A/N: Another late submission for the pathetic-wet-cat lawyer man. University doesn't wait for anybody, but neither does my hyperfixation!! (Don't worry, I'm getting them done, I promise.)
tags: established relationship - married, JujustuSorcerer!Higuruma, domestic fluff, higuruma finally gets his well-deserved rest
---
Hiromi didn’t know how people like Gojo or Nanami can go their whole lives, restlessly fighting off curses everyday. He reckons this is comparable to slaving unpaid hours away on making a defense case for his clients. Maybe only marginally better than tangoing with death every other day.
He comes home, not bothering to change out of his uniform, since he’ll need it again for tomorrow (today? For the morning? It’s all a blur at this point…) He kicks his shoes off, tumbling off his feet and sitting lopsided at the entrance before he wanders to his shared bedroom to find his wife… Setting his home clothes on the bed?
He’s bemused. Since when was the last time he wore those clothes? (Y/N) invites herself into Hiromi’s arms, earning herself a soft kiss on the forehead.
“Darling, awfully considerate of you to lay out my pajamas…” Hiromi braces himself for his internal disappointment. “—But I have a mission early in the morning—”
She shuts him up with just a finger over his lips, “Not anymore, you don’t. I had a word with your senior, Gojo, and he’s taken you off that mission to spend the next 24 hours with me! And resting.”
Hiromi takes a minute processing what she just said, momentarily distracted by her sweet smile. “Wait, what do you mean, you—? What did you say to Gojo, honey?”
“You worry too much, Hiromi ~ You should go ahead and take a shower. With all the love in my heart, this uniform has seen better days…”
A quick sniff at his clothes, and he grimaces at the sour stench that’s accumulated. That… That can’t be from him, right? (No, most certainly not. It was from the curse. Yep, the curse. The curse known for its putrid smell and pungent fragrance. Yep, it was the curse—)
The warm water running from the shower is heavenly. How it hits his back and streamlines down, the way the water runs off his hair and all over his face. He closes his eyes to savour the refreshing warmth of a hot, running shower.
His thoughts are interrupted by a knock. Hiromi can hear the sweet sound of his wife calling out to him, “Join me in bed once you’re done.”
He’s stunned. God, it really has been so long since he’s been home with (Y/N). Guess he could make up for it tonight. He wraps up his shower and dresses himself in the clothes she picked out for him, walking out to see her snuggled up in their shared duvet.
Hiromi makes his presence known by flopping onto the bed and shuffling his way under the covers and wrapping his lithe arms around his wife’s sleeping form.
She returns the favour with snaking her arms around his neck, planting a soft kiss on his lips.
“This bed was always too big for me,” she whispers. “I was wondering when you’d be back…”
“Oh, I’m sorry, my love. I’m guessing you don’t get any rest waiting for me…?”
She hums, sleepily looking up at Hiromi, who gazes back. How long has it been since he’s laid in bed with her?
(Y/N) yawns and snuggles up into the crook of his neck, “I’m so tired, Hiromi. But, I bet you need this more than me…”
“Don’t be ridiculous — you can rest well, knowing that I’ll be here in the morning.”
She smiles at that. “I’m so glad I asked Gojo to take you off that mission.”
“Will you tell me what you said to him…?”
“… Maybe in the morning.”
(Spoiler: you never did. But, who’s Hiromi to care when he finally gets a day to spend with his wife?)
tags: Higuruma Hiromi x Reader | Established Relationship | Humour | Mildly suggestive/18+ [only towards the end]
synopsis: He’s faced down bigger and much better financed legal firms, cutthroat prosecutors, a thousand year old demon who literally sliced him limb from limb - But today Higuruma Hiromi confronts his cruelest, toughest opponent yet. And he’s doing it all for you.
a/n: I'd also like to dedicate this fic to @tsukimefuku. thank you so much for welcoming me into a space to meet so many brilliant, warm souls and indulge in the silliest shenanigans! 💛💛💛
Higuruma Hiromi has accomplished and established a lot over the course of his life, typically without too much effort: His intelligence, eloquence, an intense, charismatic presence, to name just a few. Combined with his ingrained traits of focus, ingenuity plus perseverance, he’s a force to be reckoned with; whether that was before a judge’s bench or on the jujutsu battlefield.
