minorisato

[minorisato]

Hanahaki for Hanami Prompts!

It's time to grab your picnic basket because flower viewing season is upon us. This way you can collect all the flower petals that come falling out of your mouth. Hanahaki for Hanami will run from April 1st - 30th and it is back with four new flowery prompts.

💮PROMPTS:💮

💮Week One: Hollyhock (Ambition) 💮Week Two: Aster (Symbol of Love, Daintiness) 💮Week Three: Belladonna [Deadly Nightshade] (Silence) 💮Week Four: White Clover (Think of Me)

Use as many or as few prompts as you like. All original or fanworks accepted as long as they are hanahaki-themed.

💢The use of generative-AI, art theft, and plagiarism will not be tolerated.💢

Post to Bluesky, Tumblr, or AO3 and use the tag #hanahaki4hanami or #h4h and tag the account to share! And check out the full event details!

[minorisato]

bury me in your memory

pokemon / perfectworldshipping (past) / wc: 1115 / warnings: post-canon, Y version specifically. / notes: i wrote this at like 4am a week ago / consider commissioning me!

serena is making a face when they meet in couriway.

“your pokedex is coming along really nicely,” sycamore tells her, and he knows his smile is a little forced and it’s a little hard to laugh at a time like this. “200 entries is nothing to scoff at. it’ll be full in no time. i’m really impressed.”

he wants to sound reassuring. he wants to sound supportive and like everything is totally cool and he’s still super normal about the adventure he sent serena on, the one that he signed her up for, which led them both here. he’s trying. but she’s making a face at him, so.

he sighs. “serena, i know.”

“i’m kinda feeling really fucking betrayed right now,” she levels with him. “i saved your ass. i saved all of our asses. i have the god of death in my PC. my pokedex is not important right now, what is important is what the fuck happened back there.”

it’s the most bite he’s ever heard from her. serena was always quiet, always kept to herself. she’s a normal girl– a bit shy, a bit awkward, but she’s normal. and now the god of death is in her PC. he flinches at her words, because she’s right, and he doesn’t like that the sixteen year old is suddenly acting so much more mature than him. again, he can’t help but remember that he signed her up for this.

“you didn’t try to stop him?” she asks, and her voice is low, like she’s a little worried about who might hear such a thing, the wound is still fresh and who knows, maybe more people joined team flare than they thought, but the venom is still there. “you didn’t ever sit him down like hey, maybe murder is bad and wrong and trying to kill every living being is bad and wrong?”

“i didn’t know,” sycamore tells her, because what else is he gonna say? the least he can do is be honest. “serena, if i knew what he was planning, i would have stopped him. i would have tried to, at least, i would’ve– i would’ve gotten him help. but i didn’t know, serena, i found out at the same time you did.” he pauses, pained, because he’s really looking back and really beating himself up, there were definitely signs, sycamore should’ve known, but he didn’t. “i didn’t know.”

she shifts her weight from side to side, biting her lips, trying to really put her words together. “you were there. when we got there. when me and shauna and calem got there you were there.”

he tilts his head. “i was?”

“you were,” she swallows. and then, “calem thought you were in on it.”

sycamore takes an actual physical step back, shuddering, shaking, completely lost at the admission. “what? why– why? why would calem think that?”

“you were there, and you didn’t try to stop him,” she explains. “math.”

“no, serena, i wasn’t– i wasn’t in on it. i was there maybe a few seconds before you all. i came because that’s my job.” he pauses, and sort of gesticulates to himself. “because i had to be there, and then i saw–” him. he chokes up a little. “i saw lysandre, and it all devolved from there. you three really weren’t far behind me, i wasn’t in on it.” he grimaces. “why would i be begging for him to stop if i was in on it? why would i be trying to get you all out of there, why would–”

“okay.” serena says, fully cutting him off. “okay. okay, i get it. you weren’t. i’m just saying.” still, she shifts around, glances away. “did they dig him out yet?”

“serena, i really don’t want to talk about this.”

“i had a nightmare,” she tells him, completely ignoring his request, “i was in anistar’s hotel and i had a nightmare that it was the opposite. instead of yveltal, it was something else, and he was alive, forever. we were all alive forever. he was crushed under the rubble and he was still breathing, still alive.” sycamore’s eyes glance up to look at serena, to really look at her in the eye, and her eyes shine with tears threatening to spill forth. “that was a nightmare. being alive on the same earth as him forever was a nightmare. the idea that he might still be able to hurt people, forever, was a nightmare. i want that fucker to be dead and i want you to tell me they found the body and he’s dead forever.”

sycamore looks at her, and he feels like he might start crying too. all he can be is honest. “no,” he tells her. “no. they haven’t found the body.”

then, she actually does cry, her face contorting, and he wants to do something, to comfort her somehow. she’s still a child, she shouldn’t need to have gone through this, he shouldn’t have done this to her. he doesn’t know what he can say, though, to alleviate it. she looks to the ground, inhaling sharply, wiping her face, and then she looks back up at him. “alright,” she says, voice hoarse, even quieter than normal. “alright. just, y’know. keep me updated. somehow. i dunno, i made chesnaught break my holocaster.”

he can’t even blame her for that. he nods, and she moves on, past him, to snowbelle. she has a gym challenge to complete, after all.

as she gets smaller in the distance, sycamore watches, before she disappears completely. he exhales, a heavy, shuddering breath, running a hand through his hair, curls falling in front of his face. what now? what does he even do now? call diantha? see if he can meet with his other students? what is he supposed to do?

couriway is so small, smaller than he remembers. he wants to go back to lumiose. he wants to go back to his dusty and dirty apartment and he wants to stay there. he doesn’t really want to do anything he should do, doesn’t want to go to work, doesn’t want to meet with diantha. he wants to lay and rot, to waste away. he wants to stay as far away from the news as he can. he never wants to be able to tell serena that they found him– he never wants to know if they do.

for a moment, he wants to die, and for a moment, he wants to take all of kalos with him. he breathes.

call diantha. get coffee. go back to work. that’s his schedule for now. charizard flies him back to lumiose, and very bravely, he doesn’t go back to his apartment.

[minorisato]

💥🔫 Guns for Swords ⚔️✨

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[minorisato]

boo! it's an american eagle (is it because you're stupid?)

hetalia / 2p1p caname / wc: 974 / warnings: suggestive, tagged as nsft for safety. / notes: their ship name is fucking "peaches n cream" i am Nawt taggin it as that. gonna get people who have never heard of hetalia finding this. / consider commissioning me!

Alfred is splayed out on Matthieu’s bed, on his bed with messy sheets and a comforter he’s had since he was 13, and he looks like an angel.

His stupid blonde hair, so bright that it looks bleached. His stupid blue eyes, like soft and cloudy skies. His stupid clear skin and his stupid perfect teeth. He’s baring himself to Matthieu entirely, and Matthieu just doesn’t feel worthy. He feels dirty, in comparison– feels dirty for what he’s going to do to the angel in front of him.

“Matthieu?” Alfred asks, voice soft, gentle, caring. “You okay?”

He swallows, clears his throat. “Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah, ‘m okay.” He’s just terribly nervous, is all. And still a bit in awe of Alfred before him. He bites his bottom lip, urging himself to focus. “You okay?”

Alfred smiles softly, nodding. “Yeah, just, y’know… never done this before.” He glances away, undoubtedly embarrassed, though Matthieu is focused more on the way his neck is exposed. He urges to bite it, but holds himself back. Alfred might not like that. They need to take things slowly, not just jump into the deep end immediately. “You’ll be careful, right?”

Matthieu nods, and he leans over Alfred, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Yeah, I’ll be careful with you.”

