🙈🙉🙊

He blames the universe for having been born Japanese, lived in the same neighborhood, entered the same kindergarten as this girl turned girlfriend a good twelve years later.

He blames the universe for the abnormal surge of cases in Tokyo that consequently robs the girlfriend’s father’s time in the apartment, leaving him and her alone ‘til sunset.

Blames the universe for spring, because flowy skirts.

Blames the universe for summer for limiting her wardrobe choice to nothing but shorts, shorts, and short shorts.

Blames the universe for autumn, because thigh-high stockings.

Blames the universe or whoever created it for creating teenage hormones so rebellious, so perilously out of his control especially when he gets so much a peek of her skin. Just skin, the fuck. How else if more than that.

All these and more run in his mind while the girlfriend nestles between his legs doing homework under the kotatsu.

Naturally, he blames the universe for this moment.

Winter is a bitch, sweaters and heater aren’t enough. Mouri Ran suggests huddling. Now he levels with her nape, long hair conveniently let on one side. She scribbles notes with no care in the world while he inwardly chants a prayer. This is it. This is his demise.

He blames the universe for the aching hard-on in his pants.

But he is Kudou Shinichi, and while he’ll flip the universe off, he'll make absolutely sure to do something about the situation he’s presented. Else, he dies.

There are many ways to deal with this without hurting anybody’s feelings. He can excuse himself and let the rage subside in the toilet. He can request they sit side by side instead. He can offer to get them a takeout snack from Poirot. Literally those ways.

But not pull her closer by the waist.

He really isn’t helping himself. It’s dumb, but at the same time it seems it’s all he can manage to do. He clears his throat, a harmless statement whispered in her ear, “Ran, can we please, uh. Take a break.”

Amidst the impatient rush of blood southwards, he maintains a safe distance, not too close she could hear the erratic beating in his chest, and not too far that when her head swivels sideways their noses brush. Distance still matters to him, lest this - whatever he's doing - startles her.

“Hm? But we just took one fifteen minutes ago.”

Ran catches Shinichi’s eyes drift to the direction of the bed and back. She can't read if that gesture intentionally hints on something, or just a slip of his guilty thoughts. His eyes are so near she catches the details of his blues, blended with a certain kind of struggle.

Her body becomes aware of a bulge against her lower back. Ran's pulse kicks up a step.

“Let’s keep warm over there, please,” Shinichi requests, a hint of mild desperation in his tone.

When it takes her a while to reply, he notices his mistake. So much for devising ways to deal with hormones without offending anyone's feelings. With his last sane braincell, he wills himself to scoot further back, "No worries if you don't wanna! Though I k-kinda need to lie down a bit, Ran, haha, so—"

The disentanglement is halted when she holds his arms firm around her waist. Ran refuses to budge under the kotatsu. Instead, she clings onto the cuffs of his sleeve, startling him.

"Shinichi, um. But we're already quite comfortable here, don't you think?"

Like hell it is. Shinichi needs to break away. He can already sense himself growing by the second, exponentially so with the way she tilts her chin to face him fully, something he hasn’t seen before dancing in her eyes. Half mast, dilated, cozy and— and almost bedroomy.

What! Is she doing!

Shinichi's hands slide down her hips involuntarily. They stay in the kotatsu, plane of her back resting against his pecs through the hoodie. Everything is dangerously still. He gives her hips a light squeeze, she doesn't protest. He inches close, she presses near. "The hell, Ran..." He skims the line of her shoulder with his lips.

What! Is he doing!

He's acting on pure impulse now, the set of sane braincells in his head overpowered by the braincells of another one. A total defeat. God he's such a man.

And it maddens him so because not one bit does Ran seem to mind, whispering a light ‘should be fine here, right?’ when they're eye to eye. Shinichi nods in complete obedience. He swallows his nerves away, then closes the distance between their lips in one swift motion.

Inside his brain, the little Shinichi with pitchforks rejoices.

Perhaps the liplock is too earnest that a few minutes in, Ran finds her hips moving on its own, attention brought once more to the press of that bulge against her back. They part only for Ran to surge in again, denying them a moment to breathe.

Her hand creeps up behind, feeling the stiffness. She squeezes lightly. Shinichi groans in her mouth. No words are said, yet they seem to understand exactly what the other wants to do. She tugs on the garter of his joggers. His hands travel down her skirt, up her thigh. Shinichi loses his mind.

