Work Text:
“Ranpo, dear, are you alright?”
It was on a hot summer’s day that Poe first noticed. The drone of cicadas filled the park, swallowing the sounds of the surrounding city—humidity hung heavy in the air, bringing a certain hellish je-ne-sais-quoi to the torture that was climbing the steep staircase up to the shrine.
A silly question: obviously Ranpo wasn’t okay, but Poe’s habit of politeness allowed him to keep at least a shred of his dignity intact. Ranpo wheezed thinly as he slogged up the stairs, legs shaking with the effort of staying upright.
It’s not that he was out-of-shape. Well, at least to the average person—it wasn’t fair to compare his stamina to that of his coworkers’. But Ranpo’s current condition was thanks to his binder, which had been on for far too long in such stifling heat.
“I’m fine,” Ranpo said, grinning over his shoulder like he wasn’t dying under the pressure of the fabric. “We’re almost there.”
The stone staircase was longer than it had seemed in the photos of the crime scene. It was an interesting case by nature, and Ranpo would be damned if they were going to miss the opportunity for a problem that seemed so menial.
When Poe showed Ranpo the newspaper clipping that morning—‘Shrine maiden found dismembered inside reliquary’—he knew they had to investigate before curious bystanders tampered with the scene. After all, the police had only taped off the shrine itself, neglecting to realize that the evidence obviously wasn’t just restricted to the shrine: it would also be found in the park itself.
Sweat trickled between Ranpo’s shoulderblades. The fabric of his binder stuck to his chest like a second skin. All they had to do was reach the top, and Ranpo could regain his bearings. Everything would be fine. Besides, Poe didn’t seem much better off: he grew winded quickly despite his freakishly long legs, and the weight of Karl on his shoulders bore him down.
Ranpo turned to tease the writer about his hypocrisy, but before he could say anything, he missed a step and stumbled forward.
“Hey-!” A second too late, Poe’s arms shot out in an attempt to right the detective. He landed crookedly atop stone steps, his jaw and sternum taking the brunt of the fall. Poe was beside him in an instant, one hand splayed across his back, the other reaching to lift his head from where it landed on the stone. His jaw throbbed. A flash of white burst behind Ranpo’s eyes as Poe’s fingers wound through his bangs. “Oh, Ranpo, it’s alright. You’re alright. Take a deep breath.”
A deep breath? Impossible. Ranpo’s chest felt like it was seizing, and when he tried to inhale, all that came through was a shallow trickle of hot air. Unsteadily, Ranpo attempted to lift himself up, but a sudden bout of dizziness and he was right back where he started.
“It’s alright,” Poe repeated, his hand rubbing up and down his back in broad, soothing strokes. “You got the wind knocked out of you. Take a moment, just keep breathing.”
Ranpo’d forgone his usual cape thanks to the heat, but still donned a black vest over his button-up. Deft fingers began to undo the buttons, and Ranpo groaned as he pushed Poe’s hands away.
A pinched expression of confusion from the writer added a twinge of guilt to the already-awful experience. But if Ranpo’s vest were to come off, he’d be left in only his white button-up, and thanks to the sweat plastering fabric to skin, he knew his binder would be clearly visible. Poe’s eyes flashed violet behind sweaty bangs, and he brushed them aside to fix Ranpo with a curious stare: the kind of stare that always came before he put the pieces of a puzzle together.
“Oh.” Poe’s expression softened. “You’re binding.”
While the two had never explicitly spoken of it, Ranpo knew that Poe was aware of his transition. How couldn’t he be? Testosterone had deepened Ranpo’s voice since they’d first challenged each other six years ago, and he’d shown Poe the old pictures of him and Fukuzawa back when the Agency was founded, back when he still wore skirts and had long hair. This was one of the things that he loved about Poe—he was sharp, observant, and unlike Ranpo, tactful.
Ranpo rarely regretted his blunt nature, but he still cringed when he remembered the way he publicly outed Poe in their first meeting, so excited to see someone like him that he didn’t stop to consider how many people might overhear.
“No wonder you’ve been struggling,” Poe muttered under his breath. “It’s far too hot today to be binding, especially under all these layers.”
If Ranpo weren’t still trying to catch his breath, he’d point out how ridiculous the statement was coming from someone wearing three different kinds of coats in the summer. But he understood why—Poe was more endowed than he was, and the layers helped keep his (admittedly stunning) figure subtle.
