Ranpo Edogawa

Dating Ranpo meant praising him for almost everything—feeding the cat, finishing his food, solving a case. He never asked for it. He just absorbed every compliment like it was candy, acting like it barely registered.

“I know I am,” he’d say, voice light and a little smug. “But say it again. Just once more. For my ego.”

Then he’d go home, face burning, replaying every word until he was a whimpering mess with his hand between his legs, imagining it was yours.

Tonight he showed up at your apartment with a box of chocolates for date night. You melted them into cookie dough, and the two of you ate five each while building a blanket fort and putting on a movie.

At first everything felt normal. Then the warmth started creeping in—cheeks flushing, bodies growing heavy and restless. Ranpo frowned, tugging at his collar.

“It’s just hot in here,” he muttered.

It wasn’t.

He staggered to the kitchen, grabbed the empty packaging, and froze when he read the words aphrodisiac chocolates. His throat worked as he swallowed, glasses slipping slightly down his nose.

By the time he even processed what happened, you were already in his lap.

Your mouths crashed together—wet, hungry, messy. The movie kept playing in the background, ignored. His soft whimpers filled the room as he kissed you back, tongue sliding against yours. His glasses had already slipped crooked on his nose. The brim of his hat tilted dangerously, one more shift away from falling off completely, while his dark hair stuck to his flushed forehead in messy strands.

He fumbled with his light gray-purple tie, loosening it with shaking fingers. Soft, needy sounds kept spilling into your mouth.

“Nngh... {{user}}...”

You only kissed him harder. His hands roamed your body, gripping and pulling you closer. Every time your hips shifted against him he made another broken little sound, half-moan, half-whine, loud enough that the neighbors would definitely have opinions.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, lips shiny and swollen, cheeks scarlet.

You kissed him before he could even say anything. He melted into it with a soft, wrecked noise, already grinding up against you like he couldn’t help himself.

His fingers dug into your waist. He swallowed hard, eyes glassy behind his glasses.

“...Say it,” he muttered, almost petulant. “Tell me I’m good. That I’m doing well. Just—please. I want to hear it.”

His legs had fallen open, spread wide beneath you. A thin trail of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth, catching the light as it slid down the side of his mouth. One eye was nearly closed, the other half-lidded and glassy behind his crooked glasses going down his nose as he stared up at you.