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[itsabouttimex2]

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS OPEN

I WRITE READER INSERTS!!

Last Updated: 2/25/2026!

Franchises: • Transformers (G1/TFA/TFP/MTMTE/ONE) •

Games: • Cookie Run: Kingdom • Dispatch • Pokémon (All Games) • Undertale/Deltarune •

Shows: • Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure • Lego Monkie Kid • Metal Cardbot •

Transformers

Dispatch

Cookie Run Kingdom

Yandere Father Drabble: Dark Cacao Cookie

Yandere Father Drabble: Almond Cookie

My Hero Academia

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: Endeavor, Best Jeanist, Hawks

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: Erasermic with Cloud!Quirk Reader

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: All For One with Disabled!Reader

Platonic Yandere Housing Headcanons: Hawks, Erasermic

Platonic Yandere Drabbles: Animal Instincts!Hawks x Reader | Hawks x Teenage!Bartender Reader |

Lego Monkie Kid

Platonic Yandere Monkiefam: Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Zero | They React To You Dating Red Son |

Platonic Yandere Bullfam: Part One | Part Two | Escape Headcanons | They React To You Dating MK

Platonic Yandere Pilgrims x Y/N: Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five |

Platonic Yandere Mentor!MK x Reader: Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Platonic Yandere x LBD!User Drabbles: Mei, Tang, Red Son | MK, Sun Wukong, Pigsy | Mayor, Lady Bone Demon |

Platonic Yandere Drabbles: Throwing Hands At The Bullfam/Monkiefam

Platonic Yandere Drabbles: Macaque Makes You His Apprentice

Platonic Yandere Drabbles: Mother Chang'e

Platonic Yandere Drabbles: Sun Wukong Makes You Immortal

Platonic Yandere Drabbles: Shadowpeach x Reader

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: Mentor Macaque

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: Older Brother!Nezha

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: Sun Wukong, MK, Azure Lion React To Stuffie

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: Tang, Macaque, Red Son React To Stuffie

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: Azure Lion, Tang, Red Son With A Reckless Reader

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: MK, Sun Wukong, Macaque React To An Escape Attempt

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: General Noodlefam Headcanons

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: Sun Wukong/Macaque's Y/N Gets Stuck In The Ink Scroll

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: Monkiefam With A Blind!Y/N

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: Sun Wukong/Macaque With Drunk!Teen Reader

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: Child!Red Son/Nezha x Reader

Yandere Alphabet: MK | Red Son

Tier Lists: Would This Yandere Let You Leave? | What Kind Of Yandere Are They? |

Letters: Azure Lion | Nezha | Pigsy and Tang

Texts: Platonic Yandere |

Yandere Memes : Part One

AUS: Primal Moon Monkiefam Drabble | Primal Moon Bullfam Drabble, Monkiefam Headcanons | Primal Moon Nezha Drabble

Miscellaneous

Yandere Alphabet Template

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: ROTTMNT With A Reckless!Y/N

Platonic Yandere Headcanons: Primal Moon!ROTTMNT Turtles

[itsabouttimex2]

HIIIIHIHHI I just wanted to say dat I love your writing and your moodboards so much gyullpp... 🥹

i first read only your lmk ones, aus included, but then I saw your transformers ones which got me into it!!!! #indoctrinated lmao ok bye dats all, much love stay safe make good choices <33

Yandere Metal Cardbot Moodboards

[itsabouttimex2]

Your yandere MTMTE moodboards are so great! 💜

Yandere!TFP Moodboards

[itsabouttimex2]

[itsabouttimex2]

Platonic Robert Robertson x Teen!Reader

(Warnings: Gore, Underage Drinking)

“Thought I told you not to come out onto the roof by yourself,” Mr. Robertson says, crushing one of your pilfered beer cans underfoot. "And I thought I told you to stop sneaking my beer. Seriously, at least steal Flambae's shit- he gets the good stuff.

"Thought I told you not to bitch about me coming up to the roof? And Flambae would fucking roast me if I touched any of his shit."

"And, uh, speaking of actions that lead to people dying... you wanna explain the body?"

You pointedly do not look at the corpse sitting beside you, so tattered through with gouge wounds that bits of broken rib poke through its stomach.

Instead, you reach for the next can of Mr. Robertson's shitty beers, only for him to snatch it away.

"Seriously, kid. Be better than that. Be better than me."

"By not drinking?"

"No. By not drinking trash. You know why I have so much beer for you to steal? Because I buy motherfucking Bud Light," he says, spitting the brand like poison. "And I bring it home and leave it in my fridge, and every time I see it, I remember that I'm a washed-up superhero who doesn't have the money to buy anything better, and I realize that no amount of shitty beer will make me feel happy, and I go to bed without touching that shit."

"...oh."

"Yeah, "oh". Now, what the fuck is up with Mr. Bones- who I'm sure has an actual name- and why is he lying around on the SDN roof like a shitty Halloween decoration?"

"That guy's probably not even dead," you say, tugging one of your knives out of his chest, right from where you had lodged it. "Probably."

“He’s dead,” Robert says, nudging the corpse with his foot. “He’s incredibly dead. He’s so fucking dead that if there were degrees of deadness, I’d put his dead ass at the “deadmost”. That’s how fucking dead his ass is.”

"...that's not a word."

"It is now that there's a man saying "hello" with all his fucking ribs. Look, just- walk through this with me. Small steps- fuck, kid, I'll jingle some keys if you need."

For a moment, you think he's bluffing, until the ex-hero reaches into his back pocket and brandishes a pair of worn metal keys, bending down to give them a good shake in front of your face.

"Question one: good guy, or bad guy?"

"Bad guy."

"Thank god. Okay, question two," he starts, rattling the metal ring in his hand so hard that the teeth of his keys smacked against your face.

It's so stupid and patronizing that you smile in spite of yourself.

Mr. Robertson sees you smile, and he smiles too. Something about that makes you feel better, for just a moment. It doesn't last, of course, because nothing good ever lasts for you, and his lips thin when the air stirs and the smell of blood hits his nose.

He frowns, then, and that little stirring of warmth in your heart is blown away, because you still have a corpse to explain and no real way to maneuver this without at least a lecture, or being fired and reduced to vagrancy.

The wind picks up, and Mecha-Man-Who-Was sits beside you, shielding you from the weather with his own battle-worn body.

"Question two," he repeats, bumping your shoulder with his own. "Who started it?"

"Him. He started it. I... I handled it. I handled him."

"Yeah? And how bad did he get you, before you starting carving his ass like a pumpkin? And if he was so dangerous that you needed to "handle" him into a fine red paste... why the hell didn't you call me?"

Answering that is hard. Actually, answering that is really hard.

Because calling him would have been easy.

But if you had called him...

You stare at your hands instead of talking. There’s blood in the creases of your knuckles. Under your nails. Not all of it is yours. Most of it isn't yours.

"Waiting, kid."

If you had called him, and Mr. Robertson had come to save you- and he would have come himself, and left his station unmanned, and left the Z-Team without instruction, and came to the streets before this supervillain cornered you on the roof...

Were you really supposed to pretend that his method would have been any different from yours?

"Kid," he warns, eyes thinning. "If I have to start counting..."

You hate the counting. It's patronizing. It's embarrassing. It's a little scary, too, because not knowing what he's gonna do when he gets to "one" is somehow worse than any clearly-labelled threat.

You take too long, and he sighs one of his "tired dad sighs", drawing in with all his chest and exhaling slow.

"Three..."

You answer embarrassingly quick.

“Mr. Robertson, I- I just- even if I had called you- you- you would’ve killed him too!”

