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heartburriedinvenice · 13 days ago

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the end is undeniably near (and i keep running towards it) - steve h.

(steve harrington x hopper!reader)

a part of my phoebe challenge 🎞🪐💌🕯

based on the song "i know the end" by phoebe bridgers

in which you always wanted to escape hawkins, indiana, until you didn't anymore.

in which the billboard said "the end is near"

content warning post season 3 (SO SPOILERS), mild cursing (maybe), ANGST like the whole time, unhealthy coping, and hawkins being hawkins, reader is an implied theater kid (im sorry not sorry)

a / n i disappeared on y’all, I’m sorry!! you know life is getting weird when i randomly return to tumblr. just dipping my toes back in the water of all this so i apologize if i am a little rusty. this is just a piece of a hopper!reader show rewrite that has been in the works for a while so if anyone likes it enough, lmk, I’d be be happy to start posting the whole thing,starting from season 1! any feedback would be awesome (and also requests cause I need inspo back). okay enjoy some angst!

No one ever got out of Hawkins, Indiana. Like the town was somehow enclosed within some heavy-duty bubble, only a few people ever got the nerves to squeeze through. Until you did, until you did the one thing you believed was impossible. You packed your bags, loaded up your car, and left hell. And you did it without a goodbye because the only way to do the impossible was without one. And deep down you knew you were a coward, even after fighting monsters and otherworldly creatures, you were a coward. You could not face what was left behind or allow yourself to acknowledge it.

And it ate away at you in a way you could have never imagined. Too busy pretending like it never crossed your mind, like Hawkins never existed in the first place. Still, it chipped at you piece by piece until the guilt of escaping Hawkins, Indiana finally caught up with you. Until one day that guilt would sneak up and trip you, sending you tumbling all the way back down a hill to only land right back at the gates of Hawkins, at its green sign, Welcome to Hawkins! That warm welcome, the warmest welcome, with its murders and second dimensions and its people. Those people. Those people who worked their way so deep into your heart before you could even realize it. So deep that leaving felt like removing deeply grown roots from a garden, so impossible, so hard to tell where they even stopped growing. You weren’t sure entirely when they grew so deep, you don’t really remember at all how they got there. When you let them? Why did you let them? After everything, you should have known better. You shouldn’t have let them.

You were fifteen when you knew you could never live in Hawkins, Indiana your whole life. It never felt real, artificial, fake. Mass-produced nuclear families and white picket fence houses and stale dead-end jobs.

And then Steve Harrington needed an extra art credit and found his way as the lead in Hawkins High’s production of Romeo and Juliet. When rehearsing turned into giving Steve girl advice and driving with him to drop off flowers. When running lines became swinging a bat of nails and finding an alien in a fridge. When the day before the play performance had turned into icing Steve's bruises on your couch as you ran lines back and forth because neither of you could sleep. When a whole group of middle schoolers sat in the front row and your dad sat center with a bouquet of flowers. They were your family. Your strange and messy family all pretending to be interested in the gibberish mess of Shakespeare on stage. Them watching with stifled laughs as Steve stumbled through lines, as the balcony scene turned into him and you having a staring contest trying to figure out whose lines were next. And though your director would have your heads later, the two of you sat giggling during intermission and had to hold the laughter again when your director asked why you didn’t have time to be memorized to perfection. Because you had all the time in the world, didn’t you?.

Unbelievable as it was, you began to question what you at fifteen had promised you would do. Because you had found more than stale every day Hawkins. You had found their odd-balls who taught you to play Dungeons and Dragons in their basement, who reminded you so much of your sister. And you had found Steve Harrington, a pretty boy with a heart of gold, who risked his life for his Juliet that night at the mall. Who held you tight when it all got too much.

When you moved back to Hawkins, Indiana, after Sara, after your parents split, you were sure life would never be the same again. You needed a fresh start, to completely reconfigure your life and pretend none of what had happened had happened. That you never had a sister, that your dad hadn’t completely changed, burrowing himself under alcohol and late shifts. That your mom wasn’t actively trying to forget and build another life over the one that had been left abandoned in that New York apartment. You were so sure you would have to move on, cut it all out the minute you graduated from high school. You were sure you had to escape on your rickety old bike right out of town.

Then things happened and somehow you found yourself again, found your father again as you sat together for your first Christmas dinner in years. Celebrating the return of the young Will Byers and the return of something else, something more, something familiar and warm. It wasn’t perfect, far from it, but it was yours. You saw your father again for the first time in years that night, Christmas Eve, sitting on the porch as light snow fell and hit your heads, bundled in warm jackets, pretending the coffee you made was not mediocre at best. The police chief and his daughter, a messy duo. And that was perfect to you.

And then things happened again and again and again and finally everything just shattered.

