#transformers 1 tickle

[gaybananabread]

May I pretty pls request headcanons for the high guard(before Megatron)? Starscream, Soundwave, and Shockwave?

𓆩༺High Guard Tkl Headcanons༻𓆪

~UUUUH ABSOLUTELY YES!!! These robots are probably one of my top three hyperfixations right now; I have SO many ideas! I’ve got stims for DAYS of their g1 voicelines. Thank you so much for this request, and I hope you Enjoy!~

🛦 Starscream 🩶

General:

Tell me Screamer doesn’t give lee-leaning switch vibes

That dramatic diva would love getting destroyed, though he isn’t above occasionally “disciplining” his guard. 

He can and will deny the existence of tickling altogether if you try to squeeze either confession out of him. Good luck, soldier (-_-)ゝ

Lee:

These moods are harder to spot than a single bolt in a collapsing energon tunnel. He’s the distinguished leader of the High Guard, after all; it’s beneath him to crave such childish things.

However…

Sometimes, the cravings are just too persistent, too annoying to ignore; he’d be at a disadvantage in battles if he let the need fester. Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself.

After he finishes his little crisis, he’ll try to provoke one of the ‘Waves into tickling him. They’ve proven to be loyal enough, and they haven’t tried to kill him yet—checks all the boxes.

It’s not an exact science, though; bots don’t usually think of tickling their bosses, much less homicidal ones who rule through fearful respect. It works about 35% of the time, usually with Soundwave picking up on it and deciding to be a decent bot.

I’d say he’s pretty ticklish; he’s just gotten good at hiding it and suffering quietly. You have to force a genuine reaction out of him, but he’ll look like a kicked puppy if you stop before then; then he’ll scream and send you out on a full day’s scouting shift.

Worst spot would be his waist, specifically his hips. That snatched waist will be his downfall; it’s just too grabbable. Immediate target for anyone tickling him, and it kills him every time.

Melt spots are his big wings and upper chassis, specifically his pectorals. Get him on either of those spots, and he’ll become a big kitten.

His laugh is very pitchy; he sounds like a teen smack-dab in the middle of the voice-crack phase. Giggled threats, squeaks, squeals, and nasally laughter. If you go for a bad spot, he’s true to his nickname: Screamer.

SUCH a cuddle-bug after being wrecked. If you comment on it, he might bite you, but he loves to just be held for a bit before going back to being the fearsome leader of the High Guard.

Ler:

GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN, SAVE YOURSELF—

He’s a VERY evil ler: flustering teases, death spot attacks, smug comments, no escaping whatsoever.

You really can’t run from him. He’s a jet, and he’s been training for years to push himself to tip-top speeds. Good luck dude.

He can and will torment you with the same teases that overheat him; man CANNOT take what he dishes out, but “consequences are for cowards.” (He always regrets saying that.)

“What’s wrong, runt? Does this tickle? How unfortunate for you.”

“Ah, yes, insanity and helplessness; music to my audio receptors. Which spot made you scream again?”

“I’m barely touching you. How do you expect to rise in the ranks if you can’t even handle a little scribbling?”

Not the worst at aftercare, but you’re gonna have to spell some things out for him. You’ll get an energon cube, whether your body is made to ingest them or not. He’ll stay with you until you recover, but after that, you’d best keep your mouth shut about the whole ordeal.

📼Soundwave💙

General:

Okay quiet boy here is a solid ler. 

Aside from the fact that he doesn’t like to laugh or speak much, he simply prefers to tickle others. If he can keep some of the other guard members happy, he’s accomplished something.

(I wish he had his recordicons in the movie; I have so many ideas 😞)

Ler:

He gets ler moods every so often, though he usually tickles bots to cheer them up or fix their moods.

Someone is sad about a guard member who got injured? Gentle tickles to make them smile.

Starscream is being more of an arrogant showboat than normal? Yeah, waist tickles to take him down a peg.

Shockwave has been cooped up in his lab for Primus-knows-how-long? Yeah, tickles to force him to intake some energon and recharge.

Now, Soundwave is VERY respectful of people’s wishes. If they want him to frag off, he’ll leave them be. If they tap out, he immediately stops. 

On the flip side, if you don’t stop him, he WILL wreck you into oblivion. It all depends on what you want

I feel like he’d use short, teasy observations to make his lees blush. Just something to fluster them and get them squeaking.

“Ticklish one: adorable.”

“Commencing stomach analysis… Results: conclusive. Very ticklish.”

“Laughter: changes pitch frequently. Claw tickles exemplify this quite nicely.”

“Hmm… Tickle. Ticklish. Tickl— Ah, my observation is correct: the word makes things tickle more.”

Absolutely ZERO issues with saying the t-word. If you can’t handle hearing it… well, it was nice knowing you.

So…we know how he can blast out sound waves, right? I’d bet if he did that on a MUCH lower setting, it’d tickle like crazy. 

All the effects of a massager, in as wide of a range as he feels like pushing out. Could be your entire body, one spot, multiple different ones…

The possibilities are endless, my friends.

Amazing with aftercare. He’ll give you hugs and headpats, bring you energon or food (depending on which you need), and tell you how well you did. Lots of love from the quiet one 💙

💡Shockwave💜

General:

This brat feels like a 50/50 switch to me. 

Like, he gives me SUCH lee vibes, but you can’t deny that he’d wreck a bot when the opportunity presents itself. 

Chaos boi energy by beloved 💜

Lee:

He absolutely refuses to admit that he’s ticklish. Does he want to be wrecked? Absolutely. Would just a few simple pokes make his entire orbital cycle? No doubt about it, yeah. So, how does he respond when asked if he’s ticklish?

“Uh, no. Only weak scrap-bots are ticklish. Now, get back to work before I introduce you to Primus!”

Ya know, like a smart bot.

Only Soundwave and Starscream have the lugnuts to try him after he says that. The moment the tickling actually begins, his fight seems to just evaporate into thin air.

I feel like his little eye-light flickers when he’s getting wrecked to pieces. Sort of like a smile for him ✨

His laugh is really boyish and joyful when you really get him. Just imagine a six-year-old laughing his aft off.

Shockwave generally isn’t that ticklish; only certain spots get him screaming. You either have to know exactly where you need to strike, have him restrained, or be quick enough to find one before he kills you. Speaking of which…

Worst spots are his blaster hand and side plating. All it takes are some light scribbles on either spot to make him flail and lose his processor functions.

Melt spot would have to be his finials. You can’t tell me those big ol’ things wouldn’t be ticklish. He’d lean right into it and close his optics, mumbling something about “needing to recharge, no other reason…”

Ler:

SUCH a smug aft-hole of a ler. 

He’s such a brat in the movie; you can’t tell me he wouldn’t carry that over to wrecking his fellow guard members.

Shockwave doesn’t really need a reason to wreck someone; he won’t even attempt an excuse. He’s just gone up to random guard members he was close with and attacked.

Not to say he’s disrespectful. If you seriously don’t want him to tickle you, he’ll begrudgingly back off. He’ll whine, of course, but he won’t push.

When he does attack, he’s a rapid-fire kinda bot. Get every spot he can think of, see which makes you laugh loudest, and THEN focus in.

Plus, all the teases he knows will get to you. He’s a bit of a jerk about it, but lucky for you, it’s easy to get revenge.

“I had no idea you were this weak. How have you survived this long?”

“You’re laughing so loudly. Think I’m gonna need to get my audio receptors checked after this.”

“Imagine if our enemies found out about this. You’d be down in seconds!”

“It tickles? No scrap. That’s the whole point of tickling you.”

Despite all his smug talk and bravado, he’s pretty good at aftercare.

Big ol’ hugs, cuddles if you’re up for it, energon or water and snacks, and maybe even some science rambling if you just want some white noise. He’s a softie afterwards, though only when it’s just you two.

[tickly-trashcan]

Transformers: One Tickle Headcanons!

A/N: look away LOOK AWAY im still obsessed with these silly little robots and i cannot get them out of my head so i wrote this while avoiding my other responsibilities LOL i hope the few transformers fans on my blog enjoy and if you're not a transformers fan read anyway and join the fandom i promise its so fun!!! (ps i might do headcanons for the other continuities as i watch more... tfp fans unite)

Orion Pax

this stupid little guy i love him to bits

he is really ticklish and he is so silly about it

hes such a switch like. he doesnt mind being tickled at all i bet he probs loves the attention LOL but he LOVES tickling other bots like d-16 hehe

he's veeery tickly under his arms ESPECIALLY if you get the seams that connect his arm to his torso that will make him scream. get him there

hes ticklish in most of the normal cybertronian tickle spots as well (dont ask me what those are. they are up to interpretation!) but i think hes also got a pretty sensitive chassis (tummy...) and if you get the little seams that go across his chassis he will be GONEE

hes got a really loud laugh i think... one of those rapid fire squealy laughs yup yup

he squeaks! and gasps! and makes other funny noises! but only if you catch him off guard otherwise he's just laughing lol

he will put up a fight if someone tickles him!!! he will go down kicking and actually has a good shot at turning the tables LOL

d-16 has had those tables turned on him so fast but he never learns! poor dee

like i said before hes pretty chill about getting tickled but he thinks hes literally The tickler of all time

hes very confident about his ler skills bc d-16 is so ticklish its actually not fair but if you put him up against elita he would fold so fast

wiggles his digits at d-16 every fucking chance he gets somebody stop his ass before he kills dee

i think he and d-16 tickle each other a lot without it escalating to a tickle fight or full-on murder (orion is the murderer.)

like they poke each other! all the time!

they're good about not doing it on shift (most of the time... side eyes orion again) but as soon as they clock out its a free for all

orion is pretty teasy but not overly so if that makes sense? hes more taunty than teasy HAHA like he'll say to d-16 "lol why do i keep forgetting how ticklish you are" and dee is screaming

he does not tickle elita. ever. she scares him.

also he tried to tickle her once and she wrecked his ass so bad he could hardly stand up. d-16 never let him hear the end of it either

d-16 will still randomly bring it up like "hey pax remember when you tried to tickle elita haha that was so- AUGH!!" and then orion jumps him

D-16

DEE MY BELOVED GAAAAH

he is ridiculously ticklish because i said so. I don't make the rules. also im right d-16 is the biggest lee on this list

hes also a switch but hes so ticklish its hard to get away with tickling other bots like orion because one poke and the tables are turned!! orion is nice to him sometimes tho and lets him get in a few tickles mwahaha

im pushing my d-16 hip agenda. are yall seeing a pattern with me giving my favs ticklish hips ITS BECAUSE HIS HIPS ARE RIGHT THERE!!! anyways. d-16 has the most grabbable and tickleable hips and his hips should be grabbed and tickled until he screams

hes also tickly on his thighs! and his chassis (more tummy!!)

d-16 is one of those people who will try to keep his laugh in but he literally lasts two seconds before hes giggling. two seconds is actually a generous estimate tbh!

his LAUGH i feel it in my bones hes got massive giggles and its kind of high pitched and hes so embarrassed but its adorable and im so upset about it

like once hes laughing its a much deeper laugh but initially since hes trying to keep himself from laughing he just giggles frantically and its so cute bc its so pitchy

HE SNORTS

he snorts and he hates it but it is literally The best thing in the world and orion loves to tickle him until he snorts

for a week after orion learned what the word "speedrun" meant he tried different speedrun challenges with d-16 (how fast can i make him mention megatronus prime, etc.) and one of the days was "how fast can i make d-16 snort"

the answer is 1 minute and 34 seconds in earth time i aint doing the cybertronian equivalent. google is right there.

when he tickles other bots its crazy tho he can be MEANNN if he gets the chance

like he will taunt worse than orion and hes also a really good tickler methinks.. knows how and when to be more rough and when to be more gentle so he can really drive someone up the wall

once he got orion pinned face down and just. shoved his servos under orion's arms. had him screaming and begging but tbh orion probs deserved it!

d-16 has never tried to tickle elita and does not plan to. he will make fun of orion's attempt but he knows better

i think d-16 was also the first one of the gang to give bee a little tickle!!! got him giggling and actually got him to stop yapping a lil bit hehe but it was fun for everyone

B-127

I will tolerate absolutely ZERO bee slander alright if you beef with him you beef with me get off my blog

bee is almost as ticklish as d-16 but had absolutely no idea until he met orion, d-16, and elita. zero clue.

he knew what tickling was! he had tried to tickle himself before after seeing some bots in a tickle fight but hes never been tickled until d-16 poked at him a bit and he jumped 10 feet in the air

d-16 is really nice about tickling bee.... gives him soft tickles bc he knows hes not used to it and tickles him just enough to get him giggling IM SO UPSET

orion is also pretty nice about it but hes too teasy and bee gets embarrassed (also hes learning abt teases from orion. more on that later!)

i think he's really tickly on his chassis!!! most tickly spot for him definitely... all over too not just tummy part but his sides and hes also got tickly knees! watch out tho bc this dude kicks LOL

he has one of those cackly laughs but also has really sweet giggles and he DEF squeaks i dont make the rules

hes pretty shy about tickling others at first but because hes just not used to being around other bots!! hes been told before that hes too much so hes worried that tickling other bots is going to cause other bots to shut him down... BUT HE LEARNS ITS OK TO BE SILLY!!!

he sees orion tickling d-16 and starts yapping about how hes never been tickled and d-16 and orion tickle him a bit and its really sweet but he does NOT know how to react

"WHY AM I LAUGHING WHAT" "we're tickling you bee thats what happens" "OH THATS AWESOME HAHA IT FEELS FUNNY"

bee definitely likes being tickled but he also loves tickling the other bots... id say more lee in general but will tickle when he feels like its okay to!

hes normally yapping about something completely unrelated when hes tickling someone which is really funny but he learned from orion (BAD INFLUENCE!!!) how to tease people

so! now when he tickles other bots he does the really evil teasy stuff... it hasnt come back to bite orion yet but d-16 is suffering!

Elita-1

ahem... women... women women I LOVE ELITA

okay i think shes pretty tickly but not nearly as much as the rest of them... she can take a few pokes and barely smile but also can you even get a few pokes in before shes wrecking ur ass? not really!

shes 90% ler and 10% lee and yes i would definitely piss her off so she would tickle me who said that not me. i love women.

shes tickly on her knees and under her arms!! good luck getting her tho she is very squirmy if you manage to get her and even then she will fight BACK

she has a really bright and bubbly laugh if she gets got really good and it is so lovely and GAAAAH

she doesnt actually tickle other bots that often its mostly if people piss her off or try to tickle her that she goes after them mwahaha

which is why orion is such a frequent victim of her attacks

she is also one of those people who is either silent when shes tickling someone or is the MEANEST teaser on planet earth and bots like orion have experienced both and he cannot decide which option is worse

she has tickled d-16 and bee before but not nearly as bad as orion... he pisses her off so bad LOL i love their dynamic

shes actually so sweet with bee compared to d-16 and orion like okay elita we get it you have a favorite (hes my fav too i totally understand)

i want to talk more about her as a lee tho bc i feel like... she actually wouldnt mind being tickled that much its mostly reflex and its also cuz she feels like shes gotta be tough and being soft kinda goes against that orz

she keeps this mostly to herself but she does occasionally let bee tickle her more than she would let another bot because she knows hes just a Guy and is too busy yapping about other stuff while he tickles her to be like "wait why are you letting me tickle you rn"

her soft spot for bee... makes me so ill...

she also shows clear favoritism for bee when shes tickling him the teases are so much sillier and shes not as evil in general. for orion pax it is on sight

[legs-like-jelly]

tfone plot gets delayed because orion accidentally drags the entire group into a tickle fight on the surface. i just think it'd be funny

I WOULKD WATCH THATR HRHRHEJVJJRHGHFHDHF..

elita pretends she doesnt wanna join but by the end of it she's wrecking all three of them with just two hands bumblebee is confused at first, but it makes him happy so he's giggling and squealing loud enough to alert the quintessons

dee is trying his best to seem like a ler, but it's nearly impossible with orion there teasing him and giving him a few pokes at the side now and then

and orion is making his tickling punishment worse with that crude little mouth of his. this guy just can't seem to avoid any sort of trouble it seems

[sunsetsandsunshine]

Ⓣⓡⓐⓝⓢⓕⓞⓡⓜⓔⓡⓢ Ⓞⓝⓔ Ⓣⓘⓒⓚⓛⓔ Ⓗⓔⓐⓓⓒⓐⓝⓞⓝⓢ

(𝔸/ℕ: 𝔸𝕣𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕘𝕦𝕪𝕤 𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕪 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕥⁉️ 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝟙𝟘𝟙% 𝕊ℍ𝕆𝕌𝕃𝔻 𝕓𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕔𝕒𝕦𝕤𝕖 𝕀 𝕥𝕠𝕠𝕠𝕠𝕠𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕓𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕓𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕞𝕠𝕧𝕚𝕖 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕡𝕝𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕜𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕀 𝕋𝕆𝕆𝕆𝕆𝕆𝕋𝔸𝕃𝕃𝕐 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕓𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕔𝕣𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕓𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕚𝕥 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕒𝕙𝕒𝕙𝕒 𝕟𝕠𝕠𝕙𝕙𝕠𝕠𝕠𝕠 𝕀 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕟𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕣𝕣𝕣….)

𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕚𝕟 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕠𝕦𝕤𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕤 ℙ 𝕃 𝔼 𝔸 𝕊 𝔼 𝕨𝕒𝕥𝕔𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕞𝕠𝕧𝕚𝕖 𝕚𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖𝕟’𝕥 𝕚𝕥𝕤 𝕤𝕠 𝕗𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝 𝕨𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕟 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝 𝕒𝕟𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝔻 𝔸𝕌ℍ𝔾𝔽𝔾𝔾𝔻ℍ𝕊ℍ 𝕀 𝕃𝕆𝕍𝔼 𝕋ℍ𝕀𝕊 𝕄𝕆𝕍𝕀𝔼— 𝔾𝕌𝕐𝕊 𝕀 ℕ𝔼𝔼𝔻 𝔸𝕋 𝕃𝔼𝔸𝕊𝕋 𝟚 𝕄𝕆ℝ𝔼 𝕄𝕆𝕍𝕀𝔼𝕊 𝔽ℝ𝕆𝕄 𝕋ℍ𝕀𝕊 𝕀𝕋𝔼ℝ𝔸𝕋𝕀𝕆ℕ 𝕆𝔽 𝕋ℝ𝔸ℕ𝕊𝔽𝕆ℝ𝕄𝔼ℝ𝕊 𝔸ℕ𝔻 𝕀 ℂ𝔸ℕ 𝔻𝕀𝔼 𝔸 ℍ𝔸ℙℙ𝕐 𝕎𝕆𝕄𝔸ℕ 𝔾𝔼𝕋𝕋𝕀ℕ𝔾 𝔸 𝕋ℝ𝕀𝕃𝕆𝔾𝕐 𝕆𝔽 𝕋ℍ𝔼𝕊𝔼 𝕊𝕀𝕃𝕃𝔸𝕐 𝕊𝕀𝕃𝕃𝕀𝔼𝕊

‼️‼️‼️𝔸ℕ𝔻 𝔽𝔸𝕀ℝ 𝕎𝔸ℝℕ𝕀ℕ𝔾…𝕄𝔸𝔸𝔸𝔸𝕁𝕆ℝ 𝕊ℙ𝕆𝕀𝕃𝔼ℝ𝕊‼️‼️‼️

💙ᴏʀɪᴏɴ ᴘᴀx💙

☆ I love this big hunk of junk to a V E R Y normal amount…

☆ 🗣️SWIIIIIITCCHHHHH🗣️ (probs 50/50 or something along those lines)‼️‼️‼️

☆ There is so so so SO much freaking Switch energy radiating from this red and blue bot; it’s genuinely crazy.

☆ He just gives off Switch vibes…I have a feeling /ref.

☆ If you really want to drive Orion up the walls, across the floor and around all of Iacon…anticipation and light touches/pokes are most DEFINITELY the way to go.

☆ I feel like he’s more used to roughhousing and firm touch cuz him and D-16 just play fight a WHOOOOLE BUNCH 🤺!!!

☆ Sooooo when someone pokes him- for example if Bee wanted to get his attention and poked him in the side…Orion would just die right then and there.

☆ SUUUUPER JUMPY OML 😭🤚🏾?!

☆ Literally folds like a broken lawn-chair when poked and legit always gets made fun for it (💕lovingly ofc💕).

☆ His laugh is kinda breathy and low I can imagine <3.

☆ But if you get him in a sweet spot his laugh is just literally an energon mine full of wheezes and loud cackles 👏🏾🙂‍↕️.

☆ ALSO GASPS AND HICCUPS AND SQUEAKS AND RAAAAHHHH HE’S SUCH A CUTIE PATOOTIE PIE ☹️💖💘💝💕.

☆ Literally keyboard smashes through laughter when he’s getting tickled— the noises he makes are so freaking random Dee’s had to stop in the middle of tickling him to just laugh along with him (uughgghfh I’m so ill I cannot with these two…) .

☆ Bro’s laugh is the definition of ✨contagious✨.

☆ I feel like Orion’s worst spots are his pedes, underarms and ribs (where are ribs on a transformer idk uhhhmmnhhnm..) for sure.

☆ A pretty mouthy and cheeky Lee tbh; digs his own grave 99.9% of the time 🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️.

☆ His signature catchphrase is: “W-Wahahait cahan’t w-we tahahalk ahabout thihihis fihirst…?” 

☆ 👏🏾IS👏🏾SO👏🏾SASSY👏🏾

☆ Tickled into apologizing literally every single solar cycle (idk what that is in Earth years uuhhmmm have mercy on me old Transformer fans 🙇🏾‍♀️).

☆ Being sassy? Tickles. Being reckless?? Tickles. Being a dumbaft in general??? Tickle tickle tickles and more tickles.

☆ HONEST TO PRIMUS HATES AND LOVES THE RIB COUNTING GAME; will literally beg and plead if anybot so much as hints on doing it to him. 

☆ 🫢He🫶🏾will⛓️scream🥀and😔shout💔and⛓️‍💥let🎭it🌧️all🌚out🌝

☆ I headcanon Orion is sliiiiiightly older than Dee (like…barely a couple nanoseconds idk) and anytime he has some rat aft awful idea he’s always like “Didn’t Sentinel say to always respect your elders 😌~?”

☆ And Dee will just look at him in genuine confusion like “🤨..Bro he never said anything like that tf is you on—?” (Cuz y’all already KNOW D-16 knows actually EVERYTHING Sentinel has said in his speeches cuz he’s just a fanboy like that eheheh).

☆ And Orion just laughs back like, “Oho, you didn’t hear? Yeah, he just wants sparklings like yourself to listen and take advice from cool beautiful bots such as I 😙~!” 

☆ And literally without a thought, D-16 just rolls his optics and goes back to what he’s doing, saying: “I didn’t know older brothers came in small-sized 🤔.” 

☆ Is teased about his height every. single. nanoklik.

☆ Once, Dee just randomly picked up Orion, slung him over his shoulders and tickled the living DAYLIGHTS out of him and just yapped about how short he was <3!!

☆ Does little pedes kickies and pedes stomps when he’s getting tickled <33!!

☆ I HC that him and Dee cuddle sometimes (I see them as brothers just fyi 👍🏾) and D-16 is usually the big spoon like…a good 50% of the time and anytime he is he just sneeeeeaaaakily slips his digits near Orion’s chassis and the poor bot loses his freaking mind.

☆ Cannot handle tickles from behind…it will legit leave him in shambles 🫣.

☆ IS SO DAMN ANNOYING WHEN HE’S IN A LEE MOOD OH MY FREAKINGGGGG GOD.

☆ Will pester anything and anyone.

☆ Back to his jumpiness, though…when he’s in a Lee mood..it’s…like, TEN TIMES WORSE.

☆ D-16 could literally touch his sides to move him so he could like idk scoot by to get something and Orion just goes “🐇.”

☆ Is the prime (wink wink nudge nudge) example of “Yeah, I’m gonna say I hate getting tickled or I don’t like it but don’t stop...”

☆ LOVES 🤺TICKLE🤺FIGHTS🤺 AND 🏃🏾‍♀️TICKLE🏃🏾‍♀️CHASES🏃🏾‍♀️ RAUHGHGHD !!!!!

☆ Can’t take what he dishes out but let’s be so fr we all knew that already 😗🫶🏾.

☆ Got a lot of cheer up tickles from Dee I feel like since yk Orion does not like his mining life at all. He hates having to be on protocol and hates being seen like he’s less just because he doesn’t have a cog so at the end of the day he’s just come to the conclusion that maybe mining is all he’s good for…

☆ And D-16 just goes “Nu-uh ☝🏾🙂‍↔️” and w r e c k s his aft (with a bonus spark to spark)

☆ Okay okaY THIS GOT ANGSTY REALLY QUICK UHHHH WOOPS…

☆ Says “IHIHI’M NOHOT TIHICKLISH!!!” literally as your tickling him and he’s laughing his spark out (I hate him sm he’s such a freaking loser I hope he dies a second death).

☆ Hates it when some bots (those some bots mostly being Elita) mention how easy it is to knock him down a peg or how he can’t take what he dishes out…his faceplate will literally BURN AUGH.

☆ Is sososososo giggly after tickles 🫠💘…

☆ LER ORION TIME YAYAYAYAY 🕺🏾💕✨‼️

☆ Yk when you hit a good spot when tickling someone (somebot in this case ig) and they just laugh silently jgjfjjrkd??? Well, when that happens, this dummy says dumb stuff like “Jackpot~!” or “Bullsoptic~!” or “Gotcha~!” or HRHGRGFH YOU GET THE POINTTTTT.

☆ The type to stuff his servos under his victims— uhhh I mean friend’s arms and bitch and complain about how they’ve trapped his hands with their 'mucho muscles and superb strength'. 

☆ “I dunno why you keep squirming…you’re literally not going anywhere. I hope you do realize I could keep this up for seeeveral solar cycles, right~?”

☆ Is 'The Word’s' number one fan when being a Ler.

☆ Uses it CONSTANTLY when teasing and tickling somebot and uses it even MORE if he knows said bot can’t handle hearing it (that said bot being Dee…).

☆ Lots of “D'aww’s” and “Aww’s” and “N'aww’s”; literally just a handfull of some of his catchphrases bro.

☆ Loves burying his faceplate into bot’s neck wires 💞EEEEEE💞 just for teases and taunts eheehee.

☆ 👑THE RASPBERRY AND NIBBLING KING👑

☆ He would be able to dish out like millions upon MILLIONS of raspberries and nibbles if he really felt like it…it’s insane…HE’S insane…

☆ Considers himself to be a 101% Ler…buuuut we all know that’s false af 🤝🏾🤝🏾🤝🏾.

☆ Another HC of mine but one of D-16 and Orion’s forms of affection is gentle forehead bumps/bonks 🫶🏾. Just a lil silly thing the two do sometimes and Orion does it ALLLLL the time when tickling Dee.

☆ Legit loooooves tazing. Someone needs to stop this man 😭🤚🏾…he has a genuine problem and doesn’t understand how freaking EVIL tazing is (YES I AM TALKING FROM EXPERIENCE).

☆ Sometimes him and Dee have different mining shifts throughout the day and so when they do, Dee always makes sure to say 'hi' when they’re passing by each other like the sweet bot that he is right???

☆ But Orion, instead of giving a normal response he just gives his bestie the smuggest grin ever and either wiggles his digits at him, feigning a 'wave' or he just straight up pokes him in the back plate and the sides 😭😭😭.

☆ Brought out the 'Tickle Monster’ persona when meeting Bee REAAAAAL quick.

☆ Comes up with the meanest of nicknames such as 'gigglebot' or uhhhh yeah no that’s all I got but you catch my drift.

☆ IS. SO. COCKY. IT’S SICKENINGGGGG.

☆ Yaps on and on and ON about how you could honestly stop him if you really wanted him to. 

☆ Gives 🫂hugs and cuddles🥰 as aftercare or if anything he’ll give a small fistbump 🤜🏾💕🤛🏾.

☆ Will play fight to pin his Lee down; whatever it takes. 

☆ SOSOSOSOSO PLAYFUL.

☆ Loves just randomly picking tickle games to torture— uhhh I mean…play with with his friends 😉👍🏾! For example he’d be like “Okay…uh, truth or dare: you tell me your favorite spot to get tickled or I tickle you 😇!” 

☆ “But I’m not doing anything/I’m barely touching you~!” 

☆ Talks about tickling as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

☆ He’ll be like: “Oh, yeah! That really tickled me pink…” cue him looking over at you with the most smug grin EVER

☆ Will blatantly just ask someone if he could tickle them if he’s in a bad enough Ler mood.

☆ Is the type that could yap for days about how cute a laugh is (he does it with Elita 24/7…pray for him guys he will get a fist to his faceplate one of these days…).

🩶ᴅ-16🩶

♢ 🥹AIUHGGFHKKIUUYGAAAHUYA D-16 MY LOVEEEEE🥹.

♢ S W I T C H (50/50 as well).

♢ 💕MAH💘BOOOooOoOo💖.

♢ That’s my kin you guys don’t EVER mess with me 💪🏾🔥✨ (I say as if it’s a flex…) .

♢ HE HAS A HIGH PITCHED SNORT/SQUEAK LAUGH IDC IDC IDCCCCCCC‼️

♢ D-16 🤝🏾 Peppa Pig.

♢ My sweetheart baby blorbo boo bear forever and ever. He will be redeemed guys trust (<- I’m delulu 😔…).

♢ Is the literal textbook definition of a squirmer. 

♢ Will kick, flail…you name it. All you need to know is he won’t sit still while being tickled 🙅🏾‍♀️. 

♢ So good luck with not getting a servo in your faceplate when tickling this bot 😂👍🏾.

♢ Can only say 'tickle' when he’s in a Ler mood or when he’s tickling some other bot…but other than that??? Can’t say it to save his LIFE.

♢ His worst spots are his neck, knees and thighs <333.

♢ But tbh he is literally the embodiment of what it means to be ticklish so in all honesty just tickle him anywhere 🤷🏾‍♀️.

♢ Lightly scratch under his chin and he will actually combust into the sweetest most purest giggles ever; it’s Orion’s fave place to tickle him ☺️🩷!!!

♢ IS. TICKLISH. EVERYWHERE (I’m aware I already said this and I’ll say it again 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️).

♢ HATES how ticklish he is and HATES how easy it is for Orion to make him tag along with his dumb missions due to that fact. Orion will literally just tickle Dee to oblivion until he decides to come on a stupid little adventure with him 😭. (#JusticeforD-162024).

♢ Kinda personal headcanon I suppose but I feel like this bot DEFINELTY has a touch of the tism…just a bit 🤏🏾😙.

♢ So when it comes to teasing, he realizes what he finds flustering and then automatically uses it on someone else.

♢ Literally gives out a free handbook on how to tickle him whenever he tickles someone else 😗.

♢ Freaking loathes his laugh…like actually….

♢ Will try to hold it in when being tickled but can only last, like…0.2 seconds before completely giving in. (His record is 1 second…Orion legit counted 💀🤚🏾…).

♢ Tries to act like he’s some big scary Ler because of his height and size but if you literally just tap him on the shoulder or something he will descend into the giggleest (pun very much intended) of giggles.

♢ Has ticklish shoulders, arms and palms as well bc I simply said so 🕺🏾🕺🏾🕺🏾!!!

♢ Actually so scared of accidentally hurting someone when he’s squirming…like that’s legit his biggest fear. 

♢ He one time actually kicked Orion so hard his bestie went flying into a whole other room…still apologizes to him for that day constantly 😖…

♢ HATES PLAYFUL NIBBLES WITH A PASSION OH MY GOSH; FINDS THEM THE MOST GOD AWFUL EMBARRASSING THING‼️

♢ He D I E S when Orion does raspberries or nibbles on him. The only thing you’ll hear from the taller bot is snorts and subtle squeals while he’s just silently wheezing bro…

♢ His laugh…gets SO. freaking. loud when someone gives him a raspberry idk how to describe but just know it shakes the BUILDING‼️‼️‼️ 

♢ Digit wiggling gets to him so bad ohhhhoooo this poor bot is so ticklish I almost feel bad (almost).

♢ He’ll just be all like: “GEHET IHAT OHOVER WIHIHITH!!!” or “JUHUST FRAHAHAGGING DOOHOO IHIT!!!” 

♢ And Orion, being the jackaft he is is all like “Get on with whaaaat, buddy 😇~?” 

♢ Covers his faceplate when he snorts because again omg this dude hates his laugh to a FAULT. He mainly hates it because he snorts, though.

♢ And it’s not even a subtle snort like when I tell you this man snorts…he SNORTS. 

♢ Orion literally thinks D-16’s laugh is legit the most purest thing to ever exist in all of Iacon (they are so brothers coded ur honor I cannthtgththdjd).

♢ If Dee is having a bad day and just mumbling and grumbling self deprecating bullscrap to himself being all like, “My laugh is so loud and annoying and blah blah blah *insert Dee grumble noises…*” Orion will just tickle him into saying nice things about himself (;´༎ຶٹ༎ຶ`).

♢ DOES LIL HAND FLAPPIES IF SOMEBOT GETS HIM IN A GOOD SPOT (projecting?? Pljshsggsh nooo ofc not…).

♢ Has to protect his sides bc Orion tases him DAY and NIGHT.

♢ Is ganged up on by Orion and Bee CONSTANTLY. And Elita is there just usually watching in amusement but she will join if need be 😘.

♢ She tickles D-16 sometimes to get him to loosen up bc my Lord this man is tense. More tense than her and that’s saying a LOT.

♢ Sorry to be that guy but lemme get on the angst train for a quiiiiiiick sec  🚂‼️‼️‼️

♢ Yk how I mentioned Orion’s fave spot to tickle D-16 was his chin right??? I can imagine after Megatron gets banished from Iacon he tickles himself there as like a self-soothing thing. 

♢ And the thing is…he can’t even laugh to the feeling anymore. He’s done it so many times he’s gotten numb to it. 

♢ To be completely honest he doesn’t even know why he does it anymore since he can’t feel…anything. Megatron just guesses it’s one of his many ways of grieving for what he once had…

♢ 💃🏾MUAHBAHAAHHA OKAY OKAYOKYAOKAYY LER DEE TIMEEEE🕺🏾!!!

♢ Even tho this man his is hella ticklish do NOT be fooled…he has his Ler moments.

♢ AND HIS HEIGHT HONESTLY JUST MAKES IT TEN TIMES WORSE.