They should serve him well now that he’s facing his most formidable foe.
Should being the operational word.
A couple Saturdays ago, Higuruma had found himself in an asbestos infected attic crawling with cockroaches. It was also full of broken pipes rife with the threat of tetanus, not to mention all the mustiness and mildew leaching through ominously warped floorboards, with jagged wedges dug through their wood. Barely able to breathe, he had encountered a curse with eight eyeballs dangling from its crimson optic nerves, each extruding from amidst a slimy, squelching tangle of tentacles scabbed over with suction cups, cinching and gaping to reveal extra irises weeping blood and puckering with pus.
He recalls the room dense with decay, its walls sagging and sopping with the monster’s repugnant ectoplasmic slobber emanating a rancid miasma, low rotten rafters wetly echoing the high-pitched chittering of its ivory maw stained carmine and caulked with marrow, strands of sinews from previous victims clinging to its fangs. An unholy cacophony undulating with a grating, guttural gurgling, a yowling insatiable appetite for more gruesome deaths. Higuruma remembers too, how he had jerked his jugular out of the way by scant millimeters when the saber-jawed, acid-spewing slavering creature had lunged at his throat.
Man, he misses that friendly face now.
His current opponent stares him down and yawns wide, revealing two rows of tiny needles. Then proceeds to wash its face.
“You’re hardly as cute as your mistress.”
“Meiew.”
It’s Day 3 of his interminable battle with your cat, and of fighting an ever mounting urge not to casually leave a window open in this high-rise apartment.
Higuruma had unthinkingly accepted your request to cat-sit while you were away on a mission, despite having minimal experience with pets.
(That is, apart from one brief acquaintanceship with a guppy when he was 5 which, according to his mother, had been exceptionally adventurous:
“Romi-chan, Mr Rainbow will reach the ocean faster through the city pipelines okay? It’ll be like a mega water slide for him, you know how much fun you have with those! So come on, put your hands on the magic push button. 1,2,3 and whoosh!”
This was to be Higuruma’s earliest lesson in manufactured consent, the ramifications of which are a tale for another time...)
You’d known your partner wasn’t a foremost expert with animals, but in the 3 years you’d been dating him, he’d been a consistently considerate, doting presence. That hadn’t changed when you two finally agreed to move in together a month ago, hence your certainty that even in your absence, Higuruma and your sweet-natured, precious Goma would get on just wonderfully.
“I’m only gonna say this once, you devil.”
Higuruma’s steely gaze meets his opponent’s obsidian slits glimmering in the afternoon sun, as it imitates the lethargy of the dust motes delicately drifting and gilding its sleek fan of whiskers silver. From its perch on the second-highest bookcase shelf, the ‘devil’ preens and peers down its pink-daubed nose at Higuruma, with all the regalness and regard a sphinx might reserve for an ignorant mortal obnoxious enough to brave its riddles.
“Get down from there,” Higuruma growls, back hunched and knees buckled in a half crouch as he attempts, once more, to anticipate and preemptively block the cat from its most acrobatic endeavours.
All day his feline foe had been treating the furniture as its personal Cirque du Soleil, a sabbatical from the previous days’ singular devotion to mangling freshly washed duvets.
“Don’t make me get the spray bottle,” Higuruma warns. His furry adversary has the audacity to yawn, front paws oozing out from under its furry tummy, a black back arching high into the air.
Higuruma tenses; his enemy is making its move.
Goma saunters along the shelf, stopping in front of a framed picture.
It’s one of Higuruma’s favourites of you and him, from the early days of your courtship. The photo is a casual snap taken none too surreptitiously by a mutual friend at some rooftop bar; A casual, cosy celebration of someone’s birthday, the second ever event you had attended as a couple.
