#like a rat in a science experiment

[mildmayfoxe]

the thing about trinkets is i always want them to have an interesting provenance. like if i find a cool little object at work that’s cheating. it should come from a mysterious box at a garage sale that i have to dig through for approx twenty minutes before i unearth a little treasure and pay twenty five cents for it. if i find a stone jaguar statuette prominently displayed at the antiques store that’s too easy. i should have to work for it. it should be hidden in a secret compartment in a drawer of a six thousand dollar secretary and the proprietor should look at me knowingly and say “ah, you found it” and then give me a really good deal for being such a little genius

[chiropteracupola]

"What Grows on the Oak," 2024.

it's the time of year, once more, for an original spooky story!

The oak trees lie across the hills like low smoke, soft and near, and the road dips down into the valley, as inviting as any road has ever been, but the girl on the bench of the buggy on the hilltop makes no move to follow it.

Rose looks out down the road and over the hills, and taps her fingers beside her on the bench. It’s a quiet enough afternoon that there’s little other sound but the high thin sound of insects, and the wind in the long grass, and Rose’s fingers, tapping. The horse, still in harness, looks up and flicks its ear, as if in protest at the sound, and Rose sighs and forces her hand still.

There is a girl in the nearest tree, Rose notices — the fact of it is idly categorized, without true interest. All the same, the light is catching in her hair, dashing shadows over her face as she sits draped across the curve of a branch, and Rose cannot look away from her.

The Fosters, at whose door Rose waits, have no daughter — no children but the one still-toddling son, who Rose remembers as a colicky, twitchy boy. Besides, this girl looks nothing like Mr Foster and his wife, for her hair stands out about her head like a bundle of mistletoe, pale as sun-worn wood. She is, perhaps, their hired girl. Rose is struck by envy, suddenly, that the Fosters’ hired girl had the time to shinny up a tree in the last light of evening, and still would be paid for her work…

Rose sighs, leaning her chin on her hand. Perhaps it is enough for her to be her father’s driver, and to have bed and board in his house — perhaps some day there will be money for school again, in San Francisco or even out east. And perhaps it is not enough, and perhaps there will not ever be.

“Hello, doctor’s driver,” says a voice at Rose’s elbow. Rose yelps in surprise, then turns. It is the girl with the mistletoe hair — dry moss hair — hair like a cloudy day in August.

“No, you’re his daughter, are you not?” asks the Fosters’ hired girl, and Rose nods. “Miss del Llano, that’d make you.”

“Just Rose, please.” She’ll be Miss some other day — not now, in her too-short skirts and with her plait hanging over her shoulder.

“May I come up?” asks the girl.

“Surely,” says Rose, and the girl has swung herself into Rose’s father’s accustomed seat in a fluttering of pale skirts.

“Your father is the doctor — what does he do here? “He is a leech, then? A bloodletter?”

“Don’t be silly, he’s not medieval!”

“Hm-mm, I shall believe you when you prove it me,” says the girl, laughing, and leans her chin on her hand to make herself Rose’s mirror. Side by side they sit for a while, and the dark gathers in across the hills until oaks and grassland alike are made one mass of shadow. Somewhere in the trees beyond the road, a horned owl utters its deep, melancholy cry out into the dusk.

“If ghosts had telephones, I should think they’d sound rather like that,” says Rose, the early chill of after-sunset driving her quite easily to a morbid sort of cheer.

“How the times change,” says the girl, with an odd, but not entirely unhappy, look in her eyes. “No, my dear; ghosts use the same telephones as you and I, as you well know.” Rose does not know, well or otherwise, much at all about ghosts, so she nods, and feels a little more of the girl’s weight settle on her shoulder.

“You have very cold hands,” says Rose, and the girl from the oak tree smiles and taps at Rose’s cheek with clammy fingers.

“I always have, I’m afraid.”

“It’s no bother, really.” And so they sit and watch the sky, the falling-dusk and the distant fog that creeps over the hills, until there’s light, sharp as a door opening.

Rose turns, and it is only Dr del Llano, leaving his patient with his hat in his hand. She turns back, and the Fosters’ hired girl is gone.

“How is Mrs. Foster,” Rose asks, without any particular feeling in her voice, and her father shakes his head in reply. But the road down into the valley, where lies the town, is before them, and Rose is pleased enough at the journeying that she asks no further questions.

It’s in the hills and on the road that Rose meets, again, with the oak tree girl, the mistletoe girl, the girl with hands like marble in the shade. Once again, Rose is waiting for her father while he attends a patient, and, lazing in the sun, Rose has pushed the sleeves of her shirtwaist up to her elbows.

And then the girl is there again, with her shock of cobweb hair moving, ever so faintly, in a breeze that doesn’t seem to reach as far as the buggy-seat.

“Hello, my pretty-lovely,” says the girl, putting her hand out to the horse still in its traces. Though usually affectionate, the horse puts back its ears and pulls its head away.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” says Rose, half-laughing. “Save your sweet words for someone who wants them, all the same.”

“Has she a name, then?”

“Other than Morgan, for what she is? Not at all,” Rose replies. Neither she nor her father have ever thought of one, for all that they’re fond of the hardworking little mare. “And have you a name, then?” For she’s remembered, now, that her oak-tree girl had never told her of it.

“I’m called Saro,” says the girl, and again swings herself up beside Rose. “What does your father do here, my Rose?”

“Oh, I oughtn’t say,” and Saro looks back at her with a stare of please? and Rose laughs and says anyway. She shouldn’t gossip, but she leans in close anyway, and whispers that “Old Man Lucas has got the clap, and him a widower these ten years!” Saro’s mouth twitches at the corners — she can’t hide her laugh for long, and it bursts, bright, out from her.

“I shall tell, I shall tell!” says she, and Rose coughs on her own laugh with a still-merry “Don’t!”

“You’ll have to catch me and make me, first!” and Saro leaps down from the buggy and runs, her skirts, her hair a flash of white in the golden-dry grass. And Rose, her spirits raised beyond what a grown girl such as herself should permit, follows. She’s less fleet-footed than Saro, earthbound still, stumbling on furrows in the land, catching her heels in ground-squirrel burrows.

Saro, she’s sure, is holding back for her benefit — letting herself be caught. And Rose does catch her, knocking her off her feet and into the grass. Saro’s laughing-merry still, her hair stuck full of grass-seed and foxtails. Close-to, Rose can see the freckles that dapple her cheeks and nose, the squint of her dark eyes when she smiles. Saro flicks Rose’s cheek, the snap of her fingers like a prickle of frost, and Rose lies there in the dusty field, entirely lost.

But Saro’s on her feet again before Rose can blink, before Rose can reach out to her, and Rose is standing, blinking in the sunlight, stumbling back to the buggy as she dusts bits of dry grass from her skirt. She buttons the sleeves of her shirtwaist again, the cuffs of which don’t quite come to her wrists anymore, and laughs when her father hands her up into her seat like a lady.

“The best whip I ever had,” he says, perfectly straight-faced.

“Gee-up!” says Rose, holding the reins in one hand and imagining herself perched atop a stagecoach. But even for all her imaginings, she’s as good a driver as her father says, and draws the horse into a gentle trot to see them home. It’s hill and dale down into the valley, hill and dale again like a song, and in the inner slopes lie trees in amid the dust-golden grasses of summer. Beneath the sparse, spreading branches, it is suddenly cooler, then warmer again, as the horse steps evenly onward and back into the sun.

“That’s mistletoe, you know,” says Dr del Llano, as he’s said a thousand times before, and points up at the gray-green mass that clings among the summer-sparse branches of an oak.

“Isn’t that for Christmastime?” asks Rose.

“It’s an odd thing we bring it in for the Nativity,” muses her father, still looking back at the tree as they pass it by. “Poison, that — and it chokes the life out of the oak tree, too. Not a kindly thing, mistletoe, but we hang it up with the flor de Nochebuena all the same…”

He doesn’t speak after that, but sings instead, an out-of-season hymn of sons newborn and deaths already foretold. If the verse telling of tombs ought to be grim, Dr del Llano doesn’t make it so, and so the story of gloom and gravity is nothing but a blithe eventuality, predicted all light-hearted by a man very certain of the truth of it.

Mrs. Foster dies soon after. Rose sits in the church as the priest says the first of the masses for her, the first of seven that her widower has paid for. She waits at the door while her father makes conversation — how she wishes he would hurry up! But the doctor in his black coat and the priest in his cassock are two crows alike, and so she is there in the doorway until her father says ‘good-by, Padre’ and comes to join her. Rose hardly has the time to shut her hymnal closed over the catalog tucked inside before he bustles past her, eager now to be on his way.

“Damned quiet place now that the mine’s shut up,” he says on the walk home, and Rose nods, though she does not remember the mine-town as her father does. She knows that there is no more coal to be had here and no more sand, and that with the mine has gone much of her father’s custom. Without black-lung and burns and broken bones, there is far less for a doctor to do in these hills.

But there is no other doctor than Juan Soto del Llano, with his limping step and his rosary about his neck and his rattletrap of a horse-drawn buggy with his only daughter to drive it, so he goes on as he has, and mends up broken bones and offers fever-cures to farmers and their wives, and to the valley townsfolk nearer home.

Henry Freeman is twenty-two, the bright young son of a new-money farmer. He is sickening for something, he is grey-faced and cold and his eyes do not focus.

Dr del Llano is at his door with hat in hand — money passes from the elder Mr. Freeman’s worn hand into his, and the doctor closes the older man’s hand over the coins. Out on the bench of the buggy, Rose scoffs and shakes her head. The fog-touched night is cold even through her coat, and she shivers involuntarily.

“He oughn’t to do such things,” she says, to no one but herself. But all the same, Rose turns her head, and Saro is there beside her, smiling.

“What oughtn’t he do?” asks Saro, with the questioning merriment in her voice that Rose has come to like so well.

“He doesn’t ask for payment, when it’s hill sickness,” and, seeing Saro’s quirk of the mouth, the way the question lurks in her well-dark eyes, Rose continues. “Father doesn’t know what it is, still, and he can’t mend it. It cannot be consumption, for it doesn’t settle in the lungs, but all the same — it is as if something is drawing out the life from them, every one.”

“So your Henry Freeman shall die, then,” says Saro, blunt.

“Don’t—“ says Rose, and stops, cold. “Who are you?” she asks, and looks Saro in the eyes, the brown of them so dark that Rose can barely find her own reflection. And the girl with the mistletoe hair reaches out, and pulls her hand across the golden curve of the hill as if she is stroking the grass that lies like dry cowhide on the ground.

“You know my name, doctor’s daughter, is that not enough?”

“Saro—“ Footsteps, and Rose’s head turns without her willing it. Doctor del Llano still has his sleeves rolled up, the edges wet from scrubbing. He doesn’t let them down again as he drags on his coat, hauling himself up to the buggy-seat as if held down by a great weight.

“Father—“ says Rose, and looks to Saro beside her, but even as she turns back, Saro is gone again.

“I’ll not talk of it,” he says, and hauls his bag into the buggy. It might well weigh as much as all the world. Rose huffs, and pulls her arms against her chest, and sets them on the road again.

And so it goes, over and over again — the Misses Hayward, unmarried, a few years older than Rose herself — Martin Foster, only three — the widow Ruiz, whose husband died down the mine before Rose was born. All of them greying, cold, dying quick. There is sickness in the hills, and it is sickness that the doctor cannot cure, and Rose — Rose finds that she barely cares. She stands in the church, once more, at Lillie Hayward’s funeral, and cannot look at the coffin, but only turns her head to search for wild light hair among the townsfolk in the pews.

But Saro doesn’t come to town; that’s not the place for her, Rose knows. How could she stay anywhere else but where the wind drags the points of oak leaves down the sky, where the tall grass parts under her hands like water?

So life goes on as it did before — the spiders building their webs across the age-grey clapboards of the doctor’s house by the old mine, the oak leaves stuck by their prickling edges to the drying wash, Rose’s father singing softly in his parents’ Spanish as he stocks his black bag at his desk in the front-room.

Rose leans against the desk, chipping at the varnish with her fingernails. In concession to the afternoon heat, the eastward window is flung open, and the thinnest breeze flicks at the pages of the last Sears catalog laid idly within her reach. She has begun to resent the sun — she closes her eyes, hunting darkness for darkness’s sake, and thinks of Saro in her white skirts, standing candle-slender in the dusk between the hills, Saro’s hands that are always cold, pressed softly against Rose’s face, her neck, her chest.

Telephone, its jangling sound sharp in the late-summer quiet — her father’s soft noises of questioning and assent — the practiced movements of putting harness to the horse. But for all that the interruption is sharp, there’s a pleased rise in Rose’s heart nonetheless, for if she is lucky, she will see Saro on the road.

She reins in the horse when her father tells her so, and hands him his bag as he jumps from the buggy — once he’s gone, Rose allows herself a secret smile. It’s early in the evening now, with the light all golden, her father’s horse with its dark mane a-gleaming in the last of the sun. Rose has a flask of coffee with her, brewed black as her father’s coat. She drinks most of it, hot and bitter, never mind that it had been meant to be shared. It doesn’t keep her awake — she drowses, head on her arms, and feels a breeze like soft hands stroke along her neck.

Today she has a headache. Her face is hot, even with her collar unbuttoned and her hat laid aside in her father’s seat. The day is warm, and the air tastes of dust, hot and dry in Rose’s throat. Saro’s hand on her cheek is as sweet and cold as anything Rose has ever snuck from the ice-house. Saro’s mouth against her neck is a cool draught.

“My dear sweet Rose,” says Saro, quiet, with only the barest hint of her usual merriment. “You’ve been ever so patient, even while I took my time with others.”

“Mm,” says Rose, and lets the weight of her body press up against Saro’s cold frame. Perhaps — perhaps that cold could leach the heavy heat from her head, the feverish blur from her eyes.

Saro’s fingers are at the buttons of Rose’s shirtwaist, now, the full breadth of her hand an ice-print on Rose’s chest. Saro from the oak tree, Saro with her hair like mistletoe. The hills rise golden around them, the wind rushing in Rose’s ears without touching her skin.

“May I?”

“Please,” says Rose, at the last, and lets Saro draw away the last of her living warmth.

[mafuaato]

ive been really struggling to draw lately. this is all i have. kksg sillies.