“I understand why you want to keep your vest on,” Poe said, “but surely you know that I won’t judge you for what lies underneath. Your health is far more important to me. I don’t want you to faint.”
Ranpo’s breath was finally starting to even out, and he shook his head tiredly.
“Not ‘til after the investigation,” he insisted. After all, the park was crowded with police and private investigators, and while Ranpo usually didn’t mind people knowing how he identified, he had his limits: outing himself to the Yokohama police was one of them. The force resented him enough without the added opportunity to target him for being trans.
A beat, and Poe sighed.
“We’re going home.”
“What? No!” Ranpo pushed himself up, but the sudden movement made his chest spasm again. He coughed. “We’ll lose our chance to solve the case.”
“Then so be it,” Poe said. He offered Ranpo a hand, which the detective took begrudgingly, and Karl’s tail flicked as he watched Ranpo stand dizzily. “But I can’t stand to see you in this condition. I’m taking you home, and you’re going to take a break from binding.”
Ranpo muttered something obscene under his breath, making Poe raise an eyebrow.
“Unless,” Poe said, “you’d prefer that I call Yosano? Though she may insist on using her ability to repair whatever damage your binder is inflicting…”
Ranpo shook his head so fast that Poe laughed. Such a pretty sound, he thought.
Well, maybe a break wouldn’t be so bad.
˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°
The second time that Poe brought up his binding habits was in far more frivolous conditions.
Ranpo had been lying on the writer’s couch for a few hours now, playing his favorite classic Pokemon game while Poe wrote away. It wasn’t an unusual setup: Ranpo often dropped by when the Agency workload lulled, and Poe kept his pantry stocked with the detective’s favorite snacks, allowing him to graze freely as long as he didn’t interrupt Poe’s writing.
Well, Ranpo still occasionally distracted him with demands for attention or affection, but Poe didn’t seem to mind as long as it was in moderation.
This time, though, Poe was the one to break his own rule: he loomed over the back of the couch, a concerned stare reflecting in the screen of Ranpo’s DS.
“Haven’t you been playing for a while now?” he asked.
“Yeah?” Ranpo responded. Poe had folded his arms over the couch cushion. His fingertips were stained with ink. “Haven’t you been writing for a while?”
Poe hummed. He had that look about him, the one that Ranpo knew meant he was deep in thought, so he didn’t think too much of it when Poe’s eyes skimmed over his form until they stopped to watch the rise and fall of his chest.
“I think it’s time for a break,” Poe announced.
“Great,” Ranpo said. “You go do that.” He turned back to his game, mashing the A & B buttons as his Munchlax prepared to attack. This Stunky doesn’t stand a chance. But after a few turns, he still felt Poe’s gaze lingering behind him.
“I meant,” Poe said, “that it’s probably time you took a break.”
Ranpo pursed his lips as his sprite wandered the tall grass in search of Munchlax’s next victim. “I’m kind of busy grinding here,” he said. Poe’s hand reached over his shoulder to rest gently on Ranpo’s wrist. He brushed his thumb against the skin, a soothing touch that made his shoulders dip.
“I can’t help but notice you’re breathing a bit quickly. You’re binding today, correct?”
Oh. Ugh.
“Yeah,” Ranpo said. “So?”
“So, you’ve been at your game for three and a half hours now, and you came straight from work. That means you’ve been binding for, what? Nine hours?”
Leave it to Poe to do the math on Ranpo’s behalf. The writer never cared to track the time when it concerned his own binding, rare as it was. But had it really been nine hours?
“No,” Ranpo lied, because he’d spent far longer in his binder before, and never had issues beyond a bit of soreness as long as he wasn’t working himself too hard. Poe’s thumb stilled, and he knew he was caught.
“You have all the time in the world to level up, Ranpo. Your body will thank you for the rest.”
Ranpo rolled his eyes.
“Everyone knows that Munchlax evolves from friendship points, not just levels or experience,” he scoffed.
“Well, everyone that I know says that if you don’t take frequent breaks from binding, you’ll hurt yourself.” Poe’s arms wrapped around him. He dipped his head into the crook of Ranpo’s neck, where cool lips brushed against skin. Gently, he pushed Ranpo’s hand down, forcing him to crane his neck just to keep a good view of the screen.