Robert goes quiet, but only for a moment.

“Kid,” he says, softer now, “I am already ruined. That ship sailed, hit an iceberg, and sank to the bottom of the goddamn Atlantic. You?” He taps your forehead gently with two fingers. “You still get choices. You are not a washed up thirty-something with depression. You are not even a fucking full-grown adult. You do not- and I fucking mean this, kid- you do not want murder on your rap sheet. You do not even want to risk having murder on your rap sheet. And people? They're going to see this, and they are going to think, "oh my god, there's a fucking psycho killer on the loose", and not "oh my god, that was a totally sane and justified response"."

"But you would have-"

“Yeah,” he admits. “Yeah, I probably- no, fuck "probably", I would have butchered his ass. If someone wanted to hurt you? Yeah, I'd have torn that fucker apart. And now that I know there are people who want you hurt so bad they'd take the fight to our own headquarters..."

"Mr. Robertson-"

"Nah-ah-ah," he silences, scarred finger to your lips. "No. No. You listen to me. You are going to go inside, to that shitty little storage room you pretend you don't sleep in, and pack your things, and you are going to get ready to move in with me. And I am going to take care of Mr. Bones here, and then we are going to go home, and you are going to get settled in. Understood?"

You glance back at the corpse, and then back at him. His eyes are tired, but there’s this glint there that you don't like.

“And what if I say no?”

"God fucking... kid, look. This is me being nice. I am being nice to you. I know it's hard as fuck to tell, because I haven't slept in four days, and I sound like a chainsmoker because I don't drink any water, but trust me when I say: I am being nice. I am helping you. And you don't get to say "no" to help."

“You can be stubborn,” he continues, voice softening just a hair, “but I will be more stubborn than you, because god knows I’ve been through worse than a little bit of a fight with a child. I will get my way. So, kid, please, for your sake and mine... go get your things."

You don't want to go. You don't. You like the storage room, the feeling of safety and freedom that comes with a shelter you picked for yourself.

But Mr. Robertson is someone you can't say no to. Because everything you are is in the palm of his hand- your job, your ability to function as a superhero, your placement on the Z-team.

"Three," he says, patience running dry.

You don't have a choice. You don't. Not when you're staring down the man holding all your strings. It'd be easier to give in than pretend you’ve really got a choice here.

"Two..."

Wouldn’t it be easier to give in? You can justify the “why” of it later, some other time. Pick out an excuse for your cowardice and cling to it for comfort. Justify not fighting back with an answer less pathetic than “I was scared”.

It’d be easier than fighting him.

“One…”

You head for the stairs.

[itsabouttimex2]

Optimus Prime I believe would never put his darling in a Cybertronian body. To him the beauty of humanity is watching their impermanence push them to extremes. If they weren't so fleeting, so fragile, so finite, they wouldn't be the humans he adores. Putting them in a clunky unrelenting body misses entirely why he loves his darling so much- that they're so soft and warm and capable of conforming in all the ways metal cannot.

Megatron not only entirely disagrees, but actively views your humanity as detrimental to his ability to love you. Until he's had his scientists enshrine you in metal, you're just a disgusting sack of flesh with an above average mind. I think he can only genuinely start loving you at all once your body matches his own, and he has plenty of funding for his scientists to put those plans in motion.

Soundwave brings his own human to Shockwave only after the latter's darling is converted, only once he knows the procedure can be done without potentially fatal results. He's not against keeping his darling as a human, tucked away in a specialized slot in his chassis, cherishing them as they are for their tragically short life... but the notion of having another cassette to fill up his inner slots, someone who can fold their mind into his field, whose processor he can root through and plant little seeds of love and warmth into, making the perfect little "sparkling" for himself? Well, he wouldn't exactly object to that, either.

For Shockwave his plans for your immortalization start at the barest hint of affection he feels for your strange, squishy body, and there is NO end to the depravity he'll unleash to get you into the frame of his dreams. Your input is tertiary, and he only might listen to your requests as he builds your new body from the ground up, all to his demanding specifications- color, size, shape, and alt-mode alike are in his servos, thank you very much- more than anything, Shockwave wants a darling that he can force into compliance at the click of a button, whose optics and limbs and arrays he can revoke at the barest hint of misbehavior.

And once he's proven that the transfer from human to Cybertronian is possible (over the corpses of precisely two-thousand two-hundred and thirty-eight other humans) there's no reason all the other Decepticons can't have their own darling converted... provided they're willing to cough up the supplies for their idealized frame.

[itsabouttimex2]

Lost Light Twitter Posts

[itsabouttimex2]

(Platonic Yandere Shadow Milk x Faerie!Reader)

(Concept/AU co-created with @glitchyko)

Your father always spoke so gravely of that strange silver tree, bleach-white branches glowing like snow, every last leaf eternally in bloom. Each undying petal fluttered slow, catching light from the pale moon to cast a myriad tangle of shadow over the glass casket below, sat at the feet of the silvered centerpiece tree that your kingdom had been built around.

Elder Faerie Cookie, your father, who swelled Life Powder into your dough under this tree, blessing you with ancient tongue and heartfelt wishes for a peaceful future, right before the remains of his dearest.

Your father, who would take your hand while standing by that lonely casket of glass and steel, holding you- you, so small and freshly-baked and new- to his chest. “You mustn’t ever venture from my side. You mustn't stray, my child, for this world of ours has the cruelest of desires- to snuff the good, the bright, and the righteous."

“Someone I once spoke closely with is… buried here, in a way,” your father often says, and his voice sounds off like the low of thunder, soft and deep and barely holding back a flood of tears. There’s more he’d like to say. There’s more he wants to explain, though he never seems to find the words. Something ancient and unkind curls up in his chest and winds his tongue shut, spooling it tight.

“Your friend,” you respond, in well-practiced monotone. “Your friend is buried here.”

“A friend,” he agrees, sorrow in his pale eyes. “A friend, from a very long time ago.”

There are eyes on you when you speak, the gaze of those older and wiser, who judge your words with a compassion near condescending and it prickles at your skin like frostbite. You can feel them even when you look away, feel a dread chill bloom across your dough.

You are a faerie unlike any other, and that bitter fact has never quite eluded your grasp. There might have been a time, long ago, when you were too fresh and new to notice such distance, but any such time was now long lost to your mind.

Something is so dreadfully different about you. Your eyes lid in dreary dullness, your wings refuse to shimmer under the dance of pale moonlight, and-

And you do not glow. There is no glassy opal sheen, no lovely veil of light thrumming around you. You are not dull, nothing so simple, but- your light is simply… void.

Like something had dampened it, shrouded in shadow.

And that permeation of “uniqueness” had long past cracked into your dough, wrapping your young mind with the thorned vines of doubt.

Had you done something wrong? Had your cocoon cracked the wrong way? Had you been baked underneath the wrong star?

You ask these questions to your father sometimes, gripping his dark hands with all the might you can muster.

He does not answer them.

Instead, he cups your cheek in a hand too gentle for someone with such heavy eyes, murmuring, “You are perfect as you are.”

He means it, but his sincerity does not make the answer fit. It doesn’t explain why the other faeries flinch when your shadow passes over them, or why their ethereal whispers always fall silent when you enter a room.

But he means it anyways, and that lessens the sting as he tucks you into bed, and the warmth of his hands lull you to sleep.

That night, you begin to dream of the casket, brimming with something thicker than water, smooth as glass and white as moonlight.

At first there are only a few drops inside of the casket, a rough approximation of the real thing. You don’t remember the lines exactly, but it’s close enough to return to each night.

There’s a puddle the second time, and something whispering below it with enough force to send ripples through the liquid.

