#>> IT GOT ME SO MUCH CLOSER TO MY CHARACTERS

[fic-girlie]

I suddenly got an idea for a fanfic. It's about a reader who's bilingual. English being their second language, whilst their native one flows out automatically whenever something, I guess, unexpectedly occurs? At first, I wanted you to write this oneshot with Frankie. However, the more I thought about it, the more I realised it would be fitting with Pedro, too. I can’t decide on this, so you can choose whatever character you'd like.

In your language

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x bilingual!reader Summary: You speak in two tongues. Pedro falls in love with both. Warnings: established relationship, reader is Italian, smut, oral (f receiving), fluff, meeting the reader's family, cuteness

It starts with a spill.

You’re holding two mugs of coffee, steam curling lazily in the crisp morning air, balancing your phone precariously between your ear and shoulder as you nudge open your apartment door. Pedro is inside—somewhere—padding barefoot across your hardwood floors like he lives there. Which, lately, he sort of does.

The cup in your left hand tips a little too far forward as you push through, and—

“Merda!”

The word rips out of you before you can catch it, sharp and instinctive. The hot splash hits the top of your sweater, and you hiss, holding the cup away from your body. A few droplets hit the floor, dotting the wood like raindrops.

From the kitchen, you hear him call, “What happened?”

You’re too busy juggling the mugs and your phone and the lingering sting on your chest to answer right away. By the time you’ve set everything down safely on the coffee table, he’s already rounding the corner, still chewing on a piece of toast, looking sleep-soft and concerned.

“Did you burn yourself?” he asks, voice rough with the kind of concern that always makes your chest ache in the gentlest way. His eyes flicker down to your sweater. “Wait—did you say merda?”

You freeze.

The word is small, automatic. Most people gloss over it. Most people don’t even recognize it.

But Pedro does. And now he’s grinning, eyes twinkling as he takes in the mess, the way your cheeks flush, the way you suddenly can’t meet his gaze.

“Wait,” he says, setting his toast down on a napkin like he’s preparing to have a moment. “Was that Italian?”

You drag a hand down your face and sigh.

“Ugh. Yes. I mean—sì.”

The smile that blooms on his face is pure sunshine.

“Well damn,” he says, stepping closer. “How did I not know you spoke Italian?”

You shrug, still feeling a little flustered. “It doesn’t come up much. Not unless I’m startled. Or… annoyed. Or burn my boobs with coffee.”

Pedro laughs, warm and delighted. He stops in front of you, fingers gently reaching out to inspect the damp spot on your sweater. “Does it hurt?”

“No. Just startled me.”

“And made you cuss like a beautiful little Italian sailor.”

You swat at him. “Shut up.”

But he doesn’t. Not really. His smile softens, and his hand settles lightly on your hip.

“I like it,” he murmurs, voice dipping low and intimate. “I like hearing that part of you.”

You feel it like a tremor, the way he says that—that part of you—like it’s a secret you accidentally let slip and now he’s holding it with both hands, gently, reverently.

“You’re gonna make fun of me, aren’t you?”

“Only a little. Only because I like you flustered. But seriously…” His thumb strokes your hip through the fabric of your sweater. “Say something else. In Italian.”

You groan. “Pedro—”

“Please?”

Your lips twist into a reluctant smile. He knows he has you. He always does when he says please like that, all raspy and boyish and full of pretend innocence.

“Va bene,” you mutter, and his eyes light up like he just won a prize.

You reach for the coffee you didn’t spill, hand it to him, and say, very softly, “Sei impossibile, lo sai?”

His brows shoot up. “That sounded… hot.”

“I said you’re impossible.”

“Oh, I am. Completely.” He lifts the cup in thanks. “Now say something else. Something sweet.”

You tilt your head, watching him sip your coffee like it’s the first time anyone’s ever made it for him. And maybe that’s what you love about Pedro—the way he treats every moment like a gift.

Your voice is quieter when you say, “Mi piaci da morire.”

He pauses, mug still raised to his lips. “What does that one mean?”

You hesitate, but only for a second. Then you say, “I really like you. Like… a lot. To death.”

There’s a stillness in the air after that, the kind that makes your heartbeat a little too loud in your ears.

Pedro slowly lowers the mug. His eyes don’t leave yours. You half expect him to crack a joke, to soften the moment, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he says, “Say it again.”

You blink. “What?”

“Say it again. In Italian.”

You swallow.

“Mi piaci da morire.”

His hand curls around your waist, slow and careful.

“I don’t know what the hell you’ve been saying,” he whispers, leaning down just a little. “But you could say anything like that and I’d fall harder every time.”

You try to laugh, but your throat is tight. “Pedro—”

“I’m serious.” His forehead touches yours. “You’re incredible. I’m just mad I didn’t hear you cussing in Italian sooner.”

You can’t help the little smile that escapes. You press your palms to his chest, feeling the steady warmth beneath his t-shirt. “It usually only comes out when I’m overwhelmed.”

“Good to know,” he murmurs, and then his hands are cupping your jaw, his mouth brushing yours, soft and slow and reverent.

And somewhere in the back of your mind—somewhere between his lips and the heat curling low in your belly—you think, Dio mio, sto davvero innamorandomi di lui.

God, I’m really falling for him.

——

Pedro hasn’t stopped teasing you about your sudden language switch. But not in a mean way—not even close. It’s the gentle kind of teasing that makes you feel warm in your skin. The kind that reminds you he listens. That he notices.

That night, after dinner, he sprawls on your couch with his socked feet tucked under your thigh, phone in one hand, the remote abandoned somewhere between two cushions.

You’re texting your cousin in Rome—half-laughing at whatever ridiculous meme he’s just sent—when Pedro peeks over.

“You get extra cute when you’re typing in Italian,” he murmurs, voice low and lazy.

You raise an eyebrow, still tapping out a reply. “How can you even tell?”

“Because your lips move a little when you read it. And you tilt your head like a cat.”

You scoff, tossing a cushion at him without looking. “You’re so weird.”

“I’m observant.” He catches the pillow, hugs it to his chest like a smug bastard. “And extremely into you.”

That makes you smile. It always does. Because Pedro doesn’t flirt like most men you’ve known. He doesn’t just aim for your body—he zeroes in on all the hidden things. The layers you keep quiet. The way your voice changes when you talk about home. The way you sometimes correct yourself mid-sentence in English and don’t think he notices.

He does. Every time.

Your phone buzzes again, and you groan softly.

“What’s up?”

“My zia wants to FaceTime. If I don’t answer, she’ll think I’ve died.”

Pedro grins. “Answer. I wanna see what you’re like in full Italian mode.”

“Nooo.” You bury your face in his arm. “It’s chaos. She talks with her hands. It’s like a full-body experience.”

“All the more reason,” he says, reaching over and tapping the green ‘accept’ button before you can stop him.

“Pedro—!”

But it’s too late. The screen brightens, and there she is—Zia Carla, with her hair in curlers and a half-eaten biscotto in hand.

