higuruma x fem reader (canon divergence - modern AU) ; dynamic: established relationship / slow burn (just in memories). academic setting (flashbacks) internal monologue, bittersweet, protective higuruma hiromi + sightly arrogant female lead (misunderstood) izakaya setting
warnings —I NEVER KNOW WHAT TO PUT IN WARNINGS, I'M AN IDIOT, I USED TO JUST TERRORIZE PEOPLE, sightly nsfw (mild sexual content) + (under-the-table touching) + scent kink + sensory detail + tactile fixation + public use of alcohol + casual misogyny (from background characters/confronted)+ references to (mayyybe) childhood trauma + discussion of personal hygiene (winter/stress related) + more ramblings than anything else, sorry...
Your hip bone is sharp, delicate, and painful. He's touched it with his fingers as soon as you silently allowed him to. It sticks out a little, just enough to draw his attention. His thumb rubs the foreign protrusion through the fabric, in an imaginary circle, or a broken flour mill, or some strange performative carving with his calloused fingertip because the touch stutters at first in the surrounding softness before returning to the hardness muffled by the dress pants. It reminds him of a gun. If he squints his dark eyes, of his own father, the icy forest in Iwate, and his pistol framed against a velvet background in the office. His father was a high-ranking officer, hunted deer for sport in his meager free time, and had taught him just enough: don't breathe too heavily or they'll get away. Hiromi used to sneak into his office, then feign disinterest as he opened the glass cover of the weapon and touched the hard and soft surfaces with care, yet also with firmness, dread, devotion—the memory comes suddenly, tender and hollow in the fragile chest of someone who's only had two glasses of Asahi beer. Beneath the frame, the Damascus steel finishing knife always lay.
He realizes he's holding his breath. Deer flee at the slightest slip. You could vanish like a dandelion if he's careless.
His head warms slightly. His body is incapable of lying.
One hand under the table; the other, out in the open. Both tame. It's harder to find your hip bone when you're sitting than when you're standing.
He imagines it will be more accessible to his touch if you lay down, if you leaned back a little. He could be slapped by your cold palm if I dared to lie down in this izakaya. Slapped today, Wednesday, at 9:30 PM. It's snowing.
Higuruma observes you briefly. You keep your back straight, your chin slightly raised as you talk to Shimizu. It's endearing to see you so briefly when you're surrounded by the scent of tobacco, lacquered wood, and dashi; the steam from the miso pot beautifully adorns your familiar profile, which he soon loses sight of when you turn your face toward his colleague.
He refines his touch on you with a little pressure. All the voices are secondary when he pretends to be present. "Your colleague is lucky you take her seriously in your section even though she's not even a lawyer," says a colleague, the head of another section—Tobe?—he can't remember the last name. A certain stale paternalism seeps through each pause, each one holding a deep laugh directed at you. Hiromi wasn't paying much attention, but now his eyes are fixed on him. "If she were in mine, she'd just be a walking coffee pot." His thumb stops abruptly on your hip. He doesn't blink when he looks at the man.
"That's a mediocre observation. Is this intellectual deficiency you brought with you?"
He takes one of the freshly opened sake bottles, and under the man's amused, drunken gaze, Hiromi places it vertically in his direction, wetting the man's pants in an unforced attempt at subtlety.
A minor commotion ensues.
You haven't seen him for a few minutes. Shimizu has no idea, though she's also a little tipsy. Soon, you stand up. Hiromi's thumb stops touching you briefly, and he watches you leave as you excuse yourself from the meeting, explaining that you have a call to take.
Hiromi didn't know you had a reputation as an "arrogant harpy." Not when you shared a class in a specialization seminar for the first and only year and a half, both of you wanting to get a master's degree in philosophy—albeit in different areas; a strange coincidence—about three years ago. Remember that, since the small second-floor library was packed, you sat at the same table as him. He was wearing reading glasses—thin, rectangular frames—and didn't look to see who was sitting across from him for many reasons, including not wanting to make you uncomfortable, and also because he assumed you weren't someone he knew since he hadn't spoken to anyone during his two-week stay there. He assumed you were a woman because of the scent you wore, which he'd recognized back in his undergraduate days: translucent makeup powder. What made the scent different was that it was combined with something perhaps earthier and more rooty, something sharper like iris or lilies… and black cherry, along with the soft, milky smell one acquires after spending almost ten hours in one place on a hot, humid day… It wasn't a fresh scent, but in a way, it was appealing.
Perhaps that's why his first thought didn't wander into a question, and his current one is heading straight for "Why did they call her a harpy?" However, he decides to return to his memory of the library.
He underlined the footnote in the paper that mentioned that man is born free but everywhere he is in chains. That chain perhaps existed in a real way in his mind. At one point, he felt he wasn't reading properly because he was so aware of the other presence at the same table. Things that happened to him in school and university, and still happen to him now, which is why his desk has to be quite far away.
