You shriek, pushing Dabura’s hand away. He mercifully allows you to, simultaneously looking down at you with furrowed eyebrows.
“I told you, gauze goes into the first aid drawer and gloves go into the personal protective equipment one,” you explain, seeing confusion in his eyes, as you neatly place the gauze in its designated place, humming to yourself in satisfaction.
“Apologies,” Dabura nods, the crease between his eyebrows slowly unfolding.
He insisted on helping in the infirmary today and honestly, he is glad he did—you are so focused on your small, but important human tasks, it’s cute to the point he barely fights the urge to squash you.
The other day you explained to him what exactly that feeling meant—cuteness aggression, you said, and Dabura has to admit he has never heard such perfect explanation for something he was feeling. You truly were so cute it made him spiral, sometimes.
“It’s okay,” you smile up at him, “it must be confusing to you, I doubt you, um… need medical assistance often.”
“I would injure myself every day, if it meant you would be the one taking care of me,” he sounds a bit too serious for your liking.
“Please don’t do that.”
“Noted.”
You sigh, before preparing yourself for something you are sure you are going to regret:
“What else?”
After spending so much time with him, you can tell when he is holding something back—out of respect of your poor self, you suppose.
“Do you take care of a lot of man, daily?”
You blink. Then you blink again.
“Really? That’s your question?”
You look up at him incredulously. He looks to the side, avoiding your judgmental stare.
“Hah, you are not joking,” you shake your head, trying to ward off any unnecessary thoughts, as you go back to your task of organizing the medical supplies, “yes, of course I do, it’s my job.”
Dabura frowns.
“You said the other day men were disgusting.”
You almost choke on your own spit.
“T-that’s unrelated right now! It was a completely different topic,” you huff and puff, feeling flustered for some reason.
“But you are right, man are disgusting, you shouldn’t touch them,” Dabura keeps insisting on his point, hit tone unwavering.
Your eye twitches. Is he joking right now? With him, you really can’t tell.
“You do realize you are also a man, right, Dabura?”
“I don’t count, I am an alien.”
You almost choke on your own spit again.
“But you said you hated when I called you that!”
“That’s unrelated right now.”
“You… you! Ugh! Whatever! Bandages! In the first aid drawer! Now!”
He obliges, but you swear you see the corners of his mouth lift up in a small smile.
I struggle with writing longer fics, but at least it’s not AI and all me, completely exhausted after my shift <3
Dabura being oblivious about his attraction to you, basically.
Dabura doesn’t mean to be a… what do humans call it, again? Ah. Right. Pervert.
He feels the weight of the word on the tip of his tongue when you accuse him of being one, savoring the bitter aftertaste when he repeats it.
“Pervert? Me?”
He isn’t sure about being a pervert, but he is confused, especially when you look at him like that—all glassy eyed, your face that pretty pink hue he likes for reasons unknown to him.
It’s like looking at his favorite food when he is hungry, he thinks—it’s the best analogy he can come up with at the moment. Though Dabura obviously can’t eat you, unfortunately. It bothers him—leaves him weirdly unsatisfied.
“I’m just curious,” he innocently tilts his head to the side, “you told me I could ask you anything,” he looks directly at you and you flinch at the intensity of his stare.
“W-well, yes, you can,” you stutter, unable to hold his gaze, so you look to the side in defeat.
“Then what?”
He takes one step forward.
You take one step back.
“Dabura, you can’t just ask me to show you my breasts.”
He still doesn’t get it, but he respects you. You look like you are about to burst into small pieces, and he really doesn’t want you to.
Dabura is not a pervert, he is just curious. Who wouldn’t be? Sometimes even you can’t stop yourself from asking him questions of… rather peculiar nature.
“I counted them without getting distracted, finally. You have a 14-pack. Holy shit. How are you even real?”
You stare at his bare torso in bewilderment. He briefly wonders what you mean by ‘distracted,’ exactly.
“I am real,” he nods, and hums, like he said something worthy of writing in textbooks for future generations to learn.
You blink up at him, expression blank.
“I assume humans… aren’t able to posses a physique like mine?”
After you called him a pervert, he tries to be more careful with words.