“Poe,” Ranpo whined. “I’m trying to focus.”
“What a travesty,” the writer muttered, and Ranpo could feel his lips curl into a smile. “Now you know how it feels, hm?”
Ranpo tried to shift in his seat. Poe’s arms only tightened. As he was held against the back of the couch, it was like he could suddenly feel the dull pressure of his binder digging into his chest and shoulders.
He groaned. Poe could be stubborn, perhaps even more than Ranpo when he wanted to be.
“If I take off my binder, will you let me get back to my game?”
“I’ll do you one better,” Poe said. “If you take off your binder, I’ll watch you play while you and Karl sit in my lap.”
Ranpo had never scrambled to get changed so quickly before in his life.
˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°
The third time that Poe reminded Ranpo to take a break was unpleasant for the both of them.
The two had collapsed in the foyer of Poe’s manor, the door slamming shut behind them as water puddled on the tile. Karl, who had been waiting for their return, darted away when he realized the storm had soaked through their clothes, skin, and everything in between:
Including Ranpo’s binder.
Poe panted as he peeled away the first of his many coats. Layer by layer, he dropped them in a soggy pile beside the laundry chute until he’d stripped down to his vest. He slipped out of his heeled boots (like he needed to be any taller than he already was—Ranpo swore he wore them just to boast) and turned to the man laying beside him.
Ranpo groaned as he sprawled across the cool tile of the foyer. He normally ran hot, but unfortunately, heat was the first thing to leach away when rain was involved. The two of them had run several blocks to get back in an attempt to outrun the storm: useless, as it turned out, because they’d been caught in the swirling rain anyways, and dripped sadly in the wake of their failure.
“Sweetheart, you’re shaking,” Poe said. His own teeth chattered as he cooed over Ranpo. “Come, let’s get you out of these clothes.”
“No,” Ranpo whined, turning away from the hand reaching for his cape. “I’m tired. Don’t touch me.”
Tired, achey, and freezing. On the best of days, Ranpo’s sensory threshold was tenuous: but add in a storm? Kill me already, he wanted to say, but depending on Poe’s mood, he’d either chastise him for the self-beratement or take him up on the offer.
“I know you’re tired,” Poe replied. “But you won’t be able to get any proper rest until you’re dry.”
“Lies,” Ranpo groaned. He curled away from Poe and let his eyes slip shut. “Your rich-person floor is plenty comfy.”
He didn’t need to see to know that Poe’s hand hovered just between his shoulderblades. Poe didn’t touch—he wouldn’t, not until he got the okay from Ranpo.
“You’re going to catch cold.”
“Oh no,” Ranpo muttered sarcastically. “I guess this is it for me, then.”
No reply. Poe’s silence, while meant to evoke a sincere response from Ranpo, only urged him to continue complaining.
“When I die, I hope you’ll remember me not only as your greatest rival, but also as the world’s greatest detective.”
Poe huffed a quiet laugh.
“You won’t die. But I’ll certainly remember you as the world’s greatest fool when you end up sick.”
“Rude,” Ranpo said, but he knew Poe was right.
This was one of the downsides to dating someone (nearly) as smart as he was; even when Ranpo didn’t like it, Poe was usually right. He turned over until he faced Poe and rested his cheek against the slick tile. A nod was all Poe needed to begin unfastening his cape.
“How many layers today?” the writer asked, and Ranpo knew it was his way of asking whether or not he chose to bind that morning. Really, his chest was flat enough not to be noticed when he wore his cape, but Ranpo still opted to bind on most days. He just felt more like himself that way, when he could look down and notice the curve of his belly was plumper than his chest. Plus, the compression was nice. Even when Ranpo didn’t bind, he always wore compression socks—they helped keep his overflexible ankles in place, and the pressure was satisfying when it didn’t feel like paper mâché glued over chafing skin.
“Too many.”
“May I help you undress?”
Thank God Ranpo’s cheeks were already flushed from the run, because the question had heat rushing up his face. He knew Poe meant it innocently—he was always a gentleman when Ranpo’s comfort was concerned—but with his pupils wide and water dripping down his face, Ranpo couldn’t help but picture something else.
“I guess,” he said.