With one hand, he moves up from Alfred’s stomach to his pec, gently massaging it– or, like, something like that. He’s still not 100% clear on what he’s doing. He’s doing his best, mostly, and Alfred seems to like it. Alfred lets out a sigh at the contact, moving one of his own hands to tangle into Matthieu’s hair, pulling ever so slightly. Matthieu finds himself enjoying the feeling, even wishing that Alfred would pull a little harder.

With Matthieu’s other hand, he carefully adjusts Alfred’s legs– oh, he’s hard. He’s enjoying this. Oh they are both hard. Damn, okay– so that he can reach down and run a finger over his– well. Alfred inhales sharply, and the hand in Matthieu’s hair grips it, tight, causing the taller to let out a groan.

Alfred’s other hand rests on Matthieu’s shoulder. “W-wait,” he starts, voice already sounding breathy. “Don’t– don’t we need lube first? I can’t just like…” he trails off.

Shit. “I didn’t think of that, to be honest,” Matthieu tells him. In his defense, neither of them were expecting this. “I don’t have any.”

Alfred glances around. “What do we do?”

Matthieu stares off for a moment. The thing is, he knows exactly what he needs to do, he just also violently does not want to get up and do it when Alfred is right here. He’s desperately trying to find some other idea that would assuredly work to not hurt Alfred, but none come to mind.

“Matthieu?” Alfred questions, “Should we just stop and wait?”

He sounds disappointed. That tone alone is enough to convince Matthieu of what must be done, even if he’d rather, like, kill himself. “No,” he sighs. “No, I know what to do, just give me a second, okay?”

Alfred nods, and Matthieu climbs off of him, off the bed, throwing on just his jeans to make sure his dick is covered. He quickly undoes the locks on his door, exiting the room, stomping to the other side of the hall. He’s trying to be cool, but when he knocks on Allen’s door, he pounds it hard enough that there’s a good chance that Alfred can hear it anyway. “Open the fucking door,” he shouts, repeatedly slamming on it.

When Allen does open it, he immediately grimaces. “Gross, dude, put a shirt on.”

“Give me your fucking lube.”

Allen’s eyes widen into a scowl. “SUPREMELY gross, dude, the fuck?! I’m not gonna share the same lube as you!”

“I will buy you a new bottle,” Matthieu grits out, “just fucking give it to me.”

“Fuck you, dude. Use spit or something. Steal dad’s.”

Matthieu, clenching his teeth together, grabs Allen, pulling him closer by his shirt collar. “I am not stealing our fucking dad’s. Allen Fucking Kennedy, if you do not let me use this, I’m telling mom all about those girls you’ve been inviting over.”

Allen squints at him. “You wouldn’t.”

“Do I fucking look like I’m joking?” Matthieu grits out. “I will make this your problem.”

Huffing, seeming to take Matthieu’s threat seriously, Allen turns on his heel. He grabs a small clear bottle, practically throws it at Matthieu, and then slams the door in his face.

“Thank you,” Matthieu shouts through the door, only slightly sarcastic, before turning and stomping back to his room.

He opens the door, sighing, immediately feeling himself relax, and then he yelps, slamming the door shut behind him.

Alfred is draped in his fucking ranger uniform. It’s not buttoned, so that alone makes it seem big on him, but it’s certainly not helped by the fact that Alfred actually is a size smaller than Matthieu. He looks cute, though. Really cute. Matthieu flusters staring at him, and then hurriedly redoes his locks. “S-sorry,” Alfred stammers, seeming to notice how flustered Matthieu looks. “It was just sitting there, so I… should I take it off?”

Quickly, Matthieu shakes his head no. “You look really cute,” he explains, voice quiet. “It just surprised me, mostly.”

Alfred blushes. “I can take it off, if you don’t wanna get it dirty.”

Matthieu shrugs. “Not like we can’t wash it.” He climbs back onto the bed, using one hand to press Alfred down, onto the sheets. Same messy sheets, same comforter he’s had since he was 13. “I, uh. I got lube. If you wanna pick up where we left off.”

Alfred nods, leaning back, and– in a that definitely wasn’t supposed to be that sexy manner– opens his legs for the other. “Yeah, please.”

Matthieu nods. Back to it.

[minorisato]

2p names bc i think the "official" 2p names are dumb

hetalia / NA / headcanons / warnings: NA / notes: if im bout to ship 2p can & 1p ame i ain't about to have matthieu have the same last name as alfred's brother

2p america ;; Allen F. Kennedy 2p canada ;; Matthieu Bouchard 2p england ;; Oliver Davies 2p france ;; Jacques Dupont 2p russia ;; Viktor Alekseev 2p china ;; Xiao Fei 2p north italy ;; Luciano Ricci 2p south italy ;; Flavio Ricci 2p germany ;; Lutz Weber 2p prussia ;; Henrik Weber 2p japan ;; Kuroko Watanabe 2p austria ;; Roland Leitner

most names were just decided by what i think sounds nice. i renamed 1p prussia to Heiko, bc i hate the name Gilbert violently, so i renamed 2p prussia to also have an H name. 2p japan is transfem to me don't ask why.

note that i am a stupid american and not an expert on names or name meaning, i really just googled common last names for their respective countries and went from there. i also only did characters i remember being very common in 2p art.

[minorisato]

we're like comrades- huh? i wonder if i'm wrong.

hetalia (sorry) / rusame / wc: 1865 / warnings: domestic abuse but consensual- more suggestive than nsft but still / notes: sorry for liking hetalia in 2025. middle school special interest gripping my throat. / consider commissioning me!

“Alya,” Ivan chuckles, “you are staring at me so intensely.”

Alfred is staring at him because he’s 100% sure Ivan just broke his fucking nose. The blood is falling down, over his lips, and he’d love to make some comment or yell at the taller, but it is honest-to-god an election year and he has better things to worry about. Beyond that, he’s sort of pre-occupied with how much it fucking hurts– is the guy wearing brass fucking knuckles? He’s trying a little too hard internally to not cry.

“Does it hurt?” Ivan asks, just a little too sweetly, the wrong side of condescending. “Hurts so bad you cannot even speak?”

Alfred is not doing this. He just isn’t. It’s stupid and his nose is broken and doesn’t the World Meeting start soon? He’s supposed to be there. He turns on his heel, cradling his nose, stomping off to the bathroom. He isn’t doing this. Honest to god. Other shit going on right now.

He brushes past Arthur on his way to the bathroom, and he thinks Arthur might say something to him, thinks he hears something, but he’s not paying attention. He’s just going to the bathroom, he’s gonna wash the blood, and then he’s gonna hold his nose through the meeting until it heals itself and he’s just going to hope he doesn’t snot blood out all over the table.

He’s in the middle of wiping the blood off his face when Matthew damn near materializes behind him. “You look like shit,” he sighs, and Alfred jumps.

“Fuckin’–” he yelps, groaning. “Yeah, thanks. I know.”

“It hurt?”

“Obviously.”

“What even happened to you?”

Alfred sniffles. Disgustingly, he can feel some blood travel up his sinuses. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Matthew asks, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. “Nothing is why your nose is bleeding.”

Alfred huffs, shaking his head, trying to get his bangs out of his face. The hair is under his glasses and poking him in the eye– he needs to hurry up, he doesn’t know when the meeting is gonna start. “Ivan broke my fucking nose.”

Matthew gets this look on his face, a cringing grimace, like he’s both expecting it and he feels bad for asking. Good, Alfred thinks, he should feel bad, prying into my fucking business. “Do you need to like, leave, to take care of it?”

He’s a few seconds away from snapping at Matthew, to be honest, ‘cause even though he’s trying to help it’s more annoying than anything, but he takes a deep breath. “Mattie,” he starts, “If I had to leave, I would leave.” He gestures to the bathroom around him. “I’m still here.”

“Right,” Matthew replies, sighing. “Well, let me know if you need help with your boyfriend, I guess.”

