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gingersnaaps · 3 years

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one-way ticket

hanamaki takahiro is not unemployed, contrary to popular belief. he just doesn't tell his friends what he does for a living.

wc: 3.6k

tags/tw's(PLEASE! PLEASE! READ TY): explicit n*fw, dubcon to noncon/RAPE, yandere vibez, manipulation, abuse, lotsa degradation, slight dumbification, some internalized misogyny?, fingering, cunnilingus, penetration, sex worker!reader, porn producer + talent makki, fem + afab reader

additional disclaimer: probably incredibly inaccurate portrayals of sex work + the amateur porn industry. this is very far removed from real life, in case you couldn't tell

a/n: written for @seijorhi's deal with the devil collab! not proofread as always <3

i don’t want minors interacting with my content

When you first see the ad, blue and pixelated and in all caps - HOT GIRLS WANTED!!! FREE FLIGHT INCLUDED - you hesitate for just a moment. You’re not stupid. You’ve seen the stories, read the warnings, heard all about the cautionary tales of girls who clicked the wrong button at the wrong time on some sketchy, underground site. You know what happens to girls who think they’re all grown up, who get themselves into deep, deep shit.

You know better than this.

Then you take a look outside your window, eyes flickering over the sleepy, rural backwater outside the thick glass pane, and the hesitation vanishes.

The email you draft up is short and concise - I’m interested. Email me back. - and attach three images: one where you’re winking, lips curved up in a sly smile, one with a very low-cut top, and one of yourself in the tightest, shortest dress you own.

You hit send too fast for the second thoughts to settle in, and close your laptop before you can press the undo button.

Now, in his time as a producer, Hanamaki’s filmed and worked with his fair share of pretty girls. Sweet little things with long hair and doe eyes, glamor girls with the perkiest, gravity-defying tits, girl-next-door types who sport glasses smeared with cum - he’s seen it all.

But there’s just something about the way you look in your pictures.

He can’t quite put his finger on what it is, Maybe it’s the innocence that the images exude, despite how lewd they are. Maybe it’s your face - god, you have the perfect face for porn, don’t you - or maybe just your big, round eyes, full of hope and promise and naivety.

You’re too good to let other men handle. The minute Hanamaki lays eyes on those pictures, he wants you to himself.

He replies to your email, keeping his tone casual, and when you respond right away, he allows himself a grin. Beautiful and easy? He’s too lucky, really, considering the way you just fell into his lap.

He buys the plane tickets within the week. He knows you’ll take him up on his offer. He knows exactly what girls like you are like, the way you’re all looking for something bigger, something better - anything at all, as long as you get to escape the drudgery of the small towns and the suburbs. It’s terrible being stuck in the same place for so long, and even worse when faced with the prospect of spending the rest of your life there. Girls like you long for something more than just a family and a white picket fence, and he’s all too familiar with the sweet sense of desperation that desire comes with.

After all, it’s his job.

When you step off the plane, eyes scanning around the sea of strange faces, it takes you a while to pick out Hanamaki. His strawberry-blonde bangs cling to his forehead, damp with sweat and curling in the humidity. When he finally catches your gaze, he flashes you a lazy smile, eyes sparkling with humor, and waves you over.

“Hey. Told you you wouldn’t get lost,” he says.

You manage a shaky laugh. “Yeah, well… never been this far away from home before, so you know how it is.”

He knows very well how it is.

“C’mon,” he says, reaching out a hand to carry your luggage for you. “Let’s get you settled in - the sooner the better, right? After all, we’re gonna be roommates.”

He winks at you, carving out a path amid the crowd to the nearest exit. There’s a strange, unsettling feeling in your gut, and it suddenly hits you - you’re alone. You’re by yourself. There’s no family here, no friends, none of the familiarity of your hometown.

All you have is Hanamaki, and as he twirls his car keys around on his finger, his eyes narrowing playfully, you’re seized by the unshakable feeling that you’ve fucked up.

“This is the ‘Yes and No’ list, by the way,” he says, pointing to a dense section of tiny font. “Just mark off the things you wouldn’t be okay with doing.”

The thick wad of paper he’s dumped in front of you is apparently the contract that’ll dictate the next few months of your life. You can’t really be bothered to read all of it, and you skim through most of the non-disclosure bits before you arrive at the section you’re most interested in: the terms that dictate your limits on set.

You swallow uncomfortably as go down the list of sex acts, one by one.

Creampie - Yes

Blowjob - Yes

Throatfucking - No

Facial - No

Bondage - Yes

Degradation - No

There’s a whole bunch more after that, each described act sicker and more depraved than the last, and you can feel your stomach churning unpleasantly as you scrawl a hasty signature at the bottom.

