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If someone had told Ranpo two weeks ago that by the end of the month he would be in the situation he currently is, he would have laughed in their face and told them that they were an idiot . That that would never— could never happen.
That, however, was two weeks ago, and as it is, he is currently in an awful– absolutely not an awful –situation. But here he is, absolutely and utterly floored at Chuuya's beauty– well, he was always floored by Chuuya's beauty, but this…
He swallows, mouth suddenly so dry.
What am I getting myself into?
Chuuya is in front of him, wearing this dress that—
Wow. It’s a poor interpretation of just how it makes Ranpo feel, it’s really a disservice to Chuuya and the dress but looking at him is like looking at her for the first time again; mind blank except for the thought of Chuuya and the wind knocked from his lungs. Then, in an instant, he remembers where they are, that Higuchi and Atsushi are right there , getting ready to drive them to some casino for a mission, acting as the personal chauffeurs of a “rich, newly-wed couple.”
All the while, Chuuya is wearing this dress . One which begs for attention, to be looked at, to have the wearer be worshiped in . And Ranpo is expected to, what? Not devour Chuuya right then and there, in the backseat of this limousine, courtesy of the mafia? He’s not expected to let his hands wander, to part the dress at its ridiculously high slit, to grope at the embroidery of the bodice until he can trace the barely noticeable designs without the dress on? He’s not meant to worship Chuuya until she isn’t even coherent? He’s not expected to enjoy this , and instead has to focus on a mission?
How the hell is he even supposed to survive this? Because Chuuya is grinning at him and practically fucking stalking to his side, all predatory grace, and Ranpo chokes , eyes drawn to his beloved's jewelry, because oh . The earrings threatening to be tangled in red locks, and the necklace hanging down and resting on her chest have nothing on what is found on her hand and the sight of it is enough to knock the air from Ranpo’s lungs again .
Chuuya really wasn't playing around with the married couple aspect of the mission, because Ranpo can see the light hit the wedding ring he'd given her, the wedding ring that he has a match to on a chain around his neck.
“Hello there,” She grins, and oh Ranpo’s going to go to hell , because Chuuya is even prettier up close and he is seriously unable to focus, truly only thinking of undoing the intricate lace up the back of the dress, sliding the fabric up Chuuya’s thighs and having his way. Especially because his mafioso is leaning into him, looking at him with open adoration, in front of everyone and Ranpo has to resist the urge to kiss him.
“Are you ready for our mission,” A pause, as Chuuya reaches up to hold his cheek, and some part of Ranpo begs for everyone to just think they are acting, that there’s no truth behind the tender touch and look of pure love being given to him—and undoubtedly mirrored on his own face. “ Husband .”
Oh Jesus. Oh Lord , Chuuya was trying to—no, succeeding at giving him a heart attack. The name— title —alone would’ve been more than enough, but the way he bestowed it upon him—as a statement, a fact , not an act or a cover story for a mission. Husband. Husband .
And what is Ranpo supposed to do other than lean into the touch, press his forehead against Chuuya’s with a half-breath, taking in the way the freckles span across his face? What is he to do other than adopt a little grin, hope that everyone thinks that they are just acting, that they have just fallen into the roles of newlyweds so naturally for the mission?
Chuuya was a god among men and Ranpo his most loyal devotee. That's how it was, how it would always be.
“Hi,” He whispers back, hands sliding down to her waist, finding where they usually rested against his hips, digging gently into her skin, for Ranpo had Chuuya memorized like scripture, for Chuuya was holy and Ranpo was his most blessed priest in everything, and so he easily allows Chuuya to guide him to the backseat of the mafia provided limo, that damning smile still on his face as she sits them both down, grabbing Ranpo’s left hand to gently rest it on her thigh as she unclasps the chain holding his wedding ring, slides it back onto its rightful place on his finger.
“There.” Chuuya murmurs, and oh, how is Ranpo supposed to resist sliding his hand up under his beloved's dress? “ Husband . Ah,” A hand on his own, sliding it back down, “Not yet .”
And god, Ranpo may want to devour Chuuya, worship him until his mafioso is etched into this limo, this city, the very fabric of the world and the universe, but he will always respect his darling's boundaries.
