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fnzktn · 26 days ago

Text

only you

humss!hanni x stem!reader

synopsis: she didn’t plan any of this. not the way she noticed you. not the way she kept noticing.

includes: loser hanni, hanni being DOWN BAD, is it really a fnzktn fic if it doesn't have slowburn?, hanni centered pov

word count: 13k

part of the shs!njz series

HUMSS-1

they’re barely five minutes into homeroom when the noise starts.

first it’s the rustling of bags being unzipped. the scratch of chairs. the sharp snap of someone dropping their binder on the floor. then it’s overlapping voices—too many, too early. ideas flying across the room like crumpled paper tossed into the air without aim.

the room is warm already. too warm for this kind of energy.

miss claire hasn’t even settled in. her clipboard’s still pressed to her chest, attendance sheet unread. the sun hasn’t moved far from the window yet, but the shadows on the floor are already long, golden, creeping toward the desks in soft stripes. someone forgot to switch off the projector. it’s humming faintly. no one bothers to fix it.

trish, the class president, sighs loudly enough for everyone to hear.

then claps her hands once. sharp. clean.

“okay. focus. parade decisions. now.”

her voice cuts through the buzz, but only just. someone in the back mutters something about The Fault in Our Stars. another suggests Dracula, purely for the aesthetic. someone else makes a case for Greek myths reimagined, which sparks a five-minute tangent about whether Lore Olympus counts as literature.

it’s chaotic. it’s warm. it’s humid. no one’s taking it seriously.

hanni is seated near the window, her chair angled slightly to catch the breeze. her water bottle is sweating onto her desk. her pen is uncapped, tip already bleeding faintly onto her palm. she’s not talking. just listening.

eyes on her notes. head down. still.

not out of disinterest, but because she knows how this works.

they’ll throw names into the air. half-bake ideas. get overwhelmed. then settle on the most reliable, safe option—usually something classic, easy to justify, and just challenging enough to feel smart.

and as expected, somewhere between “what if we do a Greek goddess” and “what if we just go as Taylor Swift eras,” someone says,

“wait. what about Pride and Prejudice?”

it doesn’t land with applause. not yet.

just a beat of silence. a collective pause. the sound of mental gears turning. recognition.

then,

“actually…” “that’s not bad.” “very academic. teachers’ll love it.” “plus it’s so humss coded.”

hanni doesn’t look up, but she can feel it.

the shift in attention. the glances.

it doesn’t take long.

“and hanni can be elizabeth bennet.”

someone says it casually. like it’s obvious. like it was always going to be her.

the reactions are instant.

“yes.” “oh my god, that’s perfect.” “she literally is elizabeth.” “bookish, intimidating, elegant—check, check, check.”

hanni blinks once, pen still in her hand. then looks up.

“me?”

she doesn’t say no.

she doesn’t even pretend to be surprised.

just leans back slightly in her chair and rests her fingers lightly on her notebook. she doesn’t blush. doesn’t deflect. doesn’t fake humility. instead, she tilts her head, the barest quirk of her mouth tugging up at the corners.

“only if you let me pick the dress.”

someone salutes. someone else starts googling regency outfits. the decision is locked in, written on the board, then circled twice in red.

no one brings up other ideas after that.

the room hums again. the noise returns. they start arguing about whether they can sneak a mini dance scene into the walk.

but hanni stays quiet.

STEM-2

stem classrooms are always loud, but this morning is particularly unbearable.

two groups are shouting across the room about a math handout that was definitely due yesterday. someone in the back is kicking a chair repeatedly, trying to fix a loose screw. the window near your desk refuses to lock, so the curtain keeps flapping in your face every time the wind picks up.

you’re seated near the corner, arms folded on your desk, chin resting in the crook of your elbow. you’re not asleep. just still. just preserving energy. trying not to exist too hard.

your thermos is almost empty.

your flannel is in your bag.

and you have no idea what’s about to happen to you.

“yo,” someone calls out suddenly. “what are we doing for the english thing?”

you don’t look up, but your ears catch the change in tone. the sudden shift from noise to brainstorming.

“let’s just pick Noli or El Fili. again.”

“ugh, no. we’ll look boring.”

“then The Little Prince?”

“that’s GAS’ entry.”

“Animal Farm?”

“too political.”

“wait. wait wait wait. what if…”

the silence before it drops is strangely loaded.

and then,

“She’s Dating the Gangster.”

laughter.

louder this time.

you groan into your sleeve.

“no, no—listen! it’s technically literary. it had a book. it got published. it has a movie adaptation too!”

“plus. wait for it,”

“we make y/n be kenji.”

you freeze.

someone slaps their desk like they’ve just solved global warming.

“YES. it’s perfect. she already wears flannel!”

“and she never smiles.”

“and she has that quiet, moody energy.”

“like if kenji read science textbooks instead of being toxic.”

your eyes lift. slowly. tiredly.

“are you serious right now.”

“dead serious,” one of your classmates says, eyes wide. “just imagine it. y/n in full kenji mode. flannel. skateboard. maybe some fake nosebleed for drama.”

“i’m not doing nosebleed.”

“you don’t even have to talk. just brood.”

“come on,” someone adds. “we’ll make all the props. it’s funny. it’s fresh. everyone else is doing pretentious stuff.”

you shake your head once, unsure if it’s a no or just disbelief. but the room is already moving forward without your permission.

someone calls dibs on printing a giant wattpad logo. another person opens capcut and starts editing a pretend teaser video. someone writes your name down on the class list—doesn’t even ask for a signature.

and you say nothing.

because it’s easier that way. because maybe it is funny. because no one ever picks you for things like this. because you kind of want to see if you can pull it off without looking stupid.

it’s hotter than it should be.

even at seven thirty in the morning, the air feels thick—like it’s holding its breath. the kind of heat that clings, that sinks into your sleeves and settles on the back of your neck. every fan in the building is already turned to the highest setting, but the breeze barely circulates. paper flutters. sweat collects near temples and shirt collars. everyone’s trying not to move too much.

your flannel is folded neatly in your bag. the sleeves ironed twice. the tag itched a little when you tried it on earlier, but you’ll survive. you haven’t put it on yet. not while it’s this humid. not while you're still clinging to the idea that this is all temporary.

your skateboard—still not yours—is tucked beside your desk like a secret. you keep checking to make sure it hasn’t rolled away.

your class is buzzing.

someone’s fixing a heart-shaped backdrop with double-sided tape. someone else is painting a cardboard phone. your group leader is walking in circles, rehearsing your short intro lines aloud, muttering, “we present to you... the angst, the chaos, the flannel-clad heartbreak of She’s Dating the Gangster...”

you’re trying to focus on anything except the fact that soon, you’ll be standing in front of the entire student body. in costume. pretending to be a guy who cries over love letters.

you glance at the lineup sheet posted outside the gym.

there it is. three rows down.

STEM-2 — “She’s Dating the Gangster” representative: Y/N L/N

your throat feels dry.

you look away.

meanwhile, in a classroom two floors up, hanni is fixing the bow at the back of her dress.

it’s a soft powder blue—simple, high-waisted, borrowed from a cousin who collects vintage pieces. it cinches just enough to feel like a costume but not so tight that she can’t breathe. her bonnet is tucked under her arm. she hasn’t put it on yet. the pins are too sharp, and her hair took an hour to get right.

someone’s applying light blush to her cheek.

“you look like you stepped out of a period film,” says the girl holding the brush. “your skin’s literally glowing.”

hanni hums in response, polite. distracted.

she’s been flipping through the mini book she’s bringing with her—Pride and Prejudice, worn cover, ribbon bookmark. it’s more for effect than reading. she knows the quotes by heart already.

“you nervous?” someone asks.

“not really,” she answers. and it’s true. she’s done stage work before. debates. hosting. this kind of attention doesn’t scare her.

but something feels… unsettled.

her eyes flick to the small typed list someone stuck to the wall. each entry, each class. she reads through them like she has a reason to.

she stops at,

STEM-2 — “She’s Dating the Gangster” representative: Y/N

again.

there it is again.

and it sticks.

again.

kenji. you.

she doesn’t know why she keeps noticing your name.

maybe it’s because the contrast makes her laugh. elizabeth bennet and a wattpad skater boy. absurd. maybe that’s why she keeps thinking about it. or maybe it’s because she remembers how still you were during the quiz bee. how you didn’t hesitate. how your name was the last one called when the winners were announced despite winning first place.

hanni presses her palm flat against her skirt.

pull it together.

by nine, everyone is herded into the gym.

it’s a mess of cardboard swords, fake roses, neon-colored wigs, and paper wings held together with paper clips. the fans barely reach the corners. the air smells like glue, perfume, and nerves. it’s loud, sticky, restless.

you’re near the far end of the lineup. your skateboard keeps slipping. someone tries to adjust your name tag and it rips a little.

you’re not talking. just watching the stage from a distance. there’s a hum in your chest. not quite anxiety. just… waiting. bracing.

and then your eyes land on her.

it’s not immediate.

you’re scanning the crowd. blinking through the glare of lights. your classmate says something about fixing your sleeves and you glance up—

and she’s there.

bonnet in one hand. book in the other. dress pale blue against the noise of everyone else’s chaos.

hanni.

your mind doesn’t register the name first. it just registers the shape of her. the stillness of her posture. the way she carries herself like she’s always known how to hold space.

and she’s already looking at you.

not just a glance.

a real, intentional, sustained look.

like she’d been waiting to see you too.

and for a second—just a second—everything else melts.

the gym. the heat. the noise. the cardboard props.

it fades.

you look away first.

but only because your face is getting warm.

you didn’t expect her to move toward you.

not right away.

you thought maybe there’d be a glance—like the ones passed across rooms, like the one she already gave you earlier. fleeting. casual. safe.

but she walks.

past her classmates, past someone adjusting a sash, past the cluster of students asking to borrow blush or pins or cardboard swords. she walks straight to where you’re standing—off to the side of the gym, half in shadow, your skateboard resting against your ankle, your flannel now slightly crooked from all the rushing and heat.

you feel her before you see her.

the air changes. someone’s perfume—soft, floral, definitely not from anyone in your section. you glance up, expecting someone just walking by.

but it’s her.

hanni.

close. closer than you thought she’d ever stand near you.

her dress moves when she walks. powder blue, swaying gently around her knees. her hands are light at her sides, holding nothing, not fidgeting. just still. her eyes meet yours and don’t move away.

“your collar’s bent,” she says quietly. “may i?”

you nod. or maybe you don’t. maybe your body just agrees before your brain catches up.

and then her hands are on you.

gentle. quick. like she’s done this before. she lifts the fabric carefully, presses the fold flat with her fingers, adjusts it like it matters. her touch is warm.

you don’t breathe.

it’s not a dramatic thing. not overly romantic. no slow music. no blushing gasp.

but it’s intimate in a way that throws you off completely.

like she already knew you’d let her.

when she steps back, you feel the absence.

your collar is straight now.

your heartbeat isn’t.

“thanks,” you manage.

she smiles, just barely.

then—without being asked—she reaches out and brushes a tiny speck of glitter from your shoulder. probably from one of the props. still. she takes her time.

“you wear that flannel often?” she asks.

you blink. “sometimes.”

“it suits you.”

and there it is.

simple. not flirtatious. not heavy with anything obvious.

but you feel it sit in your chest.

it suits you.

the gym is still loud. the emcee is testing the mic again. someone is arguing over the playlist. the fans are whirring like they’re about to give out.

but all you hear is that.

it suits you.

"LET'S GO SEXY LOVE!" your classmate shouts. "GO SEXY! GO SEXY! GO SEXY SEXY LOVE!"

for a few seconds, neither of you moves.

the space between you doesn’t feel awkward—it feels deliberate. quiet. like the gym has faded around the edges and left only this little pocket of stillness for you to exist in.

you’re not used to being looked at like this. not with curiosity. not with ease.

you glance at her, unsure if you should say something.

she’s already watching you.

not with intensity. not with a smirk. just... watching. like she’s observing a detail she missed before. like maybe, for the first time, she’s not just seeing a costume—but you inside it.

“you were amazing in the quiz bee, by the way,” she says, out of nowhere.

you blink. “what?”

“the inter-strand one. a few weeks ago. you and your teammate won, right?”

you shift slightly, half-surprised she remembers. “yeah. general knowledge. kind of random.”

“you made it look easy.”

“i was watching,” she adds, softer now. “i wasn’t allowed to join. conflict of interest.”

“student council?”

she nods.

“figured.”

her smile tilts a little higher. “i don’t forget the people who win.”

you want to say something clever. maybe joke about how badly you guessed the last question. or ask if she remembers what you got right. but nothing comes out.

you just nod once, swallowing down the sudden lump in your throat.

hanni’s gaze flicks down to your skateboard resting beside your foot.

“is that real?”

you glance down. “barely. it’s borrowed.”

“do you know how to use it?”

“no.”

“good,” she says, then lifts one shoulder. “because if you tripped in front of everyone today, that would’ve been embarrassing.”

you laugh—small, startled, and real.

“thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“anytime.”

she’s not teasing you exactly. it’s lighter than that. like the kind of comment she’d only make if she already liked you enough to get away with it.

you glance over your shoulder as your classmate waves you over. they’re trying to get all the props in place. someone’s asking who has the speaker. someone else is shouting your name.

but your eyes return to her one last time.

“you look nice,” you say, quietly. awkwardly. like you mean it but still haven’t figured out how to say it right.

she raises an eyebrow, smiled.

then,

“thank you.” “you don’t look bad yourself, kenji.”

and just like that—she turns and walks back toward her section, leaving you there with your heartbeat in your ears and the ghost of her fingertips on your collar.

the gym had only grown louder since the start of the lineup, but the sound felt strangely far from where you were standing. somewhere on the left, a teacher was calling for groupings again, voice straining over the broken mic.

the balloon arch near the photo backdrop had begun to lean slightly to one side, and a group dressed as greek gods was loudly arguing over who should hold the thunderbolt. students shuffled past you in costume—some with swords, others with painted faces—but you stayed where you were, near the edge of the taped floor, gripping the banner pole your class handed you like it was the only solid thing in the room.

the pole was heavier than it looked. you kept adjusting your grip, switching your weight from one foot to the other. sweat had begun to pool lightly along the back of your neck beneath the flannel collar, and though the fans in the gym were on full blast, the air felt thick, like it had absorbed too much noise to move freely.

you weren’t supposed to be here alone, technically. your section had signed up for a pair, but no one else volunteered to dress up. it was a joke, really. a wattpad story. you weren’t even supposed to be kenji—you hadn’t read the book, barely watched the movie, hadn’t cared. but your classmates did. they thought it would be funny. you in a flannel. you with a skateboard. you alone, standing beside cardboard hearts and holding a story that wasn’t yours.

someone in front of the stage began calling out combinations.

“romeo and juliet, get ready. pride and prejudice, you’re after.”

the second name caught your attention, but only briefly. there were likely multiple classes doing pride and prejudice. still, you glanced over your shoulder instinctively, eyes searching for powder blue. and there she was—across the room, near her section’s cluster, standing with the posture of someone who knew exactly how she wanted to be seen.

hanni. ribbon tied perfectly at her collar. book pressed to her side. not talking. just waiting.

the same way you were.

you looked away before she could catch your stare. your grip tightened around the pole again, and you were about to step toward the coordinator to ask where exactly you should be when you heard them,

“solo representatives—please group with other solo reps for the pair photos. start finding your matches now.”

your class didn’t assign an athena. there wouldn’t be a perfect match. you assumed maybe someone else from another wattpad story would be shoved toward you. or maybe the coordinator would just group two unmatched characters for convenience. you’d half prepared yourself to stand beside someone in a generic school uniform holding a plastic rose.

but then—

a shift.

not loud. not announced. just the sense that someone was approaching.

you felt her presence before you actually saw her. light footsteps against the rubberized floor, the rustle of fabric that wasn’t synthetic or shiny like the other costumes—softer. heavier. you turned your head slightly, unsure if you imagined it.

and she was there.

right beside you.

not hesitant. not looking around like she’d wandered into the wrong group. she had walked the full length of the gym, across dozens of other pairings and shouting teachers and confused classmates—direct, certain, unaffected. her book was still tucked under her arm, fingers curled around the edges like it was an accessory she didn’t need but refused to let go of. her gaze didn’t flick around the room or search for instructions. she was only looking at you.

she stopped at your side like she’d always intended to.

you didn’t say anything. you couldn’t—not at first. the closeness of her presence made you acutely aware of everything else. how stiff your collar suddenly felt, how much taller she was than you remembered (it was because of the heels), how your flannel probably smelled like sweat and not soft florals. she didn’t flinch. she didn’t shift away. she simply angled her body to match your direction, her elbow hovering just inches from yours.

“i’m pairing with you,” she said.

no questions. no pause. she didn’t wait for a reaction.

you turned your head slightly, enough to meet her eyes. she didn’t smile, but her lips were curved just faintly upward—like she already knew what you’d say, or what you wouldn’t.

“you sure about that?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. it came out quieter than intended.

she tilted her head, and the edge of her bonnet moved with the motion. “well,” she said lightly, “you don’t exactly have an athena.”

you breathed out through your nose, a tiny huff of amusement. “and you don’t have a darcy.”

hanni glanced sideways at the paper heart on your banner, then up at your face again. “elizabeth bennet and kenji delos reyes,” she murmured. “i think wattpad would approve.”

you didn’t answer, but you didn’t move away either.

someone from the english department—clipboard in hand, too many sheets and not enough hands—called out across the floor. “kenji and elizabeth? you’re next.”

hanni stepped forward before you could.

it wasn’t dramatic. it wasn’t possessive. she didn’t grab your arm or tug you forward. she simply walked like the space beside you belonged to her. like she had already taken it without needing to ask.

you followed.

because of course you did.

the photo backdrop was closer to the front of the gym, lined with metallic fringe and a hand-painted banner that read “english month character parade.” it looked like it had been assembled at the last minute. the arch leaned. the letters weren’t perfectly aligned. it didn’t matter. teachers stood just out of frame, giving instructions, pointing to their clipboards like wedding photographers managing an extended family.