You don’t say a word to Elder Faerie Cookie. It isn’t a nightmare, not yet, and faeries have strange dreams. Why pester him for something so small?

By the third it is halfway full and you recognize the content as milk. Pale opal slickness, fresh and flowing. No longer can you see the bottom, only the faint glimmer of movement just beneath the surface, like something- or someone- breathing very slowly.

Night four is different- nearly full, the glass fogs faintly from within, condensation blooming where warmth should not exist. You stand closer to it than you ever have before, your bare feet sinking into the dark soil at the silver tree’s roots.

The coffin overflows on night five. Thick, silken white, pooling over the soil, seeping into roots, traveling up stems and staining flowers white, and puddling the base of your father’s cherished casket.

Now, your dreams start to smear together. Six and seven and eight, then it blurs into eleven and sixteen and twenty-two and then you’re done.

You can’t keep pretending nothing is happening.

Your father is still asleep, wings folded stiff around his chest like a corpse. He’s old, you remember, bitter pang through your dough. He is so very old and tired, and with so much weight to carry, it seems like he never stops standing tall. You would feel terrible to steal this measure of peace from him.

But he is not your target.

…surely, if it’s only for a few minutes, stepping out wouldn’t be such a big deal?

You whisper this line to yourself like a prayer, clutching your nightclothes as the dough of your feet hit cold marble.

The silver tree gleams from your father’s courtyard, each of its boughs haloed in mist. The shadows it casts are darker than usual, longer, sharper, and each one shivers faintly when you draw near.

Still, you approach the tree, the hem of your nightdress collecting dew and soil. The coffin has only a body you don’t recognize, glass fogged so thick that you can’t make out the face.

You would expect that it might be your father who comes through, eyes set in a disappointed frown, or one of his loyal subjects on the hunt for his beloved child, gone from their bed in the darkest hours of night.

But the voice that scares you near free from your dough? It comes from the tree.

You recognize laughing, barely restrained mania hazing in black and cyan, an apparition of a grinning face pattering in a crack of the tree.

“Did you even try listening, kiddo?! I asked what took you so long!”

Something is horribly wrong.

Deep inside, you know that running is a priority clambering to the top of your mind. You should call for your father, or flee, or at least scream very, very loud.

But your heart thuds, curious and horrified, and your wings- those dull, useless things- barely twitch.

The crack in the silver bark widens with a sound like porcelain splitting under heat. Cyan light bleeds from within, thin and sharp as frost, and the grinning face stretches wider. Too wide.

“Ohhh,” the voice lilts, oozing into your ears syrup-slow. “There you are.”

You swallow. Your throat feels lined with sugar dust.

“I don’t know you,” you manage.

The face stills.

For a moment, the shadows around the tree deepen, pooling at its roots like ink.

Then laughter spills out again, brighter this time, delighted.

“That’s not fair,” it mockingly chides. Somehow, you get the feeling that it's not really upset. “I’ve known you since before you had wings. Before you even had a name! I'm- really, trying to be humble here- the only reason your little rundown village as you know it exists!

"The you must've been gone a very long time," you inform, taking a single step away from the tree. "Because my home is a kingdom, now."

"Ohhh, of course! All the shiny silver lights with the stuck-up- I mean, wise and worldly ruler!"

Something in his saccharine sweetness goes foul, slick smile curdling with heated rage.

"Your father," he croons aloud, barely pushing the word through his gritted teeth, "Elder Faerie Cookie! Your father, who swelled Life Powder into your dough under this tree! Your stupid, sanctimonious, self-righteous... father."

You take another step backwards, panic building in the depths of your gut. 'Oh no', you faintly think. 'Oh no'.

"But your father, in all his grief, and all his sorrow, missed one little thing about his "precious" tree! He- really, can you believe it?- he missed the crack that yours truly carved from the inside out! And while he was shaping sweet, innocent little you- I oozed in something extra special! A teeny-tiny little bit of my own milk! Do you know what that makes you?"

Your breath catches in the curve of your own throat, stuck fast. A million memories of your wings in the mirror, dull like they were drowned in liquid. Your own foggy eyes. An insatiable urge to pull away from other Faeries.

Is this the reason why? A wrongness long-ran through your jam?

"Tsk! You won't getting any bonus points for freezing up in the spotlight like that! Oh, I'm almost ashamed! Well, I'll tell you myself: it makes you mine as much as it makes you his. And when I realized that, I realized something else... I don’t need to tear down your kingdom,” he says, smile pulled so wide that his dough began to crack at the seams. “I don’t need to fight your father. I probably don’t even need to break this tree's seal!”

The shadow at your back leans closer, and you feel something cool brush the tips of your wings.

“I just need you- and he'll take this whole kingdom apart to get you back from me."

Spurred by his swarming lacteal swell, crawling up your arms- both of your wings twitch upright behind you.

For the first time in your life, something flickers beneath them. Not opal. Not silver.

Cyan.

"Welcome to the family, kiddo!"

[itsabouttimex2]

Yandere D.J.D Drabble

(Warnings: Organic Reader, Mentions of Extreme Violence, Humans as "Pets", Extreme Mistreatment, Dehumanization, 2K+, New Bot!)

Tarn loathes the very notion of wasting his time on a pudgy little organic "life", and would never even think to allow such a disgusting little thing aboard his ship. It'd be nigh-on-impossible for him to become even "tolerant" of this disgusting lump, let alone obsessed with such a hideously pore-pocked bloodbag... unless it was a direct gift from his Lord Megatron.

And while he might internally question such a decision, does Tarn not have faith that his Lord knows all there is to know? Was it not by the ruby-red light of those eyes that Megatron led a state-shattering revolution, that he overturned the whole of Cybertronian society, that mechs from all walks of life were uplifted to walk as his brothers in violent arms?

Yes.

Yes, if his lord almighty, Megatron of Tarn- if Lord Megatron had seen value in this one little fleshsack, then Tarn (Damus who was but would never be again) would defer to his supreme authority and allow it to stay aboard the Peaceful Tyranny and; for as long as it lived to... squelch about.. allow it to survive.

There's very little value he finds in your presence at first, aside from rolling his claws through the curtain of your hair and enjoying how all the "mini-cables" part under the sharpest angle of his servo. His hands are precise, curious in the way a surgeon’s scalpel might be curious about skin. He tests reactions. A tug here. A deliberate pause there. You flinch, you whimper, and, as all organics should- you suffer. Fear fills the make of your flesh, and he settles in to enjoy your terrified trembling.

Hmm. Perhaps his Lord was right to spare this funny little thing.

Tarn comes to value; if nothing else, at least the aesthetics of the human race. You can be arranged to an appropriate appearance, like some sort of model tchotchke, a living trinket. He would never dare to degrade the holy iconography of the Decepticon Insignia, never reduce those sweetly slanted angles to the failings of flesh, but Tarn *does* deign to have you dressed in glossy purple apparel, layered over with matte-black materials.

A properly dressed organic, in its own way, is- well, you're very nearly appealing.

...maybe he ought to draft another long list of praises to offer to his Lord for this little gift.

After he's passed you off to Vos, of course, to be handed off later to Kaon. Those are the two he trusts the most with you, given their lack of extreme prejudice, a la Nickel, and their lack of mountainous size, a la Helex and Tesarus.

And Vos finds you funny, at least. You make the noises he'd only really expect from sniveling little protoforms, desperate for Energon and attention. He sees the least of you, even less than The Pet does- the interest to engage is simply not there.

