Work Text:
There is a time and a place for everything , Fukuzawa reminds himself for the nth time, closing his eyes and breathing deep in a futile attempt to calm himself. When he opens his eyes, the sight before him hasn’t changed: Ranpo, mouth closed around the thin stick of a lollipop, straddling a rocking horse. He’s too big for the thing, of course, being fourteen and not four , so he’s settled for bouncing back and forth on it to make it sway, thighs tensing and releasing with the motion.
Fukuzawa breathes out from his nose again, focused on the clenching of those soft thighs. Memories flood his mind, of Ranpo above him, petulantly smacking the man’s hands away with insistence-- I can do it, don’t help me -- before inevitably getting tired and giving up all too quick.
“Ranpo,” Fukuzawa says, frustration leaking into his tone. He’s no reason to be frustrated with the boy, no, if anything he can acknowledge how cute his dedication to trying out everything he missed in childhood really is. The frustration lies with himself, for being incapable of keeping his own thoughts innocent. But they’re in public , at some toy convention Ranpo’d been babbling about for ages. And of course Fukuzawa had caved. Of course he had, and he’d let Ranpo buy himself a whole new outfit too. An outfit he’s wearing now, smiling and oblivious and innocent.
“Your son is so cute,” A woman tells him in passing, toting her own children past.
He’s not my son , Fukuzawa wants to scream. As if that makes it any better at all, the fact that he’s fucking a fourteen year old, a fourteen year old he’s recently become the legal guardian of.
I hear you have acquired a little boy. We’ll have to have a playdate soon, your boy and my little girl, Mori’s letter had said. Fukuzawa had burned it, had made himself sick with guilt, and then fucked Ranpo into the mattress anyway.
“What did she say?” Ranpo asks, popping the candy out of his mouth. It’s covered in spit, slick and shiny and obscene, his lips red and sweet, and Fukuzawa needs to stay strong.
“She said you’re cute,” He says dutifully, watching Ranpo swing one leg up and off the horse. He’s unfairly adorable in his new getup, red shorts and white button up, frilly little socks and all. To make matters worse, he’d made the mistake of ordering the short a size too small, the shirt a size too big, just barely covering where the red fabric clings unfairly to Ranpo’s thighs. Fukuzawa was certain the shorts wouldn’t survive the night; he had half a mind to rip them to shreds.
Ranpo wrinkles his nose. “I’m not cute.”
Fukuzawa nods absently, disagreeing internally but unable to voice it as Ranpo spins the lollipop between his fingers. He clears his throat. “We’re leaving.”
“Huh? But I’m not finished seeing everything yet.”
“We’ll come back.”
“But-”
“Ranpo.”
The boy sighs, sticking his candy back in his mouth. “Fine,” He grumbles, sticking his hand out for Fukuzawa to take. He does, his huge hand wrapped around Ranpo’s tiny one, and it’s in a hurry that he drags Ranpo out to the carpark.
“Why are we leaving?”
Fukuzawa doesn’t answer, digging his keys out of his pocket, fumbling to get the buttons right. “Toss that junk,” He tells the boy, who makes an angry noise but tosses his lollipop into the dirt anyways. When Fukuzawa sweeps the backdoor open for him, he raises an eyebrow.
“Why am I sitting in the backseat?”
“Get in.” Fukuzawa can’t keep the growl out of his tone, patience wearing thin.
Ranpo blinks at him, then narrows his eyes. “Oh. I see.” He grins, patting his chest proudly. “It’s my cute new outfit, right?”
The older man softens. “Yes. You look very adorable.”
“Just don’t ruin it,” Ranpo says, finally climbing into the backseat and laying back against the leather, “I want to wear them again.”
“Alright,” Fukuzawa agrees easily, slamming the car door behind him. He’s on the boy in an instant, hips slotted between Ranpo’s raised knees and hands landing on squishy thighs and squeezing, watching the flesh bulge against the tight fabric. “Take them off, baby boy,” He instructs, leaning back against the car window to leave the boy room.
Ranpo huffs, digging his thumbs into the wait band and wriggling, struggling to get them off. They really are too tight, sinfully clinging to his body even as he shucks them off. Fukuzawa’s hands fall to the buttons of his shirt, making quick work of them and trying his best not to just rip the thing off. It’s all ruffles and pockets, the hem landing on Ranpo’s bare thighs, and he decides to leave it on and open, tiny pink nipples peeking out and just begging Fukuzawa to touch.