“just a simple pose,” someone said. “side by side is fine.”

you stepped into position, lowering the banner. your arms brushed. her ribbon was still tied neatly at her collar. she didn’t shift away.

then, under her breath, she asked, “do you usually smile in pictures?”

you shook your head once. “not unless i have to.”

“good,” she replied. “i think i like you better this way.”

you didn’t have time to think about that before the photographer called out, “ready!”

she turned slightly, just enough that her shoulder grazed yours. you could feel her presence now—close enough to count the stitches on the cuff of her sleeve, to see the way her lashes curled gently above her cheekbones.

“three...”

she looked at you.

“two...”

you were already looking back.

“one...”

the flash went off.

but the moment didn’t end.

her heart is beating a little too fast.

not in a dizzying, breathless way—but in a steady, slow thud, the kind that spreads heat through her chest and down her arms until she forgets what to do with her hands. her fingers twitch around the book. her nails press into the spine. she shouldn’t be affected. she’s done this before. posed for dozens of pictures, stood beside boys and girls and whoever was assigned to match her. she knows how to work a crowd, how to smile for the camera, how to disappear behind her own poise.

but not with you.

you didn’t say anything funny. you didn’t flirt. you didn’t even ask if you were supposed to stand together. you just let it happen. let her happen.

and that—that’s what undoes her.

you hadn’t planned on standing here with her, and yet you didn’t resist it either. there was no panic, no nervous glance at your class, no awkward fidgeting. just the steady calm of someone who saw her walk up and stayed exactly where they were. like it was normal. like it was okay. like she didn’t have to prove anything to earn your attention.

she blinks once, lips pressed together as the photographer gives them a dismissive nod. the photo’s done. they’re free to go.

but still, she doesn’t move.

and you don’t either.

a voice calls out again, louder this time. “next pair!”

hanni finally steps back—not far, just enough to allow air between you. her ribbon brushes against her arm as she turns, and her fingers slip once along the hem of her dress, smoothing out a wrinkle that wasn’t there before. her hand lifts, absently adjusting the bonnet at the edge of her hairline, but her eyes flick toward you again, just for a second, as if to check that you’re still real. still steady.

you are.

you haven’t looked away since she stepped beside you.

and for the first time today, she feels something warm settle low in her chest. not nerves. not fluttering. not even excitement.

just this quiet, startling realization: she wants to know what it would feel like to stand beside you again. somewhere without a crowd. somewhere without a camera.

somewhere where it’s just the two of you, and she doesn’t have to make up an excuse for it.

it starts with a repost.

someone from the student council—probably kazuha from gas 12—uploads the full album from the event onto the facebook group. raw photos, no captions. just the logo watermark on the bottom right corner and a whole string of unfiltered moments frozen in time. there’s a tagged folder for the english month parade. another for debate team. a few blurry shots from the booth exhibits. hanni doesn’t mean to click. she’s at the back of the journalism room, idly sipping from a warm coffee while her teammates crowd around a laptop arguing over next week’s layout. but when her fingers swipe down her feed and land on the familiar backdrop, she pauses.

her photo is in the second row.

not the group shot. not the one where she’s neatly posed with her class. not even the candid where she’s adjusting her bonnet. it’s that one. the one where she’s beside you. where you’re both turned just slightly inward. not quite facing the camera. not quite ignoring it. your shoulders are angled together. your expressions relaxed. the corners of both your mouths have the ghost of a smile—so faint it might be a trick of the lighting. but it isn’t. she knows it isn’t. she remembers that exact moment. the way the air shifted. the way you looked at her. like you weren’t posing. like you were really there.

she taps it. the image expands.

you look calm. understated. the plaid of your flannel is rumpled, your hand resting loosely on the edge of your skateboard prop. you’re not smiling for the camera. not performing. just standing there like the space beside you belonged to her before anyone ever claimed it. and she—elizabeth bennet in borrowed ribbon and stage makeup—is looking right at you. like she’s about to say something. or maybe just finished saying something you’re about to remember forever.

she stares at it longer than she means to.

then quietly, without letting her expression change, she saves it.

no one notices. the screen goes black a second later. she slips her phone back into her skirt pocket and pretends like she hasn’t just made a decision she won’t be able to undo.

her crush sharpens after that.

not loud. not sudden. just heavier. like a new layer of static she’s aware of now, humming faintly in the background of her every thought.

you’re not someone she sees every day. your schedules don’t match. your strands rarely cross paths. but it doesn’t matter. she knows you exist now—knows what you sound like when you laugh under your breath, knows how you tilt your head slightly when someone’s explaining something you already understand. she notices more. she listens more. and when your name comes up, even in passing, even as a punchline, it catches in her chest like a small, clumsy spark.

it happens a week later, in a late afternoon layout meeting.

someone from the photography team—yunjin, probably—is scrolling through edits when she pauses, squints at a zoomed-in shot, and says, “wait. isn’t this kenji girl kind of… hot?”

half the club bursts into laughter.

“oh my god,” one of the juniors says, “wait, she’s from stem, right?”

“i heard she actually skateboards. like legit.”

“wait, what if we add her to the campus cutie corner next month? like a joke feature. ‘miss wattpad.’”

hanni doesn’t look up from her notes. she twirls her pen once between her fingers, pretending not to hear. her jaw tightens slightly, but she keeps her face neutral.

“would she even agree to that?” someone else asks.

“doubt it,” yunjin replies. “she looks like she’d tell us to go away with one eyebrow raise.”

“a heartthrob who doesn’t care,” one of them says, laughing. “kind of iconic.”

hanni clicks her pen once. then again.

“you guys are annoying,” she says flatly, not glancing at anyone. “it was just a costume.”

yunjin laughs. “what, jealous she stole your thunder?”

she scoffs. “please.”

they laugh again, but they drop it.

no one notices the way she grips the edge of the table just a little tighter. no one sees the way her eyes flick toward the half-glimpsed photo still minimized on the laptop screen. no one hears the way her heart trips when she remembers how you stood beside her without asking, how you didn’t flinch, how the photo caught the exact second she realized she might be in trouble.

she breathes out slowly.

tucks the memory deeper.

and when she gets home that night, lying on her stomach with the lights off and her phone close to her pillow, she opens her gallery again.

finds the photo.

stares at it like it might give her an answer she’s not brave enough to ask for.

the smile is still there. faint. real.

and she doesn’t want to stop looking.

the first interaction happens on a thursday.

there’s a planning meeting in one of the ground floor classrooms for an upcoming school-wide exhibit, something tied to both strands—stem for the science installations, humss for the write-ups. it’s the kind of thing student council gets looped into for logistics, and journalism’s pulled in too for documentation. hanni only attends because she was asked to take minutes. her folder’s already prepped, pen clipped to the cover, badge slightly crooked from being pinned on too fast that morning. she’s expecting a dull hour. committee leaders talking over each other. nothing that concerns her directly.

but when she steps into the room and sees you sitting near the back, earphones slung loosely around your neck, hoodie tied to your waist, ankles hooked under your chair—

something in her trips.

you don’t see her at first.

your head’s bent slightly toward your seatmate as you explain something with a quiet certainty. a concept maybe. your hand moves midair like you’re drawing the solution out, not needing the chalkboard. when you finally glance up, the lighting cuts across your face unevenly, casting part of it in shadow. your eyes land on her.

a second.

just one.

but it holds.

you blink. nod slightly.

she nods back.

her usual seat—up front, by the whiteboard—is taken by the committee heads. so she slips into the third row, two columns over from you, and tells herself it doesn’t mean anything.

she tries to take notes. really. she writes the headers. lists the schedules. jots down the distribution of labor. but in the middle of writing “poster printout deadline,” she hears your voice again—clearer now, cutting into the low hum of chatter.

“i can help with wiring the exhibits,” you’re saying. “just give me a map. i’ll make it neat.”

the way you say it is plain, unbothered. but there’s something confident in it too. not loud. not cocky. just sure. sure in the way hanni finds herself liking far too easily.

you’re assigned to tech and visuals. hanni, by chance—or maybe divine punishment—is assigned as liaison for both documentation and coordination.

which means she has to talk to you.

she doesn’t do it immediately. she waits until the others are packing up, until the whiteboard has been wiped clean and the room starts emptying. you’re still seated, bent over your phone, checking a photo of the venue layout. she walks over like it’s normal. like it’s just business.

“you’re taking care of the display wiring?” she asks, voice even.

you glance up. the corner of your mouth lifts just slightly. “yeah. unless someone else wants to get electrocuted.”

she snorts. quietly. against her will.

“i’ll make sure no one touches the panels before they’re labeled,” she says, pen tapping gently against her clipboard.

you nod. “cool. saves me the murder charge.”

the silence between you is brief. not awkward. not rushed. just… still.

her hand stays on the edge of your desk a beat longer than necessary.

and when she walks away, she’s smiling.

she doesn’t realize it until she’s halfway to the journalism room.

it’s nothing.

or at least, it should be.

you’re just sitting outside your strand’s hallway, legs stretched out, back against the wall, a pen tucked behind your ear as you scroll through your tablet. the light is bright overhead—harsh in the way late mornings always are—but you don’t squint. your expression stays soft, a little distant. the kind of look someone wears when they’re trying to focus but their mind is somewhere just left of center.

hanni sees you before you see her.

she doesn’t mean to. she’s on her way back from the supplies room, a box of printed programs balanced carefully in her arms, the edge of her lanyard digging into her collarbone. she tells herself she’ll keep walking. that it’s just another glimpse. nothing new.

but she slows.

not noticeably. not in a way anyone else would clock. just enough that she takes in the way your thumb circles slowly against the glass. the way your eyebrows twitch as you read. the way the heel of your shoe taps once against the tile, like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

you look… ordinary.

not the kind of ordinary that’s forgettable, but the kind that sits in the chest. quiet. rooted. real.

and for a second—just a second—hanni wonders what it would be like to sit next to you. not talk. just… be.

you don’t look up.

she walks past.

her arms ache from the weight of the box, and she’s half-aware of someone calling her name from the end of the hall, but her mind stays back there with you, where the sun hit just right and your sleeve had slipped a little too far past your wrist.

it keeps happening.

the next time is near the entrance, a rainy tuesday where everyone’s crammed under the overhang trying to avoid getting soaked. you’re standing near the edge, hands in your pockets, hair damp from the drizzle, and you’re talking to someone from your class—but not like you’re trying to be heard. more like you’re thinking out loud, tone low, half-asleep. she can’t hear the words, but she doesn’t need to. she watches the shape of your mouth as you speak. she catches the stillness in your eyes when you pause to listen.

she looks away quickly when your head starts to turn.

then later, at a club booth cleanup, she hears your name mentioned offhandedly by a volunteer. something about how you work quietly. how you finish your part then leave without waiting for credit. someone shrugs. “a little weird, but smart.” “stem kids always are.” “kind of cool though.” “cool how?”

there’s a laugh.

“like—cool without trying.”

hanni doesn’t say anything.

her fingers stay curled around the edge of the attendance clipboard, eyes fixed on the schedule pinned to the corkboard beside her. but inside, something clenches. tight. light. awful.

because she knows exactly what they mean.

and it’s starting to get worse.

she finds herself tracking your presence even when she doesn’t mean to. her eyes flick automatically toward the stem building during break. her ears pick up the sound of your laugh during dismissal, even if it’s buried under a dozen others. she notices the way your hair sits differently on days you rush to school. the way you press the heel of your palm against your temple when you’re tired.

and it’s not like she wants to do anything with this knowledge.

not yet.

she just… doesn’t know how to stop collecting it.

it happens on a monday, which surprises her. she’d always imagined it might be a thursday—quieter, slower, gentler. but the school is louder today. messier. it rained the night before and the air still smells like wet cement and faded umbrellas. her hair’s damp near the roots, pressed down from rushing out that morning. her blazer is crooked. she’s on her way to the annex building when she turns the corner and nearly bumps into you.

you’re standing outside the library, your hand already on the glass door, head lowered like you hadn’t expected anyone to cross your path.

and for a second—just one—everything stalls.

you look up.

eyes meet.

and she sees it, clear as day. you recognize her. not just in that polite, nodding way you offer to people you vaguely remember from shared events. it’s sharper than that. steadier. like you were already expecting her to notice you.

maybe you were.

her heart kicks once, loud enough she almost feels it in her ears. and before she can stop herself, before she can let the moment pass like all the others—

“hey,” she says.

your hand pauses against the glass.

“oh,” you reply, blinking, voice low. “hey.”

there’s a beat. not awkward. not quite. just heavy.

hanni shifts her folder from one arm to the other, fingers curling tighter around the edge. “do you have a copy of the new schedule? for the exhibit write-ups?”

you raise your brows. “the one from last friday?”

she nods.

you nod back, reaching into your bag without needing to ask anything else. it’s already printed. folded neatly. no creases. you hold it out, and when she reaches for it, her fingers brush yours.

she almost pulls back.

but doesn’t.

your hand lingers for half a second longer than it needs to. and she doesn’t move.

“thanks,” she says, quieter now.

you nod again. then, just as you’re turning to go, she hears herself speak.

“i liked what you wrote,” she says.

you stop.

your head tilts slightly, curious.

“in the last exhibit,” she adds. “your panel. the one about friction. it was… different.”

you blink slowly, like you hadn’t expected that. then your mouth curves—just a little. that same almost-smile. quiet. contained.

“you read that?”

“i read everything,” she says.

she doesn’t mean for it to sound like a confession. but it lands like one anyway.

you hold her gaze for a moment longer, and this time, she doesn’t look away.

not when you shift your weight. not when your expression softens. not even when you say, quietly, like you’re letting her in on something. “you always notice more than people think, don’t you?”

and for the first time since all of this began—since the photo, the nods, the near-misses—

she smiles, fully.

“maybe,” she says. “depends who i’m looking at.”

you laugh under your breath.

and for once, you don’t walk away.

after that, it becomes a quiet pattern.

you start talking more. not every day. not loudly. not in front of too many people. but enough. enough that your presence becomes familiar. enough that your voice becomes something she can pick out in a crowd. enough that her world starts arranging itself around the times she might cross paths with you again.

it’s small things at first. a few words exchanged during logistics meetings. a quiet nod in the corridor before club hours. a comment scribbled on the margin of a shared draft—your handwriting neat, compact. “this sentence has weight. i’d keep it.” she circles it in red. doesn’t erase it. never even considers erasing it.

then it’s bigger things. you and hanni get paired to edit the full science write-up package for the exhibit. it’s a two-person task that keeps you both in the student council room late one afternoon, seated across from each other, laptops open, air buzzing with old electric fans and soft conversations from the next room.

she notices the way you read. slow. thorough. how you squint a little when the text is too dense, but never skim. how you lean back in your chair sometimes, stare at the ceiling, and whisper the sentence under your breath like it has to sound right out loud before it makes sense in print. it makes her want to watch you work longer than she should.

you ask if she wants to split the last section. she says no. she wants to see how you’d write it first.

when you leave the room that day, she watches the space you leave behind. your water bottle on the edge of the table. she breathes out slowly and presses her palm against her chest like it might settle the quiet ache there.

you start waiting for her too.

not in obvious ways. you just… linger more. hang back when you see her still packing her bag. ask if she’s eaten. mention where you’re headed like maybe she’ll want to walk with you a while. once, when the weather turned and the sky cracked open during last period, you waited by the lobby even though your building had already been dismissed, just to share your umbrella as she rushed out with nothing but a folder over her head.

she thanked you then. said, a little breathless, “i thought you left.”

you shrugged. “wasn’t in a rush.”

her heart was.

she didn’t say it.

neither of you say much about what’s happening. not yet. but the shape of it is there. in how she looks for your face in every crowd. in how you always glance toward her when you laugh, like you want her to see it. in how your conversations linger longer at the ends of meetings. in the way her name sounds different when you say it—gentler. like you’re still getting used to having the right to say it out loud.

and maybe you are.

but for now, that’s enough.

and hanni… doesn’t want it to stop.

the middle is the longest part.

and it’s the one hanni doesn’t want to end.

she doesn’t admit that out loud, of course. not even to herself. but something about this stage—this unnamed closeness, this slow circling of each other in familiar hallways—feels like a secret she doesn’t want to give up. you’re not hers. not yet. not officially. but in the quiet language you’ve built together—timing, tone, the way your eyes meet across the length of a classroom—there’s a closeness that feels like belonging.

like something that doesn’t need a name to be real.

the journalism club starts teasing her.

it starts small. one of the layout editors comments, “stem’s y/n has a nice voice, huh?” while reviewing the audio snippets from a panel interview. hanni doesn’t look up. just nods, steady. “yeah.”

“kind of unexpected,” someone else adds. “i thought she was one of those ‘too serious to talk’ types, but she’s funny.”

hanni wants to say i know. she doesn’t.

she pretends not to hear when someone jokingly calls you her favorite stem girl. laughs too quickly when a friend mentions your name during merienda break. and when someone asks who she thinks has the best smile in the interstrand group photo, she answers, “i don’t rank smiles,” even though she’s memorized the exact moment you looked away from the camera and turned back toward her.

it’s not just the photo, though.

it’s the mornings when you pass each other at the vending machine, and you offer her the last iced choco without even needing to be asked. it’s the group work moments where she’s not even partnered with you, but you quietly shift your chair closer anyway. it’s the way you always say goodbye a little softer to her than to anyone else.

it’s how you never seem in a rush to leave if she’s still there.

one afternoon, the exhibit wrap-up committee decides to eat at a small food court nearby. the others crowd the tables quickly, buzzing from leftover adrenaline, shoving trays and teasing each other. hanni’s scanning the line for seats when she hears your voice.