And you left. You did what you had always hoped to do. But you didn’t feel the pride you had thought you would feel when you dreamed it at fifteen. You weren’t heading towards a new life, you were sitting in a stuffy apartment in the city. You were stuck again at what felt like the beginning. Unable to go with the Byers, you immediately made other plans, back at the apartment you had spent so many nights trying to forget.

And it ate away at you in a way you could have never imagined or wanted to imagine. Too busy pretending like it never crossed your mind, like Hawkins never existed in the first place. Still, it chipped at you piece by piece until the guilt of escaping Hawkins, Indiana finally caught up with you. Until one day that guilt would sneak up and trip you, sending you tumbling all the way back down a hill to only land right back at the gates of Hawkins, at its green sign, Welcome to Hawkins! That warm welcome, the warmest welcome, with its murders and second dimensions and its people. Those people. Those people who worked their way so deep into your heart before you could even realize it. So deep that leaving felt like removing deeply grown roots from a garden, so impossible, so hard to tell where they even stopped growing. You weren’t sure entirely when they grew so deep, you don’t really remember at all how they got there. When you let them? Why did you let them? After everything, you should have known better. You shouldn’t have let them.

And then Steve Harrington needed an extra art credit and found his way as the lead in Hawkins High’s production of Romeo and Juliet. When rehearsing turned into giving Steve girl advice and driving with him to drop off flowers. When running lines became swinging a bat of nails and finding an alien in a fridge. Or jumping into a hole in the ground and lighting up never-ending tunnels of vines straight from those horror movies you used to watch with your sister. When the day before the play performance had turned into icing Steve's bruises on your couch as you ran lines back and forth because neither of you could sleep. When a whole group of middle schoolers sat in the front row and your dad sat center with a crumble bouquet of flowers. They were your family. Your strange and messy family all pretending to be interested in the gibberish mess of Shakespeare on stage. Them watching with stifled laughs as Steve stumbled through lines, as the balcony scene turned into him and you having a staring contest trying to figure out whose lines were next. And though your director would have your heads later, the two of you sat giggling during intermission and had to hold the laughter again when your director asked why you didn’t have time to be memorized to perfection. Because you had all the time in the world, didn’t you?.

Unbelievable as it was, you began to question what you at fifteen had promised you would do. Because you had found more than stale every day Hawkins, you had found their odd-balls who taught you to play Dungeons and Dragons in their basement who reminded you so much of your sister. And you had found Steve Harrington, a pretty boy with a heart of gold, who risked his life for his Juliet that night at the mall, pulling you up when you twisted your ankle running up a flight of stairs and getting you out to paramedics when it was over. Icing your ankle and holding you when it all got too much. When you watched everyone exit the mall but the only real family you felt like you had left. When the police told you your fathers body couldn’t be found, buried under ash and grime in the mall fire. That he was the hero, that he saved your lives sacrificing himself.

When you moved back to Hawkins, Indiana, after Sara, after your parents split, you were sure life would never be the same again. You needed a fresh start, to completely reconfigure your life and pretend none of what had happened had happened. That you never had a sister, that your dad hadn’t completely changed, burrowing himself under alcohol and late shifts. That your mom wasn’t actively trying to forget and build another life over the past one that had been left abandoned in that New York apartment, calling only for holidays and those important life events she was so sad she had to miss. You were so sure you would have to move on, cut it all out the minute you graduated from high school. You were sure you had to escape on your rickety old bike right out of town.

Then things happened and somehow you found yourself again, found your father again as you sat together for their first Christmas dinner in years. Celebrating the return of the young Will Byers and the return of something else, something more, something familiar and warm. It wasn’t perfect, far from it, but it was steps in a direction. You saw your father again for the first time in years that night, Christmas Eve, sitting on the porch as light snow fell and hit your heads, bundled in warm jackets, pretending the coffee you made was not mediocre at best. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something for the two of you. The police chief and his daughter, a messy duo. And that was perfect to you.

And then things happened again and again and again and finally everything just shattered.

Spring of 1986, the New York apartment was driving you insane. You felt like you might start running up the walls if you didn’t get out soon. At least that would be ten times more interesting than sitting and watching your Step-Dad watch golf—a sport you didn't understand. Seeing how bored you were, he tried to explain it, but you didn't process a single word he was saying.

You didn’t want to have something with him, you didn’t want a thing you bonded over and you especially didn’t want that thing to be golf.

You debated moving, you debated being drastic and dying your hair to make your mom upset but what good would that do other than feed the part in yourself that no longer cared, no longer wanted to care. Everything you cared about had slipped from your grasp, had disappeared, no matter how tightly you clutched it was gone.

Fuck.