You placed your heavy books down without regard for silence; the chair creaked as it was dragged and then lifted. The laptop on the table then emitted a sound similar to brown noise when it was turned on. Some preparatory courses were difficult for you back then because, unlike the man sitting across from you, you had never taken rigorous philosophy courses before and wanted to specialize in Art Law in a more advanced way. You knew then that Higuruma—the hard-to-ignore person—knew about these things, because he'd been a loathsome law student before.
The adjective "loathsome" was made up because you clearly hadn't met him personally during that period of his life. But you'd been at the same university, a long time ago. You'd recognize that face. The profile.
Specifically, those sanpaku eyes.
More precisely, the nose.
Obstructing any further contemplation, you reached out toward him and tapped your index fingernail twice on the wood to get his attention.
His long fingers, with their neatly trimmed nails, slid along the edge of the page to mark his place. He closed the volume containing the paper and then looked up. His fingers adjusted his reading glasses, sliding them just a millimeter up the bridge of his nose, though he then decided to remove them for a moment and place them on the books. Not a single micro-action escaped your notice. Not even the soft exhalation he seemed to have been holding for the last ten minutes. Nor the way he leaned slightly forward. A certain woody scent surrounded him that almost made you snort under your breath: men always use that kind of scent in everything.
When he looked at you with a certain politeness, you already guessed what he was going to say.
"Excuse me, do we know each other?" Hiromi asked. His voice was dry, not because he valued his time and concentration over some friendly chat in the library—the least suitable place—but because he'd been very quiet since then, so his voice came out somewhat raspy and tremulous from disuse.
You simply held his gaze.
Rigid. Fatigued, you noted mentally.
"Not formally. I saw your last name on the list for the second research room. The one on the fourth floor."
The research rooms were a restricted space for doctoral dissertation projects and more advanced master's degrees. The fact that you, the woman across from him, had looked up—or simply noted—his last name on an official attendance list struck him as, at the very least, a kind of intrusion. Necessary or unnecessary intrusion, he discovered after a brief questioning.
"I see." His tone remained low. He didn't want to be reprimanded by some junior library assistant. "The lists on the fourth floor are for administrative control. Are you in charge of that? Because in any other case, except for a couple of specific instances, I don't see why you'd need to memorize the names of everyone in the building."
His dark eyes took in things more effectively from his side of the table. When you didn't reply, he continued:
"Is there any particular reason why my last name seemed relevant enough to interrupt my reading today, or is it just a curiosity about the law department?"
Fearing his question and tone had come across as somewhat rude, he cleared his throat to better rephrase his approach. He meant only to be a little lighthearted. Nevertheless, you let out a small, quiet laugh, as if the whole thing seemed hilarious to you. He found it somewhat amusing as well.
"Yes, it's a personal reason. I recognized you. I was curious to see you're pursuing a master's degree in legal philosophy, as I'd heard from some former students that you were a partner at a law firm, Bengoshikai, in another prefecture."
"I was in Iwate for quite a few years, then I moved to a firm in Tokyo along with some other colleagues."
For Hiromi, you had just been born as a concept in his mind, and he wasn't sure if asking for your first or last name would be disrespectful, since you were addressing him as a former classmate. To be honest, his mind had erased many memories that were irrelevant to him, including the full names of most of his former classmates.
You told him your name, interrupting him, and added:
"You can find me on the list in the third research room, also on the fourth floor, Higuruma-san."
His last name, spoken gently by you, sent a tingling sensation through his hands.
There was a hint of a smile on his face, though he still felt a certain wariness. He didn't remember you. He didn't know then if his brain was fabricating false memories to recall you.
You, on the other hand, seemed to know perfectly well who he was from that moment on.
In college, you were an awkward person who thought no one liked you, and who believed you were incapable of concentrating or accomplishing anything. But you were also the one who considered yourself to have a third eye open during your undergraduate studies. The one who lived in profound loneliness. Hiromi was a bit—much more—nerdy or studious. The typical top student. Most people wanted to be part of his study group at the university. You would look at him from afar and think, "Law students really are like a cult." You would usually tell your friends never to get involved with a guy studying law: "They always think they're all that," and then you'd sip your milk tea with a straw, "I only study in this faculty's library because it's quieter; there's no other reason," you'd continue. Sometimes you had to hide your hypothetical third eye with your bangs because it felt unnatural. You didn't want to draw attention to yourself, and you didn't want to admit that you were staring too much at the apathetically endearing young man in the room.
"There can't be any other reason," you murmured to yourself. You had a boyfriend who attended the same class as him. If you could even call him a boyfriend. You had refused to live in the ordinary world as an ordinary woman for a very long time, and perhaps that's why you always found it difficult to establish normal relationships. You needed the thrill.
You saw the calm, detached young man, far removed from the party-social scene, carrying heavy books, and you thought he was a sight to behold. You saw the man underlining a book in the library and thought that must mean something.
"I remember you," he said suddenly.
"Yes. You were wearing a thick wool sweater in the middle of summer."
"That's a very specific memory." "I'm afraid I don't share the same opinion," you replied.