“Tesoro mio!” she cries. “Finalmente! Sono giorni che non ti fai viva!”

You sit up straighter, already slipping into it—your voice, your posture, even your expressions all shift slightly, softer around the vowels, warmer somehow.

“Zia, sto bene, te lo giuro. Scusa, sono stata occupata con il lavoro e... e Pedro.”

Pedro perks up when he hears his name, waving shyly toward the screen. You regret mentioning him immediately.

Her eyes narrow like she’s just spotted prey. “Ahhh. Lui è il famoso Pedro?”

You nod, a little sheepish. “Sì, lui è qui. Sta con me.”

“È bello, eh? Troppo magro forse, ma gli occhi... mamma mia!” she says, as if he can’t hear a word of it. Then, in an exaggerated accent: “Hello, Pedro! You-a like my niece?”

He laughs, utterly charmed. “Very much, Zia.”

“Oho!” she beams. “Parla anche l’italiano, questo uomo?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Non ancora. Ma ci prova.”

He tugs on your sleeve. “What’d she say?”

You bite your lip. “She thinks you’re too skinny.”

Pedro feigns a wound to the heart. “Unbelievable. I eat like a maniac for you and this is what I get?”

“She said you have nice eyes too.”

“Oh. Okay. I forgive her.”

You talk with your aunt for a few more minutes, Pedro watching you like you’re speaking in poetry instead of everyday complaints about your work schedule and your neighbour’s terrible parking habits. He doesn’t interrupt—he just listens, eyes soft, fingers tracing slow patterns on your thigh beneath the blanket.

And when the call ends and you toss the phone aside, he shifts to face you fully.

“Can I say something?”

You glance at him, cautious. “Always.”

“You’re…” He exhales slowly, as if trying to collect the right words. “You’re different when you speak Italian. Not in a bad way. It’s like—like there’s more color in your voice. Like watching a movie go from black and white to color.”

Your throat tightens.

He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.

“And I like all of it,” he murmurs. “The English, the Italian. The curse words. The quiet stuff you say under your breath. I want to learn it all. Even if I mess it up.”

You smile, barely. “You’d butcher the accent.”

“Definitely,” he grins. “But I’d butcher it for you.”

You whisper, “Ti voglio bene, Pedro.”

He pauses.

“What’s that mean?”

You run your fingers gently through his curls. “It’s not quite I love you. It’s more… I want you good. I care for you. Deeply. Intimately.”

Pedro’s eyes darken with emotion. “Say it again.”

You do. Softer this time.

“Ti voglio bene.”

And then he kisses you.

Slow. Careful. Like he’s translating it with his mouth.

Your body melts into him, hands curling in the soft cotton of his shirt, your breath catching when his fingers slip under the hem of yours, tracing the skin at your waist.

“Say something dirty in Italian,” he whispers, voice a little breathless.

You laugh into his neck. “You won’t even know what I’m saying.”

“Exactly. That’s half the fun.”

You oblige, whispering a line so salacious his brows shoot up even before you translate. He groans low in his throat, pulling you into his lap.

“Okay. Now I’m learning Italian.”

You smile against his lips.

“Buona fortuna, amor mio.”

Good luck, my love.

Pedro doesn’t rush.

He never does when it comes to you.

Even now, when the room is quiet and you’re curled up in his lap, your thighs straddling his hips and your mouth still flushed from the kiss that turned your bones to silk—he just holds you. One hand on the back of your neck, his thumb stroking slow circles there. The other flat on your lower back, anchoring you in place like he’s afraid to let you float away.

“You said something filthy before,” he murmurs against your temple. “Tell me again. Let me hear it.”

Your lips curve, a little breathless already. “You don’t even know what it meant.”

“Doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, rasped. “Just say it.”

So you lean in, and whisper it—the same line you teased him with earlier, but this time right at his ear, letting every li and ca and sc roll from your tongue like honey.

Pedro shudders.

“Jesus. That sounded illegal.”

You laugh—quiet and warm—and then you feel it: the way his hands tighten just slightly, the way his breath hitches when you shift in his lap and your thighs squeeze around him. There’s heat building between you now. A kind that asks to be handled slowly.

He cups your cheek and tilts your face up so he can look at you.

His brown eyes flicker down to your lips. “You know what you do to me when you speak like that?”

“Cosa faccio?” you murmur.

“What?”

You smile. “I asked what I do to you.”

He leans in, brushing his mouth over yours—once, twice, before murmuring, “You turn me into someone who wants to worship.”

Your heart nearly stops.

And then he kisses you again. Not with heat, not at first—but with reverence.

He kisses like he’s trying to learn your whole language by touch.

You feel it when his hands finally start to move—one up your back, under your shirt, tracing the slope of your spine until your breath hitches again. He explores slowly, fingertips like questions, until you finally lift your arms and let him peel the shirt away. You’re bare beneath it, and when his eyes drop to your chest, he exhales like he’s seeing something sacred.

“Dio mio,” he whispers, without even realizing he’s said it in your language.

Your breath catches.

Pedro’s hands slide up your sides, cupping your breasts gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble under his touch. You bite your lip to keep from gasping.

He sees it. Leans close.

“Let me hear you. Don’t hide from me.”

You shake your head faintly, blushing. “Mi fai perdere la testa...”

His eyes flick up again. “What’s that?”

“You make me lose my head.”

Pedro groans softly. “Say it again.”

You do—this time while pressing your body closer, letting him feel just how undone you’re becoming beneath his touch. You whisper it into his mouth, into the skin of his jaw, into the crook of his neck.

He lifts you with a quiet grunt, carrying you toward the bed.

The sheets are cool beneath your back, but he warms you instantly—spreading your thighs gently, kissing the inside of your knees, your hips, your belly. He takes his time. Treats you like a map he’s learning by heart. You’re trembling by the time his lips finally settle between your legs.

And when his mouth touches you there—slow, firm, reverent—you cry out something in Italian you didn’t even know was still in your head.

“Oh Dio, Pedro—non fermarti, per favore, non fermarti—”

He moans into you. “Keep talking.”

You can’t help it. The words fall like prayers.

“Sì, così... così... sei perfetto, sei perfetto—”

He doesn't understand each word, but he doesn’t need to. He reads them in the way your hips lift, the way your hand clutches his hair, the way your whole body melts under the rhythm of his mouth. He works you slowly, lovingly, like he has all the time in the world.

And when you finally fall apart under his tongue—trembling, gasping, speaking in broken syllables—he climbs up and kisses you with all of it still on his lips.

You taste yourself and him, salt and heat, devotion.

He looks down at you, breathing hard.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” he says. “Even when I don’t understand a word.”

You reach up, tracing his cheek, your heart hammering in your ribs.

“Fallo di nuovo.”

He smirks faintly. “What’s that?”

You whisper, flushed and open beneath him.

“Do it again.”

And he does.

——

The night before is still a hum in your bones.