You stared at the wallpaper, one you knew your mom had probably gushed over at the store and chosen. And you glanced at the patterned carpet, and the family picture you were not in. And even though they all reassured you that you were family, deep down you knew you had uprooted their whole routine. You especially saw it in your moms eyes when she looked at you a little too long, a constant reminder of what she had lost all those years ago.

You listened to the busy city traffic below the apartment and the sound of wailing sirens you had completely become ignorant of after you lived in Hawkins so long. You glanced at the kitchen, the sink with no dishes and a fridge actually filled with food that wasn’t leftover take-out, mediocre pasta you had cooked, or boxes of Eggos. And you looked at the man beside you, silent, watching golf. It was all so different.

Every day it remained that way, your mom got home from work late, your stepfather came home before you got back from school, and then Liam, your step brother would come home.

He made it all a little more bearable. The littlest but only because he reminded you of home. He reminded you of Dungeons and Dragons in Mike Wheeler's basement, and your found sister, and the party that always had you on your toes. But even you could not warm up to the boy because he would never be them. And it was unfair. It was cruel of you to make comparisons between Hawkins and New York, to allow that to shut out the only family you now had. But it was one habit you could not seem to break no matter how hard you tried.

Hawkins, Indiana was quiet, it was small. Hawkins, Indiana was both a breath of fresh air and a tightening grip that had you gasping, clawing for a second to breathe. New York was loud, so loud that the sounds of sirens and blaring car horns became only white noise in your head. It was big, not big in the welcoming and warming way. Not big in the feeling of catching sight of a friend in a crowded room. It was big in the way you could not point out a single person at school that you had seen more than once. It was big in a way similar to that of being alone in the middle of a large party. It was so big that being alone in a quiet, dark, empty room would feel the same as walking amidst the large crowds on the street.

And New York didn’t have Steve Harrington. New York didn’t have crazy kids and weird aliens, New York didn’t have Robin Buckley or Nancy Wheeler or Jonathan Byers, New York didn’t have comforting hugs from Joyce, and New York didn’t have your dad and it never would again. The thought of it was enough to make you sick, nausea filling every inch of your body, barely able to swallow down the fact. But you would swallow it down like you always did, like you did everything else.

Your mom would always tell you you could talk to her if you needed to, that no matter how long you were a part she still cared about you. But you still remember the look on her face when you had turned up at the apartment after all those years. Finally back together face to face, the only words she was able to muster was, “you grew up”.

You kept busy filling the days with nothing. On a good day Liam would show you some project he did in class that day, him seemingly the most unbothered by your move-in. And your stepdad, Bill, would ask you how school was to which you would reply fine. It was fine, it would always be just fine.

And you would stare at the phone on the wall in the kitchen. Dialing and hanging up and dialing and hanging up, hearing him pick up and then slamming the phone down, falling back into the chair at the kitchen table. Sometimes he would call back, you knew he caught on, you would just listen as the phone rang, head in your hands. You couldn’t face it, it was all too much and answering that call, hearing that voice would only throw it all back at you at once. It would knock you down and hold you there as you tried to gain control of the emotions you had locked up so tight once again. You felt sick to your stomach once again and the feeling spread, it spread all throughout your body, all the way to your fingertips and toes. For the first time in your life, you begged your body to just throw up, hoping the feelings would go along with it, until the pit in your stomach was completely washed away.

It was this sinking feeling every time you heard the phone ring and as much as you wanted to convince yourself otherwise, you weren’t sure if you would ever pick up. Maybe you would just forget about it all. But it was hard when your mind was plagued with images of creatures you could only describe as otherworldly and when every time you looked at yourself in the mirror before a shower your eyes would draw focus to the deep cut scars that littered your body. You would never truly escape Hawkins, Indiana, it was impossible, and it would follow you around until you finally gave up and went back. But you refused to allow it to have that control, until you picked up the phone…by accident.

It was late, a Saturday evening of all things. Your mother was working late that weekend, your step dad was asleep on the couch, and your step brother had abandoned his books on the table and gone to bed. And the phone kept ringing and ringing and ringing, over and over in repeated increments. One call, two minutes passed, another call, three minutes had passed, and a third call with three minutes passing and on and on and on-

“Will you turn the damn thing off!” Yelled the man on the couch, whose deep sleeping was even disturbed by your past trying to creep back in.

And it worried you, as you apologized and turned back to the phone, head aching from the noise. It worried you because every time before, the phone would ring one, maybe two times before the line went silent. But tonight, you had lost track of just how many times you had slammed the phone down to stop the ringing.

You looked up at the phone again, quiet for much too long, longer than before and RING. RING. RING.