Ranpo shivers at the contact, tossing the shorts towards the front seat carelessly, panties and all. The leather seat is cold against the flesh of his ass, a counterpoint to the warmth of Fukuzawa’s hands on his chest, pinching and pulling just the way he knows makes the boy twitch.
The man dives forward, burying his face in the boy’s neck, breathing in. Sweat and sugar, artificial cherry and that overly-scented, fancy body wash Ranpo insists he buy. Shivers wrack through the boy as Fukuzawa lathes at the sensitive skin behind his ear. “You look so cute today.”
“I know ,” Ranpo says, petulant, “And I want to go back inside, so hurry up.”
“Behave.”
Ranpo rolls his eyes, glaring as Fukuzawa pulls back, hands finding his thighs once again and housing them up. “Hold these.” Smaller hands replace his, holding his knees up to his chest, ass exposed. It’s a tiny thing, soft and squishy, and he presses a hand into each cheek, marveling at how small they feel beneath his fingers, reminding himself how wrong truly is, for a man like him to take something so small. Between the boy’s spread legs, the tiny pink pucker flutters, as Fukuzawa watches intently.
“Why do I have to do the work?” Ranpo whines, the sound cut off with a choke when Fukuzawa smacks his thigh, maybe a little harder than necessary. “Mean. Mean Daddy.”
“Just sit pretty,” Fukuzawa tells him, unbothered, as he leans towards the front seat to dig around in the console. Fingers closing around the half-empty bottle of lube, he hums. “If you don’t behave, I will make you actually do the work.”
A huff, but no further reply. The boy stays quiet while Fukuzawa coats his fingers in lube, setting the bottle aside and focusing once again on Ranpo. “Breathe,” He says, circling one finger around the taut flesh of his hole. His eyes trail up higher, to where his small cock sits flushed and pretty against his stomach, precome leaking steadily from the tip.
Brattily, Ranpo breathes out hard through his nose, the sound obnoxious in the quiet of the car. “I said behave,” Fukuzawa reminds him, before pushing his finger all the way in without warning. Ranpo gasps, tensing, fingernails digging into his own thighs as he whines at the intrusion. The older man’s fingers are by no means thin; just one makes him burn with the stretch. “And breathe .”
“I am ,” Ranpo complains, kicking his feet where they stick in the air. Free hand coming up, Fukuzawa catches one, pulling it to his mouth to press a soft kiss against the boy’s ankle. It’s so frail, so small and thin, his thumb and forefinger touch where they wrap around the delicate skin. The meat of his leg, all baby fat and no muscle, despite Fukuzawa’s best efforts, is soft to the touch when he presses his lips there next, then his teeth, latching on and sucking a pink mark.
Ranpo thrashes, insides clenching around the man’s fingers. “Please,” He says, and Fukuzawa smiles against the mark, always delighted with how easy it is to work the boy up. Afterall, it’s not like he has much experience besides this, besides what Fukuzawa has let himself do to him.
“Shh,” He says, pulling his face away from the boy’s calf to press kisses against his face, “Be a good boy for me.”
Hazily, Ranpo nods. His raven hair is matted to his forehead already, the car hot and stuffy after baking in the sun all day. Fukuzawa presses more apologetic kisses there, taking the opportunity to lap at the sweat dotting his hairline and savor the shudders he gets in return.
“Daddy,” Ranpo breathes, and Fukuzawa rewards him with a second finger, aiming right for his prostate. It's as easy as breathing, the angle etched into his brain, and the sound Ranpo makes upon first contact is one he’ll never forget. “Please,” He gasps, as Fukuzawa scissors his fingers, being sure to brush up against that spot inside him and reveling in the sounds it earns him.
When he grinds both fingers against it, sliding in a third, Ranpo screams, back arching, shoulders pressing hard into the leather seats beneath them. “Good boy,” Fukuzawa soothes, reaching down to circle his thumb and forefinger around that small cock, watching it pulse and spurt precome onto a pale stomach. His mouth waters with the urge to lap it up, the sounds Ranpo makes form that particular sensation echoing through his mind,even as Ranpo whines and gasps in front of him. He shakes his head. There’s a time and place for everything, He reminds himself. And then, Which is the right time and place to fuck your…
He watches the boy pant, chest heaving and eyes red-rimmed and watery.
…Ward? Son?
A shudder wracks through him, entirely too pleasant for his liking. He shouldn’t be doing this, he tells himself, sliding his fingers through the precome on the boy’s stomach and smearing it across that small waist. It really is tiny; he can wrap his hands around it and have them touch…
“Up,” Fukuzawa says, sliding his fingers out and patting the boy’s ass with his dry hand while he coats himself with the excess lube with the other.