You wake up wrapped in his arms, your cheek pressed to his chest, the scent of him thick in the sheets. His fingers are tangled in your hair. His breathing is slow. You could stay like this for hours.

But this morning isn’t just yours.

Your family is waiting.

You’d warned him, of course. They’re intense. Loud. My mother will feed you until you burst. My father might pretend he doesn’t like you but he’ll be watching everything. My nonna will ask if you’re Catholic within the first five minutes.

Pedro had smiled at all of it.

“I can handle loud. I’m Latin—we invented loud.”

You’d laughed, but your nerves had stayed knotted under your skin. Because this isn’t just some guy. He’s not a fling or a maybe. He’s Pedro.

And your family? They love hard. They judge hard, too.

So now, you’re smoothing your dress nervously in the car while he drives, trying not to pick at your nails, muttering in Italian under your breath as you reread a text from your sister about how many people are coming.

Pedro glances over.

“You keep doing that.”

You blink. “Doing what?”

“Whispering in Italian when you’re stressed. It’s adorable. What’d you just say?”

You sigh. “That I hope they don’t ask too many questions. And that my uncle’s wife still owes me thirty euros.”

Pedro snorts.

“They’ll love you,” you murmur. “I just—”

He reaches over and takes your hand, kissing the back of it.

“Amor... if they love you, they’ll love me.”

You manage a weak smile.

The house comes into view a few minutes later. It’s exactly as you left it: terracotta tiles, wide open windows, your mother’s herbs growing wild in crooked ceramic pots by the front steps. You can already smell garlic and basil and woodsmoke. You swallow hard.

The front door is flung open the moment you step out of the car.

“Figlia mia!”

Your mother’s voice is a cannon of joy as she comes out, arms open. She hugs you tight, peppering your face with kisses before pulling back and finally noticing Pedro standing awkwardly by the car.

Her eyes flick over him. Her lips purse. She’s assessing.

You murmur, “Mamma, questo è Pedro. Pedro, this is my mother.”

He steps forward, warm and respectful, holding out his hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, signora.”

Your mother doesn’t shake it.

She hugs him.

You blink.

Pedro’s eyebrows shoot up for half a second before he melts into the hug, chuckling softly.

“Oh,” he murmurs as she pulls back, patting his cheek. “That was better than I expected.”

Inside, the house is chaos.

Cousins. Aunts. Your grandmother in the corner snapping green beans while the TV blasts some midday telenovela. Your uncle is stirring something massive on the stove and singing off-key. It smells like childhood and heaven.

Pedro follows you closely, his hand on the small of your back, his eyes wide but curious.

Everyone stares.

You’re swarmed by relatives as soon as you cross the threshold.

Pedro gets a flurry of greetings. Some in English. Some not. He smiles through all of it. Your aunt hands him a glass of red wine before even asking his name.

“Drink, drink,” she insists.

And then, of course—

“Ma tu sei cattolico?” your nonna demands, peering up at him like a detective.

You cover your face.

Pedro blinks. “I—uh—”

You jump in quickly. “She asked if you’re Catholic.”

Your sister swoops in next, dragging you toward the kitchen while Pedro’s left behind with a plate of antipasti and three different relatives asking him questions all at once.

“He’s hot,” she mutters in your ear. “Mamma actually hugged him. What the hell did you do, seduce a priest?”

You elbow her, but your cheeks burn.

You peek around the corner and find him still standing by the kitchen doorway, laughing with your uncle over something. His Spanish slips in now and then — quick, casual — and you catch the moment your mother raises her eyebrows with quiet approval.

He doesn’t know it, but he’s already winning them over.

Later, at the table — long, crowded, covered in more food than should be humanly possible — Pedro sits beside you while everyone talks over one another in a chaotic symphony of forks and hands and glasses clinking.

He leans close, whispering in your ear. “I understood maybe eight percent of that.”

“You’re doing great,” you murmur back. “Better than I expected.”

Then—

From the other end of the table, your father speaks.

“Pedro,” he says in accented but solid English. “You are actor.”

Pedro nods. “Yes, sir.”

“You are… famous?”

A pause.

Pedro shifts slightly. “Some people know me. Mostly if they watch too much TV.”

Your father is quiet for a beat. Then—

“My daughter… she does not care about that. You know?”

Pedro looks at him—soft and serious now.

“I know.”

“Good.” Your father nods once, spears a meatball, and says nothing more.

You exhale for the first time in minutes.

Pedro leans toward you again and murmurs, “Was that the boss battle?”

You laugh so hard you nearly spill your wine.

——

After lunch, while your relatives drift into sleepy conversation or step outside for espresso and air, you find Pedro sitting on the back steps with your grandmother.

They’re just… sitting.

She’s talking softly in Italian. He’s listening, even if he doesn’t understand everything, and he nods when she pats his hand and says something that sounds like a blessing.

You stand in the doorway for a moment, just watching.

He sees you and smiles.

And that’s it.

That’s the moment you know.

Your family speaks a thousand miles an hour. They don’t pull punches. They hug too hard. They ask about religion and money and marriage far too early.

And Pedro?

He took all of it with grace, with warmth, with laughter.

Later, in the car, you tuck your legs up beneath you, still full from lunch and heavy with affection.

“They really liked you,” you murmur.

He glances over. “Even your dad?”

You smile.

“Especially my dad. He just won’t admit it for another three years.”

Pedro laughs softly. Then he reaches over and lifts your hand to his lips.

“I like them too,” he says. “But I love the language they made you in.”

You look at him.

And whisper—soft, full of something you’ve never quite said aloud yet—

“Ti amo, Pedro.”

His breath catches.

And when he kisses you at the next red light—slow and warm and sure—you know he heard every word.

[crystal-to-bloom]

Invincible characters react to their first kiss with you ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

𝕊𝕙𝕪!𝕐/𝕟 𝕩 ℝ𝕖𝕩 𝕊𝕡𝕝𝕠𝕕𝕖; ♡⋆.ೃ࿔*

Rex stood with his arms crossed, watching Y/n talk to Bulletproof. She was smiling just a little, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, answering something shyly — and it made something twist inside him.

He didn’t even know why he was mad. It just irritated him.

Why was she like that with him?

Why not with him?

Loudly — on purpose — he called out:

— Oh, cool. New dynamic duo? Y/n and Mr. Emotionless?

They both turned. Bulletproof just gave a short nod, not getting involved, while Y/n looked down awkwardly.

— What? — she asked softly as she approached Rex.

— Nothing, — he scoffed. — Just wondering if you're gonna be chatting with him all the time now instead of me.

She blinked.

— We were just talking…

— Yeah. I saw. Smiling at him like he's a stand-up comic, not a walking brick wall.

Y/n frowned a little.

— Are you… jealous?

He made a face.

— No. I’ve got eyes, that’s all. I remember when you couldn’t say two words around me — now suddenly you’re Miss Chatterbox with *him*? Feels kinda… weird.

She went quiet, then said softly but seriously:

— With him, it’s just like talking to a friend.

But with you… it’s different.