The grunt of your step father filled the empty room and without a second thought, not wanting another lecture from your mom about not getting along with him, you reached for the phone line. Slowly placing it against your ear, you instantly pulled it back as a voice blasted through, louder than the ringing of the phone itself. “Goddammit! please pick up the phone-”

“Hey,” was all you said, it was faint and quiet in contrast, laced with guilt that had piled up from months of avoidance and pretending Hawkins didn’t exist. But it was loud enough to stop the yelling as murmurs and whispers filled the background of wherever your caller was calling from.

Your Steve Harrington, your Romeo who deserved answers. After everything you had been through he deserved something from you that you had failed to deliver.

“Oh thank god, you don’t know how happy I am to hear your voice,” and what you expected to be anger was anything but, rather the clearest sound of overwhelming relief. Relief that all came crashing down the minute he spoke his next words. “You need to get back here, like... like-“

The sound of struggling came from their end of the phone and your heart rate sped up in a panic, only realizing how tightly you were holding the phone to your ear.

Dustin’s voice quickly came through the line, a complaining Steve evident in the back, “like right now, like ASAP, like as soon as possible.”

Dustin’s voice, his tone did nothing to loosen your grip on the phone, nothing to ease your panic and you almost slammed the phone down again. Back home, back in the familiar, back to memories of people that haunted your every thought. You wondered if they had called the Byers, your sister, you wondered if she was there too.

“We can pay your bus ticket, but I can’t really explain like this and we just, we need your help,” Dustin practically cried. “We all need you. We can’t let anyone get hurt again.”

That was all you needed. Hawkins had a pull on you, a force you tried to ignore but eventually pulled you back anyways. Steve was back on the line soon after, you already scribbling a note to your mom, phone pressed against your ear by your shoulder. And when you heard his voice again your breath caught in your throat…it seemed to always do that with him.

“Steve, I-”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, but, Steve I really, just…I don’t know where to start,” you tried to explain, losing any of the words you had planned to say while lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling.

“You don’t have to,” he simply said. But you knew you would, you had too many words to speak. “Just show up, just be here. We need you, even if you don’t believe me. It’s getting crazy again.”

Hawkins would never not be.

“I will be,” you reassured, really reassured. “I will be, I promise.”

And if everyone in Hawkins knew something, you never broke a promise, never. You got close sometimes, sometimes it seemed like you would, but you always met your end of the bargain. You said you would be back in Hawkins, Indiana and you would be. Setting the phone down back on it's holder with a quiet click, you jumped from your chair in the kitchen, as the wood chair quietly screeched against the floor. Open and close, open and close, the drawers in the kitchen were opening and closing until you found a tape role, cutting away a piece. Grabbing your note off the counter, you secured the piece to it and stuck it against the fridge where it would be noticed by your mom.

She would know what it meant, you knew she knew all along, that New York hadn’t been your home in a long time. That Hawkins had grown into something much deeper than you could have ever anticipated. And even then, in that kitchen, in that busy city…you knew, the end was near

#stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steveharrington #stranger things 4 #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington x reader angst #angst fic #could become a series...#steve harrington angst

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whatdoidosatoru · 3 days ago

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hands down

hanma shuji/fem!reader | ao3 cheirophilia - also known as hand partialism or hand fetishism, is the sexual fetish for hands. this may include the attraction to a specific area such as the fingers, palm of the hand, back and/or the nails. wc: 4541 cw: smut, unprotected séx, choking, pet names (doll, princess), creampíe, hanma should be his own warning part 1/? 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

“just a few more, keep that thumb in place”

directions flow left and right in hanma's bright photography studio. music is turned down at your reqest, with the excuse that you couldn't hear the instructions over the bass. sure, hanma thinks, spoiled brat gets what she wants. he fixates on your hands, clean, well-manicured fingers curling around the product he was hired to photograph.

he hates this sort of marketing, always has done. the companies and brands all think they know better than him, the person with actual knowledge of photography, of media. this shoot, much like any other, comes with a thick binder full of requests. model’s left palm facing up, product on the widest part of her hand, rotated 36° to the left from photo described on page 17– it's all bullshit they think is going to help them sell that miracle cream, something that'll make it look like it’s the only solution to all life’s problems. like your pretty hands can suddenly make anything look like a good idea.

hanma’s mind flashes him an image he doesn't want to think about, a fantasy he's had for the past two days of the shoot. an image of your gorgeous, soft hand wrapped around his thick cock, stroking it up and down until his tip leaks all over your fingers, making them sticky, making it only natural that you lick them clean. he sighs, placing the camera on one of the tables on the side and gesturing that he needs a smoke break.

once outside on the rooftop, free of the artificial light and the presence of too many people, he leans his back against the wall as his large hands rummage his pocket to produce a nearly empty pack of cigarettes and a lighter so used that the logo on the side is rubbed off. one, two flicks and it sparks up, lighting the end of the cigarette between his lips and illuminating his face orange for a second. exhaling, he closes his eyes, keeping them like that as he tries to think about anything unrelated to you, anything at all. the zoo. elephant shit. giraffes. long slender necks. slender fingers. your fingers, wrapped– damn it. it feels hopeless, but by now he's gotten used to feeling his jeans tense with the erection pressing against them, screaming to be released. when was the last time he had sex? not too long ago, but his body is reacting so strongly. he needs to get laid.