Even if the ‘not yet’ is practically torture on his very soul. Even if Chuuya is in that damned dress that Ranpo wants to keep anyone else, everyone else , from seeing.
“Not yet,” He murmurs back, sliding his hand off Chuuya’s thigh entirely and into her hand, interlacing their fingers with the soft clink of their wedding bands. “Does that mean later? I mean, you're wearing this dress and…damnit, Chuuya…my heart, I don't think I'll survive, really,” He plays it off with a laugh, but they both hear the honesty sticking to his words.
“You'll have to, you know.” Chuuya murmurs, squeezing his hand as Higuchi and Atsushi get in the car, the female mafioso taking the wheel. “And besides, pretty baby, do you not like this dress? I can ask Higuchi to take a detour, drive us home so I can change…”
“ No …don't. Just– Chuuya, people will have to see you like this.” There's an unsaid ‘ I'll have to suffer through people seeing you like this ’.
And Chuuya, his beloved, his god, laughs, tipping his head back to expose that perfect freckled neck of his as he responds, eyes sparkling mischievously and mouth curving into something sharp and quick, like he knows something Ranpo does not. “Oh honey , of course. But you get to see me like this too.”
And how can Ranpo say no? How can Ranpo say no to the man he loved? How can Ranpo say no, when Chuuya is looking at him adoringly?
And god. He wants to memorize this look of Chuuya's. He wants to learn it front and back and all over again, like a prayer, like a damn prayer, for Chuuya was the love of his life, for Chuuya was a god and Ranpo would do anything for this man; kneel at his feet, grasp at his hands for a fleeting chance that Chuuya would look at him.
The drive to the casino is in actuality only about 45 minutes, yet it couldn’t have felt longer, what with how Chuuya was rubbing his thumb across the back of Ranpo’s hand, how she was pressed so tightly against Ranpo’s side, and Atsushi and Higuchi’s faint small talk reaching his ears from the front seat, partition hiding them from view. If he was less nervous about the whole ordeal—or perhaps if his mind could focus on anything other than Chuuya in that dress —then perhaps he would be able to have his own small talk with his beloved; idle talk of what they would be eating together tonight, what time they each have to report to their respective bosses, just how long it took Chuuya to get into that dress so that Ranpo would know how long it would take to get it off .
Because god, he wants that off. Needs it off so desperately that it's a prayer on his lips for his Chuuya, his god, to answer.
A hand connecting with Ranpo’s cheek, pulling his distracted gaze to not meet Chuuya’s but Atsushi’s as he holds open the limo’s door, is what alerts him to their arrival. He exits, and holds an expectant hand out to aid Chuuya in stepping out and lord above , Ranpo was going to hell for the way his eyes immediately fell to his chest.
Focus is what he’s thinking as Chuuya links their arms together as they walk to the entrance.
Focus , repeated like a mantra, a prayer, when a man’s stray hand brushes against Chuuya’s exposed thigh. Focus , as Ranpo easily moves Chuuya to walk on his other side, so that leg is brushing against him .
Ranpo, in all of his years on this earth, knows for a fact that he has never been as unfocused as he is at this moment.
Chuuya draws him to a seat to play a game, one hand gracing his shoulder with her touch while the other wraps itself around his waist, holding him there like he’s some precious relic placed on the altar to her godhood that she’s taken a liking to. His hands shake as he looks at the cards dealt to him, as she sits down on his lap, nestled in his arms like the precious god she is. Oh god, Ranpo never wanted to let him go.
Every so often, Ranpo’s eyes stray down to her chest, and he knows that Chuuya is only pretending to not notice how they linger before quickly darting back to the cards held tightly in his hands. She pretends to not notice the way his eyes trail over the dress’s bodice, her form squeezed and hugged in just the right places to garner the attention of so many of the other casino-goers—and damn them all, really, for even bothering to think that they have a chance, or that under any other circumstance they would be able to get away with such an act of sacrilege.
He hears her as she stifles a laugh, his gaze cast downward yet again, past her chest and that sinful bodice, right to the high —far too high to be ethical, so high it shouldn’t be allowed with so many people around, who made it so damn high —slit which left nothing to the imagination regarding Chuuya’s leg.