♢ “Usually you’re so tough…where’d all that cockiness go, hm~?”

♢ Always tries to make his Lee guess what he’s going to do next (🎶ohooo rhyme time🎶).

♢ Will be like: “What am I gonna tickle tickle tickle~? Your oh-so yummy tummy or your neckie neck? And if you guess correctly I pink promise to stop tickling youuuuu~!”

♢ AND HE WILL NOT STOP YAPPING UNTIL YOU GUESS…

♢ But I know your thinking 'Oh, well he’s just gonna pick the oppisotw of what I out so there’s really no point…'

♢ 😃A b o u t…t h a t…😅.

♢ Once you guess, Dee will actually be like: “Awe, shucks….yeah, that’s the spot I was gonna tickle 😔.” AND STOPS TICKLING. COMPLETLEY AND JUST GOES HIS MERRY WAY.

♢ PLAYFUL GROWLS PLAYFUL GORWLS PLAYFUL GROWLLSSSS 😙💞💖💕💘

♢ FREAKING ADORES PRETENDING TO 'EAT' SOMEONE’S TICKLE SPOT UHGGFHF HE MAKES ME SO HAPPY

♢ Tries to act all scary and teasy but just ends up laughing with whomever he’s tickling ✨‼️

♢ BC LIKE?????? AWE?????

♢ Honestly just a big 'ol teddy bear 🥹…!

♢ But if he’s feeling super mean he’ll nuzzle his face into his victims— uhhh I mean compadres tummy before nibbling.

♢ THE 'OM NOM NOM' KING 🤴🏾!!!

♢ Kills Bee with it on the regular (R.I.P. 🪦).

♢ And when he becomes Megatron⁉️ Those claws⁉️⁉️⁉️

♢ Ugh I cannot with this man throw him in a dumpster already.

🩷ᴇʟɪᴛᴀ-1🩷

♡ I LOVE HERRRRR GUYS THIS IS MY QUEEN RIGHT HERE 🫠💘🫠💗🫠💓🫠💖🫠💞

♡ TALKING ABOUT HER IN A VEEEEERY POSITIVE LIGHT BECAUSE EEEEEEEE I LOVE HER SO MUCHHHH‼️

♡ 💖🫶🏾 A Ler-leaning Switch 🫶🏾💖

♡ Denies liking or Primus forbid loving tickling and she’ll take that until she’s offline (even though her friendgroup knows daaaaaang well she doesn’t like it…she 😏loves😏 it hhfgffhggrgh)

♡ I’m gonna be soooooo honest this girl didn’t even know she was ticklish until she met Orion Pax and D-16.

♡ I can literally imagine one of their first interactions was Orion just yapping about how she needs to loosen up a bit while Dee is just DESPERATELY trying to rear Orion back to their job (poor man does NOT want to get demoted).

♡ And then she just starts to ignore the two bc shoot I would to 😭🤚🏾. And Orion, trying to get her attention again pokes her in the side (more like a jab— he honest to Primus didn’t mean to tickle her) and she just squeals loudly and bats away his arm.

♡ When I tell you Orion’s faceplate brightened with mischief??? When I tell you Elita’s faceplate literally blushed so damn hard???

♡ Poor girl was so confused after that encounter. She was just like “Why am I feeling this way…and why the frag does it feel so good…?”

♡ She laughs like a ✨yassified gremlin✨…idk how to describe it bc that’s LITERALLY how her voice actor laughs.

♡ The embodiment of “EHEHEHEEH 😈‼️”

♡ Will occasionally wheeze, squeak and squeal 🙌🏾💓. But good luck, she’s a preeeeeeetty tough cookie to crack.

♡ Cannot handle massages. AT ALL.

♡ “IHIHIF YOHOU DOHON’T QUIHIHIT IHIT RIHIHIGHT THIHIHIS INSTANT-!!!”

♡ Will NOT admit she’s ticklish…she’s worse than Orion and that’s SAYING something…

♡ Her worst spots are her back, thighs and underarms.

♡ PUNCHES AND KICKS AS A REFLEX!!!

♡ Kneed Bee in the gut (🥳two for two🙌🏾) when he was tickling her and she felt SOOOOO BAD.

♡ If you wanna really get Elita to giggle, though…just do small back scribbles and pokes she’ll go ballistic 😵‍💫.

♡ Once, during a mining shift break Orion and Elita were hanging out and just poking fun of each other, right??? It was all fun and games until Orion made a cringe-worthy joke and Elita was all like “Your probably the only bot on all of Cybertron that Primus regrets creating 😑…”

♡ And Orion, being the drama king he is just GASPS and is all like “RUGGEEHJGFGF YOU’RE SO FRAGGING MEAN TAKE THAT BAAAAACK 😫😣😖😩😔😟🙁‼️”

♡ Then Elita, being as stubborn as the future Prime is all like “Make me.” Cue to the two having a playful wrestle match until Orion accidentally pokes Elita’s back..

♡ Also cue to him pining his friend to the ground and just happily tickling her back…

♡ AND WHEN I TELL YOU ELITA WAS CACKLING‼️‼️‼️

♡ Poor bot didn’t know her back was that ticklish AUGHHHH. She was all like: “PRIHIHIMUHUS STAHOP NOHOHOH PAHAHX GEHEHET AHAHAFF!!!”

♡ Doesn’t get Lee moods often but when she does?? Ohooooo it’s HELL for her 😭.

♡ She just gets really restless and tingly and shes just like: AUGHHHHH WHAT THE FRAG DO I DO???

♡ And the thing that I’ve noticed about the main male bots in TF1 is they talk with their hands…a LOT. So she could just randomly be talking with Dee and the entire time she’s just like: “Primus fraggit…”

♡ I can imagine D-16 tickling her quite often actually. Likeeee does he know what he’s in for when she gets him back??? Oh yes 100%. But I feel like he will just risk it for the biscuit when it comes to tickling Elita 🥹💞.

♡ Covers her mouth when getting tickled and HAAAAAAATES it when other bots mention it. FoOoOor example:

♡ Orion: “D'aww…Lita, why’re you covering your faceplate, hm~?”

♡ Elita: “SHUHUPF. UHUPF!!!”

♡ Orion (removing her hand): “Sorry…what was that~?”

♡ ALSO HAS REEEEEEEALLY TICKLISH PALMS AAAAA⁉️

♡ If you tickle her she will N E V E R say 'please' or anything like that tho bc she freaking refuses to 'beg to anyone.'

♡ So when the tickling happens she just accepts her fate (with the occasional kick and punch ofc).

♡ “If you fragging tell anyone I’m ticklish you will permanently get a dent in your faceplate by my fist, got it?!”

♡ 💘LOVES💘 TICKLE FIGHTS— she’ll always try and make it a competition.

♡ Won’t look her Ler in the face….she’d rather freaking deactivate.

♡ Before she received a cog, her atenta thingies were VEEEERY sensitive.

♡ IT WAS HER M E L T SPOT, BRO. One poke or nibble there and she would be GOOOONEEE.

♡ She’s really sad she doesn’t have them anymore, though cuz they were lowkey her fave tickle spot uhhhH I MEAN WHO SAID THAT⁉️⁉️⁉️

♡ Hate’s being tickled (🧢‼️).

♡ Kindaaaaa reacts when someone uses the dreaded t-word. Like she’ll stiffen and her optics will go wide and stuff and she’ll just stare going like “O-O…”

♡ AHHHHHH OKAY BUT LER ELITA HAS BEEN ON MY M I N D.

♡ Pining is quite literally her middle name. She knows waaaay too many ways on how to pin a bot so if you’re tickled by her…?

♡ Good luck, soldier 🫡. Cuz you most def will be tickled to tears.

♡ Points out the obvious ✨buuuuut✨ also adds some teases here and there….yk for ✨✨✨dramatic✨✨✨ effect.

♡ “Hm….this seems like a really bad spot…would you like it better if I moved to this spot instead?”

♡ “I genuinely cannot understand you…see, if you were less fragging ticklish then you wouldn’t be in this position.”

♡ HGFDHEJSJFJ SHE WOULD BE SO DAMN EVIL‼️

♡ Like she wouldn’t even need to threat who she’s tickling…she literally just has this look that’s quite enough to send somebot giggling.

♡ Tickle chases??? Yeah no that’s not a thing when it comes to Elita-1 ☝🏾🙂‍↔️…

♡ You’ll probably get two steps in before she playfully pins you to the ground.

♡ VERY COCKY since she knows the other three are like…hella ticklish.

♡ Like yeah she has a ticklish backplate…big deal 🙄🤚🏾. Dee has ticklish knees for Primus sake; how the frag does that work???

♡ IS ALSO SO MEAN DURING CLEANING DAY OH MY WORD…

♡ Since they’re miners (HAH) I can imagine there’s like a ton of dirt and scrap that gets stuck on/in their joints.

♡ And so, they have clean up days where the bots are washed by machines that help remove all that gunk :D!!!

♡ But yk what two bots try to skip that day constantly?

♡ D-16 and Orion Pax (mostly Dee let’s be so fr; the ONLY time this man will break protocol).

♡ And Elita has to legit hunt these two down with the little cleaning machines and she is always so. mean. about. it.

♡ Cuz Dee is hiding cuz he’s deadly ticklish and the 🪶feathers🪶 and 🧽scrubs🧽 are just….frag to the no.

♡ And Orion is just going with him for the heck of it 🤷🏾‍♀️.

♡ She’ll just stroll down the halls with her hands behind her back like some evil villain saying, “Just come out you two…the quicker we get this over with the quicker you can go back to whatever weird mission you two were doing.”

♡ “I’m not sure why you thought you could hide from me…does my title mean nothing to you~?”

♡ Knows eeeeevery tickle tick in the book; rib counting, hand wiggling, you name it.

♡ So in short? When it comes to Elita…just know what you’re getting yourself into 😵‍💫...

💛ʙ-127💛

⭔ KFHDHHEJSJS MY BABYYYYYY 😭💖🫶🏾‼️

⭔ You are my suuuunshiineeee…my only sunshine *cue LeBron James photo*

⭔ A Lee-leaning Switch ☺️👍🏾.

⭔ I bet the poor thing didn’t even know what tickling WAS until he met the squad.

⭔ I MEAN THINK ABOUT IT. HE WAS AT SUB LEVEL 50…IN BETWEEN A LONG TIME AND FOREVER…WATCHING TRASH FREAKING MELT‼️‼️‼️

⭔ WHEN WOULD HE HAVE DISCOVERED THE WONDERS AND WHIMSY OF TICKLING⁉️⁉️⁉️

⭔ Oh yeah!! That’s right…NEVER. Cuz he was alone for soooo lonnggg rruahgdggdh ☹️…

⭔ It’s giiiiiivinggggg…touch-starved tbh.

⭔ Genuinely got so confused when Orion and Dee were having a tickle fight one time (yes this happened after the movie because they all stopped Sentinel together and lived happily ever after idk what Transformers One movie YOU GUYS watched but thats the one I watched).

⭔ He was like: “Why is Dee laughing so much…is he okay 😅?!” Like out of curiosity and concern but also out of amusement because Dee’s snort laugh is legit pure serotonin 🫶🏾💕.

⭔ Elita then had to explain that he was tickling him, right? And Bee just blinked in confusion and was all like: “…The frag is a 'tickling…?'” 

⭔ After that it literally got soooooo silent and even Orion and Dee stopped their tickle fight to just look at Bee like “😦” and MDNDHSJJ BASICALLY EVERYONE WAS JUST APPALLED. 

⭔ Tickle hugs and tickle cuddles are his fave thing e v e r.

⭔ MAKES SO MANY NOISES WHEN HE GETS TICKLED OMGGGGG!?!?

⭔ Will literally squawk like 🦅dying bird🦅 if someone so much as pokes him to get his attention or something.

⭔ His worst spots are his hips, stomach and sides.

⭔ When getting tickled, he just hugs himself and kicks his lil pedes ☹️💘💗 💓����!!!

⭔ Legit the baby brother of the group so y'all already K N O W he’s wrecked the most out of all four of them.

⭔ Let me tell you— when this sunshine gets tickled he barely does anything to stop it besides the actions I listed before. As I said…he LOVES getting tickled.

⭔ He kinda literally let’s it happen except letting out panicked “nohohonono’s” or “plehehease’s” with his occasional squeals, squeaks and hiccups.

⭔ Sososososo giddy when he’s about to get tickled 💞💕💖!

⭔ Closes his optics and covers his faceplate a ton.

⭔ Has a code word (idk what it is yet uh,mmm use your imagination that I came up with a show-stopping word) when he’s had enough.

⭔ 🫣B🤗L🫥U😵‍💫S🥴H🫠Y🤭!!!

⭔ SO SO SOOOOOO BLUSHY!!!

⭔ Anybot could wiggle their digits at him and he’s a giggling, blushing mess ugh I love him.

⭔ I can imagine him being SUPER shy to ask for tickles or to even talk about it since he’s been alone for quite some time (biggest understatement of 2024…) and the sudden switch between being alone and now having friends you consider family is really…overwhelming yk????

⭔ Like I can just see him wanting to ask D-16 for tickles or something but like he doesn’t know how to and he has a small blue tint on his faceplate while he’s rocking his pedes back and forth thinking of how to phrase the question.

⭔ And Dee just looks at him with the most understanding and soft smile and is all like: “You want tickles, buddy?” and Bee just shyly nods UUUGGGHHHFHHDJDJS,,,,!,!

⭔ Closes his optics or looks away this man can not and will not ever look his Ler in the face 😂.

⭔ Kinda worried and paranoid that he’s too much sometimes and he fears that the others will eventually get tired and annoyed with him so he masks. Which, Orion, D-16 and Elita do not like ONEEEE BIIIIT.

⭔ The other three gang up on him CONSTANTLY.

⭔ Is tickled awake by Elita 24/7.

⭔ Kinda tickly on his lower backplate and if you scribble there juuuuuust right he’ll descend in the most sweetest of cackles RAUGHHHH 💃🏾💕🕺🏾!!!

⭔ While being tickled, he has to be corrected on like how to say it…if that makes sense 😅; since he’s unfamailar with it and the word as a whole…he has a hard time structuring it. For example: 

⭔ Bee: “IHIHIHIT TIHIHICKLED SOHOH BAHAD!!!”

⭔ Orion: “I think you mean it 'tickles', bud. It tickle tickle tickle tickle tickle tickles, buddy boo~!”

⭔ Bee (blushing SO freaking hard): “NONOHOHOH!!!”

⭔ Counts the egg crack knee thingie thing as illegal and he will actually deactivate faster than you can say 'Badassatron' if you do it to him 😭👍🏾.

⭔ After he gets somewhat comfortable around his friends as the months go by, he will just straight up just ask to get wrecked….which the others have no problem doing at all 🫶🏾!!!

⭔ “Nohoh wahahait dohohon’t ahactuahally stohop I didn’t mehehean it…”

⭔ Two words: 👏🏾Baby👏🏾. 👏🏾Teases👏🏾.

⭔ LITERALLY MAKES HIM MALFUNCTION SO BAD BRO. Like…getting tickled as a stand-alone he barely knows how to react but sprinkle some baby teases in there⁉️⁉️⁉️ Just deactivate the poor bot at that point…

⭔ I love him so much he makes me so fucking sick 🫨💞‼️

⭔ BUT HIM AS A LER THO⁉️⁉️⁉️

⭔ A FREAKING MENACE. Well…uh,,,,,kinda.

⭔ He’s awkward at first. Like…so so so awkward. Like…cringe-worthy awkward.

⭔ Poor dude did NOT KNOW how to tickle somebot…he was just kind like, “Huh…this is weird but your reactions are cute so imma keep doing it :).”

⭔ AND GOT SO UPSET WITH HIMSELF THAT HE DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO TICKLE PEOPLE.

⭔ SINCE HIS FRIENDS MAKE HIM GIGGLY AND HAPPY HE WANTS TO REGIVE THE FAVOR BUT HE DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO.

⭔ So yk what he does??? He takes 📝notes📝 on how others tickle him and how his friends tickle each other (pretty smart strategy tbh 😌👍🏾).

⭔ One day, D-16 and Bee were tag-teaming Orion and Bee used one of Dee’s teases and Orion completely LOST it while Dee just looked at Bee proudly 💕✨.

⭔ Big brother little brother bonding right there! Hopefully nothing bad happens to them, right? RIGHT??? Right.

⭔ Loves tazing and poking eheh.

⭔ “Boop boop boop boop boopity boop ☺️!!!”

⭔ And he says it in the most genuine purest way e v e r ^

⭔ But once he’s learned to be teasy and mean??? It’s over for freaking everyone.

⭔ Loves pointing out how much the bot he’s tickling is having fun.

⭔ Yaps to no end about how they could 101% get away or how they’re just holding his wrists and not ACTUALLY preventing him from tickling them (as I said…menace).

⭔ “Looks like SOMEBOT is enjoying themselves~!”

⭔ Since Bee is…yk…really really short, after the rebuild (basically a couple months after the movie) of Iacon he often climbs Elita’s and Optimus' backplate and just forces them to give him a piggyback ride 😗.

⭔ BUuUuUuT this lil yellow bot is a legit demon (he has horns in other iterations for a reason ☝🏾😈) and he likes to just ever so slooowly trace the bot who’s carrying him’s neck or just full on blows a raspberry on the crook of their neck cables.