“oh i'd kill for one of those.” a smooth voice nearly makes him drop the cigarette from his lips, startling him into opening his eyes and nearly activating his fight or– well, fight, response.

“huh?” internally he chastises himself for saying it so stupidly. it's you, something about your demeanor and an easy smile during shoots, even when instructions are being barked all around you, flusters him, makes him talk weird. makes him act stupid.

“the smoke? i'm not allowed to hold them, even with gloves.” hanma hardly takes in your words, the way those fingers twirl a strand of your hair and tuck it behind one ear send his mind spiralling. gods, he needs to feel them on his skin, needs to see his cum stringy and sticky between them. he needs to stop. already saving this moment into his mental wank bank, ready for later when he’s finished picking out and editing photos from today, he extends his arm and holds the lit cigarette in front of you.

“mhm… that’s good. told ‘em three days in a row are too much, but my agency is shit like that.” you complain a little, a weak attempt at maybe bonding with the man who’s spent a long time looking at you almost exclusively through a camera lens. and another lens. and then a different lens.

“i’m not allow–”

“no just take the drag.” he’s a professional. at this point he’s photographed hundreds of hot women, each prettier than the next. he’s done lingerie shoots, he’s done boudoir, he’s done everything and anything under the cold tokyo sun. so it truly puzzles him that he’s getting so hot and bothered by the way you lean in and wrap your pretty lips around his cigarette, cheeks sucked in as you take that drag and lean back, exhaling it with your eyes closed.

and each time that bright flash lit up your skin, he thought of just saying fuck it and taking you right there in the studio, sitting you down on that stupid stool and spreading your thighs just far enough to slot his face in between them and stick his tongue between your squishy folds. he thought about those perfect fingers of yours carding through his hair, tugging on it a little when he’d flick against your clit, he’d nibble on it gently, with the intent of making you grip onto his hair harder. all that thinking is making it difficult having a casual conversation with you now.

“yeah most are that way,” he puts the cigarette back between his lips, taking a moment to enjoy the fact that they’re touching the exact place yours touched, “trust me, i’ve dealt with them for years.”

he offers you another drag and you take it, almost instinctively trying to grab for the hand that holds the cigarette, but not quite getting there, not allowed to hold it. hanma feels your breath on his fingers, they’re so close to you it would be so easy to just slip them into your inviting lips. he’s had plenty of girls begging for it, whining voices pleading with him to just wrap those large tattooed hands around their throats and coax out lewd moans, almost shocked at how good it felt when he squeezed them by the necks.

he’s always been on the receiving end of the admiration, so readily flaunting those nimble digits setting up camera after camera to get a perfect shot of his subjects even outside of the studio. in the dark, in the crumpled sheets of his bed. they always asked to be put under the mercy of his palms, and now he tries not to recall those moments, but suddenly every girl in his memory wears your face.

suddenly he can’t remember any of them, instead it’s you he’s pulling by the hair, exposing your neck for him to bite down on it while his hips snap against your ass, it’s you on your back with legs up, held tightly by his hands under your thighs as he parts your precious pussy repeatedly slamming into you. he can clearly see in his mind the faces you would pull, the noises he’d drag out of your throat with just a little pressure to the side of your neck.

“hah, yeah, mine insisted on working with you, apparently.” he watches as you turn directly towards him, opening the communication between your bodies. he can see more of you now, when you’re not bringing all the attention to your most prized feature, he can see the shape of your body. even better, he can imagine his hands on you more, fantasize just how good it would feel to squeeze those tits of yours as he gives you all of his inches.

“that’s because i’m the best, doll.” he braves a little pet name, testing the waters, raising an eyebrow to see how you’d react. and bingo. the little flush spreading your face and the way you tilted your head as if to hide from him tells hanma everything he needed to know. oh he’s got you where he wants you; seeing you shift on your feet, pressing your legs a little tighter together, he’s willing to bet that you’re imagining nearly the same things as him, being put into your place by someone strong, by him.

“how so?” your innocent tone does nothing but make him more hell-bent on taking you for himself. hanma’s brain seems unable to relax and give up on the images that keep running through it, the images of you in just a pair of translucent stockings with your own panties rolled up and stuffed between those precious lips, images of your ass so tastefully bouncing on his hips as he helps you ride him. since he can’t do anything to stop his mind racing, he leans into it. he’s testing the waters to see how you’ll react, feeling out how much he can get away with.