“He isn’t my boyfriend,” Alfred calls as Matthew leaves, and then, “shit,” because a drop of blood just fell over his lips again. Isn’t he supposed to heal faster than this? Can his body fucking hurry up? He starts dabbing at it with a paper towel again, hoping it’ll just stop.

He’s not lying when he says they aren’t dating– Ivan isn’t allowed to date men. To be fair, Alfred doesn’t think his boss would be all too happy either, especially if he was dating Ivan, because Mccarthyism is still a thing, he guesses, but it’s also stupid, because aren’t they people in their own right? They’re allowed to have their own opinions, their own thoughts, their own feelings. If Ivan wants to fuck dudes, he should be able to do that.

Even putting that aside, though, Alfred isn’t entirely certain dating would be the right word for whatever they have going on anyway. It has too many pictures associated with it– candlelit dinners. Going on vacations together. Eventually, a nice proposal at Disney World. Alfred and Ivan are continuously trying to kill each other, and when they aren’t trying to kill each other, they’re fucking. One minute, they’re cuddling, and the next, Ivan is choking the shit out of him. Alfred will tell Ivan how special Ivan makes him feel and then they’ll get into a fistfight. It’s all Cold War tension coming out in two men who, under normal circumstances, might fit that standard definition of dating.

What they have is a little too raw for it. It’s not romantic, but it’s also not not romantic. It’s entirely secret and Alfred can’t put words to it– not any he knows, not any he doesn’t.

“Alya,” Ivan starts, and Alfred jumps, turning to face all six feet and five inches of the man. How dare he be taller than Alfred? “Matthew said strange things in the hall just now!”

Alfred wants to groan. He rolls his head back, then forward again, struggling to contain just that. “Ignore him,” he tells the taller, but he doesn’t actually know why. Ivan broke his fucking nose– if Matthew said something that made him feel bad about it, then good, he deserves it.

Instead of addressing the broken nose, however, like Alfred fully expects him to, Ivan pouts. “You do not see me as a boyfriend?”

Alfred tilts his head, looking up at Ivan in something like shock, disbelief. He very genuinely did not think he would ever need to explain this to the other. Trying to get his bearings on the fact that Ivan is apparently an idiot, he starts with the easiest aspect to explain. “Our bosses would fucking kill us, dude.”

“So?” Ivan counters. “It’s not like they would know. You have been in my bed, have been on dates with me, and said you love me. You beg to become one, even.” He sounds so giddy. All of that is out of context. Dinner to discuss work does not count as a date, and Alfred doesn’t remember saying he loves Ivan, so he was probably drunk. “That constitutes boyfriend behaviour, yes?”

Alfred struggles. “I mean– I mean, yeah. But there’s more to it than that.”

Ivan tilts his head to the side, confused. “Like what?”

“Like- like you try to kill me. Pretty fucking frequently. Boyfriends don’t normally do that.” He clears his throat. The bleeding seems to have mostly stopped, but it’s still fucking hurting. “They’re not supposed to, anyway.”

“You like when I do such things, though.” Ivan smiles. “You like when I try to kill you. Breaking your nose was a good thing, yes?”

“No!” Alfred shouts, “no, no, you broke my fucking nose! That did not do anything for me. Trying to kill each other daily and smacking each other around in bed are entirely different.”

Ivan presses in closer. “Should I make it up to you, then? Give you the good kind of hurting?”

“Ivan,” Alfred hisses out, teeth gritted together, “the meeting.”

“Meeting has already started,” Ivan smiles, moving one hand to hold Alfred’s waist. “Besides, are you truly worried if people know?”

“Yes!” Alfred says, frustrated. Should he push him away? If he should, he doesn’t. “England– Arthur is in there.”

Ivan actually laughs at that. “You are so worried about what he thinks? That’s pathetic, Alya.” And then he grips Alfred’s tie, ripping it down, practically tearing open the top of his button-up, exposing the blonde’s neck. “You are pathetic.”

Alfred wants to refute him. Alfred feels like he should refute, really, should defend himself, should say he’s not really pathetic and it’s pretty normal to worry about your sort-of-dad finding out you’re fucking the guy who beats you, but it’s all lost in his throat. Ivan locks his lips to Alfred’s neck, sucking on the skin there, teeth lightly digging into the flesh, and it’s all gone. He lets out a soft moan, hardly any more than a sigh, and that’s really all he can manage.

Fuck the World Meeting. Alfred’s going home after this.

“Does it feel nice?” Ivan asks, so sweetly. “Is this more boyfriend-ly of me?”

Alfred clears his throat, swallowing his whimpers. “Bite harder,” he can barely let out. He’s already resigned himself to not going to the meeting– he might as well get something out of this, even if it’s mortifying to beg Ivan for.

“You want harder?” Ivan asks, pulling back and looking up at Alfred. He has the audacity to almost sound concerned. “Thought you did not want pain. Pain is not boyfriend-ly.”

Alfred’s gonna kill him one day. “Just do it,” he hisses. He’s kind of still reeling from even asking for it at all– it’s downright embarrassing to beg.

Ivan seems to study him, his expression, before giving a small sigh, and diving back in. He bites Alfred, really bites him, and Alfred gasps a sharp inhalation. He promptly bites down on his own bottom lip hard to try and prevent himself from screaming. Ivan is not biting the way one would when trying to leave a hickey, or even a bruise. He is fully intending to break skin, to injure, and when he does Alfred feels it, can feel the blood start to trickle down his neck where it isn’t caught by Ivan’s mouth.

He’s fucking hard, is another thing. It hurts, burns even, searing, and Alfred is fucking hard. Ivan moves one hand to start palming him, and he’s trying not to nut right then from the combination of attention given to his cock and the fact his neck is now sporting a wound.

He’s getting off on being torn into like a prey animal. He can’t even fault Ivan for thinking that he would like getting punched, because he does like this. He is kind of pathetic. He also can’t really help it, though. There’s some sad, deep-rooted desire in him for attention, a want to be wanted that is often overpowering, consuming his thoughts and obscuring his rational thinking.

Ivan, in treating him like this, in hunting him like a predator, is satisfying a deep urge he has. Alfred hates Ivan, but he does, also, love him. Ivan is his worst enemy, but Ivan also gives him exactly what he needs. It’s stupid. Alfred feels stupid.

Then, however, the question is raised– what does Ivan get out of this? No matter how often they fuck, it won’t get their bosses to work together, which Alfred always assumed was Ivan’s end goal. Become one, shit like that. But Ivan isn’t stupid, he knows that won’t happen– at least, Alfred didn’t think he was stupid, but now with all the boyfriend shit he isn’t sure. Is that what Ivan wants? He just wants to be Alfred’s boyfriend? That can’t be right, it’s too simple– and frankly, Ivan is a little bit evil, he thinks, so there has to be something else to it, something deeper. There just has to be.

He’s thinking this as he rests a hand in Ivan’s hair, digging his fingers into the mass of fluff. Ivan seems to enjoy this, making a noise somewhere between a purr and a growl as he continues to tear at Alfred’s throat.

Maybe Ivan really does just want him. To be boyfriends, to have something a little more domestic going on.

Ivan starts undoing his pants, and Alfred decides to stop thinking about it.

[minorisato]

whether it's a match or misfortune, grant me everything

transformers / dratchrod / wc: 636 / warnings: NSFT / notes: written for kinktober day 31, "costumes." / consider commissioning me!

"Ratch, like my new look?"

The doctor sighs hearing Rodimus' vocals- he's busy, dammit, he doesn't have time to waste with Rodimus' nonsense. He's about to express this to the captain, but when he does actually tun to see him, he freezes.

Confused, Ratchet glances over the prime. "You look... different," he comments, though it's a massive understatement and both of them know that. Any part of him that was originally red was now white- his generally yellow thighs now red instead. Black accents littered his frame, including his spoiler, now the same red as his thighs. His helm, too, was white, with the slightest yellow accents. "What did you do?"