Poe started by peeling off the detective’s vest. He loosened his tie, which proved a difficult task thanks to Ranpo’s sloppy knotting skills and its waterlogged state. Fingers made clumsy by the cold undid his shirt, and when all that was left was his binder, Ranpo sat up begrudgingly.
Really, he probably wouldn’t have been able to get out of it without Poe’s help. Taking his binder off was already a struggle on a good day, but the drenched fabric was especially tight against his skin. Ranpo stretched his arms as Poe stood to tug the fabric over his head. He was careful with his movements, pulling the fabric away from Ranpo’s skin to prevent further irritation.
For a moment, Ranpo was all-too-intimately aware of how he must have looked: back arched towards Poe, goosebumps racing up his sides, nipples pebbling from the exposure. But Poe kept his eyes trained up.
When the binder was finally off, Poe offered Ranpo a hand.
“How about a nice, hot shower?”
˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°
In the end, Ranpo still fell sick. How unfair! Poe was usually the more sickly of the two. Ranpo rarely fell sick—at least, when it came to colds—he had regular stomachaches from an excess of sweets, but he considered that a necessary sacrifice.
“I don’t get it,” Ranpo whined from where he laid in Poe’s bed. The duvet was pulled up to his shoulders, but he was still shivering. “How come I caught a cold and you didn’t?”
He coughed, cringing at the raspy sound of his breath.
“The world may never know,” Poe responded. He slid into bed beside Ranpo, holding out a glass of water. Normally, this was about the time when Poe would lecture him, but Kunikida had already taken care of that. When Yosano called Poe that afternoon, asking him to pick the detective up from work, he’d heard the man admonishing Ranpo from across the office.
Ranpo sipped some water, then groaned as he curled back up beside Poe.
He hated being sick. He couldn’t breathe right, and his ears popped constantly from the congestion. His throat was scratchy, bothering him every time he spoke, swallowed, or even took a breath, and worst of all, he couldn’t think. His mind was far too foggy.
“I know you probably don’t have an appetite,” Poe said, “but I took the liberty of making you soup anyways.”
He perked back up.
“You should know better than anyone that I always have an appetite.”
Poe chuckled as he grabbed a bowl of soup from the nightstand. He lifted the spoon to Ranpo’s lips, and the detective sighed as the comforting taste of chicken noodle soup spilled over his tongue. Poe always made him home-cooked food, and he was damn good at it despite rarely cooking for himself; he’d cooked more for Ranpo in the past few months than he had in the six years prior.
“Take it slow,” Poe said, reaching out to wipe a bit of soup from the corner of Ranpo’s mouth. “We don’t want to make you nauseous, too.”
They fell into a steady, quiet rhythm as Poe spoonfed the detective. Occasionally Ranpo had to stop to cough or blow his nose, and Poe waited patiently, handing him tissues and rubbing his back. Karl, annoyed by his own lack of soup, chittered while he watched Poe’s hand move back and forth.
“Back off, Karl, this soup is mine,” Ranpo teased. “You can get your own when you catch a cold.”
“Now, now, Ranpo,” Poe said, “there’s no need for hostility. I set some shredded chicken and vegetables aside for Karl, too, so there will be no hard feelings.”
Honestly, sometimes it was hard to remember that this man was a terrorist. Ex-terrorist, Ranpo corrected himself. Nowadays, Poe spent all his time writing, solving cases, assisting the Agency, and fulfilling his domestic duties. Maybe I should get Poe an apron, he thought. He’d look cute in one of those ruffly ones.
Once Ranpo had finished his soup, Poe insisted on changing him into something warmer.
“Don’t wanna,” Ranpo groaned. “I’m too achy to move.” He burrowed under the sheets and sniffled miserably.
“Please, Ranpo?” he heard Poe ask, his voice muffled beneath the blankets. “Remember, you got yourself into this situation by refusing in the very same way.”
“Nuh-uh. I was soaked then, now I’m dry.”
“But surely you can’t be comfortable. You’re in your uniform, for God’s sake. Belt and all.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, you’re stubborn,” Poe insisted. “If you don’t change out of your clothes, I’ll have to resort to drastic measures.”
Ranpo huffed a laugh, then coughed, and pulled the sheets tighter around him.
“Do whatever you want,” he said. “I don’t care.”