“here,” you say. “saved one.”

you don’t even look up from your food.

you just pull your tray to the side, make room, as if it was already obvious she’d sit beside you.

she does.

and neither of you say much.

she thanks you once. you hand her a packet of ketchup without her asking. someone across the table jokes about how the two of you always end up beside each other. you smile. hanni stirs her drink with her straw and doesn’t answer.

because she can’t figure out if she’s imagining this—whatever this is—or if you’re both just too quiet to name it.

and maybe that’s the part that scares her.

not the possibility that she’s alone in this. but the possibility that you feel it too—

and you’re both too afraid to reach for it.

it’s past five when she finds you again.

the hallway’s mostly empty. the light outside is soft and low, that kind of gold that makes everything look warmer than it really is. she’s carrying leftover flyers from a guidance office meeting, arms aching slightly from holding the stack too long, when she rounds the corner near the annex and spots you sitting on the steps.

not slouched. not curled up. just sitting. your bag propped beside you, your arms resting loosely over your knees, head tilted back like you’ve been there a while. not waiting. not thinking. just… there.

you glance over when you hear her shoes against the floor.

she slows a little but doesn’t stop. she doesn’t have to. you’re already standing by the time she passes, brushing off your hands as if it gives you something to do.

“want help with that?” you ask.

hanni lifts the stack higher against her chest, eyes flicking toward you for a second too long. “it’s not that heavy.”

you hum. but reach out anyway, sliding half the flyers from her arms with practiced ease. like you’ve done this before. like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

she doesn’t stop you.

you walk beside her, footsteps soft, neither of you rushing.

there’s no conversation. no small talk. just the sound of your shoes and hers against the tile, the occasional creak of a locker hinge, the distant murmur of someone laughing two floors up.

and it’s… easy.

hanni doesn’t even realize she’s holding her breath until you speak again, voice barely above the quiet.

“this place gets weird when it’s quiet.”

she glances at you. “yeah?”

“yeah. not in a bad way. just different.” your eyes stay ahead. “feels like everyone’s gone and the walls are taking a break.”

she smiles. not fully. just enough.

when you reach the student council room, she opens the door for you. you step in without waiting and place the flyers down exactly where she would’ve put them. she’s never told you where that is.

you look around after. not nosy, just curious. your eyes flick over the half-clean table, the corkboard, the dent in the bulletin tray that’s been there since july.

“do you hang out here a lot?” you ask.

she shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “not really. just when there’s work.”

“hm,” you murmur. “feels like the kind of room that has a personality.”

she raises a brow. “a what?”

“you know,” you say, like it should be obvious. “some rooms are just… rooms. but this one feels like it remembers things.”

hanni doesn’t know what to say to that. so she doesn’t say anything. just watches you step closer to the corkboard and peer at the latest schedule pinned up.

you don’t ask for anything else. you don’t overstay. you just look around one last time, then turn to her and say, “see you.”

and she nods. “yeah.”

the door closes softly behind you. she listens to the sound of your steps fading down the hall.

and even when it’s quiet again, the room still feels full.

it starts with a small habit.

she begins noticing where you tend to sit. the bench near the annex stairwell during free periods. the side table by the third floor window that catches the afternoon light. she doesn’t mean to look for you. it just happens. her eyes skim the crowd, the corridors, the corners—and when you’re there, something in her shoulders unknots a little.

you’re easy to be near.

you don’t take up space the way some people do. you don’t fill a room to be seen. but there’s something solid about you. something that settles the air around you. and when you speak—when you lean slightly forward in your chair, elbows on knees, voice low and thoughtful—it always feels like you mean it.

one day, she finds you reading under the stairs.

not even hiding. just… tucked away. back against the wall, legs stretched out, fingers curled around the edge of a thin paperback with the library stamp still on it. she pauses at the top of the steps and watches you for a moment before you notice her.

you lift your head. blink. “oh—hey.”

she steps down. doesn’t ask what you’re reading. doesn’t sit beside you. just lingers long enough to say, “is this your usual spot now?”

you smile. nod once. “sun doesn’t hit here. and the wind’s decent.”

she laughs under her breath. “sounds like you’ve done the math.”

“i have,” you say easily.

and then go back to your book.

a few days later, you pass her in the hallway and press a folded piece of scratch paper into her hand. she looks at it once you’re gone. it’s a rough sketch of the third floor—angles and arrows—marking the quietest spots to work depending on time of day. next to one arrow, in your handwriting, best air circulation, limited foot traffic, 3:30 to 4:45.

she keeps it.

it lives in the back pocket of her folder for the next week.

and maybe it’s around then—somewhere between borrowed pens and shared glances—that hanni starts thinking about the flower market.

it’s not romantic. not exactly. at least not in the way she tells herself. it’s just something she remembers hearing about from her older cousin. how the flowers spill out into the street like the scent is too much for the stalls to hold. how some shops let you pick the paper and ribbon if you ask nicely. how it’s loud and busy but oddly peaceful.

you’d like that, she thinks.

she doesn’t know why she thinks that.

but the thought sticks.

she starts looking up the best time to go. checks the jeepney route once on her way home. wonders if it would be too random to ask you. if you’d find it weird. if you’d laugh.

she tells herself she’s just curious. she doesn’t even know what she wants to get.

but sometimes, she catches herself wondering what kind of flowers you’d pick for someone. if you’d be careful. or quick. if you’d be the type to ask the vendor for help, or figure it out by instinct.

the thought makes her stomach twist.

and she still doesn’t ask.

not yet.

not while the moment feels too delicate to name.

deadlines blur. meetings spill into each other. everything feels rushed, but she’s used to that. what she’s not used to is how often she catches herself pausing mid-task just to wonder where you are.

not because she’s waiting for you. she tells herself that. it’s just… habit now. maybe curiosity. maybe comfort. maybe both.

on thursday, she spots you in the science wing stairwell. you’re eating siomai from a wax paper wrapper with one hand, notes in the other, earbuds in. completely still. like the world is loud everywhere except wherever you’ve chosen to sit.

she doesn’t approach. she doesn’t even slow down. she just watches you from the railing above, heart soft and unhurried, like it’s something she’s memorizing.

later, she sees the wrapper in the trash bin near the vending machine. five steps away from where she’ll run into you again.

“long day?” you ask.

“always,” she smiles.

you don’t offer small talk after that. just a quiet nod, a shift of your bag strap, and a slow walk beside her down the path outside the admin building.

you don’t talk. she doesn’t mind.

the silence between you has stopped being awkward. it’s turned into something full. something thoughtful.

and she thinks—if i asked you, would you come with me?

not because of flowers. not because of errands. not because she needs anything.

just because she wants to.

just because it might be nice to walk somewhere with you that isn’t school. somewhere crowded, and noisy, and real. to see you out of uniform. to buy things that don’t have a purpose. to choose something pretty, hand it over, and not explain why.

that night, as she lies in bed with the fan humming low and her notes forgotten at her side, she types a message. then deletes it.

types it again.

hey, are you free saturday?

delete.

do you wanna come with me somewhere? nothing serious. i just… want to go to a place.

still too weird.

she erases it. sighs.

then tries again.

you free on saturday? wanna go to dangwa? yk, the flower place. thought it might be fun!

she stares at it for a full minute.

then presses send.

her chest is already warm with regret. what if you think it’s strange? what if you say no?

but you don’t.

you reply four minutes later.

yeah sure. :)

and that’s it.

no questions. no explanation. just your name on her screen and a quiet yes that doesn’t ask her to pretend it means nothing.

hanni rolls onto her side.

smiles into her pillow.

and doesn’t overthink it for once.

saturday smells like concrete dust and stale bread.

the kind of morning that’s already warm by eight, where the clouds pretend they might rain but never do. hanni wakes up early, earlier than she needs to, and spends a full half hour just staring at her closet. she doesn’t know what you’ll wear. doesn’t know if this counts as casual or casual-but-a-little-more. in the end, she settles on a baby tee and her nicest pair of jeans. not new, but the ones that sit just right on her hips. the ones she wears when she hopes someone might notice.

you meet her outside the gate.

you’re already there when she arrives—leaning against the pole near the waiting shed, sipping from a cold bottled drink with one hand, your other hand tucked into your jacket pocket. not dressed up. not trying to be cool. just you.

but the sight still catches her off guard.

she steps closer, waves once.

you look up, smile. “hey.”

“hey,” she echoes.

the silence after that is light, a little clumsy.

you both start walking toward the jeepney station.

hanni tries to stay calm.

she doesn’t know where you’re going.

she knows the name—dangwa—but not the stops. not the route. she’d looked it up the night before, kind of, but the internet wasn’t helpful. and the one time she passed it before, she was in a car, half-asleep, in the backseat with the windows up.

so when she sees a jeep marked Ilaya–Divisoria, she blurts out, “that one?”

you pause. “ilaya? wait… wouldn’t recto be better since it’s closer?”

she freezes.

you’re not judging. you’re confused.

and that’s worse.

“i… i wasn’t sure,” she says, too quickly. “i just remembered seeing that stop somewhere. i thought maybe—”

you squint at her. not unkindly. just… curious. “hanni, do you know how to get there?”

silence.

she looks at the sidewalk. mutters, “not really.”

and then—you laugh.

not loudly. not mockingly. just a quiet, breathy sound, like this is the softest kind of surprise.

then, just as the wrong jeep pulls to a slow, groaning stop in front of you both, you reach over and take her hand.

not for long. not tightly.

just enough.

your palm is warm.

“come on,” you say. “i’ll show you the other station. it’s just across.”

you lead her across the street, weaving past vendors and puddles that haven’t dried from yesterday’s half-rain. your fingers brush hers once more before you let go. she doesn’t even notice you’ve dropped her hand until yours are in your pockets again.

and that’s when she exhales.

something inside her unclenches.

because for a second—just one—she thought she ruined it.

but you’re still here.

walking just ahead.

waiting for her to catch up.

the jeepney is already half full by the time you reach the correct terminal.

you climb in first, ducking your head, hand steadying the low ceiling. you slide into the far side of the bench without needing to be told, tapping the plastic seat beside you twice—once with your knuckles, once with your palm—as if inviting her without saying anything. hanni sits next to you quietly, knees almost touching, the heavy clang of coins and shifting gears filling the air.

you reach for your wallet.

pull a few coins out.

“two, san lazaro,” you call to the driver.

your voice is calm. like you do this all the time.

hanni watches your hand stretch forward, fingers brushing the palm of the passenger ahead before the fare is passed down. she almost fumbles with her own coins, but you stop her with a small shake of your head.

“i already paid.”

“you didn’t have to—”

you shrug. “you’re the one who got us almost on an ilaya route. consider this your bail fee.”

she flushes, looks away.

but she’s smiling.

the jeepney lurches forward. she grips the metal bar above her lightly, feeling the way her shoulder presses into yours with each stop-and-go. you don’t shift away. you lean back, comfortable, one arm slung behind you along the edge of the seat. your fingers almost graze her hair when the jeep hits a bump.

hanni doesn’t breathe for a second.

then she looks out the window, forces her heartbeat to steady. the sun through the tinted tarp makes everything outside look a little red, a little older, like the city itself is stuck in time.

she sneaks a glance at you.

you’re watching the road with that same quiet expression—alert, but relaxed. like you’re paying attention without needing to control anything. like this whole moment, this ride, this day, doesn’t have to be perfect.

you make it feel easy.

you reach the stop near tayuman in under twenty minutes. no traffic. just the usual honking, the call of vendors, the soft hiss of rubber soles against sidewalk as people begin to hop off. you step down first again, then turn back, offering your hand.

this time, she takes it without hesitation.

it’s not even for balance. she just wants to.

neither of you let go right away.

but when you do, the warmth stays with her.

you don’t use GPS. don’t check your phone. you just start walking, like you’ve done this path before. like your feet already know the way. and when she glances at you, you explain, “i go this way when we visit my cousins. shortcut.”

“so you’ve been before?”

“not really inside. just passed by. but i know where it is.”

she nods.

you don’t walk fast. you let her match your pace. once, when she stumbles a little over uneven pavement, you steady her lightly by the elbow, the contact brief but careful. and every now and then, she catches you looking—not staring, just checking. making sure she’s still okay. still beside you.

the city shifts around you. sidewalks narrow. the air thickens with scent—diesel, mango peels, crushed flowers, faint perfume. horns blare. banners flap above storefronts. hanni tugs at the strap of her bag, wipes sweat from her nape with a tissue from her pocket. beside her, you offer your bottle wordlessly. she takes a sip without protest.

when you finally turn the corner and see the first flower stalls—bright, overflowing, loud with color and faint music—she hears you say, softly, “we’re here.”

and just like that, she forgets every moment she almost backed out.

you knew the way.

you brought her here anyway.

the first thing hanni notices is the smell.

not one scent—many. sweet, earthy, sharp, clean, musky. something like jasmine clings to the air near the entrance, but as she follows you deeper into the street of flowers, the smells shift and wrap around her like ribbons. petals underfoot. plastic buckets full of water. bundles of twine and brown paper curling at the edges.

you turn slightly to look at her. “you okay?”

she nods, eyes flicking from stall to stall.

there are so many colors.

so many shapes.

some flowers she recognizes—roses, sunflowers, tulips in soft pinks and peaches. others she doesn’t know the names of. some look wild, like they were pulled from the side of a mountain. others look almost too perfect, like someone painted them with watercolor and placed them gently into foam.

and the people—there’s noise, but it’s gentle noise. low haggling. laughter. scissors snipping. the flap of newspapers being folded into cones.

it’s hanni who says it.

“let’s buy each other flowers.”

she doesn’t mean to sound excited, but it slips out before she can make it sound cooler. you blink, halfway through adjusting the strap of your bag.

“like, what we think the other person would like,” she adds, trying to sound casual. “just for fun.”

you tilt your head slightly. “really?”

“yeah.”

you smile.

“okay.”

you split up.

not far, but far enough to pretend you’re not watching each other from the corners of your eyes. hanni wanders to the left, into a stall lined with peonies and fat bundles of eucalyptus, trying to act like she isn’t panicking. she picks out a few stems quickly—dainty and soft-colored, the kind she thinks you might like, tied in a bunch with twine. no ribbon. no frills. just something simple. something sincere.

when she turns around, you’re already walking back toward her. and you’re holding a bouquet.

not just a handful.

a real one. wrapped carefully in kraft paper, corners folded neat, a ribbon tied around the base.

you hand it to her without saying anything.

hanni takes it slowly.

she looks down at the colors—warm shades of orange, yellow, a quiet thread of blue near the center.

“you picked this?” she asks, her voice quiet.

“of course,” you murmur. “wanted to get it right.”

her throat tightens.

she holds it closer.

and then—because her chest is doing that thing again, that flutter that climbs up into her mouth and dares her to ruin everything—she says it. light. teasing.

“you know… if this is your way of confessing to me…”

she means it as a joke.

just a little one. just enough to push the silence away.

but you go still.

and instead of laughing, you look at her.

not scared. not startled.

just real.

and when you speak, your voice is soft. not shaky. not too quiet. just soft—like you’re saying something honest you’d been meaning to say for a while.

“it is.”

hanni freezes.

her fingers tighten around the paper wrapping.

you keep looking at her—gently, patiently, like you’ll wait for her to process it.

“i didn’t plan it like that,” you say, “but when i saw the bouquet, i knew it was something i wanted to give you. not as a joke. not just for fun. just because it’s you.”

she doesn’t know what to say.

so she doesn’t.

you shift the bunch she gave you into your other hand, rubbing your thumb gently along the stems.

“i really like you, hanni.”

she’s still holding the bouquet, but she doesn’t look at it anymore. she’s looking at you. at the way your mouth softened after you said it, how your fingers absentmindedly trace the paper wrap of the bunch she gave you. your voice still echoes in her ears. i really like you, hanni. not a joke. not a question. not something tossed out with the usual charm of someone who always knows what to say.

you said it like it was something you had decided a long time ago. and now you were simply handing it to her, like a truth you’ve been waiting to give.

her hands tighten around the bouquet in her arms, crinkling the brown paper. her throat feels tight. the scent of sunflowers and marigold and whatever the pale blue ones are—all of it lingers near her nose, grounding her. and yet, it’s not enough to stop the way her pulse rises, slow and strong, like it’s climbing from her chest to her face.

you’re not nervous. or if you are, you hide it well. you just stand there, watching her like you’re okay with whatever she decides to do next. like you’re not expecting her to say anything back unless she means it.

she should laugh. she wants to. make it into a joke again, like she always does when things get too warm, too real. but it doesn’t come. because this doesn’t feel like something she wants to hide behind humor.

her voice comes out quieter than she means. “you’re not supposed to say it like that.” her eyes flicker down to the bouquet again. “i was only joking.”

you tilt your head slightly, and she can tell you're not mocking her. “but i wasn’t.”

the words slip between you like something gentle, not meant to be argued with. she looks up again. your expression is the same as earlier—soft, calm, honest. not pushing. just… waiting.

“you’re so calm about it,” she says. it almost sounds like a complaint. “i didn’t think you’d like me back.”

“why not?” you ask it like you genuinely want to know.

and hanni almost laughs again, not because it’s funny, but because how do you not see it? because she’s spent the past month watching you be exactly the kind of person she never thought she’d be brave enough to like this way.

you—who knows the way to every shortcut across the city without checking your phone, who doesn’t talk unless you mean it, who won the quiz bee and didn’t even act like it was a big deal. you who treated her kindly without trying to impress her. like you didn’t need to. like she was already worth it.

she swallows. “because i’ve liked you longer. and it didn’t feel fair.”

you blink, slowly. your hands still. you don’t smile. you just take it in like it’s something delicate. you nod, then say, “that’s okay.” and you say it the way you said everything else—simply. gently. like it’s not a flaw. like it’s not something that changes anything.

hanni’s heart feels like it’s being pressed between both palms, held open and exposed and completely, devastatingly full. she doesn’t know how long you’ve been standing like this—two girls holding flowers in the middle of a market that smells like wet stems and midmorning sun.

the sounds around you haven’t changed. sellers haggling, buckets scraping, paper rustling. but to her, it’s all turned to blur. the only thing she can feel clearly is the weight of the bouquet in her arms, the weight of your eyes on her, and the weight of what you just gave her without asking for anything in return.

then—like her body suddenly remembers it exists—her stomach growls.

loudly.

you blink once. she wants to disappear.

