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bumblesimagines · 3 months ago

Text

Imagine:

Seeing Serena again

Request: Yes or No

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical Gossip Girl spoilers, mentions of cheating and betrayal, Serena get a damn grip

~~~

"Is breakfast almost ready, Patty?"

"Almost, Mr. (L/N). We'll have everything set and ready in a few minutes."

The smell of freshly cooked pancakes wafted through the air, merging with the vanilla-scented candles the maids always lit around the penthouse to appease his mother. He raised his cup of coffee to his lips and carefully drank the hot liquid, the tip of his tongue still tingling from drinking it too quickly. His eyes roamed over the view as he watched the city come to life with the rising sun.

The elevator dinging echoed into the room and his brows furrowed at the sound, his head craning over his shoulder to look at the equally confused maid. "Is my mother expecting guests?" He asked and set his coffee at the table, but Patty shook her head firmly.

"No, sir, I don't believe so. Her meetings start at 1:30."

Humming softly, (Y/N) slipped his hands into the soft pockets of his pajama pants and strode out of the dining room, his ears faintly picking up murmuring from one of the servants greeting their guest.

He failed to think of anyone who'd be visiting them at such an early hour unless it was a work emergency and his mother hadn't been picking up her phone. Besides, he'd long ditched the one person he often drove to school with.

He rounded the corner and halted, instinctively shaking in a sharp inhale at the sight of the tall blonde standing in front of the shiny elevator doors. She smiled at one of the maids and dismissed her offer of taking her coat or providing her with a drink with a small shake of her head, the smile remaining on her face until she noticed his frozen figure. Her lips parted with surprise before spreading into a sheepish line. She always looked so damn sheepish.

"Hey, (Y/N)." Serena greeted softly, the heels of her boots clicking against the tile as she crossed the room toward him. His eyes flickered toward the grand stairs behind her leading up to the bedrooms and his chest constricted. This wasn't good. Not in the slightest. "It's... it's good to see you." She said and lifted her arms for a hug.

"Don't."

Had it been any time in the past couple of years, he would've happily sank into her embrace and lifted her into his arms for a kiss, savoring her gleeful laughter while she swung her legs around him. The hurt that flashed over her features would've made his chest heavy with guilt and an eagerness to remedy it through any means, but instead of the warmth and love he once felt spread through his body like a forest fire at the sight of her.. he felt nothing but bitter resentment.

He couldn't even bear to look at her, to gaze into the striking blue eyes that he had so often complimented or her golden hair that always seemed to effortlessly fall over her shoulders no matter what she did.

"I.." Serena's arms fell to her sides and she frowned, her eyes lowering to stare at the floor like a scolded child. "I know I messed up. I shouldn't have left without telling you where I was going-"

"No, no," (Y/N) scoffed and took a step back from the blonde, the smell of her perfume alone making him sick to his stomach. Warm and sweet with notes of cinnamon and orange blossom, everything he once associated with her. He recognized it immediately; how could he not when it was the same one he gifted her for their anniversary? The delighted gasp she'd released when she smelled it for the first time rang in his ears. "I don't care that you went to boarding school, Serena, or that you needed to get away from life here."

Serena's brows twitched and began to slowly crease, her blatant confusion only adding to the nausea forming in the pit of his stomach. Irritation struck him like a lightning bolt, sudden and consuming. How could she possibly look so lost? So innocent? As if she were being accused of a crime she hadn't committed. "I thought you were mad because.. because I left without saying anything. I mean, it's been a year and-"

"I don't give a shit about that, Serena." She blinked, still confused. He wanted to strangle her. "Nate Archibald, Serena. You fucked Nate Archibald, my best friend, behind my back and then ran away like a coward because you love running away from your problems."

Serena flinched and staggered backward as if she'd been struck, her eyes widening into near saucers and breath rapidly escaping her lungs. Betrayal flashed in her eyes. "He- He told you?" Disbelief caked her shaky words.

He gave a bitter, short laugh despite the emotions welling up in his chest. "No, he didn't. I had to learn what the two of you did through Chuck Bass. Do you know what it's like having to look that sleazebag in the eye while he tells you your girlfriend of three years fucked the guy you've known since diapers because he loves making people miserable? It was humiliating."

"I'm so sorry." She exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingertips flew to her mouth which soon began to quiver while her eyes glistened with incoming tears that almost made his eyes roll. He didn't have time for her pity party, didn't have space for it in his life anymore. He didn't have space for her. Her voice cracked when she spoke, "I- We- I was drunk and we didn't know what we were doing. I swear it meant nothing. I would never hurt you-"

"But you did, Serena. Don't pretend you're innocent or that you made a mistake-"

"It was a mistake!"

