#es shattered glass

[cavycaptain]

MegaSound Week 2023 is Oct 8th-14th

[atomicdarc]

Based on @sc-02 's shattered glass ES!Bumblebee design. I saw one of your drawings of him and I got inspired about it!

Have a bug with more bugs!

[derpdino34]

It’s the final countdown

This scene takes place in the last hope part 2.

After the Decepticons regroup with their free, old leader, they are planning a final all out attack to defeat the Autobots once and for all. The ‘Malto bots” are busy saving their family from the Autobots planning to attack and cyberform Earth with their hidden weapons back on Cybertron.

[ily-cheetah]

six fanarts thing i did on twt :]

[kairukitsuneo]

Samuel小温's raffle prize has arrived safely to my home!! 😭😭😭😭💕💕💕💕💖💖💖🫶🫶🙏

Im so happyyyy! Megop forever

[spacemanm]

Nightshade: I am non-binary, but that doesn't mean i'm gender neutral. I'm actually GENDER EVIL! *flies off*

[nyx-fey]

I like to think that SG! ES Prowl and SG! TFA Prowl would just be IDW Prowl with a new paint job.

God, SG!earthspark Prowl would be such a fucking character

[alicefromwhichplanet]

Why Optimus being a good person in upper class/ Megatron being an angry rebellious lower class is a great and meaningful plot

Recently, with TFOne coming out, I’ve learned that the new movie made changes to Optimus and Megatron’s backstories and instead of giving them different backgrounds, like coming from different classes (like in tfp or idw1), they’re put in the same class as colleagues in mines. I’ve already seen people celebrating this as “an innovation/ something new” and an uplifting of Optimus’s character, because as the lower class he gets to rebel, therefore Megatron’s character aura won’t overshadow his. But actually, I am quite disappointed at this change. I think such arrangement is a worse one, not a better one, especially to those who love character depth and realist plots.

First of all, I want to argue that Optimus and Megatron carry every different roles in all transformers shows in general. By this I mean no matter how the plots change, the foundation of their motivations are different—maybe only except for Shattered Glass, where their roles are exchanged. Megatron’s foundation of motivation is: war/chaos. No matter how much his actions are justified, Megatron is still a bad guy, because he sticks to a path of violence and destruction rather than peace and negotiations. In contrast, (I put Megatron first because Optimus’s motivation is clearer if compared with Megatron) Optimus’s underlying logic (the foundation of his character motivation) is: peace/order. No matter how brilliant the battle scenes were, no matter how much he talked about “stopping Megatron at all costs”, Optimus’s final goal is to seek peaceful solution to the conflicts he engaged in, and find a way to resume order. That is also the basic logic of every transformers show, and how the playwrights justify autobots as the good guys, decepticons the bad guys. (This can be easily understood through series that give Megatron and decepticons fully justifiable motivations, like tfp and idw. They started the war because they were angry at the unjust treatments, and became villains because they eventually became a source of ongoing chaos and destruction)

With this premise, it is not difficult to see how brilliant and intelligent it is to put Optimus and Megatron in two different classes. Because people’s thoughts vary with very different experiences. In the past successful shows like tfp, the conflict between Optimus/Megatron is perfectly explained with an idealist/realist contrast.

Being an idealist advocate of freedom and equality is a successful way most Optimus(es) are portrayed. Under this premise, Optimus is basically a good person with strong sense of morality. He is aware of the problems in his system, seeks a change, but because he is from a more “privileged” class, or to say, closer to the power holders, he tends to develop an idealistic view of solving problems with milder approaches: handing in proposals, talking with congress members, or growing his own influence and trying to persuade the congress. In any of these cases, Optimus’s ideas are in line with his background. And like any well-written character, he is limited by what he can see in the class he belongs to.

As we’ve analyzed at the very beginning, Megatron’s characterization mainly revolves around “war and chaos”, one clever way (tfp and idw) playwrights used to make him more than just an evil stage prop is to make him more of a realist, in contrast with Optimus’s idealism. This usually comes with the backstory of Megatron coming from the bottom of the society, rebels with violence against social suppression he could not endure— at the same time, he also has a natural tendency to seek radical solutions. With this disadvantaged background, Megatron’s violent behaviors and refusal of peace are not groundless actions. It is a clever way to reflect the reality and increase plot depth. In my opinion, explaining “why the villain does evil” is the key to a successful story.

Another thing I want to argue is that, I don’t think giving Megatron and decepticons a justifiable backstory is diminishing/ “overshadowing” Optimus’s character. Because as we analyzed above, Megatron and Optimus have different roles to play. One overthrows the old system, the other rebuilds the new system. One raises the question, the other spends more efforts to find a feasible solution. Optimus and Megatron are two sides of the same coin. The depth of Megatron’s motivation actually decides how brave/noble/meaningful Optimus is in the act of “defeating” Megatron. For example, If Megatron’s “evil” is flatly portrayed as a bad-tempered child throwing a tantrum, Optimus’s “act of justice” is merely an older child calming the naughtiest kid in class.

Some believe that “not being able to stand up and rebel against suppression (like idw Megatron did)” made Optimus somehow “uncool” compared to Megatron. But he’s not. In fact, Optimus’s journey is not a bit easier compared to Megatron.