I'm going to hell, he thinks, as he finds his fingers trailing to the most heated part of her body. This isn't the first time. That's why he desires to get away at the earliest opportunity the moment he feels about to succumb to the universe's temptations, certain the day will end with his fingers buried in her, and she gasping in his arms. Exactly right now. Him stroking her above cotton, before slipping past it and slowly sliding in.

It frustrates him to feel this good hearing her moan his name, and it's only ever third base.

Only ever third base.

Shinichi blames the universe that he isn't yet married to Mouri Ran. Dear god, how the universe knows he's dying to fu—

He freezes at the cold touch of her hand slinking inside his boxers. Something inside him stirred. This is a first time. His fingers pause, his breath gets heavy. Ran breaks the kiss to look him in the eye, panting as she pulls his garments further down, "let's do it?"

Fuck.

Surprisingly, it's Shinichi who comes to senses first. "Do what exactly?", genuine inquiry seemingly asked in jest following a heated french in response to her straightforward request. Though clearly aware of what she’s insinuating, he needs to be absolutely certain of what stage they are about to do. Instead of giving verbal confirmation however, Ran doesn't stop stroking him, and Shinichi feels himself about to short circuit, making it worse when she adjusts the way she's seated to give her hand - and his fingers - more working space.

They are about to do it under the kotatsu.

Shinichi should be thanking the heavens right now, yet a part of him screams to save the end for a later time when they're older, readier. The sane side of him awakens, like a dying star in its last bursts of energy before imploding in on itself, just enough seconds to remind himself that he intends to take this step by step. There must be a way they can do it without doing it.

Hoisting Ran by the waist, Shinichi deposits her body slightly below his torso and leans back a bit. "Maybe we can..." The slight shift in position allows Ran to perch snug above him, legs between his outstretched ones. "Like this."

Ran appears reluctant to let go of her grasp, but in the new adjustment, she feels him against the underside of her thighs, rock hard. It only occurs to her what she just requested, and she flushes, suddenly hyperaware of the wild drumbeat inside her chest, the zero personal space. Her skin sensitive to the squeeze of his hand on her hip underneath her hoodie. His twitch beneath when his other hand finds purchase on the area between her skirt and overknee socks and begs her to 'open up a bit' and he groans her name, "Ran."

Dazed, Ran creates an opening. Shinichi slides himself in. Ran tightens the grip of her thighs. Shinichi moves.

It's like all the air is robbed out of his lungs.

How does he describe this sensation? He feels like a present, she the wrapper. "Been wondering 'bout this for a long time," is what he doesn't say aloud, as he looks over at the way her knees linked close, her upper thighs clamp. There is something sacred in the place where he enters her, an absolute territory he's actually been waiting to explore beyond sight. He's only ever stared in loaded silence, when she walks ahead, or climbs the stairs, or gets a book atop the shelf on tiptoes and skirt hiking up. Thoughts spurring in his subconscious going, what does it feel like to be trapped in there.

Unbeknownst to Shinichi, it's the singular best place to ever be. An absolutely fucking addicting territory to be in.

Ran squirms in place, unable to stray her eyes away from the rise and fall happening beneath her skirt. She needs to confirm that this strange hot activity with Shinichi is real. With shaky hands she lifts the hem of her skirt up and sees him. Wet on the tip. Protruding then disappearing. Rhythm synchronizing with the labored breath by her nape.

Overwhelmed by the budding heat in that area they create friction, she begins rolling her hips, matching his timing.

They are doing it under the kotatsu.

It drives Shinichi crazier when Ran requests to rise up to a kneeling position, her palms flat on the tabletop. They stay connected below, allowing him a more comfortable grip, a more open view of him thrusting between her thighs. Ran tips her head back and breathes the cutest moan when he picks up the pace. If he closes his eyes, he may actually believe they're doing it from behind, the sensation perhaps nearly tantamount to fucking her. And he might really seriously get to fuck her. Except that what they're doing now is already so damn hot neither wants to stop.

"Ah. You're—" something wet oozes slowly over him as he continues sliding in and out her thighs. Understanding what it is and what it means for his girlfriend is about enough to give him a heart attack. His hands enclose hers atop the kotatsu, sheathing and unsheathing faster, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead as he croaks out, "fucking warm, Ran".

He hasn't hung out in her room intending to do anything of this sort with Ran. It's just suddenly happened. And now he's afraid that once he finishes, he'll end up wanting more. The heat in him builds up, ever concentrated at the nerve ends of his shaft, desperately looking for where he can possibly do the unloading in the most respectful way. On the table. The fabric of her skirt. Her socks. Her thighs. He grits his teeth and inwardly curses.