The place had been garlanded with fairy lights, the type of chic atmosphere that might border on kitsch in a few years - Not that Higuruma had noticed, his attention had been entirely monopolised by you on that slivered-moon night. There’d only been tungsten-tinted ambient lights and the honeycomb-glow of the Edison bulb on the table behind you both, so the shot had turned out rather underexposed and grainy - but Higuruma’s smitten gaze couldn’t be any clearer, only his cheek splitting grin rivalling it despite his mouth being partially obscured, tucked next to your collarbone as your head is tipped back against him, mid-guffaw.
Eyebrows pinched, lashes clumped, mascara streaking down to the maraschino gulf of your lips, forging twin ravines in your uneven make-up and complexion - you’d been mortified when your friend sent the shot to him. It was incontrovertible, if inelegant, evidence of the raw hilarity that only Higuruma could provoke in you so frequently. At least there hadn’t been any cameras in the elevator on your way down when the festivities finished (although you and your boyfriend’s night wouldn’t quite conclude then, but that's a different story).
You couldn’t deny Higuruma looked utterly magnetic in the photo however, almost as much as how you saw him in person - so you had relented when he insisted on printing and displaying it. He’s sure that eventually you’d view the photo how he does, that its many charms would reveal themselves and grow upon you, and you’d identify all the merits and magic of that moment.
Like the way one of your arms was stacked across his, coiled snugly around your waist, while your other fist was curled into his collar, the creases in them reflecting the ones crinkling around your eyes, ruinous and gorgeous all at once.
Equally delightful and damning proof, Higuruma’s embrace and your fingers entwined in his demonstrated a futile attempt to contain the fallout from the war of witticisms and sly compliments you regularly waged against each other. He can’t recollect who had emerged triumphant that evening, but it’d be obvious to anyone looking he’s got a winner.
(And, if they’d peer closer, they might spot the crimson impressions ribboning your nape under swabs of concealer, hinting at the private medal ceremony he’d given you the previous night, when you’d taken a smidge too much pleasure from his petulance over conceding some other arbitrary debate. Though you’d been the victor of that particular verbal sparring match, Higuruma had made sure you weren’t in any position to deny him his concession speech, delivered smug and snug upon his silken tongue, skillful in other ways besides the oratorical.)
It’s a picture of an accomplishment he wants to repeat over and over, earning the fruits of your resplendence with that rosy flush across your face. Perhaps that was the moment, the first of many, that he’d fallen for you, completely and irrevocably. Higuruma remembers the night that photograph was taken with crystal clarity; The inevitability of your gravity, the thrills and comfort of such an immutable fact. He recalls it every day, even without proof, without this portrait of your shared adorations piercing through the glass, but it was wonderful and rare for him to be caught so unabashedly mesmerised by your mirth, reveling in the symbiosis of your sweet laughter making his heart ever more effervescent.
Goma casts an idle eye over this very same photo, apathetically dragging his tongue over a paw while he does so. His attention drifts as he fusses with a thorough cleaning of his face, ears flicking every so often in the direction of Higuruma’s baited breaths.
“Niiiice kitty,” Higuruma wheedles, shuffling forward as silently as possible in his socks.
“Let’s keep calm just like that, and consider coming down off the bookcase, ok? It’s dangerous up there.”
Dangerous? For who? Goma tilts his head towards this pathetic creature, making its creeping advance toe by toe. Was this its idea of stealth? It can’t even get the basics of prowling right. Pitiful.
Goma’s tail starts swaying, skirting the spines of several novels (Higuruma’s hardcover collection of special edition Tolstoys, including War & Peace) as if oscillating between mysterious instincts, known only to its owner. Wearily, Higuruma eyes the ponderous pendulum for a full minute, hypnotic as it brushes along the tomes, over and over. Which is why he doesn’t notice a paw looming over the photo in his periphery until it's too late.
“Don’t you dare-”
Swat!
Higuruma dives forward for the frame, grabbing blindly and plunging face first into an accelerated blur of fur as four paws punch him in the nose, a tail whipping his mouth and smacking across his eyes for good measure as Goma sinks claws into his scalp, scrabbling to the top of his head before bounding off down his back, zipping into the kitchen.