The leg which caused Ranpo, upon entering the casino, to insist Chuuya walk only on the other side of him, lest the wandering hand of another man were to brush against it, tainting it’s purity so that Ranpo would have to, with no complaints on his part, purify it once again with his hands, his mouth, his being , once this wretched mission was over. Ranpo wasn’t a violent man, but were he to be one, the men of this casino would make a home at the top of his personal hit list.
Chuuya had just laughed and leaned against him further, kissed his ear, and Ranpo knew he was supposed to be paying attention, truly, he knew he was supposed to be paying attention to the mission, but could you blame him? Chuuya was wearing heels. Heels that showed off how long his beloved's legs were and fuck . Whenever she was sitting down, she'd cross her perfect legs and absentmindedly bob her leg up and down and there was nothing absent minded about the way Chuuya’s heel would rub against his calf. Oh fuck, Ranpo didn't know how tall those heels were but Ranpo was just a man .
Even the most divine, the strongest of all the gods in this universe, wouldn’t be able to pass up the temptation that is Chuuya Nakahara , and Ranpo was just a man .
Ranpo, who was just a man, and now had his god leaning over him again , and Lord above show mercy on his soul when he passes, for the view of Chuuya he was given in that moment—not even the son of god himself would’ve been able to turn down the temptation to look .
“I see him,” Chuuya whispers, and with how close his lips are to Ranpo’s ear, he’d be surprised if none of his lipstick rubbed off onto him. To his credit, Ranpo is able to hum out what he hopes Chuuya will take as a confirmation that he’s been heard and understood, but Ranpo is still just so focused on the feast before him, eyes scanning over every freckle and scar on his god's chest.
“I’ll go engage, just stay here, alright?” Chuuya guides Ranpo’s face up, forcing his gaze to leave her chest and for a split moment he believes that he’s no better than any of the other men here, with how his eyes fought to keep their original view. The look in Chuuya’s, however, told him otherwise.
“Stay here, dear. I’ll be right back,” A kiss, quick, and something newlyweds would do, Ranpo supposes, were they together for as long as he and Chuuya have been. For a moment Ranpo allows his mind to wander to what life would be like if they were these newlyweds. No sneaking around, no late night motorcycle pick-ups so they could be in the same home, no make-out sessions meant to go further but stopped before they could progress, for fear of being seen. Maybe they would have children, or maybe they wouldn’t. A cat, maybe, but more likely a dog since Chuuya preferred them.
Maybe if they were truly these newlyweds, they would have had a proper wedding, instead of half-whispered vows in the middle of the night, curled close and tight, trading lazy kisses, holy kisses, as they let moonlight filter through the window curtains, trading golden rings never meant to be seen by others.
At times, loving Chuuya felt like committing the worst of sins and the most holy of salvations simultaneously, and whichever their act truly was didn’t matter to Ranpo so long as they were together.
Ranpo is pulled from his thoughts when Chuuya is suddenly not touching him, the first time he hasn’t felt her warmth in hours , and he watches as he moves through the crowd. Hands are everywhere, not all of them purposefully grazing against her, and yet Ranpo takes in each touch as if it were poison to his love, his Chuuya, his life. If he were weaker, if he didn’t know this was part of a plan, he would join Chuuya in weaving through the crowd, gladly carving a path just to make her journey more bearable.
He watches, has to hold his breath to watch, as she reaches the target, the man’s hand coming up to Chuuya’s lower back, and Ranpo has to fight back the hitch in his chest, the rage that burns a hole through his very being, because God , Ranpo needs to separate this man from Chuuya right now and oh , that's not fair .
That should be his hand on Chuuya’s waist, should him sitting in front of her, looking up at her like that, should be—
The man pulls Chuuya down to sit on his lap, other hand straying to her thigh, exposed by that damned slit , and Ranpo sees red. Chuuya, perfect Chuuya, laughs and places his hand on top of the target’s and Ranpo knows that it’s an act, that it isn’t real , but it doesn’t stop him from sifting through the arsenal of knowledge stored in his brain from past cases, details coming to him of hundreds of ways which he could kill that man and get away with it and–
Chuuya meets his gaze and he can breathe again. How simple Ranpo is, how easy things are when Chuuya does something so small as looking his way.