"Do you like it?" Rodimus asks, and it's then that Ratchet really looks at his faceplates- he's wearing probably the biggest smile Ratchet has ever seen on him. He's literally delighted about this. "You should see the other guy," he smirks, and Ratchet assumes he means Drift.

"What possessed you to do this?" Ratchet finds himself asking, somewhere between amused and exasperated.

"Earth holiday," Rodimus explains, gesticulating. "Hall of Ween. We celebrated it when I was stationed on Earth, and I convinced Drift to do it with me." He falters slightly. "Do you... not like it?"

"No!" Ratchet says, and then, "no, I mean, yes, it's cute. I'm glad you two are having fun." That seems to cheer Rodimus up enough, and Ratchet hesitantly asks. "Am I to assume that he's painted in your colours?"

Rodimus smiles, making his way closer to the medic. "Yeah, he is. It's just temp paint, so it'll wash off tomorrow, no worries."

"Right," Ratchet sighs, and then Rodimus keeps getting closer, until he's practically leaning over the medic in his chair. "Rodimus," Ratchet starts, a warning edge in his voice.

"What?" Rodimus asks, pouting slightly, and then, in his best impression of Drift, "You don't wanna spend special time with your conjunx?"

Ratchet flinches, blushing. "Rodimus, I'm busy."

Rodimus shakes his helm, crawling into the medic's lap (this chair is not made for two people, Ratchet distantly thinks, but doesn't point it out.) "Not Rodimus right now. I'm Drift for now," he explains, and thenducks his helm to start trailing soft kisses down Ratchet's throat cabling.

Ratchet shudders at the contact, confused. "You want me to- to call you Drift?"

Rodimus hums. "Mhm. He'll be here in a klik."

As if on queue, the door to Ratchet's office slides open. He panics for a second, but quickly realizes it's Drift- Drift, painted in red, orange and yellow. Rodimus' colours. "Sorry to barge in," he starts, slightly sheepish, quickly closing the door behind him. "Did you two already start without me?"

Ratchet, looking at him, stammers, unsure of what to say. Luckily, Rodimus leans up from his throat cabling, turning to smirk at the other. "Hello, Rodimus," he starts, and Drift snorts a small chuckle. "Do you care to join us?"

Drift, smiling, approaches. "Why yes, Drift, I would love to." He gets down on his knees, next to the chair where Ratchet and Rodimus are squished together, and leans over to kiss Rodimus quickly. It's strange for Ratchet, almost uncanny, watching the two painted as each other kiss in front of him. Drift then turns to Ratchet- Ratchet, who certainly looks quite confused- and he looks at him with such a gentle expression. "Is this okay?" He asks, voice so sweet, so kind.

Is this okay? Well, Ratchet definitely has work he needs to be doing, and this idea is so stupid that it's looped back around to being funny, and he's very, very certain he's going to get confused halfway through. On the other servo, they both look so happy and excited, and Ratchet- well, Ratchet loves them.

He nods. "Yeah," he says softly, "Yeah, this is okay."

[minorisato]

mimesis; make me feel that i'm alive

transformers / simpatico / wc: 707 / warnings: NSFT, VERY dubcon, discretion advised. angsty, sparkeater. / notes: written for kinktober day 30, "monster fucking." / consider commissioning me!

How did they get here?

Perceptor- Perceptor?- has those things, cables, tentacles, whatever they are, wrapped around Brainstorm's arms and legs, scraping against his wings, keeping him open and spread out, limbs apart. Perceptor's clawed servos trail over him, intake- mouth- maw open, revealing teeth, sharp and pointed, as though the metal surrounding his intake had been forced to mold into his dentae. One servo remains separate from Brainstorm, not touching him, while the other scrapes at his chest plating.

Brainstorm knows what he wants, he's just stalling. He doesn't know why. Percy will just tear him open when he gets bored with waiting.

(Maybe he's just savouring Perceptor touching him, for now, before he's offlined. Shame about the circumstance- really, shame on his perversion, still present, warping what will inevitably end in his death. Shame on him.)

The servo not held at Brainstorm's chassis suddenly shoots upwards, gripping at the teal mech's battlemask and tearing it away. Brainstorm lets out a sudden exclamation at the intense influx of pure pain, because there's definitely locks you're supposed to disengage before you remove it and those are definitely broken now. Awesome, cool. He doesn't know why he cares- he's dying, anyway. It doesn't really matter if they're broken.

(The locks don't matter, but he does feel embarrassment suddenly well up inside of his chassis- he's not pretty, he knows that, and he's almost mad at himself for letting Perceptor see him, see his face, see how ugly he is- even when Perceptor is like this, he feels bad for burdening the mech's optics.)

Perceptor's clawed servo scratches more intensely at his chassis- he wants to get this over with, Brainstorm knows. The servo holding his battlemask drops it suddenly, forgotten on the floor, and it re-situates at Brainstorm's- his codpiece. Brainstorm jumps at the touch, optics widening, before he adjusts. Perceptor probably doesn't even notice it's there- even as a clawed finger digs into the transformation seams. He probably isn't aware.

The clawing at Brainstorm's chassis doesn't stop. He's made Perceptor wait long enough, and his insides are twisting at the contact, and he wants it to just end. Right as he splits his chassis just enough for the sparklight to begin pouring through, though, Perceptor leans up, leans forward, closer to Brainstorm, closer to his faceplates. He continues until they're only a few inches apart. "Percy," Brainstorm almost whines, feeling something inside him wither under the scientist's gaze. "Percy, wrong. Lower."

Perceptor does not go lower, though, instead pressing closer until his dentae (or the mockery of such) are pressed to Brainstorm's intake, an attempt at a kiss.

Brainstorm offlines his optics. This can't be happening. This is punishment. Perceptor is so gentle in how he does this, and he burns, Brainstorm burns, because his chassis is open and his spark is right there, and Perceptor opts to kiss him. Only in this changed form is Perceptor so kind to him. It's ironic, in a way, and it hurts. Oh, but doesn't Brainstorm treasure it, also? How nice it is, to be kissed to gently before he's set to die.

A clawed servo presses at Brainstorm's valve paneling. He folds it away. He's dying anyway, right?

The servo scraping his chassis moves, wrapping around Brainstorm's back and clawing at a wing, as the servo at his valve suddenly slides claws inside. He's forceful, which is really to be expected, and Brainstorm is not exactly wet, but it's still so nice at the same time. He's so ashamed of himself.

Perceptor uses his leverage on Brainstorm to adjust them, pulling Brainstorm closer, into him, chassis-to-chassis. Coolant spills out of Brainstorm's still-offline optics, because he can feel it, he can feel the metal bumping together and he can feel their sparks reaching towards each other. Perceptor is opening him up, as close as he can get to making love with the inherent force of being a sparkeater, and he's imitating a merge.

He's imitating a merge, and again, Brainstorm can only think of how ironic it is, for Perceptor to be treating him so kindly, so adoringly, so lovingly, in this form.

Whatever happens after that, Brainstorm isn't responsible for. He's too busy sobbing to notice most of it.

[minorisato]

with you, and only you

transformers / wrift / wc: 691 / warnings: NSFT, bondage / notes: originally written for kinktober day 29, "heavy bondage." / consider commissioning me!

Drift tightens the harness, and Wing flinches. "See, it's too tight. I told you it's too tight."

"It's not," Wing tells him, a soft smile on his face. "It's just tight enough. Now, the spreader."

Wing adjusts his legs as Drift reaches for the aforementioned spreader. "I really don't think all of this is necessary," he scowls. "We could just, y'know, interface like normal. Have we ever considered that? Normal interfacing?"