Whatever the case is, he'll make a mess of her.

He blames the universe for how badly that turns him on.

Closing in, he warns Ran by the ear. "S'll be a lot," he says, and Ran, tongue-tied and keening, nods frantically. In a split second, Shinichi makes a decision - spilling over the table will ruin Ran's notes. So the final blow he does, painting the back of Ran's thighs, dribbling down the seam of her socks as he spurts out more, and more, and more, then sliding back again between her thighs, calming himself down with one hand on her hip and the other squeezing her breasts beneath the hoodie.

For Shinichi, everything burns.

"Can I..." Ran speaks first, over quiet gasps of air, "Can I um, remove my socks, I'm..."

"Shit," Shinichi rasps, unable to even out his breathing. "Hold on." Still in a bit of a haze, he slowly releases his grip on Ran's breast, sliding down to join his other hand on her hips. Even in his high, he tries his best to hold her ever so gently. He tries his best, despite the wave of shame that has begun to wash over him.

"Sorry, I couldn't—"

Before Shinichi can finish, Ran turns her head to look at him, and Shinichi knows. The lines of sweat, the slow ragged breaths, the gentle stoke of fire in her eyes, all tell him that for Ran, everything burns, too.

They fall silent for a brief second, holding each other's gaze. Until Ran giggles first. 

It surprises him so because she’s giggling. She rolls the socks down one leg and Shinichi assists her in the other, thinking, if only he foresaw the positive feedback he'd get from this, he would’ve done this ages earlier.

“I think,” she begins, after she lets him clean her up with the dry portion of her discarded socks, the pair obviously going straight to the laundry. “That’s such a perverted thing to do.”

“Hey. Tha – !” Shinichi gives his retort a second thought, unable to control the red of his cheeks as he tucks himself inside his joggers. At least he accepts there is no use denying a fact.

“Don’t blame me,” he mutters, abashed, turning her around so she can see him pout. Maybe Shinichi will have to clean himself up too, later, alone, in the shower.

However, he notices that the fire in her eyes hasn’t disappeared.

“Whose fault is it then? Mine?” Ran asks, coy.

Fuck, not again.

He blames the universe for having been born Japanese, lived in the same neighborhood, entered the same kindergarten as this girl turned girlfriend a good twelve years later.

He blames the universe for the abnormal surge of cases in Tokyo that consequently robs the girlfriend’s father’s time in the apartment, leaving him and her alone ‘til sunset.

Blames the universe for spring, because flowy skirts.

Blames the universe for summer for limiting her wardrobe choice to nothing but shorts, shorts, and short shorts.

Blames the universe for autumn, because thigh-high stockings.

Blames the universe or whoever created it for creating teenage hormones so rebellious, so perilously out of his control especially when he gets so much a peek of her skin. Just skin, the fuck. How else if more than that.

All these and more run in his mind while the girlfriend nestles between his legs doing homework under the kotatsu.

Naturally, he blames the universe for this moment.

Winter is a bitch, sweaters and heater aren’t enough. Mouri Ran suggests huddling. Now he levels with her nape, long hair conveniently let on one side. She scribbles notes with no care in the world while he inwardly chants a prayer. This is it. This is his demise.

He blames the universe for the aching hard-on in his pants.

But he is Kudou Shinichi, and while he’ll flip the universe off, he'll make absolutely sure to do something about the situation he’s presented. Else, he dies.

There are many ways to deal with this without hurting anybody’s feelings. He can excuse himself and let the rage subside in the toilet. He can request they sit side by side instead. He can offer to get them a takeout snack from Poirot. Literally those ways.

But not pull her closer by the waist.

He really isn’t helping himself. It’s dumb, but at the same time it seems it’s all he can manage to do. He clears his throat, a harmless statement whispered in her ear, “Ran, can we please, uh. Take a break.”

Amidst the impatient rush of blood southwards, he maintains a safe distance, not too close she could hear the erratic beating in his chest, and not too far that when her head swivels sideways their noses brush. Distance still matters to him, lest this - whatever he's doing - startles her.

“Hm? But we just took one fifteen minutes ago.”

Ran catches Shinichi’s eyes drift to the direction of the bed and back. She can't read if that gesture intentionally hints on something, or just a slip of his guilty thoughts. His eyes are so near she catches the details of his blues, blended with a certain kind of struggle.