"Oh, right, his dick just happened to slip inside you, right?"

Serena gaped at him. "(Y/N)!"

Her high-pitched voice bounced off the walls, drenched in pure shock. Her mouth moved with silent words, leaving her looking like a fish out of water gasping for air. It wasn't often Serena was left speechless, that was something he attributed to her mother more than anything. Serena had a real talent for rendering her mother silent with a few accusatory sneers. The hint of exhaustion on Lily's face whenever she gazed at her daughter finally made sense to (Y/N).

"I'm sorry, okay? I-.. I really, really, am." Her shoulders drooped with a sigh and she took three steps toward him, her tote bag swinging and lightly hitting her thigh with each movement. She reached out and gently placed her hand over his arm, her eyes watching him pleadingly. "I was going to tell you, I promise, I... I just needed time to get myself together. I know I messed up. I should've never drunk as much as I did and I definitely shouldn't have slept with Nate. Please... forgive me."

Serena always had a magnetic air about her, something wild and untameable and enigmatic that drew everyone to her the moment she stepped into a room. The way she unapologetically carried herself, acted like herself, and not like the other girls at school who plastered on fake smiles for everyone, was the reason he'd asked her out to begin with. And yet, listening to her now, he kicked himself for believing she was any different, that she was just as loyal as Blair Waldorf was.

"I missed you," Serena added, trailing her hand up his arm and shoulder to cup the side of his neck. "I just want things to go back to how they were between us."

He frowned and moved away from her, out of reach from her coaxing touch. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to walk in here after what you did and try to pretend like it wasn't a big deal. You didn't accidentally spill something on my favorite sweater or break an expensive vase, Serena. You cheated on me with my best friend... after everything I've done for you."

"(Y/N)-"

"Serena?"

His eyes shot up toward the staircase and locked on the figure slowly descending it, her footsteps quiet and barely audible. Serena's head whirled around toward the familiar voice and her mouth opened, whatever words she wanted to say jumbling in her throat as Blair continued to cautiously approach them.

She sported his button-up, the one he'd worn to dinner the previous day and the very one she'd nearly torn off his body in her hungry neediness. The implications dawned on Serena and she snapped her head back toward him with bulging eyes.

"I thought I heard a familiar voice." Blair smiled, not a particularly nice one, and she stepped off the staircase to stride across the room.

She passed by Serena with the hint of a scowl, her eyes narrowing and raking over Serena's figure in discontentment. Her lip curled with disgust at the sight of her worn tote bag and her head shook disapprovingly, her messy brown waves shaking and bouncing off her round cheeks. His arm instinctively extended toward Blair and she settled into his side like a piece slotting into a puzzle. He met Serena's gaze as he kissed the top of her head, feeling her nuzzle into him further.

"Blair, I-... does- does Nate know you're here?" Serena swallowed.

Blair scowled, offended. "What I do is none of Nate's business anymore. Didn't you hear? Nate and I broke up after (Y/N) told me what you did. I always knew you were a whore, I just didn't think you'd do that to (Y/N) or me. It doesn't matter anymore, anyway. I'm better off without him, and you for that matter."

Blair's words were biting, filled with venom and heat, but (Y/N) couldn't find it within himself to be upset. Nobody else had seen the way her unbothered façade shattered at the news, the way she stuttered through tears as she tried to find any excuse to justify Nate's actions until all she could do was curl up in his arms and sob over the boy she'd poured her heart into.

He'd felt guilty then, for breaking a girl he once believed was a stone wall, a girl he once judged for her cruelty. It wasn't until he helped her pick up the pieces Nate left behind that he caught sight of the girl underneath the ruthless ice queen everyone knew her as. Blair was sensitive, sweet, easily humored, and held a strong urge to please and protect those she cared about. The more time he spent with her, the more his heart began to flutter with a familiar emotion.

It wasn't until a rainy night when she'd stopped by unprompted to gift him a designer jacket she'd seen while window-shopping that he fully realized the extent of his feelings and, after a kiss by the fireplace and whispered confessions, she agreed to be his girlfriend. The look on Nate's face, and the satisfaction on Blair's, when he saw them at school made the heartache and sleepless nights worth it.

"Guys-"

Blair raised her hand to stop the blonde. "I think it's time for you to go, Serena. We don't want you here."

#x reader #x you #x y/n #x male reader #x male!reader #gossip girl #gossip girl x reader #gossip girl x male reader #gossip girl x you #gossip girl x y/n #serena van der woodsen #serena van der woodsen x reader #serena van der woodsen x male reader #serena van der woodsen x you #serena van der woodsen x y/n #blair waldorf #blair waldorf x reader #blair waldorf x male reader #blair waldorf x you

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sandsorghum · 21 days ago

Text

Casual Wear

wc: 4k

tags: Higuruma Hiromi x Reader | Humour | Character Study

synopsis: What that mouth do?