“And once you’re done with that, we can get the cameras rolling,” he adds, patting your shoulder. He leans down, breath warm and sticky by your ear. “You’re gonna be a star.”

You feel sick.

When you first arrive, you’d let yourself be lulled into this false sense of security and comfort. He took you out to dinner every night, brought you into clubs you’d never even dreamed of before, treated you like an absolute princess. You’d almost forgotten what you signed up for in the first place. You’d almost forgotten that deals go both ways.

“Nervous?” he asks. You nod hesitantly.

He knew full well the answer to that. All girls are nervous at first. Sex is something that’s supposed to be intimate and private, and even if there’s no emotional connection, there’s always an inherent vulnerability that comes along with stripping all your clothes off. It’s not natural for cameras to be recording someone cumming and drooling all over the sheets.

But that’s just part of the fun, isn’t it?

He can’t help but focus on how exposed you look, all scared and pitiful as you apprehensively eye the camera. He sets it up with a few practiced motions, clicking the record button, and ignores the strain of his cock in his pants. He’ll get to that part soon enough.

“Don’t worry,” he assures you, climbing onto the bed. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes you very worried. “I’ll be gentle this first time.”

After that - well, he can’t make any promises. His self-control isn’t always the best.

He puts a pillow under your head, laying you down so the camera can capture a better angle, and hooks a finger under the waistband of your shorts.

The feeling of his skin brushing against yours sends a sudden wave of nausea through your body. It all feels wrong; his hands shouldn’t be touching there, your shorts shouldn’t be coming off, his lips shouldn’t be pressing against yours, no matter how soft they feel -

“So sensitive,” he purrs, trailing a finger along your damp, clothed pussy. You squirm involuntarily, little gasps and moans pouring from your mouth as he massages your clit. “Putting on a show for your future audience?”

The little bit of resistance left inside you shrivels up and dies.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. You don’t remember much except the heavy feeling of your chest, as if the four walls of the room were squeezing in on you, constricting your airways until your breaths are quick and shallow and desperate. There’s a word for that you don’t remember until much later - panic.

His fingers roam over every inch of your exposed skin, lips pressing against your thighs and pussy, coaxing your hole with gentle, teasing touches until it drips for him. You don’t remember anything at all except for the slick, wet trail of cum pooling between your thighs at the end of the night.

As for Hanamaki? He’s having the time of his life. There’s nothing quite like that moment of initiation - that first time - and he savors every single delicious reaction he pulls out of your body, every little twitch and shiver, all the lewd gasps and moans. You might be blanking out, but he’s hyperaware. He loves corrupting sweet, pure girls like you who’ve gotten in over their head, and he especially loves watching the realization set in.

He thinks this one is gonna go viral.

You wake too early the next morning, shivering in the cool air. The window’s open, and you can hear the sound of birds, the rustling of the trees, the faint hum of traffic in the distance. It feels calm. Peaceful.

Well, as peaceful as it’s possible to feel, considering you’re a few thousand miles away from home. You turn over onto your side, wincing at the feeling of soreness between your legs.

Then you hear a moan.

It’s a shameless one, loud and unabashed, and it’s coming through the paper thin walls that separate your room from Hanamaki’s. There’s a brief moment of annoyance - couldn’t he have gone and taken a shower? Couldn’t he have done it in the shower? Or maybe just kept it down, perhaps?

There’s a noisy mix of grunting and squealing, the audio tinny and distorted, and you realize he’s watching porn. It shouldn’t be much of a surprise, really, but the annoyance quickly turns to disgust after a few seconds pass.

“F- fuck yeah, baby, just like that, just like that, you’re doing perfect don’t stopdon’t stopdon’t stop - right there, good girl - “

There’s a soft moan, coming from what you assume is the porn he’s watching - it’s your voice.

“- god, you’re so fucking good to me, so pretty and perfect, gonna make you all mine, mark you up, gonna ruin you, sweet girl - “

You dive back under your comforter, trying to muffle both your ears, but he’s so fucking loud the neighbors can probably hear him. It’s useless to try and block out his gross, overdone moans, the wet squelching of his hand pumping his dick, the heavy breathing that makes you feel sick.

Why did you ever agree to his offer?

You stay under the comforter for what feels like forever, trying to steady your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as tightly as possible. You find yourself frozen long after he’s done jerking himself off, long after the pitter-patter of the showerhead turns on and then off again. You want to stay there forever.

A knock sounds at the door, and you swallow nervously when you hear the telltale creak of the hinges.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. I made us breakfast. Gotta keep your energy up if we want to film something else fun later.”

You stay silent.

