#experiment! reader

[biscuits-and-gracie]

Property of Dr. Cameron

summary: Subject arrives at the party wearing your homemade Frankenstein costume with the name tag: “Property of Dr. Cameron.” characters: mad scientist! rafe. experiment! reader warnings: manipulation. obsessive behavior. borderline stalking. slight dollification? word count: 2.6k

It took him longer than usual to enter the party.

Not because he was unsure. He’d been invited, technically-your little voice had chirped at him just the night before, “You have to come, Rafe! Please?”

You’d even sent a heart emoji. Green. Matching your Frankenstein theme.

No, he hesitated because he knew what tonight was. A test. The final variable in a months-long equation.

He smoothed his hand over the white lab coat. It was his real one, from the research wing. A little wrinkled at the hem, slightly stained with blue dye near the cuff from a week-old test. His safety goggles rested on his forehead, pushed up into his slightly greasy hair. He’d considered taking them off. Decided against it.

Let them laugh. Let them think he was being ironic.

They had no idea.

He wasn’t dressing up.

This was who he was.

And as he stepped through the door, into that heat-choked, beer-sour mess of a college party, he scanned the room for you.

He saw you instantly.

You were standing by the kitchen counter, surrounded by noise and red cups and people much louder than you. A little green streak shimmered down the side of your face. Glitter traced your cheekbones. Your curls were tied in two puffy pigtails, frizzy from static. A plush red heart was stitched onto the shoulder of your oversized, hand-dyed sweater.

But it wasn’t the makeup that made his breath catch.

It was the tag.

Pinned crooked to your chest, written in silver sharpie and surrounded by uneven stars:

PROPERTY OF DR. CAMERON

You were laughing at something someone said. Twirling a straw in a cup of off-brand soda. But Rafe couldn’t hear any of it. The music, the talking, the bass that shook the windows-none of it made it to his ears.

Because all he could see was you, beaming in your little Frankenstein costume, proudly, publicly, wearing his name.

And you hadn’t even told him.

You’d done it on your own.

He stood there a moment too long, stock-still in the crowd. Let the wave of realization ripple over his skin like static.

You’d named yourself.

And you’d chosen him.

He was going to be so gentle with you tonight. So careful. So patient. Because you’d just handed him the final piece.

SUBJECT LOG 10.31.01 - Initial Visual Confirmation Break Point: Subject arrives at the party wearing your homemade Frankenstein costume with the name tag: “Property of Dr. Cameron.”

Subject Identification: 001 - F (You) Observation Time: 20:03 EST Location: Social Field Test - Fraternity Residence (Delta Phi) Behavioral Trigger: Subject independently designed and wore symbolic clothing indicating ownership by Analyst. Analyst Response: Subject entered visual range at 6.4m. Immediate sympathetic nervous system response: heart rate elevation, micro-tremor in right hand, heat spike across collar. Analyst remained still until physiological symptoms stabilized. Analysis: Subject behavior is unprompted and entirely self-directed. Symbolic submission displayed openly in public environment. Subject appears unaware of implications. Suggests full assimilation of assigned role and psychological reinforcement of Analyst as authority figure. Conclusion: Primary hypothesis confirmed. Subject views Analyst not only as a caretaker, but as creator, stabilizer, and controller. Emotional Response: Euphoric. Dangerous.

You spotted him before he reached you. Lit up like you always did when you saw him-head tilted, eyes sparkling, like you were seeing something safe.

“There you are!” you squeaked, moving toward him. “I was starting to think you ditched.”

His eyes raked down your figure. The fuzzy green leg warmers. The little stitched smile you’d painted on your chin. The way your fingers kept fiddling with the red-stitch heart on your sleeve.

You were perfect.

“Nice goggles,” you said, grinning. “Committed to the bit, huh?”

He didn’t smile.

He just stared at the tag.

Then, slowly, stepped forward until the tips of his shoes nearly touched yours.

“You made this?” he asked, brushing one gloved finger against your sweater where the tag was pinned.

You giggled. “Yeah! I thought it’d be funny. You know, since I’m your monster and everything.”

Rafe’s eyes flicked to your face. You weren’t joking-not really. Not deep down. Your words were candy-coated, but he saw the truth behind them.

You believed what you were saying.

“I guess that makes you mine then,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught in your throat. Not because of the words-but because of how soft his voice was when he said them. You tilted your head and laughed it off. “I mean, yeah, until you patch me up too well and I run away into the woods or something.”

He stepped closer.

You stopped talking.

He adjusted the tag with two fingers, slow and clinical, like aligning a surgical tool.

“I built you better than that,” he murmured.

And you didn’t say a word.

You didn’t even blink.

SUBJECT LOG 10.31.02 - Verbal Reinforcement & Acceptance Break Point: Analyst approaches and subject says “I’m your monster,” referencing the costume.