Higuruma sneezes, stumbling backwards and clutching his head with one hand, the other flailing against vertigo.
SKLAP!
Higuruma lurches back onto his feet, feeling his soul splinter like an icicle snapping off the roof of a grotto. His eyes dart down to the picture gripped tight in his trembling hand. An avalanche of relief thunders over his heart when he sees it’s unmaimed, apart from a tiny notch on the bottom part of the frame. He must have knocked it against some corner of the bookcase.
Higuruma’s shoulders slump as he exhales, gingerly restoring his prized photo to its rightful place. He frowns at how it sits a little askew now, a bit of the walnut veneer visible in the gap between the frame and shelf as it lists awkwardly on its left.
He’ll have to replace it some other day; right now he has some comeuppance to see to. Higuruma huffs, spinning on his heels, hell-bent on justice - and that’s when he hears the thinnest, most dreadful sound.
CrrRricCcckK.
Higuruma cranes his head very, very slowly over his shoulder, at the mental playback pace of a ten vehicle pile-up. But it’s too late, reality has careens right into his eye line.
A fracture, as conspicuous as it is hideous, runs over his visage. Starting at the edge of his hairline, it zigzags over his forehead, then directly down across his slim, dark brows and a single eyelid, before tapering off at his cheek. Higuruma stares at the photo, now more closely resembling a caricature of some yakuza crony or belligerent pirate laughing maniacally at his successful kidnapping of a distressed damsel, clutched to his side, held against her will.
A shadow grazes Higuruma’s countenance. His eyelids flutter like malfunctioning mechanical blinds. His temples throb. He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
Higuruma Hiromi considers himself a civilized man, a consummate professional. He was always perfectly courteous and patient with the most recalcitrant delinquents, snivelling scammers, remorseless murderers. He’s never cussed out a single conniving senior counsel or those prejudiced prosecutors. He’s kept his rigid composure and rarely has he ever raised his voice even against infuriatingly obtuse bailiffs, those middle management bullies obsequiously pious to the bureaucracy they’re all entrapped in yet insist on enforcing against the least fortunate, in an idiotic exhortation of extortion.
Higuruma takes a deep breath, clutching the photo in both his hands, tendons at his wrists swelling, pulsing with an ichor thrombosis.
When Higuruma swears, it sounds less an expletive and more like an oath.
“Jealous bastard.”
He stashes the photo in the far end of a drawer, sliding it shut with a thump more reminiscent of a casket lid being sealed.
If his nemesis was on its eighth life, Higuruma Hiromi was going to usher it expeditiously towards its ninth. And then probably revisit it in that reincarnation anyway, so it could attain samsara with terminal velocity.
Goma had a sufficient construct of sentience, of will - or at least, the spiteful creature certainly had an agenda. More than enough to warrant Higuruma unleashing Deadly Sentencing on it.
He’d heard of a case before where a parrot had provided witness testimony. So Judgeman could probably prosecute a cat. It made perfect sense.
A long time ago, Higuruma was definite in his belief that a certain darkness and depravity was unique and exclusive to humans, a quality singular to our species.
He’s convinced otherwise now.
Higuruma shucks his socks, and strides towards the kitchen.
“Goma, it’s time for your supper!” Higuruma croons, surreptitiously drumming his fingers against a tin of Fancy Feast and making the requisite pspsspsspt noises the YouTube tutorials had recommended.
He peers around the doorway, swiftly scanning the four corners of the room.
None of the cabinets were swinging open - Checked.
The alcove between the microwave and toaster oven - nothing there.
Top of the fridge - not a follicle. Good, no aerial advantage for it then.
Which whittled Goma’s hiding spots down to a pair of possibilities - it could be hiding in or near the laundry machine, or lurking somewhere under the large circular dining table opposite it. However, this limited Higuruma’s range of movement too. If he checked the machine, most of his torso would be turned away from the table. Goma could vault off the chairs and attack from the back - and Higuruma was not about to cede the territory of his hair for a second time that day. He’d spent 15 minutes styling it this morning, in anticipation of your return - and he’d run out of mousse.