You shake your head ‘no,’ looking up at him with those honest eyes again. You are so eager, it makes him feel strange things he’s never felt before.
Dabura stares down at you, like you are a speck of dust—not in a demeaning, but more in an assessing way.
“You are indeed very small,” he settles on the word he deems the most neutral.
“That was unnecessary, Dabura.”
You both can’t help your curiosity, sure, but he has to admit, he is far more intense when it comes to you, specifically.
“You smell different today,” he emphasizes the word ‘different,’ leaning down to smell the air around you, his nose twitching.
You let out an involuntary squeak, jumping back, a bit self-conscious.
“Don’t do that,” you shoo him away, but he is persistent.
“Sweet,” he adds, “it makes me want to…” he crosses his arms on his chest, straightens back up, and stares up at the blue sky.
Today, you insisted on having your lunch outside, because ‘the weather is nice’, you said. It is indeed pleasant.
He thinks it’s so human of you.
Dabura’s eyes widen slightly when he realizes. His head snaps back down to look at you—now also startled by his abrupt actions.
Right.
Of course.
He has been so oblivious, only because you were a human. He indeed knows what the nature of his feelings are.
“Ha,” it’s the only sound he makes.
It’s silent for a while—you look a bit concerned when Dabura finally speaks again.
“I understand now. I need,” he stops, looks down, then up. He doesn’t want to scare you any more than you already are. You seem genuinely distraught every time he steps too close to you, “tch, no,” he clicks his tongue and shakes his head, looking to the side, “want? Also no.”
“What…” you clear your throat, “what exactly are you trying to say? Maybe I could he—“
Before you can finish your sentence, he interrupts you, his tone flat, looking directly into your eyes. Again with unnecessarily heavy eye contact.
“I wish to copulate with you.”
Your mouth hangs open. And you know he isn’t joking because you explained the concept of joking to him yesterday—he doesn’t catch on that quick.
“It’s really bad. It interferes with my sleep schedule.”
“I am… sorry?”
It’s a complete and utter shit show after that—you become his personal google, since he doesn’t really have anyone else to ask those questions to, besides you.
The worst part is, the questions are about you.
“How to court a human woman? How to pleasure a human woman? Though, I don’t think I’d have any problem with that. Are human women fragile? They sure seem like they are.”
You feel like you are going to short-circuit any minute now and unlike google’s search history, no one can delete your memory.
“D-dabura… you… it’s too much. Let’s take one question at a time. First, let’s start with a topic you are most interested in.”
You sigh in defeat.
He doesn’t even hesitate before answering:
“How can I make you feel good?”
You can’t help but let out a small whimper—when is he going back to his home planet (of freaks, it seems like), exactly?
Can’t write descriptions to save my life. Not proofread, it’s just a draft. I want to sleep so bad rn, I will reread it tomorrow! I really hope I won’t regret posting this…
Shy!Intern reader, who admires Higuruma so much, but can't deny the obvious tension between them!
Higuruma Hiromi is brilliant—dedicated to his craft, passionate and compassionate, possessing the ability to be detached and empathetic at the same time.
You think it’s impossible, but here he is, alive and breathing, walking example just two cubicles down yours.
He is perfect, everything you want to be, aspire to be, wrapped in suits fitting his body so flawlessly, you'd think he tailors them, if you didn't know any better—he is too busy for such luxuries.
It's one constant in his life, among other things—too busy; too busy to eat, too busy to rest, too busy to talk.
Busy, busy, busy...
He never has time for himself, but somehow, he's attentive to you—you're just an intern, fresh out of the university, all confused and doe-eyed, deer caught in the headlights, but he is so patient; you feel your heart squeeze and stomach drop every time he gestures with his fingers for you to come closer, as you stand there awkwardly, reluctant to interrupt his work.
He is everything you want to be, so the first step is obvious—ignore the stupid flutter of your heart every time he leans down to hear you better. Be professional. At least act the part, you can always scream into the pillow later, at home, when no one's watching, except, maybe, your cat.
"You've got a cat?"
Higuruma asks once, sorting through the stack of documents with a blank face.
You nod enthusiastically, not entirely sure how the conversation diverted into talking about cats. But whatever, which cat owner doesn't like talking about their beloved pet?
