higuruma hiromi | infinity Words: 1.5k, suggestive, smoking Summary: Model Higuruma Hiromi has many eyes pointed at him but his–will always–search for you. Inspired by x, written for @valleyofwater
He’s worn many suits, especially given his early years as a naive, arrogant, bustling attorney. His attire nowadays is from name brands he mispronounces on the regular. A modeling career he doesn’t take seriously because it wasn’t meant to be serious. You asked, he arrived. You posed him, he moved. Ever eager to be the center of your attention. The one thing Higuruma covets, an itch under his skin. A touch he has yet to allow himself the mercy of.
⊹ You launched his career many years ago, it pulled him into a world that dotes on the very features he’s gotten slack for in the past. His lightly tanned skin, slender build, deceptive height in photography makes him permissible to use across multiple concepts. He can be the tired and bored suits model or the too-cool and unserious high fashion model. His large nose and smaller brown eyes are suddenly unique, in style, captivating. The new praise means nothing, it’s a touch of your hand, tilting his chin, “Hiromi, stay turned to the light.” That giant lens blocking the stars of your eyes so, fine, he turns to the carefully placed studio light. It’s a darker concept, he notes. His agent, that poor man, would panic seeing all this red and shadow.
Hiromi would ask, what client, what ad, what product, but that’s shallow pleasantry isn’t it? What he wants to do is thank you, for trusting him with this, for being utterly selfish and brash. Lifting his head, moving his arm, kicking out his feet, treating him as exactly what he seeks to be, your most favorite model. The prop that springs to life whatever fantastical ideas swirl in that mind of yours. Oh how he’d love to sneak in, take an elevator ride through all your neuronal synapses and still, still he’d find it hard to pinpoint what makes you, you. “That expression is perfect.” It’s the face he makes when he thinks about you, when he drowns out the rest of the world and wonders how it would feel to lay his head across your chest… would you let him, if he asked? ⊹
You're comfortable with him, the jaded ex-lawyer turned super model turned mystery. Higuruma Hiromi is a complicated man and not. Least, not to you, not in your studio, on your carefully crafted set, under your watchful eye.
He always sits in a way that would make the burden Atlas bears seem light. You direct your studio hands, this is the last shot, they won’t be needed once the tub is placed and filled to your liking. The drops of red you’ll add on your own, once you’ve settled him in and explained the concept. What is it? What had you said to him? A commentary on justice? What a brazen lie. There is no external client, this is for you. Your portfolio, your need to touch his skin and have his presence wrap around your studio as it often clouds your mind. You don’t hate that he’s famous, you hate that he doesn’t care. Hiromi has asked for no compensation other than dinner and cigarettes. You know better than to think of him as cheap anything. His mind doesn't shallow, hollow, meaningless contact. His brain doesn’t allow him to run on top of the surface. No, Hiromi sinks his teeth in and deep, Hiromi bleeds dry the object of his fascination. Sometimes himself too in the process. And you know better, better than to want him…and yet…
⊹
“That’s a nice sweater.” He comments dryly, stepping into the tub, water rushing to accommodate his long limbs. “Won’t it shrink if it gets wet?” That tone, those eyes. You’d wave it off if there were a real set, a real campaign, a real…anything other than excuse to get close to him. Laughable, the concept ‘a commentary of justice’ and you’re here…abusing your power aren’t you? No, no. This is a game you two have played over and over for years on end now. Off your top goes and he hisses, “I think you should be on the other side of that lens.”
“I wonder who taught you all that charm?” As you step in, one of his hands comes to steady your calf, you add the other leg, standing tall, looking down at him and oh, he gives your muscles a squeeze.
“Is it working?” He can’t tell, you’re such a good poker face with that camera. Those eyes slightly glossed over, assessing every centimeter of him, tugging him up by his tie. “Could you comb your hair back a bit more, with the water–careful, none on your face, remember?” Funny how his limbs move at the mere suggestion of your words and halt at your discretion too. Your name spills from his lips, “...like this?” “Perfect, you’re always…” the camera shields your emotions, “so perfect for me, Hiromi.” ⊹
It’s a game that could go on for hours, days, weeks, years. Hiromi will sit when you ask him to, speak when you address him, if only he’d build up the nerve to ask you to keep him. Let him throw away this unearned career, forget about the fashion weeks and runways and first class anything. His hands belong here, on you, keeping you steady. His body belongs here, under your will, move him as you need. And you do, heavens above could not promise him the satisfaction that comes from your twisting and pulling and positioning of him.
And if you were to read into this, all his interviews and all his behind the scene clips, of how he flinches and pulls back from hands that approach his face… how he places boundaries around how and who and when he can be touched on set… none of that crosses his mind when its you, if you were to read into that… “What would you like to eat tonight, Hiromi?” He’s half submerged, the red and gavel pooling into a tye-dye design. Eyes snap to your camera, then he tilts up, the water drips down and free. There’s a few that bead across his eyelashes, you reach out to brush them away. “Anywhere you’d want to take me.” You hum. You stand again, to hang your camera up and out of liquid danger, and sit at the foot of the tub. He leans back to the opposite side. “I’m not much of a cook myself, but I do…have this as promised.” It’s magic, whenever you pull the dry cigarettes and lighter from. It’s mystifying, how perfect that brown and white roll of toxins perches at your lips. How you light and take a drag, the longest seconds of Hiromi’s life and he’d still want this moment on loop. Over and over. The way the embers sparkle in your eyes, the way your lips part slightly, that crawl of yours that forces water to him, over and out the edges of the tub. So close. He’s had you close like this before, a different set, a different photoshoot but now there’s no camera to hide either of yourselves with. His hands find your waist, his mouth parts on it’s own as you slip the cigarette between his lips, his eyes never, ever leave yours, and he refuses to let your warmth part from his. He can keep you warm, he’s good enough for that, surely. “I’d take anything.” Famished, he is. For you, one look, one touch, one breathe…would it satiate him? The way your eyebrow quirks up, the way your hand finds chin again, always moving his face into the light, it’s an excuse, really. There’s only one way to soothe the burn under your fingertips. “You’d take anything, but what would you give me, Hiromi?” Anything doubled, tripled. He’s about to speak when you lean all the way in, chest to chest, his brain short circuits, “Would you give me a kiss?” “Take twenty, thirty, an infinity–” and you know him, you’ve always known him to talk himself out of any situation so you shut him up. He’s given permission, infinity was it? A number you like, a number you can work with. The water sloshes in a rage known only to the dark storm seas, not fit for this studio, not fit for all this expensive equipment you have, within an arms reach or so.
But he kisses you as if starved, no restraint, nothing chaste. Tongue over tongue, moans so pretty for you, his hands keeping you pressed flush, not even a molecule of water given entry between you two. You have to bite at his bottom lip to pull away, to catch your breath, look at him.
The way the water drips down, hair askew, the way red drips from his lips and yours. The way his eyes have lidded heavy, the feel of his chest…rising and falling against your own. “We’ve got…a long way to infinity, don’t we?”
He nods. No other road he’d want to pursue, no other path worth entertaining. Keep him, keep him, won’t you?