Higuruma Hiromi’s mouth is magic.

No, not for its purposes in his legal profession nor even in the leisure of his licentious pursuits, but it’s impressive for a far more fundamental reason - the act of eating, and more aptly, it’s an act which really warrants the description of a Performance.

You’re convinced meals with Higuruma Hiromi have both enough drama and tragicomedy to rival vaudevillian theatrics or Cirque du Soleil spectacles.

With him, menus transformed into playbills and lunches became matinées.

Currently, you’re savouring your front row seat as he launches into a Shakespearan treatise on a hamburger and some crinkle-cut fries. He is in fact delivering some diatribe about his latest case, but you find your attention rather riveted by the single tomato slice half hovering between the buns, waiting in the wings of the thoroughly wrinkled wrapper clutched in Higuruma’s hand.

All of his neatly pressed suit is a stage and these formerly sturdily assembled ingredients, merely players.

“And now I’m going to have to file an extradition request to the headquarters in Setagaya which will take weeks…” he scowls, practically glowering at his food as he takes a large chomp of it.

You’ve perfected a perfunctory yet sympathetic hum, which you deploy now, patting Higuruma’s free hand so it doesn’t come up to restore order to his rapidly dilapidating burger. It’s not so much eating as it is an exercise in embracing entropy; with his Jenga tower of trembly lettuce leaves, melty cheese, slabs of streaky bacon, a double patty and the obnoxiously outsized hula hoops of grilled onions. And naturally, Higuruma had the hubris to include pickles.

You keenly watch the egg wash bronzed dome and fluffy foundations of the brioche buns slipping and squeezing through the crevices of Higuruma’s fingers, somehow disappearing faster and shrinking back to further destabilize the stack as the layers jostle and jut ahead of each other at higgly-piggly angles. With each increasingly aggressive bite, Higuruma liberates rich rivulets of meat juices to dribble all over his knuckles, until inevitably, a dollop of sriracha mayo prematurely splodges a thick wad over his tendons.

Oh, this was going to be good.

Without skipping a beat in the monologue bemoaning his chosen vocation, you watch Higuruma start to crane his head forward to lick his wrist but then he stops himself and you’re disappointed, resigned to the assumption that this fully grown man will resort to the much more sensible option of the serviettes, which have after all, been sitting on the tray by his elbows, untouched since the start of the meal.

But Higuruma doesn’t go for the tissues - and what happens next is so much better than you could have anticipated.

Realising his cuffs are in the way, Higuruma in a singular motion instead raises both his arm and the dishevelled burger ascending aloft his head, and then proceeds to lave his tongue across his wrist. He’s quite successfully, if unconventionally, mopped away most of the offending sauce when the magic happens.

Sschhhloorpplbt.

With slow-mo melodrama and grace, the tomato slops out of the burger, landing with a watery splat! on Higuruma’s face, before skidding across the starched collars of his shirt, then careens into its final resting place - his lap.

“Drat. Knew I should have gotten the wrap,” Higuruma mutters.

You attempt to drown your snort in the last shallow dregs of your strawberry milkshake but Higuruma looks up sharply at you, as he pinches the offending vegetable off his pants and tosses it onto the plate.

Your eyes are glimmering as he futilely crumples a tissue against his shirt, sweeping over the stretched cotton canvas where he’s also made a tribute to Jackson Pollock in mustard and ketchup blots.

“You’re such an artist, Higuruma.”

“What?”

You only grin at him, licking your thumb and swabbing it along the tomatoey streak on his handsome cheek, leaving a different reddish tint in your wake.

You didn’t always think his mouth was magic — frankly it had given you the ick in the initial stages of this courtship.

Or perhaps, grotesque fascination was the correct terminology. It was perplexing, how his clothes sustained that much collateral damage during meals.

You had to see it to believe it, otherwise it was simply too baffling, just how much debris accompanied his approach to dining; although ‘approach’ implied that Higuruma had some sort of strategy or logic in manufacturing these messes, and it just wasn’t conceivable that anyone could structure this level of disaster.

But even if you didn’t witness the havoc of Higuruma’s eating habits in real time, the aftermath sometimes stuck around, goading you to reverse-engineer the chaos. There was a litany of clues you got skilled at deciphering, piecing together the (quite often literal) trail of breadcrumbs to figure out what he’d eaten that day, and with what degree of ravenous recklessness, from shoyu speckled sleeves to smears of mayonnaise on his collar — courtesy of the cup ramen he’d scalded his tongue on, or his even more hastily consumed ‘lunch’ of two takoyaki sticks.

