#they bring out a rage in me like no other

[muletia]

𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 ✧˖°

[tfp] synth-en!obsessed!optimus prime x human!reader 18+ content/valveplug

cw: possessiveness, jealousy, top!optimus (he can top you once. as a treat <3), subish!optimus (kinda...), reader matches his freak, explicit valveplug, rough sex, overstimulation, breast play, no aftercare?, mention of ratchet's human partner (which is actually different reader lmao)

word count: 5100

sorry it took me so long to write this bitch; i had to rewrite everything three times before I was satisfied. also, don't expect an overly toxic optimus. i decided to stick as close to canon as possible while giving him just a pinch of freakiness, horniness and aggression

Optimus's servo smeared with energon shoots forward, locking around the helm of the nearest Vehicon. Behind him, Bumblebee and Bulkhead fire at the enemies guarding the energon cubes deeper within the cave, forcing the Decepticon soldiers to focus on them rather than on the exposed Optimus, whose servo grips the helm in a death embrace. Prime presses the enemy further against the cold, unyielding wall, just as unrelenting, securing against any escape before tightening his digits. They tremble for a moment, battling against metal, but it does not remain defiant for long. It yields to his strength, bends, gives way, until at last, completely crumples beneath his bare servo, spraying energon straight onto Optimus’s masked faceplate.

Violence is an inescapable shackle of war. Unyielding and inevitable. Optimus loathed violence, despised it, resisted using it, forcing himself only in the rarest of circumstances.

But there was not a trace of reluctance in the way he killed the Vehicon. This was not a wartime obligation or a fight for survival — it was murder. A deliberate act, cold and devoid of sympathy for mere cannon fodder, judging by how nonchalantly Optimus shakes the still-warm energon off his servo, all the while scanning for his next target.

“Bossbot?” Bulkhead asks, but the concern in his voice does not reach Optimus’s audials.

The Autobot leader’s entire focus is on the three remaining Vehicons, bravely defending two carts loaded with energon. On future victims, sacks to unload his uncharacteristic aggression upon. He wants to feel metal yielding beneath his servo again. To plunge his arm into a chassis and tear out a still-beating spark; to experience warm energon coating his entire frame. To break his own moral backbone, free himself, to finally taste victory in an era of failures.

He wants to live, to be free, rid himself of the restrictions he imposed upon himself eons ago. Optimus wants to kill Megatron and bring you his helm impaled upon his blade, for he is finally ready for absolute victory. But he also wants you. To devour, drown in, possess. Now, while the energon on his frame is still warm, while he can allow himself to indulge, while he feels like a god.

The fact that he cannot have you only stokes the unrestrained aggression further.

A storm of emotions swirls within him, spinning through his processor, through spark, and behind the interface panel, tormenting the spike swollen with thoughts of you, until Optimus finally lets rage and hatred win. Allows them to consume him completely and take control over every fiber of his being, including the most hidden, most private parts.

“Cover me!” he throws out a scrap of rationality before charging forward with a speed unsettlingly unnatural for a being of such immense power and height.

With only a few strides, he closes the distance between himself and the promise of liberation, dodging blaster shots raining down from ahead and behind, until he reaches the soldiers still fighting valiantly. He grabs the nearest one in his servo while seamlessly switching the other one to the blade, effortlessly slicing through the helm of a second Vehicon. Digits clench, repeating the sensation of his strength from before, still relishing in the pleasure of breaking free from the chains of nobility. More hot energon splatters onto his tainted frame.

The last surviving Vehicon fights bravely to the bitter end, trying to aim his blaster straight at Optimus’s exposed helm, but he is not granted the chance to strike. Prime releases the headless body of the other soldier and immediately turns his attention to him, predator locking onto his next prey. Before the shot can fire, his blade plunges directly into the Vehicon’s spark, snuffing out his meager, meaningless existence.

Optimus watches the body slide off his energon-coated blade and crumple onto the ground. Only then does it cease to interest him, to hold any value.

Yet, he does not feel satisfied. He still has the strength to fight, craves more enemies to extinguish. He is ready to face Unicron himself, the synthetic energon coursing through his lines whispering that he would win such a battle. He would triumph over anyone. Unstoppable. A god.

“Is that all of them?” he asks, a flicker of hope for more lingering in his voice. He needs to release this energy, to focus his pulsing, muddled processor on something simple. Something that will grant him relief from his hunger, no matter its origin.

“Yes,” Bumblebee replies. Despite his unease over their leader’s state, he adds, “All the energon is ours.”

“Bossbot,” Bulkhead tries again, “are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Exquisite, Bulkhead,” Prime responds, his tone bored, completely uninterested in continuing the conversation.

His thoughts have already shifted to someone else. Someone softer, sweeter.

His spike throbs irritatingly, demanding attention it will have to wait a little longer for.

Optimus presses his digits to his audials, unbothered by the energon staining them, and adds, “I am sending coordinates for the ground bridge. Be quick.”

He retracts his battle mask and turns toward his teammates.

“Gather as much energon as you can carry,” he instructs them, but the words are not truly for them. He is absent, lost in unreachable contemplation.

His optics, now a furious green, stare ahead, fixed on the point where the ground bridge will appear, each nanoklik of delay eroding his fragile patience. He clenches his servos into fists, trying to focus on that sensation, to concentrate on anything that will quell the irritation of waiting. Waiting until he can return to you and see you again.

Yet, he would not refuse one more Decepticon. The energon on his frame is beginning to cool, becoming nothing more than an echo of the euphoria of unchained rage. He had felt its effects for too short a time. Was not granted the full release of all the filth accumulated over eons of functioning on traditional, insufficient energon — and he wants more. Needs more. Wants to hear the clang of metal against metal again, to see the sparks and feel them ignite another fight; to witness how easily his enemies break beneath his might.

He tilts his helm slightly toward Bulkhead. A strong soldier — he would surely pose a challenge. Perhaps he could toy with him for a moment before hurling him across the cave with a single strike, indulging in his restless need to move, to act.

Their gazes meet for a brief moment, and Optimus sees hesitation in Bulkhead’s step. Uncertainty. A shadow of fear that reassures him of his own invincibility. He smirks triumphantly, even though their battle was only a fantasy.

But it could be real. Would you be proud of him if he took Bulkhead down with one hand? Finally proved his strength, impressed you with his power? He imagines you praising him. A simple “my good mech” rings loud in his processor, but its electrifying effect quickly travels downward, teasing his spike, reminding him just how much he needs you. How desperately he wants to be with you.

His pedes shift impatiently.

He prays to Primus that you are in the base right now. He does not trust himself at this moment to believe he could endure even a few more kliks apart without killing someone with his bare servos.

At last, the darkness of the cave is swept away by the flash of the Ground Bridge. Without waiting for the others, Optimus strides through first, each impatient step bringing him closer to you — until he is met with the familiar sight of the silo. And in the middle of it, standing on a lower platform, is you, seemingly engaged in a pleasant conversation with Arcee, judging by your warm smile.

You say something to the femme, a few words before your attention shifts to him, and you freeze upon seeing the energon staining his frame. As if you were afraid of him, though it is not your shock that truly irks him.

No, it is the fact that you were talking to Arcee, smiling at her, giving her attention that she does not deserve. Because it is he who is your partner, your lover, your soulmate, your future conjunx, and it is he who deserves your affection. He should be the only bot in your life, and this determination, this jealousy pricking at his spark, leads him straight to you, ignoring Arcee’s greeting and attempt to ask a question.

With measured gentleness, a fleeting echo of his former self, he scoops you into his servo and lifts you to his faceplate.

“Optimus, wait!” you plead, but your words do not reach him.

He presses you against the warm, energon-free metal along his intake, securing your back with two digits to prevent any attempts at escape. Like a cat seeking affection, he nuzzles against you a few times, rubbing your entire body and ruining your clothes and hair in the process.

The softness that envelops him soothes his jealousy. Not completely, for he would prefer a far less innocent form of touch, eagerly anticipating that moment, but it is enough to satiate, if only slightly, his hunger for you.

But only for a moment, because he quickly grows bored of simple cuddling. With his thumb, he tugs your shirt upward, revealing a stretch of beautiful, velvet skin, immediately pressesing his intake against it, leaving small but eager kisses.

“Optimus! Optimus, wait!” Your sweet voice quells the hatred and fury within him, but it awakens a different craving, one that has nothing to do with ripping Decepticons apart with his bare servos.

The way you call his name is beautiful. Desperate. But in the mania of his desire, he cannot tell whether it is pleasure or fear that laces your voice. What he does know, is that he needs to hear it again, but in a more private setting. In the seclusion of your quarters within the base, where the only interactions you would be allowed to have would be with him. Where only he would be granted the privilege of experiencing your melodious voice, your laughter, and your pleasure.