"Love cats. They are cute," his gaze briefly flickers up to meet yours, as you tilt your head the side, listening to his every word intently.
Everything he says is precious to you. Important.
You remember everything he’s ever said to you, you think.
Even the words that stung, penetrating your heart filled with nothing but admiration for him. Surely, it's just that.
"Fuck," he bangs on the elevator door. Once. Twice. It's stuck, the lights flicker, before the small space sinks into darkness.
You shrink uncomfortably.
"Maybe we should…" you start, unsure.
"Do whatever you want, I am done for today," he interrupts, barking at you rudely.
But before you can even react, he exhales sharply, like he just woke up from a bad dream or surfaced from underwater.
"Fuck, no, I’m sorry," he hides his face in his palms, exhausted, "just... long day."
You nod. You had a long day alongside him—you are his intern, after all—but you are not mad at him. You could never be.
That is one more thing you notice about him, though—how... frustrated he is. Coiled, like he is about to snap any second now. You wonder what it has to do with you and why you feel your stomach flip weirdly every time you are in close proximity to him.
It's bound to happen. Even if you try to avoid it and honestly, you don’t try that hard. There's an undeniable pull between you two and it doesn't bother you as much as it should.
It just embarrasses you. A lot.
"H-higuruma-san, this is e-embarrassing," you say simply, without any sugarcoating, blinking down at him, on his knees, holding your thighs apart. His nose is pressed against your panties, under your hiked up pencil skirt, just... there, breathing you in.
"Mhm,” you hear in response, sound akin to acknowledgment of your words, and it sends a shudder down your spine, "just a little more," he grumbles.
So you let him. Because he says it helps with stress, and you'd do anything to help your boss with stress.
Anything.
"S-shit," he pants heavily, hands squeezing your waist, his office desk rattling with every deep thrust. It's slow and controlled, making your vision blur from the steadily building burn, "such a p-perfect pussy, feels too good."
You whine, arching your back, tits squeezed against the wood, barely able to breathe.
Overtime with your boss never ends right, lately.
"H-higuruma-san..." you start, turning your head to the side to sneak a peek at him.
“I told you to call me Hiromi, didn't I?"
He corrects you, reaching forward to wipe away the drool from the corner of your mouth.
“So cute, it's so easy to overwhelm you," he chuckles and the sound of it makes you clench down on his dick, still inside of you. “oh, f-fuck, don't to that, yeah, sweetheart?"
The way he stutters, just for you, no, because of you, makes your heart flutter.
"C-can't help it, H-hiromi," you mumble, "f-feels so good," you almost sniffle. He is right. It is very easy to overwhelm you.
"Yeah, for me too," he whispers, leaning down to place a kiss on your lips, thumb and forefinger holding your chin steady.
It's nasty, the way he kisses, not something you would expect from someone like Hiromi, the thin string of saliva stretching and snapping between you and him when he finally pulls back, leaving you breathless.
"You are... the best thing that ever happened... to me," he accentuates every word with a thrust of his hips, throwing his head back in bliss, and his praise makes you melt. He must notice it, too, because he laughs, "like seriously, this is heaven."
You just sink further, if that's even possible in this position, feeling flustered. He praises you too much for your own good.
"So shy," he teases, his voice lacking any real malice, but you whine in protest still, "okay, okay," Hiromi laughs again, his skilled fingers easily finding your clit and pinching it, making you yelp.
"Let's stop messing around, mhm?"
And the rest is kind of a blur.
Hiromi Higuruma is... actually not perfect, you realize. He is just a human. With needs and feelings. And you feel kind of giddy knowing you are the one in control of them now, at least partly.
"I feel like I manifested it wrong," you mumble under your nose, sitting on his lap, in his apartment, as he reads his morning newspaper, tracing lazy circles on your hip.
You wanted to be like him, not be liked by him or be with him.
"Did you say something, sweetheart?"
Hiromi hums. Your cat meows from down below, as you blink slowly, shaking your head ‘no’.
You aren't complaining, though.
This is my first time posting, kinda nervous... finally figured out how to even post!! English is not even my second language, it's third, just so you guys know lols anyway, it's just a draft, Imk if you guys want more?? Also I read somewhere Higuruma likes cats so...