Of course, there was still an unanswered question at the crux of these guessing games, a mystery underpinning the habitual volatility of appeasing his hunger. Because despite all of these tendencies towards frenetic feasting, there was still a certain aura of poise to Higuruma Hiromi.

Admittedly, it’s an assessment compromised by your aesthetic attraction to him; you could readily confess there was a certain case to be made for your bias, perhaps a subconscious conflation of the merits of his wit and style, both imbued with an effortless sharpness, each enhancing the overall effect; the innate elevating the deliberate.

He dressed smart, in well fitting suits that were rarely rumpled, as unruffled and unflappable as his own presence. For a man for whom an adherence to dining etiquette seemed strictly conceptual, practically he still presented himself well, keeping his attire if not pristine, then still remarkably sleek and clean, considering the tribulations he subjected it to at least three times daily.

How this was possible perpetually intrigued and mystified you, until the day you learned Higuruma’s secret.

It had been an accidental discovery, on an afternoon when you’d made a lunch hour visit.

The occasion was already nominally noteworthy, as you’d finally persuaded him to try a salad, after months of gentle chastisements about his diet.

Your triumph however, left a scattering of sunflower seeds along his chin and when he was done stabbing through the arugula, his countenance more closely resembled a truculent teen who had raced face first through a hedge maze.

“Do I really have to finish these lawn clippings?” Higuruma whined, prodding at the greenery with his prongs.

“I don’t remember signing up to date a man-child,” you tut, even as you swipe a napkin along his cheeks, while Higuruma tucks his grin against your wrist. Before those lips can detect and further elicit the pitter-patter of your pulse, you move to scrunch the serviette against his tie where quite unfortunately yet predictably, there are several sizable splatters of balsamic vinaigrette dressing.

“The smell is probably going to seep through this silk,” you say with a slight frown.

“It’s not a problem,” Higuruma shrugs, starting to loosen his tie, sliding two digits into the triangular knot and tugging it open. The fabric seemed to practically melt around his fingers, parting without resistance till it slipped down his chest. You try not to track the motion too overtly, but there’s little else qualifying as worthy contenders for your attention.

So you watch as Higuruma smoothly, almost automatically, pulls open a drawer to reveal row after row of neatly rolled black ties, as well as a stack of white Oxford shirts. He picks out the corner-most tie, and feels your gaze shift as he uncoils it around his palms and starts to loop it around his neck.

Mistaking your quizzical, fascinated focus for judgment, he states, “They’re for emergencies.”

“A dozen tie-related emergencies?” you clarify, with that tilt to your tone which Higuruma finds himself wanting, increasingly often, to see mirrored in your lips - even if it’s at his expense.

“Yes, but would you believe it’s got space for 14.”

“I do believe that, Higuruma. I’m surprised you haven’t fit a tuxedo in there.”

Higuruma shuts the drawer before you can scythe your eye over their contents again, hoping the sound of its rolling snap eclipses the death throes of the mollified whimper tickling the back of his throat. (It doesn’t.)

“The drawer does leave me with one question though.”

Higuruma glances up from making the final adjustments on his Windsor knot. The serenity in your expression belies the innocence of your inquiry.

“What if you have pants-related emergencies?”

Higuruma suddenly finds his tie too tight around his throat, scarcely providing a barrier to the sickle of your mouth which he thinks must be pressed to his jugular, that arresting curve he traces up to your eyes with their wicked gleam, the one he’s only seen so far in his dreams.

Be careful what you wish for...

He responds, rather raspily, “Well, I had to be economical with the space. Could hardly turn this cube into a walk-in closet.”

“No I suppose not,” you say, brushing your fingers against his discarded vinaigrette stained tie. “So you chose to prioritise the shirts and ties, which are likelier to be scrutinised.”

“Yes,” Higuruma says, grateful for the familiarity of your shrewd common sense, “Not many people pay attention to the lower half of my suit.”

Too late he catches the glimmer in your gaze flickering downwards, and he’s incapacitated by the mere dip in your voice when you reply, ever so off-handedly, “Well, perhaps such neglect ought to be rectified.”

And Higuruma realises, right then and there with a mild throb of panic, maybe he really ought to invest in a separate drawer for briefs (of the non-legal kind.)

It might be magic, or it might merely be beyond the scope of scientific explanation.

The way Higuruma’s mouth operates is a phenomenon to be studied, a riddle of the universe, its mystique obdurate against your observations.