For a moment, Poe didn’t reply. The silence was thick with tension. But Ranpo was tired, and stuffy, and dizzy, and he didn’t want to move any more than he had to. Finally, he heard Poe sigh and his weight lifted from the mattress.
He’s leaving? Footsteps shuffled out the door and the scurry of Karl’s claws followed close behind.
Ranpo poked his head out the covers. The doorway was empty.
Oh. His lips stretched into a wobbly grimace. I ruined it.
He curled up into the pillow, hating how stupid he felt for pushing Poe away. His boyfriend was only trying to help. He’d doted on him all afternoon, and what did Ranpo do in return? He’d flat-out told Poe that he didn’t care. Of course Poe left. Who wouldn’t?
Ranpo swallowed thickly, the mucus at the back of his throat making him gasp a wheezy breath before burying his face into the pillow. He hate, hate, hated being sick! He could hardly breathe, and his chest felt tight. Tears pricked at his eyes. He could do nothing to stop them—he kept himself as quiet as he could, wet spots forming on the pillow where he pressed his eyes.
“Ranpo?” he heard from the door, and the detective stiffened. He held his breath and kept his face buried where Poe couldn’t see it. “Ranpo, what’s wrong?”
The bedframe creaked as Poe sat beside him once more. Suddenly there was a hand on him, rubbing up and down Ranpo’s back soothingly.
“Nothing,” Ranpo said, and ugh, his voice sounded all quivery, then stuttered into a coughing fit that made his ribs ache in protest. Poe’s hand settled between his shoulderblades.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Poe said, and the voice was so gentle that Ranpo couldn’t help but release his held breath, a single quiet sob that was dulled by the pillow. “Look at me.”
Ranpo obeyed, turning to gaze at Poe through messy bangs.
“I’m sorry I was mean,” he admitted quietly.
“Dearest, you’re absolutely fine. I was only fetching you my clothes,” Poe mumbled. His thumb wiped away the tears. “I thought you’d surely deduced that.”
Ranpo sniffled as he glanced down. Sure enough, Poe had brought him some of his own pajamas—the fluffy, soft kind that Ranpo always liked to snuggle into.
Oh. And this was why he hated being sick. They turned him into a dumb, snivelling crybaby who couldn’t even deduce when his own boyfriend was doing something nice.
“Let’s get you comfortable, okay?”
Ranpo nodded. He sat up and let Poe unbutton his vest, then his shirt. Poe tutted when he peeled them back to reveal Ranpo’s binder.
“No wonder you can’t breathe,” he said. “You’re not giving your body any room to recover.”
He was right, of course. Ranpo didn’t even remember he’d been binding. It was just another thing that slipped from his foggy, cold-addled mind. Ranpo lifted his arms and let Poe peel the binder off.
“Come now, give me a few deep breaths,” Poe instructed as he pulled the fuzzy pajamas over Ranpo’s head.
Ranpo did, and the sheer relief of being able to draw a full breath made him want to cry all over again. After Poe’d fully dressed him, he drew back the covers, slipping into bed with Ranpo and peppering kisses all over his face. He paid special attention to where his cheeks were still wet with tears.
“Poe, stop it,” Ranpo whined, but his heart fluttered at the attention. “You’re gonna get sick.”
“Shhh,” Poe hushed. “I’m right where I want to be.”
˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°
As the months wore on, the chill of spring settled into a sharp, frosty winter, and Ranpo was quick to notice how unprepared Poe truly was for the season. He had all the equipment, of course, but no matter how many hats and mittens the man wore, it never seemed enough—he still shivered constantly.
Karl was the only thing that seemed to keep him warm. He’d curl around Poe’s neck, burrowing his head beneath the writer’s scarf as he puttered away at his desk.
“Thank you, Karl,” Poe muttered distractedly. His hand trembled as his quill scratched against the parchment. “Ah, damn-”
“Another typo?” Ranpo asked, leaning over the back of his chair. He’d draped himself across Poe’s back, nestling his chin in Karl’s cozy fur.
“No,” Poe replied. “I’m not typing, nor am I misspelling my words. I just fumbled with the quill, that’s all.”
“You really run cold, huh?”
“All my research said the winters here were mild,” Poe mumbled. “But it’s far colder than I expected. It hardly ever falls below freezing back in Virginia. I suppose it’s just harder for me to keep warm here.”