⭔ Like…99.9% always tries to make his Lee admit something.

⭔ Either that they’re cute, that they like being tickled or something along those lines.

⭔ We all know his knife hands tho yes yes mhm mhm we’re all familiar???

⭔ Okay hear me out but what if they were like…interchangeable?

⭔ Like he has daggers for slicing and dicing but then he ALSO has daggers that aren’t sharp enough to kill or scratch a man but sharp enough to…well, I know you catch my drift 😚🫶🏾.

⭔ “I gotchu~! I’m gonna getchu getchu getchu~!”

⭔ In short, love this dork and I cannot flipping wait to see more of him 🐝.

⭔ Although, if his voicebox gets ripped out you guys will not hear from me. At all.

[cerisereids]

𝗖𝗮𝗻'𝘁 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗦𝗲𝗲 𝗜 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺 𝗔𝘁 𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁?- 𝗦.𝗥. [𝗽𝘁. 𝟭]

Pairing- PostPrison!Spencer x Bombshell!Reader

WC- 5k and this is only pt 1 belle shut up challenge

Summary- The BAU receives an invitation to the annual FBI gala. Spencer can't seem to handle the amount of attention you get.

Contains- icky men flirting a lot with reader, avoidant attachment!Spencer, spencer low-key gets in a cockfight with another guy at the event, fight, angsty, fluff in pt 2, reader's dress is inspired by sabrina's grammy dress, only kind of proof read, ending heavily inspired by ness in the new girl ep where cece almost marries shivrang

A/N- first time doing a multi-parter Spence fic in so long!!! I hope everyone likes!! I once again cannot find where I got this divider from I'm so sorry everyone

Part Two

Your fingers delicately grasp your pink perfume bottle, the floral scent falling over you like fresh rainfall. The scent ends up mixing with all the others taking space in Emily's expansive apartment. Your coworkers whiz past you in all directions, J.J., Tara, Penelope, and Emily scattering to get ready. Emily's kitchen island and master bathroom are now transformed into a provisional beauty parlor, endless arrays of lipsticks, eyeliners, and mascaras littering every inch of counter space.

The infectious beat of ABBA's Dancing Queen floats through the room, seeping its way into your veins. You can't not dance along as you aimlessly finagle your gold hoop into your earlobe. Penelope catches you, moving swiftly into your stride as she dances alongside you. Her own wine glass is perched in her right hand as her left offers you a fresh one. You gladly accept, toasting Penelope's glass before taking a sip.

The acidity tickles your throat, the alcohol oozing into your bloodstream in record time. You make your way to the kitchen island in search of your favorite lip gloss, settling on a stool. You study the rest of the group in your moment of solitude. They're all still frantically puzzling each piece of their intricate looks into place. You've already accomplished your hair, makeup, and now accessories- a routine that's as easy for you as the ABC's. So, you're left alone to revel in the chaos that is the BAU's first annual FBI charity gala.

You're not alone for long, of course, as Emily and Penelope quickly find you, taking their own breaks in your makeshift reprieve. You can tell exactly what's on their minds by the sinister smiles stretching their lips.

"Sooo..." Penelope drags out, taking another generous sip of wine. "How are things going with The Good Doctor?" Emily can't help but nod, enthusiastically supporting Garcia's question.

They're the only ones who know you've been seeing Spencer. Well, if you'd consider three dates and an absolutely incredible kiss seeing each other. You hope he does, though he's still a bit standoffish. You've been telling yourself that he's just readjusting to life outside of prison, but you can't help the small, petrified feeling resting in the pit of your stomach.

"Good, I think..." you snap out of your daze, cheeks heating to an uncomfortable temperature. Your eyes dart anywhere but the women in front of you, and you know it's a dead giveaway, but you can't seem to care.

They squeal, and you self consciously hush them, cheeks now ablaze. Your eyes dart to the other two ladies on the other side of the room, seemingly unphased by the shrill giggles emanating from the kitchen.

They only screech higher, louder, when you smile like an idiot. You can't help it when it comes to Spencer. Your forefinger and thumb find your temples as you hide your face with your hand.

"Oh, you like him!" Emily scoffs, lightly shoving your arm. Penelope nods emphatically, gulping down the rest of her drink.

"It's still so new, I'm not quite sure what I feel yet." It's not totally a lie. You're completely head over heels. You're just not sure he feels the same.

Emily's brow raises, immediately clocking the way your face falls. "But...?" She questions, and you roll your eyes at her all-knowing gaze.

"I'mjustnotsurehowhefeelsaboutme."

It jumbles together on its way out of your mouth, clouded by a deep sigh.

"What?!" Both women exclaim at the same time. Your stomach sinks, and you bury your face in both hands with a dramatic groan.

"He's just so...closed off. Like, when I try to get to know him more, he shuts down. It's like he wants to open up, but all of a sudden can't at the last minute. I just don't know if things are moving too quickly since his release," you confess, biting your lip. You're shocked by how much lighter you feel getting it off your chest.

You were hired on the team while he was behind bars. You served as an extra set of analytical eyes as the team worked night and day to free him, along with any other cases that came across Emily's desk. You remember the moment you first saw him, could never forget it, really.

He was dysregulated, almost unengaged from the world around him as he walked into the BAU for the first time post-prison. You remember the peculiar, distrusting look in his big, gorgeous eyes. The fear in them, the hurt. It took him a few weeks to warm up to you, a new member of the team disjointing the routine he knew prior.

Once he did, though, one of many doors opened in The Mystical World of Spencer Reid. You'd gotten to know each other slow but sure, Chinese takeout in the break room, hunching over case files until early morning. Each time, you fell harder for Spencer Reid.

It's a delicate situation, not only his emotional state, but yours as well. You like him, more than you've ever liked anyone. You will not let yourself throw it all away by being too bold, too brass. Though you know he'd never say that, you'd been told that too many times by too many men. It lives within you like a bad habit.

"Oh!" Penelope lilts. "Well...maybe you can put some feelers out tonight, y'know? See if he wants anything more than just casual dates?" Her brows raise inquisitively, and you sigh.

"I don't know, I'm not sure if tonight is the most appropriate night for that..." you trail off, but you know it's a crock of shit. The proof is hanging on the door directly parallel to you.

As if on cue, Emily furrows her brow, her classic 'yeah right' face penetrating through each one of your walls. "Uh-huh..." she trails, her tongue tapping the roof of her mouth. "So that gold, sparkly number is, what, for fun?" Her gaze is pointed, cocking her head towards the long golden dress that hangs from her closet door.

Your spine straightens, eyes flitting to the fridge behind the interrogating women. Yet, there's that smile again. It's impossible to keep it at bay when it comes to Spencer.

"Is a lady not allowed to look like a smoke show at a work event?" you're sly, slinking off the bar stool with your glass perched in your fingers. You reach for the dress, sauntering into the bathroom, fully aware of the show you're putting on for your friends.

It took a total of four women to help you get into the dress that now adorns your figure. Glittery gold fabric cinches and flows around your waist and hips, a tight corseted bust accentuating your chest.

You're no stranger to having all eyes on you, and tonight is no different as you enter the dimly lit ballroom. Round tables with black cloths take up most of the space, with a dance floor at the front. Men from other units scan your frame as you walk through the space towards your team. You ignore them, the only eyes you care about are the brown ones you found the second you entered the room.

Spencer stands slightly off to the side, his free hand shoved into his pocket as he watches you greet the rest of the team. You feel his eyes on you the entire time, the heat of his gaze searing right through you. When you finally turn to him, those godforsaken doe eyes light up. It's like your eyes make him feel whole again. A soft smile spreads across your lips as you finally greet him. You take him in, a black suit fitting him snugly. You can't help but swoon. It's not often you get to see him in such formal regalia, and you're going to soak up every second you can,

He opens his arms to you, pulling you in for a sweet hug. His hand splays across the expanse of your back, his fingers lightly grazing your exposed skin.

"Hi," he whispers in your ear, his lips barely grazing the skin there. You shiver at the slight contact.

"Hi," you respond, tightening your grip around his broad shoulders.

The hug lingers just a bit longer than what is deemed professional, but you can't seem to care. His cologne is intoxicating, infiltrating your brain at a rapid speed. You stay in his arms even when you pull out of the hug, resting in the crook of his elbow.

His large hands find your waist, splaying over the fabric covering it. His fingers dig in ever so slightly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles where it rests. You settle into his even further, ignoring the knowing glances and smirks Penelope and Emily wear.

"It's good to see you," he mutters, lips now pressed to your temple. "You look phenomenal," he punctuates with the softest kiss to your hairline.

"Thank you," you turn in his arms, hands fastening on his bow tie. "You don't look so bad yourself."

You shoot him a siren's gaze, hooded eyes peering up through thick lashes. He avoids eye contact almost immediately, a telltale sign you've already gotten under his skin. It's only 7:15. A glimmer of satisfaction beams in your stomach. You're only getting started.

"May I say, you ladies look phenomenal," Luke lifts his glass in salute that makes you playfully roll your eyes. "Where did you get this?" He turns to you, referring to the gold dress that has already drawn the eyes of half the people in the crowded room.

You flip your hair over your shoulder, confidence on full display. "Just something I had lying around in my closet, y'know?" You respond playfully, receiving a mix of chuckles from your team.

"Well, you look incredible," he says, and it's not creepy or forward, just kind. It doesn't stop Penelope, though.

"Stop trying to get us to fall in love with you, Alvez, and get me a drink," she quips, turning him by the shoulders towards the bar.

You chuckle at the scene, but a peculiar feeling strikes your chest when you feel Spencer tense behind you. His hand freezes where it rests, his spine straightening. His hand now hovers over your back now, and the break in contact makes you ache.

"Do you want to go with them? I can come with you to get a drink?" he clears his throat as he speaks, another giveaway. This time, of discomfort, uncertain. You haven't been seeing each other for long, but you've made it a habit to memorize him a long time ago,. His ticks, quirks, the cadence of his voice. They all tell you something new about the elusive man before you.

"Yeah!" You say, your mood perking up ever so slightly. "That's a great idea."

You link your arm through his as you make your way to the bar, a clear sign to anyone- any man- whose eyes tend to linger.

You lean your elbows on the bar as you wait for the bartender, eyes scanning over the menu on the screen above.  Spencer’s beside you, facing away from the bar, though his body turns into you all the same. You’re contemplating whether or not you’re in the mood for a dirty martini or a cosmopolitan, when another black suit saddles up on the other side of you. You can tell, just from the acrid stench of his cologne, that it’s nobody that could possibly interest you. 

“What’re you drinking tonight, gorgeous?” the man next to you crooned, and you can barely stop yourself from rolling your eyes. 

“Nothing you need to know about, thanks,” you’re polite, but firm all the same. This isn’t your first rodeo. 

“Playing hard to get, I see,” the man chuckles as he waves two fingers at the bartender, almost like he’s calling a dog. It makes your stomach turn. 

You feel Spencer tense beside you, much like he did when Luke complimented you. You rest a delicate hand on top of his. The thought of this absolute fool making Spencer upset shakes you more than anything. 

“Yeah, definitely,” you respond, a sugary sweet cadence lacing your tone, “because when women show you clearly that they’re not interested, as they’re standing with someone else, that obviously means they’re playing hard to get. You nailed it! It’s no wonder you made it to the FBI!” Sarcasm pokes through as the bartender finally comes over to you. You hear a small chuckle from Spencer behind you, and you stand five feet taller

“I’ll take a cosmopolitan. He’ll take nothing,” you smile as if you’re Medusa, and could turn him to stone with just one look. “There’s plenty of girls here tonight. Try it on them.” You pat his bicep in a placating manner, and he walks off before you can shame him even more. You hear him scoff, muttering a low ‘bitch’ under his breath. You roll your eyes, placing a soothing hand on Spencer’s forearm as he stands taller, away from the bar.

You can tell by the wild look in his eye that he's not happy. His lips are pressed in a straight line. He creates another inch of space between you two. Your heart cracks ever so slightly.

"I'm okay, just let him go," you croon, a desperate attempt to calm him.

His muscles relax only slightly. He rests against the bar once more, tension now thick in the air.

 You give a polite smile to the bartender, now offering your drink. You accept gleefully, your glossy lips wrapping around the edge of the glass and taking the first sip. The acidic, fruity flavor coats your tongue, tickling your throat on the way down. 

You turn, mirroring Spencer as you now lean back on the bar. You rest your head against his shoulder, a bold move given his rigidity. Each of you taking frequent sips from your respective drinks as you silently people watch. You both know you should be networking, but you can’t seem to care that much. Not when he’s in such a fantastic suit. Soft jazz music floats through the dimly lit hall, mixing with clinking glasses and rich laughter. 

“Do you want to dance with me, Spencer?” You ask, and he looks at you, almost surprised. 

“Yeah,” he answers, a sly smile painting his lips, “yeah, that sounds nice.” 

He leads you to the floor, and your hand finds his shoulder, your free one lacing with his. He sways you to the soft, lucrative beat, and you settle into a familiar rhythm, like you’ve done this a hundred times. Really, though, it’s the first time you’ve held each other like this, so intimate in a room full of people.  

“You really do look incredible,” Spencer mutters, before spinning you out and pulling you back in. You smile up at him and he chuckles, his eyes flitting to the floor, the disco ball, anywhere but you. It kills you now, when he’s so close. You can see the small freckles painting his nose, the various scars he’s collected from over a decade on the job. From prison. You see all of him, even in the low light of the ballroom. But he can’t see you. He’s choosing not to, and you don’t know why. 

Your heart drops at his avoidance, sinking slowly into your stomach like a rock in the ocean. You have an idea of what might be going on, considering the context of both times he’s tensed up on you. You’re desperate for it to be untrue, though, so you continue to sway with him, squeezing lightly on his bicep to redirect his eyes back to you. 

It works, his honey brown irises piercing straight into yours. His gaze is different now, though. Intense and fervent, almost possessive. It makes the hairs on your arms stand, a shiver unzipping your spine. He feels it, you can tell by the way his eyes immediately soften, the comfort of his hand splayed against your back. His fingers rub soothing patterns along the bare skin left by the scooped back of your dress. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his regard for you gentle now, as if he could read what’s been on your mind in the past two minutes. “You look so beautiful. C’mere.” His voice is nearly strained as he pulls you even closer to him, now chest to chest. 

Your chin rests on his shoulder, your temple meeting his jaw as you continue to sway to the music. He leaves the most delicate kiss to your temple, and you close your eyes, letting out a shuddering breath. Your heart beats impeccably fast, and you know he can feel it against him. He spares you some dignity in not mentioning it. You bury your face ever so slightly in the crook of his neck, a pathetic attempt to ingest more of the woodsy cologne he put on for tonight. You can just feel the smirk on his lips, though the soft chuckle shaking his chest gives him away regardless. 

The intensity of the moment is broken by the end of the song, a brief moment of silence cutting through. It’s probably a good thing. The things you want to do to him in this suit are…unprofessional to say the least. He pulls back, holding you at arm’s length so he can look at you again. Your face heats under his pointed gaze, like he’s inspecting every part of you, committing it to memory. Not that it’s hard for him to do, anyway. 

The band shuffles off the stage as a stuffy looking man in a tailored black suit takes their place. You recognize him, just briefly though, from similar events to this. The head of the bureau itself, someone so high up the ladder you couldn’t reach him in six inch heels. You don’t move from Spencer’s arms as the man begins to speak, oblivious to the other people staggering off the dance floor. 

“Good evening, everyone,” he begins. “My name is Benedict Carter. Thank you all for joining us tonight in the name of Care For All. This is an organization that speaks deeply to me, and I hope it reaches all of you as well,” his voice is low, sharp, and succinct. It cuts through the room like glass, and you can’t help but let out the smallest scoff at his clearly scripted words. 

You regret it almost instantly, though, and not for the fact that this man is a mere five feet away. No, you regret that it calls attention to your position with Spencer, attention he skirts away from almost immediately. He nearly jumps from you, as if you’re repelling magnets. You can’t really blame him too much for it. You’re the only people left on the dance floor. Still, it doesn’t ease the dull ache in your chest from the sudden release of contact. He does gently take your hand as he leads you back to the table, where you’re greeted by the knowing eyes of your team. 

You lock eyes with Emily and Penelope, once again regretting your choices immediately. They’re staring daggers at you, playful ones, but daggers all the same. Daggers that say ‘oh my God, tell us everything ASAP’. You shyly tuck your hair behind your ears as you get comfortable in your seat. 

“Dinner tonight is provided by La Città. Please give them a round of applause for their gratitude,” Mr. Carter continues, and a scattered applause responds to him. 

His voice drags you from your addled mind, so induced in the mere idea of Spencer that you hadn’t realized he was still speaking. You flinch ever so slightly, the dose of reality splashing you like cold water. Cream colored plates fill the table, the steaming smell of various entrees filling the air, beef, chicken, fish. 

The clinking of silverware fills the room shortly after, and it’s not long before plates are empty, with multiple glasses of wine consumed. You’re the perfect amount of tipsy, now waiting at the bar in hopes of prolonging that feeling. Your face heats when you feel a large hand on your back, a familiar warmth enveloping you from behind. 

“I think you owe me at least one more dance,” Spencer whispers, his lips pressed against your temple.