Observation Time: 20:06 EST Location: Social Field Test - Delta Phi Living Room Transcript Fragment: Subject: “I thought it’d be funny.” Analyst: “I guess that makes you mine, then.” Observation Summary: Subject accepts Analyst’s phrasing without resistance. Humor used to buffer underlying truth. Subject does not cognitively challenge ownership terminology and responds positively to “mine.” Conclusion: Subject psychologically primed. No reinforcement required. Language of possession accepted as affectionate. Subject unconsciously aligns self within Analyst-controlled identity structure. Next Steps: Continue integrating casual ownership language into everyday interaction. Escalate to physical mirroring in controlled spaces.

The night went on. Loud. Stupid. Chaos disguised as fun. People in cheap wigs and ghost sheets spilled beer on furniture. Someone took edibles and cried during “Thriller.” A guy dressed as Shrek tried to get you to dance. Rafe was there in an instant-gloved hand slipping over your waist, grip like iron under the white sleeve.

“She’s taken,” he said simply.

The guy blinked. “Oh. Uh. My bad, dude.”

Rafe didn’t answer.

And you?

You just looked up at him.

“I am?”

He leaned in, breath brushing your cheek. “Aren’t you?”

You hesitated.

Then your fingers tugged your sweater closer to your chest, glancing down at the little tag you’d made.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I guess I am.”

SUBJECT LOG 10.31.03 - Social Intervention / Protective Reclaiming Break Point: Another student attempts to dance with subject. Analyst intervenes.

Observation Time: 21:04 EST Location: Main Floor, Dance Area Stimulus: 3rd-Party Male (unidentified) initiates unwanted proximity with Subject Analyst Behavior: Immediate step-in. Physical claim initiated with palm at Subject’s lower lumbar. Verbal declaration: “She’s taken.” Subject Reaction: Confusion → stillness → gaze lifted to Analyst. Query: “I am?” Analyst Response: “Aren’t you?” Subject looked down at tag, self-affirmed ownership with nod. Verbalized: “I guess I am.” Analysis: Subject required only minimal verbal redirection to reaffirm bond. Indicates growing dependence on Analyst’s perception to define self-reality. Threat Level (External): Low Threat Level (Internal): Controlled but escalating. Analyst experienced surge in protective ideation. Visualized physical removal of threat. Withheld. Conclusion: Possession language not only accepted-relied upon for emotional navigation.

He took you upstairs before midnight. Away from the music. Away from the stares.

A guest bedroom, door creaking slightly, walls too thin. The lamp was off, but the hallway light poured through the crack, painting both of your shadows across the floor.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, sweater bunched at your wrists.

Rafe stood in the doorway, watching you like a starving man. His gloves were still on.

You fidgeted with your tag. “It’s a little silly, right? The costume?”

“No.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

He didn’t speak.

Just walked forward. Kneeled in front of you.

Took your hands in his.

Glove against skin.

He turned one over slowly, stared at the lines in your palm like they meant something. Like he could read data there.

“You’re not silly,” he said, voice low and sharp. “You’re obedient. Soft. Malleable. You belong.”

Your lips parted. A nervous laugh slipped out, too quiet.

“I don’t know if I like how intense that sounds,” you whispered.

He looked up.

Expression still. Gaze steady.

“But you like how it feels,” he said.

And you didn’t deny it.

SUBJECT LOG 10.31.04 - Voluntary Isolation & Containment Break Point: Subject agrees to go upstairs with analyst, alone, without hesitation.

Observation Time: 23:12 EST Location: Guest Bedroom, 2nd Floor Analyst Behavior: Maintained close distance without touching until subject initiated verbal vulnerability. Transcript Fragment: Analyst: “You’re obedient. Soft. Malleable.” Subject: “I don’t know if I like how intense that sounds.” Analyst: “But you like how it feels.” Subject Response: No verbal challenge. Physical proximity increased. Analysis: Subject now equates comfort with proximity to Analyst. Private isolation triggers bonding behavior. Symbolism (costume, ownership label) reinforced under closed-system conditions. Next Step: Encourage subject to leave clothing/personal item in Analyst space. Seed permanent presence.

Because his hands didn’t hurt.

His voice never yelled.

And every time he was near, your brain stopped running in scared little circles.

You leaned forward without thinking.

Head on his shoulder. Fingers fisting the front of his lab coat.

“Just don’t… don’t unmake me, okay?”

He wrapped his arms around you. Pulled you fully in.

“I would never,” he whispered. “You’re my favorite invention.”

SUBJECT LOG 10.31.05 - Attachment Consolidation / Identity Merger Break Point: Subject leans into Analyst, asks “Just don’t unmake me, okay?”

Observation Time: 00:34 EST Location: Guest Bedroom, prolonged isolation Subject Quote: “Just don’t unmake me, okay?” Analyst Response: “I would never. You’re my favorite invention.” Conclusion: Subject has fully merged emotional identity with role in Analyst’s ecosystem. Sees Analyst as creator, guide, and emotional stabilizer. Final Observation: There is no need for force when the subject builds her own leash. She asked to be kept. And she thinks that’s love.

[qiyuearning]

your first time with caleb and he is so, so… how can he even describe it?