[loneworldgazer]

"his mutt."

pairing: Harley Sawyer X toy!reader

cont: You, his assistant gave up your parts oh so willingly to him. Why are you surprised that you've been turned into a toy, did you think you were special?

a/n: this was crazy, I'll dissappear again for a year trust!!! Seriously tho, writing is fun but my lifestyle is so busy now brahhhh. Edit: closing my eyes as I post this cause I'm not sure if I went on a tangent writing all of this or it's actually good AHHHHH

tags: reader IS AN ADULT, nsfw, groping, degradation, sadism, delusion, fingering, no sex (unfortunately), no specific gentilia mentioned guys, first time writing slight smut??? Idk man Harley is not a good man obviiii, I also want to make it clear that THIS IS NOT BEASTILITY

๑ ~⁠♪

"L/N, would you give yourself up in the name of science?"

That snapped you out your daze from the whirring of the water faucet sanitizing the bloody scalpels. The blood turn to clouds and made your eye twitch back to Harley who had his hand on a VHS tape ready to record another log. That prompted you to reply quickly.

You straightened up, wanting to give a lengthy answer that would somehow impress the Doctor or at best, make him bat an eyelash at you. Experimenting was the reason why you decided to be a scientist, Playtime Co. was where it was home for a job like yours. Going into the unknown required some unethicality and pushing past morals, too much of it is too far that you don't even notice. In the long run, you had smeared blood that wasn't yours all over yourself without realising. Research was the hook, the line were your meticulous gloved hands on a body and the sinker was the Doctor acknowledging the labour that you do.

This place was a house that echoes off with tormented residents and you're simply one of the owners that bang at the walls so they can keep quiet, the smudged handprints had been painted over with a new coat. In this place where you sit at your appointed seat in the family couch, your eyes look around for him.

Would it be plain dreadful to admit that the praise one man could give had you licking and cleaning up the dirt of his sins until he told you it was enough? It was not said but his precense was a mantra that you obedientally chant.

He was a needy man, quite funny to describe someone assertive as him but he depended on you. Or should you be careful with a mind as dangerous as his; an intelligence that leaves you choked up for air. It's bad to dream that he treats you differently but his eyes would linger more on you before he tells you to pass the data.

The voices of everybody you talked to had been a blurry memory ever since you were holed up in this cold, pristine hell of machines and sanitizers. The exhaustion of pushing out the next new toy was the thrill you enjoyed from work, pain and anguish from failure that was simply a query to overtake. It was exhilaration to you. But that wasn't it either.

In conclusion, you had no answer. You couldn't outwit a man who shifted the system of a factory that was close to beggary not because this joyous, welcoming environment of a toy company kept people away but because of the risks that he so challenged. This sole place was pitiful, money was a topic that never left anybody's tongue; the people were reflected like the experiments, scurrying around like rats before the only light that reaches them is the glow of a scalpel.

Perking up, you blinked back the sleep that threatened to overcome you; fingers automatically popping open a bottle of melatonin.

"Yes, Dr. Sawyer. I'd do it in a heartbeat if you were to ask of me."

You didn't notice such a desperate, deprived answer came out of you before the pill dropped from your fingers. The clatter made you drop your head sharply at the ground before shakily putting down the bottle. You swallowed the bile in your throat, wanting to correct yourself, extinguish a bit of that idiocy that you just spouted but what comes next make you gingerly look at him.

It was a short chuckle at your statement, he never did turn his head while talking to you. It was unclear if it was a humourless chuckle or he found you amusing or slow-witted. From many words you could've picked out, why did it have to be those words? Your heart rate starts picking up that you gripped your chest. Maybe, there was an implication to what was uttered, a deeper meaning on how you truly felt for the Doctor.

---------------------------------------------------------

Harley Sawyer removed his gloves before he inspected what he had worked on alone. No scientist remained in the room with him, only you. He takes out a tape before he sits down next to the motionless experiment. He starts, his fingers tapping against the table.

"Experiment 1352, Pet Archetype. Responds to sound and light at best. Standard for experiments who are freshly experimented on"

He continues, his eyes flicking at the experiment.

"This experiment will be different, the style choice separate from actual toys in production. This one, will have a humanoid body. Though, it is far different from Miss Delight."

His fingers brush against the experiment's arm. He articulates his next words slowly.

"The idea is nothing short of obscene, a human with dog features. One that will sweep up this company's mess as it intends to do, it's a form of hybrid."

He nearly loses himself, this company was a pain in the ass; his humourless laugh turning almost insane. He could order the scared scientists under him to bow wow for him with a flick of his wrist since he had the ability to but he holds back, remembering what he planned to say. The bark of laughter he let out made the toy squirm, squirming to breathe, to move or even live. Its chest heaves so heavily and Harley stares down at it.

This log was becoming more and more unprofessional, it tickles him. This is why science was more suited for him since creative thinking led him to dig deep into his desires instead.

"It'll be a part of security alongside the other toys. If other results please me then I may move 1352 up a rank."

He writes on the report, his hand writing faster than the pen as this adrenaline he had in him, it was anticipation for this experiment to succeed. You haven't uttered a word ever since the start of the experiment but it was quite alright, he'll wait. Oh, he will definitely wait.

----------------------------------------------------------

He heard the certain germ quietly pattering to and fro in this sanctuary he deems his, his vessels moving in place for the finale.

Guess Yarnaby couldn't keep them away for that long, it was quite predictable. He must've met his end already, considering the fact that this employee was anything but normal. He almost run out of toys to set upon the intruder, letting his vessel rest beside the machinery where his brain was.

But there was one, one he kept away from the company for so long, clenched hands to let this keepsake stay hidden.

This toy, the one kneeling on the ground where wires were sprawled all over the floor. It kept their head down resting against the knee of his vessel. Their fluffy tail thumping against the ground, still with energy even if there wasn't much meat to chew on anymore. His eye creased in satisfaction at how this one was still alive only because they were under his rule.

His call on making a hybrid sated his hunger but only by the tip of the iceberg. They were hopelessly mopey at times, it was delightfully pathetic. He traced the tape, the final log he managed to do before he was made into this lamentable piece of metal and sparks. He puts it into a nearby television, watching the pup's ear perk up to his voice and crawl towards the table.

"Experiment 1352, Pet Archetype. In relation, this one's cognitive function had worked terrifically but it can't speak. It's quite ironic, seeing that it reflects the person whom I experimented on."

The clinking of the surgical instruments could be heard with the scribbling of paper. He rasps on lightly, he should call this mutt by a name; a special one. One he never said before followed by a dark chuckle.

"Isn't that right, Y/N? Best get farmiliar with that name, I've made an effort to remember your name and it'd be a shame if you forgot."

You yipped, scratching against the table with your ears flattened against your head as he scoffs. You were moved to Playcare like he intended to. He only thought of moving you to work alongside before he got turned into organs, it was a terrible fate considering he was close to the fun part.

He wasn't surprised when you survived the Hour of Joy, you were supposed to. Being his assistant and working aside such dilligence steered you to the right path, that big brain of yours still working in this different body. Even if you looked human, the plastic on your limbs didn't make you struggle; you scoped out this graveyard like a trained dog. It was surely a struggle to make you a human who just had dog features or one who had actual hind legs because either way,

You just look much better kneeling before him.

The other scientists would always be talking behind his back or give him weary looks to what he wanted next, not that he cared much. It was an observation that became a repetitive cycle that it bored him more than experiments that turn out to be failures but you, you stoked a dangerous flame of interest in his soul.

You come close, passing notes and scalpels and touching skin to skin. It was delectable having an assistant that was so predictable and an oddball that only stuck close to him like a pet.

When Yarnaby had found you, hiding up high in the vents; you accidentally peeked out at the wrong time. This mass of yarn was dragging you by the nape kicking and screaming. The lion growls, knowing it shouldn't harm you but your kicks were deathly. He throws you down infront of the Doctor's feet and you growled, ears flattened from aggression.

He kneels, extending a hand and your demeanour changes so quickly.

"Here, pup. Remember me? I'm sure you'd recognise me even if it's just my voice?"

You struggled up to your knees, your chest heaves like crazy to the realisation then bowed completely on the ground.

Incredible, such quick response like you've realised who you were supposed to worship. He stepped close before he pulls you up by the hair and you whined so prettily.

"You do remember what to do, respect me and I'll reward you. Isn't that exciting?"

Utterly demeaning were the words spoken to this pup who stared up at him like he hung the stars, it was like there was only one thing on its mind. That word, reward. Harley never gave away any strong praise or anything, it could be anything and you were bursting at the seams. It was like you never changed.

The vessel's head snapped at the television as the tape ends and the dog bow wowed for more. He was aware that his form now was nothing compared to when he was a human. He thought of something that made him come close to you. Did you ever fantasies about him?

He hardly thinks about these type of things but everything that comes to unnervingly stroke at somebody's weak spots were accounted for and he was quite intrigued at the thought that you were a little perv if you ever were.

Those quick glances, soft sighs to continue focusing on the projects and the furrow at your brows when you think about how you've started at him so much were all noticed by him. Do they go more than that? He didn't go beyond experiments so he doesn't know if somebody like you were to imagine him in such a scandalous manners.

He touches your thigh, rubbing it and you nearly short circuited. He ran his hand up and down teasingly, nearing your private regions that you flinch away from.

"Come now, mutt. Don't you want to feel me?"

He does it again but now holding you close to him. Metal was what you felt but that heartbeat of yours was audible against him. Harley didn't know that you were disappointed. You wanted to feel the real deal, the intimacy you both would have if you two were still... Human.

His hot breath would be aimed down your neck while his warm hands would make you grip the bedsheets, the eye contact with this man would leave you breathless. But you weren't opposed to the pleasure because he was still him, the Doctor you'll follow till the end of the road; till the ends of hell.

He rubs his palm down your chest then his thumbs press against your stomach down to your hips. You salivated, it was detestable and flattering. These desire of yours should've been a reward from the very start but he only thought to commend your actions, wrapping your head around his words. Nevertheless, this was rewarding for him anyways since this was a discovery he will enjoy from his sweet assistant that was so on edge.

His cold steel hands was felt, proding at the inner most deeper parts of you. His hands go even lower which makes you slightly jump but he tutted, smacking at your thigh though he wasn't completely turnt off by it. He let your sensations go haywire as his hand rubbed between your legs, cupping your nether regions and making you yip pathetically.

Harley held you in his lap, holding both your thighs apart while he stroked at his creation. Those late nights which he remembered where he drawn out the details of your genitals, envisioning how it look when he creates every bit of your new form. Those pencil strokes of pure perversion lingers in him when you drip on his hands, it was wonderful of how he planned out everything even the synthetic juices you'll spurt when you feel ecstacy.

He wished he could taste it, his vessel tapping at the glass where his mouth would be; it would fill him with such bliss to lick it all up. Just seeing you tremble from his fingers make him feel powerful, you were just so easy. He had you from the start.

He touched the juices, slipping it in your hole and feeling you react to his fingers and clench tightly. He tried fixing your vocal cords when your body was still in testing. Moments where he dared to cut open your throat and inspect again and again but to no avail. He marvels at the thought of you actually speaking in this form, pleading and calling out his name but he settled with putting his hand around your neck and feeding off the vibrations your throat does.

He hits deep, his fingers thrusting against your inner walls that he watched in awe and how you squirted all over his fingers, he chuckled and turned his head before you clumsily get it all over his TV face. He didn't stop there, caressing the tip of your senses and making you scuffle your feet at the floor like you're asking him to stop.

Overstimulation was a part of every experiment to push past boundaries, it was his way of knowing whether the experiment was made for pain and ready to handle forces against it and you did so well not to fall apart.

"Doctor!"

He nearly falls onto you in exhilaration, your voice so garbled and loud with pleasure and pumped deep into your G-spot. That's it, come again for him and he'll feel something else other than joy. All you needed was a push before these expectations of his were met. He felt you grab at his robe, clenching it in your hand. You swore you saw stars other than the headiness of the Doctor being so intimate with you, this body of yours might shatter at the all consuming ache if being bent to his will.

"Come for me once again, mutt."

A scream ripped apart from you that you do what he says, exhaling every bit of your desperation before falling faint. Limp body lay against his lap, head lolling out for air and consciousness as he steadies you and moved you to the floor. Your fluffy tail thumped tirelessly against the ground. With an inhale, the Nightmare Critters pop up to his whistle and they moved you to a more comfortable position and he moves for the final showdown.

He can't help but scoff, even if it came out empty. There was a dark smirk on his face and he smoothed down his robes, he mayhaps pushed your reward for too long.

He walks away from you and didn't look back, now he continues his long term mission. He'll be expecting bigger things from you now, much more.

[themindelectricdemo4]

There's blood on the floor [don't ask]

[hivemuthur]

Request: something with sex pollen or accidental aphrodisiacs (science experiments?). And not like dubcon. More like Viktor/Reader have unconfessed feelings and apparently one or both of them needs to be drugged and desperate for sex to get them out. Idk if it’s your thing but I’d be interested to see your take on it.

I remember the evening I got this ask. I was like yesss and my friends gave me the look, you know?

Unknown Variable

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! sex pollen, but I've managed to plot it up a bit. From warnings: unsafe sex, rough sex, lots of fluids, brief mentions of experimenting on animals. The substance here is based on how fentanyl works, sort of :') I had to make myself a loop hole for something I wanted to write for the longest time :v

word count: 4,5K

author’s note: Freaktor Nation, how we feeling? Thank you for granting me another porn-writing fiddler milestone Anon :') beautiful artist behind the cover is @petitesieste 🖤

—

Your idle hand plays with the pendant of your necklace while the other scribbles down notes from the last test. Another miss. And life goes on in pain.

Finding a medication that alleviates pain without an endless list of side effects has been Sisyphean work, to say the least. Every time you think you’re close, something immune to compromise pokes its insistent head through the crack you’ve made in the never-fully-open door to the human pain receptor map.

To be honest, your ambitions to cure pain have long been tempered. Now, it’s merely about making it less relentless—offering people who struggle with it a brief reprieve, something to make it manageable. Not that Viktor was your inspiration, but he is a constant reminder of why you should keep going when every trial eventually turns to dust.

"Why do you insist on keeping such thorough documentation of the rejected ones?" The said reminder peeks over your shoulder, his hair tickling your cheek.

You huff, masking how startled you are, and mutter, "Of all people, you shouldn’t be asking stupid questions."

"There is no such thing. Only stupid answers," he counters, eyes still glued to your notes. "It’s a very noble goal, you know, but you might have to come to terms with the fact that a complete erasure of pain may simply be impossible."

"Again. Of all people, you should not speak of the impossible, Viktor," you smile under your nose and turn your head just enough to see that he’s smiling, too. A jest.

"I'm only teasing you," he hums, reaching out to point at something on the page. "This… is not bad. Persevere, you will get there."

