted by other things. Other people.”

He took another step forward, and this time, you had nowhere to go.

“But I knew how to keep your attention,” he said softly, tilting his head. “You love puzzles, don’t you?”

The words felt like ice in your veins.

“I gave you one.”

Your breath hitched.

“I was your puzzle.”

“And now? You’re finally paying attention to me.”

The game wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

You felt sick.

Ranpo’s words echoed in your mind, rattling inside your skull like a cruel joke.

"If you want to leave, then alright—"

"But you must solve one last puzzle."

Then he had left.

And now, you were alone.

The room was empty, save for a single wooden desk shoved against the farthest wall.

Your first instinct was to check there.

Nothing. No notes, no hidden drawers, no conveniently placed riddles waiting to be solved.

You scoured the rest of the space, searching for something. A pattern. A clue. Anything.

But there was nothing.

For the first time in your life, a puzzle had no pieces.

Frustration burned beneath your skin.

Ranpo had never left you without a lead before.

Not even when you were competing against him, not even when he wanted to win.

So why now?

Ranpo had turned himself into a puzzle, left himself as the only answer, and now he was making you do the work.

Making you chase him.

One thing was clear: the answer would lead you to the next location.

Your eyes scanned over the place to find some blood-red markings and that’s when you saw it.

Beneath the cryptic symbols, hidden in the mess of strokes, was something else.

A drawing.

A bridge.

But not just any bridge—you recognized this one.

The bridge loomed over you, empty and silent under the dim glow of streetlights.

The wind howled through the metal beams, a lonely, ghostly sound.

A figure stood at the center of the bridge, just barely visible under the flickering light.

"That took you longer than expected"

"Cut the crap. What do you want?"

"Another game, obviously."

With a dramatic flourish, he pulled something from behind him.

A puzzle box. Dark wood, intricate carvings.

It looked simple at first—just a standard mechanical puzzle with moving pieces.

"You solve this, you win" he said, stepping closer, holding it out to you. "And if I do?"

"Then this ends."

"Exactly."

You snatched the puzzle box from his hands, ignoring the way he watched you, amused, expectant.

This would be easy.

Or so you thought.

Because the moment your fingers moved the first piece—

It locked.

You frowned.

Ranpo grinned.

"Aww, did I forget to mention?"

"I rigged it."

"You what—"

"Oops." His expression was nothing but smug satisfaction. "Looks like you can’t win after all."

Your grip on the puzzle box tightened, anger bubbling beneath your skin.

"You—"

Before you could finish, Ranpo took a step back, slipping just out of reach.

"You’re sooooooo close" he teased, voice almost sing-song. "But I guess you’ll just have to stay with me a little longer to figure it out."

This wasn’t about solving a puzzle.

This was about trapping you in his game.

And he was never going to let you win.

Your fingers dug into the puzzle box, nails pressing so hard against the wood that they nearly left marks.

You loved puzzles. They were pure—logic and reason wrapped into a perfect solution. A challenge, but always one with an answer.

But this?

This was an insult.

Ranpo had rigged it. Not as a test, not as a real challenge, but as a way to trap you.

You felt the anger rise in your chest like a firestorm.

"You’re mocking it" you hissed, gripping the box so tightly your knuckles turned white. "This isn’t a puzzle—it’s a joke."

"Don’t be mad," he cooed, tilting his head. "I think it’s fun."

"You ruined it."

"You’re adorable when you’re angry" he mused, taking a lazy step forward.

You instinctively stepped back.

Wrong move.

Ranpo’s eyes lit up.

"Oh?" His smirk widened. "Are you scared of me now?"

You weren’t.

His amusement took on a new edge.

"I thought you liked puzzles" he murmured, voice dropping just slightly. "And yet, here you are, acting like you don’t want to play anymore."

Your jaw clenched. "Because this isn’t one."

He hummed, taking another step forward.

You forced yourself to stay still.

"Isn’t it? Then why are you still holding on to it?"

He was right.

Your grip on the box was tight, unwilling to let it go—even though you knew it was a trick.

"See? You’re still playing my game."

His fingers brushed yours.

"Why fight it?" he murmured, leaning in just a bit more. "You love this. You love me."

Your head felt fuzzy.

Your grip on the puzzle box loosened—just slightly.

Ranpo was always on your mind.

Just like a puzzle—taunting, unsolved, endless.

At first, you thought you could figure him out.

You wanted to.

He was a challenge unlike any other.

He was never just one thing.

One moment, he was playful. The next, eerily perceptive. One moment, he was leading you along like a game piece. The next, pulling you in like he had been waiting for you all along.

And it was exhausting.

You exhaled, shoulders slumping. "I don’t get you, Ranpo."

Your fingers tightened around the rigged puzzle box. "The more I try to understand you, the less I actually do."

For once, he was silent.

Then—

He laughed.

It unsettled you more than anything.

"You finally get it," he mused, tilting his head. "That’s why you can’t leave me alone."

Your brows furrowed. "What?"

"You love puzzles, then what’s better than one you’ll never solve?"

"I know. It’s frustrating. Confusing. But isn’t that what makes it fun?"

You barely realized it when your grip on the puzzle box finally loosened.

"You’re obsessed with me," he said simply. "And that’s okay."

And the moment you did—

Ranpo caught it.

And you.

"You’re tired" he said "Then don’t think anymore."

✿❀○ KUSURIYA NO HITORIGOTO E29 ❃ MAOMAO ○❀✿

sukuna being the test subject of your lip products | f. reader, s/h prns., crack 'n suggestive (under the cut), estb. rl ؛ ଓ

you don’t ask anymore. you just do.

the moment a new PR package shows up—wrapped in glittery tissue, smelling like candy and capitalism—you’re already rolling up your sleeves and calling, “baby, come here. test dummy time.” sukuna groans from wherever he’s sulking in the apartment (usually the couch, half-asleep with one hand in a bag of chips and the other on his game controller). he pretends not to hear you, but he does. he always does.