With his goal clearly defined, his pedes carry him towards your quarters of their own accord. He forgets about the energon still splattered across his frame — the deadly harvest of synthetic energon — and about his teammates, who continue to watch him in silent horror. His world narrows to you, to the sound of your voice still calling his name, to your occasional laughter whenever his intake tickles a particularly sensitive spot on your stomach. That is all that matters to him in this moment. That is the only thing of importance.

The only problem he is willing to concern himself with right now is the spike pressing painfully against the walls of its cage.

"Optimus!" You try once more. More forcefully, with enough anger and accusation to tear him from his trance of desire. His optics break away from your stomach, and he looks at you with a distant gaze. Yet he has no intention of stopping the way he’s caressing your body. Primus, he wants to devour you so badly. "Can you finally stop?!"

He obeys your demand, watching with invisible amusement as you sigh in relief. His intake remains on you, lips brushing against skin with feathery delicacy, dangerously close to your crotch. He knows he's overstepping, going too far, but he can't pull himself away from you, lost in visions of the future, in mass displacement, in the full-fledged idea of drowning in you.

His glossa, as if it had a mind of its own, slips out from his intake. The tip of his Cybertronian tongue grazes your navel, timidly trailing downward—but before Optimus makes a mistake he will regret for the rest of his life, he feels a kick against his cheek.

Your kick.

Weak, faint, one easily mistaken for an angry kiss, but firm enough to make him retract his glossa. And most importantly, it finally gives you a chance to say something longer than just sweetly crying out his name.

"Christ, why are you so pent-up today?"

"I have dreamed of you for an entire solar cycle. I withered with longing, waiting until I could finally hold you in my servo." He opens up to you, finally gathering the strength and courage to do so. Even if his boldness is artificial.

"I'm glad to hear that, but you've gotten a bit ahead of yourself, my love."

Love. His optics widen slightly, as if that pet name were entirely new to him. And in a way, it was. Because its use reignites the urge to rush to your cozy four walls and beg you to feed him "dearest," "beloved," and "sweetspark" until he goes mad.

"Optimus." A foreign voice pierces through the veil of sweetness, pulling him away from you. Something he cannot accept. His faceplate, unusually expressive today, freezes with irritation because he does not want to be Optimus for anyone but you right now.

Debates ignoring the bitter call, returning his thoughts and attention to you, but a quick assessment of your irritated and rather dissatisfied expression convinces him that, this time, he should at least pretend to care about his teammates. He sincerely hopes you will reward him later for the magnanimity he is about to show them.

Still holding you close to his faceplate but covering more of you with digits to shield his treasure from prying optics, Optimus turns to Arcee, the one who had called him earlier.

"What matter requires my immediate attention, Arcee?" he asks in a sharp tone, so unlike the familiar and beloved gentle giant that it chills your blood.

Arcee must have felt something similar, as she narrows her eyes warily but does not yield under the pressure of her leader's anger.

"Ratchet left the hangar a few Earth hours ago. I can’t locate him, he’s not appearing on the radar or responding to comms."

"So he's with his partner," Optimus replies as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, clearly bored with the conversation.

"What makes you so sure? He mentioned going after Megatron himself. He could just as easily be dead or held prisoner on Megatron’s ship!"

"Arcee is right," you interject. "This isn't something to dismiss so easily."

Optimus sighs, exasperated. This is not how he envisioned spending his time with you. Did not expect to find so many obstacles standing between him and the sweet reward for reclaiming the mine.

"Check his human’s home first," Prime insists. "If he isn’t there, which is as close to impossible as can be, only then do you contact me. Is that clear?"

Arcee studies Optimus with a watchful gaze for a moment but, finding only cold, impenetrable stone, gives up on further argument. For a brief second, her optics shift to you in gratitude for speaking up for her, something that Optimus does not entirely approve of. He shields you further with his servo, a possessive movement, blocking you from any foreign gazes or interaction. At the same time, he straightens his back to appear even larger than he already is.

Today, you belong only to him.

"Fine," Arcee hisses. "Who should I take on recon?"

"Anyone," Optimus says. He ends the conversation by turning on his heel and continuing down the corridor.

His intake returns to nipping at your stomach, but this time, he does so more aggressively. Faster, as if trying to rid himself of the frustration gnawing at him while ensuring that all of your attention remains solely on him. The tip of his thumb starts to toy with the waistband of your pants, attempting to make up for the seconds lost discussing his best friend. In response, you deliver another kick to him.

This time, he finds it utterly adorable.

"Do you really not care what’s happening with Ratchet? You know, your best friend?"

"I feel no need to concern myself with Ratchet’s condition when he himself informed me of his whereabouts."

"What makes you so sure he got held up there?"

"Because I now understand how he felt, rushing home to his beloved when they accidentally called him. Because I feel exactly the same way at this very moment."

His keen optics do not miss the faint blush that blooms across your cheeks.

Primus. Grant him the strength not to devour you right here and now.

"Wait." You speak. You breathe a sigh of relief when he obeys your command, stopping right in front of the newly installed Cybertronian showers. He lifts an optical ridge, prompting you to continue.

"Could you at least wash the energon off yourself?"

"I am heading to the washracks," he states calmly. "I assume you wish to join me."

You nearly choke on your own saliva.

"Later. I have a feeling I’ll need them more later," you reply, and Optimus has to resist the sudden urge to abandon the washracks entirely and rip your clothes to shreds right here and now.

Divine intervention (your words) is the only thing preventing him from completely destroying both his and your reputation.

One last time before your brief separation, he presses a kiss to your stomach.

"I assure you, I will not take long. Wait for me in your quarters."

"As you wish, Opti."

Primus once again tested his self-control.

You shut the door and immediately press your back against it, needing even a second of respite from everything that just happened.

"I have dreamed of you for an entire solar cycle…"

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

Overwhelmed by his unusual assertiveness, you cover your burning cheeks with your hands. But you don’t stay in that position for long, realizing that your blush is nearly as hot as his intake, his glossa. You can still feel the remnants of his kisses on your stomach and the desperation he poured into them. The hot breath that, over and over again, enveloped your bare skin.

You can’t escape from those thoughts, drifting on the edge of madness, wondering what happened to your dignity that his hunger made you feel like a lovestruck teenager.

Who swapped your Optimus for this pent-up, horny beast?

And most importantly, why didn't you mind at all?

In an attempt to regain control over your body and thoughts that were drifting into the near future, you decide to occupy yourself with something. Anything, as long as it is quick and allows you to gather yourself while you wait for his return.

Once again, your mind returns to the searing heat of the glossa working on your stomach. Taking a deep, reassuring breath, you head towards the cabinet and pull out a glass.

Yes, water will do you good, cooling the fire and restoring clarity to your thoughts. Especially since it is only now that you realize the dryness in your throat. Then, you will unpack your clothes from the suitcase. Mhm, that’s a good plan, you think, taking a sip of water. You will certainly have enough time to change out of your old hoodie and sweatpants into something more befitting of Optimus Prime — even if the concept of fashion was still an enigma to him, not entirely comprehensible.

Reaching for the bottle again, planning to pour yourself another drink, you freeze with the glass at your lips as the door suddenly swings open. And through it steps none other than a mass-displaced Optimus Prime, leaving you dumbfounded.

"It hasn't even been five minutes!"

Now free of energon but still dripping water in a few places, he closes the door behind him. "Forgive me, my dearest, but I was compelled to hasten my return," he says.

You finish your water and place the glass at the far end of the counter, cursing internally that your plan has just crumbled due to his untamed excitement. "It’s fine. But seriously, you could’ve at least given me two more minu…tes."

The words die in your throat as you feel hundreds of kilograms of living metal pressing against your rear, pinning you to the kitchen counter. Apparently uncertain of the effectiveness of his trap, Optimus places a servo on the cold marble as well, blocking your escape from the side.

Not that you were planning to escape, really.

"I could not wait any longer for us to be alone," he whispers directly into your ear, warm breath subtly stirring your hair. "I need you, sweetspark."

The unfamiliar passion in his deep, thick voice plays with your skin, sending a wave of goosebumps down your spine.

You should feel alarmed — you know this well. Instinct urges you to try and flee, to break free from the predator, but you cannot. Because the truth is, you do not want to move. You want to take advantage of this small shift in your dynamic. To channel his fervor toward your own needs, burning, pulsing, demanding his spike.

"I need you too," you say, adopting a low, raspy tone that does not contrast with your quickened breath. You turn to face him, only to be immediately consumed by the green glow of his optics, which seem to burn even brighter than usual. Optimus presses his hips against you more firmly, and even through the layer of sweatpants, you can feel that he is on fire.

He leans over you, a servo curling around the back of your head, and finally, he devours you, his heated intake sealing over your lips. He kisses you ravenously, greedily, as if he had been starving for centuries, setting a pace you struggle to keep up with. You try, chasing after his intake as it leaves kisses on your lips over and over again, but it proves futile when Optimus decides to trace a path downward. He attacks the corner of your mouth, your chin, and the edge of your jaw before moving to your neck, leaving several quick kisses before pausing for a moment.