“models love me, managers fear me. simple as that… doll.” he throws the finished cigarette onto the ground and steps on it with the toe of his shoe. it’s safer if he shoves his hands into the jacket pockets, he thinks. safer if he can’t reach out and grab your face to pull you in for a damaging kiss. “i’ve managed to satisfy all of them… in one way or another.” but some of them in both ways, he thinks, once again recalling the whiny moans under his toned body, the thin arms wrapping around his neck, and the drag of their nails along his back. but he doesn't recall the faces, all of them look like you now, all of them a blank canvas upon which he paints your eyes, so wide with flustered excitement, your nose, blushing from his words, your lips, gently parted as you sigh and whimper his name…

“another?” how innocent can you be? oh hanma nearly lets out a laugh. or maybe you’re playing him, maybe you know exactly what he means, but you want to tease him and make him work for it.

“yes, another, what don’t you get?” hanma’s lips tug into a grin and with a step towards you he closes the distance. seeing as you make no move to get away, he reaches around your waist and pulls you closer. “you want a demonstration?” the honking of cars and the rush of traffic underneath doesn’t break the tension between you, it’s like you’re in a little bubble of your own, ten storeys above the rest of the world.

hanma watches you closely, dipping his head down to brush lips against the side of your head and hear you inhale sharply, as if battling with yourself about how to continue.

“of what?” you clear your throat, looking down for a moment before returning his gaze. “a demonstration of what?” damn, he’s so much taller than you, his lean frame is slouched to get near you. it makes for even more thoughts carefully being put into a folder with your name on it in his mind.

his chuckle is so low, right against your ear while his one hand reaches to hold your chin, tilting it up so he can see you better. his fingers squeeze your cheeks a little, making your lips pout so deliciously.

“of how i satisfy little princesses and dolls who might not be too happy with posing for so long…” he trails off, leaving the rest up to your imagination, knowing that you’re smart enough to understand, to pick up what he’s laying down.

from the way your cheeks redden even more, your eyelashes bat a little quicker, and you make no move to pull yourself away, even shift on your feet so you come a little closer, it’s clear to him that it’s a good move.

“and how are you going to show me that?” your voice is too soft, he almost doesn’t hear it, but the way your lips move in between his thumb and index finger is making his already straining erection feel more painful than ever. despite it, he lets go of your face and stands up straight. one tattooed hand, sin, brushes through his unruly blonde-streaked hair, he forces his feet to move away from you and start walking back inside the studio.

“come to my office, i’ll show you what i mean.” hanma makes himself sound casual though the level of obsession in his mind is reaching new heights. he’s counting seconds as he strides through the studio, ignoring the questions coming from the people on set, even his own team. he must not lose focus.

throwing himself into the office chair, he rubs those pretty hands over his face. focus, damn it. his knee bounces, looking down he subtly fixes the way his cock is constricted, moving the seam of his jeans a little to the side, counting down seconds until–

you slowly walk in and close the door behind you, like you’re a schoolgirl in trouble walking into the principal’s office expecting to get shouted at or suspended. so submissive, so perfect for him to unwrap.

you approach him with that same redness on your cheeks, standing in front of his desk as if unsure if you should sit or not. hanma beckons you to circle the desk and lean against it, your legs slotted in between his knees. he slides forward on the wheels of the chair, bringing himself closer to you and now his face is level with your chest. his hand sneaks around to caress the back of your thigh, your bare legs shiver under the warmth of his touch.

“n-no” your answer is a simple one, and even that you manage to stutter, “no, everything is n-nice.”

“tell me, doll…” he drawls, looking you over, admiring your thighs as they peek out from under the hem of that cute little skirt you wear, “are you happy with the set conditions, hmm?” he leans forward, the leather of his chair creaking as he moves, now ghosting his breath across your stomach, across the thin knitted jumper you’re wearing. “the lights are okay, yeah? you got some food, you got drinks, you had breaks… is there anything you want that i didn’t give you?” his tone gets lower, the rasp of his voice sends shocks through your spine as his large hand reaches the underside of your ass.

it’s embarrassing how much he wants to just turn you around, tug those panties off, and shove his aching cock inside you, but he’s nothing if not a teasing motherfucker. a bastard that will prolong your and his torture if only to toy with his prey.

hanma chuckles in reply. nice. he hates that word. it means nothing, anything can be nice, he doesn’t want that. he wants amazing, fun, interesting, perfect.