“Hey,” he says, footsteps shuffling closer. “You there? Hello?”

He’s mere feet away now, concern apparent in his voice. You squeeze your eyes even tighter, as if you were one of those toddlers who lacks any understanding of the concept of object permanence, because maybe if you pretend he’s not there -

“Geez, you’re really all knocked out, huh?” he says, lifting the comforter off of you. “You alright?”

Your eyes are reddened from the silent crying, your fists clenched at your sides, and your throat feels dry and scratchy.

“Hanamaki,” you say, voice shaking. “I want to go home.”

There’s a moment of silence that seems to stretch on for ages. He sits down beside you on the bed, taking your hand into his lap, and strokes his thumb over the back soothingly. He chuckles softly, and something that feels vaguely like fear settles in the pit of your stomach.

“You’re joking, right?”

Your eyes fly open, and you jerk away from his touch. “No, I’m not. I want to go home. I don’t want to do this.”

“Shame,” he says, shrugging. “They usually last a few more shoots. A few more months.”

He moves the comforter back so it covers your body, pulling it up to your chin. It’s a mockery of comfort, a parody of compassion.

“I just have one question,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Go home to where?”

“Back where I came from. Where you ordered the stupid fucking plane ticket from. My boring hometown, where my parents and friends and family live. Home, Hanamaki. Don’t play dumb.”

There’s another brief moment of silence. It’s as if he’s thinking, processing - or maybe the time he’s taking is for your sake.

“Your idea of home is a bit more fragile than you think, you know.”

“The fuck do you mean?”

He sighs, kicking his feet up onto the bed. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone, and loads the video that the two of you had filmed yesterday - the same video he’d been watching this morning.

“I give it a week before your friends find out. Your parents, a month tops. That’s the best case scenario.”

His words feel like a punch to the gut, and you’re pretty sure something breaks inside you when he turns the phone screen and you see yourself on there. Your face, your hair, your body - it’s undeniably you.

“We’ve got a few thousand views already. Once something’s on the internet, it’s on there forever. And everybody watches porn. You know that, right?”

He takes your hand back into his lap, but this time, his grip is iron. His fingers grip your wrist so tightly it hurts, and when you try to pull away, you realize just how much stronger he is than you.

“You won’t be going anywhere.”

He waits another day or two to film the next scene he’s got planned out. You’re still moping around the house, all sad and sullen, slamming the door in his face whenever he goes to graciously check in on you. It looks like you’ve settled on giving him the silent treatment, but at least you’ve stopped trying to steal his car keys. Another few weeks, and you’ll get over yourself. He’s sure of it. You’re a big girl, after all.

He’s got big, grand plans for you. You’ve got something special - you’ve got what it takes - and he’s not stupid enough to waste talent like that.

In fact, there’s something a little more niche that he’s been waiting to try ever since he first laid eyes on you.

He sets up the camera in his room, adjusting the focus and exposure to his liking, and inserts a new memory card into the empty slot on the side. He might need the extra storage tonight. His equipment really isn’t anything fancy - it’s more than enough for his purposes - but for just a moment, he wishes he had something a little fancier to do you justice.

“Come on in,” he says, straightening out the sheets one last time. “We’re using the fancy lube today.”

You push open the door and enter the room, shooting him a withering glare. It’s a bit hard to take you seriously in that gorgeous lingerie he bought for you, though, the matching set stitched with all white lace and smooth silk. You look gorgeous. Angelic, even.

He doesn’t have to use chains or rope to keep you in place, although he’s not discounting such methods at all. There’s a certain threat in the way he keeps your bedroom door locked at night, the way he forces you to eat dinner with him everyday. You’re not a guest; you’re a prisoner, and one with nowhere to run to.

Hanamaki pulls you in for a soft, light kiss, lips brushing experimentally against yours, and deepens it to something slow and sensual when he feels you start to squirm. He presses your shoulders down into the mattress, climbing on top of you, and his touch feels like fire where it burns a path across your skin. You feel that familiar sensation of dizziness, of lightheadedness; every ministration of his skilled and purposeful, a deliberate attempt to steal the oxygen from your lungs and leave you choking on your own ashes.

His lips begin to make their way down your neck, glossy with spit and swollen from the kiss, finding your pretty tits, laving over the skin of your stomach, trailing downwards until he gets to your throbbing clit. He can feel your arousal, even through the fabric, and he presses the flat of his tongue to your slit.

There’s a soft, broken moan somewhere above him, and he feels a sudden rush of victory. He starts lapping at your pussy, pushing the tip of his tongue to mold the wet lace to the outline of your cunt, his fingers trailing up and down your inner thigh as he eats you out. He innocently nudges aside your panties after soaking them through, peering up at you from between your legs, and flashes a crooked smile.