"I can endure no longer," he whispers, and to confirm his words, he gently bites the skin on the side of your neck, only to immediately soothe the mark with the tip of his glossa. "[Name], I beg you, if I do not ram my spike into you this instant, I am convinced I will explode," he confesses.

With processor turned to mush and need surging through his circuits, Optimus opens his interface panel. His engorged spike, already dripping pink transfluid from its tip, presses against your stomach, rubbing against the fabric and leaving, thankfully washable, rosy streaks. You cannot tear your gaze away from this pathetically shameless display, basking in the heat of his desire.

"Are you particularly attached to your current coverings?" he asks, snapping you out of your trance.

"No, um, not really. Why?"

"I am pleased to hear that," he replies.

He grips the loose fabric of your sweatpants and, with a single motion, tears them in half, leaving you clad only in your ruined, slick underwear. But not for long. Your panties meet the same fate as your sweatpants, joining the shredded fabric on the floor beneath your feet.

The sight of your heat shatters the deadly seriousness of his faceplate as Optimus smiles, satisfied. At last, he has reached the climax of his journey, having pushed through the jungle of team complications and the forced visit to the washracks. But for a sight as breathtaking as this, for the intoxicating scent of your desire seeping into his intake and clouding his processor, and, above all, for you, it had all been worth it.

"Exquisite," he murmurs, unable to tear his optics away from your valve, even as you struggle to remove your hoodie and bra. "I am the most fortunate mech in the history of Cybertron."

Without warning, he grips your thighs and lifts you into the air, ignoring your startled yelp, which quickly transforms into a delighted giggle. And Primus, if that was not the most beautiful sound in the universe… Optimus would have crushed every Decepticon into dust if it meant you enjoyed this mere glimpse of his strength.

He aligns the tip of his spike with your burning entrance, teasing your wet lips with a single subtle touch that nearly drives him to overload. But he wants to last. He must, though he knows his stamina will not grant him mercy tonight.

"Optimus," you try, "maybe we could move to the bed, huh?"

"Forgive my impatience, my dearest," he responds, "but I fear I can endure no longer."

"Mhm, alrighhh… ah!"

With a fluid motion, he slides his thick spike into you, fitting two puzzle pieces into perfect unity.

"Primus, [Name]!" he gasps.

His sharpened senses push him down the path of madness.

Your walls tighten around his spike, welcoming your lover with affectionate reverence, and Optimus is overtaken by a profound sense of belonging and rightness, as if, after a long day’s work, he has finally come home. Buried deep within you, lost in the nearly claustrophobic sensation of your tight heat enveloping his spike, he dares to believe that this place is more comforting than Cybertron itself. And if this were to be your daily reality, he would have no objections to remaining on Earth for eternity.

"Opti, ah, fuck…" you try, slightly dazed by the sheer enormity of him stretching you out. Secured by the servos gripping your thighs, you allow yourself to wrap your arms around his neck, bringing yourself closer to the ocean of green. Being this near, you have the impression that the alien color of his optics is about to swallow you whole. Which is not far from the truth when Optimus begins kissing your collarbones, lightly nipping at your skin, trying not to lose his mind while waiting for your magic words.

"You can move, sweetheart."

The roar of his engine makes it clear — he is beyond delighted to hear that.

"As you wish," he growls against your skin.

The liberation he feels at finally being able to pump his spike into your heat is exquisite, yet treacherous, for Optimus cannot restrain himself from setting a fast pace. His hips ram into yours over and over, savoring the sight of the slight bulge moving across your stomach and the wet sounds of transfluid mixing with your juices — the most intimate union of two species. He is burning up, overheating, but even that pales in comparison to the molten lava that sears him inside your valve. If he cared enough, he might worry that you would melt him, truly fusing you both into one.

"Holy Primus," he pants, digging his digits deeper into the flesh of your rear. In response to the slight sting, you tighten your arms around his neck. "I am not pulling out of you tonight. Not even for a single nanoklik."

"Hah, w-what the hell did that synthetic energon…" you start, but a single powerful thrust momentarily robs you of speech. Seeking balance and clarity, you press your forehead against the cool glass of his chassis, but the tremors Optimus sends through your entire body do not allow you to stay there for long. "…do to you? Where did my mech, the one who begged for the strap, disappear to?"

"He is… s-still here," he assures you, purring with delight as he feels your slick, gummy walls clench around his spike, practically milking him with every drag. With such encouragement from your body, he cannot afford to slow down, determined to grant you a climax that will make you see stars. Or rather, one of your first orgasms. "If you so desire, hrrn, you may see him later."

"I don't think I'll, fuck, have the strength for anything later," you reply, words constantly broken by moans or gasps for breath.

"A-a pity, hah! I had hoped that you, too, might manage to wear me out."

You feel the shape of a smirk against the skin of your neck, where his faceplate is currently nestled. Bastard — you think, but cannot stay angry at him for long when every thrust sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body. From the crown of your head to your curled-up toes. Optimus is lucky that his spike is so impossibly large. Otherwise, he would be treading on very thin ice tonight — something he proves moments later that he is more than willing to risk.

"My dearest," he murmurs into your neck. The involuntary clench of the softest valve he has ever known in his long life tells him that you enjoy his possessiveness. And what kind of servant would he be if he did not fulfill his master's every desire? "My most beloved. Mine to converse with, mine to kiss. Mine to interface with. Mine. Mine."

His greedy litany is abruptly cut short when your valve clamps down tightly around his spike.

"Ah, Opti!" you cry out. "I'm about to—"

"I as well, ah, I…"

He buries his spike deep inside you, pressing his hips against yours and pulling you even closer. Sticky transfluid spurts from his spike, and you reward him with your own release, now fully sealing your union. And though Optimus fills you perfectly, a few stray drops of your mingled love manage to escape your stretched cunt, soiling the insides of your thighs.

Chasing the divine bliss of overload, Optimus does not grant you much time to rest. He starts moving his hips once more, pushing his transfluid deeper into your body in preparation for a refill.

And at that exact moment, amidst the wet, filthy sounds of his spike plunging into your valve, a faint knocking echoes through the room. Barely audible to you over your own panting, moans, and his loudly revving engines, but Optimus has no trouble detecting the intruder. Their presence disrupts his complete surrender to pleasure, irritating him, bursting the fragile illusion that the world ends with you.

"Frag off," he growls loudly, never ceasing to frag your heat.

Your gazes meet for a brief moment, but Optimus does not hold eye contact for long, too agitated to acknowledge your questioning expression. Instead, he directs his intake toward your chest, stuffing your soft flesh into his mouth. His glossa immediately gets to work, gliding over your swollen nipple, licking and sucking to suppress the stream of curses and sins threatening to spill forth. To ensure you do not collapse backward, one arm wraps around your back, delighting in the discovery that he can afford to gather your other breast into his servo as well. Which he does, kneading the soft flesh like a stress ball.

"My dearest," he repeats his mantra between the worship of your nipple and breast. "My [Name]."

"My Opti," you return the sentiment, stroking the back of his helm. "My good mech."

An involuntary honk of his horn and an exceptionally deep thrust convince you that you have chosen your words well. Even at the cost of losing the ability to walk tomorrow.

[umbrella-show]

Hello 🤗 just wanted to say I really love your work, and I have a request (if requests are closed and I didn't see, then I apologize)

I was wondering if you could write some romantic yandere head canons with shadow milk cookie (or if you are able to write for burning spice cookie and mystic Flour, you can add them too) with a corrupted beast! Reader who is like nightmare moon from my little pony?

The reader has her personality, the same hair, the horn and the wings etc. and their castle/palace is in the middle of the forest, all day everyday is night. And when the beasts + reader get imprisoned, you could maybe write how the reader was instead imprisoned in the moon (like the show, y'know?)

It's a lot, ik, and you can ignore this if it's too much or not descriptive enough. Have a good day/night 👋

Okay so I haven't seen mlp so I'll try my best to get their personality right.

You were imprisoned with the beast after their corruption, the witches forcing them to watch as extra punishment for their actions.

First off, Shadow Milk cookie would be PISSED that the witches had imprisoned you in the moon, far far away from his prison in the Silver Tree.

If you were going to be trapped, it should have been with him!

He had screamed your name, fought in his cage, extending his arm out as if he could somehow reach you.

Alas, you were sealed within the moon, forced away from him and the other beasts.

Years passed, and while you were never corrupted like your friends when you were imprisoned, you were forced to watch the world go on without you.

It caused you to grow bitter, resentful of the cookies beneath you. They were able to live on, to enjoy their life while you were forced to helplessly watch.

You had eventually become corrupted, vowing to cover the sky in eternal night and bring misery and pain to all. If you couldn't be happy, no one could.

You waited, seethed, plotted your eventual return.

And your patience paid off.

Shadow Milk cookie was the first to break free from the tree, freeing the other beasts in the process.

Of course, he didn't forget about you. When he burst out of the giant split in the tree, he looked up at the moon.