It didn’t matter what the texture of the food was - boiled, baked, fried, sautéed or steamed. Carnage reigned. It was the second law of thermodynamics, mandated by Higuruma’s mouth; Entropy will always increase over time.

Or over the course of dinner and dessert.

Soba noodles dangled and tangled off his chopsticks like the most amateurish marionette attempts, sorbets slunk off of cones at strange angles despite his best efforts to corral them with his otherwise reflexively dexterous tongue (lightning quick with quips but not licks, in this situation) and at the movies, the first thing to emerge from the gloom of the cinemas were usually the puffy white popcorn kernels adorned to his collar. By the time you’d brushed them off Higuruma, on average you’d refilled nearly a third of the bucket.

Once, at a carnival, you found corndog crumbs clinging to his cheeks even after taking the roller coaster (which had two loop de loops) and wisps of cotton candy in his hair, their pink tufts tangling with his ink-jet fringe. And later, in the shrieking whirlwind glee of the teacups, he’d swept right into you, chuckling and clutching your hips in a spun-sugar collision of your mouths and you’d tasted the sweet detritus of his off-kilter caramel-apple kisses, crackling saccharine on your tongue.

You ride the pleasant ebb and surge of this new romance over the next months, Higuruma’s presence both thrilling and soothing, intoxicating and relaxing. You cannot help but succumb to the allure of his juxtapositions, all that remains unsolved about him - typified by that first mystery around his table manners (or lack thereof); How could a man so put together, so composed in his speech and thoughts still leave such a trail of devastation in his wake? On occasion, you are tempted to wonder if it portends some secret character defect.

Yet you dismiss this as paranoia, even knowing paradise won’t last.

After all, you and Higuruma were trying to keep things casual. You were both savouring that phase where ambiguity embellishes and relishes an amorous atmosphere, in all its tremulous, temerarious pacing. Dancing around definitions, sidestepping expectations; simply discovering a routine tenderness, and exploring the natural rhythm of fitting into each other’s lives.

That was easier said than done, however.

That first infraction comes when Higuruma has to cancel your weekend date, after two weeks of absence and only intermittent text exchanges.

The call comes just as you’re donning your platform sandals and heading out the door.

“I am so so sorry I am so so swamped-” There’s the Shinkansen swoosh of his apologies over the speakers, far more profuse than the excuses, sounding more wretched than frantic. For a few minutes, you let Higuruma rattle on with that barely sheathed saber-edged vexation to his tone, venting about some idiot who’d “only gone and committed perjury”, resulting in the decimation of an alibi and the implosion of a plea deal, while you glance at your wristwatch, letting the second hand slip past the 12 for a third time before you firmly interrupt.

“And then the other intern quit because they wanted to summer in the bloody Bahamas while I’m in the office on a Sunday...”

“Higu-”

“...trying to stop this damn injunction which makes zero sense-”

“Higuruma.”

“Huh?”

“I said, it’s 2pm. Did you remember to have lunch?”

“Oh.” Higuruma responds, as if the concept of midday meals was a novelty - telling you everything you needed to know.

“I’ll bring you something.”

“You don’t have to bother yourself, I’ll grab a bite from the vending machine.”

“Except I already have gone to the trouble. I’m all dressed up, you see I was supposed to catch up with some cute guy this afternoon.”

You can practically hear his blush through the phone, and even though you aren’t face to face, Higuruma’s voice still turns gruff as if to disguise the rush of blood to his cheeks.

“Some cute guy?”

“Yeah, he operates a kushikatsu yatai in my neighbourhood. Always gives me a couple extra sticks for free.”

“Oh, that place has been around for what, three decades now? And you’re referring to Kazuya-dono who refuses to retire, aren’t you? The balding guy in his 60s.”

“The tycoon in his 60s, yep. And he’s considering investing in a toupee I hear.”

Higuruma feels the fuchsia spreading to the shell of his ears, your smirk pressing close against them, even through the phone. Higuruma clears his throat.

“I see. Well, if those exciting prospects as a golddigger don’t pan out for you, could you include some shishito peppers?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I’ll see you soon? In half an hour?” You can’t help but smile at the tender inflection of optimism in his clarification.

“Of course. The queue shouldn’t be too long at this time of day.”

“Thanks for your generosity, Mrs Kazuya-dono.”

“Goodbye, Mr Higuruma.”

In the privacy of his office, Higuruma grins, lingering with his ear pressed to the screen even as the call tapers to its end, reluctant to hang up without hearing your chuckle fully reverberate over his name.

At this hour, when the final stretch of a weekend is lurching towards another interminable five day cycle of labour, the office is cloaked in a kind of velvet darkness, draping heavily over the afternoon. There’s a stifling stillness even as you stride past the empty cubicles, which makes the stubborn fluorescent buzzing coming from Higuruma’s office sound even louder in this oppressive atmosphere.