“you’re— you’re— i can’t even . . . ohmygod? just wow.” he says all in one breath, eyes struggling to focus on just one part of you. his hands hover just over your torso, tracing the air over eager skin. he doesn’t know if he can handle even a second more of this. is he dreaming right now? is he allowed to?

god, let him have this. finally, his hands find their way to your hips, slender fingers flexing against smooth curves. he could feel your body pressed against his, warm and solid. real.

he always had a snarky quip or a teasing remark to lighten the mood, but right now, all that escapes his lips is an uncharacteristically pathetic sound he doesn’t mean to let slip.

“pip— you’re gorgeous. i mean you’re always gorgeous! o-obviously. always have been,” he sputters, his breathing almost erratic as he chastises himself in an attempt to chase after what little shred of common sense and control he has left. “can i? i mean, will you let me . . . ? no— god, if i could just—“

caleb babbles perhaps a million things per minute—prayers most likely, so fast that it makes your head spin. it isn’t until he feels your touch on his chest that he calms down, your hand warm and solid. real.

“slow down.” you sigh from your place in his lap. he looks like he’s about to burst into tears— or flames. “use your words, caleb.”

he was a man on the edge, a man finally acknowledging his need. his lips found the sensitive spot on your collarbone, teeth scraping against tender flesh lightly.

he looks at you for further permission, a violet gaze that is screaming please, please, please, let me have this. hesitantly, he places an experimental kiss along your jaw. then one to your lips. then another, and another until he can’t remember a feeling that could ever be better than this. it’s desperate, rushed, and a little clumsy, a culmination of years spent holding back.

“. . . words are the last thing on my mind right now, pipsqueak.”

he feels the heat of your body through the thin fabric of your clothes, the weight of your thighs pressed against his. his fingers find the edge of your shirt, slipping underneath to ghost over your skin. his touch is both gentle and possessive, as if claiming something long overdue as his.

[rawme-price]

We need a part two of the malnourished gator!reader plsss 🙏

(no rush tho)

On it boss🫡👍

Malnourished gator!reader who spent the rest of the day and night in the private medical room, not allowing any visitors. They give you an IV drip for essential vitamins, and you think that's it, but a nurse comes in with a clipboard. She asks you alot of questions, ones you personally know are for risk assessment for things like eating disorders and suicide. You've learned from ur mistakes in high school, though, carefully crafting ur responses to be acceptable without a blatant lie.

Do you find urself obsessing over food? No, not at all. Do you deliberately avoid certain foods over others? Well i have foods i dont like, but so does everybody. Do you hold a poor self-image? I dont mind myself, I like the way I am.

All carefully practiced, trimmed and clipped from times you prefer to forget. Its actually pretty easy, falling into that mindset. Something about the sterile white room, the slightly judgemental look of the nurse, the tug of the IV in your arm. It feels oddly nostalgic in a way you know wont end well.

Ur handed a handful of pamphlets, the nurse rattling on about dietary changes. You dont pay attention, really, until suddenly "Alright, im going to let captain price know he can come back. The rest of this treatment is relevant to him."

You have to stop urself from shooting up, mindful of the IV and the fact ur still very dizzy. Besides, shes already human and humans hate when you make sudden moves. "What?! No, he doesnt need to know about this." You hiss, frantic. The nurse doesnt listen, and in seconds a knock is sounding at the door. How did he get here so fast?

The next half-hour is mortifying. The nurse goes over with price the exact details of everything ur expected to eat, and u can tell by the set of his jaw that he'll make sure it happens. This feels horrible. Having to be fed like a child? Seriously?

It makes you want to lash out, but the more reasonable part of ur brain tells u not to. So you endure and stay silent, and stay that way the entire walk to ur room. You dont care if the silent treatment is childish, you cant stomach the thought of talking to price or gaz right now. Even as price talks to you, tail swaying and letting out the occasional snuff, you dont react. Or when gaz shows up near ur room, chirping a greeting and asking if ur okay. You just duck into ur room, lock the door, but you can sense gaz a bit farther out, hovering.

So u pace and pace ur room, tight circles in the center from where you pushed everything against the walls. Its horrible, you cant rest properly or even sit down. Will they make you eat in front of them? Will you have to eat in front of the other soldiers on base? You dont think you can even stomach the amount of food discussed.

Something horrible and rancid is blooming in ur chest again, sprouting through the mud, the seed planted years ago. You feel uprooted in a way you never did back home. You look down at ur claws, at ur scales, feeling too monstrous to even exist in this body.

You cant do anything, so you pace and pace and pace. The one time you tried to leave ur room gaz was coincidentally down the hall. So you just...dont leave the rest of the day. Or. That was the plan until a knock came to ur door.

"its price, kid. Lunch time, doctors orders. Come out." Hes blunt, gruff. He sounds like hes willing to force you out, but you feel frozen in fear and anxiety.

[kiplex]

You hated parties. They were loud, overstimulating, and there were too many strangers. So when Gideon invited you and Caleb to a party he was having you were hesitant to say the least. You thought having your boyfriend there, your emotional support Caleb, you would be fine; especially once you had a little bit of alcohol in your system. But alas, the universe has a different plan for tonight.