Instead of “suppressed class rebelling when there’s nothing to lose”, Optimus’s growth arc follows the route of a compassionate upper class who can look beyond where he stands for, and resonate with people who’s living under him and away from his life. Compared to Megatron’s “outward rebellion”, Optimus’s rebellion is “inward”: he has to fight himself to reach the higher ground— fighting the urge to step back into his conventional ways of thinking, fighting his self-doubts and inborn modesty to step back from leadership (very well presented in TFA and TFP), and by the end of the war, in most Megop fictions, Optimus has to fight back the urge to continue the war as he is used to, and step forward to “see” and “move” Megatron— understanding him, reaching out to him, loving him. Many people take “fighting on with the villains” as a braver, manly act, but actually stopping the conflict takes more courage and wisdom. And in the long run, it’s always a superior choice.

In short, I still think writing Megatron as the rebellious lower class and Optimus a compassionate upper class is a genius idea beyond comparison. They’re bound to be different, and there’s no harm in creating separate backstories for them. Like I’ve read in an early megop novel that has become a classic: “I’m here to do things you wouldn’t, so that you can do what’s right.” (Megs to OP)

In my own impression, Megatron is a radical revolutionary, and Optimus is an idealist reformer. The two carry different aims and functions in the plots, their values contradict and supplement each other, and so when they’re finally united, sitting down and listening to each other, their unity is incomparable.

[birrdies]

“when I say you are killing me” (desert duo one-shot, 2.6k)

Every inch of his climb is agony. White-hot and endless, it ricochets through Scar’s body as if it bought an expressway pass through his veins like a highway. Would it have killed Grian to get an apartment on the first floor? Hell, Scar would even take something on the third or fourth-floor if he had to. Anything would be better than dragging himself, slowly and painfully, up twelve flights of rickety metal stairs. In the snow. In the middle of the night. Bleeding.

Scar’s having a bad night.

Blood dribbles between the gaps of his fingers. It’s slower than it had been, but each heave up another flight of stairs blinds him with pain and sends a few more fresh droplets of blood sliding down his middle. His shirt (whatever tatters remain of it anyway) and pants are wet and tacky, sticking to his skin like a perpetually wet bathing suit as he tries to climb the rest of the way up to Grian’s apartment.

The fire escape is an old decrepit fixture of rusting metal mounted to the brick siding with nothing more than a few loose bolts and a dream. It groans beneath his weight, the barest shake of wind causing the metal to ripple and shudder. The metal saps the warmth from his already cold, pale fingertips. He’d had gloves, but had to get rid of them as they were soaked in blood and not all-that conducive for climbing-under-the-influence (of blood loss). Scar’s not afraid of much, least of all heights, but he chooses each step up the fire escape carefully, muscle memory a crutch as he drags himself past open windows with the lights still on. Last thing he needs is another broadcast claiming HotGuy is nothing but a petty creep with a penchant for B&Es.

By the time he reaches the twelfth floor he’s shaking from head-to-to. Each breath sears through him, rivaling the sharp-edged pain of lightning, setting him alight. It burns through him, the aftershocks never ending as he pulls himself upright and grasps onto the edges of Grian’s windowsill. A pained whine catches between his teeth; he refuses to let it out.

Curled up at Grian’s windowsill as he peeks through the drawn curtains at the warm lamplight cascading through the glass, Scar finds the painful climb was well worth each and every second of agony. No better minded than a moth drawn to a flame Scar leans in to rest his forehead against the glass, the warm, golden glow from within Grian’s apartment beckoning him forward. Inside, Grian’s sitting at his desk around a cluster of books and papers strewn around as if a bomb had gone off. His hair is fuzzy and curled at the tips, as it always is whenever Grian lets it air dry after a shower. His shoulders are hunched and the sides of his face are illuminated by the blue glow of his laptop screen. Even through the glass Scar can hear the incessant clacking of his keys as he furiously types away at whatever assignment he’s working on.

It takes Scar more than one try to build up the courage to disturb him. He looks peaceful (or about as peaceful as someone working on a lab report can be), and Scar knows that peace will shatter the second he knocks, the second he barges in, yet again, on Grian’s evening and sweeps him up in his vigilante shenanigans.

Scar’s bloodied hands grasp onto the windowsill, red streaks staining the chipping white paint like a crime scene out of some gruesome horror movie Grian would have him watch. He winces at the sight; it’ll be a nightmare to scrub out. He’ll have to remember to buy Grian dinner one of these days to make it up to him and hope that Grian will have the heart, eventually, to forgive him.

“Grian,” he mumbles, startled to find his voice nothing more than a gravelly rasp. He reaches to knock, but his arms are as stiff as uncooked spaghetti noodles and don’t listen to a word he has to say. With a huff of frustration, Scar pitches his weight forward and thumps his head twice against the glass. The dull ache through his forehead is nothing compared to the feverish burning tearing through his chest and stomach.

Inside, a shadow bolts across the floor. Grian’s cat, Maui. In his chair Grian twists around at the sound. He’s wearing his glasses— Scar’s heart drops low in his stomach at the sight— and squints through the darkness to see Scar sheepishly waving at him through the glass, his breath fogging it up just enough to be seen.

He unfurls himself from his chair and comes to pry the window open. Scar comes face-to-face with his heart-patterned pajama pants, two sizes too big and pooling around his ankles. Wait, are those Scar’s?

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Grian is asking before Scar manages to start dragging himself in through the open window. It’s only for the briefest millisecond, in Grian’s ignorance, that Scar can be grateful for the starless, moonless night. The dark shields him not only from the prying eyes of neighbors, but from Grian’s scrutiny. In this dark he can’t see the blood, can’t see the tears in his shirt. In the dark, he might just look a little ruffled, no worse for wear than he usually is after a busy night patrolling. In the dark, he and Grian can pretend, albeit for only a second, that everything is normal.