“You’re gonna cum for me, pretty slut, whether you want to or not.”

The nickname sends a brief jolt of confusion through your gut - he’s never called you anything like that before, even when he’d threatened you. It’s demeaning, base, wrong. You’re not - you’re not that kind of girl.

He can see the turmoil on your face, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t turn him on.

“Bet I can make you moan like a whore, too.”

He doesn’t give you time to react, flicking his tongue through your tender, dripping slit, mouth slurping greedily at your swollen clit. He loves eating girls out, loves the taste, loves the scent, loves the reactions - the poorly stifled moans, the useless attempts to still the twitching and jerking(they’re the natural physical reactions to pleasure, after all), and the pathetic, unstoppable orgasm that he gets to wring out every time.

Your face is flushed with heat, blunt teeth digging into your tongue, eyes squeezed tightly shut. You’re trying to think of someplace else, something else, anything at all except the man in between your legs - but it feels so good. You can’t ignore the pleasure that the licking and sucking ignites, can’t distract yourself from the tightness twisting in your clenched cunt that threatens to burst at any moment.

He pulls away.

“Hmm,” he says, sitting up, brushing a thumb over your pussy. “Wanna see you go stupid on my cock today instead.”

“Hanamaki, I -”

“What’s the problem, sweetheart?” he asks, maneuvering you easily into his lap. “You’re not a stupid whore? Not a dumb slut? Not my sweet little fucktoy?”

You can feel the outline of his cock pressing against the softness of your thigh, hard and long and terrifying. Your throat feels suddenly dry.

“Hanamaki,” you say, voice breaking quietly. “Don’t say those things.”

He reaches out to caress your cunt, fingers dipping into your entrance, and you squirm backwards to get away from the touch. Still so sensitive, he thinks. So cute.

“I think I’ll say what I want,” he says, plunging two fingers deep inside.

It’s not hard to stretch you out, finger curling and stroking your little hole until you’re writhing around his dexterous fingers. You’re already aroused from the attention he’d given your pussy earlier, the mixture of your juices and his split soaking the entrance, his finger slipping in and out easily.

There’s almost no resistance when he pops the head of his cock inside your slick pussy, and he lets out a loud moan at the feeling of warmth that envelopes him. And since you’re so well prepared already, there’s no need for him to hold back, is there?

“Ready?” he asks, laughing. “Although the answer doesn’t really matter if taking cock is the only thing you’re good for.”

The pace he sets is fast and hard and unforgiving, each rough, sloppy thrust bottoming out against your cervix. Even as you cringe in pain, wincing as his skin slaps against yours, the delicious stretch of his cock against your sensitive walls still feels so good. It’s a dizzying mix of pain and pleasure, one that sends you into overdrive, heart pounding and legs shaking as you whimper.

“Hiro - ah! - please slow -” you cry.

He shoves two fingers in your mouth before you can finish, shutting you up and making you gag slightly. “Oh, so now I’m Hiro? Not Hanamaki anymore, huh?”

Each hard thrust is jolting you up and down on his lap now, his fingers digging into the skin of your tummy as he stuffs you full. Are those tears, baby? He thinks you look so pretty, sobbing and drooling for him like that.

“Fuck,” he moans, burying his face in your neck. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Cum with me, slut, c’mon. Milk my cock dry.”

Hanamaki really is a gentleman; he saves his load until he can feel you tightening around him, until your breathing starts to hitch and you’re squirming back and forth. It’s silent in the room except for the lewd, gross sounds of skin-to-skin contact, slippery and wet and exaggerated.

“That’s it,” he breathes, pulling you off his cock.

His cum is dripping out of your tired cunt, the thick, white liquid spread all over your thighs, staining his pants, wetting your sheets. It’s a pretty sight. One that he wants to see again - no, one that he will see again.

“Hanamaki,” you sob, your body shaking all over. “The contract said you wouldn’t say those things.”

Did it? Well, that’s too bad. He doesn’t really read those things too carefully. Boundaries and limits are so often flexible in these situations. At least, that’s what he’s learned over time.

He reaches out, grabbing your face with his fingers and squishing your cheeks together. It’s terrifying to be held so close to him, eyebrows raised and a nasty grin on his face. You feel so small, so vulnerable - completely at his mercy.

“Next time, I’m gonna use your throat and cum on your face.”

It’s a promise.

i really appreciate reblogs + comments if you enjoyed this!

#srb #icymi <3 #tw.dc #tw.dubcon #tw.noncon #tw.manipulation #tw.abuse #tw.degradation #tw.misogyny

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