“i—sorry,” she mumbles, half-shielding her face with the flowers. “i didn’t eat breakfast. i didn’t think it’d go this well.”

you let out a soft laugh, and the sound makes her want to smile and cry all at once. “jollibee?” you say. “we can walk to sm san lazaro.”

“isn’t that kind of far?”

you adjust your grip on the bouquet you’re still holding. “not really. besides, it’s the only thing i can afford after buying your flowers.”

her mouth twitches. she lowers the bouquet, peeks at you from over the petals. “that was your entire lunch budget?”

you nod, then look down for a second. and when you glance back up, you say it like it means everything, “but pretty girls deserve pretty flowers.”

this time, she doesn’t hide.

she just stares at you, the softest look blooming behind her eyes. like she’s letting herself believe that maybe—just maybe—she gets to keep this.

she steps forward, not saying anything, but close enough now that the edges of your sleeves brush. and when you turn to lead the way, she follows.

because she’s hungry.

but mostly, because you chose her.

the walk to san lazaro isn’t short, but hanni doesn’t mind.

you lead without rushing, your steps steady, one hand still carefully cradling the bouquet she gave you. you don’t talk much at first. but it isn’t awkward—it’s comfortable. like both of you are still floating in the quiet after something important. like the words already spoken are still echoing between your ribs.

she steals glances at you every few steps. not because she’s waiting for you to say more, but because she likes the way you walk. calm. thoughtful. like you’re already thinking about how to make her laugh again. and maybe it’s silly, but she feels oddly safe next to you. like even the cracks in the sidewalk won’t trip her with you beside her.

the sun hangs low now, casting the sky in that soft gold that makes even the dust in the air look pretty. shadows stretch long across the pavement. you walk close—not quite brushing arms, but enough that the warmth of you reaches her skin with every sway.

you glance at her once. “you okay?”

she nods. “are you?”

you smile a little. “i think i’ve been okay since you said you liked me back.”

she doesn’t know how to respond to that.

so she doesn’t.

just smiles to herself and focuses on the sound of your shoes scraping lightly against the edge of the curb, the way you step off to avoid a puddle without letting go of the flowers, the way your free hand occasionally bumps into hers.

you point out a shortcut through a quieter street with less people. she follows without thinking. and when a motorbike speeds too close to the edge, you instinctively reach out, hand lightly on her back, guiding her to the other side. your fingers leave heat behind even when they fall away.

she thinks you don’t notice.

but you do.

she sees it in your eyes when you glance at her again, slightly shy, like even you weren’t ready for how much that moment mattered.

by the time SM comes into view, the sky has shifted into that washed-out orange-gray, clouds stretching thin above the rooftops. the sidewalks are busier here. more foot traffic. more noise. but you never stop checking if she’s still beside you.

jollibee is lit up bright, warm and busy. the smell of oil and gravy and spaghetti sauce drifts into the open air, familiar and oddly comforting. inside, there’s a line—but not a long one. you nudge her gently forward when it’s your turn to order.

“what do you want?”

she blinks. “wait—i thought we were splitting?”

“i got it,” you say, already pulling your wallet from your back pocket. “it’s only fair. you’re the one who almost fainted from hunger.”

“i did not—”

“near-fainted,” you correct with a smirk.

she huffs, crossing her arms, but the smile pulls at her lips anyway. “fine. then i want chickenjoy. with palabok. and a peach mango pie.”

“wow.”

“you said it’s your treat.”

you don’t argue. just order it all, along with a two-piece burger steak for yourself. she notices how you double-check the price before handing over the bills, your thumb holding back one crumpled corner so it fits in the tray properly.

you choose a corner table by the window, far from the door, where the light is low and the aircon hums just loud enough to make things feel private. she sits across from you, setting her bouquet carefully on the seat beside her. you do the same.

the tray lands between you, and for a moment neither of you says anything. just unwrapping utensils. unfolding napkins. she picks at the edge of her plastic spoon.

then you say, softly, “this is really nice.”

she looks up.

“being here,” you add, like you don’t want her to misunderstand. “with you.”

her stomach flips again—but not from hunger this time.

she toys with the edge of the pie box. “you’re going to make me cry in jollibee.”

you raise your eyebrows. “do i get a reward if i succeed?”

“depends.”

“on?”

she meets your gaze across the table. the lights catch in your lashes, your hair slightly messed from the wind earlier. your cheeks are still a little red. or maybe that’s just the glow of the overhead bulb.

“whether you want this to be our first date,” she says.

you pause.

then you reach for your fork. stab a piece of burger steak. chew slowly, eyes still on hers.

when you swallow, you smile.

“yeah,” you say. “i think it is.”

you watch her eat like you’ve never seen someone enjoy palabok so seriously in your life. she twirls it neatly around her fork, mouth full, nodding like she’s evaluating the taste with a kind of reverence.

you’re halfway through your burger steak, sitting a little back into your seat now, more relaxed than earlier. something about this corner of the jollibee feels suspended—like the world outside has gone dimmer, quieter, and you both stepped into something warmer by accident.

she takes another bite and then looks at you, her expression unreadable.

“you bought me flowers. then confessed. and now you’re feeding me jollibee?”

you blink, a little caught off guard, your cup still halfway to your lips. “yeah?” you offer, uncertain if she’s about to tease or accuse.

she doesn’t answer right away. just stares. her eyes glint like she’s decided something. then—completely serious—

“...i’m going to marry you.”

you choke. hard. you have to set your drink down so you don’t spill it all over the tray.

she’s already hiding her face behind the bouquet, the wrappers of her chickenjoy cracking softly as she leans over the table like she’s hoping the petals will swallow her whole.

“you can’t just say things like that,” you cough, still trying to recover.

her voice is muffled behind the flowers. “you confessed first.”

“yeah, but—”

“and bought flowers.”

“yes—”

“and you’re feeding me.”

“because you were hungry!” you don’t mean to sound defensive, but it comes out anyway.

her laugh spills out from behind the bouquet like a small ripple. it’s not loud, but it’s real. warm. relaxed in a way she doesn’t get to be very often.

she lowers the flowers slowly and meets your eyes across the tray.

“okay, fine,” she says. “maybe not marry. but definitely... like.” her gaze softens. “a lot.”

you say nothing for a second.

then you reach over slowly, push the large fries closer to her side of the tray.

“i was going to eat that,” you say. “but i’ll let you have it.”

she looks down at the fries. then at you. “is this... your second confession?”

“third,” you say. “the bouquet was the first.”

her smile curves small and secret at the edges. and before the quiet gets too heavy again, she speaks—voice a little lower this time, words gentler.

“you know what’s funny?” she says, eyes on her fork as she stabs the edge of her palabok. “i didn’t even plan the flower market thing that far. i just… wanted to be near you. and i thought flowers would be a good excuse.”

you look at her, confused. she shrugs, cheeks tinting a little pink.

“it’s stupid,” she mumbles. “but i thought, if i brought you somewhere soft and pretty, maybe you’d let me stay a little longer.”

you go quiet.

not because you don’t know what to say—but because that—what she just said—is maybe the most honest thing anyone’s told you all week.

you slide your drink across the table slowly. “want a sip?”

she looks at it. then up at you. “only if it means you’ll let me kiss you later.”

you choke again.

this time she doesn’t hide. she just grins at you over the rim of her paper cup like she’s proud of herself. and maybe a little in love.

you don’t say anything right away. you’re still coughing.

but your smile never fades.

she doesn’t press. just nudges her peach mango pie toward the middle of the tray, like an offering. you pretend not to notice. and she pretends not to notice that you’re pretending not to notice. the silence settles in again, but it’s different now—warmer. fuller. like something shared instead of something empty.

you both eat slower after that. not in a drawn-out, awkward way—just naturally. there’s no rush anymore. the nervousness has melted into something quieter. your shoulders don’t feel as tense. her laughter comes easier. even the way you drink from your paper cup softens, like the ice inside isn’t the only thing melting.

she finishes the last of her chicken and rests her cheek lightly against her fist, watching you nibble on the cold end of your burger steak. the flowers sit untouched beside you both, but not forgotten. their scent still clings to the air between you, mixed with the steam from your trays and the faint smell of gravy from the next table over.

“you look happy,” she says eventually, just above a whisper.

you glance up. the corners of your eyes crinkle when you smile.

“i am.”

#newjeans x reader #njz x reader #hanni x reader #hanni pham x reader #hanni fluff #newjeans fluff #newjeans hanni #njz hanni

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transboyswitchytales · 1 month ago

Text

Blood In The Water (NSFW) - Part 2

Claire DeBella x Reader x Maya Mason -🔪 DARK FIC - DEAD DOVE🔪

WARNINGS: Sexual Assault / Manipulation / Stockholm Syndrome / Mommy Kink / Imprisionment / Kidnapping / Absuse / Knives and sharp object warning / Blood / Starvation Techniques / Sexual Humiliatino / Reward System is fucked / Grey Maya / Dead Dove Don't Eat / Claire is rich and crazy / Past Trauma Helps Claire Manipulate R / Fisting / Squirting / Mastubration Humiliation / Kink Shaming Kink / Mean Claire Kink / UNRELIABLE NARRATOR / Fetish Sexual Slavery / Claire is Smart Don't Forget it / Reader is in the midst of Stockholm Syndrome next chapter she fights more /Time is an Illustion Reader / VICTIM BLAMING NOT SANE

Part 1 (catch up on how we got captured)

Request by Anon:Reader is also smart so how about using the only tool she has, herself. Maybe Reader is trying to dismantle the alliance between Claire and Maya. Reader takes advantage of her moments alone with Maya to 'show' her affection and SLOWLY insinuate that it would be better if it was just the two of them (Maya and Reader). Knowing Maya's personality and the temptation of having Reader for herself; Reader convinces Maya to escape. Maya can arrange everything so that they flee without raising suspicions and go far away.

First, we must sink my friends.

I been trying not to go off the deep end I don't think you wanna give me a reason

To understand the ease in which you fell into Stockholm Syndrome, you must first understand the cage.

Your cage was that of a five-million-dollar mansion somewhere in Connecticut.

Doesn’t sound like a bad life, some might say.

You had a library fit for any Pintrest bitches vision board, the mansion was set with fourteen rooms, a four car garage, the master had a rain shower and a jet tub, fixed with a walk in closet bigger than any apartment you’d ever lived in. The oak floors were heated, and every appliance was smarter than a fifth grader.

The second floor theater room housed a thirty thousand dollar projector and surround sound, the game room homed a pool table, two offices had mahogany bar’s in the corners. These walls, if the could talk, could indict a politician and make the catholic church release a statement of apology.

It was a velvet cage really.

You had a fourty foot, heated pool with gorgeous lights, and a hot tub that should be used to shoot porn in.

The backyard was a designers wet dream, outdoor fireplace, an outside TV, fully stocked bar, and kitchen.

This big of a house of course had staff, as rich people tend to acquire.

Money and power seemed to get you things, things everyday people didn’t think possible.

It also bought silence, but more on that later.

They came in every Tuesday between two pm and left before seven.

They were like good little workers, the mice in Cinderella is an accurate way to describe this team.

The house was cleaned pristine in that time, and food was restocked in the fridge. Pool didn’t have a single leaf, snacks stocked in Theater room.

Not a spec of dust on any surface, books re-organized.

Creepy really…

Anyone would love the sound of this house.

But this was not a house, this was not your home.

This was your cage.

Now, you are a smart person, both street smart and book smart.

You had a high IQ.

You had a fancy job in L.A, you made movies…at least you used to.

You used to….well, do a lot of things. Like have big parties, a mansion, a fucking retirement plan and a life.

That was before, all of that was before.

Your grandmother had a bird when you went to boarding school, you stayed with her for a month before you left. And that damn bird never shut up, it clanged against it’s cage like it was insane. Life inside the cage was worse than anything out of it.

The author of Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury, once said;

“Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage.”

You understood now why that bird broke his neck on the bars of the cage.

And you understood that you were smarter than that fucking bird.

You had reached a new level of insanity, and it was maddening.

But you were locked in.

The house was a cage, and you were fucking insane.

Claire put cameras in every inch of the house.

She put you in the basement for the first month.

You screamed day and night for the first two days. You think it was two days, time was getting strange quickly.

You heard them cleaning upstairs, and they never even checked to what the sound of that poor bitch downstairs was.

Money and power made the common people scared.

Maya was instructed by Claire to not speak to you, and she listened for the first three weeks.

Which was crazy, you’d never seen Maya be quiet.

But she brought you food, and she locked the door.

You threw things, you smashed mirrors and tried to make weapons. You tried to break the small window only to find it had bars on the outside.

A large man with shades came in with Maya.

He had a very rude electric friend.

You learned from pain and violence what Maya and Claire wanted.

Because Mr. Men in Black used a cattle prod to electrocute you into submission.

You had a mean streak it turned out, and you tried to ignore the voltages running through your body.

But as the first month came to a close.

You fucking missed conversation.

You hated to fucking admitt it.

But you wanted to go upstairs so badly.

And you started to look forward to seeing Maya bringing you food.

They must have done their research on Stockhome Syndrome.

Because you were having a hard time fighting now, a month and no one came for you. No police or FBI? How was that possible?

Your basement had a bed, a bathroom (with a broken mirror), one window that was now fixed and clouded over, and that was it.

And you were so fucking bored.

You’d thoguht they would come in and sexually assault you every day.

You thought you’d get to bite and punch and fight.

But Claire DeBella was smart, and she did exactly what she’d promised in the car that day.

She was breaking you.

You missed the conversation more than you thought possible.

They’d given you no TV, nothing to write with, no books, nothing for stimulation.

So it was on a regular boring ass day of you laying on the bed and staring at the ceiling that a click of the door made you jump.

This wasn’t Maya’s normal time at all.

And the giant guy with shades didn’t walk in.

Governor Claire DeBella did, in her heels and nice dress pants and dress shirt.

She smiled at you, and you thought about trying to hurt her.

But you stopped, and that pissed you off so much. However, you’d learned through pain, through a caddle prod to the stomach and limbs over and over, that fighting would not work.

So you needed to be a smarter bird.

“Hi.” Your voice cracked, you’d only yelled at Maya and begged, pleaded, and cried.

Conversation was new for you.

Claire stopped at the bottom of the stairs and eyed you curiously before she gestured to the spot at the end of your bed.

You nodded and scooted to crisscross your legs on the mattress. Claire kicked off her heels under your bed and then sat on the mattress next to you.

You didn’t let your eyes travel down to the heels, you knew they could be used as a weapon, but you also knew you didn’t want to be alone another minute.

Perhaps you were insane, now.

This was Stockholm syndrome, and it only took a month, strange.

“You seem to be in good spirits today.” Claire mused at you not attacking her and not yelling.

“You haven’t come to see me yet.” You decide on that instead. You wondered if they’d defanged you now.

Claire smiles sadly for a second and then looks around your basement.

“Would you have wanted me to?”

“I..I don’t know.” You can’t believe those words came out of your mouth. Claire thinks about your phrase, and she seems to be debating something.

“Do you know where you are?” She says, and it doesn’t sound condescending like you thought it might.

“Connecticut, your home?”

“That’s right,” Claire says, and she looks towards the stairs. “You know how long you’ve been in here?”

“A month.” You say, and you wonder if she’s doing some kind of cognitive test on you, to see if you are still with it. Claire shakes her head.

“No, Honey, you’ve been in here for two months now.”

You try not to panic at that fact, and you wonder if she’s lying to freak you out. But you can’t figure out if a month or two months in here really matter in the grand scheme of things. You weren’t getting out, and no one was looking for you. So, what did time really matter now?

“Claire?” You ask and she waits for you. “Why am I down here?”

“I wanted you to get out all of your anger in here. But when you decided to accept your new life, I was going to start giving you things again.”

“Things?” You say, and it sounds more excited than you want it to, and Claire notices.

“Yeah, sweetheart, if you can behave, no more mirror knives, escape attempts, and throwing food. We won’t need the cattle prod and quarantine. I’ll give you full use of the house, and you can swim and read. You can watch movies again.” Claire says, and her tone is gentle, and you perk up at the idea of movies.

You think Claire and Maya must have spoken, she just hit your currency. You’d get to watch movies again. You looked down at your lap.

“What would I need to do…to get those things?” You feel like a traitor to yourself, but you were ready to do anything to get some kind of mental stimulation.

Claire turns her hand over and waits, but the message is clear: she wanted you to reach out to her. She wanted you to decide to touch her, and if you didn’t, you didn’t know what would happen. But you had bruises that made your guess of pain pretty clear.

However, it was interesting that Claire was making you decide, like she wanted your surrender.

And you hated her.

And you hated yourself.

Because you reached out slowly and put your hand in hers. Claire softly moved your palm up in her own and used her left hand to trace the new scars from the first week. From the broken glass and mirror in your hand.

Her eyes were fixated on the scars, and you wondered what your monster was thinking.

“If you can prove that you can be a good girl,” Claire says and you shiver, and her mouth twitches in enjoyment at your response. You don’t know why you shiver, but your body does it anyway.

“How?” You press and you don’t know why Claire’s touch is so good.

But you haven’t been touched in…two months was it? Was this you being touch starved?

What was happening?

“As of Today, I’ll start allowing you more things, and if you can follow the rules. If you can behave, I’ll give you more. Mommy wants you to succeed.” Claire says, and she guages you reaction.

The memory of that night at the penthouse comes back in flashes now.

“Mommy no!!” You bit your lip to stop the feeling of your pussy being a super soaker. But Claire found your cervix and used it like Rocky. It hurt, god it hurt, and you can’t stop cumming.

Until she slows her movement and you are wheezing, you need your inhaler, almost that fucking type of wheezing.