But as the pain and dark corners throbbing in his periphery are keen on reminding him, everything is very much not normal.

“I seemed to have lost my watch,” Scar says as he pulls himself in through the open window. Every movement is measured, half-withheld, ginger— everything that Scar isn’t, and he’d be a fool to think Grian wouldn’t notice. He does immediately, because he’s Grian, and he’s never been truly ignorant when it comes to Scar, despite Scar’s best intentions.

Grian steps back with wide eyes. The color drains from his face as Scar holds his weight against the wall with one blood-slicked hand and struggles to stand at his full height. Every inch he tries to stand taller, the more the swelling edges of the wound start to pull and ache.

“Scar?” Grian’s face, usually so warm and vivid, especially under the light of his desk lamp, pales to a near lifeless color. He staggers toward him, hands held out in front of him as if to catch Scar. “Scar, what happened? Are you okay?”

“Right as rain, G,” Scar says, managing a wry smile. “Honest.”

“Don’t give me that.” Grian rushes forward, grabbing Scar around the shoulders and steering him towards the futon in the middle of the room. The second Grian touches him some of Scar’s pain fades, if not just because he has somewhere else to pitch his weight, to take some of the strain off his bloodied, torn middle.

The pair of them hobble to the futon, Grian whispering mumbled nothings as he lowers Scar onto the edge and forces him to sit back with firm hands on his shoulders. Scar allows himself the smallest mercy of relaxing into the cushions, his arms and legs limp at his sides as his head lulls back to rest against the back of the futon. It’s as if every string tying his marionette up, stringing him along, has been cut all at once. It’s somehow blissful and terrifying all at the same time. He’s not sure he’s ever been this roughed up, this exhausted.

And in front of Grian of all people?

Grian, whose face is drawn tight, whose shoulders and jaw are rigid as if he’s been made out of wood. Grian, who anxiously flutters at Scar’s side for a second before disappearing in a flurry toward the kitchen. Scar’s head is too heavy for him to lift, but he hears Grian rummaging and cursing under his breath before he returns just as quickly as he left. In his arms he balances a handful of small dishtowels, a first-aid kit, and a box of blue rubber gloves.

“I can’t believe this,” he says, to himself more than to Scar, as he sits on his knees on the cushion beside Scar and leans over to assess the wounds.

Gingerly he pulls the tattered shreds of his black shirt away from the wound-bed (as much as he can with some of the fabric stuck to his body with blood like glue) and winces at the gory sight. Scar’s skin is torn in jagged ridges, three gouge marks clawed from just under his ribs and down across his right abdomen. Thankfully, the worst of the bleeding seems to have stopped, dark, thick globules of blood already starting to stitch together like wads of hot glue around the wound, crusting on the skin.

Grian examines it all with a crease between his brow that Scar, after all this time, has come to know means he’s irritated. He’s always looked especially cute when he’s angry (part of the reason it’s just too easy for Scar to give into the temptation to push his buttons whenever possible), but the downturn of his lips, the whites of his eyes, reveals something far more serious. Worry. Grian’s worried about him, and maybe it’s the blood loss starting to get to Scar in earnest, but Scar finds he far prefers this sight. He can’t help but smile back at him, even though he knows it’ll likely earn him a punch when he’s no longer bleeding out on Grian’s couch.

“Scar.” Grian says his name as if he’s been saying it for a while, but Scar’s only just now hearing it. “This is bad. Like, really bad.”

Scar blinks down his nose at him, brow furrowed. “You should see the other guy,” he says with a weak huff of laughter. “Stuck him so full of arrows you could call him a porcupine.”

“Scar, this is serious,” Grian admonishes, snapping on a pair of gloves and brushing his hair from his eyes.

“But you’re gonna fix me right up, ain’t you, Doc?” Sar teases, lifting his head just enough to catch Grian’s scowl as he flicks open the first-aid kit and fishes out a small brown bottle.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” Grian says, and there he goes again— detached, analytical, dawning his ‘I’m calm and collected’ persona. He pulls a pair of scissors out of the first-aid kit and tests the snap of them. “This doesn’t look like it was from some kind of a knife—”

“Ravager,” Scar says, gritting his teeth in anticipation. “Jerk got too close.”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “Sounds more like you got too cocky.”

Again, Scar finds himself fighting (and failing) to conceal a smug little smile. “You’re worried about me, just say it.”

“I’m pissed off is what I am,” Grian snaps. He peels up one edge of Scar’s shirt and begins cutting away as much of the fabric as he can without disturbing the edges of Scar’s wounds. He winces only when the shirt tugs too sharply on the red, puffy edges of the wound. And Grian, to Scar’s surprise, nearly flinches every time he does.

“Sorry, sorry,” Grian whispers each time, sounding so unlike himself. His face is pale, and if Scar isn’t mistaken there’s the faintest tremble to his hand.

“It’s okay,” Scar says, just as hushed, as if the slightest movement or raise in his voice will spook Grian. “Do what you gotta do. I’m tough, I’m strong. I can take it.”

Grian scoffs and peels a foil lid from the bottle’s cap, dumping a bit of it onto a folded dishrag. “Yeah, okay. We’ll see how tough and strong you are once I start cleaning this.”

“Give me your worst, Doc.” Scar lets his head loll back to stare at the ceiling, taking as deep a breath as his tense, wounded chest will allow. The twinge of pain reminds him to stay awake, has his fingers curling into the fabric of the futon beneath him.