His fingertip lands right next to where your hand has frozen mid-writing, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his palm. For a brief moment, you allow yourself the illusion that Viktor is doing it intentionally. But the thought vanishes as soon as he straightens and clears his throat.

"I'm not sure I will continue with this one," you admit, tapping your pen against the page. "It gets rid of skeletal pain but gave my rats a headache to die for."

"Oh, no, no." Viktor shakes his head, eyes still scanning your notes. "This one, you shouldn’t abandon. Perhaps just tweak it."

"Tweak it?" You scoff, slumping back in your chair. "Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tweaked it?"

"I can only imagine," he replies with a wry smile. Then, after a beat, he leans in again, tapping a precise point on the intricate web of chemical formulas—lines and hexagons scrawled across the page. "I am no chemist, but this… just tickles the wrong part of the brain. Make it tickle the right one, and it might actually work."

It’s hard for him to mask the undertone of hope lingering in his voice. Hope that you will find the answer. Hope that your relentless pursuit of relief for those who suffer will finally bear fruit. And, if he allows himself a moment of selfishness, hope that his own pain, the dull ache that never leaves him, might one day be eased.

But there is something else, something unspoken and far less rational. Viktor has always found himself drawn to you, not just in admiration for your intellect, but in the way you work—how you lean too close to your notes, muttering under your breath, the way your fingers absently play with whatever they can find when you are deep in thought.

Since the early years at the academy, he has enjoyed working by your side more than he would ever admit. When your paths eventually diverged—yours to chemistry, his to engineering—he felt the loss more acutely than he had expected. There was pride, of course, in seeing you forge your own path, and such a noble one at that. But the empty spaces where you used to be, the missing sound of your voice arguing a point over some formula or blueprint, left a quiet ache that he did not know how to soothe.

Sometimes, when the solitude stretches long enough, he allows himself the indulgence of believing he was your inspiration. That some part of your devotion to this research, to this particular pursuit, was born from those long nights spent together over textbooks and dimly lit workbenches. But the thought is always fleeting, because minutes later, you will wave a dismissive hand at him, shooing him away to his own lab with a teasing remark, and he will remind himself that he is a fool for entertaining such notions.

It is not as though there have been no opportunities. There have been moments—unguarded, lingering occasions where it might have been easy to reach, to say something, to step beyond the line of friendship. But somehow, the time was never right. And so, this one thing, he never felt like he could touch.

You blink a few times, scrunch your eyebrows, and hum. The pen gets trapped between your teeth as you pick up the sheet and bring it close to your face, as if looking at it from a smaller distance would somehow make it clearer.

“You know, you might be right,” you finally say in a tone that suggests Viktor is never right.

A chuckle rumbles out of him. “Unthinkable,” he snorts, leaning on his cane and offering you a smug, satisfied grin.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be so pleased with yourself,” you chide, but the corner of your mouth betrays a smirk. “Thank you. I must ask you to leave me to be a genius now.”

“Ah, there it is,” he sighs dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Served my purpose, and now I’m being unceremoniously chased away.”

“Don’t sulk,” you tease, waving him off as you set the paper back down. “I’ll even put your name in teeny-tiny little scribble on the leaflet.”

“You spoil me,” he deadpans, shaking his head as he turns to leave. He pauses by the door, glancing back at you with an affectionate smirk. “Fine. Let me know how it goes.”

Before you can say, “You’ll be the first one to know,” Viktor is already gone, the door swinging shut behind him. You give yourself a moment to rub the stupid feeling of light-headedness away from your temples before setting back to work.

What was meant to be a small tweak stretches into hours. Then days. Then, after two weeks, as you stand in front of the blackboard, the realisation you hadn't anticipated settles over you. Whatever you’ve created will inevitably end the already miserable lives of your test rats. Other than that, the medication looks as ready as it will ever be.

You could wait, of course—gather a group of willing human test subjects and conduct the trial properly. But let’s face it—you’ve waited long enough. And it’s right there.

Your jaw aches from hours of clenching, your sleep has been erratic at best, and now, to top it all off, a dull pain throbs in your tooth. You could just check. Worst case? You die. And if that happens—well, you won’t care anyway, will you?

As for the side effects? Manageable. Irrelevant in the grand scheme of the doctor-patient relationship. So yes—it seems you’ve very much done it.

The sun sets at some point while you debate with yourself—to drink or not to drink. When you finally do, all your hesitation, all your pain, the aches and nagging little pokes you hadn’t even realised were there—vanish. They melt into a feeling of softness and lightness, enveloping you in a warmth that feels almost like a gentle embrace.

Your fingers flex as if testing for any lingering pain, but there is none. Even the dull pressure behind your eyes from lack of sleep has dissolved. A laugh bubbles up, unbidden, and you press your palm over your mouth, giddy with disbelief. It worked. It actually worked.

Then, just as quickly, your thoughts snap to Viktor.

You scramble for your notes, knocking over an empty vial in your haste. Ink smears as you flip through your pages, but you hardly care. Grabbing one more vial—just in case—you cork it tight and shove it into your pocket. You need him to see this. Now.

Your heartbeat pounds as you rush out, barely remembering to lock the door behind you before taking off down the corridor. The lamps lining the halls have already been lit, casting flickering pools of gold onto the stone floor. You don’t stop to enjoy it.

Viktor’s dorm is far from your lab, but somehow the jog doesn’t get you tired. On the contrary, it feel great. You reach his door and rap your knuckles against the wood, shifting on the balls of your feet with barely contained excitement.

“Viktor! Open up—I’ve done it!”

The door swings open faster than you expect, and Viktor is already halfway through a hasty, "Shh!" before you shove the stack of notes into his chest. He stumbles back a step, catching them with one hand while bracing against the doorframe with the other. His hair is tousled, his vest unbuttoned—he must have been in the middle of something, though whatever it was is immediately forgotten as he frowns down at the crumpled pages.

"What—?" he starts, but you barely hear him.

With a triumphant little flourish, you hold up the test tube between you, the liquid inside gleaming under the candlelight. “I did it,” you whisper, grinning. “It works.”

Viktor’s gaze flickers from the vial to your face, eyes narrowing. "It? You mean—?"

“If this isn’t enough evidence—” you gesture to the notes he’s still sorting through, his confusion growing by the second—“I might have secretly tried it.”

His fingers still against the parchment. His head snaps up. “…You what?” Voice pitches embarrassingly, sharp with alarm. He glares at you as if he might physically shake the confession back into your mouth, but it’s too late.

You shift your weight between your feet, the initial rush of excitement dimming just a little under his scrutiny. “I tried it,” you admit again, slower this time, watching as his grip tightens around your notes. “And it works, Viktor. No pain, not even a little. I feel…” You hesitate, trying to find the right words, then settle on, “Light. Like I’m floating.”

“That is not reassuring,” he snaps, finally stepping back to let you inside. As soon as you cross the threshold, he shuts the door with a soft but urgent click and turns on you. “You—” He exhales, dragging a hand down his face, visibly forcing himself into something calmer. “You did not even hesitate?”

“I hesitated a lot,” you counter, but that does nothing to ease the storm in his eyes. He looks down at your notes again, scanning them, flipping through pages. His brow furrows deeper with every line.

The rustling of paper sounds unbearably loud in the silence, the only noise countering it the pounding of your own heart in your ears. He says nothing, eyes scanning the pages with intense focus. He’s not just skimming—he’s memorising, cataloguing every formula, every line of documentation. His lips part once, his expression shifting from concern to consideration.

Finally, he lifts his gaze, hopeful and searching. “And the side effects?”

“Very unlikely to make an appearance. Oh, hey!” Your sentence stutters to a halt as you catch Viktor tilting the vial at his lips—and swallowing. “Have you lost your mind?”

“You said it’s safe. I trust you.” He shrugs with a grin, then his eyes flutter shut. After a moment, a quiet, breathy laugh escapes him. “I’ll be damned,” he mutters. “It does work.” As if testing a theory, he exhales deeply, then sits on the sofa and stretches his legs out experimentally. “Please, continue.”

You blink, thrown off balance, but quickly shake it off. “Uh… very unlikely,” you repeat, resuming your pacing in front of him. “Whoever prescribes the medication would have to be attracted to their patient, and vice versa, for any additional effects to take place. And they would both have to ingest it. So, you see—”

Through your excited rambling, you don’t immediately notice Viktor clearing his throat uncomfortably. You frown briefly, a strange warmth blooming in your chest, but your mouth refuses to stop moving.

Viktor speaks your name softly, trying to halt your trot. Then, again. Then, once more—his voice lifting just a notch in urgency.

You finally pause, eyes locking onto his. “Chances are… very slim,” you finish the sentence, but your voice falters into something dangerously close to a whine.

Viktor stretches his legs out stiffly, his hips jerking once as his fingers clench into the fabric of his trousers. A flush creeps up his neck, blooming across the cheeks and he exhales sharply through his nose, shifting as if trying to find relief. His chest rises and falls fast, and when he swipes a hand over his face, his lips part, damp from where he must have licked them. Another small jolt runs through him, thighs pressing together, and his knuckles go white where they grip his knees.

But above all of this, he just looks… incredibly hot. And as if the sight alone isn’t enough to nearly undo you, he speaks.

“Aphrodisiac.” Comes a low mutter of disbelief. “Brilliant, really,” he chuckles weakly, though there’s little amusement in it—only breathlessness. Brilliant, how you connected the dots. So incredibly brilliant to tickle, as he advised you, the parts of the brain that entwine both—pain and pleasure.

“But, oh… f-fuck,” Viktor stutters, a sharp inhale cutting through his words as his body betrays him. His hand twitches towards his lap before he catches himself, fingers gripping his wrist in a desperate attempt to resist. A painful cramp of lust wrenches his stomach into a knot, his entire frame tensing. “You’ve missed a variable, I’m afraid—”

You stand frozen, staring at him, torn between bolting out the door and throwing yourself at his feet. But then the realisation crashes over you, scorching hot, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your pulse slams against your ribs, your skin suddenly feverish—damp forehead, shirt clinging to your back like a parasite.

“You…” your voice wavers as you step forward, heat curling low in your stomach. “It means—” Viktor swallows hard, his gaze flickering up to meet yours, pupils blown wide. “Oh, gods,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out. “You like me,” the truth spills from your lips, the weight of it sending another sharp pang of want through you.

“Immensely,” he admits, voice strained, thighs pressing together as another tremor runs through him. His face is painted in apology, but his hands reach out for you.

You take another step, closing the space between you, and his breath stutters. “Since when?”

“Always, ah—” he gasps, struggling to keep control. His fingers tighten into fists against his knees again. “You?”

Your throat is dry. “Oh… s-same,” you choke out deciding the time for embarrassment is long gone.  

His head tips back, jaw clenched, a strangled sound slipping out as he exhales. “Gods.”

And it just fucking hurts not to touch him. The pain you had so recklessly rid yourself of is back with unnatural force—aching, unrelenting—and gods help you, if you don’t rut into his lap any minute now, you’re going to die miserably.

When you get close enough, his fingers brush yours pleadingly, and the touch feels like a punch to the gut. The mere ghost of his skin against yours bends you in half, has you leaning over him, gripping the backrest of the sofa for support.

“Can I?” he asks, his hand hovering under your skirt. The sweetness of it—this man, asking permission to touch you when you’re so clearly drenched, when you’re convinced he can see the slick dripping down your thigh—makes you want to weep.

You nod desperately, breathing out a tearful, “Please.”

Viktor immediately comes to your aid, his palm swiping up the dampness on your leg before pressing flat against your cunt. The sound it makes—slick and obscene—has him gasping. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he whispers, bewildered.

His neglected cock aches, trapped painfully in his trousers. With the hand not already between your thighs, he fumbles with his belt, freeing himself—but to no avail. His left palm is even clumsier than the right, which now falters, frozen between your legs, his drunk mind unable to do more than one thing at a time.

Desperate for friction, you grab his wrist and rut against his palm, spreading slick all over his fingers. Viktor whines, overwhelmed by both having you and not having you where he needs you most. Then, with a sudden motion that makes you gasp, he moves your knickers aside, hooks two fingers into your cunt, and pulls you down onto his lap.

The moment you're there, you begin to slide your pussy up and down his cock, and Viktor moans—a filthy, slutty sound that has you threading your fingers through his hair, tugging his head to face you.

He looks so gorgeous you could eat him and clean your teeth with his bones. Possessed by greed, you sink your tongue into his mouth and nearly stop grinding from the sheer feeling of it. His hands—gentle, reverent—cup your cheeks, soft lips nipping at yours, his eyelashes tickle your skin when his eyes flutter shut in relief.

It had never crossed your mind to just kiss him. And oh, you’ve missed out on so much.

Because Viktor kisses like he’s been wanting you for the longest time—slow and deep, breathing in through his nose as he presses his face into yours. Close, so close you could melt into him, dissolve into liquid and flow down his throat, straight to his heart. His scent floods you, sweet on your senses and unmistakably him, nothing in particular yet everything at once.

Your hips move once more, but he doesn’t let you go. He groans into your mouth, biting down a moan when your pussy lips hug the underside of his cock, teasing the spot just beneath the head. You stay there, rubbing your clit in short, frantic movements, the sinful sounds falling between you, making you ache for more.

Desperation floods your veins, your slick coating every inch of him as you grind into the ridges of his groin, each drag of your clit sending ecstatic warmth down each of your limbs. Viktor is no better—his breath comes in ragged pants. He grips your hips unsteadily, trying and failing to guide you into something slower that he could endure.

“F-fuck… you are—” His voice trembles, his forehead falling against yours as if the weight of his pleasure is crushing. “So wet. You feel so—so good.”

You can barely reply, too lost in the heat of him, the feeling of his length dragging through your folds, the head catching just right where you swell, the sensation buzzing, building up. Still, you manage a breathy, “Your cock feels amazing,” and the whimper Viktor lets out is nothing short of wrecked.

His hands slip up your back, holding you close, his lips brushing yours as he mutters sweet, broken things—bits of words and phrases in his native tongue. You don’t understand them all, but the way he speaks them, ardent and needy, has your stomach tightening, your whole body scorched.

“Viktor, I’m—”

“I know. Please, cum. For me,” he pleads, his hands gripping you tighter as you begin to lose your rhythm. It’s there, you can already feel it creeping up your spine, twisting and prickling your skin where Viktor touches you, coaxing it out.

The heat in your belly snaps, and you cry out, trembling in his arms as your release gushes over him, soaking his cock, his thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wetness, the sheer warmth of you, sends him over the edge in turn.

Viktor shudders beneath you, his voice breaking on a guttural groan as his cock twitches and spills, ropes of hot cum streaking over his stomach, mixing with your slick into a sticky, messy heat between you.