She doesn’t break their eye contact as he leans down and whispers something in the man’s ear, his grip tightening on her waist. They stand, and Chuuya leads him away, finally breaking away from Ranpo’s undoubtedly furious gaze, and he realizes that the mission is coming to a close.
Truly, he can only find relief in that, for that means Chuuya stops flirting with this man, for that means Ranpo can devour him, worship him, treat her like the goddess, the god, he is.
But another, weaker part of him will miss it . With the end of this mission comes the end of their “act,” and they’ll have to go back to sneaking glances, secret kisses. Chuuya vanishes behind a door and he yearns for this hours long life that they played pretend with.
A wedding, a dog, a home that Ranpo doesn’t need to be whisked away to when no one is watching. A ring that he can wear on his finger, not around his neck. A big garden, a child, maybe two, maybe three— hell, if Chuuya wanted four, then four —kids running around, playing, laughing, living .
A hand touches his neck, and Chuuya looks down at him, the lights framing him and allowing Ranpo to see the halo he’s always known should be there.
“Come on,” He says, breathless, and Ranpo loses his own breath with him, surging up to take, to give , one final kiss as newlyweds, before they have to go back to how things were, how things will always be .
Chuuya cups his face, and mumbles a soft, “I know, love, I know,” when Ranpo finally pulls away, connecting their foreheads. A thumb swipes away his tears and he misses this already, not having to hide. Not having to steal kisses at night, not having to steal kisses in alleyways, in careful moments. No, like this, like this he can show his affection for his beloved Chuuya, make sure she knows how much Ranpo loves her.
The walk to the car is uneventful, though when they finally see Atsushi and Higuchi, engaged in conversation while leaning against the limo shrouded in the cover of the night, they explain that the casino became more crowded, how they didn’t want to lose each other in the chaos. It isn’t technically a lie.
The “chauffuers” get into their respective spots, and Ranpo doesn’t let go of Chuuya’s hand as she climbs into the back seat, holding the dress back so that it’s easier for her to enter. If the others notice, they don’t comment. He climbs in after her, slamming the door, and he feels the car start, moving towards the end of his fantasy.
He turns to Chuuya—beautiful, perfect, godly Chuuya, his Chuuya—down to her chest, her waist, her thigh, and suddenly he can’t take it anymore .
He grabs at Chuuya’s face and slams his lips onto Chuuya’s, one hand keeping him in place and the trail down, down, down , groping briefly at her neck, then her chest for longer, to his ribs, waist, and that infernal dress slit. He’s moving fast, too fast , but he doesn’t care , he’ll just hope that Chuuya can keep quiet while Ranpo devours him like she’s his last meal before being crucified.
Chuuya tries to be quiet, but with Ranpo’s hand moving all over his body, pushing and pulling him this way and that, but it’s hard . She wants to keep going, needs to , but they also both need to stay quiet and–
Ranpo does something with his tongue that he knows has Chuuya almost willing to say, “ to hell with it all, I don’t care if the entirety of Yokohama hears us.”
Instead, all Chuuya does is kick gently at Ranpo, hissing out a little half-plea to stay quiet because Ranpo doesn’t bother to slow down. Rather, he pulls Chuuya closer, pulls harder , by his legs and fuck , Ranpo can see Chuuya’s resolve waver again.
A large part of Ranpo's brain is telling him that he needs to take this man back to their home and remind him just how much Chuuya is his , not any of those disgusting casino-men’s. Another, smaller part of his brain, but one just as loud, just as there , tells him that he can’t , not while Higuchi and Atsushi are in the front seat, mere feet away, separated only by a thin partition and so, so close to the ADA’s dorms and Ranpo’s stop.
But Chuuya’s looking at him with wide eyes, eyes that Ranpo swears are practically challenging him, begging him to keep going, to just keep going . And Ranpo is only a man to Chuuya's godhood. So it's easy for him to crumble, to press kisses along Chuuya’s legs as he slides her heels off, hands brushing along his skin, along his scars like Chuuya is something holy, something worth worshiping. And he is. Chuuya is worth worshiping and more; Ranpo would fall to his knees for this man, grasp at his hands and clothes like a devotee begging for a scrap, a morsel , of attention.