Rex looked away, scratched the back of his neck.

— Well… good. ’Cause, you know, I’m kinda used to you being my awkward, shy, ridiculously cute Y/n. Not someone who chats up every guy around.

She smiled a little:

— I’m still her.

It’s just… being around you is harder. Because I like you.

He froze for a second, then blurted:

— Damn…

— Was that supposed to be adorable and flustering at the same time?

’Cause, yeah, it worked.

She giggled, leaning her head lightly against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her casually and muttered:

— Alright, alright… Just no more “buddy-buddy” team-ups, okay?

They stood close — a little closer than friends, a little quieter than usual. Rex was looking at Y/n thoughtfully.

— So… — he said suddenly, — did you ever have someone before me?

She flinched just a little but didn’t look away.

— No… I didn’t.

— No one? — he squinted.

— Mhm. Not even… — her voice dropped. — Not even a kiss.

He froze, then raised his brows and stepped in closer, smirking:

— Hold up. Are you telling me… this — he motioned around her face with his finger and gently nudged her shoulder — this sweet, awkward, horned Y/n — and no one even tried?

Y/n looked down and shrugged:

— I… never really thought about it.

— No way, — he snorted. — What, was everyone blind?

She flushed even deeper, hiding a little in her hoodie collar.

— Ah, I get it now, — he said, drawing it out. — You were saving the moment. For someone… special. Like, I don’t know, some incredibly amazing guy.

He pulled an innocent face, clearly referring to himself. Y/n gave a shy little smile:

— Maybe…

Rex gave a thoughtful hum:

— Well, if that’s the case… I guess I could make the sacrifice.

She looked up at him — surprised, embarrassed. And he was already speaking softer now, with that look that always made her heart beat faster:

— Want me to be your first kiss? Only if you promise not to compare anyone to me afterward. No one’s gonna top it anyway.

Y/n giggled through the blush:

— Cocky much?

He leaned in a little, voice dropping to a playful whisper:

— Mhm. But you’re still saying yes, right?

She nodded.

Rex leaned in and kissed her — slow, gentle, like it wasn’t just a kiss but something a little more. And when he pulled back, he smirked again:

— There. Officially spoiled now.

𝕊𝕙𝕪!𝕐/𝕟 𝕩 𝔼𝕧𝕖 ˚◞♡ ⃗*ೃ༄

The rooftop was quiet, bathed in the amber hues of the setting sun. The city buzzed below, distant and unfocused, like background noise in a dream. Up here, it felt like the world had slowed down just for the two of them.

Eve sat with her legs crossed, elbows resting on her knees as she gazed out toward the skyline. Her hair shimmered in the dying light, like it had caught fire in the best way. Y/n sat beside her, close but careful — her hands in her lap, fingers nervously tracing the hem of her sweater.

They had been talking for nearly an hour now. Not about missions. Not about powers. Just… about things. About the little thoughts that filled their heads at night. Favorite songs. Old cartoons. Secret fears. Eve had a way of listening that made you feel seen, and Y/n always found herself saying more than she planned.

Then Eve turned slightly, a playful smile on her lips.

— You’re blushing again.

Y/n looked down quickly, tugging her sleeves over her hands.

— Am I?

— Mhm. You always do that when I look at you too long.

Y/n tried to laugh it off, cheeks now fully warm.

— Maybe I’m just cold?

— Sure, that’s why you turn red like a strawberry.

Eve nudged her gently with her knee, teasing but soft. Y/n peeked up through her lashes, finally letting out a breath.

— It’s not just the way you look at me. It’s… you. You always make me nervous.

Eve blinked, genuinely surprised.

— Me? Why?

— You’re confident. You always know what to say. And you’re beautiful. It’s kind of… a lot, when I’m sitting this close to you.

Eve was quiet for a moment, her smile dimming into something softer.

— That’s funny. Because you’re the one who makes me nervous.

Y/n looked up, eyes wide.

— Wait. Seriously?

— Yeah, seriously. You’re so… genuine. You don’t fake anything. It’s like when I talk to you, I can’t just hide behind all the stuff I usually do. And that’s kinda scary. In a good way.

Y/n blinked fast, heart thudding.

Then she said it. Barely above a whisper.

— I’ve… never kissed anyone before.

The words lingered in the air, delicate and vulnerable. Eve’s eyes searched her face, not for weakness — but for truth. And when she found it, her expression only softened further.

— Never?

Y/n shook her head slowly, tucking her hands under her chin like she could hide in them.

— I always thought I’d know when it was right. But it never was. Until now, maybe.

Eve inched closer, slowly — like she was afraid to break the moment.

— Y/n… would you be okay if… I was your first?

Y/n froze, breath caught in her throat. Then, after a beat, she nodded.

Eve reached up and gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing Y/n’s cheek. The touch was light, reverent. Their eyes met — and held.

When Eve leaned in, she moved slowly, giving Y/n every second to change her mind. But she didn’t. She leaned in too, heart pounding, and when their lips touched, it was like a sigh — soft, unsure, but full of promise.

It wasn’t a dramatic kiss. No fireworks, no rushing. Just warmth. Care. A quiet electricity that pulsed between them like a heartbeat.

When they pulled back, Eve rested her forehead gently against Y/n’s and whispered, her voice a mix of wonder and playfulness:

— Told you. Not so scary.

Y/n smiled, her cheeks still flushed, her eyes shining.

— Only because it was you.

Eve let out a small, breathy laugh and brushed her thumb lightly along Y/n’s knuckles.

— Guess that means I did something right, huh?

— You did everything right.

And for a while, they just sat there — shoulder to shoulder, hearts a little lighter than before, as the sky shifted from gold to deep blue.

𝕊𝕙𝕪!𝕐/𝕟 𝕩 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕜 𝔾𝕣𝕒𝕪𝕤𝕠𝕟 ˚◞♡ ⃗*ೃ༄

The park was nearly empty by the time they reached the quiet path. The wind rustled lazily through dry leaves, and the rare lampposts seemed to breathe light softly, not in a hurry to disturb their solitude.

Y/n sat down on the bench first, tugging the sleeves of her sweater over her fingers. Mark sat beside her, just slightly to the side — that awkward kind of politeness when you want to be close, but you're afraid to scare someone off.

— "Feels like the whole world’s already asleep," he mumbled, staring into the shadows beneath the trees.

— "But we’re not," she replied softly, with a gentle smile.

A bit of silence followed. Then Mark started telling her about how Rex tried to heat up a frozen burrito in the lab microwave and nearly caused a small explosion. Y/n let out a laugh she couldn’t hold back, hiding her mouth with her sleeve, and Mark smiled with relief.

— "I’m glad you came," he said after a pause, scratching the back of his neck. His cheeks were slightly pink, though he tried to hide it by looking away. — "You always kind of… hide a little. But I’m really glad you didn’t hide from me."

Y/n squeezed her fingers together.

— "I do hide," she admitted quietly. — "I’m not like the rest of you. Sometimes it’s easier — to stay quiet. Just to be near."