Grian doesn’t give Scar a warning, which he appreciates. The anticipation is the worst part. He grits his teeth and bares it as Grian firmly, but not violently, uses the alcohol-soaked rag to wash away the blood from his torn skin. Scar scrunches his eyes shut and breathes through it, the pain an unrelenting impulse racing through his veins like faulty circuitry gone haywire.

And as soon as it starts, it’s over. Grian sits back on his heels and tosses the now blood-soaked rag to the floor. He wipes at the sweat blistering across his forehead with his arm, taking a shaky breath in as he examines his handiwork.

“It’s not too deep,” he says, sounding the slightest bit relieved. He twists to reach for the first-aid kit again. “You’re lucky I swiped this stuff from the lab. Though I won’t begin to guess why you came here instead of a hospital. This needs stitches, probably.”

“Eh, I’m not worried about another scar,” Scar dismisses, ignoring the small beads of sweat starting to gather on his own brow. He can’t handle Grian thinking he’s caused him any more pain; the only thing worse than suffering as he is now is to watch Grian torture himself over things he can’t control. Like Scar. “Besides, I can’t exactly keep up the whole secret identity thing if I go to a hospital half in costume, now can I?”

“Secret identity,” Grian parrots mockingly, unraveling a bundle of bandages and starting to tack them down around Scar’s middle. “You nearly got gutted, and that’s what you’re worried about. Of course.”

He’s angry. Scar would be an idiot to not be able to see it, and maybe it shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. But it’s not the anger that catches Scar off guard. It’s what lingers beneath it: Grian’s gloved, trembling hands, the way he can’t look Scar in the eye more than a second before having to look away, burying himself in sorting through the first-aid kit for the fourth time as if looking for something to help and, just like every other time, coming up empty-handed.

Grian’s scared.

Scar’s known Grian for years now, and over that time he’s been a lot of things. Angry, judgmental, infectiously funny, bright. But afraid has never been a word Scar has used to describe him.

“Grian…”

“Of course I’m worried,” Grian says, catching Scar off guard. His voice is so quiet, so hushed that Scar wonders if he imagined it. Because something so vulnerable and soft sounding couldn’t come from someone as headstrong and impervious as Grian. It simply isn’t possible. “How could I not be? Have you looked at yourself?”

“Hey.” Scar can’t dream of sitting up, but he manages to leverage himself up just enough to reach for Grian’s wrist. He’ll feel bad about staining Grian’s sleeves with blood later. For now he needs to grab hold of him, pull him in close. To reassure him. “I’m fine. I’m still here, aren’t I? I’m in good hands, yeah?”

“Scar,” Grian says, sounding like he’s about to start crying. He curls his fingers into a weak fist, as if to pull from Scar’s grasp, but he doesn’t try it. He only holds it there, waiting. “I’m not exactly qualified. I’m a bio student, not a—”

“You’re doing fine,” Scar insists, caressing the inner aspect of Grian’s wrist with his thumb. There, he can feel the furious pace Grian’s heart takes on at the touch, like his pulse is ready to leap out from beneath the thin layer of skin. He flashes a smile, just to prove it to Grian. “I’ve bounced back from a lot worse than this. I’m just glad I don’t have to do it alone this time.”

[ikari-600]

Shattered Glass AU

I had already designed an SG Bumblebee in different colors because I was bored. I also drew Blitzwing, but I don't consider it part of an AU. However, yesterday I had a burst of inspiration along with a story idea, so I think this will be my first AU. I've started writing the story; it will be only five chapters long because I have another story I'm working on.

Here are some details about this "Bee": he is more reserved, prefers to work alone, and the fewer mechs that get in his way, the better. He is skilled with daggers and knives, and while he sometimes uses a sniper rifle, he finds it more exciting to dive directly into the enemy. His colors give him a great advantage for exploring and camouflaging, allowing him to catch more than one mech off guard. He is very good at what he does, which is why his superiors occasionally "forgive" him when he disobeys and goes on a solo mission.

There is only one mech who would think twice before stabbing him in the back, and that is Bulkhead. They didn't get along too badly in training camp, and Bulkhead also showed great talent in engineering. It was clear he was going to go far, and if that was the case, Bee preferred to keep a friendly relationship with him to have some leverage. With any luck, he might even get to meet Ultra Magnus.

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

Ya había diseñado un Bumblebee de la serie SG en diferentes colores porque me aburría. También hice un dibujo de Blitzwing, pero no lo considero parte de una AU. Sin embargo, ayer tuve un ráfaga de inspiración junto con una idea para una historia, así que creo que este será mi primer AU. He empezado a escribir la historia; constará de solo cinco capítulos porque tengo otra historia en la que estoy trabajando.

Aquí algunos detalles sobre este "Bee": es más reservado, prefiere trabajar en solitario y cuanto menos interfieran otros mech, mejor. Es experto en el uso de dagas y cuchillos, y aunque a veces usa un rifle francotirador, encuentra más emocionante lanzarse directamente sobre el enemigo. Sus colores le proporcionan una gran ventaja para explorar y camuflarse, permitiéndole sorprender a más de un mech. Es muy hábil en lo que hace, por lo que sus superiores tienden a "perdonarle" de vez en cuando cuando desobedece y se embarca en una misión en solitario.

Hay solo un mech que pensaría dos veces antes de apuñalarlo por la espalda, y ese es Bulkhead. No se llevaban mal durante el campo de entrenamiento, y Bulkhead también demostró un gran talento en ingeniería. Era evidente que iba a llegar lejos, y si ese era el caso, Bee prefer��a mantener una relación amistosa con él para tener cierta influencia. Con suerte, incluso podría llegar a conocer a Magnus.