Ranpo is weak to this man, his man, his god . It’s easy for him to slip his hands under her dress, not really touching, just holding her there against him, in silent worship of the otherworldly being whom he pulls to lay under him now, not a part of their two bodies not connected. For a moment, Ranpo worries about just how thin that partition is, how all it would take is one wrong move, one too loud breath, for that partition to be pulled aside and their secret—their horrible, beautiful, d eadly secret—discovered.
But then Chuuya laughs quietly, like how he did in the casino, and she cups his cheek so gently , like she has decided to give a moment of attention to him.
And everything is okay now, and Ranpo melts into his hand, into her, into everything about his mafioso. How could he not? How could he not, because it was Chuuya holding him close, pressing kisses to his face, letting Ranpo shower him in love; open mouthed kisses scattering and skittering across freckles and scars, hands sliding up to her inner thigh, because god, he needs to praise this man, praise and worship this god , this holy being that Ranpo is lucky to have in his arms and call his.
And Chuuya squirms, even under him, one hand coming up to cover his mouth, the other grabbing at the backseat of the limo in an attempt to steady himself, and there is a vicious sort of satisfaction welling in Ranpo’s heart as he sees his beloved like this. Nobody else could ever make him like this. Nobody else could ever make Chuuya like this. No, this was for only Ranpo to see.
Gazing down at his own personal god, memories of unwanted touches from the casino flitting across his brain, and almost like on autopilot, Ranpo’s own hands ghost over and hold where they were, where such lesser beings dared to touch his Chuuya, in an act of purification.
Suddenly, it’s Ranpo’s hand on Chuuya’s uncovered thigh, gripping it far tighter, far longer , than that man had. His hands travel up, right to Chuuya’s hips, where another man, someone who easily could have been her father in age, if not older, had had the audacity to grip him in order to move him out of the way. If it hadn’t been for Chuuya’s vice-like grip on Ranpo’s arm, they would’ve been thrown out of the casino right then and there.
Soft fingers ghost over Chuuya’s back, where so many people had brushed while moving past them. Like following a trail only he can see, Ranpo’s hand moves to Chuuya’s front, resting one of his hands over Chuuya’s chest, his heart, where no one had dared to touch but god the amount of people who looked.
His other hand trails down, down, down, right to where the target had held Chuuya on his lower back, fingers probing at his waist. Just thinking about it brought back the anger he felt in the moment, and Ranpo presses himself impossibly closer to the deity caged beneath him, whispering his thoughts directly into Chuuya’s ear as if he were delivering the most hallowed of sermons.
Atsushi laughs, and they both freeze in place before the sounds of him and Higuchi talking pick back up. If they cared enough, they’d pay attention to whatever it is the two are talking about, and Ranpo thinks about it for no more than a second. Glancing down to Chuuya, however, throws that idiotic idea out the limo’s tinted window immediately .
His entire face is flushed, hair messy and falling around him like a red halo, and the first thing Ranpo can think of is her and what he’ll do to her once they get home. The second is that Atsushi and Higuchi don’t know what’s going on just behind them, so they can continue.
Ranpo goes to kiss him again, to continue roaming his hands, purifying the land that is Chuuya’s body, but hands grip into his hair and Chuuya breathes a quiet “I love you” into his mouth and Ranpo is weak . His hands roam, and he mutes whatever noises he might be making into Chuuya’s neck, the god beneath him doing the same.
It’s just as Ranpo hikes Chuuya’s exposed leg up onto his hip that they feel the car slowing to a stop— his stop.
He groans into the column of Chuuya’s neck, a column that Ranpo is convinced could be found in a Greek museum, or maybe a British one, a column so beautiful it’s stolen from its home and held captive, never to be returned due to greed.
He sits up, dragging Chuuya with him, and the saint that he is, calls to Atsushi to “Give him a minute, he just woke up,” and a small part of Ranpo wishes that were true.
Ranpo knows that he should, that he has to let go, but he can’t bring himself to. Even as Chuuya is fixing his hair, making it look closer to having been messed in his sleep rather than pulled on, straightening his clothes to smooth some of the wrinkles, Ranpo can’t bring himself to let go of Chuuya’s waist, can’t stop himself from staring into her eyes and wishing that the ride had been longer, wishing that he could just be dropped off right at Chuuya’s—at their apartment. He wishes all of this was just easier , that they didn’t have to hide .