His door is ajar so you walk right in to see him barricaded behind towers of folders, the tousled strands of his crow’s nest upsweep barely jutting above the turrets of the piled high case files, as he fastidiously scribbles something in a leather-bound notebook, not noticing your entrance.

“Delivery for Mr Higuruma,” you announce, closing the distance between you and his desk.

Higuruma’s head jerks up as if he’s startled, blinking owlishly as he registers your presence.

“You’re here,” he says, gaze softening and his shoulders sagging back into some semblance of relief, the pen drooping from his hand. He reaches towards you, then notices his biro-blue polka dotted palms and sheepishly starts to retract them, but you catch his fingers in time, scattering a kiss across his knuckles.

“Yes, in the flesh. Shishito peppers and all,” you say with a smile, setting the take-away bag on the side of his table.

“Well. Damn,” he exhales, reclining against his chair for a fuller angle, all the better to drink in the sight of you. You had assembled a cute, casual outfit; light-washed denim pants paired with a cream ribbed knit top, layered over with a V-neckline sage sweater vest and accessorised with a delicate, silver flat chain. But the way Higuruma is staring at you makes you feel like you’ve just sauntered fresh off a runway.

“Need me to do a spin?” you tease, subconsciously taking a half-step back as he stands, gaze hungrily tracking over your figure and slowly approaching as if concerned the vision before him was delicate as a dandelion in its second, spectral bloom.

“Only a fool would object,” he responds and you laugh, obliging him with a quick twirl, but before you can even fully turn back around, Higuruma has pulled you into his arms, locking them around your hips and lodging his nose in the crook of your neck.

“This is getting ridiculous,” he mouths along your nape, fingers twitching at the small of your back.

“Hm?”

“You, coming here looking like this and I- I just tumbled out of the house,” Higuruma mutters, hands notching warmly at your waist to prevent you from moving away. But you push at his chest and his hold slackens, ever so slightly, so you can tip your head back to scan over him.

Well, it was true, Higuruma did not look dressed for a date, let alone the office. His attire looked more appropriate as the prized exhibit at a museum dedicated to the ancient history of textiles; a tatty maroon sweater, the brand logo emblazoned across the chest now faded and indecipherable as stone tablet etchings from an archaeological dig site, paired with crooked half-frame glasses. Plus, the piece de resistance, a pair of charcoal grey joggers with their drawstrings missing, patchy at the knees from only god knows how many spin cycles and planetary revolutions around the sun.

And were those, were those crocs? You make a mental note to give Higuruma an evangelical spiel about Birkenstocks at least.

“Well, you certainly look…comfy.”

A small groan escapes Higuruma, as he tucks his warm face against your neck, all the better to hear and feel your laughter ripple over him.

“I swear I only meant to pick up some documents this morning but then…”

“But then,” you echo mockingly, gently tweaking Higuruma’s face.

“Time just…keeps getting away.” He gazes up at you with those pits for eyes, shadowed by despair. You know he isn’t just talking about this date, or this case.

“There’ll be other flea markets,” you shrug, “But there’s only one workaholic I’m willing to put up with.”

You card your fingers through his raven-dark plumage, feeling Higuruma’s sigh settle over your shoulders as he leans into your touch.

“You’re an angel,” he whispers, pulling you into him and starting to graze his lips along your nape. “You’re all I need-”

It’s at this point his stomach chooses to interject with a loud, rumbly burble of bLRRRggccLHHhh.

Snickering at his belly’s betrayal, you peel yourself away from Higuruma’s peach-tinted cheeks and fuss at him to sit back down, opening the take-away bag for him.

“I forgot how good these smell,” Higuruma remarks, eyes lighting up as he tackles the plastic lid on the sauce, its tangy-sweet and savory aroma wafting into the air.

He wolfs through five, six, seven sticks of shisamo and tsukune and so on, it’s not long before flecks of the rich, glossy dipping sauce paint his lips and chin, whilst a spray of panko scatters like shrapnel over his shirt, landing on the drawer where you knew Higuruma kept extra sets of his corporate attire.

You had contended with what that easily accessible work-wardrobe implied, what his so-called closet of contingencies represented. All those spare shirts and jackets and even boxers were really evidence of someone who rarely returned to his own lodgings, who regularly spent the nights at the office, slogging on till dawn.

He was a man who was married to his job, to Lady Justice. You had no illusions or qualms about being the paramour in that equation. But these were early days, and while you aren’t entirely certain how permanent this addition to your life called Higuruma Hiromi would be, what’s indisputable is the undivided attention he gives you, when he is with you.