You're three cups of something deep, probably some vodka and a splash of juice, and glued to the side of the wall which were vibrating with how loud the music was, the hum of people yelling over the music certainly wasn't helping. Caleb was god knows where, the second you guys got to the party Gideon whisked him away to go take shots with him and some of the guys they went to college with. Your finger drums a consistent beat against your red plastic cup, your eyes scan the room for any sign of him. Sure, you could go and talk to people, mingle a bit but… Something in your stomach lurches at the thought of doing that.

You take another small sip. You pull out your phone check to the time. “You're Colonel Xia's girlfriend right?" Someone shouts to your left. He looked about the same age as Caleb. “Ah! Yeah! Yeah I am." Your voice wobbles, slightly startled. “Man, he is one lucky guy. I was assigned to his fleet shortly after he took over." The man extends his hand offering his name, that you definitely don't catch. Instead you politely smile, shaking his hand and yelling your name back over the music.

He starts going on and on about fleet stuff, with the amount of liquor in your body you really can't make heads or tails of it, you just politely nod. He wasn't a bad guy or anything, you just clearly were uncomfortable and didn't want to be there. When you feel a hand wrap around your waist, you nearly jump ten feet in the air. “Woah woah! Pips, it's me." Caleb's voice is soft in your ear. Your whole body immediately relaxes into his touch. “Oh Colonel! Good to see you off duty." The man you're talking to acknowledges his superior. “Good to see you too, if you don't mind I'm gonna steal her away for a bit." Caleb smiles at the man. You are always in awe of how charming and charismatic Caleb is naturally. He makes it look effortless.

The man nods, and Caleb grabs your wrist taking you to a free spot farther down the wall. His body blocks your view of the crowd, his cologne flooding your senses calming your nervous system down exponentially. " You okay pretty girl?” He asks, his hands cupping your cheeks intentionally making you maintain eye contact with him. Regardless you down cast your eyes. " I'm fine.” You answer, not wanting to ruin this night for him.

He rarely gets time off, let alone gets to spend it with his friends. His eyebrows furrow. " No you aren't.” He sighs, pulling you against his chest before wrapping his arms around you. " Pips, I've known you, your whole life. I know when you're lying to me.” He kisses the top of your head. " Let me ask you again. Are you okay?” He repeats gently. You shake your head no into his chest. "Not really, it's loud and I'm a little tipsy and… I'm sorry Caleb." Your eyes gloss over slightly, tears threatening to spill over.

He pulls you back a bit so he can look at you. “Aw you sweet girl, don't apologize. You've never really been big on this stuff. I'm proud of you for even tagging along with me. Even Gideon was singing praises about you being here tonight… I mean I did shove him for talking about my girlfriend like that, but semantics.” You giggle slightly.

Caleb kisses your forehead. " Do you wanna get the hell out of here?" He asks, grinning at you. “Are you sure? I know you don't get to do this often…" You mumble. He smiles, shaking his head. “I already got to hang out with Gideon for a while, besides my girlfriend is clearly overstimulated and trying to be brave for me. That's my job Pips, how dare you steal my thunder." He squeezes you slightly. You lean up kissing him gently. “Let's go home." He grabs your hand again, leading you through the sea of people out the door. “Oh also, if I see you talking to another man at a party again I won't be so kind next time, I can promise you that. " You roll your eyes, a dumb smile on your face. If you're being honest, you wouldn't have it any other way.

You can find my master list here

[blackkatdraws2]

[ORV] This accursed child I must bear.

(Note: All my depictions of Han Myungoh are canon compliant but not entirely accurate.)

[ashenwraithlow]

“Folded, Faded, Hidden” 

Simon “Ghost” Riley x You

He carries your picture. Carries you in silence.

You’d never seen it.

Not once.

Not taped to the wall of his bunk, not tucked inside his wallet, not swiped through on his phone. You used to wonder – just briefly – if he even kept something of you when he left for missions.

But you never asked. Not because you didn’t want to know. But because he didn’t want to say.

So when he tells you – months later, after coming home with bruised ribs and a stitched-up shoulder – it’s not during a moment of vulnerability.

It’s when you’re folding laundry. Quiet, routine, domestic. That’s when he says it.

“I carry your photo,” he murmurs, like it’s an afterthought.

You pause, hands still on the fabric.

“What?”

“Printed. Small. Folded. Sewn into the inside of my vest, right over my heart.”

A beat. Then, “So no one could find it. No one could use it against me.”

There’s no softness in his voice. Just steel.

You realize then – he’s kept you close, closer than you ever imagined.

Not as a comfort token, but as something sacred.

Something worth hiding. Something worth surviving for.

��───⊱♡⊰────

Then another night, somewhere miles away —

The mission goes bad.

Extraction late.

Too fast. Too many. Blood seeps down his side, thick and hot. Leaking through the tactical fabric like black water. He’s behind cover, vision graying at the edges. No one’s answering comms. He knows he’s alone.

He doesn’t panic.

Simon Riley doesn’t panic.