Your mouth falls back to his, kissing away the sweat from his lips, your pelvis still rocking gently through the aftershocks—the slide so easy now that you feel like a whore doing it. Viktor hums when you pull his damp hair away from his forehead, his breath slowing down when he exhales a breathless chuckle. "You will kill me," he murmurs, voice hoarse and fucked-out.

"No," you whisper, nuzzling into his cheek, your body still moving against him, slow and unhurried. Like a cat rubbing against its keeper, needy and content all at once. "No, I would never. I need you."

Viktor groans softly at that, his hands tracing your sweat-slicked back before settling at your waist. "What do you need from me, sweet girl?" His voice is low, the tone suggesting that anything you ask for, he will give you.

"Please, fuck me," you breathe, pressing closer, your lips brushing against his jaw. "I feel so empty." Only now you begin to undo the buttons of your shirt and Viktor does the same, pressing your damp stomachs together. He inhales your scent from the crook of your shoulder and hums, eyes rolling back in his skull as if the words physically unravel him. His grip on you tightens briefly before he smacks your hips with both hands and says, “Get up. Please.”

Your legs nearly betray you, thighs shaking and knees weak as you try to rise from his lap, only to almost collapse back at the sight of the webs of your shared release stretching between you. It makes a sticky sound, gross and hot, and to your relief, Viktor must find it hot too—because he’s nearly fully hard again.

You don’t know if it’s the medicine or something else. You feel different now, though it definitely still holds, since Viktor gets up with ease, turns you to face the couch, and presses his fingers to the back of your neck, squeezing gently before bending you over. “Ass up, head down,” he says, a renewed lewdness in his tone.

You turn your head, catching him in the corner of your eye, and at the flicker of concern on your face, he smooths a hand along your spine and murmurs, “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.” He peels the sweat-dampened shirt from your back, and you smile at your shared state of half-undress—the way no time is wasted getting fully bare, the discomfort of parting greater than the inconvenience of underwear pushed aside clumsily and trousers still pooled around his knees.

Only you know how many times you’ve pictured this exact scene. But your mind never drifted far enough to conjure exactly how wet and scorching everything would be, how your thighs would quiver in anticipation. The cushioned seat dips next to your knee as Viktor sinks down beside you, close enough that your legs touch. His cock hovers below your pussy, his hands undo your bra, then settle where your hips crease.

He rocks back and forth and tsks when you shift needily. “So impatient,” he hums, sickly sweet in your ear. “But I suppose I have your lack of restraint to thank for being here in the first place.”

A clever retort sits at the tip of your tongue, only to be punched back down when Viktor slides inside you with one smooth thrust, hitting deep. He groans, wide and loud, fingers digging into your flesh—but you don’t see his face. You barely see anything through the tears pricking your eyes, forcing you to squeeze your lids shut. Your nails bite into the couch, and your back arches to meet him, presenting your ass just as he asked.

Still tight from your last climax, you hug all of him snugly, yelping when his balls slap against your soaked lips. It’s slow, almost teasing—the way he stretches you out. He’s too busy gaping at his cock, appearing and disappearing inside you, to hear your little mewls of incoherent begging, the word please tumbling from your lips over and over with no meaning beyond desperation.

Finally, you’ve entered the realm of things he can touch. And it’s dishonourable, the way it happened—but he doesn’t care. The ability to touch you, to fuck you, quickly erases all shame as he slams into you, hard and measured, knocking moans and ragged pants from your throat. It feels better than anything he’s ever felt.

He fucks you hard and rough. Each thrust is forceful, precise, driving deep until the sound of bodies slapping against each other is all you can hear. When enough pressure builds, and he feels your walls tightening, clenching closer and closer around his cock, he fists a hand in your hair and yanks you up. A sharp cry spills from your lips, your belly presses out, and you have to brace a hand against the couch's backrest. His arm comes around your shoulders, holding your back flush against his chest. The other hand—the death of you—slides between your legs, fingers pressing ruthlessly against your clit.

No restraint, no kindness—no nice boy left in him. His teeth graze your ear before sinking into the straining flesh of your neck, his voice a ragged whisper against your skin. “Take it. Where do you want it?”

Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, mouth falling open as you breathe out a tired, “Inside. Please.” He bottoms out and wrenches it from you—an orgasm so violent it has you screaming silently into the ceiling of his dorm room. It’s devastating, ripping away all muscle control as your cunt seizes tight around him, milking him without mercy. Your hands tremble, knuckles whiten as you struggle to hold yourself up, trying not to slump face-first into a pillow.

It’s all too much for Viktor. He falters, his hand slipping from between your thighs. He whispers your name distantly, voice raw, and ruts upward—once, twice—before spilling inside you. Hot cum floods every crevice, thick and unrelenting, leaking out even before he pulls free.

Everything melts into one—your shared breaths, the wet warmth between you, the sluggish rhythm of your heartbeats syncing. Viktor sits back on his heels and wraps his arms around you, nosing into your neck. Leaves soft, loving pecks there, trailing from your collarbone to your temple.

“You really didn’t know?” he asks quietly, his thumb stroking your lip.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat and chuckle. “Oh, gods, no. I’d like to think I have more decency than to drug you into this.” Your face tucks into his throat as you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I have never been more pleased about someone missing a variable,” he mutters, and he’s back—himself again. His hands are gentle as they cup your cheek, swiping away your worry. His lips are sweet on yours, licking the salt from your skin. What this little mistake has just opened up for you—you have no idea. But you can’t wait to find out.

[cherry-cola-on-ice]

Slashers with a sleepwalking s/o

AN: totally based off my personal experiences sleepwalking lol asked my friends and family what their favorite sleepwalking episode was.

Jason Voorhees 🏕

Jason is already paranoid AF about you unknowingly wandering into a trap during the day.

But the first time he comes across you in the woods at night? When you should be asleep?

He is not a happy man. Many thoughts run through his mind. Are you trying to leave him? Trying to get yourself hurt? Would you rather die then be with him?

It takes him a good while and a lot of explaining for him to understand what's happening. That your not intentionally doing this. Science shit™️

He sets up a system. Maybe a bell or two. Something loud to let him know where you are. Maybe some trip wires.

Strangest thing he's seen you do: He watched you eat a entire sleeve of saltines while standing in the shower.

Michael Myers 🎃

Michael's seen some shit. So this is nothing. All those years in Smiths Grove have prepared him for this. So you sleepwalk? Cool, his neighbor at Smiths Grove used to eat cockroachs.

That being said, the closer you're relationship grows, the more worried he becomes. What if you fall down the stairs? What if you wander into the road? What if, what if, what if??

He doesn't have the foresight to set up traps, like Jason does.

Uses his fucked up sleep schedule to his advantage and often stands over your sleeping body. Jumpscare.

Will definitely tie a bell on you while you sleep. Totally not a collar what are you saying? Don't make it kinky.

The strangest thing he's seen you do: Put all of the remotes in the refrigerator because they needed batteries.

Thomas Hewitt 🥩

Poor sweet man. You're going to give him a heart attack one of these days.

However, he's probably one of the more better prepared of the lot. His house is set up to keep people in and out. So there isn't much danger you can get into.

Unless he forgets to lock up the basement. Which has happened once. And only once. You were fairly unharmed if not a little traumatized.

Has taken to locking your bedroom door. Also installs like 10 latches. AND puts a bell on the doorknob. And maybe sometimes you.

Look, he's already scared of losing you to somebody else, he doesn't want to have to worry him losing you to you.

Strangest thing he's seen you do: Him, Monty and Hoyt sat and watched you stand in front of the sink for a hour and a half. Just standing there. Menacingly

Brahms Heelshire 🐀

Oh, poor baby is confused. Especially at the start of your situation-ship. You don't know he's there, you just think you're babysitting a doll for a sad old couple. Not their grown ass son who lives in the walls.

The first time Brahms finds you sleepwalking, he's pissed. You trying to leave him, he knows you are. But... did you just snore?? Wait, you're asleep. He feels a little better about the situation.

Until you start walking towards the stairs. Boy's never moved so fast in his life. He knows if he wakes you up it's game over. So he gives you a gentle nudge back to your room.

Now after you find about the rat man in the walls, things are different. Brahms, even in the deepest REM cycle, will never let you go. Man is a koala and you are the tree he's clinging to for dear life. It's almost impossible to escape his arms at night.

Almost makes you sleep in the walls instead of the bedroom so you're safer. Like ain't no way you're getting out of those without him waking up.

Strangest thing he's seen you do: Sat up in bed, complaining about the maracas in your mouth??? He cried.

Billy Lenz 🎄

World's worst caretaker 👑

Especially before yall start dating because, at that point in time, he's still trying to decide if he wants to kill you. He won't lie, he very briefly thought about pushing you down the stairs.

But? After you win him over? Yeah still kinda sucks ass at keeping you from hurting yourself. He'll keep you alive, mind you, just a little worse for wear.

He asked you once if he could tie you down in bed. You didn't like the look in his eyes so you declined. Billy pouted for the next three days.

TBH he might do it anyways. Look he's just trying to keep your silly little self safe, S/O. Get your mind out of the gutter. Haha, jk...unless 😏?

The strangest thing he's seen you do is eat a entire bag of gummy bears while standing outside. He joined you.

Vincent Sinclair 🖌

Another prepared king 👑

His workshop is dangerous. Upstairs is dangerous. The whole town is health code violation. And bby cannot stand the idea of you hurting yourself.

But other then the constant anxiety that you'll some how end up falling off the stairs or falling into the wax or the any other number of things his brain comes up with, he's very level-headed.

Child safety locks. He buys that shit in bulk.

But hey, gives him a excuse to hold you at night. (Vincent, they're literally your s/o)

The strangest thing he's seen you do is stand over Bo's bed, chanting tomato. Bo almost cried.

Bo Sinclair 🔧

Definition of "Look at that idiot...oh wait that's my idiot!"

Honestly, probably the worst. Not like 'let's you just walk around' worst, but more like 'Imma gonna chain you to the bed' worst.

Dude's so scared of losing you, pretty much the best thing that ever happened to him, that his willing to go to drastic matters to keep you safe.

Don't try to explain the science behind it, you'll only give him a migraine. Just let him keep you safe. K, bby?

Bo's gonna lose sleep some nights, he's that scared. No doubt you will wake up to the feeling of someone watching you. Just comfort him, ok?

Strangest thing he's seen you do is sit up in bed and start singing 'Livin La Vida Loca'

Asa Emory 🪲

Number one prepared king™️

I'm not saying he may or may not, kinda sorta perhaps placed cameras around your living situation before you two even began dating. But yeah he did.

So he knows all about the crazy shenanigans you are up to at night.

He reads the books, watching online lectures 👏all👏the👏research. You can bet your sweet ass he knows exactly how to wake you up in case of emergency.

In the same breath, despite how much he does love you, science. Prepare to be studied like a bug under a microscope.

Strangest thing he's seen you do is standing with the refrigerator doors open, telling him how much you love this show.

Norman Bates 🚿

My poor sweet innocent murder bby. He doesn't know what to do.

Yeah, keep you safe, he's got that much down. But at what cost?

The hotel looks like a a daycare center now. Baby proofing everywhere (ask him about getting locked out of the bathroom, it's funny)

Suggested a collar once as a joke, wasn't expecting you to agree. Got flustered. Dropped his cup, maybe got a bone.

Another koala sleeper, so good luck escaping his embrace. Will go as far as following you to the bathroom to make sure you're actually awake.

Strangest thing he's seen you do is sit down in a fake potted plant in the living room and talk about dinosaurs.

[supi-wupi]

Kiss Me, It’s for Science - Junhui

Pairing: jun x reader

synopsis: Jun and Y/N are both psychology majors. For their thesis, they must observe the chemical reactions of romantic attraction... using themselves as test subjects. Bonus, Their “experiment” is being live-blogged by classmates on a fan account.

wc: 4.1k

genre: Romantic Comedy, Academic AU, Mutual Pining, Group Chat Chaos, Soft but unhinged friendship dynamics

warning: Swearing (mostly in the form of chaotic group chat energy and Seungkwan’s emotional rants), Secondhand embarrassment (via live-blogging, secret kisses, and overly dramatic classmates), Mentions of stress

a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY JUNNIE!!! was actually laughing at myself for even writing this in the first place, but i had fun :) Special thanks to @hhaechansmoless and @flowerwonu for beta reading for me!

1. Hypothesis: Jun Is Not That Pretty. Probably.

The list of things you expected when you picked psychology as your major was short and kind of embarrassing. You thought you'd learn how to read minds (nope), how to fix people (wrong again), and maybe how to stop crying in front of professors (jury's still out on that one).

You definitely did not expect to end up in a research lab about ‘neurochemical responses to romantic attraction.’

Even less expected was being partnered with Wen Junhui—resident pretty boy, dance major turned psych convert, and the guy who once tried to hypnotize a TA for extra credit. It almost worked.

Jun was already at your shared lab table when you arrived, feet up on the second chair, flipping through the experiment handbook like it personally offended him. He looked up as you approached, expression unreadable. Then he smiled—wide and kind and borderline smug.

“You’re late,” he said.

“You’re early,” you shot back, dropping your bag with a dramatic thunk. “What are we even doing this semester? I skimmed the syllabus, and it sounded like a dating sim disguised as science.”

Jun’s grin widened. “That’s because it is.”

You blinked.

He patted the seat next to him. “We’re going to fall in love. For research.”

You stared at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

He pulled out a laminated page from the handbook and slid it across the table like he was revealing a clue on a game show. You read aloud: ‘Students will pair up and conduct a series of controlled experiments designed to measure physiological and psychological markers of romantic arousal and bonding.’

Your voice cracked a little on arousal.

“...This can’t be real.”

Jun leaned his chin on one hand, hair falling just slightly into his eyes. “It’s supervised by Dr. Kang. She’s been studying oxytocin and dopamine pathways for years. I think she’s trying to get a paper out of it.”

“So we’re lab rats.”

He raised his brows. “Hot lab rats.”

You rolled your eyes so hard, you didn’t think it was possible.

Still, you glanced back at the paper. Heart rate tracking, skin conductivity, pupil dilation, mood journaling, regular surveys. One prompt literally said, ‘Have participants hold hands for 60 seconds and record any notable emotional or physiological changes.’

This had to be a joke.

“Why are we doing this to ourselves?” you muttered, dragging your hands down your face.

Jun tapped the edge of the page. “Because it’s fifty percent of our final grade. And because it’ll be fun.”

You gave him a look.