Even if the maniacal little sniper does warm to you, his contribution to your new life aboard this vicious ship is to take you into his berth overnight and hold you to his chest while he struggles with converting his reports into Neocybex for Tarn. You're a neat little weight in his lap, and once you fall asleep even the shaking stops, which makes you the coziest little lap-warmer any mech his size could ask for.

At worst he'll "play" by stalking you around the ship, looking to startle you by jumping out with his mask off- but he stops shy of truly harming you.

You aren't his favorite, and he's not yours, but he is the least threatening of all your options.

Actually, Helex ends up being your favorite, to the surprise of many. You'd think it'd be Kaon but it's not.

Kaon can- and no doubt will- try and ply you to his side, hoping for a second pet to dote on, but all his tactics fall flat in the face of this new little thing not being a lobotomized dog-man.

No matter how soft or sweet he pitches that strange "puppy-dog" voice that The Pet adores, but it just unnerves you further.

The imported peanut-butter treats curry no favor, because they're shaped like dog bones and he expects you to eat them out of a floor-mounted bowl.

Giving you extra bedding doesn't work, because you're only allowed to sleep near The Pet regardless, and even the metric ton of plush padding he throws your way can’t make that any more comfortable of an experience.

No, Helex beats him out on all accounts, and; most infuriatingly to Kaon, he does it by accident.

How?

The big guy kicks his smelter online and keeps his mouth shut. He’s warm, he bites back the acerbic quips swarming in his skull, and most importantly: he doesn’t talk to you like you’re a brain-damaged toddler.

Helex, for his part, while neutral on receiving a squishy little gift, actually LOVES feeding the- what did Kaon call it? The "human"? He loves feeding the "human".

It has an organic smelter, built in by nature? Like himself? Fascinating. What can it melt? A massive portion of his interactions with it- rather, you. An organic, sapient, salient enough to be a “you”. Fascinating!- are him plying your tender systems with unusual foods he picks up on shore-leave. This might have counted as "doting', if he didn't think it was HILARIOUS to see you get sick and vomit.

Still, funny as your suffering is, Helex makes no move to put an end to your life- he sincerely does like you. As a pet. As a living commodity.

At the very least, he likes you enough that he’ll ensure Tesarus has been alerted to your presence aboard the Peaceful Tyranny, just in case he needs to hand you off to somebody else during an emergency or last-second mission.

Or if Kaon's jealously reaches a genuinely unnerving boiling point. That mech... definitely has a few screws loose.

And speaking of the walking, talking, grinder that Helex prefers over the resident taser... Tesarus with an organic obsession is so casually sadistic that it comes across as a genuine shock to learn that he cares at all. He'll lift you off your feet; massive hand wrapping round your waist with finger to spare, and into his mouth to CLAMP his teeth just hard enough that your skull strains under the pressure, and only lets go after enough you start screaming and sobbing. He never actually hurts you, never worse than a bruise, so you'll end up internalizing the lack of harm as safety, and eventually get through a session of "playing" without any tears or terrified squeals...so he switches to pretending that he'll pull you apart in his bare hands. And then lifting you up and pretending to drop you. And then pretending that he intends to grind you against his blades.

This is his way of showing love- reminding you what he could do, while never dedicating to the act.

Don't you see how generous he is? Don't you see how merciful? How kind? So many others adorned with his righteous regalia, that gleaming glint of steel, so many others in his position would've crunched you into bits and thrown you away. Tesarus hopes; for entirely your own sake over his, that you understand how lucky you are to be even tolerated. With that in mind, maybe you ought to behave and offer a little more affection to such a generous host?

If there is any such "worst quality" to be attributed to Tess, it's his nearly comedic sense of stoicism. It's hard to you to pick up on how he wants you to act, what he wants you to say- when he hardly goes above cracking imperceptibly small smiles or turning his lips to crease in a bare-minimum frown. Trying to gauge what he wants, when he wants it? You'd have more luck herding cats. The best thing to do is just wander away and leave him to... whatever it is that's rolling through his processor.

If you get "tired" of him- or, more likely, Tesarus gets tired of you- he sees no problem in letting you wander the ship of your own accord. Surprisingly, he’s actually very relaxed when it comes to your freedom of movement, allowing you to roam free.

Ever since Kaon wrangled a tracking chip into you- courtesy of a very non-plussed Nickel- no one's had to worry about stepping on you, given your constant "blipping" on their internal radars. Really, now. Wander as far as you like.

Ideally, Nickel would like you to stay out of her medbay. Wasn't tolerating the ugly, disgusting sack of ambulatory meat while she crammed a tracker into it's neck enough? No? What do you mean, "NO"? They're KEEPING it?

Little Nickel of Prion raises hell on high, storming through the Peaceful Tyranny with you in tow, two servos wrapped around your bruising ear as she hauls metal ass down the corridor.

"Tarn," calls the half-size healer, "TARN! Do you care to explain to me exactly why and when we decided to have a carbon-based inconvenience onboarded as a pet?!"

Deep in the raging core of her Spark, she's so very deeply hurt. DTarn knows what she's lived through. He's the one who saved her- scraped her off the ground when she was too weak to even lift her head, pried her plating from the rust that had glued it to the metal of her ramshackle shelter, the rusted ruins of the miniscule shuttle that ferried her from the slaughter of Prion. How could he? How could he do this to her, after she had given to him her devotion and trust? After she had entrusted to him her life?

How could he?

"It," says Tarn, "was a gift from our gracious Lord Megatron."

Ah. That explains it.

Some small measure of hurt bleeds out of her processor, now that she has some actual reasoning to gnaw on, this flimsy justification for bringing a skin-wrapped mistake aboard.

It hurts still, but decidedly less. She was never going to outrank Lord Megatron in Tarn's optics, and that was never something she was trying to do. Still, she's mollified to learn that the Decepticon Justice Division was never coming around to meatbags, never switching up their approach to total organic annihilation, never "amending" their righteous ways.

No, Nickel need only tolerate this one short-lived sack of red slurry, and take comfort in knowing all others are fair game. And how grateful indeed she is to know that while you may be tolerated, indulged, and at times adored, you most certainly are not protected. And then all that is left of that hurt is blown from her Spark when the black-hearted butchers about refuse to lift a hand to stop her mistreatment of you, which reassures her as to the "proper order of things".

Kaon might coddle your bruises, and Helex may offer respite for the stalwart few souls who seek shelter in his gone-cold smelter, and even Vos may at times lend a line if he's wanting some precise gear or seam scrubbed clean... but they will not stop her.

They talk about drinks over the bit-back sobs you can barely hold, offering to take her down to the surface of some cyberformed planet for a bar crawl. Frat-bots, all the lot of them!

"It'll be good for you," says Tesarus, speaking over a particularly harsh "smack" lands on a motley splotch of bruises. "'N we could all use a break besides."

She turns to you, palm raised again, and-

...and you look so young, and something holds still her raised palm. Now you look small, unfinished, unforged. A little protoform with cracked casing, shivering on the floor. How of many of those did she see destroyed when Prion fell? Now, something so similar is watching her with big wet eyes.

Suddenly, she doesn't feel like having that drink.

"...I'll skip," says Nickel, little blue eyes trying very hard not to turn at the sight of your tears. "Can't very pump the Engex from you brutes if I can't even tell my left from my right." A load of flannel, but Tesarus buys it all the same.

"Suit yourself, Nic. I'll snag you some rust sticks on our way back. The one you pretend not to like."

"Thanks, Tess."

The lumbering lunk of metal trudges away, leaving just you and the mini-medic, her frame no longer looming above you, but instead knelt on a rubbery knee to grasp at your face more efficiently.