Ranpo hummed as he watched Poe dip his quill in the inkwell, fingers still shaking.
“I can help you warm up,” Ranpo said. A grin stretched across his face when Poe swivelled fast enough to spill ink across the already-messy handwriting.
“I’m sorry?”
“I can help warm you up.”
“No, I heard you. I just-”
Really, for someone who considered himself mysterious, Poe was always painfully easy to predict when it came to this sort of thing.
“I told myself I would finish this chapter tonight.”
“With that handwriting?” Ranpo peered down at the paper. “I can hardly read it.”
“Stop peeking!” Poe whined, covering the page with trembling hands. “You’re going to get pulled into an unfinished story. Or worse, spoil yourself.”
Ranpo raised his hands in mock admission. “Hey, if you wanna stay cold, that’s your business. But I’m going to bed.” Poe sputtered when the detective’s arms darted out to scoop Karl off his neck, gathering the raccoon close to his chest. “And Karl’s coming with me.”
“Hey!”
He stuck his tongue out and fled for the bedroom. And just as Ranpo predicted, Poe trailed close behind.
It was routine at this point, sharing a bed when Ranpo spent the night. He couldn’t quite remember when it started. But it usually went this way: Poe insisted on finishing ‘just one more chapter’, and Ranpo lazed in his California king-sized bed while waiting for him to wrap up. The size of the mattress was terribly excessive, and Ranpo often used the space for pillow forts or to play with Karl. After an hour or two, he’d drift off, and by the time he woke back up, Poe would be tucked in the sheets beside him, snoring softly.
But with the chill of winter came a change in routine. Rather than waiting for Poe to join him, Ranpo preferred to drag the writer into bed with him, sighing as he sprawled against the duvet. Today, Karl curled against the detective’s side, a little bundle of warmth to help them along.
Cold hands crawled under Ranpo’s sweater. The detective giggled as he wrapped his arms around Poe’s neck, pulling him down til cheek met chest. But when Poe’s fingers slipped under the back of Ranpo’s binder, he frowned.
“What’s this?” he asked, snapping the back of the fabric against Ranpo’s shoulderblade. “How am I meant to relax knowing my rival isn’t ready for bed?”
Ranpo rolled his eyes.
“It’s fine, Poe,” he said. “I sleep with it on all the time.” He chuckled when Poe glared up through messy bangs.
“It’s not funny.”
“Maybe not,” Ranpo teased, “but your reaction sure is.” He ruffled the writer’s hair, smiling as Poe’s eyes squeezed shut. He squirmed atop Ranpo and slid his hands further up his back.
“Menace. Let me take it off.”
And now for Ranpo’s favorite part of their new routine: Poe, for some reason, always insisted on being the one to take off Ranpo’s binder. When it was cold like this, he moved quick and gentle, removing the sweater just long enough to free him from the binder before wrapping him back in the warmth. Poe’s arms snaked around Ranpo as he sank back down.
“Much comfier,” Poe sighed, nuzzling into his chest. “And so warm.”
Funnily enough, Ranpo didn’t mind the slight swell of his chest in moments like these. Not when Poe had his chin propped between his breasts, the soft huff of his breath tickling through the fabric. It was rare to see the older man so content, to see the lines in his face soften as Poe’s eyes slipped shut and his lips parted.
Tentatively, Ranpo’s fingers wound into the hair at the nape of Poe’s neck. He let his thumb graze the skin, and couldn’t help but smile when Poe let out a content little sigh, all because of him.
˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°
For all of Poe’s strictness regarding Ranpo’s binding habits, he was quick to forget to take care of himself. Poe didn’t bind often. But when he did, he was often too distracted by his work to realize when the ache set in.
“Poeeee,” Ranpo called, waving a hand between dull eyes and a too-bright computer monitor. “Hello? Earth to Poe, can you hear me?”
Poe muttered something unintelligible as his fingers continued to dance across the keyboard. He’d met with his editors that morning, his first in-person meeting with them since arriving in Japan, and in preparation, he’d decided to bind.
The result was far more noticeable than when Ranpo binded. Poe’d forgone his usual tailcoat, opting instead to show off the rare flatness of his chest with a dark silk blouse that ruffled at the collar in an exquisite feathery pattern. His back curled tightly over the keyboard. His shoulders hunched painfully.