Her body becomes aware of a bulge against her lower back. Ran's pulse kicks up a step.

“Let’s keep warm over there, please,” Shinichi requests, a hint of mild desperation in his tone.

When it takes her a while to reply, he notices his mistake. So much for devising ways to deal with hormones without offending anyone's feelings. With his last sane braincell, he wills himself to scoot further back, "No worries if you don't wanna! Though I k-kinda need to lie down a bit, Ran, haha, so—"

The disentanglement is halted when she holds his arms firm around her waist. Ran refuses to budge under the kotatsu. Instead, she clings onto the cuffs of his sleeve, startling him.

"Shinichi, um. But we're already quite comfortable here, don't you think?"

Like hell it is. Shinichi needs to break away. He can already sense himself growing by the second, exponentially so with the way she tilts her chin to face him fully, something he hasn’t seen before dancing in her eyes. Half mast, dilated, cozy and— and almost bedroomy.

What! Is she doing!

Shinichi's hands slide down her hips involuntarily. They stay in the kotatsu, plane of her back resting against his pecs through the hoodie. Everything is dangerously still. He gives her hips a light squeeze, she doesn't protest. He inches close, she presses near. "The hell, Ran..." He skims the line of her shoulder with his lips.

What! Is he doing!

He's acting on pure impulse now, the set of sane braincells in his head overpowered by the braincells of another one. A total defeat. God he's such a man.

And it maddens him so because not one bit does Ran seem to mind, whispering a light ‘should be fine here, right?’ when they're eye to eye. Shinichi nods in complete obedience. He swallows his nerves away, then closes the distance between their lips in one swift motion.

Inside his brain, the little Shinichi with pitchforks rejoices.

Perhaps the liplock is too earnest that a few minutes in, Ran finds her hips moving on its own, attention brought once more to the press of that bulge against her back. They part only for Ran to surge in again, denying them a moment to breathe.

Her hand creeps up behind, feeling the stiffness. She squeezes lightly. Shinichi groans in her mouth. No words are said, yet they seem to understand exactly what the other wants to do. She tugs on the garter of his joggers. His hands travel down her skirt, up her thigh. Shinichi loses his mind.

I'm going to hell, he thinks, as he finds his fingers trailing to the most heated part of her body. This isn't the first time. That's why he desires to get away at the earliest opportunity the moment he feels about to succumb to the universe's temptations, certain the day will end with his fingers buried in her, and she gasping in his arms. Exactly right now. Him stroking her above cotton, before slipping past it and slowly sliding in.

It frustrates him to feel this good hearing her moan his name, and it's only ever third base.

Only ever third base.

Shinichi blames the universe that he isn't yet married to Mouri Ran. Dear god, how the universe knows he's dying to fu—

He freezes at the cold touch of her hand slinking inside his boxers. Something inside him stirred. This is a first time. His fingers pause, his breath gets heavy. Ran breaks the kiss to look him in the eye, panting as she pulls his garments further down, "let's do it?"

Fuck.

Surprisingly, it's Shinichi who comes to senses first. "Do what exactly?", genuine inquiry seemingly asked in jest following a heated french in response to her straightforward request. Though clearly aware of what she’s insinuating, he needs to be absolutely certain of what stage they are about to do. Instead of giving verbal confirmation however, Ran doesn't stop stroking him, and Shinichi feels himself about to short circuit, making it worse when she adjusts the way she's seated to give her hand - and his fingers - more working space.

They are about to do it under the kotatsu.

Shinichi should be thanking the heavens right now, yet a part of him screams to save the end for a later time when they're older, readier. The sane side of him awakens, like a dying star in its last bursts of energy before imploding in on itself, just enough seconds to remind himself that he intends to take this step by step. There must be a way they can do it without doing it.

Hoisting Ran by the waist, Shinichi deposits her body slightly below his torso and leans back a bit. "Maybe we can..." The slight shift in position allows Ran to perch snug above him, legs between his outstretched ones. "Like this."

Ran appears reluctant to let go of her grasp, but in the new adjustment, she feels him against the underside of her thighs, rock hard. It only occurs to her what she just requested, and she flushes, suddenly hyperaware of the wild drumbeat inside her chest, the zero personal space. Her skin sensitive to the squeeze of his hand on her hip underneath her hoodie. His twitch beneath when his other hand finds purchase on the area between her skirt and overknee socks and begs her to 'open up a bit' and he groans her name, "Ran."