He gave you the Jun look, which basically meant the same as a wink but prettier and more annoying.

“And,” he added, “because apparently, someone’s already live-blogging our class.”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

Jun pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and slid it your way.

On screen: a Twitter account titled [@JunYNSocialExperiment] Pinned tweet: Day 1 of Jun and Y/N’s slow descent into thesis-induced madness. Sparks may already be flying. 👀 #Psych4Luv

You blinked again. Harder.

Jun just shrugged. “Welcome to the spotlight, partner.”

You wanted to crawl under the lab table.

Instead, you groaned and flopped onto the chair next to him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Not the most romantic start,” he said, mock-pouting.

You glared at him. “You better not fall in love with me, Jun.”

He grinned, and this time it was all teeth. “Too late.”

—

2. Variables Include but Are Not Limited to, My Crush on You

[@JunYNSocialExperiment] Tweet 13: Jun just held Y/N’s hand during the oxytocin baseline. Her hand was shaking. His wasn’t. That man is too calm. Suspiciously calm. Tweet 14: Someone check if he practiced this in the mirror. #SmoothOperator Tweet 15: UPDATE: Jun said “your hands are soft” in a tone that should be illegal in educational settings. #HRViolation

—

You don’t know who’s running the live-blog account, but you’re at least 80% sure it’s Minghao. Maybe Seungkwan. Could be both.

“Should we be worried we’ve gone viral on CampusTok?” Jun asks, voice way too relaxed for someone whose heart rate was just logged mid-hand-holding session.

You, on the other hand, are a wreck. You can feel your pulse in your teeth.

“It’s not viral,” you mutter, not looking up from your lab notes.

Jun holds up his phone: 27.4K likes on a clip of you nearly dropping your water bottle when he smiled too hard during Eye Contact Session 1.

You stare at the number. Then you stare at him.

“This is your fault,” you say.

He feigns innocence. “I’m just being a good lab partner. You’re the one getting flustered.”

“You smiled like a romance anime protagonist.”

“I was following protocol. Stimulus Response Theory. Emotional cues. It’s for science.”

Inhale. Exhale. Murder is illegal….

Dr. Kang appears at that exact moment, armed with clipboards and a polite but terrifying smile. “How are my favorite guinea pigs doing?”

You both reply at the same time: Jun: “Deeply in love.” You: “Deeply in denial.”

Dr. Kang nods like that’s perfectly normal and flips to the next page in her binder. “Excellent. Today we’re doing proximity tests. Sit close, back-to-back, no talking. We’ll be monitoring tension levels.”

You blink. “Tension levels?”

“Muscle stiffness, heart rate, skin conductivity.” She pauses. “And maybe some vibes.”

Jun snorts. You do not.

Five minutes later, you’re sitting back-to-back with Jun on a mat on the floor, too aware of the warmth radiating from his shoulder blades and the fact that you’re pretty sure he smells like green tea and expensive dreams.

You hear him breathe in, like he’s going to say something, then stops. A beat of silence follows.

“I can feel you overthinking,” he murmurs, voice low enough only you can hear.

You elbow him in the ribs.

He laughs silently.

—

[@JunYNSocialExperiment] Tweet 16: They’re back-to-back right now. She keeps adjusting her posture. He hasn’t moved once. I’ve never seen a man so comfortable with romantic tension. Tweet 17: Someone said he’s the embodiment of a smirk. Accurate. Tweet 18: If this doesn’t end in a kiss during the Final Trial, I’m demanding a refund from the psychology department.

—

You finally snap when someone in your group chat sends a meme of your blushing face photoshopped onto a squirrel. Caption: "Me when Jun breathes."

You hold up your phone to him, nose wrinkled. “Why are they like this?”

Jun glances at it and grins. “Because we’re adorable.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I am.” He pauses, then tilts his head. “But also you.”

You freeze.

Jun shrugs like he didn’t just ruin your nervous system. “Just an observation. Scientific.”

You toss a pen at his forehead.

He catches it—of course he catches it—then raises a brow. “Aggression noted. Possible sign of repression?”

You nearly scream.

—

3. This Is Definitely a Crush, But Let’s Pretend It’s Academia

[@JunYNSocialExperiment] Tweet 19: Jun just adjusted Y/N’s necklace for the "touch sensitivity test." That was not science. That was foreplay. Tweet 20: We’re 3 sessions away from them inventing eye contact pregnancy. Tweet 21: The TA had to step outside to breathe.

—

[Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)] [Hao]: do u think if i bump into jun in the hallway and say “do you believe in fate” he’ll crack and confess [Boo]: no but he’ll probably quote some philosopher and flip his hair [Vernon]:  i’m still not over how he called y/n “sunshine” in that deadpan voice like bro who trained you [Dino]: should we start a betting pool for when they kiss [Hao]: i already started one. dps due friday [Boo]: why friday [Hao]: because dr kang is making them share a blanket for the “comfort dependency module.” [Hao]: i am not joking.

—

“I think Minghao’s spying on us,” you mutter, scrolling through the live-blog account while sitting next to Jun at a coffee shop.

Jun glances over, sipping his iced americano like nothing phases him. “I think Minghao’s rooting for us.”

You choke on your muffin.

He pats your back in a very not platonic way. “You good?”

“Define ‘good,’” you cough, “because emotionally I’m hanging on by a single neurotransmitter.”

Jun smiles, utterly unhelpful. “Let’s hope it’s dopamine.”

—

In today’s lab, you’re asked to complete a “Shared Intimacy Memory Test,” where you’re supposed to tell a meaningful memory to your partner and rate how emotionally connected you feel afterwards.

You stare at the blank paper in front of you.

“Do I tell the story where I cried in front of my professor?” you ask. “Or the one where I got stuck in a revolving door?”

Jun hums. “How about something you’d only tell someone you trust?”

You side-eye him. “You first, Casanova.”

And then he tells you about his mom’s garden.

About how she used to wake him up at 5 a.m. to water the tomatoes.

About how he hated it—until he moved out and realized he missed the smell of basil more than anything.

You look at him, quiet for a long moment.

“That’s kind of beautiful,” you say, softly.

He shrugs. “Kind of like you.”

You stare.

He doesn’t break eye contact.

The TA coughs behind her clipboard.

—

[Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)] [Boo]: he just called her beautiful [Boo]: i have ascended [Dino]: do you think if i fake a nosebleed they’ll get distracted long enough to kiss [Hao]: no but worth a try. bring a ketchup packet. [Vernon]: i’m just here for the free drama. this is better than any kdrama i’ve ever seen.

—

Later that night, Jun walks you home after the lab.

Your shoulder brushes his.

You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to either.

“You ever think we’re just playing chicken with each other?” you ask suddenly, stopping near your door.

Jun blinks. “In what way?”

“I mean—who’s going to crack first. Say it out loud.”

He steps a little closer. “Say what?”

You look up at him, heartbeat louder than logic.

“That this... doesn’t feel like an experiment anymore.”

Jun doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he reaches up like he might touch your face, then stops.

“I’ve known since Day 2,” he admits.

You blink. “Known what?”

“That I like you,” he says simply. “Everything else has just been… peer-reviewed confirmation.”

Your heart crashes somewhere into your lungs.

But before you can reply, he adds, “I’m not asking for an answer. Not yet. But just know I’m not pretending.”

You don’t sleep that night. Your lab notes the next morning are absolute garbage.

—

4. The Blanket Test and Other Forms of Emotional Torture

[@JunYNSocialExperiment] Tweet 21: If you thought they couldn’t get more domestic—today’s module is: Shared Thermal Regulation. Tweet 22: Translation: THEY’RE SHARING A BLANKET FOR SCIENCE. Tweet 23: Jun said “you can have more if you’re cold” and tucked the blanket over Y/N’s knees. I am now legally married to this ship.

—

[Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)] [Boo]: shared. thermal. regulation. [Boo]: dr kang is a menace and also my hero [Dino]: they’re gonna die of tension before hypothermia even kicks in [Vernon]: y/n just told jun “you run warm” and i had to physically leave the room [Hao]: if they don’t kiss today i’m deleting my degree [Hao]: this is not psychology this is foreplay 101

—

Jun adjusts the blanket so it drapes evenly across your legs. You're sitting side by side on the floor of the lab’s observation room, backs against the couch, trying very hard not to make eye contact.

“So,” you say lightly, “how do you think this affects the dopamine system?”

Jun leans over. “You want the scientific answer or the ‘I like the way your voice sounds when you’re flustered’ answer?”

Your whole nervous system malfunctions.

“That’s not—” you choke, “That’s not a real research angle!”

He raises an eyebrow. “Says who? Should we test it?”

You open your mouth to argue, but then he shifts closer, shoulder to shoulder now, and all your cognitive functions dissolve.

You pretend to look at your notes.

He pretends to look at his.

Neither of you are fooling anyone.

—

[Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)] [Boo]: jun said “you smell like vanilla and chaos” and i SCREECHED [Hao]: i am going to physically force their faces together i swear [Dino]: update: i told the TA i had to “check the fire alarm” so i could eavesdrop [Vernon]: i heard jun say “i dreamt about you last night” [Vernon]: i have not recovered [Boo]: WAS IT SEXY [Vernon]: no it was weirdly soft [Vernon]: he said “you were laughing and I wanted to keep the sound” [Hao]: i need a sedative

—

“You’re staring again,” you murmur without looking at him.

“I study human behavior,” Jun says smugly. “This is observational data collection.”

You snort, eyes still on the psych textbook in your lap. “Uh-huh. What’s your conclusion?”

He shifts a little closer. “That I’m probably completely in love with you.”

Silence.

Your fingers twitch under the blanket.

He doesn’t take it back.

You look up at him—finally—and the look in his eyes makes the air feel heavier.

You say, quietly: “I don’t know what to do with that.”

Jun smiles, a little crooked. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… don’t run.”

“I’m not running,” you whisper.

He nudges your knee with his. “Good.”

—

Later, back in your dorm, you open your phone and find 18 missed messages from Hao.

[Minghao]: DID YOU KISS?? [Minghao]: DID YOU TOUCH HANDS?? [Minghao]: DID HE WHISPER YOUR NAME LIKE A SAD VICTORIAN POET WE’RE DYING HERE [Minghao]: answer or i’m going to publish the live-blog as a case study

You roll your eyes and finally respond

[You]: no kiss [You]: just confessions [You]: maybe next time [Minghao]: CONFESSIONS?? [Minghao]: LIKE LOVE ONES?? [Minghao]: be so serious rn. i’m calling dr kang and declaring this a success [You]: don’t [Minghao]: too late. already printed matching lab coats that say “subject a’s boyfriend”

—

5. Hallway Kisses and One (1) Witness Too Many

[@JunYNSocialExperiment] Tweet 24: Okay. Okay. Okay. I’m shaking. Tweet 25: THEY THINK THEY’RE SNEAKY. THEY’RE NOT. Tweet 26: Seungkwan caught them kissing outside the lab and texted us “GUYS I JUST WITNESSED EMOTIONAL NUDITY” Tweet 27: Anyway, we won.

—

It happens between modules.

You and Jun are standing in the hallway outside Dr. Kang’s office, both slightly breathless after a long presentation on “emotional synchrony and physiological arousal,” which is ironic considering you haven’t been able to calm down around Jun for weeks.

There’s no one in the hallway. The lab door clicks shut behind you.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed loosely. Jun’s in front of you, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking from your face to your mouth and back again.

“You did well in there,” he says softly.

“You too. Especially that part where you explained heart rate increase as ‘mutual attunement’ and looked directly at me for the entire paragraph.”

Jun tilts his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You noticed?”

You roll your eyes. “I notice everything.”

There’s a beat.

Then he takes a half-step closer. “Do you notice how close I am right now?”

Your breath hitches. “Jun—”

“If you don’t want me to kiss you, say something.”

Silence.

You look up at him, and whatever’s in your expression makes him breathe in sharply. He leans in—

And kisses you.

It’s gentle at first—tentative, warm. But then you’re pulling him in by the collar and he’s tilting your chin up with one hand, the other braced against the wall beside your head. The kiss deepens, and the world narrows to the space between your mouths.

Then—

“Oh my GOD.”

You both freeze.

Seungkwan is standing ten feet away with his lunch tray, mouth agape.

There’s a long, long pause.

“…Please pretend you didn’t see that?” you say weakly.

Seungkwan drops the tray on the floor with a clatter and bolts down the hall at full speed, yelling, “I NEED MY PHONE. I NEED THE GROUP CHAT. I’M TELLING EVERYONE.”

—

[Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)] [Boo]: EMERGENCY BROADCAST [Boo]: RED ALERT [Boo]: THEY WERE MAKING OUT OUTSIDE THE LAB [Boo]: I REPEAT [Boo]: LIP-LOCK LEVEL: ADVANCED [Hao]: OH MY GODDDDD [Hao]: I KNEW IT [Hao]: LOVE IS REAL [Boo]: jun had his hand on the WALL [Boo]: WALL ARM [Boo]: THE KDRAMA WALL ARM [Dino]: i am crying. this is the most important academic day of my life [Vernon]: are we still live-blogging or is this now a fan shrine

—

Later that night, Jun sends you a text.

[Jun]: did we break seungkwan he walked into the kitchen and handed me a banana without saying a word

[You]: i think he’s grieving either our friendship or the fact he wasn’t the first to know possibly both

—

Dr. Kang enters the next lab session with a small smile and a stack of feedback forms.

“Before we begin, I’d like to commend Subject A and Subject B for their… commitment to the experiment.”

You and Jun exchange panicked glances.

Dr. Kang continues. “Some of your classmates have submitted observational reports. Very thorough. Some might say emotionally invasive, but—” she shrugs, “—that’s academia.”

You are going to kill Seungkwan.

—

[@JunYNSocialExperiment] Tweet 28: they’re holding hands in the presentation now Tweet 29: jun just whispered something and y/n smiled like a fool Tweet 30: we’re calling it Tweet 31: experiment conclusion: it was never about science Tweet 32: it was always about love

—

6. Confessions & Crashes (Live from Psych 301)

The final presentations were scheduled to start at 1:00 PM sharp, but the lecture hall was already packed by 12:40. Not because anyone particularly loved behavioral psych, but because the entire Seventeen Group Chat had gone rogue.

—

Specifically: Subject: Jun and Y/N’s final presentation Subtext: Will they combust? Will they kiss again? Will Seungkwan faint in public?

[Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)] [Boo]: IM OUTSIDE THE LECTURE HALL [Boo]: I REPEAT THE KISSERS ARE ON CAMPUS [DK]: omg [DK]: omg [Joshua]: don’t cause a scene [Boo]: TOO LATE I’VE ALREADY SWEATED THROUGH MY SHIRT [Mingyu]: i brought popcorn [Vernon]: i brought existential dread [Woozi]: i brought a taser [Soonyoung]: I BROUGHT POSTERS [Jeonghan]: what [Soonyoung]: [attached: “KISS ME IT’S FOR SCIENCE” banner] [Jeonghan]: I regret asking

—

You and Jun sit near the front. There’s a half-meter of space between your seats, but the tension could punch a hole through concrete. You’re both quiet. Too quiet.

It’s been three days since the kiss.

Three days since Seungkwan caught you in the hallway and shrieked so loud the janitor dropped his mop. Three days since your group chat transformed into a fanfiction-writing frenzy, culminating in Minghao sending a 20-slide PowerPoint titled “The 19 Stages of Academic Yearning (ft. Jun and Y/N).”

And three days since you’ve said anything real to Jun.

Because how do you follow a kiss like that?

A kiss that wasn’t part of the experiment. A kiss that wasn’t data or methodology or "mutual gaze-induced arousal via stimulus proximity." A kiss that felt—

Real.

—

Your names are called. You step up.

You’re shaking. But Jun smiles at you, soft and grounding. Like he’s saying, We got this. I got you.

You start with the basics—hypothesis, procedure, variables.

Jun picks up the analysis, voice steady. “We measured cortisol levels, pupil dilation, and heartbeat synchronization during various physical and emotional interactions. Our aim was to determine whether affection, simulated or genuine, could create measurable physiological bonding.”

He pauses.

You glance at him. His jaw tightens.

Then he turns to face the audience. “But somewhere along the way,” Jun says quietly, “it stopped being simulated.”

Your stomach drops.

The room is silent.

“Somewhere between testing proximity and shared secrets… I stopped seeing this as research. And started feeling something real.”

You blink.

Oh no.

He’s doing this. Here. Now. In front of fifty students and one very emotionally fragile Seungkwan.

You step forward, whispering, “Jun—”

But he looks right at you.

“This wasn’t in the protocol,” he says, voice suddenly trembling. “You weren’t supposed to matter this much. But you do. You do.”

—

The lecture hall explodes.

[Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)] [Boo]: HES CONFESSING [Boo]: HE’S CONFESSING IN PUBLIC [DK]: OH MY GODDDD [Joshua]: I’M CRYING [Woozi]: shut up i can’t hear [Minghao]: [screenshot of Jun’s face mid-confession, zoomed in 300%] [Soonyoung]: CAN I THROW FLOWERS [Jeonghan]: NO [Soonyoung]: TOO LATE [Jeonghan]: ARE YOU ACTUALLY THROWING FLOWERS [Soonyoung]: [attached: photo of daisies in mid-air] [Mingyu]: THE TA IS CRYING [Vernon]: i’m also crying but i think it’s unrelated [Boo]: HE’S HOLDING HER HAND [Boo]: I’M GOING TO ASCEND

—

You’re stunned. Frozen.

Jun steps closer, voice softer now. “Y/N, you don’t have to say anything. But I had to tell you. Because this was supposed to be a study in emotional bonding, and somewhere along the line, I fell in love.”

You stare.

And then you laugh—wet, shocked.

“Jun,” you whisper, “I was in love with you four weeks ago. When you spilled tea on my laptop and offered to buy me a new one.”

He blinks. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” you say, grinning. “But the hallway kiss helped.”

The entire room loses it.

—

You’re still holding hands when your professor says, “A+, obviously. But please consider my blood pressure next time.”

Jun bows politely. You wave, dazed. The class claps like you just ended a K-drama. Someone’s live-streaming. A flower lands on your head.

—

[Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)] [Joshua]: does this mean they’re dating [DK]: DO WE THROW A PARTY [Woozi]: i’m making a playlist [Jeonghan]: i’m making a drinking game [Soonyoung]: IM MAKING A TIKTOK [Minghao]: i’m making a legally binding marriage certificate [Boo]: [attached: selfie, red-eyed, cheeks blotchy, surrounded by tissue] [Boo]: love is real [Boo]: i need electrolytes

—

7. Commence Emotional Graduation (w/ Seungkwan’s Fanclub)

Graduation day arrives like a fever dream. Caps flying. Gowns flapping. Sunglasses hiding tears. A dangerously unstable crowd of proud parents, confused siblings, and one emotionally possessed group chat ready to combust.

You’re standing in line to cross the stage, half-listening to the Dean’s speech and trying not to cry into your honor cords. Beside you, Jun is adjusting his gown and whispering nonsense like:

“Did you eat?” “Is your cap on straight?” “Do I have something in my teeth?” “Should we kiss after we get our diplomas?” “Too much?”

“Yes,” you whisper back, heart soft. “All of it. But I love you anyway.”

He beams so wide you almost cry again.

—

Meanwhile...

[Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)] [Boo]: LISTEN UP [Boo]: THE TIME HAS COME [Joshua]: oh no [Woozi]: what have you done [DK]: i’m scared [Boo]: I AM OFFICIALLY LAUNCHING [Boo]: THE JUN × Y/N FANCLUB [Minghao]: of course [Jeonghan]: we knew this was coming [Soonyoung]: DO WE GET SHIRTS [Boo]: ALREADY MADE [Boo]: [attached: “I Believed in the Science” t-shirt] [Mingyu]: bro [Vernon]: incredible [Boo]: there’s a tier system [Boo]: GOLD = saw them kiss live [Boo]: SILVER = cried during the final presentation [Boo]: PLATINUM = emotionally unwell since week 4 [Joshua]: so we’re all platinum [Woozi]: against my will

—

You cross the stage.

Your name is called. The applause is normal—until SEUNGKWAN SCREAMS from the back row, holding a hand-painted fanclub banner. (Soonyoung is next to him tossing mini confetti cannons.)

You’re pretty sure the Chancellor flinches.

Then Jun crosses.

The crowd, already unstable, reaches concert-level intensity. Someone blows a kazoo. Vernon is live-streaming. Mingyu is crying. The professor who gave you an A+ on your final project wipes a single tear and nods like she’s raised you both herself.

—

After the ceremony, the chaos continues.

You’re bombarded with hugs, selfies, and “tell us everything” questions from your group chat. Seungkwan makes you pose in front of a giant “Science of Love” poster he made himself. Soonyoung forces Jun into a glitter-filled TikTok. Woozi plays an acoustic guitar version of “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” while Joshua harmonizes.

Jeonghan casually hands you a champagne bottle and whispers, “You survived academia and fell in love. You deserve this.”

—

Later, you and Jun sneak away. Sit quietly on the edge of campus, overlooking the courtyard full of chaos you’ve come to love.

He nudges your shoulder. “So... post-grad. What now?”

You smile. “We keep experimenting. With this. Us.”

He leans in. “For science?”

You laugh into his kiss. “For love.”

—

[Group Chat: Science Is a Scam (feat. Love)] [Boo]: THEY’RE KISSING AGAIN [DK]: I’M CRYING AGAIN [Woozi]: we should’ve majored in drama [Minghao]: we basically did [Soonyoung]: LET’S THROW A REUNION EVERY YEAR [Joshua]: …we’re still on campus? [Jeonghan]: shut up and let the moment happen [Vernon]: i’m writing a poem [Mingyu]: i’m hungry [Boo]: i’m full [Boo]: FULL OF EMOTION

masterlist ♪

[maryrouille]

Toxic romanticization of studying

In a word of introduction, my profile partly shows that studying and exploring is wonderful. But as a person involved in science*, I would like to show healthy and true patterns of this beautiful adventure in acquiring knowledge.

The inspiration for writing this post this time was not the phenomenon from Tumblr (although you can also observe it here), but from Pinterest. There you can come across cycles composed of quotes and photos whose aim is to motivate young girls to learn, succeed and get good grades. These images often also show examples of characters from movies, TV series or real life that you can aspire to be like. Overall, I have to agree that it really works! But I would like to draw attention to certain elements that need to be verified.

1. You shouldn't get up at 5am

First of all, the correct amount of sleep is one of the most important factors affecting the proper and effective functioning of our brain. During sleep, nerve cells regenerate, organize information acquired during the day and consolidate memory traces, which is directly related to learning. Lack of sleep increases impulsivity, deepens negative thinking and slows down the body's reaction time!

2. You can be a genius without good grades

Of course, good grades are a pleasant confirmation of our knowledge and praise for hard work. However, sometimes it is worth considering whether the structure of exams themselves, especially those with closed questions, affects the results. We often study for one specific exam, the knowledge of which may be very… limited and sometimes not useful, so it is worth prioritizing the topics that we study hard.

3. It's not cool to think you're better than others

We are different and have different priorities in life. It is also worth considering how many people escape from the rat race and start a slow, stress-free life. So we have to agree that judging people based on grades or responses under stress (sic!) is not cool.

The good thing about romanticizing studying

As I have already said, these types of collages are really motivating. So let's talk about what's great about them and what's worth highlighting and saving for later.

1. Knowledge is beautiful, but your outfit and surroundings can also be

We know that we should never judge a book by its cover, but… the issue of social perception painfully confirms that we do and will continue to do so because this is how our brains work. And isn't it nice when someone looks at us and thinks this girl is so classy?

Moreover, a nice outfit that makes us feel good gives us a lot of self-confidence. There are also many studies confirming the positive impact on motivation and concentration of a neat and aesthetic workplace.

2. Not just cramming, but also discovering

Broadening your horizons is easier with passion and real commitment. And to achieve this, the topics must really interest us. Not everyone has yet found something that they are extremely passionate about in science, so that is why you have to dig deeper and discover different areas.

3. Don't be afraid to use your knowledge in practice

Schools and universities, unfortunately, have their own rules and they do not always allow you to show your 100% potential. Thus, share your knowledge with others externally, write essays, blog and social media. This form of activity also makes you learn things faster and easier. In addition, contacts with others will expand your knowledge.

Therefore, I must say that it is worth choosing your inspirations carefully. Nothing helps you enjoy studying better than a clear head and lack of prejudices.

*This post was inspired by my own experience with studying. If anyone is interested, I think I can share my mistakes that did not help me in an academic adventure :)

[bradleysass]

fit - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 561

James Potter was lying upside down on the Gryffindor common room couch, feet hooked over the backrest, head dangling off the edge, watching Regulus Black read. He’d been in this position for a solid twenty minutes, and so far, Regulus had only glanced at him twice. This was unacceptable.

Regulus, perfectly composed despite the chaos of the room around him, was settled in the armchair across from him, book in hand, fingers lazily turning the pages as if James’ ridiculous antics weren’t happening directly in front of him. The fire crackled softly in the background, an almost domestic scene—if not for the fact that James was currently considering one of his greatest experiments yet.

“I have a question,” James announced, swinging slightly so his hair nearly brushed the floor.

Regulus hummed, still not looking up. “Do I want to hear it?”

“If we could tempt Peter with cheese, do you think he’d fit inside a tiny box?”

Regulus’ book lowered just enough to reveal his unimpressed stare. “Are you asking me if we can trap your best friend in a box?”

“Tiny box,” James corrected, lifting a finger as if this was an important distinction. “Think about it. He turns into a rat. Rats like cheese. We put cheese in a very small box, he crawls in, we close the lid.”

Regulus blinked at him, expression utterly devoid of amusement. “Why?”

James grinned. “For science.”

Regulus let out a long breath and returned to his book. “I worry about you.”

“I think it’s a valid experiment.”

“You also thought it was a valid experiment to see if you could stick all ten Chocolate Frog cards to your face and walk around like normal.”

James gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “That was a success.”

“That was embarrassing.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

“Are you actually going to test this on Pettigrew, or was this just another one of your fleeting thoughts I have to suffer through?”

James considered it, then rolled onto his stomach, nearly toppling off the couch in the process. “I dunno. Maybe. I mean, it’s not like we’d leave him in there forever. Just… long enough to prove a point.”

Regulus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And what point would that be?”

“That we can do it.”

Regulus muttered something under his breath about regretting his life choices. Before he could follow up with a scathing remark, a loud crash echoed through the common room, causing both of them to snap their heads toward the noise.

Barty Crouch Jr. stood over what had once been a perfectly good chair, now in pieces on the floor. Evan Rosier, looking neither impressed nor surprised, stared at him with mild exasperation.

Barty dusted off his hands as if he had just performed a noble feat. “Chairs are flimsy.”

“They are when you throw them,” Evan drawled, arms crossed.

“I had to test its durability,” Barty said, completely unbothered. “For science.”

James sat up, pointing at him. “See! Barty gets it.”

Regulus sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “I think I need new friends.”

James beamed at him, shifting across the couch to flop his head into Regulus’ lap. “Too late, love. You’re stuck with us.”

Regulus groaned, but he didn’t push James away. Instead, he absentmindedly ran his fingers through James’ hair as he turned the page of his book.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #15

They were never supposed to be real.

Danny wasn’t born; he was built—stitched together in a freezing underground HYDRA lab from the broken DNA strands of James Buchanan Barnes, chosen not for loyalty or legacy but for blood. Something about Winter’s cells held a resilience no other subject had survived, even after decades on ice and countless mental fractures. Danny was Subject 077—barely more than a theory made flesh. A prototype for a new line of enhanced operatives. Something that could endure everything and obey nothing but the cold voice of a handler.

Jazz was worse. She was art. Red Room engineering at its most elegant and most horrifying. A near-perfect clone of Natalia Alianovna Romanoff, born of Black Widow blood but grown under their sharp hands and sharper scalpel. Jazz had beauty, poise, intelligence. But she was also an apex predator molded in ballet and murder, just like her source. She had been created to be the final evolution of Widow. A sleeper. An infiltrator. A masterpiece in patience and destruction.

They were never supposed to meet.

But then Vlad happened.

Dr. Vladimirov Masterov—Vlad Masters—was a ghost in every way that mattered. Once KGB, always KGB. They said he’d died during a failed mission in Chernobyl. He hadn’t. He’d gone half-dead. Half-ghost. A twisted result of an experiment gone wrong, his molecules phasing just enough to slip between states. He’d taken the failure personally, refused to fade. Instead, he rose again in America, as Vlad Masters, eccentric billionaire and corporate ghoul. But behind every charity gala and mayoral campaign was a hunger to perfect the science that had torn him in half.

Vlad had overseen Jazz’s earliest combat assessments. He’d taught Danny how to fire a Glock at age six. His affection was obsessive. Paternal in that twisted, post-Soviet way that smelled like iron and vodka. “You’re my legacy, my little phantoms,” he’d murmur, his gloved hand stroking Danny’s hair, like petting a favorite lab rat. He loved them the way a butcher loves the knife.