It’s flirty, makes your brows raise. You squeeze his hand before nodding. “Let me get a drink first?” You’re not asking permission, more so making him aware of your plans. He nods, of course he does, moving to wait for you at the team’s table. You fiddle with your hands as you wander towards the bar, wringing them together in anticipation. 

Nerves bubble in your gut like a witch’s brew, popping and simmering until your insides are singed. The mere thought of Spencer, waiting there, to dance with you, it makes your heart skip a beat. You rest your chin in your palm, gold nails tapping lightly on the bar as you order another glass of the delicious wine you consumed at dinner. 

You wait for a moment, caught off guard when you feel another figure in your close proximity. It’s foreign, that much you know. Definitely not Spencer. You sneak the smallest peek through your peripheral to find a man with blonde shaggy hair. His suit is tailored to perfection, you can tell that much even from the limited view you have. He’s way too close for your liking, so you inch away ever so slightly, desperate for him to get the hint. 

He just slides closer. Whether he didn’t pick up on the boundary or he just didn’t care, you’re not sure. You straighten your spine all the same, undeterred by the strange presence. You know how to handle yourself. 

“What’re you drinking tonight?” he asks, a pathetic attempt to appear nonchalant as he trains his gaze on the bar menu. 

You roll your eyes. Of course he doesn’t have the audacity to look you in the eye. 

“Is that the only line men have?” you scoff, rolling your eyes before moving away from the bar completely. 

You're completely shell shocked when this man’s arm wraps around your waist, spinning you back to face him. You waste no time ducking out of his arms, appalled at the sheer gall of this man. 

“Leave me alone.” You’re firm, not an ounce of playfulness in your tone or gaze. You leave no wiggle room for interpretation. He scoffs, rolling his eyes, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath. It’s potent, musky in a way that has you turning away from him on instinct. 

“Look, I don’t know why you’re being such a bitch-”

He doesn’t get much further than that before you’re shoving him off completely. If he wants to get physical, you can too. 

“Back up,”calls  a voice from behind you, one you know immediately to be Spencer’s. He wedges his way between the two of you, your brows knitting in confusion at the scene unfolding in front of you. “Back up before I have my entire team here with me. I’d rather not ruin this entire night, though. So, if we’re in agreement, you’re going to turn around, leave, and not bother her for the rest of the night.” 

Your stomach sinks at the sheer brutishness on display before you, eyes going wide at a side of Spencer you’d never seen before. Your insides twist when a sickly smile forms on the blonde man’s face. 

“Aren’t you the one who just got out of jail? Spencer Reid, right? The ‘genius’?” Air quotes surround that last word, and your heart sinks even further, your temples resting between your forefinger and thumb. “I’ve heard some things, so I guess I’ll try my luck elsewhere.”

He finally saunters off, not before shooting you a long, slimy glance before fully turning away. Spencer doesn’t even look at you before he gears toward the exit. You’re hot on his heels, thankful the spat didn’t draw too many eyes. The ones from your team follow you out, staring in shock at the altercation. Your face burns as you catch up to him in the ballroom lobby, a cool draft coming in from outside. 

You shiver, whether from the breeze or from the sheer anger radiating through your veins, you’re not sure. 

“Spencer!” You exclaim, turning him to face you. “What was that? Are you a caveman?” Your voice is hushed, though your tone is sharp as a blade. “I can handle myself!”

Your blood is boiling, your nostrils flared as you breathe heavily through them. Your chest heaves up and down, and you have half a mind to slap him right across the face when his eyes flit down to your cleavage. 

“You clearly couldn’t. He was huge, and continuously overstepped your boundaries,” he spit, his voice a harsh whisper, fire in his eyes. 

“Do you think that’s the first man who’s ever flirted with me?” you throw a hand out in frustration, your other hand resting on your popped hip. 

He flinches at that, and you roll your eyes. 

“Spencer, you’ve been shoving me back and forth all night. You dance with me, then you avoid me. You take me out on dates, yet you can’t seem to ever open up to me. And now this,” your lip wobbles ever so slightly, your teeth sinking in so hard you’re afraid you’ll draw blood. 

Spencer runs a hand down his face, an exasperated look dancing across it. He shakes his head, and the bitter look in his eye makes your stomach sink. 

“I just-” he starts, “Admit that part of you thinks this is a mistake. You and me.”

The statement tilts your world on its axis. Your vision goes fuzzy for a moment, and your eyes drop to the floor. Bile creeps up in the back of your throat. The fear that you’ve so desperately tried to repress springing to the surface, exploding like a pipe bomb. 

“Yes,” you murmur, “part of me does.”

His face falls even more, the confirmation of your fears the final nail in the coffin. A single tear rolls down your cheek. You’re unable to stop it. You swipe it away with a manicured finger, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Then, let’s call it,” his voice is high, almost like he doesn’t mean it. You can’t get your hopes up when it comes to Spencer, though. You’re learning that the hard way. “Y’know, we had a few nights. Maybe that’s all it should be.”

“Great, that feels great. Do you feel great about that?” your voice is shaky, almost sarcastic. He nods, and it’s firm, matter of fact. 

“Great,” you whisper, turning to make your way back to the ballroom. You brush a tear from your cheek as you walk away.

That sickly feeling boils in the pit of your gut. You surrender to the funny, familiar chord you’ve been fighting all night. You know it all too well from boyfriends past. He is jealous. Jealous of the attention you’re getting, of the stares, the whispers, and just like everyone else before, he's punishing you.

[mossyscavern]

Watching the world, through the eyes of a child

_________________________

“It’s so weird isn’t it? Being up on the surface.” D-16 says out loud.

“Yeah, but don’t forget, our people used to live here, remember the cartridges that I stole for you about how the surface used to be a safe place?” Orion asked, elbowing his friend.

“Yeah I remember. I also remember how pissed I was that you stole it.” D says, standing up from his spot on the ground, Orion follows in per suit.

But before anything, d-16 felt something wrap around his left leg. “Got your leg!” D-16 chuckles softly and looks down at the sparkling. “And what are you doing?” He asks, optic ridge raised in curiosity.

“As micronus! I’m gonna cling on you for dear life! And help you through mighty battles!” B-127 states, a huge smile on his faceplate. ‘Playing pretend? Eh, why not.’ He thought to himself, deciding to entertain bee and play along.

“Mighty thanks micronus, it’ll be a long journey ahead, for us primes. Hold on tight old friend, for it’ll be a worthy battle.” He quotes, lifting his leg high and spins around.

This caused bee to squeal and giggle uncontrollably as the older mech stops and looks downwards. The giggling sparkling still holding onto his leg. “Heh, didn’t know you can quote Megatronus?” Orion asked, causing d to roll his optics.

“Like you haven’t quoted any of the other primes… was it zeta or Prima you quote the most?” He asked, generally curious about it. “It’s Prima, thanks for remembering.” Orion admits with a shrug and smile.

“If you’re done being idiots over there!” The three heard, turning to elita-1. “Let’s roll, we’re on the right track according to the map.” She says, walking ahead of the three. “She’s calmer since going on this journey.” Orion comments.

“I got your leg, I got your leg!” Bee sing songs, hugging d’s leg tightly. The grey bot shook his helm, lifting his left leg high while the other walked like normal, occasionally spinning on one leg once in a while.

The sparkling squealed when d spins, then giggles at the silly steps he’s making.

Orion chuckles at the silly endeavour the two are doing, while elita occasionally snuck a glance at the scene and smiled softly with a shake of her helm.

Orion walks backwards and decides to record the cute scene between bee and d-16.

———

“__How have you not had enough__?” The video the holo-vid plays echos.

Red optics stared at the screen for several breams. “__I’ve been swinging you around and making silly steps and you’re still not bored__?!” The holographic video of D-16 asked, lifting his left leg up with the giggly sparkling attached.

“Cause it’s fun! And you’re funny!” The sparkling stated, giggling. “__Oh I’m funny? I’ll show you funny, c’mere__!” D says, lifting the sparkling off his leg, tickling under the arm joints.

“__Ehehehe! No! No tickles! Ehehehehe__!” The sparkling giggles, d-16 stops and hugs bee, smiling as wide as b-127’s smile.

The same red optics soften as he watches the recording, with a silent sigh he shut the recording off. The sparkling was the only light in his life…

… and he decided to leave him behind, megatron would be willing to do anything to keep that light… if only he’d have gone back for him that same day.. although he isn’t sure if that’s a good idea right now-.

“Lord megatron: bot in alt mode has been sighted and approaching, requiring: your attention.” Soundwave informs.

Megatron nods to the blue bot, stood up and walked out of the throne room with shockwave, starscream and Soundwave following behind. The warframe awaited for whatever fool decided to enter ‘decepticon’ territory.

Once they saw the vehicle mode… megatron raised an optic ridge, wondering why the mode looks incredibly familiar to him…

It was quickly figured out why when the bot transforms.. his optics widened at the sight, seeing a bright smile on a small frame he hasn’t seen in astro-weeks.

“Megatron!” Shouted the sparkling in front of him.

“… bee?!”

_________________________

Phew… took a long bit, sorry for the wait… I died-.

Wasn’t sure about what to do… then I remembered one of @yuukirita’s posts and thought ‘eh, heartfelt-ish reunion paired with whimsical bee it is.’ Here’s their post -> reunion <- right there… by the arrows…

Plus? I just wanna write more d-16/megatron and baby bee scenarios… probably also gonna do the au with the ‘parental megatron franchise’ too-…

[astraystayyh]

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess : i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter i. to forget

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader.

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a car accident. mention of blood and physical wounds. depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. reader has she/her pronouns.

word count : 14.8k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me.

a.n: she's here, she's yours, i hope you'll enjoy reading one of the most challenging things I've ever wrote :') your feedback is highly appreciated <3

special thanks to @forlix for going through this journey with me, i love you thank you, seriously, you mean the world to me. and to @dorisnumber1fan for listening to my initial rants about this fic, and all the ones i ever write. i love you and appreciate you so much, more than i could explain <3

quotes series masterlist. next chapter.

Day 1.

You’re floating in a dark void, save for the specks of light swirling around you. A peculiar serenity fills your being, a tranquility unlike any you’ve ever known. It’s as though your body isn’t your own; but rather an otherworldly vessel, calmly traversing the cosmos, dancing in constellations with the stars that encircle you.

A sudden electrifying warmth surges from your hand, traveling down the contours of your knuckles, melting into the lines of your palm. It pulsates within your being as if you’re holding the Earth’s very core between your fingers. You stir away from the lights, longing to break free, to reunite with your body once again.

The warmth intensifies, causing your fingers to involuntarily clench. A deluge of radiance enfolds you, drawing you into a luminous hole. You squint your eyes, drinking in the light— your first breath.

Your eyes flutter open in a daze, your throat parched, rasping like sandpaper against your vocal cords. White encompasses you yet again, from the high ceilings to the pristine bed you’re lying on. It takes you a few blinks to grasp your new environment– an unfamiliar hospital room. You wearily close your eyes, hoping for the stillness to return, aching for the peace you felt within your bones mere moments ago.

But to no avail; only the tingling sensation remains.

You tilt your head, eyebrows shooting upwards as you notice a hand clasping yours. A figure lies their forehead beside your body, black disheveled locks tickling your palm.

The warmth, you understand where it comes from now.

You attempt to slip your hand out of theirs, prompting the man to awaken with a jolt, surprise dancing across his features as his gaze meets yours. Dark circles adorn his face- testimonies to days of fatigue imprinted upon every feature of his. Yet, all of it dissipates as he gazes at you, lips slightly parted, bunny teeth peeking out. His face transforms into a radiant smile, stirring a mysterious longing within your soul- it brushes against your fingertips before slipping beyond your reach. 

"You're awake," he whispers in awe, and your tiredness renders you mute. You point to your throat, hoping that he'll understand what you need. "Water? Is- Is that what you want?" he asks, a touch too eager, fingers running through his hair in sheer disbelief. You nod and he rises swiftly, pouring you a glass of water and bringing it to your lips.

You sip diligently as his hand caresses the crown of your hair, the warmth now traveling to the top of your head. You feel lightheaded as if the blood in your veins has thickened, the very life in you slowed to a faint whisper. Yet, a timid relief emerges as your thirst is finally quenched.

"I'll- I'll go call the doctor," he tells you, his beaming smile unwavering. It’s too bright, everything around you is, and you feel a throbbing headache growing at your temple’s base.

It's a mere minute before the man returns, a doctor and two nurses on his trail. You float within a haze as the nurse shines a beam of light in your eyes. The response of your pupils seems to please her.

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor inquires and you frown. You've been racking your brain for an explanation as to why you're here, but to no avail. You shake your head.

"What's your name," he proceeds, lips growing into a thin line.

"Y/n, Y/l/n," you respond, your voice sounding foreign to your ears, as though it hasn’t left the confines of your throat for ages. You miss the darkness; you want to sleep again.

"What date are we?"

Your eyebrows knit together as you try to think of an answer. "The 20th or maybe the 21st September."

"What year?"

"2022."

An eerie silence falls upon the room, a stillness resembling the one of your dreams; but it isn’t comforting, on the contrary, it fills your being with an unsettling dread, one that trickles inside you with each second spent in silence. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You close your eyes to avoid the sorry ones of the nurse.

"We need to run you an MRI scan," the doctor finally speaks up, tone somber. "It appears you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. But we have to make sure."

It takes time for the words to permeate your consciousness, for the syllables to settle in and start to make sense. Amnesia.

What have you forgotten?

“What…” you chuckle warily, fingers reaching up to soothe your throbbing forehead. “What year is it?”

"It's the 24th of September 2023. You were in a severe car accident two days ago, a drunk truck driver rammed into your car on your way home. You have a fractured rib and extensive leg injury, but no broken bones thankfully. We'll get you to the scan shortly, okay?" he speaks easily as if announcing that you've missed the rain while asleep. As if it’s not a year’s worth of memories you’ve seemingly forgotten, erased in the span of a blink, akin to footprints on sand washed away by the waves. Nothing of importance.

"So, you don't... remember me?" a soft voice quivers, barely above a whisper, and your eyes meet those of the man who’s been at your side, temporarily forgotten in the conversation.

His question is laced with a grave fear, evident in his dilated pupils and trembling hands. A lump blooms in your throat, its thorns pricking at your voice. You aren’t sure you want to answer that question.

"I- I don't."

"Oh."

You’ve never known that a human could crumble in silence, in an imperceptible gasp, so small you almost did not hear it. A crestfallen expression materializes on his face in the span of a heartbeat, features coming together in the rawest expression of anguish you’ve ever seen. You bite your lip.

"Who- Who are you?" you implore, urgency inflecting your tone, hoping that he's no one of importance. Someone who helped you when you got into a car accident. Someone minor who you wouldn't fault your brain for forgetting.

"I was... I-I am your boyfriend. Minho," he utters his name like a broken plea, eyes slightly widening to gauge your reaction. As though those two syllables hold within them a myriad of memories, ones you simply cannot forget.

You don't remember.

The doctor was right in his diagnosis. The scan showed unusual activity within your brain, characteristic of post-traumatic amnesia. You listened numbly as he cited the precautions you should take to heal your physical wounds- to rest, not carry anything heavy, ice your lungs, and go on walks. But you did not care for the state of your body, you’ve bruised it before and it has healed in its own time. It will do it again; it is a familiar path you’ve already undergone. But what about your memory? Your mind that robbed you of a year of your life? How do you get it back?

“There is no guarantee you’d remember. There is also no treatment for amnesia. We advise that you focus on healing first. Do not strain your mind,” your doctor smiled, before leaving the room. His silver wedding band shined mockingly underneath your eye. He doesn’t know what it’s like to forget the lover awaiting you at home.

Minho dutifully sat by your side, nodding along to the doctor’s words. He signed your discharge papers and settled your bills before you could protest, and he was now pushing your wheelchair through the hospital's corridors. You didn’t know what to say to him- how do you talk to a stranger who uttered your name with love dripping between its letters?  

In the hospital’s parking lot, Minho pauses, squatting before you. His eyes are puffy, red veins contrasting against the pristine whites, betraying the tears he must have shed when he excused himself to the toilet.

You suddenly want to beg for a reprieve; it is too much pain for one day, too much for one soul to bear. But it is only six p.m. and Minho's gaze holds you captive, a new emotion dancing in his brown irises- grief. He's looking at you as though you're a phantom, gone when you are still very much breathing.

“We've been together for eleven months, and we moved in together two months ago,” he licks his lips nervously. “You have a two-month medical leave, and I- I don’t want to leave you alone, while you recover. So, you can think of us as… as roommates.” The word felt heavy on his tongue, a fresh wave of tears brimming in his waterline. He swiftly blinks them away.

Your parents are in a faraway city, so is your best friend. You were the one who decided to move somewhere so far, to flee from the skeletons threatening to spill out of your closet. You don't want to burden anyone. You just want to rest.

You nod in agreement and Minho attempts to smile. It is a useless effort; one he quickly gives up. There was nothing to be joyous about.

Minho takes your hand, gently helping you to your feet. He opens the door to his car, and you settle into the passenger seat. It smells pleasant, an apple-scented diffuser dangling from the rearview mirror. Yet, as Minho closes the door, the scent suddenly suffocates you. Your lungs ignite, consuming your oxygen to douse their rising flames.