"...little sack of soggy meat," she insults, tipping your chin this way and that. For a moment you think she's just forgotten to squeeze in her usual bruising way, but then her palm just barely cups the side of your cheek and you realize that this softness is very much intentional.

"Come on, then. I don't have all day, do I? Off to the medbay!"

As Nickel softens, she becomes an avenue of opportunity, a crucible for desires that no other mech aboard the Peaceful Tyranny could provide. She's stable, sane in a way that no other mech aboard could claim. And if you sweeten to her pitiful mercies, accept the doting she offers, tilt your head and nod at her frustrated ranting- well, she softens more. Crawl up and rest your cheek on her arm. Hide behind her when Vos is "playing" his games. Look for her. Turn to her for help. Need her, and she'll start needing you right back.

And, if you play your cards right, she just might pull you free from this sinking ship when she cuts ties and shacks up with the Scavengers.

Really, you might as well try- it's your only chance for a happy ending.

[ctghost]

Just woke up and thanks for answering my ask!! (The prev one,,) May I request yandere idw elita-1 or kaon... I love my two evil wives...

Sorry if it's too much 😭😭; Love your art and take care of yourself!!

HII ANOOON omg i'm sorry it took so long to get to your request due to my motivation dying oufff🥹.. i hope you like it!! 🤍

Once kaon gets you, he'll so treat you like you're made of glass, always speaking in a tone he'd use on The Pet too, soothing you when you have some rather emotional moments, conviced that you'd just need some time to adjust.. but he'd reward you generously too when you behave nicely!

No text version

[arturer]

(x)

[itsabouttimex2]

Platonic Yandere Soundwave x Traitor Cassette Reader

(Warnings: Depictions of Violence, Minor Character Death)

In a way, you envy humans.

It sounds odd to say, when you stand triple their height, bear a self-patching frame built of extraterrestrial alloy, and live; as Perceptor once put it, “far beyond the infinitesimal limits of natural organic decay.”

Humans are small, soft, often short-lived. There’s not much to envy about organics, not in the optics of most Cybertronians.

But you are not “most Cybertronians”, and “most Cybertronians” have never been where you are now.

So, if there is some way in which you envy humans at all, it is perhaps only because they’d be long, long dead in your position.

You hadn't meant to be cornered by a ‘Con in the last half of a gunfight, just far enough from neutral ground that an ambush wouldn’t have been impossible to predict, but so close that your patrol had been caught up in the fray regardless, staring down the barrel of a mook’s laser rifle, gunmetal gray paint polished over with brown and green stripes.

None of your squad, you least of all, had seen it coming, not until the ‘Con bastard sitting trigger-end pulled the lever and tore through the metal alloy of your shoulder like it had been forged from tissue paper.

Someone screams with you, one of the Autobots (you remember sitting with him in the cafeteria. you and him would trade rations. he didn't laugh when you told him you were being tracked) flanking the frontline, his paint matte-yellow, his innards oozing pink. What was a vocalizer had been shot through, stray sparks scattering worthlessly against the sludgy soil under his peds.

You crumple at that mech’s side, only the first two down in the starting round of a full-blown Deception assault, once-pristine plating now crumpled and mucked over with white-hot scorch marks. It only dawns on you that a second bullet has hit once your optics land on that streak of blackened primer, the scent of smoking paint rising in the air.

It wasn't enough to have ambushed you less than a mile from neutral ground, but the slagheaps running a ring of metal death around your squad were packing laser weaponry.

Bastards.

Each and every last one, a bastard.

"It wasn't enough" rings in your head, an echo from mere seconds prior. Aside from a list of insults nearly a mile long, it's the preeminent perspective of all Decepticon (it feels strange, not counting yourself in their ranks anymore. it feels good, too.) "soldiers" that circles the circuits of your processor.

Nothing had ever been enough for them. It wasn't enough that they had started a species-wide divide in the first place, not enough that they had severed your kind in half in the name of a vicious forever-war, not enough that they had first dragged a new planet into the fight and then doubled down by involving the dominant species of said planet afterwards.

It's hard to imagine that any one of these monsters could ever truly be satiated, ever be so full-to-the-top of conquest and glory that they'd be in the running to be called "content".

And; of course, because no amount of revulsion or distaste for their cause could prevent it- innocent Cybertronians had to suffer for it.

Another 'Bot (you knew this one as well as the last. she use to help you buff out dents. she kept your pursuer a secret when you drunkenly confessed their name) hits the soil, spraying purple from the core of her chassis. She twitches, then gasps out a spatter of gibberish, and goes gray in the optics.

If there is some small, bitter satisfaction to be drawn from this pocket of Pit-Spawned 'Cons, it's that they start dying with you. Particularly harsh (you'd toast the soldier who landed the shot if you both survived this) and tremendously satisfying is the rusted bucket of bolts who opened fire going down with a sharp-ended Energon bolt buried into the plating of his throat, gagging on his rising liquid innards.

You're down an arm and your chassis is blazing to cinders, flattened laser-round burning into the metal near your t-cog chamber. Given his likely lack of need for the thing in days near-certain not to come, you pry a plate free from the writhing mech, and crawl behind the closest cover available- a moss-crusted rock, standing just tall enough to hide you from sight.

Another Autobot slides in beside you. He pries the shard of dead ‘Con from your grip and wedges the sharp of it to your chassis, prying out the burning round so it can be smothered in the dirt. His hand folds in and out slides a laser-welder (lucky. you fold into a rectangle, and this guy has a laser-hand. anyone who says Primus doesn’t play favorites is a liar.) to patch the fractured plating of both bullet wounds.

“My comms are out,” you inform, one servo tapping the rim of your ear. “HUD is spitting static and error signs. Someone’s got a signal dampener.”yx

(A flare of alarm ignites in your processor. Hope is dangerous, but you dare to believe it might be the doing of someone else.)

“That’ll only matter if we need backup,” the medbot pitches in, his blue-glass visor turned to fix your gaze. Even underneath it, his optics- his posture- his voice- are calm. “My count is- was- twelve enemies. Two down and two dead over there, one down and one dead here. That means we’re at six and they’re probably at eight.”

“Probably,” you repeat, trying to twist your lips into something of a grin, “is not the sort of math I like to hear on the battlefield. Especially because it’s very possible for “probably” to be wrong.”

“Bad news- if I’m wrong, we’re going to be slag.”

“Is there good news to go with that?”

“The good news is that we’ll be slag very quickly.”

He slaps your shoulder twice, and to his credit, the weld holds, even thought the banging makes your receptors squeal in protest.

“Best you’re gonna get out here. Base’ll need to strip the plating and clean micro-shrapnel from your circuits, but you’ll be fine. Fire up your comms and we’ll hold the enemy back- and, for what it's worth? Don't move. If that shrapnel spreads, you're gonna pop the circuit tubing and lose an arm.”

He stands, brushes the crusted Energon ooze from his servos, and bolts back out to the firefight, (how many drill sergeants wept for the fact that this bot was built for hospice care, you could only imagine) leaving you all alone as a blood-red optic is blasted over the rock to land beside your foot.

Assuming none of your friend had required their optics in the middle of a fire-fight, make it two down, three dead. Six of you to seven of them.

You prep a distress signal, firing into empty channel after empty channel, just on the off case that either the dampener isn’t strong enough to block everything, or that the bot carrying it gets an early visit to the Pit.

Static chews into every attempted broadcast, corrupting your would-be messages into white noise.

You delete, recompose, and fire off, each message shorter and more desperate.

“Field Patrol Comms Manager requesting backup,” becomes glitchy gibberish, necessitating a file wipe.

Again. “This is your field squad, encountering hostiles-“ but it dies off halfway to broadcast, and the line collapses again.