Your eyes glaze and you are in shock. But your mouth opens as Claire grabs your face hard.

“What did you just call me? Oh this is perfect. You slut, did you say Mommy? You are fucked up. Is that what you said? You want me to be your Mama? Is that it? Wanna suck on my tits too? You needed this, you don’t want to make decisions anymore. You need Mommy to do it for you then? Oh sweetheart, you are precious.”

You want to pull your hand away now.

But you don’t, you need to know what it will take to go upstairs.

“I’ll be good.” You say even as your mouth feels dry and acidic.

________________

It started that week, you didn’t see Maya.

Claire brought her work to the mansion you figured. Because she spent so much time with you. It started in the basement, Claire started small she brought you a book.

You thanked her, until you saw what it was.

She’d brought you a smutty romance book with stockholm syndrome, and a domme who spanks and sexually humilates the younger woman.

You didn’t care, you just wanted to read. It felt good to read. So Claire sat with you in the basement.

She ate meals with you.

It was another two days later and she brought you a newspaper and you read that thing five times that day. It was just nice to know what was happening.

But Claire DeBella fucking knew what she was doing. She was making you trust her, need her. She was the hand that fed you, and she could take all of it away.

But you were careful with your words, you spoke to Claire and answered all her questions, but you made sure not to let your temper ever show.

At the start of the second week Claire walked downstairs in her big plush robe and a cup of coffe and you all but drooled at the smell of the coffee.

“Maya didn’t give you coffee huh baby?” Claire smirks at your face, it borderlines aroused at the drink.

“Never, I used to get these Cinnamon Dolce Lattes.”

You didn’t mean to tell her that, but you noticed that was happening more recently. You were hungry for conversation, and your captor was the only one here.

“Hmm, you do have a sweet tooth. I’m more of an almond milk latte girl. Though I do love a shaken espresso. Before I was a politician, I’d have an espresso martini at a bar.” Claire mused, and you realized….she wanted to talk to you. What the fuck was this.

“Do you have an espresso machine?” You bit your tongue, angry at yourself for asking.

“I do, it’s upstairs. Would you like to try it?” Claire lays down the offer and waits, taking a sip of her drink.

Like a person puts a mouse trap, she laid the cheese, and you, you stupid fucking rat. You walked right into it.

You nodded, and Claire turned around and walked up the stairs, and you slowly stalked behind her until you got to the steps and you stopped.

You’d been shocked once for crowding Maya by the door, and now you were nervous for the possability of pain. Claire looks behind her like she was listening for your footsteps to stop.

“Darling, I’m inviting you upstairs. You don’t need to be afraid.” Governor tells you, and you wonder if she hears how hilarious that is. But you step up the stairs slowly and she keeps the basement door open for you.

You were in shock for the first few hours of being upstairs.

But you saw the cameras and you saw the giant fence outside, it had to be at least twelve feet along the property. And you even saw a man in the far distance, he had a machine gun strapped to his chest and a big vest.

You weren’t free, just in a more plush cage.

Claire came up behind you, and you froze, but she didn’t touch you.

“How’s the coffee?” Claire says, and you wonder if what she’s really saying is: ‘do you see them? Do you see the guards? You wanna run? You want to go back down to the basement?’

Be smart prey damn it.

“Really good, thank you, Claire.” You say and Claire humms like you’ve chosen right. You try not to let your hands shake as you bring the hot liquid up to your mouth.

The next two weeks Claire would make you sleep downstairs, but bring you up to spend the day and the evening upstairs.

Until the third week when you were in the theater room, your favorite room of Claire’s.

She’d let you choose the movie, which was interesting. You didn’t know psychologically if she just wanted to ease you in, make you forget that you were being held prisoner.

But sometimes you noticed you weren’t afraid of Claire.

That was wrong, that was stupid of you.

Stupid prey.

But it happened, and you had to admit it to yourself at least.

It wasn’t until you had picked Beauty and the Beast that you realized.

You’d picked a story that had Stockholm syndrome in it. You picked it, not Claire, and she didn’t even say anything as you watched it.

But Claire watched you, and you yawned and closed your eyes.

When you woke up, things changed.

You don’t know how you ended up lying against Claire’s chest as she played with your hair. But you thought for a second you were sleeping on Maya, and you were back at your house in L.A. That was wrong, this was wrong, the perfume was different, and the feeling was different.

And your eyes shot open and Claire was rolling her ankles on the sofa. She’d put on CNN now and you were snoozing against her body.

You couldn’t breathe.

This was wrong.

Run away, hide, fucking fight asshole.

You were being fucking domestic.

You were getting fucking domesticated by your abuser!

You jumped off of Claire in horror.

And Claire didn’t even seem offended.

“Oh sweetheart, you were doing so well too. You melted into me.”

“You are a fucking monster.”

Claire laughed and then mutted the TV, like this was way better than politics on the evening news.

“Baby girl, you get to decide how this goes. Not me and not Daddy. So if you want to ruin tonight, that’s fine. But eventually, that little voice that tells you to hate me, you won’t hear it anymore.” The Governor’s voice was so condescending.

You eyed the door and jumped over the sofa and threw it open and ran up the stairs. You ran up two floors until you got to where you’d remembered the front door. Your mind told you to stop, but the fight in you demanded this.

Just as you got to the foyer.

Mr. Cattle Prod came into view. Her was sitting on a chair with a long sub sandwich about to take a bite.

“No! NO! NO! NO!” You shout louder and louder when you see him, he sighs like he doesn’t like this either.

You spent the next two days downstairs, alone, no Claire, no Maya, no movies, no upstairs, no dirty book.

You cried and cried and cried. You didn’t get food, and you didn’t really care about that. You missed Claire, and that was what made you so fucking angry.

On the third day of being alone, around the afternoon Claire came back downstairs.

She was in home clothes, jeans and a button down white loose shirt, and she walked down slowly until she found you laying on the food.

“Shall we try again? Do you think you can behave today for Mommy?” Claire asked and you nodded and wiped at your tears. Claire nodded towards the bed and you scrambled to sit on it.

“What would you like to do today?” Claire asks and you bite your lip wondering if she’s being mean.

But Claire hadn’t been unkind yet, in fact, she’d been downright gentle with you. The beatings only ever came from the man with his shades. Claire always granted you things.

“Can….Can I have coffee?” You ask, having suffered a caffeine headache from the lack of coffee for the past two days. “And breakfast?”

“Those are two very easy things I can do. And I will, but think bigger baby.” Claire said and she cocked her head to the side.

“Can I go…outside? To um..to swim?” You scrambled, you hadn’t been outside in so long.

“You may, but you have to do something for me first.” Claire said and you didn’t even care what it was, you thought.

So you waited for her to say it.

“Take off your shirt honey.” Claire said and you hesitate and she smiles, and it’s dangerous.

But you don’t want to be alone today.

So you take off your baggy white t shirt. You didn’t get bra’s. You figured a long time ago it was because of the wire, aka a weapon.

Claire eyed your breasts but didn’t touch, didn’t say anything.

“Now the pants.” Claire said in an even tone, leaving no emotions for you to latch onto.

You stand off the bed and drop your jeans and she eyes the underwear and arches an eyebrow.

You take them off without her asking and she seems to like that.

“Now let’s go upstairs baby.”

You spend the day naked, and you find you don’t fucking care like you thought you would. Like you once would have. Claire let’s you eat seconds and thirds of breakfast, and she opens the slider, and you get your first breath of fresh air in forever.

Claire lays by the poolside and sits on her phone, with her designer sunglasses pulled on.

And you swim, and you forget for a minute who she is and where you are. It feels so good to swim, you don’t care that you are naked. No one is around but Claire.

The ring of her phone cuts through your gentle mind fog, and she answers it.

And you think to yourself ‘scream and yell, tell them you are being held captive.’ But you remember your quarantine, your solitude, and you bite your lip.

You keep quiet.

Silent for Mommy.

You hate yourself for this.

But you know Claire is watching you, fascinated, entertained even by your submission. You can’t see her eyes, but you feel them on you.

You try to remember who you are.

Who you were.

And that you were not on a holiday at the pool.

You were a prisoner.

You sink to the bottom of the pool and scream, knowing no one will hear you.

_______________________________________________

You aren’t sure how long Claire keeps this up…Time is strange.. but you get to swim in the afternoon sun. She makes you big salads for lunch.

You watch movies after dinner.

You go back to the basement for bed.

You wake up in the morning to coffee agan.

But now, you do all of this, very, very naked.

It is like you must give up something to earn a place at Claire’s table.

And you don’t care about the clothes, so it doesn’t feel bad.

But one day you are watching a movie and Claire is reading a book, and she reaches out and touches your head.

You freeze, wondering if you are about to be hurt or abused further.

But she plays your hair, scratches your scalp, and reads, like you are her house pet.

You wonder if you are her pet now.

That’s how it starts, months into captivity, Claire gently plays with your hair.

And you get used to it quickly.

You come to expect it even.

One day you sit on the sofa and grab the remote to flick through her extensive movie collection and she doesn’t touch you.

You drop your arm with the remote and turn to Claire. Who is reading, or pretending to, you aren’t sure.

“Claire?” You ask and she puts her finger on the page to mark where she was reading but looks up with her glasses and makes an acknowledging noise in her throat.

“Did I break a rule?”

Claire looks confused, or she acts well, and she shuts the book now, you have her attention. You just can’t figure her out.

“I don’t know, Honey, did you?” Claire challenges like she’s speaking to a wayward little thing. And you look around, no cattle prod, no clothes, still upstairs, what was wrong? Something is missing.

“Did I do something wrong, or behave badly?” You ask and you feel strange, like your mind isn’t working like it used to.

“Baby, what is wrong?” Claire tries again, and you wonder if she’s planned this, but you can’t stop mid-play, the show must go on. And you weren’t sure what part you were playing anymore.

“You aren’t…” You realize now why you feel strange.

Claire wasn’t touching you.

How long had you been leaning into her touch? How long had she been doing this?

Now that you thought of it, it wasn’t just the TV times she’d touch you. No she combed your hair in the morning while you drank coffee. And she..she rubbed your back as she helped you climb into the basement at night. She tucked you into the covers…oh fuck she kissed your forehead as you fell asleep.

When had this started? You thought it was just the sofa thing…But Claire went as far as hugging you as she wrapped the towel around you after the pool.

You hadn’t even said anything.

Where was your fight?

You blinked at her now, feeling dumb.

“Can you ask for what you need baby?” Claire said and you realized, you were in the ring with someone far more sophisticated than you’d given credit for.

“No, I um..I think I don’t feel good.” You grip your stomach and lie, Claire takes a moment, a moment to silently communicate with you. She doesn’t buy it, but she waits a second, lets you sweat. Before she pretends with you.

“Oh baby, you swam for a long time. All that time in the sun.”

You remember her putting the sunblock on your skin now, she rubbed you everywhere to get it in. You didn’t even fight her.

“Can I..I mean can I go lay down?”

You need to hide.

“Sure.” Claire nods and stands and you follow her, but she doesn’t turn towards the hall that leads to the basement. She turns instead to go up the stairs, and you are super confused but you follow.

Claire leads you up multiple floors and then down another hall to the master bedroom.

You stop as she opens the door.

It was beige and whites and looked like it was an expensive spa, weekend getaway, plush bedroom.

This was Claire’s master bedroom.

Probably the one she’d shared with Devon, ya know, her dead husband. The one she killed. This god damn monster, a preditor.

You stop before entering and Claire walks in like she has a zillion other times.

The governor goes to the bed and pulls back the plush comforter; she’s got a bunch of giant soft pillows, and the sheets probably cost more than you made in every job through college.

You hold your breath as she makes a show of pulling back the side of the bed for you.

You realize, she’s put you on the other side. Devon's side, actually if we wanted to bring up that guilt. The dead husband's guilt you carried, because this maniac killed people for you.

Claire lets you stand there and decide how your night will go.

She clicks the remote by her bedside and the shades drop.

Now the room is completely dark.

You wonder if this is how it feels to be prey in the woods at night, everything is cold, everything is still, and in the dark your nightmare waits.

“Did you still want to lay down?” Claire asks and you do now. Because your knees feel like they may give.

You pad over to the side of the bed she’s holding the blankets to.

You crawl in and she doesn’t kiss your head, and you don’t know why that worries you.

You figure this must happen in abusive situations. You fear the lack of kiss just like you’d fear the hit. But you also want the kiss, you want to know you are safe. That you won’t be electrocuted and thrown in solitude again.

Claire walks around the bed and you are not sure this is real, she’s going to leave you alone in her room?

“Have a good sleep Sweetheart,” Claire says and closes the door, you wait to hear a lock click, and it doesn’t.

What a beautiful trap she’s laid out.

But you won’t fall into it.

Now, when the bed feels cool, the sheets are so soft, and the pillow so inviting.

You close your eyes and drift into dreams.

You visit your old life in dreams, a dream with Maya and the beach.

_____________________________

When you wake you hear typing, and you open your eyes to see Claire with her hair up in a clip as she types on her laptop.

You blink a few times and Claire must have some strange link to you, because she notices immediately.

“Morning sleepy head.”

“What time is it?” You yawn and stretch and feel more rested than you have in forever.

“A little after two, you slept the morning away,” Claire says like you two are on vacation and she let her lover have a lie in.

“You working?” You ask and you don’t know why but Claire doesn’t flinch at your comment at all. When had you been allowed to ask her things?

“Yeah, I’m trying to get people to listen to this new legislation, but your generation won’t even read it. Wanna help Mommy?” Claire offers and your eyes grow wide at the idea of a problem to solve. You get excited, and Claire easily gives you notes on her speech.

After a while you feel like you are working again, it’s so nice.

“Seems a little stiff.” You say as she hands you her coffee and you drink it. You don’t notice how it has cinnamon, your favorite in it now.

“Should Mommy be offended?” Claire teases with a grin and you laugh.

Claire can’t stop her surprise now, you actually laughed. You hadn’t done that in front of her since before she took you.

But you laugh and it feels so fucking good.

“Sorry, no, you shouldn’t. You should however, be using Twitter, or whatever they call it now. Because, as you blamed my generation for not listening, you should be making the effort to get my generation to listen to you. When I saw you on CNN, you were cut throat, that’s why I wanted you to be elected in the first place. Young women want to hear your opinion, but they don’t always want to find it. You have to make it more readily available.” You ramble and then sip the coffee, satisfied with the taste.

Claire stares at you for a moment.

You wonder if you are being too comfortable in her presence now, perhaps you should stop. Oh shit you were going to be in trouble again.

Stupid little prey.

“I pay my staff a great deal of money, and no one has even mentioned this to me. You may have just upped my ratings.” Claire gives you the compliment and it makes your insides shine; you feel it all over. “And don’t do that,” Claire sternly adds and your smile drops and you are confused again.

“I’m sorry what did-”

“No, don’t apologize for your ideas. Don’t apologize for laughing or having fun. You don’t need to apologize here.” Claire isn’t looking at you and she slips her glasses back on and opens up her email to talk to her so called ‘media team.’

You sit amazed that Claire is feeling so…much like a….partner, or even a friend?

Stockholm Syndrome, you remind yourself.

Not your fault, it’s not your fault, it’s not our fault.

But after that day, you sleep next to Claire.

In fact you hadn’t been down in the basement in a while now.

You walk around the house freely, you are still terrified of the man with the shades but he nods his version of ‘good morning’ to you. And you do the same.

Claire works with her laptop, and you stop thinking about how to steal it to get a message out.

You don’t notice the cameras that follow your every movement as you walk the mansion to get to the library alone. You just grab a book and head back to Claire’s office to sit on her chair.

You don’t remember the last time you wore clothes and you don’t remember caring.

It feels….normal now?

So one night you get into bed and fall asleep as Claire reads, and you easily fall asleep. Just like so many nights now beside her.

And you dream;

You dream of the night. With Miles Bron on a rooftop.

Except this time it’s different.

You are in the bedroom this time, and Claire touches your face.

“You want to cum for Mommy baby?” Claire asks and you nodd and she pulls you down onto her strap on. And you moan and beg her.

“Please Mommy, I need it so bad. Mommy please, Claire fuck I need you inside of me.” You pant and beg.

You wake up with a jolt.

Claire turns on the side lamp, and she grabs your arms to help calm you.

“Honey?” She asks, confused at how you are losing your mind.

“I had a dream..I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” You panic even more now.

Unsure what is worse, the dream, or your reality.

“It’s ok, I heard you calling my name. You sure you are ok?” Claire asks, and she pushes your hair out of your face and you lean into her now. You put your head on her shoulder and you rest it there and she rubs the back of your arms up and down lightly. Not moving for more, and not moving for less.

“Why don’t you touch me?” You ask, and you don’t know if you are still dreaming. Why are you doing this? Why are you shaking?

“I’m touching you right now pudd’n what do you mean?” Claire says and her voice is deep with sleep and it sounds like when she was aroused and fisting you.

You pull back, and you feel frustration clear through your whole body.

“You said that day in the car…You said..” You felt tears falling and Claire’s face changed.

She looked dangerous now. Different than before by so much.

“Say it, what did Mommy say that day in the car, can you remember?” Claire brushed your tears away from your face.

“You said…You said you’d fuck that independent streak out of me…”

Claire nodded and it was such a weird contrast to the sweet woman she’d been to you.

“What else did Mommy say? Can you remember for me?”

Claire acts like you are stupid.

You sob now and hiccup and you remember. But you can’t say it and you shake your head. Claire cups your face and brushes stray tears away like it’s her job.

“I told you i’d give you a good dose of Stockholm Syndrome for your system. You worked so hard, you fought so hard in the beginning. But it weighs on you, that kind of loneliness. I know, because you did that to me. You did all of this. You made me do this baby. So you needed to be punished, you were alone, but Mommy was watching from those cameras. I waited, and I was so patient. But you needed me to be patient, and I will be. But that’s all before, what happened tonight. You broke your streak, baby girl, tell Mama why?”