Jack Fenton—Jakob Fentzen—was worse. A HYDRA scientist with a permanent manic grin and a knack for building machines that did things no machine should. Quantum destabilizers, molecular disruptors, spectral centrifuges—things that turned flesh to glass and time to mist. He’d been the one to isolate the Winter Soldier’s regenerative traits. He laughed through the process. He called Danny “Champ” while inserting tracking chips into his spinal cord. Danny screamed, once. Jack said it was music.

Maddie—Maja Vuković—was quieter. Colder. Her notes were written in blood and brilliance. She designed Jazz’s conditioning routines. Psychological torment dressed up as ballet recitals and etiquette dinners. Jazz learned to disassociate by age four. “You’re perfect,” She would say, brushing Jazz’s red-gold hair. “Natalia was the draft. You are the final copy.”

And then something went wrong.

It was supposed to be a routine exposure. Just a test of the ghost portal Vlad had constructed in the basement of the Fenton Works facility—a decaying front in the Midwest. But Danny fell in. Or was pushed. Or ran. The records blurred.

And then he came back…wrong.

Cells mutated. Energy readings off the charts. Intangibility. Invisibility. An ectoplasmic core that pulsed like a dying star. Not just an assassin now—an anomaly. A walking ghost. They called it a miracle. Vlad called it divinity. Jack wanted to vivisect him immediately.

Danny refused.

That was the mistake.

They underestimated the side effects of individuality. The ghost powers weren’t part of the program. And with them came emotion, conscience, defiance.

They tried to recondition him. Vlad struck him. Maddie drugged him. Jack built something with screaming blades.

Jazz broke protocol. She slit two guards’ throats with a dining knife and pulled Danny out of the operating room. He was barely conscious, bleeding green and crying. She whispered to him the way Natalia might have whispered to herself in a Red Room dormitory: “We go now. Or we die here.”

They went.

They ran.

For three years, the world forgot about the Fenton kids. Until they didn’t.

The Avengers found out during a HYDRA base raid in Belarus. Steve Rogers opened a data file and dropped it like it burned. Natasha Romanoff stared at Jazz’s image and fell silent for an hour. Bucky Barnes had to be sedated after reading Danny’s file.

“A clone?” Bucky rasped, restrained and shaking. “Of me?”

“HYDRA’s final Winter Soldier prototype,” Bruce murmured. “He’s a ghost. Literally. His molecular structure—”

“I don’t care about his molecules!” Bucky exploded. “He’s just a kid. My fucking kid!”

Steve looked pale. “They’re so young...”

“They’re us,” Natasha said quietly, staring at Jazz’s face on the screen. “Our blood. Our sins. Our ghosts.”

They scrambled, but the trail was cold. Danny and Jazz had buried themselves deep. They moved from safehouse to safehouse, mostly living like rats. Danny phased them through walls, hacked ATMs with his ghost energy. Jazz manipulated human behavior like a maestro. They didn’t speak much. They didn’t have to.

“You okay?” Danny would ask.

“No,” Jazz would say. “But you?”

“No.”

Still, they stayed alive.

Until they slipped up.

It was a gas station. A security camera. A moment of laughter—Danny made Jazz laugh, and her teeth showed. That smile ended everything.

Tony saw it first. “Is that the Fenton girl? She’s…smiling.”

Natasha was on her feet before the footage ended. “Get the quinjet.”

Steve was right behind her. “We find them. Now.”

When they did, it was ugly.

The Avengers cornered them in an abandoned church in Chicago. Danny nearly brought the roof down. Jazz went straight for Natasha’s throat.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Natasha pleaded, parrying the blade with bare hands.

“Then you’re already weak,” Jazz snarled.

Steve took a punch from Danny that shattered his ribs. Bucky didn’t fight. He just stood there, tears on his face.

“I know what they did to you,” he whispered.

“You don’t,” Danny hissed, half-ghost and glowing. “You don’t know what it’s like to be built to die.”

“I do.” Bucky stepped forward, arms open. “They made me too, and I remember every scream.”

Danny hesitated.

That was enough.

Jazz disarmed Natasha and froze.

“You look like my nightmares,” she whispered. “But quieter.”

“You look like a second chance,” Natasha said, and her voice broke.

That night, the church became a refugee camp.

Tony brought blankets. Bruce brought meds. Steve brought silence. Bucky and Natasha never left their sides.

“Don’t touch me,” Danny had growled at first.

“I won’t,” Bucky said. “I’ll just be here.”

Jazz refused food until Natasha force-fed her soup and whispered lullabies in Russian.

“You’ll kill me eventually,” Jazz muttered.

“No,” Natasha said, brushing her hair. “I’ll love you first.”

It wasn’t easy.

Danny screamed in his sleep, glowing and flailing. Once he phased into the floor and didn’t come back for three hours. Jazz stopped speaking for two weeks. She stared at walls. Cut herself just to feel.

Natasha stitched every wound.

Bucky sat beside Danny and read him books about World War II.

“You’re not him,” Danny said one day. “You’re not my father.”

“No,” Bucky agreed. “But I wish I’d been.”

Steve took them outside. Taught Jazz how to ride a bike. Let Danny fly circles around the compound.

But one day, Vlad showed up again.

He appeared in Danny’s room, phasing through the wall like smoke. “Come home, little badger.”

Danny shrieked and attacked. Vlad didn’t fight.

“I miss you,” he said, bleeding green from his mouth. “They won’t understand you like I do.”

“You’re not real,” Danny screamed. “You never were!”

Jazz shot him in the chest. He smiled.

“Perfect aim. I taught you well.”

He vanished.

After that, they didn’t sleep for a week.

One morning, Danny sat beside Bucky on the roof.

“Do you think I’ll ever be normal?”

“No,” Bucky said honestly. “Though you’ll be loved.”

Jazz, curled in Natasha’s lap, asked, “Was I always going to be a monster?”

“No,” Natasha whispered. “You were always going to be mine.”

They weren’t cured.

They were wreckage.

But they were surviving.

And for now, that was enough.

[possesseddesiress]

Switch Up: First Level

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes.

If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.

Switch Up: First Level (English Version)

My name is Ethan, I'm going to finish high school in a few months and I feel like I didn't live that experience like I was supposed to. I always hung out with my two usual friends, didn't go to parties, didn't even have my first kiss, I hung out in the shadows, like a ghost.

With nothing in particular to be remembered, a zero to the left.

Very different from other guys at my school: popular, muscular, handsome, a hit at parties. I envied them.

I wanted to be one of them with all my might.

To go beyond being a shadow that blended in with the wall in the hallways, to be like one of those big jocks, popular guys, even those “badass” looking guys who seemed to be all the rage because of that.

— This sucks - I muttered in the library, accompanied by my friends: Logan and Miles.

Logan was a chubby guy, with a few pimples on his face and a comic geek, just at that moment he seemed engrossed in everything as he had his head hidden inside a new hero tome.

— Being in the library? - Miles asked. Thin, pale and with thick glasses that made his eyes look like binoculars, he was a genius, although he had a strange hissing sound every time he spoke.

— Yeah, what about the parties? It's high school, we should be doing other things than being confined to a library like rats.

— We're not popular for that sort of thing - Logan mused, barely peeking his head out of his reading.

— Plus no one notices us - Miles complemented, making what appeared to be doodles in his notebook.

— And doesn't that frustrate you? Don't you wish that we could have more? To have more experiences, more fun, guys at our feet.

Something I forgot to mention, all three of us are gay.

— And does it help to imagine that?… You're not going to change anything by yearning for more - Logan whispered in a pessimistic tone.

I sighed, I knew he was right. I just kept quiet, with a silence between the three of us until Miles stood up suddenly, a smile on his lips.

— Eureka! - he shouted with the notebook in hand, a loud ‘Shhh’ was heard from the librarian, to which he sat back down, but without erasing that smile.

— Do you feel good? - I asked. To which he interrupted me, speaking quickly because of his excitement.

— Better than ever, I've been feeling what you describe for three years now, it's been trial after trial, failed experiments trying to find a way to get it, but I finally got it.

— What the hell are you talking about?

— This! - he held out his notebook, showing me the contents on it. What I saw as scribbles before, now made sense: they were blueprints. There was a detailed outline of some kind of rectangular box, with formulas, calculations and other symbols that I couldn't quite understand.

— A… box?

— It is a remote control. Or so it seems - he detailed, pointing to the schematic - it is a bioelectric control, it is designed to launch a double signal that exchanges neural pulses between two individuals and-

— In English, Miles.

— It is a control that would allow consciousness to be switched between two bodies.

I thought about what he was saying. But it was impossible, wasn't it? What he was describing sounded perfectly like something from science fiction movies.

— But you'd still have to assemble it, design the parts, the wiring…

— No - he said, rummaging in his backpack to pull out a small remote control, it looked like something from a garage. With two buttons: one green and one yellow - I just had to complete some calculations.

On one side, it seemed to have a knob, around it were different numbers. Miles lifted the lid to move a couple of wires or join them together, then closed it and moved the knob, looking for a frequency, I guess.

— Still, I don't think it's something possible, I mean…. I believe in you, dude, no doubt you are a genius but I think this kind of thing is beyond….

— Your mental capabilities, Miles - and out of nowhere, the speaker seemed to be Logan. With the only detail, that it wasn't really Logan, it was me.

I found myself looking at cartoons, heroes saving the world and things my friend was reading earlier. I felt heavier, but there was something weird about it all too… I felt a different weight in my pants.

I spread my legs a little, feeling something thick fall against the chair - damn, Logan sure had something hidden between his chubby legs!

I looked up warily, finding my reflection checking my pecs. He looked at them curiously, running his hands over the flat surface as he smiled.

— Were you saying something, Ethan? - Miles said with a smirk on his lips. I looked at my new hands, completely surprised by the experience. They were very different from mine, a little more pigment on them, bigger and bulkier, with small, stubby fingers. It certainly wasn't the best body but there was something about me that sent a load of blood down there. And yes, “it” was big.

— Did you just use us as guinea pigs? - My old voice rang out, it was strange to “see” me there, clearly it was me, my same face, clothes, complexion, absolutely it was all me. But the stance, the body language, the way he spoke… it was definitely Logan.

— It was a risk he was willing to take for us, besides. I had already calculated the dangers, nothing would have happened.

— And why didn't you try it on yourself?

— And what my conscience would have ended up in the air who knows where? No thanks.

I felt a little annoyance towards Miles. But all that was… spectacular. If it had worked on us, then anything could. I could been any athlete! A class rep, one of those artsy kids or the welcoming committee, a teacher, some sexy parent. Whoever!

— And now?…

— First let me try something - Miles pointed at each of us again, first at Logan, pressing the yellow button, and finally at me, pressing the green button.

I didn't feel anything. It was just from one moment to the next watching me and the other, watching Logan. I touched my body again, feeling a little more relief at finding my correct measurements. There was one detail though, my manhood was undoubtedly stiff, almost rock hard.

I looked at Logan in confusion, to which he just shrugged his shoulders.

— It was exciting to lose almost all my weight in less than a second, sorry.

There was silence between us again. Not because of discomfort, but because of all that this implied.

— And now?

— Now you choose what to do, of course - Miles settled back in his seat, almost looking like some kind of CEO proposing a new business strategy - To continue in our bodies and the miserable life we lead, or find some body we like.

There was a bit of silence. And the first to break it was Logan.

— Let's do it.

— Great, I'm glad you're both joining me in this - a smile loaded with confidence emerged from Miles - I think we have the plan, but now the million dollar question remains. Who?

There were at least three hundred of guys in the entire high school, all grades, all clubs. Tall, muscular, thin, stocky, exchange, local, wealthy, middle class. It was like walking into a buffet.

— Do you have someone in mind for you…?

— Oh, yeah, sure. Blake Jones.

— Fuck, are you kidding?! The major captain of the sports team? - Logan was unduly surprised.

Although I partly understood. Blake was good at almost every sport, he'd been the captain of at least 4 different disciplines, king of the prom, made almost every girl nervous, teachers and moms included. He was like a god walking on earth, his plan felt like taking the body of Hercules.

— Who else? - Miles raised his eyebrow, as if the question was silly - I want him, I want that greatness.

There was something in his gaze that chilled my skin, though I understood the sentiment... Miles had been in the shadows of many things just because of his looks and the way he spoke, it was clear he wanted the perfect “vehicle” to go with his brain.

— So… I want Caleb Hawks - Logan said.

Miles let out a laugh.

— Don't make it up, it's a joke, right? - But Logan was silent - The brainless guy in school with the worst smell of all, is it for real?

Miles was right, Caleb was known for his idiocy, his bad smell and for being relatively “unpleasant”. There was something about him that could be striking, he admitted, though he didn't quite know what that something was.

— Can it or can't it? - Logan said seriously.

— Yes, yes. It's your decision, chill, man - Miles said. To which it seemed to calm down Logan, so he went back to hiding behind his comic book - And you, Ethan, who will be your prize?

My mind was working like crazy, going through all the grades, all the sports and art clubs, student associations, exchange programs, teachers? It was an endless menu of options. But then I thought of him: Ruben Hernandez.

Part of the art committee, good actor, influencer and with attributes to die for, despite not being part of any sports team, he certainly had a perfect body.

— Ruben.

— The Latino?

— Will you also give me a but?

— Not at all, I'm just surprised at your choices, folks. I thought you would pick captains and jocks, but I respect your choices.

Logan looked up, finally closing the comic book.

— So when do we start?

— Easy. Everyone hunts for what they want.

Then Miles extended the control to us, waiting for whoever would take it first.

To be continued.

----

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it.

I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages.

This is the first part of “Switch Up”, a new series for the blog, I hope you like it, I know this first episode was a little short, but the next ones will certainly be longer to follow the whole adventure of Ethan and his friends.

See you in the next story… Who knows what body you'll occupy this time?

----

[imblueeforyuu]

Yandere Mad scientist x male experiment reader

The first thing you saw when you woke up was a man, an odd man. Your eyes were still blurry but yet you could still see the devilish smile on the strange man. Quickly you tried to sit up but your body wasn’t responding, the man gave you a strange blue liquid. You tried to resist his unwelcome touches and him pouring a potential poisonous fluid down your throat. But it didn’t work, maybe you were still so weak from just waking up or maybe this scrawny man was stronger than he looked but he managed to give you the whole bottle of the mystery liquid. 

“There you go pretty boy,” the man pats your head. “You should feel better soon.”

And that you do, you feel the life flow into your body. You try to sit up again but he pushes you back down. 