But he does press one trembling hand against his chest – right over the hidden seam, the tiny flap of cloth hand-stitched shut by his own needle and thread.

And beneath it: a small picture.

Crinkled from wear. The ink faded. Folded into fourths until your face is barely visible, but it’s you all the same.

You, smiling. Head tilted. Unaware he ever took the shot.

He presses his palm harder. Breathes deep.

“Still with me.”

That’s what he thinks, right before the darkness takes him.

────⊱♡⊰────

When he wakes in the med bay, broken but alive, the first thing he checks is that vest. That hidden seam.

It’s still there.

You’re still there.

Always. First and last.

────⊱♡⊰────

Later on, you find the vest. He doesn’t let anyone else patch it.

You stumble upon the pocket by accident – fingers brushing a seam that feels thicker than the others.

And when you tug the thread free and unfold the tiny square, the photo slips into your hand. Your face. Smudged. The colors faded to warm sepia. Corners worn nearly to tissue.

It’s been kissed. Or clutched. Maybe both.

Simon doesn’t say anything when he sees you holding it.

But he watches you like you’re the only anchor in a storm-ripped sea. Like if he speaks, the weight of that tenderness might crush him.

And still — no “I love you.”

Just this,

“You don’t go in my phone. You go with me.”

────⊹⊱⊱♡⊰⊰⊹────

“The first thing that steadies his breath.

The last thing he thinks about before the dark close in.

It's you.”

[humanjarvis]

i only really tolerate being touched by certain people and i’m projecting onto zayne and thinking he’s the same way.

too-friendly patients clasp his hand as they thank him, and he’s bristling so much he barely processes their gratitude. he takes a step back, gentle but firm, and sends them on their way, trying to look past the confusion on their faces.

the only intern who doesn’t fear him aces an assessment one day. but when she bounds up to him and asks for a high-five, he can only spare her a curt nod. her dejected flush replays in his mind when she shrinks away from him in the hallway.

he questions his personhood when he retreats from the pediatric patients’ eager touches, their tiny hands reaching up to grab at his stethoscope. shouldn’t he like this? shouldn’t he chuckle and beckon them forward? shouldn’t his heart fill with warmth? that’s how he hears greyson describe it. that’s how he sees the nurses act. so why can’t he do the same?

it’s only when you touch him—when you hold his face, kiss his nose, or wrap your arms around his waist—that his worries fade away. your touch is good. safe. familiar. he craves it, he seeks it, he leans into it instead of shying away. in your arms, he doesn’t bristle. doesn’t wonder if he was meant to be a recluse, never to be touched by another hand. in your arms, he feels a little more human.

[bi-writes]

your lieutenant won't take off his mask for you. ehhhh, but you can make it work, right? (18+, ghost x fem!reader)

"no one sees my face. not even you, bunny."

but you don't mind. his face surely isn't the thing that drew you to him in the first place. no, it was when you were sitting in a loud room, and it immediately went quiet because ghost shuffled in. when you watched him duck his fucking head to get through the door only to stand there broader than the width of it. when he looked down at you with what was definitely a scowl under that mask and grumbled out "little bunny" at you in the filthiest voice you'd ever heard.

he could call you those names all he wants; he likes bunnies.

it doesn't bother you, that he doesn't want to take off his mask. you can still kiss him nasty through it.

as far as you're concerned, that's his face. you pet it like it is as least, cupping his cheeks and pulling him close, nuzzling your nose against his. he huffs underneath it, but he never pulls away, and you lick a fat stripe over the bony cheek of his mask, whining when you taste salt and sand and gunpowder.

you soak it with your spit. you cradle his head, tilting it this way and that, flattening your tongue and licking over his jaw. he holds back a groan as you kiss him open-mouthed through it, pinching his fat cheeks and planting wet kiss after wet kiss over his puckered lips. his lips part easily for you, shaky breaths like music to you, and whenever you let out a soft moan, he can't help the way he fists your ass and pulls you closer.

you want him to taste you. you force his neck back, pulling his chin down, and you lean over him just enough that you can spit on the front of his mask. you press your face to his after, using your tongue to soak it into the fabric, and you practically purr when you feel his tongue pressing back, cotton practically dripping with your saliva as he sucks on it.

you can't wait to sit on his face next. top 10 ways to die, water-boarded by pussy has to be one of them.

[harmonysanreads]

Anatomy Of A Hug

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ft. Phainon, Mydei, Anaxa

Heads Up : Soft Yandere themes, Anaxa needs to see a therapist, Written before version 3.1, My Delusions I guess. I merely missed them a lot and decided to write something silly quickly orz.

-; ੈ♡˳ PHAINON

In the simplest terms, Phainon hugs with his everything. He's not shy to initiate skin-contact, will press himself to you accordingly — unless you voice out discomfort. He's diligent in wrapping his arms around your person securely, should you fancy melting in the bliss he offers. Though, his dexterity with hugs was honed through practice. In the beginning, the strength of a seasoned warrior had been more prevalent. A good amount of discussion (read: pleading to breathe) and experimentation snapped him out of the rush of pleasantries and reminded him of how precious a person he was dealing with.