Dazed, Ran creates an opening. Shinichi slides himself in. Ran tightens the grip of her thighs. Shinichi moves.

It's like all the air is robbed out of his lungs.

How does he describe this sensation? He feels like a present, she the wrapper. "Been wondering 'bout this for a long time," is what he doesn't say aloud, as he looks over at the way her knees linked close, her upper thighs clamp. There is something sacred in the place where he enters her, an absolute territory he's actually been waiting to explore beyond sight. He's only ever stared in loaded silence, when she walks ahead, or climbs the stairs, or gets a book atop the shelf on tiptoes and skirt hiking up. Thoughts spurring in his subconscious going, what does it feel like to be trapped in there.

Unbeknownst to Shinichi, it's the singular best place to ever be. An absolutely fucking addicting territory to be in.

Ran squirms in place, unable to stray her eyes away from the rise and fall happening beneath her skirt. She needs to confirm that this strange hot activity with Shinichi is real. With shaky hands she lifts the hem of her skirt up and sees him. Wet on the tip. Protruding then disappearing. Rhythm synchronizing with the labored breath by her nape.

Overwhelmed by the budding heat in that area they create friction, she begins rolling her hips, matching his timing.

They are doing it under the kotatsu.

It drives Shinichi crazier when Ran requests to rise up to a kneeling position, her palms flat on the tabletop. They stay connected below, allowing him a more comfortable grip, a more open view of him thrusting between her thighs. Ran tips her head back and breathes the cutest moan when he picks up the pace. If he closes his eyes, he may actually believe they're doing it from behind, the sensation perhaps nearly tantamount to fucking her. And he might really seriously get to fuck her. Except that what they're doing now is already so damn hot neither wants to stop.

"Ah. You're—" something wet oozes slowly over him as he continues sliding in and out her thighs. Understanding what it is and what it means for his girlfriend is about enough to give him a heart attack. His hands enclose hers atop the kotatsu, sheathing and unsheathing faster, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead as he croaks out, "fucking warm, Ran".

He hasn't hung out in her room intending to do anything of this sort with Ran. It's just suddenly happened. And now he's afraid that once he finishes, he'll end up wanting more. The heat in him builds up, ever concentrated at the nerve ends of his shaft, desperately looking for where he can possibly do the unloading in the most respectful way. On the table. The fabric of her skirt. Her socks. Her thighs. He grits his teeth and inwardly curses.

Whatever the case is, he'll make a mess of her.

He blames the universe for how badly that turns him on.

Closing in, he warns Ran by the ear. "S'll be a lot," he says, and Ran, tongue-tied and keening, nods frantically. In a split second, Shinichi makes a decision - spilling over the table will ruin Ran's notes. So the final blow he does, painting the back of Ran's thighs, dribbling down the seam of her socks as he spurts out more, and more, and more, then sliding back again between her thighs, calming himself down with one hand on her hip and the other squeezing her breasts beneath the hoodie.

For Shinichi, everything burns.

"Can I..." Ran speaks first, over quiet gasps of air, "Can I um, remove my socks, I'm..."

"Shit," Shinichi rasps, unable to even out his breathing. "Hold on." Still in a bit of a haze, he slowly releases his grip on Ran's breast, sliding down to join his other hand on her hips. Even in his high, he tries his best to hold her ever so gently. He tries his best, despite the wave of shame that has begun to wash over him.

"Sorry, I couldn't—"

Before Shinichi can finish, Ran turns her head to look at him, and Shinichi knows. The lines of sweat, the slow ragged breaths, the gentle stoke of fire in her eyes, all tell him that for Ran, everything burns, too.

They fall silent for a brief second, holding each other's gaze. Until Ran giggles first. 

It surprises him so because she’s giggling. She rolls the socks down one leg and Shinichi assists her in the other, thinking, if only he foresaw the positive feedback he'd get from this, he would’ve done this ages earlier.

“I think,” she begins, after she lets him clean her up with the dry portion of her discarded socks, the pair obviously going straight to the laundry. “That’s such a perverted thing to do.”

“Hey. Tha – !” Shinichi gives his retort a second thought, unable to control the red of his cheeks as he tucks himself inside his joggers. At least he accepts there is no use denying a fact.

“Don’t blame me,” he mutters, abashed, turning her around so she can see him pout. Maybe Shinichi will have to clean himself up too, later, alone, in the shower.

However, he notices that the fire in her eyes hasn’t disappeared.

“Whose fault is it then? Mine?” Ran asks, coy.

Fuck, not again.