You can no longer breathe inside, panic rippling in your heart violently, pushing at your ribs, begging for an escape. You open the door, collapsing to your knees as a violent coughing fit overtakes you. You blindly clutch at Minho’s arm and he tumbles to the ground with you. 

The ugly sob that had been trapped within your throat finally escapes, and passersby pay you no mind. It must be usual to hear gut-wrenching cries in a hospital parking lot. But Minho seems to care, as his hands soothingly rub your back, undergoing a steadfast path from the nape of your neck down the base of your spine.

He’s not panicking and his touch appears to instinctively know how to speak to your sadness, how to soothe your sorrow with unheard words.

You imagine it's not his first time comforting you, and the thought only forces another sob from the depths of your soul, as Minho pulls you up once again. He sits your shaky figure on the wheelchair, closing the car doors.

“We can walk,” he tells you gently, and despite the quietness of his voice, it manages to break through your raging storm. A singular sun ray parting the gloomy clouds.

“It’s okay, I’ll... I’ll suck it up”

"You've been through a terrible car accident, and I won't let you sit here and panic, especially when your wounds are still fresh and your mind is trying to protect you."

His tone is resolute, eyes blazing with determination as he looks at you. You can only nod in response. So, Minho pushes your wheelchair to his house. He doesn’t huff, nor complain about the autumn sun scorching his skin, the effort to push you for the entirety of the road, and then inside his building. He only smiles when his eyes meet yours in the elevator mirror.

He’s tentative as he opens the door to his apartment, hand tightly gripping the keys before turning them, as if preparing himself for a bigger heartbreak, one that lies within what was once his sanctuary- yours too, you suppose.

Minho pushes you inside, pausing near the entrance as your eyes drink in the interior. He seems to await something, perhaps for you to remember the place you’ve called home for the past months. A few seconds pass, and he clears his throat, holding your arm to guide you forward. He avoids your gaze as you both venture in.

“This is the kitchen,” he points to a small kitchenette, where a flower bouquet seems to have wilted, much like the man near you- his emotions now diluted, eyes dimmed as they glaze over the walls. You spot your favorite mug on the racks, one that resembles a fairy mushroom. The sight of it makes your heart clench in your chest. So, this is your home, after all.

You leave the kitchen and walk down a narrow hallway when you stumble on your feet. “Easy, honey,” Minho cautions, and your hold on his forearm falters. He blinks at you before gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” you reply in a small voice.

Minho leads you to the living room, cream-colored sofas with a navy blanket on top, multiple fuzzy pillows scattered all around. A tulip field painting graces the accent blue wall- your favorite flower, two matching slippers rest by the couch, racks of your novels adjacent to his collection of cookbooks, you assume. 

It is all the more evident to you that you’ve both lived here, lives intertwining so seamlessly into one another. The place radiates comfort and warmth, but it refuses to penetrate your being, as if you’re harboring a shield that ricochets off any semblance of remembrance. You’re an intruder, standing in stark contrast to the inviting coziness that envelops you.

“I like that wall,” you say in an attempt to lighten the stuffy atmosphere.

“We painted it together,” Minho smiles sadly, and your remorse seems to liquify, blending in with the blood running through your veins.

From the corner of your eyes, you spot three furry masses bolting towards you, small paws clawing at your feet. You feel another dent add to your heart, so much you are sure it would blow away at the tiniest gust of wind. Just how much have you forgotten?

“We… We had cats?” you ask breathlessly, eyes widening as you take in the two orange felines, and the gray, much smaller one.

“These are mine, but you also adopted them, in a way,” he explains, crouching down to pet his cats, scratching the sensitive spot behind their ears. He is tender with them and they appear at ease in his presence. You realize you’ve felt the same since you’ve woken up.

“Hey, my babies,” he coos softly. “Mom- I mean y/n- is tired so let’s give her some space, okay?” he quickly corrects, before gently pushing the cats away from your feet.

Minho shows you the bathroom before leading you to the bedroom- it's a bit untidy, worn clothes thrown on the ground, some of your accessories tossed on top of the vanity. As if the room was also frozen in time, awaiting your return to resume its familiar course.

“You'll sleep here and I'll just take the couch,” Minho interrupts your thoughts as he gently sits you atop the bed.

"But-"

"I’ll make you dinner so you can take your medication, okay?” he ignores your objections, adjusting two pillows behind your back to help you sit up straight, just like the doctor cautioned. His necklace, adorned with your initial, brushes against your cheek. “Try to sleep meanwhile. You need to rest.”

“Minho this is too much-"

“It’s not. If you need anything just call me over, I’ll leave the door open,” he says, tucking you in beneath the blanket. 

“I don’t want to burden you,” you finally admit, voice slightly raised so he’d finally listen.

“Y/n, I love you.” He speaks so suddenly, fists balled on either side of your body. “And this is what I do for the person I love. I… I don’t know how to not care for you, don’t take that away from me, please. Please,” he repeats, voice faltering under the weight of his plea. 

"Okay," you concede. 

You can't quite remember that first night, the morphine injected into your veins made you ebb and flow out of consciousness, only recollecting small fragments of the hours flowing by.

But you remember the dull pain settling into your bones, one you knew would accompany you for the following weeks. You remember the thoughts swirling in your mind like a tempest- your near brush with death, how she almost trapped you into her icy hold; the year of memories gone with the wind, as if they were never yours to begin with; and the stranger whose home you are in now, the very one who took care of you throughout the night.

And you can't perfectly recall it, but you swear Minho stayed by your side until the early hours of the morning, warm hand pressed to your forehead to check your temperature, cold tears falling on your arm as he laid his head next to your sleeping body.

Day 2.

You miss being asleep the second you wake up in.

Every fiber of your being aches, as though pain has latched itself into every muscle, its grip unrelenting now that the morphine's comforting veil has lifted. You drag a hand tiredly across your face, tears of frustration welling like dewdrops in your eyes. It's only 10 a.m. Far too early for one's spirit to crumble.

A bright post-it note on the bedside table catches your weary gaze. "I went to drop your medical leave at your work. I've made you breakfast it's in the kitchen. Don't forget to drink your medicine, I'll be home soon"

What home was Minho referring to, exactly? Because this one wasn’t yours, and neither was the one back in your hometown. Were you destined to be a passerby in temporary places, always lingering near the door, ready to put your shoes back on and leave at any moment?

10:03. Still too early.

You find solace in having two months off of your work. You couldn’t bear being somewhere where everybody knew you for months, while your memories of them span but mere weeks. The expectations they would have, the pressure to conform, to mirror the footsteps of your past self was an unbearable burden. What if she was better than you? Made better choices, spoke more eloquently? What if you couldn't live up to the image they had conjured? What if you couldn't face the repercussions of your past actions?

10:07. You need to shower.

You slowly ease yourself off the bed, careful not to put pressure on your injured leg, avoiding even the slightest exhalation. You pretend as if nothing’s happening as you pick up a pair of pajamas that you recognize from the closet – a familiar relic from the life you’ve always known.

It's a charade, you’re aware of it. You're but treading on fragile ice, your pain threatening to shatter the façade beneath your feet, plunging you into the cold truth at any given moment.

You walk into the shower, attempting to rinse the day's tiredness away. But moving your limbs is a strenuous task, and you can't reach over your head to wash your hair. You let out a dry chuckle as the water runs over your back, splattering across the white tiles.

Your heart swells in your chest, an uncomfortable weight pressing against your fractured ribs. Still, it beats, and you cling with all your might to this one silver lining.

Minho has made you pancakes, not the most nutritious meal but the only one you can stomach on your sick days. He's also brewed you tea, a singular sugar cube resting at the bottom of your cup, just the way you like it. Your grip on your fork tightens, knuckles paling. You wish he had put three sugar cubes, or that he made you anything but pancakes, something to reassure you that he didn’t know you so intimately. That your mind hasn’t stolen a love where every detail of you was known. 

The door opens, keys clinking on a solid surface. The sound of it tugs at your heart ever so faintly, a distant bell ringing somewhere far- it quiets down before you even realize it is there.

“Good morning,” Minho greets, the corners of his mouth curving upward although his eyes remain downcast, redness tinging its outlines. You look down at your cup, unable to hold his wounded stare.

“Good morning. Thank you for the breakfast and for going to my work. I really appreciate it,” you say.

“It's nothing. Your coworkers wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Mm,” you murmur. “That's nice of them."

“Here,” he slides a phone across the table. “I bought you a new one since your phone’s screen was smashed in the car accident, but I took it to a repair shop. Maybe they’d manage to fix it.”

You go to protest when he shakes his head, silencing you. “Don’t say It’s too much.”

A surprised giggle escapes your lips at his accurate prediction, momentarily halting Minho in his tracks. You swallow the sound down as Minho clears his throat, dissipating your laughter into thin air. “I put my phone number there. Also, the ones of your family that I have. Always call me if you need anything, okay?” he pauses, locking your eyes with his. “Anything.”

“It's okay, I really don't want to bother you. You might be busy."

“I’ll still answer,” he quickly responds. “I’ll always answer you.” 

There is a certain sincerity that coats Minho's words, one that softens the edges of his letters, making them easier to permeate your being, to sink into the seas of your soul.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Yes, hon- " He inhales deeply, eyes looking anywhere but at you. “Yes, Yn?”

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Of course.”

The ensuing hours blur into a hazy dance, in which you’re only awakened by Minho’s warm hand on your shoulder, as he brings you lunch, then dinner to your room, paired with the medicine you need to take. He doesn’t talk to you, only carrying out the tray outside when he deems you asleep- as if tiptoeing near your existence, afraid he’d slip into you again, knowing you won’t be there to catch him.

It's nearly midnight when you leave your room to use the bathroom. You pause near the door when you spot Minho petting his cats. You don’t even know their names, you haven’t dared to ask, still foolishly holding on to the hopes that this is but a horrible nightmare, one clawing at your tender skin even after you rose.

“You’re sad, aren’t you?” he coos softly, and the cats respond with plaintive mewls as if understanding his words. “Mm. I’m really sad too,” his voice is barely above a whisper, as though it’s a confession he isn’t ready to speak out loud. The pain in your ribs intensifies.

“But it’s okay, she’ll remember us. We are her family, she can’t forget us forever, right?” your breathing hitches. “Right,” he adds softly, as if to reassure himself; to inflate hope in a heart deserted by you.

Day 3.

Minho threw away the wilted flowers, leaving the vase bare at the center of the kitchen table. 

You almost wish he hadn't- those lifeless blooms were the sole reflection of your faded spirit within this home. Now everything in the house seemed alive, grand windows ushering in daylight to cascade upon the living space, causing the ivory walls to glisten. Everything, except for you and Minho, two ghosts skirting along the existence of one another.

There is, was, love imprinted in this house. You could sense it though you couldn’t feel it anymore. By the two cat mugs that connect through their tails, your products intermingling with Minho's in the bathroom sink, the notes you found hung on the fridge- some with his handwriting, most with yours, reminding Minho how much you loved him.

Where did all that love go? Did it dissipate into thin air, gone as if it had never existed? Has it turned into something else, lurking beneath the surface of your skin, waiting for you to remember?

You can’t find the answers, and as Minho finishes up his breakfast, you find yourself longing to ask him about the past year. Who you were and what you’ve lived. But you know it’ll feel like salt on a wound, akin to bringing a mirror before his face, reminding him of all that's been lost.

So instead, you offer to wash the dishes. He refuses, not that you expected anything else given his attentiveness to you.

“It’s only two plates and two cups, I can do it,” you insist, but he just stares blankly at you, before motioning to your ribs, and your swollen ankle. “It’ll be quick, please. I-I want to do it.”

“Fine,” he concedes, gaze softening. “But if you feel pain you'll stop.”

“Okay,” you smile tentatively, eager for the sense of normalcy that this mundane act would bring. You haven't forgotten how to wash a cup, at least.

Five minutes pass, and you suddenly freeze, plates drying in your hands. You have no idea where the dishes go.

This was your home, yet you can't even remember which cupboard holds the plates. 

Silent tears flow down your cheeks and you wipe them away angrily. You clutch the plate in your hands so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t shattered. You selfishly wish it did- you were tired of being the sole broken entity in this house.

A small whimper escapes your lips, startling Minho who was mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He rushes to your side, brows furrowed, concern woven into his face. 

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor?” he questions, eyes raking through your figure anxiously.

You shake your head as your tears double over. You can feel your heart constricting in your chest, longing for comfort, for a missing piece that was snatched from you, the void it left behind pulsating achingly within your being.

“I-I don’t know where the dishes go, and yesterday I tried to w-wash my hair and I c-couldn’t do it,” you admit through hiccups, plate still in your hands. Minho gently takes it from your tight hold, and your pinky brushes against his palm. He flexes his hand at the touch.

“It’s okay, it’s my fault. I should've shown you,” his voice is gentle, reminding you of how one soothes a child during a tantrum. You're embarrassing yourself but you can't find it in you to care. 

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t p-put them back in their place,” you choke out, head turned down, tears ricocheting off sage tiles. You’ve always wanted a green kitchen. You’ve gotten it and you can’t remember.

“It’s okay, I’ll put them back. Shh, yn, please don’t cry.” He’s slightly panicking, hands tightly fisted near his body as if he’s afraid they’d act on their own accord, reaching out to touch you the way they’ve done the past few months. He sighs softly before taking a cautious step toward you. 

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” he offers, smiling tenderly at you, knuckles brushing ever so gently against your cheeks. “Hm? You can sit in front of the sink and I’ll wash it.”

“You’d do it?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

There is a softness that emanates from every atom of Minho, flowing from his fingertips, molding everything he touches. You were sure of it as he stood beside you, pouring shampoo over your hair with you sitting on a stool, head tilted back to the sink, your favorite song playing in the background. As he dried your hair with a warm towel, and then settled behind you on the bed, gently lathering your hair with your familiar serum, brushing your strands with care, avoiding any tugs that might pain you.

Everything Minho does is not to hurt you. 

You went to sleep with the ghost of his fingers lingering on your scalp, his warm breath still caressing the back of your neck. You found slumber came much easier to you that night. You account it to your hair finally being clean.

Day 4.

“Yn?” Minho calls out gently, his head peering through the bedroom door.  “Should we go on a walk? Just around the block, the doctor said it’d be good.”

“Sure,” you nod, glancing at the bedside clock. 9:43 p.m. it reads. 

“Dress warmly, it’s cold outside,” he advises softly before leaving.

A few minutes later, you're clad in a gray university hoodie that drapes slightly past your thighs and a pair of matching sweatpants. Minho halts in his tracks upon seeing you, his eyes racking furiously over your figure. He shakes his head, swallowing a growing lump within his throat.

“Wait here,” he whispers, vanishing into his room, leaving you fidgeting in place. An orange cat sidles up to your feet and you slowly bend down to scratch its ears. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” you smile sadly and he purrs in response, as if forgiving you for forgetting.

You wished you could forgive yourself too, one day.

Minho comes back, a red scarf in his hands. He steps forward until only a few inches are separating your bodies. With attentive care, he wraps the scarf around your neck, securing it in place. His brows furrow as he loops the fabric through and you release a small, shaky exhale.

There is a fog dissipating before your eyes, a misty veil lifted off your irises. In the four days you've known Minho, you always willed yourself to not look at him for too long, afraid of the pain you'd discern brewing over his figure, the shadows cast across his face.

But now, he stands so near that you cannot help but look at him. Wispy black bangs fall on top of his forehead, framing his rich honey eyes. His long eyelashes flutter with each blink, pupils dilated like a constellation-laden night sky. The smooth bridge of his high nose, dotted with the smallest mole; a well-defined cupid's bow outlining rosy, plump lips.

He’s beautiful, even in his sadness; with sunken cheekbones and darkened eye circles, the hunch of his back, and the shake in his hands as he gently frees your hair from underneath the scarf.

Was it wrong of you to find beauty in his pain?

His gaze softens when it finally meets yours, his hand still holding your scarf tightly, as if it's a lifeline tethering him to you, one with which he verifies your existence, suddenly so elusive now that it no longer entwines with his.

It must be strange, surely, to grieve the loss of someone who’s still alive, breathing in the room next to yours.

Minho smiles at you, his fingers hovering above your head, as though he wished to smooth down your hair. He retracts his hand back, burying it deep inside the pocket of his black sweatpants, physically trapping it, stopping it from reaching it out to you once again. 

You’ve noticed his reticence to touch you, even when he wakes you in the morning to drink your medicine. His hand never fully rests upon your shoulder, it is only his fingertips that delicately graze your skin. It's as though he’s convinced you're but a figment of his imagination, and he fears that once he touches you, his hand will pass right through your body, shattering the illusion he foolishly held onto.

You blink and Minho’s already three steps away, grabbing his keys and opening the door.

Despite cautioning you against the cold, Minho doesn't say no when you ask for ice cream, paying for it before you can reach the counter. It's an unfamiliar brand, one that he advised you to try, and you don't regret following his choice. It’s a sweet mixture of vanilla and caramelized almonds, coated in rich milk chocolate- you can't stop the happy smile that graces your lips upon tasting it. 

You glance at Minho to find an unprecedented softness coloring his expression, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. It isn't a smile directed at you, but rather an uncontrollable display of his feelings, splashing across his face like paint on a canvas. 

You expect him to swallow this mark of affection down, to conceal it with a placid expression, but he doesn't. He only tilts his chin forward, gesturing to the ice cream.