Claire looks excited, like she used to look on the news before she told some stupid Republican they were wrong.

You look down at your lap and you feel no fear at her words. It was just the truth, so why weren’t you mad.

“Focus baby, answer my question. You were thrashing back and forth in your sleep. You said my name, can you remember what your dream was honey?” Claire asked and your face turned beat red.

You were moaning Claire..You were moaning ‘Mommy.’ Claire seemed to be satisfied that you figured it out, because she’d been watching the whole thing, she knew.

God she was really something else, the manipulation on top of manipulation. You couldn’t figure her out, not even for a second.

“You made a little mess on my sheets huh, sweetie, you’ve been here six months now. Just like I guessed it, huh? And you haven’t touched yourself once. That’s a long time to ignore the need, isn’t it?” Claire’s voice was doing things to you, and you nodded and licked your lips.

This was so fucked up.

Fight, run, fucking hide!

“You were moaning Claire and Mommy. You say it so pretty baby. You were surprised when I didn’t fuck you. But I played the long game, see I don’t want you as some sex toy in my basement. I want you as a wife. I want you to stand on the podium next to me. And the only way that’s gonna happen, is if Mommy is patient.”

Claire lays out the first part of her plan like she’s talking to some lower life form, like you are stupid and she is the teacher.

You gasp and hiccup and cry like a dumb child. A child who stuck their hand in the aquarium and got bit, and then all the adults thought the kid was stupid. You were being so stupid. Your instincts told you to stop, but your mind was no longer your own. Claire had tattooed your skull with her initials, and now you were no longer in control.

“Claire, this is wrong.” You whimper and her thumb brushes against your cheekbone and you lean further into it. Her hold is everything to you.

“I know you say that, but your body likes this. You practically purr when I touch you now. And even in your dreams, you want this. So why don’t you ask? Have I not been fair, have I not given you choices?” The Governor starts to get a little heated. Like you were the problem.

You were prey, you were shark food. You were the dumb bird, fuck FUCK!

Be smarter than this. You begged yourself to be smarter than this.

“Claire this is wrong, I can’t do this.” You say, but your voice sounds sad and Claire sighs and releases you.

Like you ruined it, like you ruined her fun.

“Ok.” She looks disappointed but releases you.

“Ok?” You say completely confused and she moves to the light and flicks it off.

“Then let’s get some sleep.” Claire says and you lay back down and she does the same. Not touching you at all.

You sit there in the silence, and your thighs press together and you wonder how the fuck you got here.

How did you get here?

If there was a god, did she hate you?

Your body wouldn’t let you sleep now, you had to cum. You needed to masturbate. But Claire would for sure feel the bed move, and you knew you were never quiet when you came.

You shifted until you lay on your stomach.

You bit your lip to not moan at the feeling of your clit throbbing as you pressed yourself tighter.

Claire’s voice slices through the night, like the fear you have in your bones.

“I’ve found that lying on my stomach never helped settle the ache, is it the same for you dear?” Claire asked, and you whimper at her words.

Her mothering, comanding, powerful voice shatters your resolve to not lightly hump the bed.

Something about her stupid voice just turned you on. Call it your shitty upbringing or your need for older women to be cruel to you. You’d begged Maya to slap you in bed. You taught your women how you liked to be demeaned humiliated.

Claire didn’t need you to teach her, and that was horrible.

And you just remembered the rooftop with her fist and you were so empty now.

“Claire, I need to…can I…” You knew she wouldn’t let you run to the bathroom and fix this, and you weren’t sure what to ask for.

“You need to masturbate, is that it?” Claire’s voice was mocking.

“Yes please.” You whisper like you are trying to get one over on yourself, maybe you won’t hear it.

“Then do it.” Claire says, and you can’t believe it, but you don’t ask questions.

In the dark of her white room, your hands go under your body and you put your face in the pillow and moan as your fingers meet wetness. You grind down on your fingers for a few minutes in the silence.

Except the sound of the wet noises, they fill the air.

“Claire…” You whimper after a few moments, realizing you can’t cum like this.

“Say it.” Claire's voice is venomou,s and you should be afraid but you aren’t.

“Mommy….can I have your help?” You say, and Claire turns and flicks on the light and throws the blanket back. She sits on her heels now.

“Lay back, open your legs nice and wide,” Claire tells you and you flip onto your butt now and put your legs open for her to watch.

Like she’s the director and you are the porn star.

“Small circles, we aren’t in a rush. It’s just you and me gorgeous.” Claire tells you and you start slower, as if you’ve never touched yourself before. Like this body Claire knew, and you didn’t. Because she was playing you like an instrument and you were tone deaf it seemed.

Claire watched your face and body move like she was starving for every moment of it.

“You got this wet from a dream, baby? That’s so embarrassing. Your pussy is so wet, so swollen from the dream. You needy little thing.” It’s not even as mean as she’s been. But you get wetter anyway.

You whimper and nod, but you need more. And Claire knows that.

“You liked me being sweet these last few months don’t you?

You nodd and rub your clit harder and Claire tut’s you and you slow.

“But you don’t like nice in bed do you?”

The silent voice is louder now, Claire’s not safe, Claire’s not consensual, Claire’s not sane. This is not a place for your fetishes and desires to be knowkn. Claire is poision and you could not do this.

You shake your head, no you don’t.

Claire tilts her head to the side and some of her hair falls.

She’s a goddess.

“You like it mean, just like Mommy.” The white of your captor’s eyes shine in the dark room. She’s crazy. You were insane for playing with her.

“I do, just like Mommy.” You moan at the end as you give her back the nickname. The secret kink you didn’t want to share.

“So, how mean do you need me tonight? You want that fake sweet governor? You want the domestic cunt who sits and plays with your hair?”

Her face doesn’t emote.

You think Claire must be a psychopath; she must be, to have such different reactions. Looks and moods you could never track, no matter how you tried.

But you’d give this woman all she wanted, if you could just cum.

You shake your head, you don’t want nice or sweet.

“No, thats right you need the woman who assaulted you on the rooftop don’t you? It’s been so freaky for you, seeing me so nice. And you were waiting for me to make good on my promise. You were waiting for me to fuck you this whole tme.”

Claire’s voice is dark, deep, but steady. Like she could say the worst most deprived thing to you and not blink, blush, or feel any sort of shame.

Claire was sick.

She could play whatever part and role she wanted. And you were powerless to figure her out, to say the right thing, to do the right things.

You were just along for your Governor’s ride.

You nod and whimper as you touch yourself. Your pussy is desperate and you are too wet to get the right traction.

Your abuser's voice got darker, a little richer in her anger.

“And you are wet and needy, your slick is ruining my fucking sheets. And I’m not even touching you. I haven’t fucking touched you, do you realize that? And ths is how you act. Like a fucked bitch in heat in front of me. You know I used to masturbate to you lying there in that basement, and now here you are masturbating in my bed. The big, bad, scary kidnapper, the one who stole you from your perfect little life. The one who killed for you. And you are a whimpering mess for me.”

You humped your hand trying to chase your orgasm.

You can barely see her face in the night lamp glow illuminating her from behind, but she’s having fun. You blink a few times to focus on her face, try to see Claire.

She’s sick, she’s getting pleasure from you breaking.

“Stick your tongue out. Do you remember when I spit on you? You fucking liked it. You liked my fist. Do you remember my fist? Of course you do, because your hole is gaping open for me, trying to get anything. But I still haven’t touched you. Do you realize how mine you are, if you do this you have to give up this facade that you don’t want me. That you don’t need Mama’s touch.”

Each word hits your skin like a million little needles.

You hate how you moan and chase each word like it’s a drug, and you need a high.

You sob and stick your tongue out, and try to finger yourself but Claire stops you.

“No, that’s not for you to touch. Now I want you to tell me the truth. That sex tape, why did you like it?”

You were worried about this, this was something you had hoped she wouldn’t bring up.

“Please, Claire…..no.”

You didn’t have a safe word, and it seemed she liked you saying ‘no.’ If only for a moment.

“It’s just you and me, and perhaps my own video footage of this moment for Maya. But Daddy already knows, I want you to say it to Mommy. Because you are gonna be Mommy's girl, not Daddy’s, after all.”

You hope Maya isn’t watching, but the idea that she is makes you gasp and your hips pick up.

You secretly missed Maya. You were so angry at her for doing this. But you missed how she fucked you, how she humiliated you. You missed date nights and talking about work. Fuck that woman. But Maya knew this secret, and you wondered if she’d told Claire. Or if Claire could just sniff out secrets. Perhaps that’s why she was such a good politician.

“I can’t. Please don’t make me say it.” You whimper lamely.

Claire sighs loudly, like you are getting on her nerves. Perhaps she didn’t like a brat after all.

“You don’t say it, you don’t get to cum. And it’s been so long hasn’t it?”

Fuck it, you were already dead. No one was coming to save you. You were here to bargain with the devil herself. What was the harm anymore?

So you let it go:

“I liked it because I didn’t have a say. I liked the horrible things they called me. It made me wet. I don’t want control.” You shout it into the night, into the millionaire's, well billionaires' (after getting Miles' money) bedroom.

Claire laughs at you and you hate how much you like being made fun of. You ache for more.

“That's my sweet girl. That's why you belong to Mommy. Why I picked you. You don’t want control. You don’t even know how long you’ve stayed here anymore. You crawled into my bed like a little kitten. Now you are fucking yourself in front of me like a good girl.”

You moan louder and Claire smiles.

Something about her owning you made you feel safe. How wrong was that? That you felt like nothing bad could happen as long as Claire held you. You tried to remember that you weren’t her lover. You were her prisoner.

DeBella’s canines shine in the light.

She keeps speaking, like she’s enchanting you, like she’s a snake tamer. And you don’t know why, but you can’t fight it.

“You love that, you love being a good girl. Well if you were a good girl. You would admit it to me now.”

You feel a game coming on, a new one for Claire. You understand now, and you say it. Your nails dig into your soft, intimate flesh. It hurts, it all hurts.

“I want you to be mean to me.” You admit it, your voice is raw and cracks.

Claire doesn’t seem satisfied anymore. So she continues.

“You like this life. The one I made for you.” She challenges.

“I like this life.” You don’t know who is speaking inside of you, but it comes out your mouth.

“You like being mine.” Claire doesn’t blink.

“I do.” You gasp, and you aren’t sure if it’s from masturbating.

You wonder if this is what hypnosis was like.

“You don’t even notice you are naked in a dirty politicians bed, begging to be fucked like a fucking whore. You missed me, baby.” Claire tells you these things like facts. And your clit pulses at her voice. You have no self respect.

“I did MAMA PLEASE LET ME CUM!” You shout and angrily hump your hand for no release.

“Slap your cunt, hard,” Claire says like she’s telling someone how she wants her coffee, no interest in her voice. It makes you scream out.

You move your hand away from your cunt, and you slap it hard. The sound echoes in her bedroom.

“What do you need, your fingers not doing it for baby?” Claire taunts and you almost wonder if she’s done something to your body. Or your mind? Why can’t you make yourself cum.

You knew.

You needed Mommy.

“I NEED YOUR FINGERS!”” You scream, and Claire thinks about it for a minute. And you think she’s bluffing, but she isn’t.

“Not yet,” Claire says, keeping her hands to her sides. Not touching you, not helping you. And you go mad with need. You start to babble like you have no sense of self anymore.

“Please, please, please. I’M A WHORE! I’m your whore and I want you to hurt me. I want you to make it hurt, I want you to ruin me. I want to be bruised and fucked every second. Please, I’m yours I’ll make your babies and I’ll wear what you want. I’ll go where you want and do whatever you want! Just fuck me!”

Clarie likes that and she licks her bottom lip watching your body writhe in the bed.

“You are a fucking slut. Turn to your right, and smile. You are on video baby. I’m live streaming this.” Claire said, and you came just like Claire knew you would.

That’s how you lost your mind.

___

You begged for the next four days for Clarie to touch you. And she refused to touch your pussy.

She made you do all kinds of things.

You only walked around on your hands and knees for an entire day.

She spoon fed you her leftovers and put her feet on your naked back as she typed on her computer.

Claire was breaking you beyond belief.

She made you sit on the bathroom floor as she used her own vibrator in the shower and came. But you couldn’t see her, and you couldn’t do anything.

Claire even made you hump your own hand while she took business calls.

You were a sex fiend you were gone.

No mind left, no sense of pride.

And finally you were on your hands and knees with your fingers on your clit and she was sitting in her bedroom on her armchair drinking a scotch and watching the show. You weren’t allowed to ever fuck your hole, Claire made sure you never touched there.

You screamed into the bed and sobbed.

You cried for a really long time, and you felt like you were being tortured worse than in the basement.

You wanted Claire, you don’t remember what healthy love was.

But you knew you wanted nothing more than Claire.

You thought to the penthouse with desire now.

Your mind was sick.

And your vagina was raw from trying to mastrubate and nothing working.

“PLEASE MAMA I NEED YOU! I LOVE YOU DON’T IGNORE ME ANYMORE!” You scream and the sound of Claire’s drink hitting the side table was so loud and you didn’t even notice as you cried into the bed with your ass in the air.

But Claire gently flipped you onto your back. Like the broken little thing you were.

“What did you say baby?” She asked and her face looked completely stunned and you didn’t know why. You wiped your nose with the back of your hand.

Your body so sore.

“I..I need you?”

“No sweetie, not that, after that. What did you tell me?”

“Don’t ignore me?” You tried again, and Claire chuckled at that demand but she continued.

She seemed so soft now.

“Before that, right inbetween those two.”

“I love you?” You say, and the words feel strange in your mouth but you blink at Claire through wet lashes. “I love you.” You say more confidently now and Claire’s smile is so big you think it must hurt.

She grabs your knees and pulls you flat and her mouth goes right to your pussy.

You cum in two seconds from her mouth, and then she doesn’t stop for two hours. And you are sobbing and writing under her telling her how much you love Claire DeBella.

That’s how you fell in love with your monster.

How you begged for her fist, her mouth, her kisses, her cruel words.

Unsure how long it has been. How long life has looked this way…But after you had taken a fist and two fingers.. you were laughing and naked at the kitchen island and Claire was laughing with you. It was romantic and sweet and you were so happy. She was spoon feeding you yogurt and you were telling her about a L.A nightmare press thing. And you were breaking an NDA like it was nothing. Telling secrets like you were telling teenage girl rumors. And Claire was paying attention, and somewhere inside you knew she’d use this.

But you were Claire’s weapon now. You were her partner, her lover, her’s to control. And you found your mind didn’t hurt anymore.

But it ended, like all things must.

The front door opened and then slammed close and you jumped and Claire groaned, irritated. She knew what was happening, it seemed.

Maya walked in with her heels clicking on the floor. Her three suitcases being carted in behind her with Mr. Shades. Who looked at his boss like he was not sure who to be more afraid of, Maya or Claire.

“This looks cozy.” Maya snarls with a wicked look in her eyes at Claire.

You don’t know why they are glaring at each other. But you feel like you want to crawl back into the bedroom and hide.

“Maya?” You ask confused, and she looks at you now. She gazes at you like one does a lover they accidentally bump into after the breakup.

“Mason, we agreed you would wait until I told you you could come.” Claire’s tone wasn’t kind.

“Right, but see you aren’t my boss, so that’s not how this works. You keep me from her again and I’ll out you to the press so fast your head will spin bitch. You aren’t the only one with connections and blackmail.” Maya snarls and you look at Claire, fear evident on your face.

Claire drops the yogurt dramatically into the sink. Some of it gets on her button-down sleep shirt; she’s wearing that and a thong.

“Let me get dressed, and then we can talk about this in my study,” Claire said, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

The Governor walks away from you and you feel completely lost. No longer having a tether to your insanity.

You turn to Maya, who stares at you like you are the freaky one here.

“Maya, how long have you been gone?” Your voice is shaky. Maya steps forward to come to you and you flinch. So she stops and looks back to Shades as if to say ‘get lost.’ He drops the bags and walks back out of the house.

Maya has so much fear on her face.

“Two months, two fucking long months. She hasn’t let me in this house yet, last time I saw you was in the fucking town car! I tried to get here but we’ve been arguing this whole time. Plus Matt is a shitty replacement and then Vegas and the shrooms. It’s been a mess without you. I’m trying to convince Governor Gaudy over there to let you work again. What the fuck are you doing?” She whispers, yells the last sentence like she’s on your side.

“What do you mean?” You ask and you feel yourself cracking.

“What do you mean, what do I mean? You are naked in the kitchen? You are practically her sex slave in here. I saw the footage, what the fuck?” Maya tries to walk forward and you back off to the corner of the kitchen like you don’t want to be around her for a second.

Maya seems to fear that too.

You panic and looked around, not sure what’s happening.

“Two months? No that’s not possible, she said six months at least.” You repeated and Maya shook her head.

“She’s fucking lying. Kinda like she lied and told me I could bring you back to work. Kinda like how she told me I could spend time with you. Fuck baby what is going on? Did she….I mean..are you?” Maya put her hands up and down to direct to your person.

And you felt like you were going to have a panic attack.

“Maya what the fuck!” YOu scream and go to the kitchen and grab a knife.

You put your back to the fridge.

“Woah! Put the weapon down!” Maya says but she’s not as freaked out as you thought she’d be. Obviously used to L.A. girls with sharp objects pointed at others.

“Stay away from me!”

“Hey, listen to me! I’m trying to get you out of here. But if you pull this again, she’ll put you down in that basement! I can’t help you there! Ok I’m trying to get you out. You gotta keep your shit together.” Maya yells at you but she turns to see if Claire is watching.

“You are lying, you…fuck you helped her steal me. Oh my god I loved you. Oh my god I told Clare I love her. What is wrong with me?” You yell and look at the blade. Maya watches your gaze, and she starts to walk forward.

“Yeah, that hurt by the way. You told me I was the first person you ever told you loved. And then you fucking tell her, that was fucked. Ok, let’s not hold the blade so close to your body, huh sweetness?” Maya knows you better than you do, you bring the blade closer to yourself, and she lunges forward and you both fight on the floor but Maya is stronger and she hits your hands against the marble top and the knife flies out of your hands.