As Drift locks the spreader around Wing's leg struts, close to his pedes, and the white mech lets out a huff of a laugh. "Where's the fun in that?" He asks, and Drift furrows his optical ridges.

"I think it's fun."

"You just like interfacing with me, I think," Wing smiles, and shakes his pedes, as if testing the strength of the spreader. "All set."

Drift blushes, but doesn't deny Wing's statement. "What's next?"

"Arm restraints," Wing says, and sticks his arm struts out so that Drift can wrap the metal around them. They aren't quite handcuffs, more so just one metal band that keeps Wing's servos together. Again, Drift tightens them, and again, Wing flinches. "You're really certain this isn't too tight?"

"I'm positive," Wing tells him, testing the give, only to find that his servos can hardly move at all. "Besides, they need to be tight. If they aren't tight enough I'll just get out of them."

Drift backs away slightly, examining his work of chaining the other. "I just don't wanna hurt you," he admits, a bit sheepishly, before resetting his vocals. Wing looks up at him sweetly, like he trusts Drift, and it causes the ex-con to blush. "Anyway," Drift states, glancing away hurriedly, "that's all of them?"

Wing nods. "That's all of them. You know what to do from here?" He asks, and Drift looks down just in time to see his valve panel folding away.

Drift stares for a moment, optics wide, before his own spike housing spirals open. As his spike extends, already partially pressurized, he wraps a servo around it. "I mean, yeah," Drift exvents, trying to project an air of confidence that he doesn't quite feel. "Pretty simple to figure out."

Wing smirks, optics dimming. He really likes being tied up like this, huh, Drift finds himself thinking. "Flip me over then," Wing commands, and Drift can do that.

With one servo grabbing each side of the harness, Drift hoists Wing up, and really he's trying to be gentle, but Wing is already a bit heavier than him and the added weight of the binds really isn't helping, so it's more like Drift tosses him onto his front. Wing slams back down onto the berth with a loud oof noise, and Drift invents sharply. "Shit," he lets out. "Wing, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"You're good," Wing lets out. "It's okay. You're good. I don't mind the rough treatment," he chuckles, adjusting so that he isn't laying on his own servos, and so that his aft is hiked in the air. Like that, Drift can see the lubricant dripping from his valve. He can see it very clearly, actually.

So clearly, in fact, that his spike very quickly pressurizes fully, and the next thing he knows he's sliding inside, fucking Wing from the back. "Oh," he exvents, "Oh, Wing-"

Wing whines into the berth as Drift slowly fucks more and more of his spike inside. "Drift," he begs, "Drift, please, harder."

"Yeah," Drift sighs, and he reaches forward to grab the back of Wing's harness with one servo, forcing his back to arch. The other servo is firmly planted on Wing's aft, and he uses this leverage to begin fucking Wing in earnest with a harsh pace, slamming his spike into the larger mech. "Yeah, fuck, I can- I can do that for you."

Wing lets out a loud moan as Drift pounds into him, shaking and shuddering, panting as the nodes in his valve light up. "Drift," he sighs. "Oh, fuck, Drift. You're so good. Such a good mech."

Distantly, Drift realizes that he really, really likes being a good mech. Blushing and silent, he fucks Wing harder.

[minorisato]

hello fan creators!

Year of the OTP is officially back for 2025 with a new set of prompts!

we've switched some of the prompt categories around in an effort to make the event more inclusive of all kinds of fanworks. we've also included song prompts this year! the playlist is on spotify here.

we want to give a huge thank you to everyone who participated in the last event - it grew so much larger than we ever expected and it's truly amazing how you all took our last set of prompts and made so many wonderful things. keep it up!

a couple housekeeping notes: we will not be reblogging every entry this year. mods will keep an eye on the blog if you have any questions, but the reblogs were too much last time. thank you for your understanding!

we will be closing the 2023 collection on December 31. thank you for your continued participation, but it's time to look forward!

the link for the new collection will be posted here January 1.

we're looking forward to seeing what you create this year!

alt text below the cut.

Year of the OTP 2025

The Rules: the Ao3 collection accepts any /-ship works inspired by a prompt from this sheet The Challenge: make 12 works for one ship in one year, using prompts from each month

*you do not need to do the challenge to post to the AO3 collection, as long as you follow the rules*

January first kiss ♦ “may I have this dance” ♦ sharing clothes ♦ BDSM AU ♦ stockholm syndrome ♦ Strong – One Direction

February Valentine’s Day ♦ “it made me think of you” ♦ bed sharing ♦ multiple penetration ♦ mind control/mind break ♦ Like Real People Do – Hozier

March fresh starts ♦ “what are you doing with that”♦ florist/tattoo artist ♦ phone sex ♦ major character death ♦ Take Care – Drake

April pranks ♦ “right in front of my salad” ♦ running away together ♦ dom bottom/sub top ♦ raised to be a killer ♦ Drops of Jupiter – Train

May hanahaki ♦ “we’re dating? since when?” ♦ body swap ♦ magical sex toys ♦ stalking ♦ Paper Rings – Taylor Swift

June pride ♦ “I can’t get you out of my mind” ♦ relationship reveal ♦ unconventional sex positions ♦ paying a debt with your body ♦ Good Looking – Dixon Dallas

July vacation together ♦ “I like my _ how I like my coffee” ♦ kidfic ♦ mutual masturbation ♦ dehumanization ♦ You May Be Right – Billy Joel

August Sports AU ♦ “you’re thinking too much”♦ cooking together ♦ object insertion/ penetration ♦ becoming a monster ♦ You Shook Me All Night Long – AC/DC

September high school/college sweethearts ♦ “come here” ♦ date night gone wrong ♦ semi-public sex ♦ abduction ♦ Thinking Bout You – Frank Ocean

October costumes ♦ “boo” ♦ online dating ♦ shibari ♦ mutual non-con ♦ Mr. Brightside – The Killers

November camping ♦ “are you sure” ♦ touch-starved ♦ cockwarming ♦ abusive relationship ♦ A Thousand Years – Christina Perri

December holiday traditions ♦ “where are you taking me” ♦ bathing together ♦ food play ♦ tortured for information ♦ Everything Is Alright – Laura Shigihara

[minorisato]

hi! long time no post!

so erm. first of all, Sorry, because i did finish the last three days of kinktober and i do intend on typing them up and uploading them soon. they're literally finished i just haven't typed them up yet.

in essence, i got really swamped with personal issues and schoolwork, and beyond that i actually remade my neocities. i've been crossposting my fanfic there on my writing page. it's still heavily a wip but i hope looking through it is fun.

i have a few final assignments to do before i am freed from this dastardly semester (though. a new one does start in january. sighs.) so hopefully i'll be able to finish uploading the remaining kinktobers, and also maybe do some writing.

i might, actually, do something fun for the 1-year anniversary of this blog, but i'm not sure yet. keep an eye out!

[minorisato]

no repose, kick me when i'm down

transformers / tarnstreaker / wc: 520 / warnings: NSFT, ball kicking, degradation / notes: written for kinktober day 28, "dehumanization." / consider commissioning me!

"Stay still," Sunstreaker commands, "stools don't move around this much."

Tarn lets out a low whine, spinal strut shaking as Sunstreaker digs his heels into it. Tarn had made the honestly rather simple mistake of telling Sunstreaker he wanted to be useful (in a sexual way,) and Sunstreaker had smiled, saying he had a great idea. Now, as Sunstreaker reclined in Tarn's fucking chair, pedes kicked up on the leader's back, Tarn essentially acting as an ottoman, Tarn was almost regretting it.

Only almost. "Sorry," he apologizes, arm struts straining to hold him up. The humiliation burns, but he's being useful, and those two things work in tandem to just raise his charge.

Sunstreaker huffs. "They don't talk, either." He pauses. "They also don't have spikes, but I'll let you get away with that." And then he moves a pede to nudge Tarn's pressurized spike, leaking a steady stream of prefluid onto the tiling of the ship's floor. Tarn lets out a whine, feeling his spike twitch. "If you're really good, I might even let you overload."