"Do you like it?"

You hum in agreement, a grin stretching wider on your lips. "I do."

"You did too, back then, when I showed it to you," he says, almost casually, as if referring to a childhood memory that turned out to be more important to him than to you.

"You have good taste," you reply, scrunching your nose playfully at him. The smile slips away from his face, his voice somber when he speaks again. "I really do, don't I?"

Walking with Minho isn't as awkward as you had imagined it might be. He shows you the neighborhood- the nearby playground, the hidden flower shop tucked away in a corner and you make a mental note to visit it later. You point at closed shops inquiring about them- he answers each of your questions diligently.

Your accident is never brought up, and you both tiptoe around the topic, skirting the edge of a dark forest where the light no longer seeps through and dark vines cover the sun. 

You both refuse to venture into the unknown.

"Just down the road, there is a bookstore. They have really great deals and I bought most-" Shouts erupt from somewhere nearby, loud slurred voices of two men under the influence. Your hand instinctively wraps around Minho's forearm, while his hand moves in front of your body, acting as a shield. 

You freeze, letting out a shaky breath. "I- I hate yelling."

"I know," he responds simply, lowering his hand.

He knows you- it is a comforting thought, to realize that you exist beyond the confines of your own flawed mind.

Day 5.

Minho’s staring blankly at his phone, your conversation shining dimly before his eyes. You’ve just sent him a text reassuring him that you indeed took your medicine since he wasn’t home today with you- his three days off work passing by in the blink of an eye. 

In his mind, the past week felt like a mirage, a nightmare woven with intricate threads of his deepest fears- losing you, never getting to see the glimmer in your eyes again, and then looking at it and realizing it is no longer directed at him. 

He exhales softly, tucking his phone into the pocket of his navy trousers. The salty breeze from the nearby lake grazes his senses, and he closes his eyes, yearning for a fleeting respite. 

He purposely avoids watching the sun's descent into the water, which paints the sky in hues of yellow and orange. He no longer finds the sunset unfolding before him captivating, or any other scenery, for that matter, even those he once deemed beautiful. The world, in his eyes, has become lackluster and devoid of vibrancy, overshadowed by a profound sadness he never fathomed would reside in his heart. 

He still doesn’t know how he managed to remain strong until now, tending to you, holding your gaze, and breathing near you when you don’t even remember him.

You’ve survived, he reminds himself, you were lucky enough to be able to draw these breaths. The thought of any other outcome sends uncomfortable shivers down his spine. You’re alive and you’ll be home, he clings to this truth as he starts making his way back to his apartment. 

For how long will this knowledge offer him solace? How long will it push him to face a new day? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he wants to. 

It is much deeper into the night, the sound of the TV playing softly in the background. Minho has given up on slumber since the day of your accident. He was used to the feel of your fingers playing with his hair, your goodnight kisses planted on his forehead, then his on yours. 

He doesn't know how to sleep without burying his head in your neck, your chest, your stomach, wherever he saw fit that day. And he was used to your warmth- the warmth of your body as he pressed it tightly to his, the warmth of your love as you whispered goodnight to him. And the living room feels immensely cold in your absence. 

He fixates his gaze on the ceiling, resolute in his effort to avoid scanning the room. Since every corner he dares to inspect serves as a poignant reminder of the life you both once shared, a life whose echoes still reverberate in the air around him. The sound of your laughter, the memory of your annoyed whines when he teased you a bit too fervently. Vivid recollections unfold before his eyes- your tender kisses exchanged under the fridge's light, warm hugs by the front door after a particularly long day, none of you willing to let go first. 

He remembers your delighted giggles the first time you entered the house. It was still unfurnished, save for a floatable mattress and two empty cups of ramen beside it. But you were happy, immensely so, and your joy seemed to fill every room, painting it with shades of your love. Now the house feels empty- you're here and yet you aren't, and he is still on the sidewalk where he received that fateful call from your hospital. 

The moonlight filters through the window, and Minho looks at the light without truly seeing it. He can't help but feel guilty- had he not given you a love worth remembering?

Minho sighs loudly once again, trying to coax the reluctant breaths to escape his body. He pulls himself to his feet to check on you, knowing that you had to sleep upright for the first few days so your ribs would heal properly, which is why he often found himself readjusting your body at night. 

He peeks through the door, the light from the hallway casting an ethereal glow on your body. He frowns when he notices you fidgeting in your sleep, eyebrows knitted together. A soft gasp escapes your lips and Minho hurries to your side. He's witnessed your nightmares before and he knows that this one must be particularly terrifying to elicit such startled sounds from you.

“Y/n,” Minho coaxes gently, but you don’t respond. He presses his palm to your shoulder, shaking you slightly. “Y/n, wake up.” You writhe in your place, fear evident in your features, and Minho grabs both your shoulders, growing more urgent in his attempts to wake you. “Y/n, come on wake up!” he speaks louder, and you startle awake, pushing his arms away.

“I’m... Where am I?” you ask frantically, hand running through your hair. A sharp pain seems to surge through your ribs as you clutch your chest, slightly doubling over. 

“Take it easy, Y/n. Deep breaths,” he wills gently and you raise your head, meeting his eyes. Recognition shines in them, but not love, not anymore. He never knew affection could alter someone’s gaze this much.

“Minho… I- I remember,” you gasp, tears trailing down your face at an alarming rate. He freezes in place, tongue thickening in his mouth, unable to move it.

“What... what do you remember?” he asks carefully, sitting on the edge of your bed. 

“The accident. I remember driving and I… I was going in my lane, I- I didn’t… I wasn’t driving fast, but a truck came out of nowhere and its lights blinded me, and then… it rammed into the passenger seat side of the car and-" Your hands shake as you bring them to your face. “The blood, there was so much blood coming out of me, that’s- that’s the last thing I remember, it was in my hands and my arms and-" You’re wiping frantically at your skin as if erasing remnants of the red liquid only you can see. “I bled so much but I was… I- I don’t-"

“Can I hold your hands?” Minho cuts you off, needing the panic to dissipate from your being.

“Please,” you stutter, and he promptly grabs your hands in his warm ones, intertwining your fingers together, rubbing his thumb soothingly across your palm. 

“You are safe now. You are alive and you are breathing and you are safe.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I drove safely, why… why was I hit?” you ask in a small, broken voice, overwhelmed by the unjust reality of the world. Minho swallows his own tears, throwing them down the pits of his pain. The one thing he wished you’d never remember was your accident, the sight of your unconscious body for those three days nearly driving him insane. 

“He was drunk. And he’s in jail now. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t have prevented it." 

You remain silent, gaze lost on the wall. “Hm? It wasn’t your fault, right?" he presses, squeezing your hand lightly.

“Yeah.” You sigh, unconvinced. Minho reluctantly drops your hand to pour you a glass of water, and you diligently drink it, before curling around yourself in a ball. 

“No, you can’t sit like this,” he gently reprimands and you pout. 

"My heart hurts. The pressure helps."

“I know it does,” he smiles in understanding, “but we have to make sure your ribs won’t hurt more, alright?” he explains as he pulls you upright, tucking pillows beneath your arms. He grabs a hoodie from the closet and rolls it into a ball, placing it gently on your chest. 

“Here, you can hug this instead.” You giggle quietly at the makeshift plushie, but your laughter suddenly morphs into fresh tears, catching him off-guard. 

“I’m so tired, Minho. And I’m so frustrated and mad and sad. Is it possible to f-feel all these things at once?" You hiccup, burying your face into his hoodie, soaking it in tears. 

“It is,” he hums gently, “Do you think it’d help if you talked to a therapist?” He feels you tense up beneath the comforter. “Only if you want to, on your own terms.”

“I’ll think about it,” you whisper. 

“Of course,” he says. “Try to sleep again, mm?”

“I don’t think I can,” you chuckle quietly, wiping your tears away with the sleeves of your cardigan. “Do you have work tomorrow?” you ask.

“I do.”

“What do you work as?” 

“Computer programming. I’m also a dance teacher on the side,” he adds quietly, feeling a bit vulnerable at revealing this bit about himself again.

“How do you manage both?” you ask in awe and he shrugs.

 “My IT job leaves me a lot of free time. And I’ve always loved dance, so it doesn’t really feel like a job, you know?”

“Mm, you must work very hard at it. That’s why your body’s so toned,” you say almost absentmindedly, as Minho lets out a surprised chuckle at your words. 

“You think my body is toned?”

“I mean- I didn’t ogle you I just… you know, you wear these fitted shirts it’s hard not to notice your muscles and-"

"You are sick and yet you’re staring at my body?” he tsks. “I feel used.”

“Hey,” you hit him with the hoodie he gave you. “Forget I said anything,” you pout. 

“It’s okay, I work very hard for these, thank you very much,” he flexes slightly, and genuine laughter bubbles up from you both. This might be the one thing he misses the most. 

You both quiet down, silence filling the room once again, but it isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable, almost as if you're the same person he's always known.  

“What’s your favorite color?” you suddenly ask. 

“Purple.”

“Did my favorite color change over this past year?”

“No,” he chuckles, “it’s still that obnoxious orange.”

“It’s not obnoxious, it’s peculiar.”

“it’s weird and it hurts my poor eyes,” he whines, covering his face as if wounded by the mere thought of it. 

“Hey, what if it can hear us and now you just hurt its feelings?”

“Colors have feelings now?” he asks, amused.

“Everything has feelings,” you nod matter-of-factly.

“Okay then think of the feelings of this bed we are both squishing with our weights.”

“Don’t say that. Now I’m sad for it,” you pat the comforter gently, a slight pout tugging at your lips. 

“I think you should sleep,” he smiles and you fake a gasp. “Is my convo boring you?” 

“Yes. Now sleep, Yn,” he brings the comforter up your body, sliding away from the bed. “You’ll be okay, right?”

“Can you… can you sleep here too? I saw the inflatable mattress in the storage room. If that’s not… too much to ask for.”

"Of course not. I'll be back." 

"Thank you, Minho" you smile, lower lip slightly quivering. "Thank you for not being mad at me."

Just how many cracks can one heart bear before breaking beyond repair? Minho thinks he's close to finding out. 

Day 6.

The lights of your dreams have returned, but they are no longer comforting, nor warm, they glare harshly, searing your eyes as they announce your impending doom. Each second draws out in slow-motion and you find yourself counting the breaths you inhale, fearing they may be your last. One in, one out, one in, one out. The moment you dreaded unfolds- the truck collides with your car, flipping it upside down.

However, this time, flames rage within. You know that your car wasn't burned, but they feel terrifyingly tangible as they latch onto your skin. The heat becomes unbearable, you are no longer sure that this is just a mere dream. You try to scream but smokey air fills your lungs instead, robbing you of your ability to speak.

You need to wake up. You need someone to rouse you from this nightmare. Minho. You try to utter his name, but it escapes your lips in a strangled whisper. The lights won.

A cool hand clasps your own, yanking you from the fiery dream, dissolving it like sugar in a hot cup of tea. You startle awake to find Minho hovering over you, brows knitted in concern, his hand tenderly cradling yours.

“Are you okay? Another bad dream?” he inquires and you sigh in response, nodding as your head falls back onto the pillow.

He brushes your hair back, some damp strands still clinging to your sweaty forehead. "You screamed my name. Was I in your nightmare?” he ventures carefully, afraid he was one of the sources of your fear.

“No, I… I thought of you, in my dream,” you reassure, although your words seem to have the opposing effect, making Minho pause in his tracks. You’ve noticed his habit of freezing around you as if needing time to process what you just said. You wonder if you’ve ever came to learn the meaning behind each of his silences, what his blinks convey in ways his tongue fails to.

“You are heating up,” he clears his throat, pressing his hand against your forehead. “Do you wanna shower? I’ll make you tea meanwhile.”

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that,” you nod, glancing at your phone- 3.47 a.m.

Twenty minutes later, you find Minho sitting on the inflatable bed, legs crossed, two steaming mugs of tea before him. He appears drowsy, eyes shutting and reopening as if fending off slumber. It’s almost an endearing sight- the way his bangs fall before his eyes, obstructing his vision, the sleeves of his pullover dangling over his hands, hiding them from your view. He brought the mattress without you asking him to. The attention brings a smile to your face.

“Hi,” you greet softly and Minho looks up, a tender smile on his face. “Hey. Here is your tea.”

“Thank you,” you beam at him, settling on the edge of your bed, legs crisscrossed to mirror his. “I’m sorry that I woke you up.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t really asleep, just resting my eyes.”

“Isn't that what sleep is?” you snort and he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“I was still conscious, you know. I can’t really sleep these days.”

“Is the couch uncomfortable?” you ask, worried, fidgeting with your lower lip.

“It’s not the couch,” he says as his eyes lock on yours, a stare so intense it forces you to look down at your cup. ‘it’s you’, you read in his gaze. You have no answer for that.

“What's your favorite food?” you suddenly wonder.

“Pudding.”

“But that’s dessert?”

“I really like the one you used to make me.”

“I cooked for you? and you liked it?” you giggle. “I’m not really good at it, usually.”

“I taught you some basic skills,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows proudly at you.

“Too bad your effort is now wasted.”

“It’s not a waste if it was done with love,” he pauses, licking his lips. “And I remember it.”

A bittersweet fog shrouds the air- he remembers that memory, but you don’t. Perhaps you will never bridge that gap, no matter how much you want to. Maybe you're condemned to merely stand before the closed door, straining to hear the echoes of the love that resonates behind, forever just out of reach.

You don’t fall asleep again that night. And as Minho’s quiet snores fill the room, you rummage your mind in search of a pudding recipe, hoping to retrieve the memory he spoke of so tenderly, shaky hands holding his mug tightly. Silent tears trail down your cheeks and you try your best to stifle the sound of your cries. 

You want to make pudding. You want to make him pudding so badly.

Day 7.

It’s been a week since you woke up anew. Seven days adrift in a vast sea where waves of your memories lap at the shores of your mind, unable to breach the walls guarding your recollections of the past year.

Minho took you to the hospital for your weekly check-up. He sat by your side as the doctor reassured you that your ribs were healing relatively well, but you still needed time to recover, time for your body to mend, time for your memories to return. You loathed the waiting, the wasted days slipping through your fingers. You wanted a now. 

But you kept all these thoughts to yourself, thanking the doctor as he exited the room. 

Minho rented a bicycle to drive you around since the thought of being in a car made your anxiety spike. He installed a little seat for you, in that bright, obnoxious orange color you love very dearly. The sight of it nearly brought tears to your eyes this morning.

Minho idly pedaled around, choosing a scenic route, one he knew by heart from the looks of it. You closed your eyes, savoring the last sun rays of the year. Autumn was fading, winter clawing its way into the seasons slowly. You weren’t sure you could handle both the cold and the grief.

Miho took time off work for your doctor's appointment, and you both spent the day around one another, side by side on the couch, a new book in your hands, and an anime playing on the TV for Minho. 

You could see him casting occasional, nervous glances in your direction, as you flipped the pages of the book. You didn’t understand why at first.

But then you did.

You only brought it up at night, when it was past 2 a.m. and you knew that Minho wasn’t sleeping either, the screen of his phone illuminating his face. He left the inflatable mattress in the room, no longer waiting for a nightmare to occur. You weren’t complaining. You desperately needed company.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Mm?”

“How did we meet?”

You can hear Minho suck in a deep breath at your question, before placing his phone down, the only light source in the room fizzling out. It made talking easier that way, when only your voices were heard, carried around, as if emitting from two entities that weren’t you both.

“We met… near your old apartment block. I was going to the kimbap place near yours, you remember that one, right?” 

You hum in response.

“And I saw you crying, crouching near an injured cat. Some car had run over her leg, and she couldn’t walk anymore. And you didn’t know what to do, so I helped you. You insisted on coming with me to the vet where I take my cats. So, we caught a cab. And you were so worried, you didn’t stop crying, so the cab driver thought I did something to you,” he chuckles faintly.

“Then, the vet put a cast on her leg and reassured us that she’d be okay. And I told him I’d take her home and bring her for check-ups. But you were so worried, you begged me to send you updates about the cat. So, you gave me your number. And we talked.”

“What happened to the cat?”

“I took her to a rescue store I trusted since I couldn’t take her in. and we still visited her from time to time. And then, she found a good family.”

“And what happened to us?” you inquire softly, hoping that if your voice was quiet enough then your question wouldn't hurt Minho as much. 

“We kept in touch," he said. "And it was… easy to talk to you, I felt as if I had known you for my entire life. When you found out I had three cats, we Facetimed a lot so you’d see them, but then we just kept on calling, every day, for nearly two weeks. Being with you felt natural, you know? I didn’t overthink it. I never did."

“And then three weeks later you came over to see Soonie, Dori, and Doongie. We ended up watching three movies in a row, and you were so tired you slept on my couch.”

“That’s embarrassing,” you chuckle.

"Yes," he laughs and you reach over to swat his shoulder playfully. "But it was also cute, and endearing. Then you came over a lot, and we just cooked together. Well, I cooked and you watched.”

“Right, that sounds more like me," you instantly agree. 

“We hung outside too, whenever one of us had free time. We had a lot of common hobbies and interests so we never ran out of things to talk about. We made time for each other too.”

“How did we start dating?”

“You made the first move.”

“I did?” you shoot up from your place, hissing when the abrupt movement causes a twinge of pain in your ribs.