A huge smile spread across his face. He could practically feel your misery, your indignance, your ever burning rage.

Oh, this was going to be a show for the AGES!

After Shadow Milk cookie's first attempt at retrieving his soul jam failed, he switched gears.

He decided to lay low for a bit, gather his faithful followers to make put on a new show that was sure to not fail!

And you were one on his stars.

Of course, freeing you would be no ease feat. While the magic containing you in the moon was weaker than the magic that contained the beast into the Silver Tree, he knew you couldn't escape all on your own.

And so, with a sprinkle of magic from him to boast your strength, you had felt the constrictive chains holding you down break.

You had emerged, spreading your dark wings out as your gave a hardened stare towards Shadow Milk cookie.

"Ooooh!~ I looove the new look! Ah, my and the others always knew dabbling in a little darkness would do you good. And, by the looks of it, we were right, of course!"

"I see you've become even more insufferable then when I last saw you."

"Sheesh, grumpy pants! Have some appreciation. I AM the reason you're finally free, am I not?!"

"..."

"See! Now, c'mon, come closer to me, my dazzling star!"

"No."

He is EXTREMELY clingy. Whenever he's around you, he's always touching you in some way. Interlocked arms or even sitting on your shoulders when he's feeling especially cocky are some of the ways we clings to you.

He finds amusement in your seriousness and stoicism. He likes to purposefully annoy you to get a reaction out of you.

He is around you 24/7, trailing along with his boisterous voice as you try to find a way to get some pace. Of course, he won't allow that.

Life in the Spire of Deceit isn't the worst. Just extremely boring. You are forced to wait as Candy Apple cookie lures those worthless ants here in order to steal back his Soul Jam, and completely reign his full power.

You constantly voice your complaints, growing increasingly agitated as more time passes.

"Why do we need your full strength back to plunge the world in eternal darkness?! In fact, if we do it now, when they least expect it, it will be easier to take back the other half of your sol jam. There is NO POINT for this useless waiting!"

"Aww, is my stunning little nightmare still a little cranky from their thousand years of slumber?~ We will make eternal night right after I take back my soul Jam, mkay? Besides, I got a REAL good performance planned, I pinky promise it'll be entertaining!"

"...As long as it doesn't take forever."

"See!~ I knew you'd come around!"

He likes to dance with you under the stars. You two perfectly in sync, the cracked moon above a reminder of your freedom. Whispers of deceit flow gently through the breeze of the eternal night.

While you two have very different personalities, you can compromise with shared goals. Bringing utter chaos and darkness to Earthbread.

The Beast of Deceit curls himself around his star, his actor, his dazzling nightmare, as inferno of chaos beneath burns bright. All of those pesky gnats fall to their knees at their feet, bright blue strings around their limbs compelling them to crumple forward. Darkness, as black as tar, expands through the sky, shielding the sun's life from ever reaching the surface. Shadow Milk cookie cackles manically, grasping you tighter than ever, for you two had finally won.

[hedwig221b]

Hi, If it's not a bother, could you recommend me some sterel fics with void stiles at some point in the fic? Please and thank you ❤️

Hello! Hope you like these ones!

Shadow and Flame by pixieblade

"Get. Away. From. Him.” The teen said harshly. Derek watched bemusedly as Stiles stalked across the loft. His wooden bat dragging along behind him. It made a scratchthumpscrape sound that was almost mesmerizing. Alternative nogitsune/darach meeting. Pre-slash Sterek.

Unexpected Results by pixieblade

What do you do when the people you are supposed to trust, betray you in the worst possible way? What would you do if someone offered you a way out?

Full and Void

Stiles could be meek, sure. In Derek’s arms, softened under the touch, pinned under his weight. He allowed himself to relax only in Derek’s sole presence. Stiles could also look meek. Small, scared. Let the enemies think he was hiding in his mate’s shadow. After all, no one would stop to think that the shadow could ever be dangerous.

Emerald Eyed Mystery by QueenOfAngst21

It's been two months but the Void won't go away. With his brother turning against him and with no where else to turn, Stiles looks to the place he least expected. If Beacon Hills is destroying him then when better to run away then at 1am on a Thursday. Three years later, with the fate of Supernatural world on their shoulders they must return but Stiles isn't defenceless anymore. He's an Alpha Mate and his eyes aren't normal; they are emerald.

Words Alone by SnowshadowAO3

Derek gets the first text message two months after he leaves Beacon Hills. He stares at it for a long time without actually opening it up, trying to figure out why Stiles would be texting him at all. Things start fitting together in Derek’s mind: his dreams, the door he sees Stiles enter, the loss of memory. Stiles’ body, his mind, are no longer just his. Something is sharing it, controlling him. Derek doesn’t know what it is yet, but he’s damn well going to find out. In which the Nogitsune ordeal brings Derek running back to Beacon Hills and, in the end, to Stiles.

Voice of Rage and Ruin by Qayin

Derek is hired as a bodyguard to this kid, Stiles. And the thing is, Stiles seems completely harmless, but everyone keeps telling Derek how he needs to be careful. Stiles is a nogitsune, a human possessed by a powerful deity of chaos and void, and not only does other people want him for his power, but he could potentially hurt others; and then it’s Derek’s job to protect those people — from his client.

Echo of the Void by MissAnnThropic

Post season 3B. After defeating the nogitsune, Stiles takes steps to ensure the demon fox can never possess him again. When things don’t go according to plan, Scott calls Derek to come try and calm Stiles down.

Ready or Not by spaceprincessem

Ready or not here I come “Is it him?” The man whispered to the woman standing next to him, a gleeful smile on his face. “Is that-” “Void?” Stiles asked. Derek took a shuddering breath. Stiles no longer sounded broken or pleading. His tone was cold, cruel, calculating. “Void.” The woman repeated with a small nod of her head. Stiles' smirk widened now, “That’s what you wanted, right?”

i'm here in search of your glory by EvanesDust, spaceprincessem

And standing there, in the dim light of the office was the all powerful emissary whose name had been whispered across the country. The one who could move mountains and part oceans. The one they all called Void. Standing there was Stiles fucking Stilinski. There were so many things Derek wanted to say - needed to say - and Stiles arched an eyebrow, like he was waiting, like he fucking knew. Derek opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out was, “Are you fucking kidding me.”

Together Again by Firebull

When Scott pushed Stiles out of the pack, he unwittingly unleashes the Nogitsune once more. Not that it lets him live long enough to tell anyone about it. Too bad really, because it has plans for a certain werewolf currently living in Mexico.

We are the greatest pretenders by heyshalina, marshmallowfluff

(How am I gonna get myself back home?) Derek wishes Scott wasn't such a failure of an alpha, that he had noticed the aura of darkness around Stiles before Derek had. Maybe then, it would be Scott now, staring into Stiles' empty eyes, at his twisted smile, faced with the prospect of killing him. "You know, I never wanted to be anything other than human."

Other fic recs: angsty fics | possessive Derek | historical AU | baby/mpreg | outsider POV | smut | mafia | hurt/comfort | magical!Stiles | Stiles gets kicked out of the pack | BAMF!Stiles + pt2 | omegaverse | witch!Stiles | creature!Stiles + pt2 | oblivious!Stiles | bad friend Scott | pack mom!Stiles | unrequited love | werewolf!Stiles | dark sterek | single parent!Stiles | feral Derek | arranged marriage | Stiles is underestimated | mpreg w/o abo | accidental knotting | jock!Derek | jock!Stiles | alive Hales | spanking | royal abo au | longfic

[xxzom6ixx]

OKAY OKAY LETS DO THIS

dog(idk what breed) tortieco cat, waterwing dragon, coyote/werecoyote, vampire, maned wolf, lynx/bobcat, orca, kinsidering marine animal and feathered raptor

just an animal, being or alterbeing

in august 2023 or 2022 idk i was just digging on the internet and found out about it

dog/coyote

coyote/orca i think

lynx/bobcat

mental connections/physical/it just feels right

i wear a shark bracelet, necklaces, tails sometimes, and masks

if you think youre an alterbeing, you probably are

refer to myself as a dog/ask others to

take pics of coyotes in my area and love getting pets

permanent fangs and get a MULLET

sometimes if im bored and when im playing wit my doggy

i was going to school and i saw a coyote and i was like holy shit thats me bro

animal rage and just idk not being an animal

not really, im a hellenic polytheist and if anything it brings me closer to lady artemis

i dont have any mental illnesses that im aware of

sort of not my gender but my pronouns, i use they/it/pup/any cuz yeah species affirmation

im just a silly dog

i’ll never be a real animal its not fair

Alterhuman questions

Kintypes?

What do you prefer to call yourself (therian, otherkin, nonhuman, etc)

How did you find out you were alterhuman?

Favorite kintype?

Most recent kintype?

Least favorite kintype?

What are your reasonings for being alterhuman?

Do you wear gear? If so, what kind?