[soul-collectors]

SOUL COLLECTORS MASTERPOST

FULL CHRONOLOGICAL TIMELINE

PART 1; 1 - 2 - 3 - 4- 5 | PART 2; ...

SOUL COLLECTORS ASKS

(Al & Ditto) 1 - 2 - 3 -...

(N/A) 1 - ...

(World/Random Timelines) 1 - 2 ...

SOUL COLLECTORS BONUS(es)

it's time (not really) - Asriel Dreemurr takes off - 100 notes - can't shatter SOULs - Twitter special PT.1 - Twitter special PT.2 - squeezable Soul - Undyne's boots - wet jacket - UTY Special (1) - UTY Special (2) - UTY Special (3) - Good Boys - Skeleton teacup - Pie tasting - Fellsweep loss - Gaster's followers - Fall - Lego and S'mores - SOUL Chain! - Vess goes to jail - 2025 New year! - hello Vess! - Interesting. - Anon and Maker - Maker's glasses - Chatting - ...

CHARACTERS

[SOUL] - Design - Intro

[MAKER] - Design(s) - Intro

[LYGO] - Design

[VESS] - Design - Intro

[AL] - Design

[DITTO] - Design

(...)

(OTHERS)

[CROW] - Design - Intro

[EDU] - Design

SC; MAKER TIMELINE

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - ...

(In progress...)

GENERAL INFO

What is 'SOUL collectors'? (and why is it called that?)

SOUL Collectors is an Undertale multiverse for several different Undertale OCs I have created.

A collection of their interactions with each other, the multiverse, and their arcs into achieving their wants or needs.

It's also sometimes Open to Asks towards or about the characters!

basically my sandbox for ideas and OCs lmao-

SOUL Collectors is a passion project that only has me, @pathosketches working on it, It doesn't have a specific schedule for posting and not everything is set in stone, I'm only having fun here :]

SOUL Collectors is also the name that Soul (the guy from the poster) dubs himself as being one, seemingly able to literally 'collect' SOULs.

what makes this Multiverse special? (Why do SOULs look like that?)

The SOUL Collectors MV has a special 'glitch' that appears in some timelines after a run has ended (pacifist, neutral, or genocide) that gives the fallen 6 Human SOULs shape and prevents them from being shattered.

They’re called Anomaly SOULs.

BASIC INFO ABOUT ANOMALY SOULS

(From part 1 [5])

You'll learn about them and how they work from the story as it progresses and from Asks-

How many 'Stories' are there? (what is Maker timeline?)

SC has two main 'stories':

'SOUL collectors' itself.

'SOUL collectors: Maker timeline' a subplot/Secondary story that takes place before the events of SC. It (mainly) follows a Gaster variant that learned of his inevitable "fall" into the CORE and how that affected him and his timeline.

'SC: Maker timeline' will usually be drawn in a 'sketchy' style :)

Can I draw the SC cast with my ocs? / Can I draw the SC cast?

Yes!! absolutely!! Any art made of my silly characters would make my day!! and interactions with ocs are so much fun to see!!

Just remember to be respectful! (No NSFW/excessive gore/weird things/etc-)

(This post may be updated in the future, I hope you come to enjoy the freaks I created ˘͈ᵕ˘͈)

[wannab-urs]

Title: Harsher Than the Bark

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: Javi makes you feel things you’ve never felt before, will never feel with anyone else, but he can’t – or won’t – love you. 

Tags: smoking, probably shit spanish, smut, angst, fingering, squirting, unprotected PiV, probably unrealistic amount of orgasms (like 4 idk it’s kinda vague, choking/breath play, Javi has dom vibes but it’s not like BDSM he’s just bossy, one “good girl,” begging, religious imagery because Javi makes you see god, biting, that one position from that one scene – you fucking know the one, excessive cursing because it’s me and I refuse to change, Javi is a cuddler, emotionally unavailable!Javi, references to past arguments/past hookups because this has been an ongoing thing and I love to start in the middle of a story. Based on 505 by Arctic Monkeys, (being annoying and posting at 5:05 am) No beta we die like Oberyn WC: 1.4k

A/N: I kind of wrote this in a fever dream, I literally don't even know if it's any good. It's sort of a planned three parter, but I'm not putting pressure on myself to finish it, so each part can stand completely alone. If I write all three, it'll be called In the A.M. as in In the Morning but also because they're all based on Arctic Monkeys songs. Hope you like it <3

Series Masterlist | Javier Peña Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

The knife twists at the thought that I should fall short of the mark Frightened by the bite, though it's no harsher than the bark

Javier Peña is probably the best fuck you’ve ever had in your life. Actually, scratch that. He’s definitely the best fuck you’ve ever had in your life. He makes you feel things you’ve never felt before. Coming three times in one night with him is the absolute bare minimum. He loves it when you scream for him. Does everything in his power to get you a noise complaint from your neighbors. 

And God is he gorgeous. Long and lean with strong arms, broad shoulders, a tiny waist, a perky ass. His nose looks like it was carved off a greek statue and placed on his face. He’s got these big sad brown eyes, full lips framed by a neatly trimmed mustache, and a jawline that could cut glass. You’re probably in love with him. 

You put out your cigarette when you hear the door open, lay back in the bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s five in the morning, but you never turn him away. No matter what time. 

“Shouldn’t leave the door unlocked, hermosa,” Javi’s deep drawl drifts across the room to you. 

“Knew you were coming. Didn’t wanna have to get up.” 

