#he's a prodigy ofc he's going to do a litttle too well studying all the slutty shenanigans in the frisson of youth

[sandsorghum]

wc: 1.1k (more drabble than fic tbh)

tags: Virgin Higuruma | Friends to Lovers (?)

a/n: Really just an excuse for me to spew unhinged thoughts about FirstTimeHiguruma...Suggestive but nothing really explicit. Kinda told in his POV. Dunno if I'll ever develop this into a full story but enjoy...whatever this is??

Maybe...maybe he's in his mid20s, 2nd year of law school. Is a little insecure and defensive because he's got a bit of that internalised misogyny. Just a smidge. What's the big deal anyway, why are people so obsessed with sex - those conversations aren't worth his time. Don't his peers have better things to brag about or bond over?

Keeps his head down and mostly to himself. Ignores the couples snogging under the shade of sycamore trees as he cuts across the quad, averts his eyes from insufficiently surreptitious fingers skimming up thighs in coffee shops - Even the damn library isn't a place of refuge; with people sneaking off to the dimly lit, dusty sections where the obscure maritime law tomes are shelved but no apparently he's the one committing an invasion of privacy when he just wanted to look up the applications filed at the Tribunal for the Hoshinmaru case (2007, Japan V. Russian Federation) and not get an eyeful of folks sticking hands down pants.

So one day the two of you are hanging out in his room and somehow the topic comes up and he goes on an amusingly/impressively feminist rant about virginity just being a sexist myth and concept contrived to make (women's) chastity a commodified fetish as if they were prized chattel and why would he want to acknowledge any part of that antiquated invention and he has better things to do and why are you looking at him like that when you both have a Commercial Law exam to mug for, isn't that why you showed up in the first place?

And umm do you want his jacket, seems like you'd be chilly in that loose hanging top - it's slipped a little off your shoulder by the way - and why are you stalking- walking towards him like that and hangonhangonhangonhey-

Now see what you've done! You made him trip backwards on his bed and you're still leaning in way too close and since when did you start wearing lip gloss - wait you aren't? And that's just the natural shade of your mouth? oh ok cool cool cool fine goodtoknow - huh? why's it good for him to know? No- no reason- no he hasn't been wondering all evening - and wait why are you dropping to your knees now, come on, stop, you're taking this joke way too far like always - can't you tell it's humiliating for the both of you - huh? Did you just say you've always found him cute? The adjective ascribed to marsupials? You're associating it with him??

You like seeing his cheeks this colour? It reminds you of his frostbitten face when the two of you were the last to leave the library last winter semester, trekking across the field with just his nose peeking out from the higgly-piggedly stacked layers of his scarf, still trying to crack jokes to make you laugh and it had worked because you remember the sting of your chapped lips long after he walked you back to your room?

And well that's um...quite a vivid portrait of him, he doesn't really have that type of memory - No, he didn't mean that - of course he remembers the first evening you and him met and quickly became study buddies, pals, friends - definitely friends - and uuuhhhh are you sure this is something friends do?

Because now you have both hands resting on his parted thighs, your head nestled on his knee, how can you look so comfortable like this, with your cheek nuzzling lightly into his lap, moving a little further and further up to the throbbing, pounding pitch in his pants with every passing minute that he doesn't push you away or tell you to stop, he's never ached like this before, not even in his hormone-swamped dreams of the cloying feverish adolescence he thought he'd left behind years ago, and he thought he'd given into those futile impulses often enough not to be controlled by them, but no, the stifling denim swelling rises faster and faster the more desperately he tries to fight it, till the tented fabric is just about sweeping your cheek and hell, you shouldn't look so pleased with yourself, having this effect on him just by looking up at him through dark lashes and a darker gaze, but something's midnight-bright in them, like starlight in the pitch of winter

Like that night you'd both clambered up to the roof, abandoning the cacophony of the house party below, precariously perched with a couple beers and a quarter of the vodka you'd snagged on impulse, and you'd clung so tight to him, scuffling on the shingles, burying your squeaks and breathy giggles into his nape, shushing his chastisements midway as you passed the swig of the bottle directly from your mouth to his, and he remembers this, a careless question he's pondered more often than he'd like to admit, how he'd been unable to distinguish if the lingering scorch was from the distilled juniper or your lips, puffing little white clouds in this cloudless, snow-crisped evening, with you pressed into his body heat, teetering on the ledge and looking up at the spray of diamonds embroidered into the velvet of night, pointing out patterns in the celestial tapestry, both of you feigning expertise in astronomy before bursting into laughter at the blatant fibs when one of you, he can't recall which of you, gestures at a cluster of seven stars and declares it "the Big Slipper" and who knows what other snarky quips and idle half-truths you exchanged that night, he only recollects your confession that you were actually pretty terrified of heights, the admission crystal clear in his memory because he remembers the evidence, remembers the way your pulse was embedded in his bones, the way his blood was thrumming with the wild thudding of your heartbeat until he wrapped his arms securely around you, your ribs rising and falling slowly into sync with his and some other memory splinters its way to the surface now, crackling through his subconscious, how the air froze in his lungs for no reason, no reason at all, when his eyes settled on you looking up, again with your lips looking a little chapped, enraptured by the stars above, murmuring how you wished this night with him could last forever...

And of course it didn't, winter thawed into spring, which crept into summer, which slouched into autumn, after hundreds of highlighted paragraphs on mens rea and thousands of annotations on procedural processes, after so many shots of espresso long past closing time at the on-campus coffee shop where he was a part-time barista, fuel you'd always insisted on paying for, although he'd raided innumerable cans of redbull from your dorm free of charge, and you said you didn't really like their taste anyway so then why did you always happen to have a full six-pack stocked in your fridge?

Just another mystery he's never given much mind, with all the case studies the both of yall have had to cram in your heads instead, and after losing count of the stacks of flashcards blurring in your hand and the smirks you'd flashed him every time you scored a few points higher than him on a pop quiz, and now you're here, in his room, on your knees, having pulled the Milky Way galaxy into your gaze, dragging a comet up through his belly, pillars of fire erupting in his lungs as he witnesses the moonrise of your mouth, soft lips curving crescent sharp around a question, a question just for him, both the sincere desire - the hunger - in your eyes and lilt in your tone makes his pulse leap to his throat, makes his blood plummet south as you ask, just this once, if he trusts you to make him feel good too?

And he's trembling, as is the answer on his tongue, only the familiarity of your audacity grounding him somehow, because you're asking it with that smile, the smile which has been wrapped and squeezing around his head, for longer than you could possibly know...

© sandsorghum. 2025