“I’ll come back,” Chuuya says as he cups Ranpo’s face, holding him so gently, as if he were something to be coveted in her eyes. “As soon as I can, I’ll be back.”
Ranpo knows that it'll only be 30 minutes, at most 35, but that doesn’t stop him from chasing after the chaste kiss that Chuuya uses to punctuate his words. It doesn’t stop the whine that slips past his lips, nor the urge to pull Chuuya closer, to say to hell with it and take him right then and there, Atsushi and Higuchi— consequences be damned.
A kiss, one final kiss, is placed onto Ranpo’s cheekbone and he leans into it, eyes closed. Suddenly, Chuuya is gone , a tap on the window and the door is open, Atsushi looking in at them. A look passes over his face, and he mumbles out a “Thank you for your help” to Chuuya. Ranpo exists, throwing one last look to Chuuya, and closes the door.
Atsushi begins the walk to his dorm, stopping only when he realizes Ranpo hasn’t moved, instead watching the car drive off.
“Ranpo? Are you coming?” Ranpo blinks and calls back, “Go without me, I just want to enjoy how cool the night is.”
If Atsushi realized how strange such a thing coming from Ranpo was, he chose not to comment. Maybe , the younger thinks, something happened in the casino and he just needs time alone.
Ranpo stood there, as still as a statue, waiting for the sounds of a motorcycle to fill the air, for his Chuuya to whisk him away to his real home, not the dorm which hasn’t been used for months . He stands, and he waits, like a disciple for the second coming of his lord.
And Chuuya comes . No words spoken, nothing needing to be said as Ranpo climbs on behind his love, gripping at her waist and torso as they finally are on their way home, to a place neither the Port Mafia nor the Armed Detective Agency know about.
Nothing is said as they wait in the elevator, music filling the air, but the way they lean against one another, like they’re in an ocean and the body next to them is their only way to stay afloat, speaks volumes.
With the door finally shut behind them, they give in. Ranpo holds Chuuya against the door, clicking the lock into place, and kisses her like a drowning man and she’s the last gulp of air he’ll ever get, like he’s a sinner and Chuuya his only chance at salvation.
Hands wander, mapping out the familiar curves and lines of the other, and Ranpo walks them back, lips never leaving for more than a few seconds, through the apartment, past the pristine kitchen and the couch which hasn’t been used in weeks due to their absence in preparing for the mission. Past pictures hung on the wall of their friends, of memories, of each other, a thin layer of dust covering everything .
Only the bedroom looks lived in at this point.
Ranpo's heart breaks a bit, just for a bit, because he knows how hard it was for him to go without Chuuya, and vice versa, but–
He lowers Chuuya to the bed, just holding her there, pressing his face once again into her collarbone, just as he had in the limo, for a breath, for two, adding a couple kisses into the mix, trailing them up to his neck, his cheek, his temple, before burying his face into those red curls, into that fire and flame which he would gladly burn in, with Chuuya by his side, with Chuuya in his arms.
“Please,” Ranpo whispers into Chuuya’s hair, holding him so gently against the bed. “Can we be newlyweds for just a few more hours?”
It’s a lot to ask, too much to ask, really, and Ranpo knows as much when he sees tears well up in Chuuya’s eyes. For a moment, they look as if they’re made of holy water, pure and cleansing, and he wants to crucify himself when some of the liquid drips from the corner of his eyes, falling into the inferno of Chuuya’s hair—her halo.
“Ranpo,” Chuuya stops himself, fighting against the tears because he wants that more than anything , they both do, and they both knew it, intrinsically.
“Can't we?” Ranpo whispers again, lips finding the corner of Chuuya's eyes, his shoulder and lingering on the patch of freckles, because oh, Ranpo loved Chuuya’s freckles, breath hitching as he tries to fight back a sob. “My love, my light, my Chuuya, my angel. Can't we be newlyweds for a few more hours?”
It's too much to ask. They both know it, and yet Ranpo has asked it again in a prayer, a pleading half-broken thing that breaks from his chest, hollow and worn, as if he has kept this in for a lifetime. Ranpo's asked it again, squeezed Chuuya a bit closer, burrowed against him just a bit more, as if Chuuya can save him, can be his god incarnate, can be the one to save him from damnation. As if Chuuya can save him from his pride, can save him from being Icarus, the man who flew too close to the sun and perished because of it.