“No big guy, rest, you need it.” He turned around probably to do more work. 

You listen to him talk, it was the only way to pass the time. you sit still as he would rant about himself, so far you’ve learned he was a scientist who specializes  in changing life forces. But he was shunned from the science world because of his cruel treatment of rats.

 “it was science” and it wasn’t even that bad he told you. “Is it so bad to want to make mice smarter?” He’d say. You guessed not, you never knew what he did to the rats but you guessed it wasn’t that bad. He also bragged about how he turned a mouse into a squirrel, whatever that means.

 You didn’t understand half of what he was talking about but you enjoyed listening to someone talk. I mean what else was there to do? You were too weak to walk, you were still too impressionable to watch tv, the doctor didn’t want you to get any bad ideas. All you could do is sit still and listen to him ramble. 

It wasn’t that bad he did sometimes read you stories. Those were your favorite times. He would lay your head on his lap and read to you. He would read stories about city’s, and tall skyscrapers, or maybe a story about animals. god you loved when he would talk about animals. Your favorite story had to be the one with a black panther.

“Doctor,” your raspy voice called out to him. He looked back at you.

“Yes 2078?” He asked. You wince at the name, he called you that the day you woke up and you haven’t had any other name but it just didn’t feel right. Like some voice in the back of your head was telling you that you weren’t 2078. 

“Can you tell me the story of the panther again?” You ask. The scientist stopped cleaning his desk and turned to you. 

“How bout I tell you a better one.”

“Better than the black panther one?” You were shocked, none were better than the panther one! 

“Yes, better than the panther one,” he chuckled softly. 

He told you a story about a sad lonely scientist, one who has lost all of his family and friends. One who was left to rot by his colleagues. Now you had to be a special type of stupid to not realize the scientist he was talking about was himself, but unfortunately you were that type of special. And the scientist knew that, after all he made you like that. 

He continued with his story, he told you about how the scientist was desperate to prove himself so he decided he was going to do something crazy, bring something back from the dead. First the scientist started bringing small mammals back then bigger animals than a human. 

“From the dead?” You were shocked. 

“Yes 2078,” he petted your head.

“Don’t call me that,” you said under your breath. He suddenly stopped petting you. Instantly you regret saying that.

-

is the mad scientist based off of my roblox avatar? maybe

[dioslesbianwife]

Hello! I’d like to make a request too. It’s totally fine if it takes a while! My request is for HxH, specifically the Phantom Troupe, with a female member who has these traits: She’s a super intelligent genius, with incredibly smart and unpredictable devices—she’s basically the "Fix-It Felix" of the PT. Her inventions are always mind-blowing, super weird... yet functional! Her technology blends Nen. She’s known for being ditzy, bubbly, and silly, but can also be very sharp. Socially awkward, but really cool. She’s sweet, extroverted, cheerful, and a little odd and clumsy. Intense, obsessive, expressive, and hungry for knowledge. Has some wicked traits and a tendency to steal from others to fund her research, inventions, experiments, and/or theories. Can be prone to greed and the thirst for knowledge—there’s considerable conflict and reasoning between these two sides. She’s extremely curious and tends to meddle in dangerous situations and with dangerous people just to satisfy that curiosity. She’s nosy and honestly fearless when it comes to anything specific. Personality Idealistic, Sweet, Nice, altruistic, passionate about science, courageous, bold, and willing to conduct dangerous experiments. She was born into a poor family in the slums beneath her city. Faced hardships since childhood, both financial and social. The polluted outskirts gave her a rare, debilitating illness. Despite physical limitations, her mind developed without restraint, and she ended up modifying herself. She’s one of the founding members of the Troupe—the youngest at the time—but only officially joined the PT a few years later.

Appearance: Short hair always in cute little pigtails with colorful, adorable hair clips. Her hair is a reddish-magenta pink with light aqua-green streaks. Light emerald-green eyes, always wears a cap. Her outfits are casual/simple but stylish, usually with a bunny-print hoodie and accessories. Her clothes are colorful and/or pastel-toned. Fair skin, pear-shaped body type, chubby, with a broad bust. She’s small (162cm) and fast—really fast. She has a pet! A tiny, hat-wearing mouse with a Nen ability (developed by her) to multiply, named Sir Leptos P. Rose Murino Salmonellen. He’s a skittish and jumpy but fiercely brave and violent little rat with "ratistic squints." But he’s super, super loyal and devoted to the reader!

Sorry if this is too much, and thank you!

sure, it's not too much, thank you for requesting and i hope you enjoy!!

Chrollo Lucilfer

From the very beginning, he saw your potential. He didn’t care that you seemed clumsy or cheerful- he saw the fire under it all. That intelligence? That terrifying curiosity? That's what made you dangerous. 

He treats you like a ticking time bomb he’s both proud of and wary of.

Loves watching you work, and will occasionally stand silently at your shoulder reading a book as you tinker, startling you with a calm, “Fascinating... How does this device manipulate aura?”

He gives you free rein with Troupe funds and supplies- within reason. If you go overboard and steal from someone risky, he won’t yell. He’ll just coldly say, “Fix it,” and walk away. That look of quiet disappointment? More terrifying than anything.

Keeps a record of every invention of yours. You don’t know this, but he’s cataloguing everything you create.

Pakunoda

You fascinate her more than she lets on. Your bubbly way of speaking, the way you wave your arms around excitedly when explaining something incomprehensible to everyone but you- it makes her smile.

She silently watches over you like a big sister, especially when your curiosity gets you in trouble. She's the one pulling you out of bad deals, glaring down suspicious scientists, or patching you up after an experiment singes your eyebrows off.

She lets you test mind-based tech on her only because she trusts you deeply.

Sir Leptos hides in her coat often. She claims to hate it, but he likes her.

When she’s around, you feel braver and more emotionally safe- like you don’t need to pretend to be “normal” to be loved.

Shizuku

You are absolute besties, chaos twins, roommates in the "No Thoughts, Head Full of Nen Stuff" pipeline.

She doesn't understand half the stuff you say, but she listens to every word with a blank stare and a thumbs up.

Shizuku lends you parts from her vacuum without asking what for. You’ve rebuilt her vacuum four times by now. Once, it shot lasers. She was thrilled.

The two of you once got stuck in a garbage chute for four hours because of a teleportation experiment. She thought it was fun.

She thinks Sir Leptos is your son. You never corrected her.

Machi

Machi pretends to find you annoying, but she’s protective of you in the most intense big sister way.

You patched up her shoulder once with a healing nanobot bracelet. She never said thanks, but she still wears it- under her sleeve.

Constantly scolding you when you chase weird situations or dig into strange groups. “Idiot. You wanna die that bad?”

But if anyone else calls you names, she’ll have a thread around their throat before they finish the sentence.

Sometimes she brings you spare clothes when yours get ruined. They’re always pastel and oversized- clearly picked with you in mind.

Bonolenov

He's... very hard to read, but oddly fond of you.

Your respect for the structure and beauty of Nen-based inventions is what earns his admiration.

You once built him a speaker system that plays the exact vibration frequency his body emits in battle. He was dead silent for a full minute. Then simply said, “This is art.”

You ask him to dance-fight in front of your testing devices. He complies wordlessly. It’s one of the few ways he shows affection.

You gave him a bunny hoodie once. He still has it. No one has ever seen him wear it. But it smells like cedarwood and his incense- so you know he does.

Kortopi

He’s your lab buddy in silence. He doesn’t talk much, but you both understand the thrill of making things move and copy and twist in strange ways.

You lend him devices that help him enhance his duplication powers- he repays you with tools and raw materials.

Sometimes you communicate with sticky notes or odd contraptions that beep when he’s nearby.

You once tried to build a tiny robot clone of him and he watched silently… then duplicated it. Now there’s three.

You never question the way he stares at your machines. You just quietly push a notebook toward him when he starts scribbling.

Feitan

You are the most confusing person he has ever met.

You’re all rainbows and pastel bunny prints, but then you invent a grenade that turns people inside out and say it with a giggle.

He calls you "crazy mouse girl" or just “Nrd.”

But he respects the way you never back down, even when things go sideways. He’s even impressed by how you “modded” your own body to survive your illness. That’s survival at its finest.

He will never admit it, but he once stabbed a guy who insulted your hoodie.

When you nearly died in an experiment once, he stayed by your side and muttered, “Idiot should not scare me like that.”

Phinks

Your bubbly energy both delights and annoys him. You talk fast, you’re always touching stuff.

You make him some impressive gloves one time that he assumes are nothing special at first.

...But then he punched a boulder and it exploded like a bomb. You sweetly said, “Now with kinetic nen return amplification!” and beamed.

Calls you “Gadget Girl” and threatens to throw you out a window, but always shares snacks and secretly worries if you're limping.

He gives Sir Leptos tiny dumbbells. You don't know why.

Franklin

He’s the big uncle figure who gently reminds you to sleep and eat.

Will help lift heavy parts for you without a word.

He doesn't say much, but he watches over you from a distance, especially during battles, making sure you don’t get caught in the crossfire.

You once pouted in front of him because someone called your machines “freakish.” He gave you a giant handkerchief and told you, “Your brain’s a blessing.”

Shalnark

You two are the hyperactive tech besties from hell.

He pokes fun at your hoodie ears and sometimes dares you into science challenges.

You stay up for days doing collaborative projects, drinking twelve cups of sugar-tea.

He lives for the chaos you bring. Once he helped you make a holographic decoy of the Troupe. It danced. Chrollo walked in. Shalnark laughed so hard he choked.

He genuinely respects your mind, though. Will warn you if you’re in danger. May or may not be a little in love with your brain.

Uvogin

He thinks you’re adorable. Like a pocket-sized chaos gremlin with explosives.

He calls you “Boom Bunny” and picks you up and swings you around like you weigh nothing.

He LOVES testing your battle inventions. Especially the huge ones.

“WHAT DOES THIS DO?!” Presses it immediately.

He once tried to eat one of your colorful protein cubes and nearly passed out. You just said, “Oh no, that was for rocket fuel. Oopsie.”

Nobunaga

Thinks you're way too smart for your own good and doesn’t understand a single word of your science speak.

Tries to challenge you in duels so you’ll stop inventing and “learn to fight like a samurai.”

But secretly, he worries about your obsession with dangerous stuff. Tells you stories from Meteor City, hoping it’ll help you find balance between brilliance and destruction.

You built him a sword sharpener that also sings old battle chants. He still uses it, pretending it doesn’t make him smile.

You bicker like siblings, but he’d die for you if needed.

[sharksfrommars]

What was Ford's time in the Asylum like? How'd they even find him, and what made them come to the conclusion that he killed his twin, with no body?

Bill took over Ford’s body a LOT in the early days. He also messed with his brain like he threatened to do in tbob. He was messing with him because he felt betrayed. So ‘Ford’ was running around being a menace to society, and actually hurting people, then leaving a lucid Ford to deal with the consequences. Bill doesn’t like to lose.

Ford gets apprehended when he drives Stan’s car into a building. The cops check the registration plate, and the Pines family send Shermie to see ‘what trouble Stan’s gotten himself into’. Shermie is shocked to see Ford, trying to gouge his eye out.

no one has any clue where Stan is. Shermie didn’t even know Stan came to gravity falls? He has been looking for Stan for a long time, knowing that his little brother was on the streets somewhere. He wanted to give Stan a place to stay and the sporadic phone calls from across the country all led to naught. Shermie insisted on an investigation, which led to them going through the shack.

It’s a BLOODBATH. And because they’re identical twins, the cops can’t distinguish what’s Stan’s blood and what’s Ford’s blood. That in an of itself is suspicious enough, but then they find the postcard.

The cops say it was premeditated. That Ford intentionally asked Stan to come to gravity falls, so he could kill him. They thought Ford used him for his spooky science experiments. Everyone knew weird shit happened in that shack in the woods. The shrine to Bill they found didn’t help either. They thought Ford was a satanist, and this was in the middle of the satanic panic. He even played DDnD, which everyone knew was the devil’s game.

during the trial, Bill thought it would be funny to give Ford hallucinations of rats devouring his body the entire time. And, when Ford inevitably passed out, Bill took the stand. He wanted Ford ruined, wanted him to know that Bill would ALWAYS have power over him. It wasn’t even about the portal anymore. It was about Bill’s wounded ego, about how he wanted Ford to worship him.

bill took the stand and, with a crazed smile, spun a wild tale of how Ford killed his brother. It was gory. Bill laughed as he talked about hammering nail’s through Stan’s hands just to hear him scream, about flaying him whilst he was still alive. He said he ate Stan, and made him watch. And then, when Stan had finally died, he took the tallow and bones and made him into soup. He claimed it was all in service to the One True God. To the Beast with Just One Eye. He said he didn’t regret it. All while grinning maniacally, laughing at particularly the gory bits.

one of the jury members vomited. Ford’s mother couldn’t look him in the eye. There wasn’t enough usable physical evidence for the verdict, but they didn’t think they needed it after that show. Stan Pines was declared dead, Ford, his murderer.

they were going to execute him. It was only because Shermie appealed to the courts that Ford survived. He was found to be insane, and had him sent to an asylum. His parents disowned him. Only Shermie stuck by his side, not wanting to lose another brother. Shermie fully believed that Ford was still in there, that he could overcome whatever was wrong and maybe even live a normal life. He was right, in a way.

after the trial, the blind eye kinda went mad erasing people’s memories, so no one remembers the specifics. Stan and Ford end up as an urban legend in gravity falls.

[motthe]

All I can think about is Jayce building a small obstacle course for the lumans to occupy themselves with. Like he seeing Viktor locking them in a cage and just feels bad for the little guys.

Like the cage offers zero enrichment so he makes a better one with just like a small obstacle course and a place to rest when they need it. The lumans float around on a small merry go round before doing like a little platform game or swimming in a small pool of water. The obstacles are rearranged daily so the lumans never get used to one and can always experience something new.

Then I saw the rats driving tiny vehicles and just thought about Jayce or reader making small vehicles the lumans can operate. They claim it's to see how sentient the lumans are for science. But really it's just to let the lumans play.

i’m CRYING. honestly i totally see jayce doing this to avoid real, actual work he needs to do so he procrastinates and does these little courses for fun (and also bc he does feel bad for putting the lumens in safety timeout). I think vik would not be amused at first but would actually thank him for putting together the idea after the first day seeing the lumens so active and seeing how smart they are and what they interact with??! he’ll also be soooo interested and then they BOTH end up ignoring the work first thing in the morning lmaoo. heimerdinger comes in to check on their work, sees a pile ignored and also gets sucked into watching the lumen obstacle course with interest. no one is safe lmao