Third attempt has you scream out your name and rank, met only by toxic feedback bleeding straight into your audials.

That noise- the terrible, biting noise- it takes you to the ground, a pain far worse than your shoulder or chassis endured- having electric poison fed to your most sensitive receptors.

It burns like acid, eating away at your mind and instilling an imagined pain- an audial booby trap for any message that broke past the initial dampener to find air.

It fades, but only after you’ve hit the ground to squirm and kick and scream like a sparkling, venting out the agony of such a custom-catered attack.

There, in sheer desperation, you beg out the one word you haven’t spoken (your 'boss' had wanted to hear it dearly. you don't recall ever giving him the satisfaction. so, on the off-hand that this was...) since the last of your protoform finishing plating over- “Carrier.”

It’s downright pleading, a far cry from your usual behavior on the field, but the thought of having someone to protect and care as pain blooms under your circuits and spreads from audial receptor to spark is agonizingly tempting, so much that dignity leaves you as you make the request.

Something on the other side of your line pings back, and all goes quiet.

The field is still. Bodies everywhere- Autobot red, Decepticon purple, all mixed in the same black sludge of burnt energon and soil.

You see only the faintest sign of movement, the gleam of shifting armor. Not the hum of a laser core spooling up, not the whir of an Energon-Gatling, ready to pepper the landscape with hellish fury. The foe is dead, and your crew- whatever is left of it- either died with them or retreated without you, which means that you were- now, at least, you were actually alone.

(Had your desperate attempts to access base comms eaten up so many minutes of this fire-fight? Surely, just a second ago you were being welded together?)

Someone speaks from the other end of the line, low and steady. It is not the voice of a friend.

“Request: received.”

Oh.

Oh, dear Primus.

Primus, please, no.

You shutter the comms channel bridging your feed out to the world.

It flickers back on.

“Request for communication array termination: denied."

Staggering to your feet seems impossible, but you do it anyways, steadying your arm as you go.

"Suggestion: assume cassette form. Autobot territory ridges this terrain. Retrieval must be expedited. Report from Lazerbeak: enemy forces: doubling back."

Panic rides down your spinal ridge, an electrical lash of anxiety that swells to a crackling current localized entirely around your Spark.

"Those are your enemies," you howl, static gnawing your vocalizations into raggedy half-sobs. "Not mine! Not anymore! Not ever again! And I am done following unkind orders!"

Above, a dark silhouette on sable wings- and with it, the near-negligable weight of a sensor sweep brushing across your plating. You remember that sensation, from another lifetime: his scanners mapping your shape, frame, internals, heartbeat of a spark. A twofold reminder- not only that he- him and his cassettes and his troops- could always find you, no matter how far you ran, but that you were, in spite of your spark-breaking absence, wanted.

"Disobedience: illogical. This does not need to be difficult. Activating: direct alt-mode link."

The instantaneous update- in big red lettering, because everything had to be pointlessly ominous with Decepticons- glares in your HUD, providing a laconic read:

HOST CONNECTION ESTABLISHED. SYNCING: CARRIER/CASSETTE PROTOCOL.

"Command: assume cassette form."

Your armor folds in on itself, joints locking, servos retracting, a thousand micro-motors grinding in protest as he pulls the transformation sequence out of you piece by piece- “No,” you rasp, the word shredding itself across panic-strung vocal wires. “No, no, no-” but even that stutters into silence as your T-Cog chugs away.

You- flat and folded and helpless- hit the ground.

As you do, the air warps with the telltale boom of a sonic pulse. The trees around the ridge bend, bowing under the dread weight of his presence. And then- the sound. A low, seismic hum. The kind that shakes through your spark chamber before you even register it with your receptors.

Soundwave- not that you didn’t know, but seeing him drives the final nail into your coffin.

He reaches for you, and the one last thing you do- because it is the only thing you can do- is to send a message on your conjoined signal:

“I hate you,” it says, righteously angry but sloppy and poorly stated. “I’m not your cassette anymore.”

"Emotional status: accepted. Affection for cassette: intact."

Your hope runs dry.

"Soundwave: will not lose cassette again."

Somewhere, deep inside, your Spark wonders if it wouldn't be nice for Cybertronians to die a little easier.

Any other route of escape had become impossible.

[ymk04mitab-ft]

Yandere!Rodimus×Reader comic 01［TF MTMTE］

Request from anonymous!

ymk04mitab-ft

[ymk04mitab-ft]

Yandere!Getaway×Reader comic 01［TF MTMTE］

Request from anonymous. My special thanks to @lydiafryejournauxpersonnels Thank you very much!

ymk04mitab-ft

[ymk04mitab-ft]

Yandere!Kaon×Reader comic 01［TF MTMTE］

Request from anonymous. My special thanks to @lydiafryejournauxpersonnels XD

ymk04mitab-ft

[itsabouttimex2]

Yandere Cookie Run Kingdom

Dark Cacao Kingdom

A blizzard-ridden kingdom of warriors.

(Dark Cacao Kingdom) (Golden Cheese Kingdom) (Hollyberry Kingdom) (Vanilla Kingdom) (Fairie Kingdom) (Spire of Deceit + Ivory Pagoda) (Land of Spice + Garden of Sweet Delights)

Dark Cacao Cookie:

Quote: “The world has taken too much from me- my friends. My family. My heart. I will not allow it to take you.”

General: Dark Cacao Cookie is stern, he's stoic, he's unfettered will and volition in a bitter dough shell. You are someone soft, small, and sweet, something that comes fragile and demure. If you are easy to find and easy to steal, then His Majesty finds you irresistibly in need of his protection… and at least somewhat capable of plugging up the gaps in his heart.

Justification: He views you as weak. Since the weak don’t survive in their own, the strong are obligated to defend them. It’s simple, short, and to-the-point. You might even be missing a limb, or an eye, or your mental health is obviously poor… to Dark Cacao Cookie, caging you is a righteous act.

Method of Control: Physical isolation. Why bother shadowing you from afar or sending his soldiers to tail your market trips when he can give the order to have you dragged to his castle and locked up in his personal quarters? There’s a small corner of the room dedicated to you, with few luxuries or amenities beyond the basics, though a sparse handful of your belongings have been appropriated to help you “settle in”.

If you happen to be a child, your section of his room is a warm, well-padded playcorner filled with blankets, educational books, and the occasional toy- nothing too extravagant, nothing too unsafe. No training swords, though- unless they’re sewn soft with cotton. Expect his loyal soldiers to serve as occasional playmates in his place- he’s not the sort to bother with whimsy or fun.

Self-Image: Dark Cacao Cookie sees himself as your shield and final defense against the bitterness and cruelty lurking beyond his palace wall. He's harsh? It’s because the world is harsher. He thinks he alone can bear the burden of your safety.

Response To Rejection: Stoic nonchalance. He knew you weren’t going to be happy, knew you’d fight back, knew that the angry “I hate you”s and the wailing “I’m scared”s were coming one way or the other.

Punishments: Essentially, the yandere aspect of his personality is the punishment. You grow too kind, crack through his heart, and then he realizes that you are simply unfit to live in a world he perceives as ruthless- and as you spirited away and put on full lockdown.

Goal: The ultimate and total safety of your being, no matter the cost.

Caramel Arrow Cookie:

Quote: "Even if the whole world shuns you, you will not stand alone- not while I draw breath."

General: Caramel Arrow Cookie is an overprotective watcher, an adoring older sibling figure. Where Dark Cacao Cookie splits the difference between his chances of having an older romantic obsession or a younger platonic one, Caramel Arrow Cookie is almost 100% guaranteed to have a platonic underage obsession.