“what now?” he drags his feet over. shirtless, pouting, voice gravelly with freshly summoned attitude. “if this is another ‘juicy lip plumper no. 3’ i’m gonna riot.”

you ignore him, your hand snaking around his wrist and pulls him down to your vanity stool like you pay him for this. in a way, you do — you kiss him after, and he’d commit federal crimes for that.

“this one’s called eternal cherry kiss,” you say as you uncap the applicator with a dramatic flourish. “supposed to last through eating and drinking. you’ll be the judge.”

“what the fuck is ‘eternal cherry’ supposed to taste like?”

“eternally cherry, obviously.” you lean in. “now pucker up.”

he rolls his eyes, exhales through his nose like this is such an inconvenience, but he leans in anyway. you swipe the gloss across his mouth in a single fluid motion — crimson and glossy, instantly turning his lips into a billboard ad for ‘kissing season.’

he smacks his lips. frowns.

“feels sticky.”

you pull out your phone and hit record. “and now, we let the wear test begin.”

by 2 p.m., he’s still wearing it. there’s a faint cherry sheen while he raids in world of warcraft, barking orders through his mic with his mouth shimmering like a debutante. his guild doesn’t say anything. they know better.

by 5 p.m., you’ve taken him out for errands, the cashier at the pharmacy doing a double take. sukuna glares at the display of cough drops like it wronged him personally, but he doesn’t wipe it off. not even once.

you hand him a mic for the “after” segment. he’s sitting on the kitchen counter, shirtless again, lips still kissed-stained and glowy.

“so, mr. sukuna,” you say with your best influencer voice. “tell us your final review.”

he glares at the camera as he crosses his arms. the gloss is half-faded, but still there, like a badge of honor.

“it’s obnoxious. it survived a shower. survived battle. survived me eating an entire plate of biryani. and her biting my bottom lip at lunch like a demon in heat.”

you make a peace sign from behind the phone.

“…ten outta ten,” he adds reluctantly. “would wear again. for science. or whatever.”

and in the comments, someone goes, “i want what they have.”

sukuna replies from your account—because of course he has the password—with: “die mad about it.”

but since testing lip products just on the lips is for cowards, you’ve upgraded.

this is science. clinical, methodical, incredibly serious influencer business. and sukuna? well, he’s your canvas. your unwilling, irritable, secretly-over-the-moon canvas. he walks into the room already shirtless—because at this point, he knows—arms crossed over his bare chest, all grumble and menace. “so what’s the experiment today, doc? you gonna write your damn @ on my forehead in pink gloss?”

“don’t tempt me,” you say sweetly, uncapping the new gloss. it’s called kissbomb ultra lacquer, and it smells like peaches. “this one claims to last twelve hours, transfer-proof, fade-resistant, and kink-safe.”

he blinks. “kink-safe?”

“don’t worry about it.” you grab his wrist and guide him to sit on the edge of the bed. “shirt off.”

“already is,” he mutters.

“pants too.”

he raises a brow. “...you testing or tryna get laid?”

“yes.”

you climb into his lap with the confidence of a scientist mid-breakthrough, gloss wand in one hand, determination in the other. you apply it slowly, precisely, like you’re prepping for war.

and then the kisses start.

soft little muahs on the corner of his jaw. one on the bridge of his nose. two on his neck, left and right, where his pulse ticks faster. one on each shoulder, then trailing down the hard curve of his bicep. his arms are crossed still, fists clenched, jaw tight—but his ears? red. his breathing? not as chill as he wants to seem.

you murmur, “don’t flex. you’ll smudge the print.”

“’m not flexing,” he says through gritted teeth. “this is just how i exist.”

you keep going. lips marking his collarbones, his ribs, his stomach. lower. every kiss leaving a little stain in a perfect pink imprint like someone went stamp! stamp! stamp! on your big scary man and turned him into a valentine’s day clearance bin.

“you know,” you say thoughtfully, inspecting your work, “you kinda look like the lesbian flag right now.”

he glares at you. “say that again and i’ll throw you out the window.”

you grin, not even fazed. “oh no. my hot queer ally boyfriend’s covered in lip prints. whatever will i do.”

the whole day, he walks around the apartment looking like a sexy battlefield. every mirror he passes, he pauses—just for a second—checking if they’re still there. (they are. of course they are. you chose a good gloss.)

he’s got one kiss mark on the dip of his spine. two on the inside of his thighs. one perfectly placed behind his ear that makes him twitch every time he catches the scent of peach.

“stop looking at me like that,” he growls at you from across the room, sprawled out on the couch later, sipping water and trying to act normal. “you look like a cat who just knocked over a vase.”

you climb on top of him again. inspect a few faded spots. reapply.

“just touching up my art,” you murmur. “quality control.”

he leans his head back and sighs, but his hands are already settling on your hips. there’s a glint in his eyes that says he’s so pretending to hate this. he’s so full of shit.

and when you post a blurry photo of your masterpiece—captioned “new gloss. 12 hour wear. boyfriend approved 💋”—you wake up the next morning to 4,700 comments and one furious growl from sukuna.

“who the fuck is asking if they can be next?”

you hum, flipping over in bed to kiss him right on the chest. “don’t worry, baby. the gloss may be long-lasting, but you’re the exclusive trial subject.” he grumbles, eyes half-lidded, smug despite himself.

“…damn right i am.”

kiss divider by @uzmacchiato

Mental health status:

Boyfriends