He turned toward her — and this time, his whole face flushed. Even the tips of his ears and his nose turned pink.

— "But I like when you're near. Even when you’re quiet. Especially then."

She lowered her eyes but didn’t turn her head. Stayed silent just a bit longer than she should have.

— "Can I… say something dumb?"

— "Only if I get to say something dumb too," he replied with a soft smile — and another blush.

She exhaled a little:

— "You would’ve noticed anyway. Even if I never said anything."

— "Noticed what?"

— "That I like you."

He froze, holding his breath for just a second. And when her words fully registered — he flushed instantly and visibly. Cheeks, ears, even his neck.

— "I… me too. For a while now. A lot."

Y/n clutched the hem of her sweater awkwardly.

— "Do you… do you want to kiss me?"

He swallowed, nodded quickly, then exhaled a shaky breath:

— "I do. But only if you do too."

She didn’t say anything — just nodded, barely.

Mark leaned in slowly — carefully, as if he was afraid of breaking something fragile. His lips met hers gently, almost hesitantly. The kiss was light, warm — like breath in the cold. So careful. So honest.

When he pulled back, Y/n still had her eyes closed. Then she whispered, barely audible:

— "That was my first."

Mark froze. Then blushed again — deep and bright.

— "Then I… I hope it was… good. I really tried."

She giggled softly, and he smiled too — calmer now, though still visibly pink.

— "Want to know something dumb?" he asked.

— "Yeah."

— "I wanted to do that ever since… you accidentally froze the door and then apologized to it."

Y/n snorted, clutching at his sleeve.

— "And you still wanted to kiss me after that?"

— "Even more."

She leaned in a bit, resting her cheek against his shoulder. And he, still a little flustered, wrapped an arm around her — careful, like holding a fragile gift.

And that’s how they stayed — in that corner of the park, beneath the quiet glow of the streetlamps. As if the lights themselves were softly blessing the beginning of something new.

𝕊𝕙𝕪!𝕐/𝕟 𝕩 𝔸𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔸𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕟 ˚◞♡ ⃗*ೃ༄

They were sitting aboard a small observation shuttle, quietly drifting in orbit above Earth. Through the transparent dome above their heads, the planet glowed in its fragile, blue beauty.

Allen turned to Y/n — his smile was wide, but not cocky. Just… warm. Kind.

– You know, – he said, tilting his head slightly, – you humans have this amazing thing. You give meaning to "firsts."

Y/n looked at him, a little puzzled.

– First meetings. First words. First glances. First kisses...

He paused, then continued a bit softer.

– Where I’m from, it’s more about efficiency. But the longer I spend here, the more I understand – a "first" isn’t just a moment. It’s… a memory. Something you keep.

He looked at her more seriously.

– I don’t want to just be part of your experience. I want to be something… good, if you’ll let me.

Y/n froze, looking at his face, at the kind, slightly sad eyes that suddenly held an entire universe of understanding.

– I… – her voice trembled. – I’ve never…

He nodded gently.

– I know.

Y/n gave a shy smile, her cheeks flushing.

– You don’t have to…

– I don’t have to. I just… want to. But only if you do too.

She was quiet for a long time, looking into his eyes. Then – slowly, but steadily – she nodded:

– Then… okay.

Allen leaned forward carefully, giving her time to change her mind. His hand lightly touched hers — warm, steady. And when their lips met — for a second, for a breath, for forever — she didn’t just feel nervousness… she felt a deep, quiet calm.

He pulled away gently, smiling:

– That’s going to be one of those “firsts” I’ll remember forever too.

Y/n let out a soft laugh through her light daze:

– Even though you’re from another planet?

He winked:

– Especially because I’m from another planet.

Allen pulled back slightly, and there was a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. He cleared his throat like something was caught there and said as casually as he could:

– So, if I understand human customs correctly… now we’re supposed to… eat ice cream?

Y/n blinked, confused:

– What?

– Or… wait… – He frowned in thought. – Watch a movie under a blanket? Or officially declare ourselves in love? Is that… protocol?

Y/n giggled, covering her mouth:

– No, not… I mean, not all at once.

– Aha! Good. Because I’m still not sure when exactly I’m supposed to give you flowers or meet your parents.

He leaned in slightly and whispered:

– I actually prepared a speech. Just in case I had to ask your father for permission to date you.

Y/n nearly choked with laughter:

– What?!

Allen shrugged with mock offense:

– I put effort into it! It included the line: “I respect your daughter and, as a representative of the Coalition of Planets, I humbly request your diplomatic support in the development of our romantic alliance.”

– You’re insane, – she laughed breathlessly.

He nodded with mock seriousness:

– It’s been medically confirmed. I have two hearts. Which means I can be twice as in love.

Y/n blushed, staring at him, and then he grew unexpectedly serious:

– But right now, both are beating for you.

And for just a second, despite all the laughter and awkwardness, her heart beat a little faster too.

𝕊𝕙𝕪!𝕐/𝕟 𝕩 ℝ𝕠𝕓𝕠𝕥 ˚◞♡ ⃗*ೃ༄

They sat on the edge of the tech deck, surrounded by the soft hum of machines and dim lighting. It was almost empty here — as if time had slowed down. Y/n kept sneaking glances at him, trying to understand how he felt. Not how he looked — but what he felt like. The texture of his place in the world.

— You look a lot, — he said quietly, not looking directly at her. Just stating it.

Y/n flinched.

— I’m sorry. I just… — she swallowed. — I can’t help thinking that you…

He turned to her slightly, calm and composed:

— Not him. Not one of them. Not Rex.

She gripped the sleeves of her sweater, exhaling through her teeth:

— Yeah. You talk like him… look like him… But you’re not him. And I keep waiting for someone to realize that — besides me.

He was quiet for a long time.

— It matters to me… that you see it.

Y/n looked down, then slowly turned her head toward him.

— Can I ask something weird?

— All of your questions interest me.

— Well… — she hesitated, — what’s it like? Being… you know… real?

He looked at his hand, like he still wasn’t quite used to it.

— Complicated. Unpredictable. Sometimes too… loud. But it’s better than living behind glass.

Y/n blushed a little, but didn’t look away:

— Can I… touch? Just… curious.

He looked slightly surprised, but didn’t pull away.

— You can.

She carefully reached out and touched his wrist, running her fingers along his skin — it was warmer than she expected. Soft. Almost normal. But still… not quite. It felt like touching something that wasn’t supposed to be real, and yet was.

— Amazing, — she whispered. — It’s like… someone built a person out of all these parts, but it still turned into something real.

He smiled faintly — barely noticeable.

— Maybe that’s what a person is.

She stayed still, still holding his hand.

— You’re not like the others. I don’t know how to explain it… but it’s not about the body. It’s about you.

For the first time, he looked a little uncertain. And quietly said:

— Then maybe I don’t have to be afraid of being myself around you.