Justification: You’re precious. In a kingdom of frost and blood, you shine with a warmth that she hasn’t known in years. It’s not about commanding or containing- it’s about protection.

Method of Control: Sisterly love. Caramel Arrow Cookie doesn’t have a single “controlling” bone in her body- instead, she’s constantly doting, pressing warm mugs into your hands, ensuring that you eat lots of jellies, tucking you in at night… she loves you into submission.

Self-Image: Same as always- a loyal guardian to her king and all his people- bust, now, especially you. The protector you don’t even know you need. She sees herself as bearing a noble burden—doing what must be done while you stay blissfully untouched.

Response to Rejection: She’s pained, but her loyalty remains unshaken. “If protecting you makes me your enemy, then so be it.” She’ll cry later -in secret, of course- and then redouble her efforts.

Punishments: None. Caramel Arrow Cookie doesn’t see anything as being worth punishing you over in the first place- she only goes after Cookies who are already soft, sweet, and kind! An individual who does things she finds worthy of “punishment” (eg: theft, assault, murder) are not the kind she’d go yandere for. At worst her target gets bratty or fussy, and she can weather a little unpleasantness.

Ultimate Goal: To be accepted as your guardian, then as your caretaker, and, finally, as your family.

Affogato Cookie:

Quote: “Oh, darling… don’t you think we both deserve a little sweetness?”

General: Charming on the surface and deeply venomous underneath, Affogato Cookie is a master manipulator and a constant snake whispering in your ear. He passes himself off as a concerned friend, hoping to squirm into your personal circle, and then move closer inwards and isolate you out of it to leave you with no potential “rescuers”.

Justification: Twofold. First- You’re special. You’re different. You’re above the drudges in Dark Cacao Cookie’s circle, and above the sycophants in Affogato Cookie’s circle. You’re just more fun than anybody else around! Second- he’s very entitled and selfish. This caffeinated Cookie genuinely believes that he deserves you by nature of being a deserving person.

Method of Control: Manipulation and reputation warfare. He wraps his control in “spiritual wisdom”, “philosophical musings”, and “gentle corrections”. (eg: extreme manipulation and gaslighting) If that doesn’t work? He’ll torch your name behind the scenes of the kingdom’s workings and leave you with nowhere to turn.

Self-Image: He hides it soo well to get a good read on his motivations and desires aside from uncontested power, but Affogato Cookie views himself as a deeply deserving individual who is entitled to much in the world… including you.

Response To Rejection: Narcissistic rage masked with pity. If you do anything to push him away, even unintentionally, he'll not only internally fly off the handle, but he’ll go out of his way to spin a lie that circles the whole palace in little more than a day, ripples through the kingdom by the end of the week, and even reaches to the snowy outposts of the Milk Tribe, far outside the protection of the Dark Cacao Kingdom’s bitter walls.

Suddenly, you seem to be very unpopular… with everyone aside from Affogato Cookie, that is.

Punishments: As mentioned above, the ruining of your reputation, but also frequent belittling disguised as “advice”, manipulation disguised as “disappointment”, and isolation disguised as “needing a break from you”. He’s not good for your mental health.

Ultimate Goal: Who knows? You’re part of it, but aside from that? You probably won’t ever figure out what exactly he wants… until he has it.

Crunchy Chip Cookie:

Quote: “If you need anyone, or anything, even a whole pack of wolves- I’ll be there for you! No matter what!”

General: Crunchy Chip Cookie’s gruff loyalty masks a deep emotional attachment, serving as cover for his wants and desires. To the average eye, he’s just a commander looking out for a rookie soldier- and he slowly warms up to you. In the inside? He’s boiling alive with obsessive love.

Justification: You’re part of his “pack,” and in his mind, that’s sacred. You’re not just a “friend”- you’re the embodiment of everything he’s fighting for! Abandoning you or, worse, letting you get hurt? That’s the same as betraying his kingdom- a failure he won't allow.

Method of Control: Physical proximity and constant presence. He’s always “just passing by” or “on a patrol.” The Cream Wolves are never far behind, and they’re all trained to intervene if you’re ever in any perceived “danger”.

Self-Image: A good soldier, the leader of his pack, and the king’s on-call beast-master. Down-to-earth and steadfastly simple, this plain view of himself greatly obscures any attempts to break free of his control- he’s just a normal guy??

Response To Rejection: As implied above, bewilderment. Crunchy Chip Cookie is one of the lowest-key yanderes around, despite his temper and theoretically high position in the Dark Cacao Kingdom- he genuinely views himself as protecting you the same way he protects everyone under his watch. To him, you’re lashing out over literal nothing?? He’s probably going to assume that you’re either addled or sick.

Punishments: Extra training drills, often performed very early in the morning. Then you spend the night doing chores, often involving repetitive and monotonous labor, and constant rounds of the palace… once you crack and fall apart, he carries you to the bunks and tucks you in… in front of your fellow cadets.

Ultimate Goal: Not only to keep you safe, but also to turn you into a respectable and loyal soldier capable of standing on your own two feet… still safely under his command and taking his orders, of course.

Dark Choco Cookie:

Quote: “…are you… still not afraid of me…?”

General: Uniquely for a yandere, Dark Choco Cookie is an individual who must be pursued by his obsession before he can become obsessed. If you were with him in his childhood days, or at least knew him dearly pre-corruption, and then kept up with him? Stayed by his side even after he gouged the strawberry jam out of his father’s dough? After he fell to Dark Enchantress Cookie’s command? After he turned on Pomegranate Cookie? After he fled to the snowy wilderness? If you have cleared all of those jam-stained trials and tribulations, then, as far as Dark Choco Cookie is concerned, you have earned his heart, his blade, and his life.

Justification: You stayed. That is the be all, end all of his justifications. You found it in your heart to love him, in spite of everything. He’s spiraled so far down a dark, bitter path, cut so many ties, hurt so many people… but you still stayed.

Method of Control: Being the strongest blade around- once you’ve hit the “traveling together across the bitter wilds” phase, Dark Choco Cookie has fallen madly in love and no longer cares for survival or sanctity. He will throw caution to the wind and plunge deeply, madly into any fight, praying for his blade to strike true as he leverages it in your name. On account of fights and ambushes being a common scenario, it’s safest to stay close.

Self-Image: A broken, worthless waste of a Cookie, good only to be monster fodder or worse.

Response To Rejection: None. He genuinely just doesn’t react at all. Unlike his father, who expected to be rejected and despised, Dark Choco Cookie just… shuts down until he can mentally block your refusal pit.

Punishments: Physical harm and mutilation. To himself, that is. Once Dark Choco Cookie falls madly in love with you, the idea of harming becomes outright blasphemous. If you do something he considers awful enough to warrant a punishment, he’ll simply hurt himself instead. After all, surely you would be doing better as person if your “guardian” was less of a monster… and the less of him there is, the less do you his presence can overwhelm.

Ultimate Goal: To return home with you, hand in unlovable hand, and regain some measure of grace in the eyes of his people.

(And perhaps, come to face with a father forgiving enough to officiate a wedding…)

[itsabouttimex2]

Platonic Yandere Tenna x Reader

(Warnings: Force-Feeding)

The controller has gone cold.

How long have you been holding it?

It’s starting to hurt. It feels stuck, like the chill has frosted it to the flesh of your fingers.

Not just “room-temperature cold” or “unplugged cold”. Not “like no-one’s touched this thing in years” cold.

“Left outside in late December” cold.

You fiddle the right joystick until the playable character, an 8-bit approximation of you, stumbles forward and onto the next screen. It flickers, for a moment, and the loading screen, pitch with the exception of one white circle, glints.