“looks like you’re enjoying yourself more than you thought, yeah?” he soon pulls his hand away while the one on your ass stays, kneading the soft flesh as he pops his middle finger in between his lips. “mmm fucking delicious, i knew you would be.” his finger prods at your bottom lip, making it part more to place his two fingers on your tongue. your lips immediately close around the digits, tongue swirling as you taste yourself, but most of all enjoy the feeling of those slender fingers in your desperate mouth, finally starting to get put in your place, finally being touched and used. as hanma pulls his fingers out, his movements speed up. he’s been patient, gentle, even, but his erection is getting painful to the point where he needs to get it out, and he’ll be damned if he sits there with his cock out and it’s not getting sucked or being used to fuck you.

“just nice, hm?” those long, pretty fingers that touch you so gently make their way over the swell of your ass, rubbing it in tender circles as he looks up, leaning his chin on your stomach. “anything i can do to make it better than nice?” he purrs, reaching out with his other hand to touch your other thigh, this time from the front.

that hand also disappears under your skirt rather quickly. you grip onto the edge of his desk while he explores your soft skin, fighting yourself to keep your eyelids open and connected with his eyes. you don’t answer, just keep your juicy lips parted slightly, letting out a tiny whimper when his fingers reach the edge of your panties.

it brings back the smile on his face, the mischievous smile that says got you when he sees he has you right where he wants you. his index and middle fingers gently hook under the edge of that soft fabric, testing out the boundaries though there don't seem to be many. he closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing saliva when he realises how soft your skin is, how wet you are already.

hanma trails those two clever fingers up and down your precious slit, smearing your wetness around, enjoying the texture of it on his fingertips. a small groan rips from his throat, you're so warm under his touch, he’s barely keeping himself together, barely stopping himself from ravishing you immediately.

“so pretty,” he murmurs, “so damn beautiful i need t–” a groan stops his words, the urge becomes too strong. your pretty little pout makes him want to take you immediately, so badly it’s unnerving. it takes him a few quick seconds to have you turned around facing the desk and pressing up against his chest. one of his hands parts your supple thighs while the other gently wraps around your tender neck, holding you in place with your head tilted back.

with a quick tug, he pulls your panties down, revealing the sweet piece of heaven that is your tender pussy. he wants to kiss it, wants to make out with it for hours, wants to lay you down on his desk and spend the rest of the day with his lips drowning in your juices, have them drip down his chin until there is a puddle on the floor. he wants to tease you so damn much, but it feels like he’s going to die if he doesn’t have his cock inside you right now. with a groan, he undoes his jeans and stands up, sliding them down to his mid thighs as you look down and– gasp.

the look in your eyes says need you now. it shows your desperation, even more so when he takes your hands and brings them to his mouth. hanma can tell you don’t expect any softness from him, but his lips gently brush over your knuckles, kissing every finger as he leans forward, rubbing his bare erection against you.

“doll… tell me something.” his raspy voice flows into your sensitive ear, so low and seductive he wonders if you just got wetter from the sound.

“a-anything… ‘m gonna tell you anything.” you desperately respond, swallowing saliva and feeling your throat bob under his large palm. gods, his hands are pretty, they look so perfect wrapped around your slender neck, tightening the grip with his thumb on the side so gently.

“anything? fuck, you’re a greedy little doll, aren’t ya?” he chuckles, but the hardness of his cock is rubbing against your lower back, making it difficult to stay as cocky as he wants to. with one hand, he picks up your leg and lifts it up on the desk, opening up the path to insert himself into your heat as he tilts your head, making it easier to lock eyes. “look at me… there you go, you want this just as much as i do, don’t you?”

you nod, nearly salivating at the prospect of finally feeling what it’s like being one of those girls that the famous photographer hanma shuji takes home and rewards for being such good models.

“out loud, doll, need to hear you.” he coaxes, bending his knees slightly to get the angle right, to align his fat cock head with your drooling little cunt.

“y-yes, i want this… please, want you so much.” you hold onto the flat surface of the desk, your pretty fingers balancing you as your slick covers hanma’s tip. his strained chuckle glides over your cheek as he tilts your head a little to the side, perfectly placing his lips against yours, but not kissing you. no, the bastard has to tease you first.

“that’s a good doll.” only after he whispers his little praise does he sink his thick cock into you, kissing your pouty lips at the same time. it’s a harsh kiss, demanding entrance into your mouth as his hips meet the plump flesh of your ass. the noise is addicting, skin bouncing against skin, the buckle of his belt jingling with every movement, your moans in his mouth, his curses in between hungry kisses. hanma is gone. one thrust into your weeping cunt and he’s a dead man. he’s sucked in so snug, your warm walls accommodate him only just, making the squeeze that much more intense as he pulls almost all the way out before pushing himself back in with a muffled groan.

hanma extends his index finger from your throat and pushes it into your mouth, pressing down onto your greedy tongue while his hips keep colliding with you, his cock drags out squelching sounds form your sopping pussy, hitting every sweet spot in your warm little cunt that contracts around him. “put your damn finger in my mouth, doll, come on.” he demands in a gravelly voice, a little out of breath as he feels his hips twitch.