Tarn exvents heavily, letting out a small whine. Though, doesn't it sound a little muffled? Like he's biting his lip plating?

"Tarn, lift your helm," Sunstreaker instructs, leaning forward to grab the larger mech by his chin, tilting Tarn's helm up and carefully placing a servo over Tarn's mask.

"Sunstreaker," Tarn begs, "Sunstreaker, please."

"Hush," Sunstreaker spits, carefully unlatching Tarn's mask from his faceplates, disengaging the magnets normally keeping it in place. "I wanna see your faceplates."

Tarn keeps his helm held up, tilted to look at the gold mech as his mask is lifted away. He is biting his lip plating, clearly attempting to muffle himself and stay quiet, to be good, to be functional furniture, but whines keep slipping through. Coolant wells in his optics, dripping out mere drops at a time, like the lubricant from his spike. His optics stare up at Sunstreaker, sparking with charge. He's pathetic, like this.

Sunstreaker clicks his glossa. "Stop biting yourself," he commands, and Tarn follows the instruction immediately, panting. "You should be able to control yourself without trying so hard." His optics glance over Tarn for a moment. "Go on, apologize."

"I'm sorry," Tarn lets out, just barely audible.

Then, suddenly, Sunstreaker moves a pede to kick Tarn's spike, hard, and Tarn screams, caught off guard and already so sensitive, his helm snapping back down and arm struts giving out, dropping him to the ground, out of Sunstreaker's grasp. He curls in on himself a bit, venting hard, as above him Sunstreaker sighs, exasperated. The pede still on Tarn's spinal strut lifts up momentarily before slamming down again, and all of the air in Tarn's respirators leaves him in one large wheeze.

"Awful," Sunstreaker sighs. "Awful. Some fucking leader," he smirks. "You can't even be furniture right."

"I'm sorry," Tarn gasps, "I'm sorry- I can, I can do it, I can be g-good. I can try again."

Sunstreaker huffs in what is almost a chuckle. "We will try again," he states. "We'll keep trying again and again until you can do it right."

[minorisato]

even supposing there was a detour, even if it had no guideposts

transformers / grimop / wc: 762 / warnings: NSFT, dubcon / notes: written for kinktober day 27, "size difference." tfa s3, post-"predacons rising." / consider commissioning me!

Optimus will never not be bitter, because this whole thing was distinctly not his idea, it was Prowl's. The whole thing has caused more issues than it's solved, and really Optimus wants nothing to do with any of it, but Prowl is off doing something or other, and there's a series of distress signals coming from Dinobot island, so by way of being the fucking Prime in the room it is now Optimus' responsibility to deal with it.

Cutting down vines as needed with his axe, he steadily makes his way to the coordinates Ratchet had given him. As he gets closer, he can hear the sounds of a Dinobot groaning and growling, letting out huffs and whimpers. Quirking an optical ridge, Optimus approaches a clearing where Grimlock seems to have planted himself. Steam is pouring from his olfactors with each huff, still in dino-mode, collapsed on himself. "Grimlock?" Optimus asks quietly, carefully approaching the Dinobot so as to not startle him, or provoke a reaction.

It only sort of works. Though he's noticeably less energized than usual, he does force himself up, stomping and turning to see Optimus. Steam continues to exvent from his olfactors as he does. "Puny Autobot," Grimlock greets Optimus, though it almost sounds more like an announcement. He's here, guys. Puny Autobot is here.

"Hello Grimlock," Optimus responds, sighing exasperatedly. He chooses to cut to the point and spare himself the stress of being here. "We received a multitudes of distress signals from these coordinates. I was-"

"Distress?" Grimlock cuts him off, stomping closer so that he's face-to-face with the Prime, leaning down so his snout is level with Optimus' faceplates. "Me Grimlock not distressed! Grimlock can handle it by self. No need puny Autobot help."

Optimus feels an optic twitch. "I really, really doubt that," he deadpans, quielty. "What's even the matter?" He holsters his axe, putting his servos up in a show of no harm. "I'll let you deal with it, sure, but at least tell me- what are you doing."

What it appears that Grimlock is doing is smelling Optimus, his snout poking out, a bit too close to the Prime, inventing in short, quick sniffs. "Maybe Autobot can help," he rumbles, stepping back in order to transform.

"Grimlock, what's going o- hey!" Optimus shouts, as the mech suddenly yanks him closer so that the Prime is pressed to the larger mech's chassis. With Grimlock being down like he is (still fucking sniffing Optimus,) they're practically level with each other. Being pressed to him like this, Optimus can suddenly feel just how warm Grimlock is, his plating almost burning to touch. "Grimlock, you're... you're overheating."

"Grimlock too warm," the Dinobot exvents, servos trailing over Optimus' chassis, down to his waist, and then down past his codpiece to rest on his thighs. Optimus shudders at the feeling- he's being so gentle. Uncharacteristically so. He doesn't stop Grimlock from touching him- he doesn't want to, not if he's going to be this sweet about it. "Optimus... help."

Optimus resets his vocals as Grimlock adjusts, sitting on the ground of the clearing, and uses his grip on Optimus' thighs to raise the Prime's legs up, pressing them to his own chassis. Hurriedly, Optimus wraps an arm around the back of Grimlock's throat cabling, so that he doesn't fall. Grimlock has him, sure, but better safe than sorry. Still, though, Optimus doesn't want to stop him. "Are you really just charged up?" Optimus asks, attempting to sound frustrated or disappointed, though it doesn't seem like either of those feelings really make it through. "Is that why you kept barraging us with distress signals?"

"Wasn't on purpose," Grimlock lets out, a bit pathetically, as his array paneling slides back and suddenly Optimus is staring down at Dinobot spike and fucking, by the Allspark.

"Grimlock," Optimus starts, resetting his optics just to make sure he saw it correctly. "Grimlock, that's not going to fit."

Grimlock seems to hesitate, to consider this for a second, before grinding the appendage up against Optimus' still-closed codpiece, causing the Prime to invent suddenly. "Puny Autobot not that puny," Grimlock figures, continuing the action.

Being "puny" has nothing to do with it, it's definitely too big, Optimus wants to say, but all his vocalizer can spit out is shuddering moans, pants, and static. "Grimlock," he can just barely say, "Grimlock-"

"Optimus needs to open," Grimlock grumbles, burying his helm into said mech's throat cabling.

Fuck it, Optimus decides, and does open his valve cover. So much for him being sweet and gentle, but fuck it.

[minorisato]

i fake my way through this ever-lengthening day

transformers / minimegs / wc: 734 / warnings: NSFT / notes: written for kinktober day 26, "heat/rut" / consider commissioning me!

This is a problem for a number of reasons. First and foremost, he would be missing work. Second, he would be missing work to jack off, and really he should just be able to control himself better than that. He can control himself better than that, even. Which is why he's going to work.

It shouldn't be difficult, really. If he stays in his office, sorting through datapads, it should be easy enough to distract himself from the growing problem behind his panels, the rumbling and steadily growing heat in his tanks. Focus on work. Just focus on work.

He really tries. He actually, really, genuinely tries to focus on his work. In the very least, what distracts him is not the oncoming rut that he's desperately trying to ignore, but rather the sound of intense ruckus and clamour from the outside of his office door. It should be simple shift change, this should not be difficult, but once yelling starts, Minimus groans. He practically slams down the datapad he'd been working on, sliding out of his seat and stomping out, throwing open the door to see-

"What are you two doing?"

Megatron and Rodimus are both on the bridge, and Megatron's servos are raised defensively, while Rodimus is grabbing at one of his arms. Minimus, with the threat of his rut looming over him and most certaintly effecting his mood, stomps over, physically grabbing Rodimus' arm, yanking his servo away from Megatron. The co-captain stumbles, stepping back, away from the silver mech.