Claire comes back in and she’s pissed.

“MAYA THIS IS WHY I TOLD YOU TO FUCKING STAY AWAY! What the fuck did you do?” Claire shouts, and you are fighting Maya as hard as you can, and then a shot goes in the back of your neck, and you see Mr. Shades before you pass out.

Part 3 coming soon...

AO3

MasterList

Series MasterList

'Great, look, now the lion woke up You eying my shit, inquiring shit'

#Spotify #maya mason x reader #maya mason #kathryn hahn x reader #kathryn hahn #claire debella #claire debella x reader #maya x reader x claire #Not healthy or sane or good #dark fic #dark fanfiction #my writing #tumblr writers #ao3 fanfic #fan fic #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic

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bmbochangetales · 11 months ago

Text

Another meeting Ashley was on the sidelines for. She wanted to make sure she made a good impression even if she wasn’t involved. She had just graduated college and wanted to work her way up. She had been helping pass out papers and serve the members of the board.

She even pointed out to the Board President a valuable client opportunity in his files. When suddenly he commanded the attention of the other men.

“Gentlemen, what a waste of talent you have keeping Ms. Smith in this position!”

Finally, someone saw her talent and skills. This was looking good for her. The President saw that she was good at the job and could do so much in a higher position.

“I mean look at those milkers, obviously she is going to make one of you a very happy man.”

What was happening? Her boobs suddenly tripled in size. Her once demure button down now squeezed he boobs out on display for the men. Oh fuck. They were huge. Maybe this was a test though to see if she could handle boardroom talk. She just began to remove their cups and dishes.

“Did you see they was she cleared the table too? A tray full of coffee cups and plates from breakfast and she did it in heels and a skirt! A domestic goddess waiting!”

Her skirt shrunk and become a tight miniskirt. Her sensible pumps became sexy high heels. Her hair and make up overly done for a day at the office. She continued clearing the table showing off. Making sure to touch the gentlemen and show off her assets to the company.

“And just look at those hips. My wife popped out 6 healthy kids and Ms. Smith looks even more able. Think of how many times you could knock up a young thing like her.” He gave her ass a slap for emphasis. Ashley’s hips widened as her ass bounced out. Ashley saw all the eligible men in the room. She wouldn’t have time for a career supporting one of these sexy, smart men. She would do better at home, getting knocked up, taking care of their home, making sure they don’t have to worry about a thing especially with their stressful job, that she could barely understand. She was here to serve them coffee and pastries.

“I’m sure she would bring you lunch and those lips for a good afternoons blowjob.” He gave tits a good squeeze as she refreshed his coffee. She let out a long moan but kept doing her job. She imagined being under the desk deep throating a big cock as her husband kept working. Stopping only to spray cum down her throat. Then wobbling down the hallway showing off her big pregnant belly, as she went home to make him a dinner worth of a Michelin star.

“Who is taking this fine bimbo home gentlemen?” The president asked the board. There were murmurs of negotiation as the gentlemen pulled rank and status on each other. Well the men were busy arguing, the lowly mid level manager decided to do things more forward. He grabbed Ashley and bent her over the projector table. Her moans called all the men’s attention to their lost prize as their subordinate claimed her for himself. They all looked to the president as the manager emptied his balls into Ashley who was just letting everyone know what a slut she was.

“Hostile takeover style,” the president said, “that is the kind of men we need in leadership here. The bimbo is yours. Now let’s talk promotion.”

#my writing #my story #Bimboification #mind control #stepfordization

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dearly-somber · 1 year ago

Text

20/20 Vision | j.jk

-> pairing. wolf shifter!jungkook x human!reader (f)

-> genre. slow burn, fluff, f2l (friends-to-lovers), pining, mutual pining, unrequited love, drama, high school!au, university!au, eventual romance, eventual smut

-> rating. 13+

-> w/c. 897

-> warnings. Literally nothing this is pure fluff 🥹🤍

-> a/n. Glasses!Kook origin story!! Y/N lore drop!! (P.S. This takes place before Because It’s Soft!)

-> collection. mini-series

-> started. Dec. 9th, 2023 @ 10:03

-> fin. Sun., Jan. 28th, 2024 @ 12:31

-> edited. Thurs., Feb. 1st, 2024 @ 17:44

-> divider credit. @mmadeinheavenn, @saradika-graphics

You knew something was up when Jungkook—a boy who’d once spotted a squirrel in the road while driving at nearly 100kph—started squinting at the projector not even five meters in front of him.

Even though the two of you sat around the middle of your class, you’d frequently turn to find him angrily squinting at the board, struggling to read your smaller than average handwriting even though he’d never found it difficult before.

Now, sitting in your living room with homework strewn all along the floors and Jungkook nose deep his English textbook, you finally come to the conclusion that his vision might not be so 20/20 anymore.

“Jungkook,” you say concerned as he lets out a frustrated sigh, sitting upright with a frown etched deeply into his face.

“I can’t see,” he complains, groaning and rubbing at his temples. “And my head feels like it’s about to explode.”

You reach out to run your hand through his hair, biting on your lip when he unhesitatingly leans into the touch. “You can’t see?”

“No,” he pouts. “Everything’s blurry.”

“Jungkook.” You rub at his earlobe once before pulling away, searching his face with a pitying smile. “The font isn’t that small—I can read it just fine from where I’m sitting.”

He manages to look offended. “Okay. And?”

You sigh, placing your hand over his, like you’re about to deliver some bad news. For someone so smart, he can be so dumb. “I think you should see an optometrist.”

His doe eyes widen. “No,” he whispers, genuinely afraid-sounding.

You smile apologetically and pat his hand.

He pulls away from you to press the palms of his hands into his eyes, fake-crying into them like the drama-queen he is. “Fuck,” he whines.

You push up from the kitchen table and walk around to massage his shoulders, as if he’s a football player getting hyped up before his next big game. “It’s okay,” you soothe.

“I need glasses?” He sounds so sad, you can’t help but laugh a little.

“It’s not the end of the world!” you laugh. “Besides, I think it’ll suit you.“

“But what about soccer? I can’t play with glasses, they’ll get broken, or, or—“

“Contacts are a thing, remember?”

🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕

Now, a couple of days later, you knock on the packhouse doors with an eager smile, greeting Jimin with a long hug. “Is Jungkook home yet?”

“Yeah, he’s upstairs.”

“Thanks!”

The way to Jungkook’s room is a familiar one. As soon as you enter the pack house you turn right and head a single flight of stairs to the second floor where all the rooms and main bathrooms are. What is new, is all the various pictures hanging on the wall.

You take a moment to admire the new frames you assume either Seokjin or Rosé hung up between today and the last time you were here (around three days ago, now), smiling fondly at the closeness and joy in each picture.

It’s a large 24x48 canvas framed in a beautiful burgundy wood with golden highlights (which seem to have been painted on by hand), and it makes your heart stop.

It’s of a photo you took with the pack a few days after your birthday.

Your heart aches sweetly at the sight of Yoongi with his arms wrapped brotherly around your shoulders, free arm hoisting his whiskey into the air, a large grin on his face. Next to him is Jungkook, both hands in the air, yelling at the top of his lungs with one of those bottled glasses of coke. And around you, the rest of the pack.

Rosé and Jennie crouched beneath you, forming hearts with their arms on either side of your legs; Jisoo, Hoseok, Jin and Taehyung laughing at their brothers off to the side; Lisa yelling at the top of her lungs while being carried bridal style by Namjoon; Jimin on the floor at Rosé and Jennie’s feet, slightly blurred around the edges from setting up the camera.

It was the best night of your life.

“Y/N?”

“Hm?” You look at Jungkook with a smile on your face, which quickly turns into an appreciative grin. “Why, look at you!”

Jungkook laughs shyly, reaching up to self-consciously push his glasses further up his nose. It’s a simple frame: black metal, kind of large but not overly so, a little boxy.

“It looks good!” you say as you finally make your way up the stairs, giving him a quick side hug before making your way to his room.

“You think so?” He holds the door open for you and then lets it slide halfway closed, joining you on the edge of his bed where you’ve already taken up one of his controllers.

“Definitely. Really frames your face.”

He groans. “Not you, too. Jin hyung’s been making glasses jokes all day.”

You laugh, nudging him in his side while starting up It Takes Two (a game you’d asked him to get so you could play together). “I would too, Four Eyes.”

He growls, not even giving you time to think before his hands are at your sides.

🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕

Downstairs, Jimin shakes his head at your loud pleas for mercy and defeating scream-laughter with a fond smile, handing Jin another plate to dry off. “I wish those two would get together already.”

“Patience,” Seokjin chides with an equally fond grin. “They’ll figure it out eventually.”

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sunsh1n3s · 1 year ago

Text

— lecture. ( don hume x reader )

a.n. sorry for the long wait for a fic from me. english and nursing class have been kicking my ass!! please enjoy this fic, the plot is inspired by parts of the book and this ask :)

contains. swearing, fem!reader

coach ulbrickson’s fake races were killing don. the boys were finally organized into decent working boats, and he made sure of it. working them for hours with races or practices, making sure they met his standards. don’s boat relied on him the most, as he created the pace and kept them somewhat stable. it was also a curse, creating the new pace and fighting against the speed of the old one; wearing don down like some type of machine.

he did it with no complaint, still rowing and racing with ease. but it came back to taunt him once he laid in bed and struggled to wake up in the morning.

not only were his teammates aware of it, his table partner in his class was also.

y/n sat beside him in their chemistry class, not one she’d advise anyone to sleep in. she noticed twice now that he dosed off, but never said anything or disturbed him; as he never talked to her or disturbed her. she didn’t mind him though, she doubted that he’d ever disturb her.

don was always quiet and calm, so spending the hour of lecture or experiments beside him was something she preferred over her other classes. however, she didn’t know much about him other than his olympic level skill on the rowing team. but y/n knew about his talent, and how valuable he was to the team. she had sat nearby him and his teammates in the study hall, yet her and her friends always had to move because they slowly got louder. they always had something to say about don’s skill.

y/n was not the only one picking up on things about the table partner. don noticed many things about y/n also, he always noticed her. he was frequently too nervous to say anything to her, though she was probably one of the easiest people to talk to. she was well known around school, just because of her social skills, smarts, and kindness. don felt lucky to sit beside her, even if it sounded strange to say. he was just scared that one wrong thing would ruin the calm be had beside her, even if they never really spoke to one another.

another day, another chemistry class. don made his way in before y/n, like normal. he waited to hear her laughter as she walked in alongside her friend, only parting to go to her seat. he glanced at the door, then his watch. as if she was following a routine, don heard y/n’s familiar laugh and goodbye to her friend as she scooted past people to sit beside don.

“good morning.” she greeted like usual, flashing him a smile. “morning.” he replied, giving her a small one. don acted like his ears weren’t red, and y/n didn’t dare to say anything. she looked down at her notebook with a small smile, waiting for the professor to start lecturing.

once he did, don fought sleep to take notes shown on the board or whatever he heard the professor say that seemed important. it was like his muscles and eyes fought against him. the lights off, dim projector light, and comfort of the calmness between him and y/n; don was set to fall asleep.

once he did, he was out.

somehow his breathing was as silent as he normally was. y/n noticed this once when she took notes for him.

like she had before, y/n grabbed his notebook and read where he was at, adding her own notes while the teacher continued to ramble on. she understood don’s exhaustion, so she didn’t mind writing some for him. she matched his notes to hers and made sure to neatly write so he could read what she wrote for him.

don woke, face flushed when he realized he fell asleep. y/n noticed and slid over his notebook with a small smile, continuing to take her notes while he blinked at the notebook in front of him. don glanced at her and started writing more notes, embarrassed at how messy his handwriting seemed in comparison to hers. “thank you.” he whispered, making her blush and smile at him. “anytime.” she replied.

the gesture didn’t go unnoticed by him, and it didn’t go unnoticed by his teammates.

“don, what the hell happened to your handwriting?” bobby asked, making chuck lean over to look at the nicely written handwriting, semi cursive. they looked at him, along with some of the other boys.

don turned red, “i fell asleep. y/n took my notes and wrote what i missed down.” he explained, you could hear the glee in his voice yet he didn’t smile; he didn’t want to create chaos.

the boys looked at him shocked, y/n, the popular and smart girl of don’s class noticed him. “how long has she been doing this?” bobby asked, leaning over to look more at the papers. don paused his work and looked back, flipping a few times through the notes. “like four times.” he replied.

“don she’s got feelings for you. you have to ask her out.” john said. don sat there in silence, shaking his head. “no i’m good.” he replied, making them all groan and sigh. “well the girls next to me don’t take my notes for me while i’m asleep, they don’t even look at me. she’s into you.” rodger explained, getting up to leave.

“she’d be better with the football guys over there.” don said, turning and looking over to see y/n standing with her friends while they talked with a few of the guys on the football team. y/n glanced over and noticed them staring, she held eye contact with don and waved slightly. he nodded at her as his way of waving and they both looked away. bobby noticed the smile that lingered on her face, fixing her hair and talking less to the guys.

“you know you did play football, basketball, and ran track. you have those guys beat.” bobby informed, looking at don again. all don could do was brush him off, convinced the well known and social girl would go for the quiet and lesser known guy.

“you need to tell her you like her, or ask her out or something.” bobby continued, glancing at him and back at y/n, who moved away from a guy’s action to keep her close. her friends looked at her and she gave them a defensive look, “she’s reserved for someone, maybe you.” roger spoke, shocked at the beauty denying the guy.

“don’t get my hopes up.” don said monotonously, watching her in awe.

don stood in front of ulbrickson with chuck, jim, and george. he looked at a paper and looked up at them, “you boys need to get your grades up.” he started, pressing them into the importance of academics and being on the team, a lecture they heard before.

they couldn’t say much against his disappointment and slight irritation. don just watched and remained silent, something he was decent at but it irritated ulbrickson. “hume, you have to ace your final exam. fail it and we lose you- i cannot lose you. don’t grow an ego about that.” ulbrickson warned. don nodded, listening to his coach’s command.

“maybe get a tutor to help, or a study friend.” he weakly implied, desperate for don to keep up with his grades.

the implication or suggestion from ulbrickson fueled bobby’s ideas and demands that don had to ask y/n out. he found the pairing perfect, and he had talked to y/n before; she wouldn’t turn down helping don, regardless of how she felt about him.

when he could, bobby spoke on y/n, but never too much. it reached the point where they stood in front of y/n, don looking down at her quiet, while bobby stood beside him with a small smile. “am i being interrogated?” she asked, with a small nervous smile.

“don has a question that’s all, don’t ya don?” bobby quipped, nudging his friend. don nodded and hummed, “i need help studying for our final, i thought maybe we both could study together.” he explained, saying the most he’s ever said to y/n; ever.

y/n blinked and smiled, “i’d love to.” she answered softly, and don felt faint. “i thought i’d have to ask to see you myself, but i’m glad you did.” she teased. don blushed a bit, “you want to see me more?” he asked, adjusting his bracelet out of nerves. he wanted to disappear yet stay in the moment forever. y/n nodded at the question, “yeah, i think you’re cool.” she admitted. bobby was grinning now, don would never hear the end of it after this.

y/n could sense the slight awkwardness, “okay! so tomorrow let me know when you’re free. i’ll see you.” she bid her goodbyes with a smile and walked away, don could hear the flutter of hellos she gave to people she passed. he stood there shocked whilst bobby smiled at him. “got yourself a date.” bobby teased.

don turned to watch her leave, smiling slightly.

the glow don got from asking her, or knowing he had plans with her, lasted throughout his practice. don improved his strokes and practiced well, it was noticeable. what caused don to glide smoother and bloom in confidence? the confident one herself.

soon enough, the guys knew, and it was the talk in the jv boat until don went on his study date.

“i really don’t know much.” don said, realizing how behind and lost he was in the lectures. y/n looked up from her book, “do you need me to explain anything?” she asked, sliding out of her seat to sit in the empty one beside him.

don’s posture straightened and his breath caught in his throat, he looked at her and nodded. “alright so,” she jumped into explanation, pointing at what the notes said and the equations in front of them. don listened, looking at her face then back at her hands then back at her face. her knowledge was attractive, making her more beautiful.

“you’re lucky i know this unit. otherwise we’d be fucked.” she spoke, making him laugh slightly at her cursing. “yeah-yeah, we don’t want that.” don said, smiling at her. y/n looked up at him, returning the smile.

they both worked on their equations that they were advised would help on the quiz. don glanced at y/n’s paper, and y/n herself. she flowed through the worksheet somewhat easily, she cursed to herself here and there, erasing the whole equation.

an hour passed, they both sat in comfortable silence; y/n remained by don’s side. eventually she finished the entirety of the studying, and don completed a bit after her. they both groaned and rubbed their eyes in result of staring at the paper for hours. knuckles cracked, shoulders were rolled, and sighs were let out. the two were exhausted.

y/n rested her head on the table, letting out a long sigh. don watched her with a small smile, “want to go out and get ice cream?” he asked, checking his watch. coach wouldn’t kill him for a small cone and coming back at eight pm. y/n sat up tiredly, smiling at don. “i do owe you for your time.” don added, smiling sheepishly. y/n yawned and shook her head, “i enjoy spending time with you. i’d love to get ice cream.” she agreed, needing a pick me up and wanted more time with him.

so the two packed up their bags and left the library. it was cooler out as the night came by, but it was perfect. together, they walked side by side towards the ice cream shop, gradually getting closer.

don opened the door for y/n and took her bag, letting her order and relax while he followed with his own order. y/n noticed the gestures, feeling special by them. don looked at her, catching her staring. she smiled and so did he, “what?” he asked quietly while they waited for their cones. y/n simply shook her head, “you’re just handsome, personality and looks.” she complimented. don was slightly taken aback, he smiled and tried to form a sentence. however they were both interrupted by the worker, handing them their ice cream.

both don and y/n sat outside next to one another, they both stared out at the water that don constantly fought against. “you have hope in this test that’ll save you your spot on the team?” y/n teased, looking at him. don chuckled, “if anything, you saved me my spot.” he replied. y/n became flustered and looked away from him, silently eating as her cheeks and ears burned.