Javi drops his shirt on the floor and crawls up the bed, draping himself over you and pressing a kiss to your lips. “No es seguro, cariño. Anyone could walk in.” (It’s not safe, baby).

“Lo que sea, Javi.” (Whatever, Javi). You roll your eyes at him. “It’s locked now, no?” 

Javi drags his lips along your jaw, nips at your throat, drags a finger through your folds. “Wet already, baby? Were you thinking of me?” 

You were, but you kind of hate him for being right. “Fuck you, Jav–” his name drags out into a moan as he stuffs two thick fingers inside you. He pumps his fingers in and out a couple times before curling them up into the spongy spot inside you. You throw your head back in pleasure, back arching and hips thrusting so that you’re practically riding his fingers. 

He wraps the fingers of his free hand carefully around your throat. “Mírame.” (Look at me). You force your eyes open and he’s so close you could count the individual hairs in his mustache. You look into his eyes with so much adoration, so much love, he has to look away. He squeezes your throat tighter and you close your eyes again as your cunt tightens on his fingers. 

He rubs circles on your clit in time with the thrust of his fingers, feeling you wind tighter and tighter around him. His hand on your throat isn’t blocking air, but you still can’t catch your breath. When your body is so tense it feels like you’ll shatter into a million pieces, he releases the hand on your throat. You gasp in a big breath and fall apart in his hands. He works you through it with firm, slow strokes. 

Just as you feel yourself start to come down, he picks up the pace again. He places the hand that was on your throat on your pelvis, holding you down on the mattress and rubs his thumb in quick, hard circles on your clit. He pumps his fingers into you hard and fast. 

“Come for me, hermosa. Come all over my hand.” 

Your vision whites out and you let out a near agonized scream as you clench around his fingers and gush all over him. Javi pulls his fingers out of you and slips them into your mouth. You suck the taste of yourself off his fingers. 

“Good girl,” he growls in your ear. He stands up, leaving you panting on the bed, and strips his jeans off. He strokes himself as he gets back on the bed, hand still slick with your cum. He pulls your thighs over his and you wrap your legs around him. He drags his cock through your folds and watches you shudder. 

“You’re soaked… You want me to fuck you?” The bastard is teasing you. You whine his name. “Las palabras, cariño.” (Words, baby). 

“Need you, Javi. Please. I need you so bad,” you’re desperate, aching for him. He taps your clit with the head of his cock one more time before lining up with your entrance and pushing in. You let out an absolutely wrecked moan, voice breaking as he bottoms out. 

He leans forward, planting his hands on either side of your head and pulls out before plunging back down inside you. He has your hips tilted almost vertically, driving you down into the mattress with every thrust. You dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders and drag them down his back, making him groan into your neck. 

Fucking Javi is always a religious experience. You find salvation and damnation at once in his arms and you swear you see God himself when you come on his cock. 

Javi doesn’t slow down despite the way you clench around him. He often works out his frustrations in your body, tries to bury them and himself in you. 

He pulls out and flips you over by your hips, sheathing himself inside you the second you’re on your knees in front of him. He fists one hand in your hair and pulls your back to his chest, wrapping the other hand around your breast. 

You lay your head on his shoulder and let the pleasure wash over you, lose yourself in it completely. You only exist in this moment, the pleasure and pain melding to form something divine inside you. He bites down on your neck and you come on his cock again, and you think you scream. You aren’t quite sure. 

Javi groans as he slams into you one, two, three more times and collapses forward onto the bed, trapping you under him. He stays inside you for a few more moments, nuzzling your neck. His lips catch your ear lobe as he pulls himself out of you and falls to the bed beside you. He wraps his arms around you, curling his body around yours, and holds you close. 

You lie in silence for a long time, just listening to each other breathe. This has become routine. Javi has a bad day at work and takes it out on your body in this bed. He never talks about it, about why he needs such a frenzied release, but you can guess. 

Sometimes, though, he’ll talk about growing up in Laredo or about a nice dinner he had with Connie and Steve or about an op that went well. Sometimes he lets you see beneath his hardened exterior. 

The truth is that you’re definitely in love with him. But Javi won’t ever be with you, not in the way you want. Javi won’t commit to being with you because this, what you just did, is all he thinks he deserves and all he knows how to do. He loves making you feel good, takes pride in making you come over and over and over. He loves making you moan and whine and scream for him. He loves it when you tell him how good he feels, how perfect he is, how pretty his cock is. He just doesn’t love you.

He always curls up with you, snuggles you close, clings to you. But if you bring up wanting something more, something defined and committed, he fucking runs. He can give you himself physically, but he can’t let you near his heart because it is rotten and caving in and no good. And you? You are good. He can’t touch you with that. The dark and broken part of himself. He can’t infect your good with his bad.

You know this and yet… 

A tear slips from your lashes, trailing down your cheek and falling onto the arm tucked under your cheek. 

“Cariño, ¿por qué lloras? (Baby, why are you crying?) He sounds… fucking anguished. “¿Te lastimé?” (Did I hurt you?)

“It’s nothing, Jav.” 

Javi sits up, grabs your face in his hands and makes you look at him. “It’s something. Dime.” (Tell me). 

“If I tell you, you’ll just fucking leave again, Javi. I can’t do this right now. Just hold me, please? Be here when I wake up?” 

Javi searches your eyes for a moment. You aren’t sure what he sees there. Heartbreak? Resignation? Desperation? Whatever it is convinces him. 

“Sure, yeah. I can do that.” 