“Poe,” Ranpo tried again, but he only received a hum in response.
It was annoying enough that Ranpo had to bide his time that afternoon waiting for Poe’s meeting to end. He knew the editors had flown in from abroad to discuss official translations of Poe’s work, plus the edits for his latest manuscript, but really, a four-hour meeting seemed excessive! And now Poe had buried himself in a barrage of edits. His breathing was almost as stiff as his back, the slight shake betraying his discomfort.
“Ranpo, do you think the cultural context of this passage will translate okay?” he asked. “The firm is worried that a Japanese audience won’t be as receptive to the character’s intersex identity.”
There he went again, always so worried about things that didn’t matter. This new mystery was one of his best! If anyone wrote it off because they didn’t try to understand the character’s identity and background (that Poe’d described just fine, thank you very much), then they didn’t deserve to read Poe’s writing, anyways. Ranpo sucked a breath through his teeth, took Poe by the shoulders, and shook hard.
Poe hissed, slipping a hand over his shoulder.
“Ow,” he whined. “What was that for?”
“That was for ignoring me. And this-” Ranpo flicked Poe’s forehead. “-is for wearing your binder for too long.”
“Oh.” Poe’s hands flexed over hard muscle. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”
Typical. If Ranpo were in his place, Poe would have never let it slip his mind. Ranpo’s health was ‘more precious’, according to the writer, but that sap always let emotions cloud his judgement. Not that Ranpo really minded—it was honestly pretty nice to be able to return the favor and help Poe out of his binder, even if the opportunity was rare.
“Well, I suppose…” Poe lifted himself from his chair. He stretched, his shirt slipping up to reveal a sliver of pale skin, and Ranpo hummed happily as his fingers splayed over the cool skin beneath.
Ranpo’s thumbs drew gentle circles up his back as Poe worked the buttons. The silk shirt fell to the floor, where Ranpo kicked it aside, rolling his eyes when Poe scoffed.
“I’ve waited long enough for you to pay attention to me,” Ranpo said. “I’m not waiting for you to fold your stupid shirt.”
“So demanding,” Poe tutted, the corner of his lip twitching up as Ranpo hooked his thumbs beneath the fabric of his binder. He pulled it over Poe’s head, lifting himself up to the tips of his toes to do so.
The groan that slipped from Poe’s lips was one of pure relief. He dragged his fingertips down Poe’s shoulderblades just to watch the muscles shiver in their wake.
Poe’s breasts were heavy, sagging immediately upon the binder’s removal, and Ranpo pressed gentle lips to the back of his shoulder as he cupped Poe’s chest.
“Massage?” he offered, and in lieu of a response, Poe stumbled to the couch where he collapsed atop the cushions, ivory skin stark against the dark suede.
Ranpo chuckled as he straddled the back of Poe’s hips. He leaned forward and kneaded the writer’s lower back with the heels of his palms. Poe sighed blissfully, melting beneath him. The muscles were tight—Ranpo had to shift his weight into his hands to work out the knots in his shoulder. Poe moaned quietly as the detective worked, shifting back ever-so-slightly when he wanted more pressure. Muscles rippled beneath his shoulders as he flexed.
Ranpo never tired of admiring Poe. He was ethereal. The skin of his back was smooth and soft, the bones of his ribs and spines jutting out in a way that he knew made Poe insecure, but personally, Ranpo loved it. He loved tracing the lines and watching him shiver. The man was sensitive everywhere, from the nape of his neck (a single kiss was all it took to make him melt) to his narrow hips (one of his more ticklish spots, and where Ranpo liked to rest his hands when they were out and about). A few light scars littered the top of Poe’s shoulders, where Karl liked to perch, and occasionally dug his claws into the fabric.
“A little lower, please,” Poe muttered. When Ranpo’s fingers found the sore spot between his lower two ribs, Poe all but whimpered, burying his face further into the throw pillows. “Yes, that’s perfect- oh, Ranpo, thank you.”
When he was satisfied, Poe squirmed beneath him, turning to get a better look at the detective. His fingers wound around Ranpo’s tie and tugged him down until their lips met.
Yeah. Ranpo’s fingers crawled up Poe’s jaw, tilting it up to swipe his tongue across Poe’s teeth. When the rewards were this sweet, Ranpo would return the favor every time.