“you’re truly a lifesaver. to me and like everyone you help and know. which is a lot.” he continued, making her laugh and nudge him. “not a lot.” she replied, making him shake his head. “not true, you’re like the most well known girl here. not because of only your beauty, your smarts and kindness too.” don explained, going silent when he realized he admitted his thoughts of her.

y/n was now the one speechless, “you’re too kind.” she said, smiling at him. he shook his head again, “it’s just the truth.” he replied. y/n took in his features and his small sly smile, he let his eyes move down her face then back to her eyes. it was the perfect moment to make a move, don took a second longer, “are you into any of those football guys?” he asked nervously, quietly. “anyone more known?” he added. y/n caught his drift, or his nervousness, and shook her head.

“no im just into this one rower who falls asleep next to me in class, i really like him and like to see him succeed so i help him by taking his notes.” y/n admitted, smiling at don. a full smile grew on his face, “really?” he asked. y/n nodded and don took it as the actual perfect opportunity, kissing her gently.

they both sat there, pulling away with bashful smiles. “once we pass, we should go out for ice cream again. or just go out again eventually.” she whispered, don smiled at her suggestion, “i’d like that.” he replied and kissed her again.

and so they had their second ice cream date, every year on the same day, even on the night of their wedding. the two were bound to fall in love, it just took several lectures to get to where they needed to be.

a.n hope you enjoyed!

tags: @gvfsstardust

#don hume x fem!reader #don hume x reader #don hume fanfic #don hume imagine #don hume #j’s imagines

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cillianmesoftlyyy · 2 years ago

Text

The Experiment Pt. 1 | Jonathan Crane x Reader

Summary| Jonathan Crane assigns his students a new experimental project: choose a phobia and research methods for coping with or completely overcoming those fears in test subjects. A student approaches Dr. Crane with an interesting project proposition... can he help her overcome her fear?

Warnings| Teacher x student relationship (both are consenting adults), Borderline sexual assault between a bf and gf, Erotophobia, Smutty stuff yk , Masturbation, P in V penetration, Teasing, Semi-public, Unprotected sex, Begging, Experiments. Extensive discussions of sex and intimacy.

"Oh My God"- Ida Maria 🎵

"Lazy Eye"- Silversun Pickups 🎶

"Romantic Lover" Eyedress 🎵

Word count: 3375k

Minors do not interact!!

.............................................................................................................

He leaned back on the desk behind him, his hands flat against the surface and his suit coat spread like grayish wings against his arms. Dr. Crane looked between his students, landing on a female student, squinting against the projector’s harsh glare in his eyes. She looked back from her seat near the back of the lecture hall, a small twist forming between her eyebrows as she read the text on the screen just above his head.

“I expect this won’t be much of a surprise to most of you, considering we’ve been working towards this for the greater part of the semester.” He watched the dozens of eyes in his hall blink rapidly in response and swallowed his distaste.

“Remember that I study phobias- fear- and from the looks on some of your faces, it appears quite a few of you are afraid.” He chuckled darkly and changed the slide, the light flickered against the students’ faces.

“Choose a phobia, research it, and develop methods of coping or even ways to overcome this phobia. You should have a test subject and a complete study, all of which should be straightforward considering the work you’ve done with me in the past weeks. The research paper you turn in will account for 30% of your final grade. Take this seriously. These are your instructions. Other questions can be directed to the syllabus. Only come to me if you have specific concerns regarding the experiment- I’m doing research of my own and don’t have time to meet with all of you.” He swallowed, scanning the class again and landing on the girl from before.

Faye Greyson, why is it that her papers are so well written but she contributes nothing to class discussions? She seemed so pathetic sitting up there on the back row with her big doe eyes caught in the headlights of his lectures…he thought briefly and let it slide from his head as he dismissed the class. The college students around him fled from the room, talking quietly to one another as they scrambled out of the room. The girl came down the steps and brushed past him gently. She smelled like generic soap and rose water. He wrinkled his nose slightly, breathing her in.

“Sorry, professor.” She apologized kindly with a smile that showed too much of her pink gums.

“Watch it.” He muttered beneath his breath, giving the back of her head a dark glare and turning to pack up his briefcase. He took the rail to his lab on the north side of town, a book open across his lap. He fingered page 16, running his index against the straight edge of the paper and turning it quickly as he read. The doors opened at one of the stops and he glanced up briefly, fixing the horn-rimmed glasses on his face. He rolled his eyes when we saw Faye board the train from the yellowed platform, hand in hand with another student from his class. One of the boys that took the class because they were naturally gifted but did nothing besides attend some classes and depend on their smarts to barely pass. He would have some harsh realities to face by the end of the semester when he saw his final grade, Crane would make sure of that.

He hated seeing students outside of class, it prompted them to speak to him when he’d rather both parties pretend they didn’t know each other. To be fair, they really didn’t know each other. Crane didn’t find his students very interesting so he wasn’t concerned with getting to know them. The only aspect he could muster some ounce of thoughtful contemplation for was their phobia projects, where he theorized, they would all most likely choose their own phobias. Knowing their phobias was about as interesting as their lives could get for him. Besides that, he could care less.

The train was full so the girl held onto one of the rubber handles suspended from the ceiling, but because she was so short, she had to stand on her tiptoes to fully grasp the handle, her knuckles turned white in her grip. The boy… maybe Jason White (Crane couldn’t remember exactly) took one of the ceiling bars easily and slipped his arm around the girl’s waist. Their puffy coats slid against one another as they swayed in the fastly moving train car. The boy's hand left her waist and traveled up, somewhat discreetly, to one of her breasts. With her free hand, she swatted him away but he persisted, thinking that it was a game. Faye happened to glance over in Crane’s direction and recognizing him immediately, turned bright red. The boy’s hand slid over her hardened nipple visible through her pink jersey turtleneck. She tried to cover her chest with her arm but as the train shuttered in speed, she had to stabilize herself with her free hand against a plastic partitioner. Crane cleared his throat distastefully and returned to his book.

For some, the absence of fear is a greater disaster than fear itself. To fear nothing is to have no conception of danger, empathy, pain, or love. Do sociopaths fear? Some scientists have sought to answer this question but the evidence is inconclusive on the subject, though it is nearly unanimous among the scientific community that fear is essential to survival and companionship. It is the primal root of our existence and should be a present factor in every major part of our lives. It is how we make connections with others and how we protect ourselves and our own. For sociopaths who may not fear, they lack a basic foundation of complexity that supports an emotionally ‘typical’ person. They lack love, understanding, and hope because they do not feel the fear of potential loss, misunderstanding, and dread in the same situation.

“Stop it, Jason.” The girl whispered harshly to the boy.

“No one’s looking.” He whispered back and kissed her neck, the sound causing a wave of communal discomfort amongst the rail riders.

“Perhaps not but we can still hear.” Crane muttered beneath his breath and raised his eyes to the young couple. The girl looked to be on the verge of tears, her face so pink it nearly matched the hue of her shirt. Crane noticed the small curvature of her breasts still showing through the fabric.

“Damn the cold.” Faye whispered and covered her chest with her arm with embarrassment and Jason laughed condescendingly.

“Don’t go blaming that on the cold….” Jason cornered her against the wall of the rail which Crane assumed would have been attractive to someone who wasn’t standing uncomfortably on a moving public train.

“Can we at least just wait till we get off? I don’t…” She trailed off, making eye contact with the professor who was now thoroughly annoyed. Jason looked over too, finally seeing Crane across the doors.

“Hello Mr. White.” Crane hissed, showing his deepest displeasure at having to step in for the sake of every passenger on the train.

“Professor.” Jason responded nervously.

“Miss Greyson.” He nodded in her direction.

“Professor.” She whispered back in a weak mew of a voice.

Crane stood, slid his book back into his briefcase, and clicked it shut. The doors opened at his stop and he turned around casually saying, ''behave yourselves,” to the two students and stepped down onto the platform. The doors closed behind him. He turned to face the windows cut into the doors, making eye contact with the girl, now visibly crying, overwhelmed and embarrassed. He tipped his head to the side, watching her, and raised an eyebrow as she looked up and met his clear blue eyes. The train shot away from the platform, sailing against the New York City skyline.

“Hmm,” Crane hummed to himself and walked away, pursuing his chapped lips to whistle a low note.

——-——

His class met twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the evening. He commuted to work, taking a train to the college in the morning and working through the day until he could commute back to his lab and then to his small apartment where he slept most nights when he didn’t fall asleep on his pages of research and diagrams.

Last night was one of those nights, so he wasn’t in a good mood as he boarded a later train than he usually took for his evening lecture. The train’s wheels squealed as they stopped in the station outside NYU. Crane hurried off and squeezed through the mess of people lining the subterranean station. He walked quickly through the station and raced up the stairs to the street level. He was met by the familiar sound of taxis whizzing by and the annoying laughter of students as they passed on their way to classes and dorms.

He went straight to his corner office and put coffee on, relaxing as the smell of the brewing grounds filled his small office. He scanned his lecture notes on a pad of manilla paper and with a red pen, scribbled additional thoughts in the rigid margins. The coffee maker sputtered to a stop, steaming up the window just behind it. Crane pushed away from his desk and filled a small cup with the hot coffee. As he placed it on his desk, a hesitant knock sounded at the door. He checked his Rolex and muttered beneath his breath.

“Shit. What the fuck is it now?” He gritted his teeth, “come in!”

His office door opened slowly and a girl stepped inside the room. Faye Greyson wringing her small hands, took a step toward his desk.

“Good evening, Professor.” She greeted him quietly. Her nose and the tops of her ears were tinged with red.

“Miss Greyson, what is it?” He sat back at his desk and cleared his throat.

“Well, I just…” She trailed off pathetically and wrapped her arms around herself. She was wearing a light blue turtleneck this time with dark blue boot-cut jeans. They were low rise and showed the small pouch of her stomach that surrounded her bellybutton.

He waited for her to finish her sentence but as the seconds dragged on, he sighed.

“Would you like some coffee?” He asked with a hint of unkindness.

“Yes, actually. Thank you.” The girl pulled the chair on the other side of the desk back and sat down, dropping her bookbag on the floor beside her. Crane took a second cup and poured her some coffee. She took it carefully and accidentally brushed her thumb against his. She muttered an apology.

“Why are you here?” Crane asked plainly, removing his glasses and wiping them with a small cloth.

“I just… well I just wanted…” she started again.

“Yes I know, you said that before.” He chuckled darkly and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, losing his patience.

“Right. I just wanted to apologize for the other night, Dr. Crane.” She said finally, exhaling between her lips sharply.

“Apologize for what?” Crane furrowed his eyebrows and blew on his steaming coffee, trying to remain patient with his student.

“For what you saw on the train.” She cupped her hands around the mug, her eyes held tightly to the adjacent wall, refusing to meet his.

“Ah.” He sat back in his chair. “I’d forgotten about it but I still don’t see why you need to apologize. You’re an adult, Miss Greyson. What you do in your personal life doesn’t interest me in the slightest.” He shuffled through his papers again, searching for the scans he had prepped.

“I’m glad that you see it that way, sir. Why I felt like I needed to apologize for was the whole scene we caused and how you felt responsible to say something when he wouldn’t… stop. So, maybe what I’m trying to do is thank you?” Her voice ended at an odd nasally pitch.

“Thank me? For what? For telling you and your boyfriend to behave yourselves?” He was getting more and more confused as to why she was in his office talking to him about a train ride that he had almost forgotten about. He checked his watch again and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Yes, because he stopped after that, so thank you.” She crossed and uncrossed her legs and he could smell that familiar scent of rose water permeating the air inside his office.

“Alright, you’re welcome.” Crane exhaled tightly and cleared his throat when she didn’t stand or say anything else. “Is there something else?” She nodded and blushed deeper, shifting in her chair. His jaw clenched and his palms were sweaty. Out with it, he wanted to growl. His lecture started in an hour and at this rate, they would both be late.

“I broke up with him.” She said finally as a tear rolled down her face, gliding along the shallow cliff of her cheekbone. He said nothing, restraining himself from saying anything at that point. She sniffled and hiccuped pitifully. He pitched his eyebrows together with his index and thumb, placing his glasses on the desk between them.

“Why?” He asked finally.

“Because I was scared of him.” The girl answered, crying softly and playing with her hands in her lap. She looked up at him with wide eyes, red and faintly smudged. His body subconsciously perked up at the mention of fear and he leaned forward on his elbows, his dress jacket’s elbow patches grinding against the wood surface.

“Well it wasn’t that I was scared of him but rather what I felt like I’d have to do with him.” She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. Crane took a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it begrudgingly. She took it and blotted her nose where snot was leaking down onto her upper lip. He felt a fixture of disgust and surprise arousal. Her long eyelashes stuck together with sticky tears and she but her lip to keep from crying.

“I’m not sure I follow you.” He pushed his glasses up farther. He lifted his cup of coffee to his lips and drank deeply.

“I was scared of having sex with him.” She hid her face behind her shaky hand, the white handkerchief wavered in the movement. Crane swallowed loudly and set the cup down, clearing his throat.

“Well…” He traced his mouth with the edge of his thumb, reaching for words to respond with.

“It's erotophobia.” She added and hiccuped.

“Fear of intimacy, interesting.” He scanned his bookshelf for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?” He sighed and rearranged himself in his chair.

“I want to do my project on erotophobia,” she took a slow sip from her cup of coffee and took a deep breath, “and I want to be the subject too.” She glanced up, testing the durability of their eye contact. He didn’t look away, he was fascinated.

“I don’t know about that, Miss Greyson.” He answered smoothly and collected his papers into a neat pile, clamping a large binder clip around the papers. He stood and took one last sip of coffee, still looking down at the girl below.

“I’ve been looking for subjects since I saw this on the syllabus a month ago. There aren’t any, Professor.” She said timidly, sounding almost exhausted.

“That’s impossible, we live in New York City. You must have been able to find someone!" He laughed and collected his things into his arms.

“And yet,” she stood and clasped a hand around her opposite arm, “I can’t find anyone. To be fair, this sort of thing isn’t easy to find in the population. Other people in the class will choose their own phobias, why can’t I do mine?” She turned as Crane stepped around his desk and went to his office door.

“This is a very special situation, Miss Greyson. While I find your project topic surprisingly thought provoking, it’s…” He struggled to find an adjective.

“Inappropriate?” She offered, lowering her head.

“Perhaps but I don’t really care. I just worry that by you conducting the experiment and being the subject, you are jeopardizing the entire outcome of your research. It's unorthodox to say the least.” He opened the door and stepped out. The girl grabbed her bookbag and followed, standing off to the side while he locked his office door.

“Yes, I know sir.”

He walked quickly and she followed, matching his stride even with her shorter legs in tow. At the door of the lecture hall, Crane stopped.

“We can talk about this later,” he nodded down at the girl and went straight to his desk on the elevated platform. She smiled shyly and climbed the stairs to the middle section of seats and sat, closer to the front that she had been before. Crane saw the old boyfriend in the same seat as before, chewing on the end of a wooden pencil. Exhaling, Crane dropped his briefcase on his desk and began to unpack the papers he needed for the lecture.

________

After he dismissed class, he repacked his things and snapped his case shut, the sound echoing around him in the large room. The girl waited just behind him, he could feel her presence like an unseen bug hovering out of reach.

“I-” Faye started but Crane spun around, interrupting her.

“Have you tried masturbation?” He crossed his arms across his chest and sat on the desk. His student blushed and laughed nervously.

“See this is why I worry about you jeopardizing your own experiment. I asked you about masturbation, will your subject try masterbating to approach correcting her fear of sex?” He inclined his head in her direction.

“Yes, she’s tried it, Professor.” She responded short of breath.

“And it hasn’t helped?” He furrowed his brow.

“Not exactly.”

He licked his lips quickly and brushed a hand across his mouth. “And uh, what does the subject think about while she masterbates?” He watched her shift uncomfortably between her feet and bit her lip.

“I don’t know.”

“Hmmm.” Crane hummed and stood up from the desk. He stepped down from the platform and stopped right in front of the girl. She looked up at him, her eyes wet and heavy with color. She took a step back prompting a quiet tittering from her teacher who stopped her.

“Ah, ah.” He closed the distance between them, not touching her but getting close enough to smell the residue of generic soap caught on the goosebumps of her skin.

Crane leaned in, his wide lips brushing her earlobe as he spoke, “does your subject watch pornography?” Her skin warmed beneath his lips.

“No.” Her breath hitched and Crane could physically feel her discomfort at his intimate proximity, the rush of blood to her…

“Has she ever had sex?” He whispered, allowing his lips to rest on the ridges of her small ear. She shivered.

“No.”

He pulled away. The girl exhaled and looked up to the ceiling. With strong, angular fingers, Crane pulled her chin down to face slightly so that he could see her eyes. They glistened with inklings of fear- fear.

“Then that’s what it is.” He muttered more to himself than to Faye, smiling.

“What?” She asked, tears forming in the wells of her eyes.

“It’s the physical aspect of it, isn’t it? Having to touch someone, be touched… outside of your imagination?” He crossed his arms across his chest proudly. A few moments of silence passed between them, each watching the other in contemplative stillness, charged with suggestive energy.

“Yes.” She whispered finally and ran one of her hands up the buttons of her professor’s shirt to his neck. She went to kiss him but he stepped away and chuckled roughly.

“No, no Miss Greyson. Think of the experiment.” He chided and turned her chin gently away, trailing his hands down a tendon in her neck.

“Tell your subject to try masturbation and pornography. See where it takes her.” He took his briefcase and pushed past her, leaving a residue of rich cologne in the air around her.

---------

end of part 1 :)

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