"There was an altercation," Megatron tells Minimus, clearly frustrated yet trying to sound calm.

"I have a few kliks left," Rodimus pouts. "Fuck off until it's actually your turn."

"I am relieving you early," Megatron enunciates, as though this is the umpteenth time he's said that exact sentence.

Rodimus' optics twitch. "Why don't you relieve my-"

"Okay, both of you, stop!" Minimus yells over them, actually stepping between the two. He's scowling as he looks back and forth between them, optical ridges furrowed. "You two are the captains in charge of every mech aboard this ship and you are both acting like- like sparklings!" His hands ball into fists at his sides. "I do not care who started this, but both of you should know better than to let it come to shouting." He turns to Rodimus. "Much less putting your servos on your coworker."

Rodimus' optical ridges furrow as he frowns. "But he-"

"I do not care," Minimus repeats, stern. He can feel his frame heating up, and he's not certain if it's out of anger or because of the rut. It could be both. "Shift change is over. I'll handle both of your time clocks. Rodimus, go to your hab."

"But I-!"

"Rodimus," Minimus repeats through grit dentae, "go to your hab."

And then he turns around, stomping back to his office, because he still has work to do.

~~~~

A bit later, after Minimus has managed to cool down (only in the sense that he is no longer furious- his frame is still boiling and he wants to die,) there's a tapping at the office door, like someone was trying to gently knock and failed. The door opens for anyone, no access code, so he's not certain who it could be. He resets his vocals, hoping to get rid of most of the static which is inevitably underlying his words. "Come in."

The door slides open to reveal Megatron, appearing almost sheepish on the other side. "Minimus," he greets, bowing his head slightly.

"Captain," Minimus responds in turn. He doesn't look up from the datapad for long, merely glancing up at the silver mech before returning to his work. "Is there an issue?"

"No, no issues," Megatron starts, and he's using his polite I'm-a-good-guy-now voice. "I don't intend to interrupt, but you seemed... especially on-edge earlier," he explains. "Me and Rodimus were most definitely not behaving as captains out to, and I do apologize for that. But it seemed like something else was bothering you, and as your captain, I wanted to know if there's anything I could do to help."

Minimus feels himself feels himself cringe slightly, glancing up to see Megatron's concerned expression, before turning back down to his datapad. It's hard to focus on reading like this, as if it wasn't hard enough to focus without the brain fog of rut, having Megatron talking to him- in fact, Megatron's mere presence, almost- seems to make it harder. "I do appreciate your concern," Minimus starts, and then instantly resets his vocals because wow that was a lot of static, "but I really need to get back to my work."

Megatron hesitates for a moment, "Yes, I can see you're very busy." He pauses. "So busy, in fact, that you look extremely stressed and in need of a break."

Minimus' optics widen, and he looks up at Megatron in a bit of surprise, almost disbelief. He takes a deep vent. "What makes you say that, sir?"

Again, Megatron hesitates, and now, looking at him like this, Minimus can see how nervous he appears, how worried he appears. Minimus' processor takes that, that he's worried about me, and runs with it, and it makes Minimus feel something and his plating is expanding to expel heat and he's crossing his legs. "You just seem stressed," Megatron says after a moment.

Minimus responds curtly. "Nonsense. Everything is fine." He resets his vocals again. It's not working.

"Minimus," Megatron starts, sounding so kind, so polite, taking a step forward. "I'm worried about you. As your captain, yes, but also as your friend." There's most definitely no way that Megatron hasn't noticed the burning practically radiating from Minimus, yet still, he's being polite. "I want to help you."

Minimus exvents heavily. Gently as he can, he sets down the datapad and his stylus, and he clasps his servos together, placing them down on his desk. He resets his optics, looking up at Megatron. "Captain," he vents, "how much do you know about beastformers?"

~~~~

"M-Minimus," Megatron moans, faceplates planted into the green mech's desk. His servos grasp at the opposite edge, trying to hold himself steady as Minimus slams his spike in and out of the larger mech's valve. "Minimus, oh, Primus."

"So good," Minimus sighs, looking down at his captain's valve as his spike disappears inside of it- even with his knot, their size difference allows it to be sucked inside greedily, as though Megatron's frame is begging for more, for the rough treatment Minimus is giving him. And it is rough- rough for Minimus, at least, with a servo keeping Megatron's helm down, shoved into the desk, among datapads and stylus'. His other servo is keeping a grip on Megatron's hips, yanking the silver mech back to meet each thrust. "Feels so good," Minimus pants. "Needed it. Needed you."

"Primus alive," Megatron exvents. His valve cycles weakly, and Minimus hums feeling it, though it's honestly a barely noticeable feeling- this is- this is what, the third round? Megatron's valve is open and accepting to whatever Minimus is going to give him.

"It's s-so good," Minimus exvents, vocals glitching, hips stuttering against Megatron's. "One- one, one more, just- just one more," he begs, pleading Megatron to let him continue. His optics shut off in attempt to conserve his power, but he can feel Megatron gently nodding underneath his servo.

"As- as m-much as you n-need," Megatron moans, "as many times as you need, oh, fuck."

Distantly, Minimus recognizes that they're on the clock and they really shouldn't be doing this on shift, but he can't really be bothered to care.

[minorisato]

i'm still preying on a butcher's vein

dead plate / coal fired heart / wc: 439 / warnings: ??????? / notes: another old dead plate fic. rip rody's arm / consider commissioning me!

“Give me your arm.”

Not thinking, Rody did as he was told, extending his arm towards his boss. Vincent grabbed a hold of his wrist with one hand, tightly, and a moment later he felt a burning pain– literally, the heat of the cigarette pressing into his skin, leaving a mark behind. Rody had tried to pull his arm away, hissing in pain, and in return for doing so Vincent only pressed it down harder. “Vince, fucking stop!”

After a second, the chef did let go, and Rody yanked his arm back, cradling the wound. Tossing the– now put out– cigarette into his ashtray, Vincent leaned back in his chair. “That,” he started, “is a problem.”

Disbelieving, “Yeah! Of course it’s a problem, it’s obviously– you rubbed your cigarette on my arm!”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Vincent sighed, rolling his eyes. “You just stuck out your arm the second I asked. That isn’t a normal request, but you didn’t ask why or anything.” Rody gave him a look that he hoped conveyed so what, and the shorter’s eyes narrowed. “You just do whatever anyone tells you to, without thinking about any consequences. You don’t even have a favourite food unless someone decides it for you. You don’t have a spine.”

Rody balks. “What, you want me to just stop listening to you? Want me to stop taking customers' orders, while I’m at it?” And then, quieter, “I thought you liked being in control of everything.”

Vincent glares at him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he warns, “I’m just saying you could stand to think for a second before doing whatever you’re told; if your brain can even handle that.” He takes a moment. “I’m trying to teach you a lesson. Obviously if I’m telling you to do something, it’s different. But if you just listen to anyone, you could end up hurt.”

Gritting his teeth, Rody gestures to his arm. “Clearly it isn’t different with you, actually!”

“Outside of this moment, have I ever injured you?”

Huffing, “You did slap me that one time.”

“Rody.”

The redhead sighs, and his shoulders drop from their tense pose. He and the chef merely stare at each other for a moment, in some sort of mental battle. “No,” he eventually concedes, “you haven’t.”

Vincent nods, eyes softening the smallest amount. “Exactly.”

A silence fills the room, hanging in the air as the two continue to stare at each other. Rody, certainly, was glaring, though Vincent seemed unbothered. After a good few moments, the chef leaned back in his chair.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” He asked. “Back to work.”