He brings that intense devotion, that focus to everything he does, mind and mouth in perfect exacting synchronicity, across all his feats of adoration, articulation and now of course, mastication.

You settle back into your chair nibbling on some suginamo, prepared to enjoy the show Higuruma always unwittingly put on.

What you’re not expecting is your epiphany, the stunning scientific breakthrough at last.

Sitting across from Higuruma, you study the way he hoovers through a dozen (and counting) kushikatsu skewers, and abruptly, you realise he must have his own gravitational field, one that flouted all principles of physics, of astrophysics.

You lean forward, eagerly examining the evidence before you: the glistening contrails of oil, the constellation of crumbs, all being yanked towards that relentless black hole which is his mouth, hinting at the white dwarf core in his belly, depleted of its own nuclear energy, all-consuming to avoid its own collapse.

You couldn’t help it, being dragged into his orbit, being drawn to this voraciousness you’d witnessed in other aspects of his life, singular unto the entity that was Higuruma Hiromi: A homunculus in fractious fraternity with his humanity - Someone who couldn’t stomach unfairness, which made him a glutton for punishment. His dedication was a whetstone whittling its own blade away.

Just one of Higuruma’s many alluring contradictions.

There are others you’ve discovered, chipping and chiselling the hours out of one another’s calendars till the days gave way to a more natural erosion of the edges around your selves, marble ceding to limestone: His words are deliberate, his quietness intuitive. Quick-witted, yet with long simmering ire. A sort of brazen self-deprecation. Brilliant arguments, stupid punchlines. An empiricist’s approach to empathy, a heart siphoning off its own sentimentality.

You behold your lover shoveling in skewer after skewer, operating on some internal combustion engine, mere mortal with a mechanic’s approach to morality, an automaton chugging on and on as if he were indefatigable.

(He wasn’t, he’d told you one evening, half an hour late to the fifth date. Too exhausted even for guilt it seemed, the confession was almost in confidence. But maybe you can do better than a Mr Perfect, he’d snarked with his trademark wry smile which, to an untrained eye, could just about pass for invulnerability. You had stared him down, your silence dredging the apology out of him with a sincerity you could tell surprised the both of you.

You didn’t expect to hear something like that from the mouth of your Tin Man, whose shine was so often eclipsed by that mind like a steel trap, in lieu of a heart of gold - so he professed to everyone else.

But that inadvertently coerced admission of his burnished cavity stirred a flutter in your heart. You’d always known Higuruma was made of rarer stuff than gold, even if he didn’t.)

“You want the last of the okra? It’s your favourite.”

You blink, dispersing the reverie you’d been indulging in, to focus instead on Higuruma holding out the tray to you. You shake your head with a smile, noticing his spectacles already spectacularly smudged with a slick of grease.

He happily polishes off the remaining skewers while he works, baggy sweater incrementally hoarding more and more morsels of food. He rolls his sleeves up, utterly oblivious to the avalanche of cumulative detritus, disappearing down the canyon of his lap.

And as you observe Higuruma, sat in his plush leather office seat, practically dressed in pajamas but somehow hardly out of place, intermittently cramming a kushikatsu stick in his mouth, and another annotation into the margins of a file, you feel that same tug towards him again.

And you suspect you will, over and over, regardless of how frayed or unraveled Higuruma’s threads become.

#higuruma hiromi #SFWhgrm2025 #higuruma #higuruma hiromi x reader #higuruma hiromi x you #higuruma x gn reader #higuruma x reader #higuruma x you #higuruma x y/n #hiromi x you #hiromi x reader #hiromi x y/n #hiromi higuruma #sandsorghum

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justanothersanjilover · 22 days ago

Text

One Piece Modern Gym Au Wip (Part 25)

It would be a lie if Sanji would say that he wasn’t shaking while following Zeff. He knew his Stepdad - scratch that, his Dad! - would never hurt him in any way…not intentionally anyway. But they haven't seen each other for two years and saying they parted on no good terms was an understatement.

“Sanji?”

He looked up to see Patty and Carne starring at him and then at Zeff. The old man looked like he bit into a lime and tried desperately not to pull a face.

„Hi, you guys. It‘s been a few days, right?“ Sanji tried to break the awkward silence.

“You little shithead, come here”, Patty grumbled, came over.

He put Sanji in a headlock and held him tightly, laughing because of the half-hearted struggle of him. The apron in his hands was falling to the floor when he grabbed Pattys arm.

“Let him go, Patty. He just came back, don't break him,” Carne laughed, wiping his hands on his apron.

„Let him cook,“ Zeff‘s voice rumbled through the kitchen and made them all flinch.