Any advice to new alterhumans?

What're some things you do to affirm your kintypes?

Strangest thing you do to affirm your kintypes?

What are your goals to affirm your kintypes?

Do you do quads?

Funniest way you found out a kintype?

How does being alterhuman affect your day to day life?

Does being alterhuman affect your religious beliefs?

Do your mental illnesses affect your view of your alterhumanness?

Does being alterhuman affect your gender?

What is your favorite thing about being alterhuman

What is your least favorite thing about being alterhuman

PS. I know not everyone resonates with the word kintype and I'm sorry for using it I just didn't know what other word to use

Reblogging this means that you want people to send you asks!

[lavendersuh]

unprofessional

johnny x female reader | mafia!au, arranged marriage | 600 words

this is rlly short but i kinda love it... anyways we are so back! more to come soon xoxo

༻ ✧✧✧ ༺

“you are not going on the recon mission.” johnny says, “that’s final.”

“what?” you shriek. you are fuming behind him as he walks out of the meeting room of neocity headquarters. you knew you were best suited for this sort of thing, with maybe only mark being as good at you at hacking into computer systems.

“you’re not going, y/n!” he says, walking into his office. 

“this isn’t a dictatorship! i volunteered first; you think that because you’re my husband, you get to make decisions for me?” 

“maybe if you considered i’m your husband a little more, you wouldn’t be so dead set on going on such a dangerous job! this is breaking into a company warehouse deep in enemy territory.” 

johnny closes the door with a near slam, showing just how close to the surface his rage was simmering. it didn’t phase you though, as you stood your ground in the middle of his office.

“what the fuck, john?” you exhale, “i’ve gone on dangerous jobs before! countless times.”

it’s quiet for a moment, and johnny exhales. it’s true that you’ve been on more dangerous jobs, but that was before you ended up his wife. before you invaded his home and planted roots in his life. 

his voice was soft but firm when he spoke next, “i don’t want you going out and risking yourself like that, alright? just please, drop it. there will be other missions.”

“but i need to know why! we all know the risks that come along with this life. i wouldn’t be here if i didn’t.” 

you neglected to bring up the fact you were born into this life. that wasn’t the point.

“why do you even care what happens to me?” you ask.

“because i care about you!” he exclaims, startling both of you. 

you, since this was news to you, and him, because how was he ever supposed to truly explain it? how was he supposed to explain that he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you? that the only thing that got him through the day sometimes was the thought that you would be there at the end of the evening? that seeing you dancing quietly around the kitchen while you heated up something to eat for dinner made him feel a softness he hadn’t felt since he was young?

“oh.” 

your small voice lured him out of his thoughts, to see you looking at him with an expression of confusion and maybe something like understanding. 

neither of you had wanted this marriage, but you’d grown closer regardless. whether because it was just proximity to living with him or because you enjoyed the presence of the big mafia man who offered you a gentle side didn’t matter.

johnny clears his throat, “yeah… look i’m sorry about all of this. i don’t want to be unprofessional.”

“unprofessional?”

“this marriage is arranged. there is no room for these kinds of feelings or emotions. especially when this shit is what we do for a living.” johnny goes to sit down, turning on his computer. “if mark goes in, would you consider going to the com center for recon?”

you were having trouble processing everything that had just been said, “i… yes, i would accept that…” 

you tried searching his eyes for some sort of answer to the hundreds of questions running through your mind, but he looked straight at the computer screen, clearly guarded after saying too much. 

“alright, ok then let’s do that.” he says, giving you a glance that you try to latch on to unsuccessfully. “go get some food before we head out. dismissed”

your heart let out a pang at the professionalism returning to his demeanor, but you just nodded before heading out.

༻ ✧✧✧ ༺

[strang3lov3]

hey stepdaddy!roman readers ♡ we had a good day, didn't we?

Roman seethes, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. One fist balled at his side, the other hand furiously wiping his face. 

You watch him there, his shoulders moving with his shaky, angered breaths. You tiptoe across the room, hoping you can fit past him in the doorway as quietly and painlessly as possible, before he snaps.  

He doesn’t even think when he does it, so blinded by fucking rage and his broken heart. He sticks his foot out and trips you, though it doesn’t bring you to the ground. Just knocks you off balance a little, and then he’s taking both hands and shoving you down to the cold, hardwood floor. Sitting on your legs and twisting your arms behind your back.  

You scream his name and try to throw him off of you, but he’s so fucking strong. He’s got both of your wrists pinned in one hand, a fistful of your hair in the other. The same hands that held you so kindly just hours before now. Fingers that traced your features, memorizing every delicate curve and contour that he fell in love with. “Jesus, I fucking hate you,” he whispers in a broken voice, tears of his dripping onto the back of your neck. “You fucking…you fucking cunt. God.” 

“Rome–”

“No, you don’t get to fucking Rome me, alright? Or Daddy, or whatever the fuck. You just fucking lay there and be quiet, okay, honey? Sweetheart? Fucking baby girl.” He lets go of your hair by dropping your head against the floor, restraining himself from slamming it instead, and reaches lower. He tugs your panties to the side so hard the elastic cuts into your skin and rubs it raw. “You fucking bitch. I should have fucking known," he scoffs, undoing his pants. "Like mother, like daughter. Right?”

[corazondebeskar-reads]

side by side with me (a tlou x hunger games au)

joel miller x f!reader

words: 3.6k

summary:

After FEDRA finally laid waste to the Fireflies and snuffed out the light, they devised a system to keep the QZs in line.

75 years later, the violence is commemorated with a special Quarter Quell edition of the Hunger Games. It gives FEDRA a chance to kill the nation's favorite victor - Ellie Williams, who they have a very good reason for wanting dead.

After all, would the QZs still obey if they knew most of the kids born in the outside world were immune now? Or would one little girl tear the fabric of their control apart?

To find out, she'll have to win the games again. And the odds were never in her favor.

warnings: major character death, suicidal ideation, reference to suicide attempt, canon-typical violence, canon-typical systems of oppression, we hate fedra in this house, i look liberties with tlou and hg, p in v, oral, ellie is the mockingjay basically, there's far less plot here and mostly just angst, bittersweet ending, dead dove do not eat

for @guiltyasdave who was enabling me and whose own hunger games au with joel i CANNOT fucking wait for.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

are you—are you comin' to the tree?  wear a necklace of rope side by side with me.

I. 

He knows, somehow. He’s toward the back of the crowd, still in his work clothes, faded and filthy jeans with a denim shirt, soil-caked boots and all. Sweat from the sun drags mud down his brow. The bandana around his neck is saturated from the heat.

He didn’t bother to change, didn’t see a point in dressing up. The cameras knew who he was. And he knew for certain he was about to be on that little stage. 

It shouldn’t have been a sure thing. There were three other male victors there. But he knew. 

There were two female victors—one older than him and one far too young. So when they called for Ellie Williams, two years out from her victory at twelve, there was no question. 

The year she’d won, he hadn’t mentored. Couldn’t stand in that room again and watch another little girl die. He stayed home like a coward and threw up every time the bell tolled, and he didn’t know where she was. Each time, he caught himself prayin’ to no one, begging forgiveness that he didn’t try harder. Should have gone and schmoozed, should have got her a better chance.

In the end, she didn’t need him. 

He wasn’t going to let her go alone again. Didn’t need to know a damn thing about her other than she had been promised survival and then this. The fuckin’ Quarter Quell. 

So when they called out for Mitch, Joel stepped forward instead. 

“I volunteer,” he said. He didn’t wait for the peacekeepers or the crowd’s gasps to fade. He strolled right on up to the stage. 

And that was that. 

Your fate was sealed when they announced the Quell. As the only surviving female victor, you were going back in that arena. You took a day to mourn and rage and let the numbness overtake you. 

Nothing to be done about it. 

So, while you wait, you live. You swim each day until your skin is stretched dry from the salt and let your waterlogged legs drag you home. Sometimes you sleep there, near the water. You know you’ll never see it again. 

It does occur to you to give in to the call you’ve heard since you returned the first time. The lapping waves whisper a song: come home, come home. The crinkle of the water under the heavy belly of the setting sun reminds you of your mama’s old quilt, and a tug in your navel urges you to paddle out and let it tuck you in. 

Instead, you let the sun hold you, warm and safe. On the last day, you bring what’s left of your food and have a feast upon a rocky ledge jutting out over the water. You spread butter thick on soft bread, nibble at rich cheese, and sink your teeth into melon so juicy it bathes you in red. Practice for the arena, you think, and your raw laughter gets carried away on the breeze.

As the only living female victor, you have a man for a mentor. It all feels stupid, anyway. You didn’t need someone to tell you how to do this dance. You barely listen as he droned reassurances about securing sponsors. When he starts suggesting you encourage them on your knees, you stop listening entirely.

That is, until you hear the other mentor tell Nick, your male tribute counterpart, to “steer clear of Miller at all costs.” 