He’ll be damned before he lets this menace get the better of him.
“Come on buddy, how about a truce? I’ll throw in some tuna treats.”
Did cats have cursed energy? This one had to, Higuruma thinks, sidling towards the front-loading washing machine. He notices its door slightly ajar but he can’t sense a nefarious aura leaking from it - though it didn’t hurt to check. Ever so carefully, Higuruma nudges it open with his foot, cautiously peering into its gloomy maw.
No Goma. He shuts it with a click. One less option for refuge.
That left the table then. It was set against the walls, with four chairs pushed beneath it; a cosy, secure fort for his nemesis. Slowly Higuruma crouched down, wrapping a hand around the leg of the first chair to pull it back. It’s barely scraped an inch or two across the tiles when he hears a fierce hiss eclipse this sound.
“Got you.”
Goma is low on all fours, ears pressed flat to his skull, his tail hanging straight down, staring daggers at this intruder - in full fight or fight me bitch mode. Higuruma expected about as much. He sighs, long-suffering, and cracks the tab on the tin, peeling back the aluminium lid.
“Look, I can’t help it if I was the dog that chased you into traffic in my last life,” Higuruma states, keeping his tone calm and reasonable, slowly extending the tin in his palm, “but maybe we should try starting afresh in this one?”
Goma’s ears swivel forward, pupils dilating. His nose twitches at the peace offering held in Higuruma’s hand. Slowly, like an ancient accordion, his neck and spine stretch towards the tin. Goma takes a single sniff. Then the teensiest, smallest shimmy possible forward.
“That’s it…” Higuruma scarcely dares to breathe.
Goma takes another sniff.
This wasn’t the promised tuna treats.
Swifter than lightning a paw strikes at the can, splashing its contents all over Higuruma’s shirt. He jolts backwards with a curse, flinging the chair to the side but Goma’s much faster, darting between the legs and bounding gleefully out of the kitchen, escaping to the living room.
Higuruma fumes as he clangs! the can onto the table, grabs a rag to run it under the tap and daubs aggressively at the smears and flakes of pate on his top.
Higuruma flings the cloth down on the counter, storming out of the kitchen.
Goma had chosen war.
Higuruma hastened into the living room, frenzied gaze casting about.
Everything seemed calm. Too calm.
The curtains weren’t in tatters.
The upholstery wasn’t in jagged shreds.
Even the magazine he’d been reading that afternoon seemed unmolested, abandoned in its original spot on the sofa.
Higuruma surveys the rest of the room, eyes narrowing at the spot where his law degree had been displayed, up until two days ago. The faint scent of ammonia still permeated the air, under the harsh reek of bleach. Right, the accident on the mantelpiece. The mantelpiece that was only a couple inches adjacent to Goma’s litterbox.
Higuruma wasn’t taking any chances. He squeezes the miniature stuffed trout in his hands, the rough felt fabric against his palm like a reassuring charm to ward off evil.
Even more reassuring are the thick plastic grips of the scissors in his other hand.
“Goma…” Higuruma sings out, fingers flexing to open and shut the metal blades of his weapon.
Sschlick. Scschlick.
“You know what this is, don’t you?”
A furry head pops out from behind the couch, black eyes flitting high and low at the toy being tossed up and down in one of Higuruma’s palms. Higuruma grins.
Sschlick. Scschlick.
Goma’s ears twitch.
“We humans call this an ultimatum.”
The rest of Goma slinks away from the sofa, haunches tense, tail swishing like a live wire. He glares balefully at the man sneering down at him, the toy still bouncing in his hand.
“There you are. I’m glad you’ve come to the negotiating table. Now here’s what I expect.”
Goma hops onto the sofa, poising primly on a cushion.
Higuruma frowns, but continues. “The furniture isn’t your playground. You’re going to keep off the shelves. And stay out of the cupboards.”
In as much as it’s possible for cats to shrug, Goma does, sprawling itself onto a cushion with a witheringly lackadaisical glance at Higuruma. He returns a venomous stare, holding out Mr Trout and giving it a vicious squeeze.