“fuck, doll… so warm for me, hmm? so tight around me,” his voice gets lower as the hand holding your throat moves you again, letting him speak into your ear while the other hand holds your thigh, “so tight and perfect, aren’t you?” hanma chuckles, barely holding on to sanity. he speeds up a little, moaning every time his balls smack against your clit.

“tell me, princess…” he pauses talking to hear more of those melodic whines coming from your sweet mouth, so perfect that he has no choice but to squeeze your neck a little tighter, making for the noises to get higher in pitch. “ah… i could just– mmm bottle up these little whines of yours… tell me doll, you doing good, hmm? y-you having fun, huh?”

hanma is used to taking his sweet time, making his pretty girls beg, whine for him until he feels merciful enough to give them what they crave. but as you shakily remove your hand from the desk and bring two slender, perfectly manicured and clean fingers to his lips, he greedily takes them in, sucking on them like it’s his favourite lollipop. like the answer to the meaning of life is buried deep inside your cunt and under the skin of your hands. his tongue shows off, swirling around your fingertips, sending shivers throughout your body.

deeper moans join the symphony of noises in the office, he licks between your digits, continuously snapping his hips forward, thrusting so deeply into you that you feel the edge of his desk dig into your front. your cute little skirt is hiked up around your waist, giving him a good view of your round ass whenever he lets his eyes wander away from the knuckles of your hand resting on his chin or the sight of his tattooed hand, punishment, squeezing your throat harder, tighter, making whiny little whimpers slip though your lips and past his index finger stuck in your mouth.

the sensation of your cunt tightening around him is almost too much, so he nearly collapses, knees giving up, when he hears your pleading voice vibrating against his index finger. he pulls it out of your mouth, letting you speak up, oh how he wants to hear you plead for him.

“p-please, haa– i need t’...” a groan escapes you when hanma pulls his head away, letting your fingers slip out of his mouth and onto the desk where they were before. he dips his head closer, tugs on your earlobe with his mean teeth. “need t’ cum, please, can i?”

hanma has struck gold. a sweet little doll like you with a tight pussy almost made for him that can take his cock so well, a gentle thing with puppy eyes and perfect hands that he just wants to capture stroking his thick, veiny cock… begging to cum. if he were to die today, he would die a happy man. hanma drags his lips down to your cheek, taking a playful bite of your face before tilting your head again, not slowing down the relentless movement of his vicious hips. he chuckles raggedly, his energy is focused elsewhere, but he needs to give you some cheek before giving in.

feeling brave, hanma presses a few uncharacteristically gentle kisses along your neck where he squeezed you moments before. once he stills, once you’ve both come down from your orgasms, he pulls out, hissing at the lack of contact and the sight of your cute little hole oozing his silvery white release.

“hmm, already? mmm alright, doll, i-it would be my honor if you did. whaddaya say, you gonna cum on my dick here? y-you gonna make a mess in m-my office, yeah?” his teasing tone is followed by a speedier pace of his hips. he places a hand on your abdomen, feeling for the little bulge where his cock keeps hitting, chuckling a little as he feels it right at the glorious moment when your cunt contracts, making him stutter in his movements and almost immediately follow your orgasm. pretty, he thinks, sounds so gorgeous when she cums.

with those words on his mind, he topples over as well, groaning out into your hair as he spills inside you, gradually slowing down his messy thrusts. his hand releases your throat while the other rubs little circles on your abdomen, large hand covering most of your skin.

he wants to take a photo of it, but it will have to wait, he has a feeling he’ll get to take you like this again. catching his breath, he reaches down and pulls his jeans and boxers up, buttoning himself up before smacking your tender exposed ass with one tattooed hand, punishment. looking down, he realises that he feels more at ease around you now, having dealt with his overflowing need for you. hell, maybe he’ll even give you a moment before asking you to put your gentle hands on his cock and get them sticky with his cum.

“think the break is over, doll.” hanma drags one hand through his hair, taking a deep breath before helping you get back onto your wobbly legs and pull your panties back up. “we got another ten pages of poses to go through… or you’ll be back tomorrow for another session.” a wicked grin spreads along his face. another session, he’s almost getting giddy at the thought of having you here again, another day, another chance to find himself balls deep in your wet cunt, walls fluttering as y– he needs to get a grip.

maybe not during a photo shoot, maybe he’ll invite you over next time, get some food in you, share a drink or two before he makes you pose for his private collection. before he fills all of his memory cards with lewd photos of you in every position imaginable, before he deletes all the other ones he took before. deletes all the photos that don’t have your precious hands in them.

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