You sit up. “Miller? As in Joel Miller?” 

“Yeah, didn’t you hear? He volunteered,” Nick says.

You hadn’t heard. “Huh,” is all you say, leaning back against the window. 

Joel Miller won his games only to lose his daughter, Sarah, to them at 14.

You won yours not so long after Joel. Close enough that you remember his viciousness. Close enough that you remember watching him mentor his daughter in the arena. Close enough that you remember the crack and the blood and the ensuing screaming after he tried to join her. 

“Back off,” he growls when you approach him in the training rooms. 

“I want to make an alliance,” you offer instead. 

“Nope.” He turns to walk away.

You grab him by the shoulder, and he flings you, but you anticipate that, curling your body when you hit the ground so you can roll right out of it. 

There’s a buzz, and a speaker crackles to life. “Save it for the arena,” the voice reminds you.

He’s glaring at you, and you step closer anyway. “Let me help you,” you say quietly.

“I don’t need your help.”

“No. But she does. You’re only here to save her, right?”

He’s scowling, but he nods. 

“I don’t plan on walking away from this. Not if she can,” you say. 

You remember Ellie’s games. There was something broken inside of her before it even started, you think, something with the potential to be wicked. She could have let it fester and grow, and no one would have blamed her.

She was feral and violent, but wicked she was not. 

On cue, she popped up at Joel’s elbow. She clearly didn’t trust him, but she trusted you even less, eyes narrowed. “The fuck do you want?” she snapped. 

But Joel puts a hand up to quiet her, watching as you hold steady under his scrutiny. 

He remembered your games. He’d already been mentoring by then. You didn’t win by brute force, but that didn’t mean you didn’t kill. No, in fact, the final shot of your games was you soaked in blood, having slit your last competitor open from below. 

He had done whatever was necessary in his. Tommy was alone back home, and if Joel didn’t make it back, the chances Tommy would meet the same fate were monumental. 

But he remembered enough to know you had skills he didn’t. He was a brute; you were a survivalist. Ellie would need both.

They don’t want to interview him. There are a lot of attempts at coaching that he ignores. 

But it’s not just him. The general sense of injustice has settled in on the stage tonight. 

He goes along with minimal fuss; it doesn’t matter what he looks like or says. He’s already a ghost. They dress him in a grotesque facsimile of his real work clothes—inappropriately tight jeans, a silk guayabera with too many buttons undone, an ornate belt buckle, and unbroken leather boots. They even put a stupid hat on him, so he looks like he stepped out of a textbook about cowboys. 

At least it’s better than the dress they forced Ellie into. One look at her, and you’d know it wasn’t right, wasn’t her. Two years ago, they had shoved her on stage in a plaid frock and pink riding boots. Now, they’ve clearly decided the cutesy, innocent look is over. They dolled her up like a goddamn southern belle, complete with a very padded corset. 

It didn’t bode well for their plans for her if she won, but Joel knows there’s nothin’ he can do when he’s dead and gone. All he can do is get her out of there and hope.

You’re already on stage when they go up. He watched from the sides as your droll counterpart tried to make himself seem charming and handsome. They’d put him in skin-tight leggings covered in glittering scales, and a billowy white blouse left open to his navel. 

You were dressed like a fucking mermaid. It was a gown, still, but your midriff was only covered by thin netting. The bottom clung tight to your curves before flaring out at the train. It was also covered in scales. 

“You’re prettier than a picture,” the host oozes. “You could sing us a siren song, and all the men’d follow you into the sea. And some of the women!” 

“Don’t you know what happens to those sailors?” you scold. Your voice is playful, but your eyes are cold.

The host, Flipper-something or some other absurd name Joel can’t remember, leans in conspiratorially. “They win the fishing tournament?”

You laugh. “They get their heads bashed against the rocks, silly.” You aren’t smiling anymore. 

Joel found he was, though. Grinning with sharp teeth, a look Ellie returned. Yeah, you just might have a chance for her, he thinks.

You sneak into his room the night before. It’s against the rules and probably a bad idea in general. Might have been smarter to seek your satisfaction with a future enemy rather than risking this.

But you don’t want any of them. You want Joel, who, for all his brutality and intimidation, is going to die for a kid he doesn’t know. 

You don’t want him to walk into it alone. Nor do you want to be alone. So you’ll follow him there, maybe stand beside him at the end of your time, so long as you fulfill your mission. 

It’s funny, you think, in the way of things that aren’t funny but leave you nothing to do but laugh, that you had sex for the first time just like this. At the end of the world, the noose all but wrapped around your neck, just to say you had. 

The other tribute from your district had also been a fumbling virgin, so it had gone about as well as it could. But you had done it, and no one could take that from you.

So tonight, you’ll offer, you’ll feed that desperate ache to feel something of your own volition, with another dead man. The irony that you might have to kill this one, too, doesn’t escape you. 

He knows, when he answers the door. He’s in low-slung gray sweatpants and nothing more. But he takes your arm and pulls you inside without a word, locking the door behind him. 

You appreciate that there’s no need for words. It’s on your faces, behind your eyes. His hand around your wrist draws you close before slipping to your waist, the other already wrapped around the nape of your neck as you meet. The first kiss is gentle, sorrowful. It’s all of your “what could have beens” until it turns sharp and hungry.

He peels your t-shirt and shorts from your body, hands gliding over every inch of you. You sink to your knees on the plush carpet and mouth at the line of him before tugging his pants to his ankles. He steps out of the loose trap, and you toss them to the side before taking him as far into your mouth as you can.

Together, you and Joel sink into the finality of your lives like gelatin. The last cock you’ll taste, the last mouth he’ll fuck. The last cunt he’ll devour, the last god you’ll cry out to. 

Except the god you cry out to isn’t there. There is only Joel. Broad and hardened, marred by the cruel lick of the world and his own misfire. You offer yourself at his altar, and he drinks of you until he’s satiated, knowing the last of his days will be spent starving. 

For all the clashing teeth and hurried hands, he’s slow when he climbs up over you. You think he might be frightening in any other moment, the intensity and sheer dominance imposed by his physical form and his soul. 

He’s beautiful like this, though. He’s got you caged in, sweat dripping from his brow, and as he sinks into your cunt, he imparts the apologies he cannot say. They’re in his kisses and in his slow, torturous thrusts. They’re in the way he keeps closing his eyes, as if it’s too much to see his reflection in yours. 

His mouth makes its way to your neck, and he leaves his assurances there. That it’ll be okay, when you come to the end. That no forgiveness is needed when you kill him. He’s sure that will be the way of things, that his cowardice that shook his hand so long ago will crest, and you’ll have to be the brave one. 

He bites and sucks as blood bursts under your skin; each blossom left to tell you this was real, this happened, for one last moment, we were alive. That for one last moment, you each mattered to someone as more than a meat shield. As more than a martyr. 

His rough fingers pluck at your clit and nipples. His mouth works its way down to your breasts as you writhe before he pulls his cock out completely.

“No,” you gasp, breaking the bargain. 

He says nothing, eyes shining, as he bows to your core and drinks again. It’ll all be over soon, and he needs one last taste, needs to feel you shake under his tongue one more time.

When he’s taken you apart, he climbs back up into the welcoming heat of your cunt. The gentleness is gone; you’re too wrecked for it now. Each of you aches to hurt and be hurt, and so he takes, bruising hands on your hips as he pounds into you.

He gives you a look, the unspoken question plain as his tongue dips out to wet his lips. You nod, and he brings a hand up to tangle in your hair, searing your lips together as he fills you. 

In the end, there’s one last moment. The last tenderness you’ll feel. He presses your sweaty foreheads together, cradling your head, and you take turns pulling kisses from one another, chaste but aching, swollen lips trying desperately not to part. 

For a moment, he cups your face in his hand, a finger brushing over your cheek. The hurt is too raw, and you turn away from his pretty brown eyes that hang heavy with grief. 

He rolls off you, and you sit up, legs swinging off the edge of the bed. His hand lingers on your back for a moment, and when you stand up, you feel the brand of it there for hours. Silently, you slip back into your clothes and pad out of the room. Though his gaze falls heavy on your back, you don’t look over your shoulder. 

II. 

You don’t like it, but it’s not up for negotiation. When the chime sounds, you bolt to Ellie and Joel to the cornucopia. You can’t watch, not without losing ground, so you beeline to Ellie and grab her by the arm, dragging the both of you off to the woods. 

Right before the bell tolled, you had shared one dart of the eyes with Joel, looking to each other and then to the copse on the cliffside at the northeast corner. 

It’s nightfall before he finds you. The two of you have tucked away behind an outcropping. There’s solid rock behind you, scaling higher than you can see. The rocks near the cliff’s edge are tall enough to hide you, and there are paths on either side. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do for the first night.

Almost everyone will still be getting their bearings, but you’ll need something better in the morning. 

Ellie is wide-eyed, eyes darting at every whisper of a snow drift or creaking of a spindly branch. She’s tucked up against your side, failing to comply with your order to sleep. 