“Aren’t you forgetting something-”
Higuruma is about to elaborate on his threat when he hears a key turn in the lock of the front door. Goma sits up, eyes gleaming.
“Tadaima!”
Higuruma glances, alarmed, at the scissors in his hand. Quickly he stashes it beneath the pages of the magazine. As he bends forward to do so, Goma jabs him in the nose before springing off the sofa.
“Damn c-”
“Sweetie!”
Higuruma sighs, vexed at his disrupted stalemate but relieved that you’re home.
“How have you been? Did you miss me darling?”
“Of course I did, and it’s been-oh, you’re talking to the cat.” Higuruma turns to greet you, only to find you face first in Goma’s fur, dropping a dozen kisses on its head, as it purrs at a timbre Higuruma can only describe as triumphant.
“It’s so good to see you again baby,” you coo, scratching Goma’s ears fondly. Higuruma clears his throat.
“The feeling is mutual, by the way.”
You stand, scooping Goma up in your arms, grinning at the particular inflection of Higuruma’s tone - it had been a while since you got to hear it. You drop a peck to his cheek, far too brief for his liking.
“Hi Hiro. Made any dinner plans?”
“There’s a tin of Fancy Feast out. Let me just fetch the candlesticks then I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Mmhmm, and don’t forget to fold the napkins into swans,” you hum, making your way to the kitchen, still carrying that dratted cat. “You both been getting along?”
“Neoowr.”
“Yes,” Higuruma says shortly. He fills a glass with water and passes it to you. You take a few sips as Goma mewls, rubbing against your ankles. Setting down the half-drunk glass, you empty Goma’s dinner into his bowl, rubbing your index affectionately across his cute nose.
Higuruma slouches against the wall, crumpling the tin into the bin. You glance over at him.
“How was the mission?” he mutters.
“There were a couple of hiccups,” you respond, standing with an extensive stretch of your neck, craning it far to the side. Higuruma’s brow lifts fractionally but you give a reassuring pat to his arm, a wan smile lining your lips.
“But I’m back now.”
Higuruma brushes his forehead to yours. “You’re home,” he says quietly. His finger skims your cheek, brushing a black strand off it, too short to be his or yours. He flicks it to the floor.
“I gotta unpack and then let’s order in. Oh, and I wanna watch that Knives Out sequel?”
Higuruma nods and smiles, “Don’t take too long.”
You did, unfortunately.
You hadn’t intended to collapse into bed after stuffing your suitcase back in the wardrobe, you’d only sat on the edge of it for a moment to peel off your jacket, but somehow the mattress had swallowed you up, seduced by memory foam and lavender-scented sheets.
You slip further and further into the cool, satiny darkness, welcoming it with an arm flung over your eyes, which is why you don’t take any notice of the mattress dipping slightly and why you ignore the silky sensation tickling your thigh.
“Goma…” you groan, “just give me five minutes.”
The fuzzy mound nudges past your knee to butt insistently against your hand, and your fingers thread through the soft hairs instinctively.
Grumpily you mumble, “Hey, you know you can’t share the bed anymore. I got a less annoying companion for that.”
A low rumble travels up your wrist, strangely baritone - and some parts of Goma’s fur feel oddly coarse, yet the weight pressing into your palm is still familiarly warm…
Your eyes flutter open, to discover Higuruma Hiromi on all fours, back arched, trying to nuzzle his whiskerless cheeks into your palm.
“Hiromi?”
“Exactly how much less annoying?” he purrs, tracing his mouth over your knuckles.
You feel the laugh start to bubble up in your chest, and the stress from the past few days melting off your shoulders.
“Maybe not that much of a difference if you keep this up.”
Higuruma’s only response is to nip at your fingers.
“Hey! I never had to muzzle Goma!”
“Sure you didn’t.” Higuruma drags his smirk across your skin, lips roaming along your calf.