Ranpo’s movements are sluggish, dazed. When he makes it to a sitting position, eyes wide and wet and watching Fukuzawa intently, the man chuckles, dragging him closer. He’s so small in his arms, it’s so easy to manhandle him, hold him against his chest, light as a feather where he rests on his lap. One hand wrapped tight around his waist, holding the poor boy to his chest, he fiddles with the belt of his yukata, working it open and his cock free.
Ranpo makes a pleased sound as it brushes against his front, then makes a displeased sound when Fukuzawa nudges him into a more independent sitting position, thighs settled on the outside of his own. WIth their size difference, his legs are spread wide to accommodate, hands braced on Fukuzawa’s shoulders. He blinks at the man in front of him, then at the window to their left.
“They’ll see,” Ranpo whines, whipping his head back and forth, glancing out the windows. The parking lot is relatively devoid of people, very few milling around, leaving the convention or lingering around their cars. No one’s near close enough to see them,yet the threat is still there, hovering in the stuffy air of the backseat with them.
“They’ll just see what a good boy you are for me,” Fukuzawa assures him, watching the boy writhe. Truth be told, he’s filled with guilt already, terrified of someone seeing him doing something so heinous to the delicate little creature he’s been entrusted with, but then Ranpo leans forward, hand catching the base of the man’s cock as he begins to lower himself down, and all rational thought disappears.
My boy, his mind screams, watching Rnapo sink down on him, Just for me .
“Good boy,” He says instead, “Breathe for me, baby.”
Ranpo heaves a stuttered breath, leaning forward to bury his face in Fukuzawa’s shoulder, tear tracks staining the fabric of his robe. “It’s so much,” He hiccups, and the man runs a soothing hand down a thin, shivering back, feeling ribs and spine beneath his fingers. SO small, so frail, something so fragile in his hands….
He thrusts upwards, drawing another scream out of Ranpo.
How could this ever be bad? How could this be anything other than holy, just the two of them entwined, breathing in each other’s air? Ranpo’s sweet cries fill the backseat, the soft skin of his ass making harsh sounds as he bounces in the older man’s lap again and again, and Fukuzawa hopes it bruises, hope that he can feel it for days, feel the remnants of his love.
“Good boy,” He praises, grunting as Ranpo clenches at the gentle words, “You’re doing so well for me, look at you.”
“Daddy,” Ranpo cries, the sound muffled into his chest, “Please.”
“You’re doing so well.”
Rnapo makes another desperate sound, wriggling his hips in a poor attempt to match Fukuzawa’s rhythm. It’s easy to hold him up with one strong hand on his frail hip, easy to fuck up into that tight heat, easy to let out groans in time with Ranpo’s gasps and feel him pant into his neck, feel his thin chest heave with overwhelmed breaths. His cock rubs against the front of Fukuzwa’s robe, no doubt leaving a sticky trail, evidence of their sin, but he can’t bring himself to worry about it, snaking a hand between them to wrap around Ranpo. The boy moans, and it only takes two pumps from Fukuzawa’s hand for him to come, spurting between them and onto the man’s robe.
He goes limp, arms still clinging to Fukuzawa’s neck like it’s his lifeline, and the thought makes Fukuzawa thrust up harder, enjoying the helpless spasming as the last waves of Ranpo’s orgasm rock through him, following soon after, spilling into the boy with a groan.
Ranpo whimpers, face still pressed to the man’s neck.
“Ranpo,” Fukuzawa asks, as level as he can while his breath is still evening out, “Are you alright?”
The boy hums, the sound sleepy and far-away.
“Do you want to rest for a while before we go back inside?”
“Take me home,” Ranpo whines. Fukuzawa can feel his eyelashes fluttering against his collarbone.
“What about the convention?”
“‘M too tired now. You’re so mean for tiring me out.”
“I’m sorry,” Fukuzawa says, swallowing.
“Buy me more candy. And a new shirt. You ripped this one.”
“Alright.”
“Okay,” Ranpo says, relaxing further into Fukuzawa’s chest. And it’s that easy-- it shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be allowed to have this, shouldn’t be trusted with this delicate, alluring little creature. He doesn’t deserve that trust, he reminds himself, wrapping his arms more firmly around that tiny waist as his cock softens inside the boy, doesn’t deserve to hold this sweet and fragile thing.
It’s not a minute before they’re both asleep, breaths soft in the backseat of the car, while the rest of the world goes on around them.