She was still holding his hand — uncertain, but not letting go. At some point, their fingers intertwined, and Y/n flinched slightly at the unexpected contact. He looked at her slowly, as if considering something.

— You’re trembling, — he said almost in a whisper.

— I… I’m not used to being this… close, — she murmured. — With someone who feels everything so clearly.

He lowered his gaze.

— I’m not used to it either. This… is a new protocol.

She let out a soft chuckle, then quickly covered her mouth, embarrassed. The corners of his lips twitched — almost a smile.

— Would you like me to try something off-protocol? — he asked, looking at her with such quiet intensity it made her chest tighten.

She couldn’t answer right away. She just nodded slightly. Barely.

Robot slowly leaned in — carefully, as if approaching the edge of a cliff. His hand was still in hers. And the moment their faces drew close, Y/n closed her eyes.

And then their lips met.

The kiss was quiet. Hesitant. Not out of fear — but out of newness. As if they were both learning to breathe again. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t long — but it held more than just a touch. It held recognition. An attempt to be honest. Courage.

When he pulled away, she kept her eyes closed for a moment longer. Then she opened them — and for the first time, looked at him differently. Not as someone strange or confusing. But as someone real.

— That was… — she stumbled, but her eyes were glowing, — …very off-protocol.

— Then I’m glad I broke it, — he replied softly.

Y/n laughed — quietly, blushing, full of warmth. And he simply looked at her, as if truly seeing her for the first time — and understanding: yes, he had Rex’s body… but to her, he was becoming himself.

𝕊𝕙𝕪!𝕐/𝕟 𝕩 𝔻𝕦𝕡𝕝𝕚-𝕂𝕒𝕥𝕖 ˚◞♡ ⃗*ೃ༄

They sat on the roof of an abandoned building, catching their breath after the fight. The sky was painted in golden-pink shades of sunset, and in the distance, the echoes of battle still lingered. The air smelled of dust, blood, and exhaustion — and yet, it was surprisingly quiet.

Kate stretched, brushing grime off her shoulder.

— Honestly? You were amazing. I saw how you covered for Monster Girl — that was badass.

Y/n smiled shyly, glancing away.

— I just… acted without thinking. Probably just lucky.

Kate turned to her, a bit closer now, her voice softer.

— That wasn’t luck. That was you. Every time, you're getting braver.

Y/n blushed, hugging her knees. But she stole a glance at her friend — a little longer than usual. Kate noticed. Her gaze grew warmer.

— What?

— I just thought… — Y/n whispered, unsure, — you’re beautiful.

Silence hung between them for a moment. Then Kate gave a small chuckle.

— And you’re adorable, you know that?

Y/n let out a tiny squeak and hid her face in her knees.

— I mean it, — Kate added, quieter now. — And… I noticed. The way you look at me.

Y/n tensed, ready to retreat, but Kate leaned in slightly.

— I like it.

Before Y/n could get scared of her own feelings, Kate gently leaned forward. Their lips met — soft, hesitant, but intentional. It was a post-battle kiss. A kiss after everything. Between two people who were already close… but only now brave enough to admit it.

When they pulled away, a quiet cough came from the edge of the rooftop:

— Ahem.

One of Kate’s clones stood by the broken railing.

— Sorry to interrupt, but next time, could you maybe give us, the duplicates, a heads-up before… y’know, that starts?

Y/n turned bright red, covering her face. Kate sighed deeply.

— You’re my clone. Haven’t you learned tact?

— I’m a copy, not a saint. I was on lookout duty… and then this happened. What was I supposed to do, not watch?

Kate rolled her eyes and turned to Y/n with a half-smile.

— Remind me to delete her later.

Y/n laughed softly, hiding her face against Kate’s shoulder. And for the first time all day, her laughter wasn’t nervous — it was warm and full of light.

[itadoraki]

Secret Mission: Defeat the Heart of Player 1

—————————————————————————

Idia Shroud x R.femele. ( cosplay )

—————————————————————————

.

.

Ignihyde Dormitory, 23:47.

The tenumbra of the room was broken only by the blue and purple lights of the monitors, all flashing at different intensities, creating a futuristic, almost ethereal atmosphere. Idia was as usual: with headphones on her neck, locks of hair floating gently, and her face glued to the screen while typing non-stop.

Ortho had already been "off" for rest. The room was quiet... even too much.

He murmured while programming:

- "Beauty... just this adjustment in the HUD, magic attack optimization, and... that's it. Patch finished."

Pause. He turned the chair, stretched his arms and yawned loudly.

- "The night is too quiet... It even looks like anime filler before the arc of total destruction."

That's when you heard the click of the internal door.

He turned his face - and crashed.

You were there, leaning against the stop with a feline smile, wearing a bold and impeccable version of one of his favorite characters from an old anime. Tight corset, fishnet stocking, tiara, and that provocative look of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

- "Today's special mission: dominate the Ignihyde fortress and capture its commander."

His voice came low, loaded with play.

— "Secondary objective: to test the limits of Player 1's emotional firewall."

Idia turned red to the root of the soul.

The hair sparkled, rising in bluish flames with purple reflections.

- "W-WHAT IS THAT-?! N-It doesn't make sense! This skin isn't even available yet! How do you—?!”

You walked up to him slowly, jumping, every step as if echoing in slow motion in your ears.

— "Research. Creativity. And a little bit of fanservice... just for you."

He looked at everything but you directly. Hands on face, wide eyes, tense body as if he had taken a critic in his soul.

- "That's not fair... this is like a secret DLC with charisma bonuses in 999. It's an appeal. Pure appeal."

You laughed, getting on his lap suddenly, causing him to almost disassemble.

- "You play in hardcore mode, Shroud. You need rewards to match."

He swallowed dryly, his voice coming out trembling:

- "Do you... always do this on purpose? Like, every night? Plan, sew, rehearse character phrases just to... to leave me like this?!”

- "Every night. A different cosplay. A different mission. A different flirtation."

You tilted your face to his.

- "And you always react as if it were the first kiss of the game."

Idia closed her eyes, trying to breathe. It was obvious that he loved it. Who waited for it as if it were part of the night cycle. But admitting... it was another story.

- "...You know you're hacking my heart, right? This is against the server's rules."

You got even closer, touching your lips to his ear.

- "So... ban me. Or accept me in your clan forever."

Idia was silent. His hands - always so hesitant - landed slowly on his waist, as if touching was a rare privilege. The look was now serious, intense behind the shame.

- "If I put you in my clan... it will be with a lifetime pact. No logout."

You smiled, your eyes shining.

- "Done."

That night, you didn't play. They didn't even watch anime. They didn't even program it.

But they created a new universe - one made just for you, between cosplay, heat and a passion that grew like blue fire in the middle of the night.

And there, with you in her arms, Idia thought:

"If love were a game... you would be the most beautiful bug in my code."