Front hugs, back hugs, side hugs, bear hugs — he's okay with whatever you're comfortable with. His personal preference is going through all kinds of hugs he knows of manually ; first to shield you from all the evil that preys on your vulnerability, then scooping you up from the pull of gravity, a hearty squeeze to assure you of his protection, followed by a thrilling spin that will repel all bad thoughts out of your orbit. Until all the vestiges of weariness and stress have been replaced clean with the smiles he so adores.

Phainon is not one to be satisfied with short exchanges of warmth, the duration of these hugs tend to be quite long — or, as long as he can get away with before he has to commit to a Hero's responsibilities. Just as he initiates hugs with all of his soul, he expects the same when it comes to receiving them. Phainon prefers to be coddled, held with a promise of protection, ironically. Allow him to kneel and bring him close to your heart, weave your fingers through his hair, soothe the tension in his shoulders and he'll abandon the Flame-Chase altogether.

It's impossible to stir him in those moments, unless your safety happened to be at stake. As such, it's best for you to bid farewell to any other plans. Once he has memorized the nature of this exchange well, he goes beyond and utilizes it to deal with other nuisances. You cannot blame him, not when it has been proven that distracting you with a hug deters both the interference and yourself from paying heed to a mere passer-by. Sometimes his hug offers a bit less comfort and appears more as a shackle. Should you think to point this out, bear this in mind — your embrace is the last thread keeping his sanity intact.

-; ੈ♡˳ MYDEI

You must not care for your life at all, or at least, that's the thought Mydei found himself having when he was faced with the gesture. While the Crown Prince was not ignorant of the existence of a hug, he merely never had the opportunity to be properly acquainted with it. Not that it was necessary to know of it either, he can't win battles by hugging his opponents now, can he? As such, his reaction had been quite the spectacle when you initiated it. Begin by asking if he'd like a hug (throw in a ‘my prince’ at the end, sweetly), if his expression doesn't change then that means a ‘yes’, approach him calmly and wrap your arms around him next — be patient, he'll eventually reciprocate, given that you read the cues right.

If Mydei has to express affection, he'll do so in his own ways. It's already enough of an inconvenience that whenever he thinks of you, his head becomes blurred with clouds of emotions he's unable to decipher. That mushy sensation he feels inside whenever you have the audacity to hug him is just unfiltered agony to his mind. The journey to getting him less repulsed to the gesture has to be fueled by patience and understanding. Only when it clicks in his head that the feelings your hugs incite are not so dissimilar from the ones he gets by indulging in a plate of golden honeycakes does he warm up to the gesture.

Even then, Mydei is very particular about his preferences. Wave goodbye to the dream of spooning the prince any time soon, he's made it clear that that privilege is reserved for him alone. He'll always pull your head towards his chest and headlock you in place. If it's not possible to do so while standing, he'll sit down and gather you on his lap even — but he'll never allow his field of vision to be obstructed. Allowing this already renders you both vulnerable to attacks, he'll reason. He needs to remain vigilant, for the sake of your safety ; not that he'll translate the intention word by word.

Despite your efforts, you've discovered that ridding the prince of his stiffness is near-impossible, even if it's in private. His is not a life that's seen much comfort. Pay attention to the minute shifts in his eyes and you'll realize that the actual reason for his stilted posture, is because of the restraint he's exercising in unleashing his strength. It is a valid concern, he won't even need both of his hands to kill you. Death has rejected him countless times but awaits your departure in anticipation, he's merely mindful of its preying gaze.

-; ੈ♡˳ ANAXA

You are one fearless fellow if you initiated a hug with Anaxa, or you simply don't care about the fact that he's renowned as the scholar who most people are happy to avoid. The scholar in question would most likely call you an idiot though, you really need a thorough lesson in deciphering which men you must never approach. Not that he will be giving it, his time and energy are not to be wasted on such trivial concerns. Although he won't deny, with this brazen act, you've proven yourself to be a bit above the notion of ‘trivial’.

You think approaching the scholar is not so different from trying to befriend a cat, failure in the beginning is inevitable — only through persistence can you triumph. It's a task alone to try to acquaint yourself with him, getting him accustomed to physical affection might just be an acid test. The scholar has had no need for a rudimentary touch of another's skin, he'll say with a dignified hiss. But if you're observant, you'd know it's just a ruse to hide the depth of the depravation he's not allowing himself to acknowledge.

After much trial and error, when he finally bends to your efforts and accepts a hug, he's stiff and awkward, unsurprisingly. His hands wander as if settling on one place would burn his skin, face firmly hidden in the crook of your neck in what you can only assume is embarrassment. You would've teased him about the fierce flush on his ears and nape, if he hadn't ended the contact upon realizing his behavior. The scholar didn't dare face you for the next week, reflecting upon the incident vigorously.