“Please,” he asks again, a final time. It's almost cruel, he knows, for Chuuya would destroy worlds to never hear Ranpo’s voice so broken, would destroy himself for being the cause of it. Indulgence is neither a permission to commit sin, nor the pardon of those sins of the future. It is with overindulgences that they must be careful.
Perhaps this would be overindulgence, this would be when their luck runs out and they’re really, truly damned for the rest of their existence. But oh , in the quiet hours of the early morning, long before the sun is set to rise, they can allow the moon and its beams to bear witness to their union once again, just as they had when first placing these rings on their hands, and dip into one another, satiated this once, never before spoken desire.
“Just this once,” Chuuya grants, even if his voice breaks as he turns in Ranpo’s hold, draws him into a sweet kiss, hand grasping at his cheek, his jaw, like a man trying desperately to cling to the one thing in the world he loves. Ranpo grips just as tight back, tears streaming down each of their faces, and in this moment Ranpo would not, could not , care if they were caught. For he had Chuuya and Chuuya had him and they were…
And they were each other's.
“I love you.” Ranpo whispers, kissing Chuuya over and over again. “We're– Chuuya, I love you. We're married, you know.”
“I–...” She kisses back, hands winding in his hair and Ranpo just kisses Chuuya again, for he can never get enough of the way Chuuya tastes. “Not legally. What with both of us being men…”
“You got your gender marker changed? Without a sex change?”
He scoffs quietly, kisses Ranpo again and again. Chuuya tastes like blood and wine and Ranpo could get drunk on this god, would get drunk on this god like she’s his own personal Dionysus. “Sweetheart, as soon as I figured out I was trans, Ane-san bribed the government for me. I owe her…a lot, you know? More than just that.”
Oh. Ranpo should have figured that out, honestly.
“Then I'm glad, my Chuuya. Even if we can't get married legally, I know I'll find you. In every life, in every universe. Oh my mafioso, if you asked,” He kisses Chuuya quickly, trails them down to her neck and shoulder. “I'd tear the whole world down for you, bring you the stars as a necklace, and make the moon a matching ring. I just want you to be happy .”
More tears well in Chuuya’s eyes, and he brings his face to Ranpo’s, resting their cheeks together as they both attempt to tame the emotions coursing through them. Sorrow and anger at having to remain hidden, but more than that, so much more, is love.
Chuuya leaned back after an eternity, smoothing back Ranpo’s hair with his hand, so it looked just as it had while they were at the casino.
“Just for tonight,” He whispers into the centimeters between them. “Treat me like we’re married. Like this is our honeymoon. Just for tonight .”
They look at one another for a few silent, eternal moments, and with only the moon’s beams to bear witness to them, tears fall from the pair as their lips connect, nothing but love surging between them as they cling to each other.
Ranpo was just a man, and Chuuya his god; who was Ranpo to deny his god of a sacrifice like this? Nobody at all. Nobody at all, as he tangles his hands in Chuuya’s hair, trying so desperately to memorize this moment, to memorize everything about this.
He's selfish, he knows, as he presses kisses to Chuuya’s collarbone, ones that draw out sinful gasps and moans that will be starring in his dreams tonight, will be featured in all of his dreams to come.
“This isn't fair,” He rasps against his god’s thigh, against her stomach, succumbing to the hands in his hair, to the sobs he can draw out from his mouth, to the way Chuuya says his name. “Chuuya, I want–”
They both know what Ranpo wants, for they both want it, the two of them, in the end.
“Ranpo–” A half-breath as Chuuya pulls him up, allows him to kiss those perfect, holy lips, allows him to feel his waist, the skin and bone underneath and Ranpo could spend forever at Chuuya's beck and call if his mafioso wanted, if his mafioso so much as asked . “Ranpo, I love you. I want it too. But we–”
“Please,” And how is Chuuya meant to deny him? How was he ever meant to deny him, as Ranpo rasps it out, half-pleading, because he knows his mafioso's weaknesses, and so he's happy to be pulled into lazy, long kisses, rolling around in bed, not bothering to do anything else.
For a moment or so, they can be happy; for a few hours, they can be happy.