His memory was individual. Hiromi began to think that perhaps they both had individual memories of each other. He described you at university as a mysterium tremendum because you didn't leave him room to breathe normally—suffocating girl, eye cramp, smothering. He saw you, if he remembers correctly, two or three times, all of them wearing a thick wool sweater in the blazing sun, which made him want to take off his tie and shirt, but not in a sexually charged, nymphomaniacal way. Rather, his embarrassment was palpable, and just seeing you in long skirts and turtlenecks generated an agonizing heat. I mean, damn it, unbutton one or two buttons, please. Regardless, his memory became blurry over the years, but it always came back in the summer.
He also thinks he remembers that you were the girlfriend of one of his classmates. That's why the times he saw you were outside his faculty building.
You placed your fingers in a small inside pocket of your bag and pulled out a business card, which you gently slid into his space, almost disappearing into a stack of papers he was organizing. You didn't speak much after that, each of you becoming absorbed in what you were doing before.
"I have to go," you said simply that time, after twenty minutes, packing your things and then, standing with the two books in hand, leaving them at the library reception desk, two tables away, after speaking with the young library assistant.
You leave him intrigued every time you leave suddenly, and that's one of the reasons why, while most people say their formal goodbyes outside the izakaya, watching the taxis come and go, he looks at you once you're alone in the soft snow.
Hiromi tilts his head, as if he wants to lean on you for just a moment.
"You're drunk," you say without looking at him.
"Today has been a… very stressful day," he mentions. He senses you're upset about something, not him. When you're upset, your face usually reddens a little, but it's cold, and today he guesses it feels the same to the touch. When your face reddens in the summer from silent fury, it's the closest thing to a sexual expression, one he wants to see up close. Today you also seem softer after the call. It's his intoxicated brain talking nonsense.
Today, perhaps you'll be a little nicer to him.
When he orders the taxi and you meet fifteen minutes later in a dark house, you feel along the wall to turn on the light while you take off your heels and he takes off his shoes. Since you're already walking toward the sofa, he takes the time to put his shoes next to yours. However, once he senses you grumbling to yourself, he stands in front of you and leans in, holding your gaze.
"Can you turn on this lamp?" you ask, looking away as you take off your pants. You're wearing thin, leg warmers that reach your midriff. He knows you're sensitive to the cold.
Higuruma reaches out to grant your request.
"Can you take them off here?"
"What do I take off here?"
"The shorts." He finally presses his forehead against your shoulder, almost pushing you back onto the sofa with his weight.
He inhales and exhales against your neck, almost as if he's about to complain again.
"You earned it today. Is that okay?" you finally say.
The shorts slide down with difficulty.
You love Hiromi's mouth pressed against your covered, wet pussy when you were upset or stressed because of others. Or because of him, although when it was his fault things were very different. Hiromi, for his part, due to his lack of desire for arguments outside of his work area, readily agreed or—depending on your mood, like today—requested intimate contact with one of your favorite parts and occasions that you're unaware of: a clothed crotch and dirty panties covering what the thin pubic hair already does, especially when you're filled with hateful thoughts. “I haven’t showered in a day and a half,” you belatedly admit. You’ve been busy with work, and it’s winter. You haven’t had the time.
For sex, you had to be prepared, at least, but in winter you hated showering, even if there was hot water and the bill wasn’t so high as to be an excuse—Hiromi pays it exclusively for you—and therefore you were also aware that you couldn’t allow it so close if he got a little tipsy and affectionate, which was rare without some stress involved. In winter, those times happened more often; it must be because of the hibernation instinct every man has in his cock, like saying, “It’s too cold, and I need to warm it up inside.” However, in Hiromi's case, given his somewhat tame yet playful nature—in a certain cold sense—his intelligent, mature, and self-deprecating humor often drove you crazy. He simply likes to gaze at you for a long time, burying his nose in your neck, then the hollow of your armpit, tracing a path down your waist, running his fingers along your hip, and then rubbing his face against your thigh, hoping you'd part your legs… Which obviously wouldn't happen because you can't quite remember if you changed your underwear this morning.
He speaks wearily and slowly as he kneels down on the floor.
"I don't care, I like your smell."
He sounds so serious it makes you sick, but in a good way. It's a necessary illness for getting used to it.
"Besides, I can't believe you're telling me this now," he continues in a low voice, hoarse from something deeper than mere desire and alcohol. "Now, after I've been burying my face in the evidence." He exhales a shaky sigh, his eyes flitting to where his hand rests on your hip, then back to your face, shameless.
"You can't take my clothes off. It's cold," you say.
"Okay, beautiful," he murmurs, though his fingers still touch the soft elastic, stretching the thin band of your panties. You smack his fingers hard, making him click his tongue and bury his nose there again. "Totally fine."
His hand squeezes the back of your thigh and guides it upward. You warn him again. He holds on gently. He likes you a lot.
You've been just a little nice to him today.
english is not my first language, so, SORRY IF YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS LITTLE STUFF. this is just a preview of a longer fic, (x reader) version <3 originally it's a "character x oc (yukio)", and it has more chapters, but let's see how it goes.
୨ৎ if you liked it, let me know!
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