Initially, his hugs were short, filled with muttered complaints to distract you from the firmness of his grip. The increasing average duration and his waning unwillingness towards the gesture did not go unnoticed by him at all. He knows the basic biological cause and it served as his rationale for quite a while. Yes, the reward system's activities are all there is to it, surely he possesses enough willpower to end this indulgence any time he wishes.

What he didn't anticipate though was you beating him to it, baffling him with your sudden consideration for his personal space. You are cruelty incarnate, conditioning him to this banal addiction and leaving him to deal with the consequences by himself? Now that is one preposterous claim to marvel at. It's wise if you cease pushing the man and retract your words. And if you don't? You're more than welcomed to repeat your jest at the firing point of his gun.

[biscuits-and-gracie]

experiment! reader

SUBJECT PROFILE - 001-F

File ID: 001-F Clearance Level: PERSONAL - EYES ONLY Designation: "The Project" Status: ACTIVE / RESPONSIVE Handler: Dr. R. Cameron Last Update: 10.31 - 04:12 EST

IDENTIFICATION

Field: Entry

Gender: F

Age: [Redacted - same as Analyst]

Name (Used): [Intentionally withheld in file. Referred to only as “Subject.”]

Aliases: "My Monster", “Sweet Thing”, “001”

Location: UNC Chapel Hill - Humanities Dormitory

VISUAL OVERVIEW

Style leans vintage-soft, juvenile-coded

Clothing typically pastel: lace hems, ribbon accessories, Mary Janes or high socks

Hair is loosely maintained, often tied with satin (frequently frayed or off-center)

Accessories: heart-shaped lockets, glitter makeup, mismatched charm jewelry

Movement light and slightly clumsy (trips, bumps, apologizes instinctively)

Noted verbal habit: apologizing to objects, walls, furniture

First impression: She dresses like she’s someone’s lost porcelain girl. I don’t think she realizes no one’s been looking for her. I found her instead.

PSYCHOGRAPHIC PROFILE

Naive - Tends to believe what is said without question - Relies on Analyst for clarity

Emotionally Dependent - Responds to Analyst’s approval/disapproval visibly - Seeks verbal affirmation

Insecure

- Uses self-deprecating language regarding intelligence or academic ability

Submissive - Follows Analyst’s physical guidance and verbal direction instinctively

Trusting - Enters private spaces with Analyst without hesitation

Sweet - Expresses concern for Analyst’s well-being - Desires to "help" even when unable

HABITUAL TRACKING LOGS

Stats Class (MWF): Struggles with coursework; consistent failure to grasp basic logic functions. Subject appears distressed but does not seek help from traditional resources. Seeks Analyst exclusively.

Dining Patterns: Frequently forgets meals. Will eat when reminded by Analyst. Subject exhibits increased serotonin response when brought food personally.

Sleep Routine: Irregular unless instructed. Will nap when given quiet space. Recent note: sleeps better in Analyst's hoodie.

Social Navigation: Low assertiveness. Easily influenced by peer opinion. Immediately reorients behavior when Analyst appears.

EXPERIMENTAL NOTES - HIGHLIGHTED OBSERVATIONS

10.02 - Asked if it was okay she didn’t understand “even easy math.” Analyst responded affirmatively. Subject smiled, appeared visibly comforted. 10.10 - Wore a bow given by Analyst; called it her “smart girl ribbon.” No prompting required. 10.11 - Subject called Analyst “the only one who gets me.” No follow-up needed. 10.23 - Subject asked if it was “bad” she likes being told what to do. Analyst provided soft verbal encouragement. Subject smiled, leaned in. 10.30 - Subject expressed desire to “help with your science stuff” despite lack of capability. Analyst provided coloring sheets with faux data. Subject believed they were contributing. Satisfaction visible. 10.31 - Halloween. Tag worn. Identity confirmed. Analyst suppressed visible reaction. Subject unaware of significance. This was the turning point.

KEY TERMINOLOGY IN USE BY SUBJECT (UNDERLINED = FLAGGED FOR FUTURE ANALYSIS):

“I’m bad at thinking, but I’m good at listening.”

“You always know what to do with me.”

“I just want to make you proud.”

“You make me feel… like I could be smart.”

“don’t unmake me, please?” (10.31, post-costume. FLAGGED: SUBMISSION, VOLUNTARY)

ANALYST’S PRIVATE NOTES (UNFILED):

She doesn’t know she’s being studied.

She thinks it’s love.

She thanks me for what I do to her mind.

When she wears what I give her-bows, tags, words- she doesn’t realize that each one is a binding.

That sweater still smells like her. I haven’t washed it. I don’t plan to.

CURRENT STATUS:

Phase I (Attachment): ✅

Phase II (Dependency): ✅

Phase III (Identity Restructuring): IN PROGRESS

Phase IV (Containment): SCHEDULED

Room key duplication complete. Drawer installed beneath lab bench. Analyst is waiting.