Patty and Carne again looked from Sanji to Zeff and Patty quickly let go of him. Sanji busied himself with stroking some imaginary wrinkles out of his clothes.

„What‘s he cooking?“ Patty asked and walked back to the stove.

„Whatever the fuck he wants! Never listened to me anyway,“ Zeff shot a fiery look at him and Sanji‘s stomach dropped.

„M…maybe…“ Sanji thought about Zoro and Perona. „Oh, I know!“

He turned and grabbed an apron from the hooks on the wall behind the kitchen door. Somehow he automatically grabbed a blue one with childish drawn sea life pictures on it - it was his anyway…why was it hanging there?

Did Zeff really just leave it for two years? Sanji asked himself while walking to the storage room.

He felt the eyes of his stepdad following him everywhere. It made him a bit nervous. He actually was prepared for everything when walking into the Baratie. Screaming, tears, maybe a quick and hard kick in the ass (which would be fair, to be honest). But not Zeff seating him and his friends on one of the best tables and then demanding him to cook.

He got all the ingredients he needed and walked back to one of the work stations - also his usual spot from two years ago. Smiling he took a knife from the knife holder on the wall. It was like coming home. His knives, sharp as ever - like he‘d never left. He could feel his eyes fill with tears and wiped them away.

Turning on the stove beside him and pulling a pot on it, he moved to wash the rice he got. After a few washes, the water stopped looking milky and so he put the rice in the pot with a bit of salt. While the rice cooked, he cut and peeled a few veggies like peppers, green beans, carrots, peas and a few more. Those went into a pan and was put on low heat with a bit water in the pan to steam it.

While he waited for everything to get done, he grabbed another knife and started cutting and seasoning three salmon filets. He fell back into the routine of working in the kitchen at rush hour so easily. While the salmon was steaming in the oven, he whipped together a sauce that was a bit spicy - with chili flakes in it.

The rice and veggies were done in time. He placed both on a plate, preparing it to look like it was a swirl of white and color chasing each other. The fish was done just when he finished the last plate. Smiling, he placed the salmon on top of the rest. Rounded everything off with some heart-shaped carrots on two plates and swirls of the sauce on top of everything.

“Orders up…” His voice got quieter as he spoke.

This wasn't an order…this wasn't his job anymore��he, wasn't working there. Again, his guts dropped and Sanji actually felt dizzy and like throwing up. What was he thinking?! Why was he just doing this? When anyone wanted to hurt Zeff’s reputation, they just needed to tell around that the Master Chef let some random walk-in cook prepare food in his kitchen.

“Still knows the drill after two years,” Crane joked. “Once in this hell, always in this hell, right?”

“Y…Yeah…I…” Sanji stepped back and took off the apron and wrung it in his hands. “I’m sorry I infiltrated your kitchen…and I’m sorry that I just came back without any warning…I…I’m sorry I never reached out; that I never called...” Sanji said quickly before his panic would take hold of him - he had turned to Zeff. „I‘m sorry…“

Zeff stepped in front of him, and Sanji flinched slightly. The look on Zeff’s face softened when he saw that.

“You aren't actually afraid of me, are you?”

Sanji looked up with big eyes and was pulled into a tight hug the next moment.

“You’re such an idiot, Sanji!”

It took a few seconds for him to realize what was going on. But then he hugged Zeff back and actually started crying.

“I’m so sorry! I didn't want to leave! I didn't want to!” he sobbed against his stepdads shoulder. “I had to…He would have…I didn't want you to lose the Baratie! I’m so sorry! I’m sorry!”

“It's fine,” Zeff patted his back and stroked his head. “I know…I was angry and shouldn't have said what I’ve said back then. I know you’d never just leave without a warning.”

They hugged each other for a moment, but when Crane let out a long, drawn aw, Zeff let go of Sanji, spun around, and almost glocked his su-chef on the head with his foot. Crane stumbled back to get out of reach but laughed out of the depth of his belly.

“You should get that food out to your friends, eggplant,” Zeff grumbled when Crane slipped out of reach.

“Yeah…gotta do that before the salmon is cold,” Sanji replied and turned to the kitchen station again.

With practiced movements, he put one of the plates on his forearm and took one in each hand. He opened the door with his foot and was out within seconds - falling back into the habits of working there was easy.

“Fried rice with salmon and a variety of vegetables topped off with a spicy sauce,” Sanji said, placing one plate in front of Perona and the other in front of Zoro before sitting down himself.

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#one piece #roronoa zoro #black leg sanji #zosan #zosan fanfic #one piece modern gym au #red leg zeff #one piece baratie #zoro and perona are siblings #perona one piece

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