—————————————————————————

[lynnetendo]

some sifs I drew from memory into my sketchpad while I was at a family meetup... i thought it'd be fun to digitalize the more original style ones with a pixel brush and the ones that were more my own artstyle with my usual brush (initial pencil sketch under the cut)

unironically, any notable change you see between the traditional sketch and the digital version only stems from the fact that i had no space on the real paper e.g. the sketches being repositioned or sif's hat not being curled downwards everywhere was because i could actually use the space better digitally lmao

[themyscirah]

Complaining abt Suicide Squad yet again but the fact that they have Waller exposing the alien community to space racist attacks and talking abt how she got to her position through deceit and being a terrible person and stuff is just. Ahsfiwueh JUST SAY YOU DONT KNOW WALLER.

Anyways literally the 3rd mission of the Squad ever (and the first framed as smth Waller picked and not orders from above) was the Squad discrediting and stopping a rogue vigilante who was only arresting POC and funneling white people into white supremacy groups (of which he was the most prominent member) in SUICIDE SQUAD #4. and it's explicitly framed as this mission being personal for Waller that she's hiding from the government bc its illegal like. Guys. Please why are we having her incite (space bc comics) racist attacks now

Also the whole "Amanda got her position through deceit and being a terrible person" NO. she KEPT her position through being shitty and playing complicated political games!!! She wasn't always that way like there is a difference and it is IMPORTANT ppl PLEASEEEE. In Secret Origins #14 we learn Amanda's backstory and she used to be a normal, caring person! Like even after she entered into working in government and politics she wasn't automatically morally bankrupt like please people. She was originally given control of the Squad by Reagan (*sigh* 80s comics...) to distract and get rid of her because she was so successful at pushing progressive social policy in Congress. Acting like she's this static pillar of evil is such a waste of her character and so fucking uninteresting and disrespectful to her arc it drives me MAD.

Like I am NOT saying Waller is all sunshine and rainbows, she fucking SUCKS (said w love <3) but like there's a human being there. It's a progression, she has a character arc like please, DC, please!!! They've fucked up Waller so bad and made her so opaque and uninteresting she can't even be the protagonist of her own story for fucks sake!

Like I don't know how many times I have to scream it until DC hears me or remembers but WALLER IS THE MAIN CHARACTER OF SUICIDE SQUAD. ITS HER BOOK. yet right now she's a cutout to be used as the villain wherever the writers please. Even in her book we get none of her perspective really displayed, no exploration of her thoughts with any kind of understanding of the role she traditionally has played and was made to play in the story.

[patolemus]

wrote 1.3k words today. i'm incredibly proud of myself. i'm also so fucking behind on my assignments

[neil-perrys-suicidal-tendencies]

IT CAUGHT ME BY SUPRISE.

I even checked 1950s handwriting trends-

THIS IS THE PAPER LOL

THIS IS INSANITY.

I HAVE A SCENE IN CHAPTER 4 WHERE TODD FINDS A YELLOW FOLDED PAPER IN 5 CENTURIES OF VERSE

(Yes I stained a A4 sheet and drew lones on it for a fic why do you ask)

Also I'm certain I would not have made the connection of my Todd with the song. Thank you!!

OMG THAT’S CRAZY I DIDN’T EVEN THINK ABOUT THAT! Also the fact that you stained and lined that paper is dedication to the craft for real; when I was first looking at this, I assumed you had found an old paper online that worked well, but no you actually made it! So cool wow. Also glad to be of service :)

[tomaturtles]

I thought I was gonna be normal about Evangelion but then I got to Kaworu 

[rintinningvt]

Started watching the Bayverse movies with my besties and... Are we just too gay for these movies??? Admittedly we only finished the first two and got through a quarter of the third, but the second one was such a drag to sit through at times and it probably doesn't help that we do NOT care about Sam that much. I hope that there is a character arc for him in the rest of the third movie. Because so far he has not been fun to watch in that one. He just comes off as a slight manchild to me, like... I can see why he would be frustrated with where he is in life but the way he acts with others and lashes out does not help him in the slightest. I do have to admit though that seeing him go to Cybertronian Heaven in the second movie was the funniest part for me and my besties lol.

I'll just hope that the other guy in the next movies will be at least a bit more interesting. Doesn't even have to be a good guy, just an interesting guy for me lol

[crows-of-buckets]

Im still so mad about the fact that baldurs gate 3 is over 100gb. Like it's just wasting space on my PS5 rn there is NO NEED for the graphics to be that bloated

[bandtrees]

Guys he’s so special to me.it’s been five seconds did you know

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

Gotta love how in Archie anti Jules and the biggest shit eating grin while poor baby scourge looked so lonely , puny and neglected.

Yeah poor little guy🥲

[eekonis]

some c!dream character designs!

[floralovebot]

literally every new thing i hear about the reboot makes me so sad

[dawntheduckrb]

cw vent, politics, and a very exasperated duck

Just a vent, not really saying anything new and honestly just preaching to the choir a bit.

I hope those eggs start getting cheaper soon, like you hope so.

I hope the rich starting trickling down their economy soon, like you hope so.

I hope that American Made Gas starts coming in cheaper, like you hope so.

I hope that destroying our global reputation, funding a genocide, removing jobs from countless government employees, lifting regulations on industries that need them, risking children's access to proper schooling, deporting innocent people from and separating them from their families, I hope that ALL of it was what you wanted.

You wanted your eggs for breakfast because that's what Americans have always wanted for breakfast. But that's the American Dream, and you killed it.

[quibble-auk]

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

Part two is done!!!!!

Here’s part one!

Next

I had fun with this… I might even pick it up again from where I left off, I’m enjoying the two. And we still don’t know what happened to Sunstreaker.

I also didn’t proofread this one too much to please pardon the grammar and if certain parts feel kinda weird.

—

The music resumed, the notes slicing through Dropmix’s mind like a blade, forcing clarity. It hurt for the briefest moment, but he was quick to allow it to surpass his programs. A low, resonating hum of strings filled the silence, a familiar numbing buzz filled his head. Battle programs disengaged and anger dulled.

His fist was still raised.

Cometeater was still struggling beneath him, hissing ferally, claws raking at Dropmix’s armor in a desperate attempt to escape. Their legs scrambled to find a perch or vantage point. His armor had yet to press down in submission, as he glared challengingly at the towering mech.

Theremin had been the one to introduce him to this song.

Dropmix’s vents pulled in a slow, controlled breath. He forced himself to register the details of the room again: the dim lighting, the scattered supplies on the floor, the faint scent of disinfectant, and the underlying tang of energon—his own, dripping from his wrist. His grip around Cometeater’s throat was firm, too firm.

This wasn’t the Pits. This was his medbay.

Cometeater wasn’t his opponent, he was a patient. Someone Dropmix was meant to care for.

The red and black mech took a moment to select a nice long song, just as a precaution. He loosened his grip on the other, no longer risking strangling him, but still tight enough to ensure he would not get away easily. Comet was still hostile, still challenging. Something told Dropmix that he probably wouldn’t until he had been put in his place. He wasn’t sure if that was his old programs or his actual thoughts on the matter.