[bio1]

I love twitch as a little gremlin

Megatron and his feral, little bird

[cityzenshark]

Likely a hot take: I find it hard to believe ES Megatron is as tyrannical as his G1 self.

There are implications of his harsh treatments, discipline, leadership towards his own troops in the past, Decepticons hating him because of his betrayal, but that's Megs on the Cons, not Megs to planet Earth or the entirety of the war. Prowl is the only Autobot seen being distrustful of him and he was painted a bad guy for it.

One of Megatron's main traits throughout the franchise (except Shattered Glass) is his sheer hatred towards organic races. Lost Light Megs still dislike them yet he doesn't let that hate turn destructive anymore. The irredeemable Megs though? They hate organics; they loath humans especially.

ES Megatron isn't like that. There's no way the regular Megs would want to work with humans, let alone want one in his vicinity. Perhaps he and Dot are just work friends -- formal friendship -- yet it obviously became more than that despite having not seen each other in years before the start of the show.

It's weird that people link G1 Megs and ES Megs as the same person when they're not. ES Megs is harsh, yes, but not tyrannical.

[lovelizards]

"You idiot...you made me wait...!"

Meres' breathing came in heavy and desperate gasps. One hand clutched the edge of the experimentation table, leaning over it and using it for support as his knees went weak.

The other hand was clamped onto Iska's wrist. She was watching him, trembling, as he battled with the enchantment magic. Watching him with her beautiful hazel eyes. They were full of tears, and her face was contorted in terror.

"Meres," the slender man was saying, though even his raised voice sounded muffled and far away, "I said get her on the table! Now!"

A branching pain struck his temples, and he doubled over with a groan. He felt his body moving of its own accord, haltingly, as it tried to comply with its master's orders. Iska cried out as he jerked her closer to the table.

"Please, Meres -!" She shouted, holding onto his arm, "I know you can break through! Please, come back - "

"You useless, addled bastard -" the slender man sighed.

From the table of alchemist's tools he picked up a curved knife and wielded what would normally be used for slicing roots and herbs as a deadly weapon, "- if you don't obey this instant, I will make certain you regret being born for the rest of your miserable life."

Another pang of pain in his head, he closed his eyes against it.

No! Not again! If Iska had to go through any more experimentation she...she would...!

Flashes of her lifeless, pale face as she lay on the table like a corpse, and begged him for death, played on the inside of his eyelids like he was there again. Her voice a whisper, her body more bruise than flesh.

"- es -! Me - es! Come back to me! Meres!"

Her voice broke through. His eyes snapped open, and he looked down at her. Her soft face was flushed from the effort of fighting him. Her hair a mess.

Meres blinked. Their eyes met. She gasped.

Then he turned on his heel, and punched the slender man in the mouth.

It laid him flat out on his back, the knife clattering across the floor. He hadn't even had a chance to realize the spell had broken.

"After everything I did for you -!" The slender man snarled.

Meres crossed to him as he was pulling himself up, "Ingrate! I will cast you into the furthest pits of hell! You are nothing! And you will always be nothing!"

The slender man threw out a hand, mouthing the words to a silent spell. Meres faltered. Was his heart even beating? Was he man, or animal? His head felt like it would burst, like he was engulfed in flames! No! He couldn't die here! Iska...! Iska needed him...!

"Leave him alone, you fucking cunt!"

Iska.

Meres opened his eyes just enough to see her launch herself at the slender man, looking ferocious and wild, with the curved knife in her hand. Already off-balance, it knocked the slender man and a table-full of alchemical glass onto the floor - the second of which shattered and sent glittering shards all across the room.

They wrestled with the knife for a moment. Meres was frozen, his mind roiling in pain, he couldn't move.

"I could have made you a divine being!!" The slender man shrieked - the cruelty gone from his face, replaced only with manic fear, "I could have taken your blood and created -"

"SHUT UP!" Iska screamed, and plunged the knife into his neck.

The slender man choked, blood bubbling up from the wound, and in the moment of his hesitation Iska pinned his arms down between her knees, and drove the knife into him again, and again; "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!!"

"I...Iska..." Meres mumbled, the pain receding and causing his vision to go hazy.

She couldn't hear him, she was in a frenzy, her hands drenched to the wrists in blood, her dress splattered dark and her tears mixing into what spray hit her face.

"Iska...!" He tried again, louder, "Iska, enough -!"

She froze, and turned to look at him.

Her eyes were vacant and wide, her breaths came in short, sharp gasps as blood pooled on the ground beneath her and the dead body of the slender man.

Meres stumbled towards her, but his vision wasn't clearing. In fact, it was getting gradually worse. The room faded to a blur, and then to a blankness.

"Meres..." Iska breathed, dropping the knife, and scrambling over to him, "what's wrong? What's wrong?"

"I - I can't see..." he whimpered, feeling but not seeing tears fill his eyes.

He tripped over his own feet, and felt Iska catch him - though she wasn't strong enough to hold his whole weight, and they both went to the floor.

"It's okay, it's okay, Meres," she said, and gently guided him to lie down with his head in her lap, "its - it's just the after effects of long-term enchantment magic. It should go away soon..."

He felt her hands on the side of his head. The soft of her thighs under him, and she was so close that her long hair brushed against his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Iska..." he said, reaching his hand up, blindly, to touch hers.

"You..." she mumbled, her voice thick with tears, "you should be..."

Her fingers interlocked with his, tightly, desperately, and she sobbed:

"You idiot...you made me wait...!"

Maybe it was relief, maybe he'd finally gone mad, but Meres laughed.