“I didn’t,” you insist, though you card your fingers through Hiromi’s inky tresses, scratching lightly at his scalp. His eyes slip shut and you feel his full body shiver in your lap, stirring a little flutter in your belly.
“You really missed me that much?” you whisper, tracing a thumb along his fine jawline.
He nudges his nose against your hips, sighing, “Almost as much as our cat.”
You smile at him, patting the pillow next to you. “C’mere, Hiro.”
Higuruma practically launches into bed with feline reflexivity, but not without first trailing a scattering of smooches over your thighs, belly and chest before he settles beside you, eye level at last.
Your breath catches briefly in your throat when he wraps a strong arm around your waist, and you skate your fingers along his biceps, your adoring gaze flickering only when you find a thin, red line etched above his elbow.
“Was this Goma?”
Higuruma shrugs, secretly pleased at the lilt of incredulity in your voice. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine, he’s probably still getting used to the new apartment,” Higuruma cups your face in his warm, broad palms. “And being demoted to number 2 in your heart.”
“Goma takes bronze actually. Daniel Craig’s the runner up.”
“Suddenly I’m having second thoughts about Glass Onion tonight-”
“A very distant runner-up,” you interrupt Higuruma, a grin splintering your face as you observe the pout, puffy at his lips.
“He better be,” your lover flourishes a scowl at you, “Daniel Craig’s not the one who’s been clearing the sink of furballs all week.”
You press a lingering kiss to Higuruma’s nose, and feel his hands tighten around your hips.
“Goma wasn’t too much trouble, was he?” you ask eventually.
“Make it worth it,” Higuruma grins at you, rolling you on top of him in one fluid motion. “He’s a headstrong little guy, but we’ll figure out a way to settle our differences.”
“Right, differences,” you snicker against Higuruma’s throat. He fixes you with a quizzical stare, stopping his hands wandering beneath the hem of your blouse.
You only smile, sliding your fingers under his chin and tickling him briefly. “I’m just realising my affinity for picking up wilful strays.”
Higuruma scoffs, but rubs his face against your nape, peppering kisses along your clavicle. You relish Higuruma’s hungry touch, his lips roving across your skin, eager to reconnect with you after a prolonged absence.
“You know, there is one area you’re more agreeable than Goma,” you say a little breathlessly after a few minutes as you sit up, your lover quickly mirroring your motion.
“Just the one?” he drawls, dragging you more firmly into his lap to keep your hips flush with his.
“Well, for a start,” you loop your arms around his neck, “It’s easier to convince you to get in the bath.”
And you're aware, to the casual eye, Higuruma Hiromi is a very handsome human and definitely no cat, but you swear you see his ears prick up. Before you can even blink, Higuruma has stripped you of your trousers and scooped you up in his arms, bundling you towards the bathroom. His gravelly chuckle reverberates against your flesh as you scramble to tug his shirt off along the way.
“Hiro…why does this smell kinda fishy?”
Fuchsia tinges his face ever so slightly, and his voice gets gruff.
“Fine, so maybe Goma got the upper paw on me once.”
You start to snigger, even more uncontrollably when Higuruma nuzzles his heating cheeks irritably to the tender column of your throat, only for your laugh to fracture into gasps as Higuruma reminds you how he very much isn’t a cat, with those opposable thumbs for instance swiping pettily through the sodden seam of you.
He smirks, “Still, Goma’s not the one about to share a shower with you, so who’s the real winner here?”
You hadn’t really considered yourself a contender in the matter before, but as Higuruma slips to his knees between yours, a feeling skitters deliciously up your spine that to address the question, the rest of the night will be spent on determining a tiebreaker between you and your lover.
a/n: yeah im heavy on the black cat dad Higuruma agenda...just might be a roman empire. The origins of inspiration for this fic can be traced to this! Thank you @kanashiki79 for every adorable drawing!
absolutely no references so it looks terrible.. expect more lighting practice from me in the future because looking at this genuinely makes me mad. Tried new things. I wanted to do more but I have to work
HiguruMarch 2026 @higurumarch - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
prguitarman
vaporwave
germansingergirl
izzy806
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