Regardless he made direct eye contact with the smaller being for the first time since his arrival to the room. Dropmix’s expression was carefully neutral, collected, and unbothered. Cometeater’s plating was fluffed further, vents pulling in sharp, uneven breaths, his eyes burned with defiance. He wasn’t backing down. Not yet.

It was a soothing song, written in a language that Dropmix never had the chance to learn.

Dropmix exhaled slowly. He couldn’t let this escalate further. This was already going terribly. Embarrassingly so. He hadn’t lost his composure like that in a long time, at least not by accident. He needed to regain control of the situation. He needed Comet to calm down.

Holding him by the throat probably wasn’t the best way to go about that but Dropmix couldn’t afford to let him go and let him cause even more chaos.

“Are you done?” Dropmix asked, voice even, measured. He loosened his hold just a fraction more, giving Cometeater the option to either submit or lash out again. He was hoping for the former.

Cometeater snarled, flashing his fangs at Dropmix. His eyes flickering dangerously and confidently, “Get off.”

Theremin had promised to teach him the words eventually. They had never found the time.

“Cometeater, I am not here to harm you or Sideswipe,” He began. Comet’s demand didn’t count as an answer. It was still challenging Dropmix’s authority. To listen would be to submit and the gladiator knew better than that. “I am a medic, I don’t hurt people.”

There was a silent “anymore” when Dropmix momentarily paused, his eyes still bored into Comet’s “This is my medical bay,” My territory, my rules.

“I’ll give you two options,” he was still giving Comet a chance to choose, to be in control, “You can either calm down so we can have a talk like civilized mechs, or I can sedate you and you can spent the rest of your time on this outpost unable to defend Sideswipe.”

The green being stilled at that, a storm of emotion flashing across his face. His plating twitched, like he was considering trying to lunge again, but Dropmix could see the hesitation creeping in. The words had struck a nerve—unable to defend Sideswipe. That was the last thing Cometeater wanted.

Dropmix knew that.

He also knew that there was currently an absent member of their trio. Sunstreaker was nowhere to be found, that would only make Comet’s positiveness of the remaining twin stronger. It was a weakness begging to be exploited, all attachments were. The red and black mech had known that and had still fallen victim to the same trap, more than once now.

He didn’t move, didn’t tighten his grip or loosen it further. Dropmix gave Cometeater time to think. That was the key. Control wasn’t about brute force; it was about patience, about knowing when to push and when to wait. If the medic wanted to get what he wanted from this he would need to play the long game. The concept was far from foreign to him.

That's what had always set him apart from other gladiators, what kept him alive for so long in the arena. He could control and dominate without painting a massive target on his back, he just needed to be more subtle about it.

“…Fine,” Cometeater spat, voice begrudging as his narrowed eyes finally looked down in submission for just a moment. “But if you so much as look at him wrong, I’ll tear you apart.”

Dropmix huffed a quiet breath. “Duly noted.” He would expect no less from Cometeater. The larger mech released the smaller being and cautiously stepped back, keeping his hands visible and easy to track. He may have gotten control of the situation but it was still fragile. One wrong move and they could be back at square one.

Cometeater dropped to the floor, landing in a crouch, his eyes never leaving Dropmix. He was still tense, his plating shifting and twitching, but he remained where he was. He continued to analyze the medic standing before him.

Said medic looked down at the ground where the supplies he had gathered was now scattered, some of the items looked partially damaged from the fall. Dropmix gestured vaguely at the floor before crouching down to start picking things up. He would have to sanitize some of the equipment that had fallen out of their containers.

It also gave Comet a window of opportunity, a chance to attack. Dropmix would seem to not be paying attention and it would be easy to dominate him from his crouched position. He didn’t need to look up to know that Cometeater was considering it. He could practically hear the tension in the air, feel the way the smaller mech’s frame shifted ever so slightly, muscles coiling like a spring just waiting to release.

But Cometeater didn’t move.

Good.

Dropmix took his time, deliberate in his movements, showing neither fear nor hesitation. He gathered the fallen supplies, brushing off any debris and setting them neatly back in the box. A test of patience. A game of control. Comet was significantly less likely to strike again, Dropmix was in the safe zone… for the most part.

“As I was trying to say before, you and I both have our secrets, we both know each other's—to an extent,” He spoke calmly and slowly, allowing Comet the time to put the pieces of the puzzle together to sort out what Dropmix’s secret was. He was giving Cometeater something to exploit, sure, but the creature would also know that Dropmix had information just as valuable. “I also happen to know that you are most likely injured like everyone else who came in. I’m a medic who already knows about…”

Touchy subject.

“...That. Your exposure would remain the same, as would mine. I don’t need details on anything that's not crucial for me treating you,” He continued, carefully gauging the reaction of the other. So far he seemed to be treading lightly enough to not warrant another outburst. “You can’t protect SIdeswipe if you're dead and ignoring injuries is a great way to get yourself killed.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Cometeater bit back sharply.

Dropmix may have smirked if it had been someone else. He knew better though, obviously Sideswipe was also on Comet’s list of things he’d rather not talk about. “I would.”

That response must have thrown Cometeater off, because his eyes flickered in hesitation, his scowl wavering just slightly. He quickly regained composure though, anger settling back into his posture, “So what? You expect me to believe that you're some ‘good doctor’ now? Why would you want to help me?”

It was both a challenge and a genuine question, one that he had every right to ask. Dropmix shifted the weight of the box in his hands, coldly staring down at the creature “I want you and Sideswipe out of my medical bay. I can put you in a hab-suite once I know that you're not going to randomly collapse in one of the hallways and make matters worse.”

To Comet, it would look like Dropmix was just being territorial and stand-offish. Maybe even taking his role as a medic seriously, they did need more space after all. In reality, he could care less if he was in the medical bay. Dropmix just needed him far away from Jeopardy.

“And how do you plan on helping? You don’t know anything about me,” Cometeater spat out defensively.

He had a point though, Dropmix hadn’t the slightest clue as to what he was. He didn’t really want to know at this point, he just wanted him gone. “I know enough, I can figure out the rest.”

The medic moved to place his box on the nearby counter, he didn’t miss how Comet’s plating flared and his posture tensed when he got closer to Sideswipe. Once the box had been set down he looked over at the creature, “Even better idea, you tell me what's wrong and we can skip the entire physical examination. Then we can both leave faster.”

After a few brief seconds of silence, Cometeater finally huffed and shrugged, rolling his eyes like an immature teen. “Fine, yeah. Just don’t try anything or I’ll—”

“Tear me apart? I’m aware.” Dropmix cut him off, and briefly glanced at his still openly bleeding hand. Comet must have severed a fuel line considering the flow hadn’t slowed down in the slightest. He looked back up at where Cometeater awkwardly stared at him,

“Unfortunately, I’ve got to patch myself up a bit before we can get started,” he was careful to make his tone sound less like an accusation and more like a simple statement. He walked towards the door, opening it but pausing before he stepped out completely,

“I do want the lights on though,”