When there’s a sudden crack, she full-body flinches, and you’re up in a flash, crouched and ready. 

Then you hear it. The tell-tale tick, like a film reel kicking on.

A Clicker.

It’s enough to choke you up, fear colder than the tundra around you holding you in place. Long-forgotten instincts. 

When you hear it again, wandering further, your brain kicks back into action, and you copy the sound. 

“Shh, what the fuck are you doing?” Ellie hisses. 

Joel comes around the corner. “S’that your idea of being quiet?” he whispers to her. 

She jumps again, clutching a hand to her chest. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

Joel shoots you a glare, and you grimace.

“I forgot to warn her,” you say. “Sorry, El. That’s our signal.”

And impossibly, somehow, he’s holding a backpack. It has a sleeping bag hooked to the bottom. He sees your stare and hands you the bag; no need for even a glance between you before you immediately give the bedding to Ellie. 

“Dunno what else is in there,” Joel murmurs. “Didn’t have time to check.” 

But he has a bow. And arrows. And a sleek little knife that he hands to Ellie. 

Holy shit. You might just be able to do this. 

You don’t think about it; you just throw your arms around Joel. You realize your mistake right away and take several steps back, out of the range of his fists. But he’s frozen in place, eyebrows raised. 

“This is amazing. Thank you.” Your gratitude doubles when you finally realize he’s covered in blood. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s not mine,” he says, shaking his head. 

“How many?”

“Three. Plus eight from others.” 

Later, the guilt will eat at you, but for now, the relief is euphoric. Every body now is a body you don’t have to fight later. Eleven down is amazing. Minus the three of you, that means there are ten tributes between Ellie and freedom. 

You don’t count yourself or Joel as bodies in her way. When the time comes, you know you’ll each make sure the other doesn’t chicken out, doesn’t make her bear that burden. 

It works, until it can't anymore. Until both of you are on borrowed time. Four bodies stand between Ellie and life. 

Two tributes, and the two of you. 

“Let go,” you hiss as you thrash in his grasp. 

He can’t make his fingers straighten. Can’t stop the way they dig into your arm, slippery as it is. 

You’re not even trying to scrabble for solid purchase. The roar of the river below must seem menacing to him, you think. 

“Not like this,” he pleads. 

You fall still. “Joel,” you say, shaking your head. “It’ll take me home. I want this.” 

“The hell are you talking about?” He snaps. “Drownin’ ain’t the way to go, darlin’.”

“It’ll take me home,” you repeat. 

You watch him understand. The clarity doesn’t help, not really. But he closes his eyes and nods. You’re starting to slip, now, and he’s starting to let you. 

It’s not a long fall, but the water is deep. It’s cold, colder than you’ve ever been, and when you gasp in shock, you suck in water. 

Just like you knew you would. If it doesn’t fill your lungs, then the cold will steal you. If that’s not quick enough, the powerful current will strike your body against the stone. 

You always thought it’d be peaceful, when the water took you. But this is okay, too. 

“What are you doing?” Ellie yells.

He looks away from where you’ve been lost. She doesn’t know he let go, he realizes. All he can do is stare at her. 

“We’ve gotta help her, we have to—“

“Ellie.” It’s soft but horrible. Maybe the worst sound she’s ever heard. Joel shouldn’t sound like that, shouldn’t sound sad. 

“You have to do something,” she says, but it’s devoid of all hope. 

“She’s gone, baby girl. It was always gonna be this way, you know that. We said we’d get you out alive.”

As soon as the words leave his chapped lips, the world around them bursts.

When Joel wakes up, he sits straight up on the gurney. One wrist is bound to the rail in a velcro strap, IV piped into the back of his hand. He peels the tape away and removes it, pressing down on the puncture to ebb the flow. He yanks the sticky monitor pads from his chest and swings his legs over the side, only to find himself wobbling when he tries to stand.

He ends up grabbing at the gurney to stay vertical, releasing the wound and letting blood drip down his arm.

A strangely familiar blurry shape comes through the doors, and Joel panics, rearing back and balling a fist.

“Joel! It’s me, stop, please. It’s me. It’s Tommy.”

Joel faints.

When he wakes up the second time, he has the sense to stay down. He blinks up at the now solid shape of his brother.

“Y’know,” he says, reaching up a hand to see if it connects or if he’s hallucinating. “I never really thought hell would be a hospital. Makes sense, though.” 

“What’re you talking about?” Tommy asks, swatting Joel’s hand away. It’s still bleeding, after all.

“Said it makes sense. Wakin’ up to the time I lost ya.” He closes his eyes, the sting already bringing tears. At least, he thinks, it’s not the most painful memory he could’ve been forced to re-live. 

Tommy makes a wounded sound. “Joel, you’re not dead.” 

“S’that part of the trick?” 

“Look at me,” Tommy says, sitting down on the sliver of unoccupied padding. “This is real. That was ten years ago. I'm not leaving you here, not this time, and I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” 

Joel blinks. He tries to sit up on his elbows, but Tommy pushes him back down.

“Where’s Ellie? Did she—” he chokes on the thought.

“We got her. She’s okay. She’s gonna be just fine.” 

“What do you mean you got her?”

“Ah shit, this ain’t really the time or place to tell you everything. You’re just gonna have to trust me. We got y’all out of the arena, and we’re safe.” 

“No,” he croaks. “I wasn’t supposed to make it out.”

“But you did. We got you,” Tommy says reassuringly.

Joel closes his eyes, brows pinching. “I let go. You’re tellin’ me I let go, and if I’d have just held on for one more minute…”

"I'm sorry," Tommy croaks. "There was nothing we could do." 

[peachdues]

YESSSSS TO THE SNIPPET PEACH

Im so easily swayed it’s not FUNNY.

Sanemi x Lunar Hashira!Reader

“I don’t think I realized how much I missed seeing you here. How wrong it felt when you weren’t.”

“I imagine it was far more peaceful,” you reply drily. Even at your best, you’d bickered like a couple of old maids; always pushing while the other pulled, always seeking out ways to get one to bend to the other’s will.

Some days, you reckoned it was a miracle Sanemi’s estate remained in one piece; that you both had.

“This is right, y’know,” Sanemi says, pulling you into his arms. “You being back here. Like old times.”

His chest is more comfortable than any pillow, and twice as warm. When your cheek settles right in the dip of his sternum, you listen for his heart; sturdy and constant, just like him. “I didn’t stay in your bed back then.”

“No, but you kept me awake at night anyways.” You can feel the upward tilt of his mouth as Sanemi pressed his lips to your hair. “You don’t have nightmares quietly.”

“Mm. Maybe having you here to kick will tone down the sobbing.”

“You always did know how to leave your mark.” Sanemi agrees. Tenderly, his fingers trail up the curve of your spine and down your arm, searching. He turns your right forearm over in his hand, his thumb smoothing over the long, jagged scar stretching nearly to your elbow.

“It was right after this that I knew. How I felt about you.” His touch is barely more than a gentle breeze against your skin. “I’d suspected for a while that I was gettin’ in too deep, but seeing you surrounded by that wreckage, covered in blood and ash, I —“

His voice falters and you roll your head away. With a soft, steadying inhale you lift your eyes to meet his.

Though Sanemi’s eyes are trained on your face, there’s something faraway about them; a distance you do not quite know how to bridge.

But you will not hide from him — you can’t. Not anymore.

“I thought I’d lost you.” Sanemi whispers. “You were standing there, but for a moment, I couldn’t see the girl I knew.”

When you’d been laughing; cackling with delirious rage and an over indulgence of your own power. Even speaking of it more than a year later has that familiar hum vibrating in your veins. Now, however, it makes your stomach churn. Never again, did you want to feel that sort of bloodlust; that mania.

Before, you’d been drunk on it. Now, it terrified you.

“I’m surprised you didn’t run away.” You admits. Ashamed, you drop your head, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

Warm fingers curl under your chin and tilt your face up. When you meet his eyes once more, you see Sanemi has returned from the recesses of his memory.

“From you?” He whispers. “Never. You scare the hell outta me, but I would’ve let you take me down with you. Without hesitation.” Sanemi thinks for a moment before adding, “Still would.”

Warmth spreads across your cheeks even as the weight of his admission settles in your stomach like a pit. “Don’t say that,” you whisper, though your eyes shine as they search his. “Never say that. That’s the last thing I’d want.”

He notches his head back against his bicep and watches you down the bridge of his nose. The fingers under your chin move to comb through your hair, again and again. “Too bad. You ain’t getting rid of me that easily. I’d follow you to hell.”

To conceal the stab of agony that ripples through you at just how damn earnest Sanemi’s promise is, you lean forward and press your lips to the divet between his pecs, right over his heart.

“Good to know you’re so certain I’m to be damned.” You say drily, your eyelashes fluttering against his skin.