[minorisato]

i can't keep myself from trying a bite of every plate in sight.

dead plate / coal fired heart / wc: 688 / warnings: suggestive / notes: this is super duper old but bf pointed out i never posted most of my dead plate stuff so. / consider commissioning me!

Rody smiled at the last group of customers to leave, waving goodbye, telling them to come back soon. The group consisted of three women and one man, and while the man was happy to retreat, the women all waved back, giggling among themselves, telling Rody how much they loved the experience. All of them, Vincent knew, were objectively quite pretty, and Rody looked absolutely elated as he went to clean up their table.

“Seemed like you got along with them well,” Vincent spoke, causing Rody to jump a bit. He was a bit far, standing at the doors which led to the kitchen. If anyone else were in the building, it might be a bit strange, but it was just them now. The last cook had left when they actually closed, 15 minutes ago.

“They were very nice,” Rody nodded, going back to cleaning.

“Mhm.” Vincent approached the waiter, dress shoes clicking against the floor, hands behind his back. “Remind me, what colour blouse was the blonde madame wearing?”

“Blue,” Rody responded, not missing a beat. It was only a second later that he glanced up from the table. “Why?”

Instead of answering, “What colour was the gentleman’s coat?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Answer the question, Rody.”

“I don’t know!” He admitted, “why are you asking me all this–”

At that moment, Vincent grabbed Rody by the shoulder, yanking him away from the table he’d been cleaning, forcing intense eye contact with the waiter. His grip was downright bruising. Rody looked as though he was going to speak, but Vincent cut him off before he could. “You,” Vincent began, voice low, “need to stop what you’re doing.”

Rody gulped. “I’m not doing anything, though.”

“Are you not?” Vincent challenged, gripping Rody’s shoulder tighter. “Giggling and joking and laughing with our lady customers? Paying extra attention to them, spending more time at their tables– it’s bad for business,” Vincent explained, gritting his teeth, “and frankly, it infuriates me.”

The chef leaned in closer, a bit too close, causing Rody to back into the table, leaning over it a bit, hands gripping at the edge. “Vince, back up,” he let out, his voice wavering.

“It is infuriating,” Vincent continued, louder, “watching you strut around, practically begging for someone to love you. You’ll accept it from any stranger you meet out of desperation, but you’re too stupid to realize you’re already getting all the love you’re going to get.” He pressed closer, slotting a leg in between Rody’s, causing the redhead to jump a bit. When Rody didn’t attempt to stop him, merely keeping his hands to the edge of the table, gripping, Vincent allowed his hand to trail from Rody’s shoulder to his neck.

“Vince,” Rody breathed, still not moving. He could stop Vincent, if he wanted to. He could say stop, he could push him, he could do anything. He didn’t.

In the back of Vincent’s mind, he wondered if Rody would ever stop him.

Vincent’s free hand slowly moved to meet Rody’s collar, pulling it undone. He held eye contact with the waiter as he did so, and Rody simply bit his lip, squirming a bit. The chef huffed. “You’re ridiculous,” he spat out, freeing Rody’s lower neck to the air. “You’re pathetic.”

Vincent pressed his lips to the freed skin, causing Rody to inhale sharply. The redhead lifted a hand from the table to cover his mouth, but Vincent’s hand– previously gripping his neck– shot upwards to grab his wrist instead, keeping him from doing so. I want to hear you, the chef thought, though it went unsaid. Rather, his mouth only opened to allow his teeth to bite Rody’s neck carefully, don’t tear, control yourself. Rody continued to squirm, letting out soft breaths, and then– tellingly– bucked into Vincent’s leg.

Seeming to realize what he’d done, he stammered. “Sorry, I– I wasn’t trying to, I don’t know why, I’m so sorry–”

“Rody,” Vincent interrupted, separating himself from the waiter’s neck for only a moment. “Shut. The fuck. Up.” 

At that, he dove back in, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh, biting– now– a bit harder.

[minorisato]

feel the magic rise, we're plotting our demise

transformers / sentop / wc: 726 / warnings: NSFT, dubcon-ish / notes: written for kinktober day 25, "hate sex." part of my tfa optimus primal au! / consider commissioning me!

Optimus was not always this strong.

Sentinel knows Optimus was not always this strong. His bulk was the seemingly only thing he had over the other, and when they would spar it was relatively easy to use it to his advantage, getting Optimus into a pin. So now that Optimus has him pinned, Sentinel is very, very certain that Optimus was not always this strong.

It has him a bit flustered, honestly, how easily Optimus is able to get him down. His new form- he's taller, yeah, and he definitely looks stronger, but Sentinel was hoping to at least put up some fight. His faceplates heat and flush as he looks up at the technorganic, who happens to be staring down at him, a smirk on his face. (Distantly, Sentinel recalls that nowadays, Optimus almost never removes his battlemask. He took it off for the distinct purpose of looking smug, the glitch.)

"I thought you wanted to fight," Optimus says, a hint of amusement in his vocals.

Sentinel can feel his optics twitch. "That was a fluke!" He announces, clenching his dentae. "You just caught me off guard."

"Right," Optimus chuckles, leaning over him. The position they've found themselves in is awful for Sentinel, with one of Optimus' servos next to his helm, the other pressing his upper arm strut down. Optimus has himself wedged between Sentinel's legs, with one of them thrown over the gorilla's shoulder. This is awful because it's really not a standard pin, Optimus is just pressing him down, trying to make him stop moving, and isn't he a little close? Isn't he a little too smug? A little too charming? Isn't this position a little- "Sentinel?"

"What?!" Sentinel shouts, suddenly snapping back to himself. "What, what?! What is it?"

"You're warm," Optimus says, and instead of maybe backing away, he leans closer, his faceplates mere inches away from Sentinel's own. His intake is parted just slightly, and he's still handsome. It annoys Sentinel so bad, he grinds his dentae together. He's a disgusting technorganic creature and he's still handsome.

"I am," Sentinel replies, because what is he gonna do, deny it?

"Sentinel," Primal asks, voice low, gravelly, and did he ever sound like that before? "Did you get pinned on purpose?"

"No!" Sentinel counters, "no, no I did not! I wanted to win, you're just a freak!" It comes out a lot harsher than he intends, and honestly, he isn't even sure if he means it, but his optical ridges are furrowed and he's not taking it back.

Primal's own optics narrow, looking over the Prime, leaning even closer. "No?" He asks, voice still low, and Sentinel can feel his exvents against him, causing him to shudder. "You didn't want to lose? Didn't want me to have you like this?"

Primal runs the servo on Sentinel's chassis down, pressing at his waist, and the blue mech shakes, plating expanding to expel heat. "Optimus..."

"Liar," Optimus spits, and he shifts and suddenly his codpiece is pressed against Sentinel's own and Sentinel lets out an embarrassing noise. "You've always been a liar."

"Optimus," Sentinel repeats, ragged and breathy. "Optimus, get off."

Sentinel squirms underneath Primal, but the larger's grasp is tight, keeping him in place. "I intend to," Optimus replies simply, and then Sentinel can hear panels transforming away and he forces his optics down and oh, Primus.

Fucking Primus, by the Allspark, forget everything else that happened to Optimus. Throw every other change away. It did not look like that before. It's noticeably bigger, and there's some sort of bulbous something at the bottom of it, and Sentinel doesn't even think about opening his panels, they just do that of their own accord, as far as he's concerned.

"You've always been a slut, too," Optimus says, exventing, and he slowly starts working the tip of his spike inside. Sentinel chooses to ignore that he's already soaked.

Sentinel would love to refute what Primal says, but the more of his spike that disappears into his valve, the less functional his processor becomes, and very suddenly putting together a good rebuttal is a much less compelling task and much more challenging. He hisses through his dentae. "I hate you," he can just barely mutter, "I hate you."

Optimus huffs, rolling his hips to fuck more of his spike inside. "Yeah, I hate you too."