There he was, blind as a bat, lying in a pool of his master's blood...but he laughed - though a weak, breathy sound was all he could muster - because in that moment, he was happier than he had ever remembered being.

After another moment, the room started fading into focus.

And there she was.

Iska gazed down at him, her tears dropping onto his forehead, and her hair falling over his face. So close he could have kissed her, if he could move a single muscle.

"Iska...you're smiling," he whispered.

Once he was able to move again, once they had both picked themselves up off the floor, leaning on each other for support, they shuffled their way out of the experimentation room for what would be the last time.

The stairs from the basement had never felt so heartening. When they got to the simple wooden door at the top, Meres carefully blocked Iska and then kicked it open - snapping the lock and half of the door frame.

They didn't pass too many servant as they trudged bloody footprints through the manor. No one tried to stop them, not even the house guard.

In fact, the guards opened the door for them as they left. Was it pity? Maybe fear? He couldn't read their expressions, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered anymore.

"Meres..."

"Yes, Iska?"

"My feet...hurt..." she muttered, "could you carry me for a while?"

Meres felt his heart skip a beat.

"I'll carry you forever..." he answered, gently, carefully lifting her up into his arms, "until the end of time."

"What are you saying..." she asked in a huff, her face a heated flush, "just to the next town over...that'll be far enough."

Meres smiled. Iska did too.

And the two of them finally, finally left that place together.

『 Previous / Next 』

[barefoothighlander]

i loved your simon x sunshine wife can you please do one with konig ? love your work!!! <3

of course, thank you so much!

warnings: none just fluff, mention of anxiety

It was a pretty big shock to the team when they found out you and König were married, he was always quiet, keeping to himself where as you would burst into rooms, chatting with anyone who wanted to.

Contrary to popular belief he was talkative, but only when you were home, he'd tell you about his day, animals he'd encounter on his way home if he saw something he thought you'd find interesting.

He loved listening to you talk, ambling about whatever was on your mind, his eyes practically heart-shaped at the way your face lit up, your infectious smile that he loved.

You'd find things to surprise him with, somedays you'd try to cook or bake something that would remind him of his home considering he spent so much time away.

On his most recent deployment, you made it your mission to try and learn some German to surprise him.

You extended your arms to him as he entered the door, "Willkommen zu hause, meine liebe" You struggle through the words, squinting your eyes as you try to remember them. Even behind his hood, you could see his face light up, his eyes crinkling as he smiled, "Where did you learn that?", "Tried to learn some while you were gone, is it terrible?" You scrunch your face and he shakes his head, stepping forward to wrap his arms around you, "You're pronunciation is off but, es ist perfekt, meine liebling"

He enjoyed how tactile you were, always having your hands on him somehow, his favourite was when you played with his hair after a long day. Every morning before he left for work he'd wake you up to braid it for him, insisting that you did it so much better than him and you happily obliged.

You were a naturally curious and extroverted person, stopping in the street to have conversations with strangers, asking to pet their dogs as you walked hand in hand with him, the idea of chatting with strangers made him nervous, scared they'd be intimidated by him but you always held his hand through interactions.

If he was anxious you'd pull him aside and wrap your arms around him, providing some sort of pressure on his chest to help him relax, reminding him to breathe.

He was utterly surprised when you first began dating, his face flushed as you asked him out on a date, most people crossed the street when they saw him, his large mask-clad form roaming the streets, but not you, you didn't treat him differently than any other person.

It took him a few months to be comfortable enough to show you his face, nervous you'd dislike the way he looks but he practically melted into your touch when you stroked a thumb across his cheek, tucking loose hair behind his ear.

"It's long, your hair, I thought it'd be short" "You don't like it" "I love it"

The wedding was small, held at your home with just a few friends, the team and minimal family, you had let him choose the food for the occasion while you took to decorations. Picking flowers from the garden that the two of you had made, it helped with his stress to tend to the flowers, having to be responsible for something so fragile.

You had gotten closer to the team and encouraged him to do the same, inviting them over on weekends and stopping by the base when they were there, it was no surprise that you got along with the men and it helped him get to know them better, lightly laughing along as you joked with Soap and Price.

"Cannae imagine how big your kin will be, I mean the man is massive" König practically choked on the air in his throat as Soap joked. "You have no idea, Johnny" You laughed, König dropped his head in embarrassment, laughing while you leaned to rest your head on his shoulder.

It was a weekly occurrence that you had to remind him that you weren't made of glass, every touch so gentle and careful like it he pressed too hard you'd shatter.

In public his hands always sought some part of your body, whether they settled on your waist or lower back, you grounded him.

He'd complain a lot about how you'd steal food from his plate but the truth was he thought it was cute, how you'd try to sneak bites away while he wasn't looking, or attempt to distract him while he was cooking so you could pick at the food.

Sometimes when he was really tired or stressed he'd slip back into German, forgetting that you couldn't understand every word and apologizing.

"will dich nicht verlassen" He grumbled, you hummed in response, turning his head to peak an eye at you "M'sorry, forgot for a minute" "S'okay, I like hearing you speak" "You can't understand me" "Your face says more than you think" You smile, kissing his forehead while his arms wrapped around you, tugging you into him.

It was a struggle every time he left home, not knowing when he'd be home, but the wait was always worth it, watching him walk through the door and immediately relax his shoulders at the sight of you, his eyes staring at you the same way they did when you first met.

Willkommen zu hause, meine liebe (welcome home my love)

es ist perfekt, meine liebling (it’s perfect my darling)

will dich nicht verlassen (i don’t wanna leave you)