“‘M not. But you’re the only Heaven I know. Don’t think anything else could compare.” Noncommittally, he shrugs. “So the only other option is hell, ain’t it?”

“Then I’d have to kick you back toward the light.” You remove his hand from its pious worship over your hair and bring it to her mouth. With a small smile, you ghost your lips over his second and third knuckles. “I bested you once by kicking. I imagine I could do it again.”

A slow grin stretches across Sanemi’s face, bright and beautiful. The scars on his face always seem to fade when he smiles, though perhaps that was because those smiles were so rare.

Not anymore; not here, at least. That mask gets left at the door, his armor taken off piece by piece and cast to the floor alongside his discarded clothes. Here, the only barrier between you are the blankets that smell like matcha and fresh starch, and even those are bunched up and tangled around your lower legs.

In the sanctuary of his bed, his skin pressed to yours, Sanemi is free to smile as much as he wants, and it makes your heart ache.

[derangedchameleon]

Lemme rant about how Haymitch and Katniss‘ mothers shaped them for a second.

I will circle back to this bear with me.

One of the first things I did after reading sotr is start the original trilogy again. Something I noticed is that Katniss generally seems… a lot more likely to get angry than Haymitch is when he‘s her age.

Whenever Haymitch gets angry, it‘s warranted. Like Plutarch using his family like that or bringing out the cake for his birthday. Or just generally capitol abuse. Haymitch‘s rage is targeted. Aimed at the real enemy the whole way through. Even when he fights the careers, he‘s really fighting the capitol. Silka killed Wellie, but what was really the final nail in the coffin for her was the fact that she wanted to win to bring glory to the capitol. And Haymitch couldn‘t let that stand.

Katniss gets angry at the slightest provocation. Peeta waves at the crowd? He‘s fighting hard to kill her. Peeta is good at camoflage? She gets snappy. Haymitch and Peeta have a conversation without her? Haymitch is picking favorites. Haymitch calls her sweetheart (we now know that this was an accidental slip of the tongue and was probably an attempt to calm her down) after her stunt with the apple and she has been crying in her room for hours? He’s being condescending. Peeta declares his crush on her to Panem? He‘s trying to make her look weak. The instant Peeta shows any signs of teaming up with the careers she pretty much wishes a gory and long painful death upon him.

Why? She‘s in a permanent fight or flight mode. A state she hasn‘t left since that fateful mine explosion and her mother‘s retreat, a state that has now been kicked into overdrive with the Hunger Games.

When Haymitch‘s father died, he could rely on his mother. Things went bad and she stayed. Things went bad and she was there.

Katniss‘ father died and her mother retreated. This is not to shame Katniss‘ mother, but we can acknowledge Asterid‘s mental illness while still recognising how damaging this was to her children.

Haymitch learned that he could trust and rely on those that are meant to be on his side. Katniss learned that if she does this, she and her whole family will die.

Haymitch isn‘t constantly looking over his shoulder for the betrayal of an ally. So he can focus his attention on the real enemy.

The amount of times Katniss almost murders Finnick for fear of betrayal in the 75th is… a lot.

Compared to Haymitch, Katniss was the perfect tribute. A terrified prey animal trapped in a cage, ready to lash out at anything vaguely threatening. Even if the other person is just trying to help. (The exception to this was Rue, but Rue triggered the big sis instincts)

Of course their games were different since Haymitch wasn‘t really trying to win. Ever. He had a family that would probably be okay without him, since he wasn‘t the main breadwinner. But technically, Katniss‘ family could have been okay too. Her mom had the apothecary business. But there was still always the risk of Asterid shutting down again and leaving Prim. Once again, Katniss cannot trust her to be reliable.

TLDR:

Katniss mother was unreliable -> Katniss expects betrayal from allies and can‘t focus on the real enemy

Haymitch‘s mother was reliable -> Haymitch trusts in his allies and can focus his attention on the real enemy

[vague-mintyboy]

One of my biggest jayvik pet peeves is when Viktor’s adventurous and daring personality and Jayce’s naivety and gentleness get completely lost.

To start, not all Jayvik artists do this. One artist who I think characterizes them SO WELL is @oidingus . Go check them out 🫶🫶🫶

Okay onto whining:

You see this a lot in people remaking classic art with Jayvik. It’s insane to me that Viktor is always the woman. Like every time. Even when it’s a meme, or someone having them quote somethibg Viktor always is saying the line of the woman or is replacing the woman of the dynamic even when it doesn’t fit his character. Not that he can’t ever be that, but I feel like it should be a pretty even split. (Same with pregnancy aus but I won’t get into that—)

Like, with post-canon Jayvik for example, I keep seeing people characterize Jayce as the fun dangerous dad and Viktor the soft mom type. Dude Jayce 100% would be overly cautious and protective and Viktor would encourage the kids to take risks. Viktor was the one fucking around with the hex core for a reason!!! His whole character is he takes big swings and doesn’t care about consequences until it’s too late. Even as the Herald, he’s kind but still very standoffish. He’s off philosophizing and ends up missing the real point of being a leader. I mean the entire speech about evolution is very bitter.

Jayce is the one who is nervous about the undercity, who is anxious. Each of their arcs are to be more like the other. But just because they had those arcs doesn’t mean they lose their core personalities.

It feels like people make jayvik honestly super heteronormative and characterize them based on big buff man and skinny twink and that’s it.

Let Viktor be angry, and unpredictable. Viktor is literally never a soft character in the show. Like, immediately after Jayce brings him back Viktor dips. Jayce is the one constantly unsure of himself. Jayce is a private school momma’s boy who can’t fight for shit. Jayce has the learn to be brave, Viktor is brave from the start.

Like, let Viktor be masculine, let Jayce be feminine. Let Viktor rage quit Mario Kart, have Jayce watch a horror movie through his eyes while Viktor is stone cold. Have Jayce be completely anxious the first night away from the kids, and Viktor is playing it cool but he’s secretly anxious too. Idk man. I’m exhausted.

[elysiae]

sorry, i HAVE to talk about this. spoilers for the technocyte coda below! specifically about Zeke because im going insane over his voicelines. long yapping post under cut

this one specifically.

"you can't do anything to hurt me that won't make a great headline."

can we. can we talk about this? like listen, i might just be spewing, but this line is so intense.

first of all, the way and situation with which he says it. after the extravaganza that is the final showdown, a battle side-by-side with his boys, flashy and powerful, just like the band itself. after all this fight, he's defeated, at the mercy of his enemy. he looks it in the eyes, and he pretty much says, you cannot hurt me in a way that won't benefit me. you can beat him down, physically or mentally. you can kill him. you can do something worse than death. but it will ALWAYS benefit him. why? he's the star, and all it will do is bring more attention to him. more attention, more fame, more money and love. and he knows it. he's not scared to point that out, either. i mean, with it sounding like the coda is echoing things on-lyne has said rather than making up their own (other than certain character breaks), it probably wasnt in such a life-or-death situation, but... y'know, Zeke still said that. about what? to whom?

and then there's the delivery. first of all i LOVE Zeke's voice actor, biggest props to him. second of all. holy fuck. you can hear the smile in his voice. he's not saying that with a grimace of rage, or as a last ditch effort out of desperation to be spared, he says that with confidence. he says that smiling, almost like he's about to laugh or scoff. he's not scared, and if he is he's doing a damn good job at hiding it. he's so confident. he knows. its like it's happened before. everything and anything done to hurt him has only made him and his boys even more of a powerhouse. why would this be any different?

and yeah, i know the coda isn't Zeke, so who knows how he'd really react? but i bring it back, the coda leeches off his personality. thats just a slightly fucked up, mangled version of our starboy. hell, we dont even know if theyre really a part of the techrot hivemind. we know the infested can be scared, at least to some extent what with how they refer to us as 'demon' and their known fear of hybrids.

to be fair, just from what ive heard (only DJ & Zeke really, i didnt pay full attention to Drillbit cuz i was so enamored by the fight) none of them seem particularly frightened. but i just. i dunno. a lot of DJ's voicelines struck me, which i'm DEFINITELY going to get to later, but that one voiceline from Zeke really got me for some reason. a couple others too, but thats for later. TLDR i am absolutely fascinated with this goddamn boyband and DE better bring them back for more content or i will riot

[mentallyprepared]

we don’t talk enough about how the real enemies in aftg are kathy ferdinand and hannah bailey

[askkaimei]

[victorygrasped]

One of these days i Need to write the ramattra centric long fic it is no longer a want it is a need

[how-the-feathers-have-fallen]

Me, fighting tooth and nail against my irl friends who are sw*fties: yeah well, maybe I want my sad girl music to have a 3 minute guitar solo and distorted audio after the second verse of vaguely gay lyrics have you considered that ?!

[twilightcunt]

I’ve been rewatching Person of Interest and I’ve finally reached that episode in season 3. I can’t believe they fucking kill her 😭😭😭😭😭 It’s been haunting my mind since halfway through season 2 and now I’m gonna have to see it all over again.