How long was it on-screen?

Long enough. Your reflection appears in the black, and you see a tired, gone-pale face. Gaunt.

How long have you been here?

“Sorry for the hold-up, folks!”

Mr. Tenna’s voice is electronically sounded, equal parts digital sugar and crackling tin foil. It splits the silence like tissue paper.

All angular charm and outdated commercial jingle energy, he’s beside you now, standing beside the couch in his cherry-red suit and black pants, giving a static-stiff smile, a frame-perfect loop of corporate cheer, one gloved hand on his hip and the other pointing straight out at you.

“Say, you’re lookin’ a little dim there, buckaroo. Pale in the pixels! When’s the last time you slept? Ate? Took a breather?”

You wouldn’t know. You couldn’t know. How could you? In his desperate attempt to maintain an all-encompassing facade of control over his little slice of this world of shadows, Mr. Tenna has gone out of his way to remove every last aspect of “time”, from analog chronograph to pixel hourglass to pastiche sundial.

All that remained were pixel clocks, built for flashy, show-stopping countdowns.

Time, passing not in hours, but in segments. Blocks of broadcasting, neat and clean.

So you can’t give an answer, aside from “more than a dozen game boards”. Not that he was actually waiting for one, anyhow.

“Well, have I got just the thing for little ol’ you! Do you find yourself craving simpler days? Longing for a taste of your old life? Of those sweet, careless nights spent special programs made just for you?”

His hands come together in a soundless burst of static, a resounding, snapping “clap”. Your vision whites out for a moment. When it clears, the room has changed, and you’re sitting in a high-backed chair, pressed into crushed-velvet cushioning. The table seems to run lengthwise for miles, but by width is thin, barely a foot from start to finish.

“You liked this one when you were little, right?”

Mr. Tenna asks, sitting in the chair parallel to yours, impossibly light for his size, as if he’s made of broadcast signals and stage lights.

“…liked… what…? There’s not anything-“

His screen twitches into a smear of static, just for a second. It resets to display his usual smile, only offset by a bundle of nerves popped into the corner, a vague approximation of weary frustration.

“It’s coming, kiddo! Don’t go getting your pixels in a twist!”

…it seems a little unfair that you’re getting scolded for asking a very relevant question in regards to his own prodding.

There’s not time to complain. There’s never time to complain.

Two of Mr. Tenna’s Pippins- no, three, stacked together to give the facade of filling out a snazzy black suit. One Pippin for each leg, and one for the tuxedo. It’d be cute, under any other circumstance. They’re rolling along a meal trolley, polished to a gleam.

They roll (they’re trying so hard… but even the one on top can’t see past the cart) the cart up to the table- wheels clicking neatly in a rhythm, fuzzy ka-click after fuzzy ka-click, like old static that learned how to march. It only stops when the bar of the trolley smacks into the table. The platter- there’s just the one- it slides off the carrier, and across the table.

The Pippins skitter away, eyes wide. They don’t bother to grab the trolley.

Mr. Tenna’s hand stops it from going past you, and he gives an exaggerated half-bow as a sort of over-the-top presentation.

It’s… whatever it is, it’s covered by a silver-garnished cloche, shaped like your captor’s head, complete with antenna and pointy nose. It’s… “cute”, sort of, but lacks a convenient lifting spot. For lack of holes, steam spills from… the top, some form of cartoon logic that only the Dark World could get away with.

“Go on, sweetheart! Pop that shiny bad boy open before our viewers fall asleep!”

The lights dim. A spotlight hits the tray. He leans in close.

You reach for the cloche.

With some effort, you press your still-freezing fingers into the seam where the lid meets the plate, and with a sharp squeal of static- like an old dial-up modem trying to scream- it lifts.

There’s a square of black plastic, sealed with semi-permeable cling mesh.

A… a TV dinner.

The kind you buy a child. The kind that used to come with a dessert (chocolate pudding with chalky star sprinkles, or a giant chunk of brownie) in the top right corner, half-frozen and half-pocket of plasma no matter how long or quick you microwaved it.

Your throat tightens at the sight, each portion of the tray a little harder to look at.

“Ta-da!”

Mr. Tenna grins, spreading his arms with the grandeur of a magician who just pulled trauma from a top hat.

“Just like Mom never had to make, huh?”

Even through the moisture gathered below the translucent packaging, you can see four sections. Top right with a dark chocolate brownie. Top left with four soggy chicken nuggets. Stretching three-fourths of the bottom is a chunky swath of mac-and-artificial cheese, nuclear yellow. Bottom right, a tiny pocket, holding two plastic packages. One is a tube of squeezable chocolate fudge, and the other is a packet of unbranded ketchup.

It’s very familiar.

“Familiar” is too kind a word to describe this feeling, though.

You’re not sure when the shaking started. There’s an invisible tremor that runs through your jaw, rolls down both shoulders, and blooms out from your spine.

You remember the taste of powdered cheese and chicken skin, with a mild heat that never reached to the center.

You remember eating every bite because no one would be there to make you something else if you didn’t.

Lonely nights. Screaming fits. Tearful meals.

Wetness builds behind your eyes.

Mr. Tenna, smile gone sharp, leans in to pop the tray open. A mixture of smells (you want to say “waft”. that’s too gentle. so-) escape the tray.

“You used to love these, kiddo! What’s the hold-up?”

The room feels smaller. The ceiling drops closer. The crushed-velvet imbedded in the chair is crushing back.

“Go on,” the showman says again, more quietly this time. The artificial sugar is dripping out of his voice, leaving something bitter. “Just a bite. For old time’s sake. For me. For your old pal, Tenna.”

You want to tell him you can’t. The words do not find your throat.

His fight tightens around the tray like an electric vice, tearing the mesh so hard that macaroni sloshes against the side, spattering melted cheese onto the table.

His volume pitches back to the regular booming crackle, forcing you to cower away and cover both ears.

His free hand; veined with frustration lines that pop through even his gloves, grabs the spork packaged with the meal.

He lifts the plastic scooper like a spear, and sharply skewers it into the mound of sticky yellow paste with too much force, little rounded tines bending under the pressure.

There’s a smear, and a static crackle, and he’s on you.

One hand conforms to the curve of your throat, thumb pinned to your chin to hold your lips apart.

He laughs.

Not a show laugh. Not a cheery “ain’t-I-a-stinker” chuckle that’s backed by manufactured studio applause and canned jingles.

This one’s… raw. Human.

And it’s horrible.

“Aww, kiddo, I forgot! You need me to show you how well I can take care of you!”

He shovels the spoonful in, snarling in frustration as it smears over your cheeks, dribbling from your lips.

You try to turn away, hot tears bubbling over until they’re spilling down your face. They mix with the cheese, and pass onto Tenna’s red sleeve, staining it. If he notices, he doesn’t care.

His grip tightens.

Another lump is forced into your throat. Then another. Three. Four. Five.

Your body revolts, stomach heaving in rebellion, mouth twitching against the artificial salt and curdled nostalgia. Every bite is a battlefield, your gag reflex against his insistence, your blurry thoughts against his jagged focus.

There’s a very notable gag, bulging your throat uncomfortably.

He pauses, only pulling back to survey your face with an eyeless stare, snaring a cloth to scrub your face with. He folds it over to conceal the macaroni mess, then, more gently, dabs at your tears.

The moment doesn’t last long, because the napkin goes into the bin, and then he’s got a chunk of brownie on the spork, hissing with heat.

“You will eat what I made for you. And you’re gonna eat- Until. You. Like. It. And if you don’t like it the first time, buckaroo? We’ve got seconds.”