[ysaefinn]

I think suguru would rather die a million and one times than let you wake up before him and make breakfast. No..YOU DONT understand how important the mornings are for him, you're all still sleepy and warm from the covers, yawning and rubbing your face, and you walk into the kitchen in one of his oversized shirts and cling to his back and mumble out a little "morning..." A.A.A.A..A.A.A..A.A.A.A.A.A.A..A.A. HE LOSES IT!!! HE LOSES HIS MARBLES, the urge to eat you in one bite is no jock to this man, he does let out some of the steam by embarrassing the shit out of UNINTENTIONALLY he would not stop cooing and patting your head and calling you his "sweet baby" eventually you're not as sleepy as before and manage to tell him to cut it out, to which he pouts 🥹🙏

[hexcii]

Just wanted to say that I love all your DCA art. It's so beautiful.

Heheee thank you!!! ^^ <333!!!

Have Some more. Tosses this at you and runs

[probablysimpledreams]

Thinking about how rough of a kisser Touya is.

Kisses with him are anything but short and sweet. They’re rough, messy, intense. And most importantly, they’re full of so much raw love.

His anxiety and fears surrounding being ignored make expressing his feelings through words very difficult, so he often opts for expressing these feelings through actions. How could you possibly ignore him if he’s taking your breath away after all?

This means every kiss with Touya turns into a long make out session. He moves quickly and roughly, exploring your mouth with his own. He pushes you down into the bed or up against the wall, bodies flushed together so closely neither of you can think straight.

His fingers always intertwine with yours as he kisses you. He eats up any whine or whimper that leaves your throat as he messily kisses you. He thrives off your pleasure, your enjoyment. Each signal your body gives him that you’re enjoying his confession of love fuels him to go harder and harder. He needs you to want him, to desire him. He needs you to need him as desperately as he needs you.

When you two finally break apart for air, he moves his hand to cup your face. A smirk creeps onto his face as he watches you pant, lips swollen and eyes wide with need as you’re forced to look up at him. He then grabs your hands again, pinning them above your head as he leans down to kiss the shell of your ear.

“I’m only getting started baby,” is all he whispers before his lips find yours again, pouring all his love into your body once again.

[tojisun]

near tears thinking about an alternative meet-cute between you and biker!simon being the time you actually accidentally ran over him with your car </3 and god simon’s in pain and it hurts, fuck, and he’s angry, rightfully so, but it all petered away the moment you stepped out of your car, shaking and all worried, asking him if he’s fine with that cute furrow of your brows and your subtle pout. simon isn’t fine—it hurts—but his mouth ran faster than his mind, so he denied the pain, saying that nothing’s wrong and you’re fine, he swears.

(simon’s fibula is fractured but hey, it landed him a date, then a partner, so really? things worked out fine.)

[fiftypiercings]

I can't believe I decided to read orv on a whim because I just wanted a good manhwa with no romance subplot and here I am knees deep into the novel questioning my whole life because whatever these mfs have got going on is much more nastier and visceral than any romance.

[humanjarvis]

it's nice to have a friend

big glasses and a bowl cut. 

for the bulk of his short life, that was all anyone saw when they looked at zayne.

no one knew much about him, other than how annoying it was when the teachers praised his intelligence. more than a classmate, he was a goalpost. a standard they couldn’t meet. 

more often than not, his head was buried in a book. he found it much more worthwhile to study people than to speak to them. so he hid in the shade, away from the constant chatter and blistering heat of recess.

that day in september, he’d been too busy absorbing neatly stacked paragraphs to process the muffled voice above him—until you lightly shook his shoulder. 

you’d asked him if he wanted to play. they’d said it was his birthday, after all. but after a long pause and bewildered blush, zayne said no. 

the first three times you asked him, zayne said no.

his answer changed when the leaves did. 

in the brisk november air, pushed forward by a gust of wind, he bumped into a rowdy group of older kids. apparently, his murmured apology hadn’t been good enough. 

first, they threatened to snap his glasses. shatter the lenses so he couldn’t read anymore.

the wicked sneers and guesses that he was special came after. 

through it all, zayne hadn't said a word—he didn't have to. 

because before he could decide whether to tell a teacher or walk away, you were blocking him from view as best you could with your shorter frame, glaring at the boys with molten hatred in your heart. 

and when their leader snorted and took a step toward you both, you unclenched your fist and scratched him right across the face. 

zayne had never been one for violence. his parents told him it never solved anything, and he’d always seen more value in helping people than hurting them. 

but the next time you asked him to play, he nodded his head yes.

he was surprisingly good at make-believe—the doctor to your nurse. and when you invited him back the next day, and the next day, and the day after that, zayne felt he’d made his first friend. 

adult zayne still gets teased, sometimes. 

for the way he speaks like a nonfiction narrator. for the way he retreats from interactions and rejects invitations. for the way he’s hard to read unless you’re fluent in the language of him.

but with you by his side, he’s learned to pay it no mind. 

you like his cadence and his reticence and his rigid kind of softness. you tell him all of it, so he doesn’t have to wonder.

and when the crueler slights wear down the barrier you’ve helped him build, you repeat yourself. 

day after day, you save him. just like you did on the playground. 

so when zayne finds himself in linkon’s finest jewelry store, browsing through shimmering stones he never thought he’d have a need for, he knows one thing for certain: his first friend is his best.