“Take it easy,” he giggles, as he illuminates your face with his flashlight. “You did.”

“Did you put a spell on me? I swore I’d never make a first move again after I was rejected in third grade. That was my most sacred oath."

“Well… you were ranting about this book. The one you were reading today,” he adds, and your excitement fizzles out, as the pieces of the puzzle finally fall into place. “You were sad because you had no one to talk to about it. So, I bought the book and read it. I gave you my copy, complete with highlighted passages and notes. And when I did… you kissed me, without warning,” his voice is softer now, as he fiddles with the tip of his blushing ears. "You said it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for you.”

“It was. It is,” you whisper, heart caught in your throat. “I saw the photograph of us both lodged between the pages of the book. Did we take it that day?”

“Yes, we weren’t dating, not yet. Because I told you I wanted to take you out on a proper date. But you wanted us to take a picture holding the book… So you’d remember.”

“So I'd remember,” you repeat, voice quivering. What good was it for in the end?

 “I looked so happy in the photograph,” you whisper, tears welling up your eyes. “I looked so happy with you,” your voice breaks as you utter that last part. "Did I love you, Minho?"

"You did," he nods softly, blinking away his own tears. 

“And did you love me?”

“I did. I still do, very much.”

“Thank you, for loving me. It sounds like I’ve lived a happy year with you.”

Minho's pain is akin to a polite guest; it lingers by the corner, speaking in whispers, hardly ever raising its voice. You'd never really notice it, unless you strain your ears, as you're doing now. Only then would you discern the tremors of his quiet sobs- broken, stifled, determined not to make themselves known, only escaping his lips when he thinks you've fallen asleep. 

Day 8.

Whenever an overwhelming emotion ran freely along your soul, you'd often find yourself curled in a fetal position, knees drawn to your chest, like a fragile leaf.

Your teacher once explained that it reminds us of safer times in the wombs of our mothers, when the cruelty of life hasn’t yet reached us. 

It is the way you’re resting now, upon the cold, hardwood floor, dozens of books surrounding you. You decided to go through each book in Minho’s library, the need to satiate your curiosity overtaking you. You didn’t know what you were looking for, exactly. Other photographs, surely, in the hopes that one of them would spark up your memory, ignite the flame of remembrance. 

What you didn’t expect was to find Minho talking to you through books. Within the pages, amid the words, scribbled in small, dainty handwriting, threads of his thoughts all relating to you. Quotes he thought you’d appreciate, highlighted segments that reminded him of you. And dedications, so many dedicated lines you felt like you could drown in them. It felt as if Minho was on a quest to find love within every line, only to inscribe your name beside it.

Putting down the last book, you were left with a huge void, akin to a black hole eating away at your heart. So, you laid on the floor, one arm underneath your head, knees held tightly to your chest- as if trying to create borders for your sadness, to stop it from spilling out of your body, drowning the house in even more sorrow. Those four walls have had enough, more than they could contain. And so did you.

You suddenly longed for the very beginning of your life, when time was but a tranquil stream, when you were unaware of the hurtful years it would carve into your existence. Back to when your spine was still curled around itself; for it was never meant to be straightened. Your spine was never strong enough to bear your pain. 

You wanted to talk to someone, but you didn’t know who you could turn to. You didn’t know how to articulate these emotions into words, tangible enough for someone to understand them. And you couldn’t talk to Minho about it, not when he was hurting on his own. 

Because he smiled down at his cats, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. His laughter echoed around the room when he talked to his friends on the phone. And sometimes, he even hummed under his breath while making you breakfast. But this happiness never reached his eyes, behind his pupils the sadness seared itself into his veins, casting a gloomy shadow that followed him everywhere he went. It was a palpable ache, one that filled the very atmosphere with the metallic taste of grief. Making it almost impossible for you to breathe in. Even more so when you remember it was all your fault.

These are the thoughts that haunted you all day, as they have been doing for the past week. Minho must have noticed that you were feeling gloomier than usual, a silent storm raging by his side, since he put up a romcom for you. “It made you laugh a lot when you watched it months ago.”

“How do you remember all of these things about me?” you ponder, scratching the fragile skin near your nails, easily torn, just like you. 

“Does it make you uncomfortable? Should I stop?” he asks quietly, deflecting your question.

“No,” you say the truth. “It'd be weird if you were an actual stranger, but… you knew me. And I knew you. and I still feel safe around you.” 

He nods silently, but something in his gaze compels you to keep talking. 

“I mean, I never felt uncomfortable around you these days, which surprised me too. I just… I suppose that even if my mind doesn’t remember, my heart does, in a way?”

“My heart will always remember you,” he whispers, gaze adrift in a faraway memory. 

A gear shifts in your mind, a sudden light flooding your vision. You find yourself within a grand canopy bed, its pure white curtains swaying to the rhythm of a whimsical breeze, their delicate fabric brushing lightly against your cheek. It’s slightly cold from the wide-open windows, but then it’s warm, as a gentle hand finds its place on your thigh, kindling an ember deep within, setting your very soul ablaze. 

The curtains sway with the wind, obscuring your view, but you can still discern the sound of your laughter, echoing like distant chimes. And a tenderness, so delicate it seemed almost otherworldly, trailing along your skin, as warmth caresses your cheek and gently traverses the curve of your collarbones, peppering it with the softest kisses. You can't quite behold it, but it is unmistakably there, an ineffable presence that threatens to burst your heart at the seams—a memory of your love for Minho.

It is a blurry sight, like peering into a worn-out photograph, its details softened by the sands of time. But you clutch to it- to your fading laughter and hushed conversation, and then your voice ringing clearly in your mind, the promise you made to Minho. 

'My heart will always remember you'. 

You startle back in a jolt; the light and warmth have extinguished. They are now dull, withered down, sitting next to you with their head hung low. 

It takes you an inhumane effort to swallow down the lump in your throat.

Day 16.

This week has been particularly cold. Not temperature-wise, October has always harbored these same frigid temperatures and you've gotten used to them, to the relentless winds brushing against your skin. Only this time they pierced right through your soul instead.

You knew what had changed. You had felt the sadness, the frustration, the guilt- all blending into one sorrowful symphony, pulling at your heartstrings the way one does to a harp. Yet, amid these familiar emotions, a new feeling loomed large this past week- anxiety.

It arrived in sudden, icy bursts, cold beads of perspiration cascading down your spine, feet suddenly freezing no matter how fuzzy your socks were- the physical telltales, then came the emotional ones. The shadows of dread, for we fear the unseen more than that which we can touch. The growing panic gnawing at your heart, hinting that something profoundly disastrous lurked on the horizon.

Anxiety held you suspended in the air, bound by invisible ropes that compelled you to watch from above as the days drifted past you. You were a ghost haunting an empty shell, hollow and resonant with anxiety's clang, akin to an empty can's descent to the ground.

Your appetite had fled, leaving you alone to grapple with the chore of feeding yourself, mechanically ingesting food only to pacify Minho’s concerned gaze. The TV’s volume blared, since you desperately needed the voices of other people to invade your mind, to render your thoughts merciless, forcing them to put their sword-like tongues down.

And the exhaustion, not accounted to your broken ribs, for Minho had meticulously overseen their recovery. It was an emotional fatigue, a weariness that clung to your every breath, trapping them within your ribcage, far beyond their time, until they tethered on the brink of exploding in your lungs- a supernova of darkness devouring your essence. Only then did the breaths release their hold on you.

So, you patiently awaited the inevitable unraveling, because you knew this wasn’t an ordinary anxiety. Your soul whispered to you in a language your mind could no longer translate, throbbing with a message you couldn’t quite recollect, striving urgently to jog your memory of a monumental truth.

But you didn’t remember– you should have.

You should've known it was Minho’s birthday.

It is near midnight when you venture out of your room, the inflatable bed by your side unusually vacant. A dim glow draws you to the kitchen, and as you stand by its entrance, an intensified cold grips you. It chills the blood in your veins, transforming it into splintered shards that prick uncomfortably beneath your skin.

Minho is sitting by the table, a small, muted cake before him, a shoebox by his side. A solitary candle flickers in front of his face, casting elongating shadows on his chiseled features. The flame is about to fizzle out- you feel like your heart will closely follow suit.

"Minho..." you call out gently, careful not to startle him from the trance ensnaring him. He doesn't react to the sound of your voice.

"Minho, I…"

"Today was my birthday."

His tone is cold, like the darkening clouds before a stormy night. His words feel like lightning bolts piercing your core.

"It would be stupid to blow this candle out, wouldn't it? Because you and I both know my wish won't come true. Maybe it never will. And it's killing me, yn." His voice quivers as it utters your name, a slight shake taking over his lips. His cheeks are tear stained- glimmering reflections under the golden flame. You've never seen him this sad. You don't know how to comfort him in his sadness.

A rush of nausea overwhelms your being, a yearning to expel every emotion, methodically, until your heart transforms into a tranquil organ, solely pulsing life's crimson essence through your frame. Nothing more, nothing less.

"This shoe box is yours. You kept it under the bed, filled it with everything that reminded you of me. You told me..." he pauses, taking in a deep breath. "You told me that you wanted to remember everything about us, every single detail. But I... I don't care if you don't remember every date we went to. I just-" his forehead rests on his palm, as he squeezes his eyes shut. "I just want you to remember that you love me."

Hot tears are rolling across his cheeks, splattering across the table like a broken mosaic. He doesn't try to hide them or wipe them away. He's had enough.

"Minho, I’m-"

"I mean- that's not too much to ask for, right?" he finally lifts his head, locking his eyes with yours. A black abyss, a dark void. You are the one who sucked out all the light.

"You- you said you loved me. And I- I felt it, y/n, when you looked at me, when you touched me. I felt it, it wasn't- it wasn't just words, I-" he pauses, running a hand through his hair, tugging at his black locks furiously. "You loved me," his voice breaks. "Why- why can't you remember that you loved me?"

Your tongue bursts to flame in your mouth, its grey ashes choking you from within. What could you even say? How do you stop the bleeding of a heart when you carry knives for fingers?

Minho abruptly stands up, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "We talked about marriage, a-about kids, you said- you said you'd choose me to be the father of your children, you said you wanted a big house w-with me and you-” he points at you, chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. “You said you wanted us to sit at the patio when we're eighty and you wanted us to hold hands still," he chuckles bitterly, his arms falling limp by his side incredulously. "And now you don't even remember me."

He grabs the box, rummaging through its contents furiously. "You see this?" he waves dried flowers before your eyes, their petals falling to the floor from the force of his agitation. "These are the flowers I got you for our first date. You dried them and put them here because you- you said you wanted to preserve it, to remember."

"And this, the cinema tickets from our first movie date. You were so tired you just slept on my shoulder all the time and then I- I carried you home and you kissed me." He's growing more frantic, rifling through the shoe box in a frenzy. You remain rooted by the kitchen's entrance, a sense of powerlessness holding you captive, an unbreakable vice around your being.

"This is the napkin from our favorite cat café, and look," he grabs your hand, clammy palm pressed to yours, pulling you toward the table." This is the receipt of the first time we went grocery shopping together and-" he waves it in the air, before slamming it onto the table. "And, you e-even kept this stupid rock I gave you right before I told you I love you for the first time, because you said it was the happiest day of your life, my god Yn how can you not remember?"

A broken, sob-laden chuckle escapes his lips, a sound so heart wrenchingly human, so painfully poignant that for an instant, it fills you with a bitter aversion to your own humanity- it was never meant to inflict this much pain upon someone else.

Your thoughts shatter as Minho tenderly cups your face, urging you to confront his turbulent gaze. He seeks something within your eyes, and you desperately hope he'd find it, whatever it may be, anything to stop the tremor in his hands as they anchor you in place.

"Why did you- why did you keep all of this if not to remember me.” He asks, unblinking, lip quivering. “Please, please, remember me, just- just try, okay?"

"I’m so sorry-"

"No. No. Don't- don't apologize like it's final like you could never love me again," his hands glide to your shoulders, shaking you slightly in place. "Don't you understand? I-I don't want an apology I want you to remember me."

"Minho..."

"Just look through this, it's our happiest memories y/n, okay?" he let goes of you, circling the table before shoving the box into your hands. He smiles- attempts to, it is an unnatural presence amidst his tears, so out of place it sends shivers down your spine. "Look at it, yn, please," he pleads as your hold on the box falters. "I can’t remember us alone. I’m crushing under the weight of everything we lived it’s exhausting me!"

His voice ascends pitch, the end of his words hanging into the air, searing themselves into the particles you breathe. His voice leaves a painful echo on his trail. You’re exhausting him.

You put the box down, taking three cautious step forwards.

And then you hug Minho.

He can't even hold you back, body trembling with the sobs rippling through him as soon as your chest presses to his. He sinks to the floor and you follow suit, arms enfolding his concaved shoulders tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "Im sorry, I'm so sorry Minho. I- I wish I could remember."

You want the kitchen to collapse upon itself. There is too much grief in such a small room- it stains the walls like blood droplets, absorbs his cries like a saturated sponge.

You don’t think you could ever sit at this table again.

He finally clasps your back, drawing you even nearer to him. "Can- can you pretend, just today, please? For my birthday. Pretend you still love me."

"Of course. It's okay, I’m here, honey. I'm here."

"I love you. I love you so much," he whispers, lips pressed against your neck. "And it hurts to love you, so much." He brings your hand to his heart. "It hurts so much right here."

He doesn't let go of your hand, softly caressing your knuckles. His breath hitches as his thumb hovers over your ring finger. "I... I was going to propose, you know? I even bought the ring, stored it away for when the time is right. Do you think you would have remembered if you woke up wearing it?"

He knows your answer would've been yes. You know that too, in the matching cat mugs and the book annotations and the way Minho gently held your face, even in the depths of his despair. Everywhere you look, your answer echoes back- yes, the home chants in unison, that's what you would've said. Yes, yes, yes.

Day 17.

In the cracks of concrete sidewalks, tenacious flowers manage to sprout. Just how in the depths of Minho’s pain, small joys bloomed, nestled in the vacant spaces between you and him. 

You'd greet him each time he opened the door, your voice resonating through the apartment like the sweetest sonnet. And he would always pause by the doorknob, basking in the sound of your voice that hadn’t changed in the slightest. Your tone still held that same dulcet timber, a golden honey that once dripped freely upon his soul. 

But today, Minho swung open the door and an eerie hush greeted him instead. He ventured in, calling after you, only to be met with utter silence. He anxiously checked the rooms, opening the doors hastily one by one. But you weren't there. You weren't home. 

Minho felt the familiar tendrils of worry coiling around his heart, constricting it with each passing moment. He quickly grabbed his phone, dialing your number, only to fall into your voicemail, the robotic voice chilling him to the core.

In the past two weeks, you had made sure to text Minho each time you went outside- a precaution you took due to your fractured ribs which came with frequent fits of dizziness. It was a safety measure for one person, at least, to know where you are. 

But you didn't text him today. And he had no idea where you might’ve gone to. 

Minho tried to suck in a deep breath, willing the fear to relinquish its icy grip on his body so he could think properly. Maybe you had simply forgotten, he reasoned. Yet, he knew that you never back out on your promises. They were sacred for you since they were once senselessly broken.

For the second time in a mere three weeks, Minho’s deepest fears unfurl like a nightmare before him, ensnaring him in a tapestry woven with the bloody threads of everything that went wrong yesterday. 

He carried his shame akin to heavy bricks on his shoulders, causing them to hunch forward- a coward, leaving the house before you even rose, and on his trail, your breakfast and a hastily written note. He couldn’t fathom eating at that kitchen table with you, not when his sobs still echoed around those sage walls, as did your quiet voice as you tried to soothe his cries, holding him between your tender arms. 

Minho was scared. He was terrified you’d never come back home after everything that had happened, the words he said and the way he pleaded, nearly at your feet, consumed by a sadness grander than anything he’s ever known. 

So, he storms out of the apartment in a hurry, scouring the nearby playground. But you aren’t there. The grocery store is next, the library, the flower shop, the cat café tucked in a corner that you may have stumbled on. 

You were still nowhere to be found.

A dreadful sense of foreboding overcame him, akin to how he felt when his phone rang two weeks prior- the unfamiliar number of the hospital shining before his eyes. What if something happened to you, a fit of dizziness but no one was around to help? Life doesn’t grant you a second chance. No one has ever brushed against death’s shoulder twice and lived to tell the tale. What if he receives another call? 

He couldn’t survive another call.  

Minho stands in the midst of the road, clutching his head with a tight grip, desperately searching his memory for the places that once brought you solace during the months he spent knowing you. However, he quickly remembers that you no longer know of those places.

So where could you have gone? 

An epiphany dawns upon Minho- the bridge you had pointed out to him from a distance on one of your walks, the first place you claimed as your own in the city. It towered above the ocean, suspended several meters in the air. He couldn't accompany you there that day, bound by a paralyzing fear of heights.

He prays with all his might that he's right. 

He dashes towards the bridge akin to a madman, the desperate rhythm of his pounding feet mirroring the urgency in his heart. It looms tantalizingly close, a mere 15 minutes away, and Minho, in a state of disarray, knows he's not fit to drive right now. He was never fond of running, he didn't enjoy the searing ache in his lungs, robbing him of his ability to breathe. But he welcomes the pain today- it means that he's running fast enough to reach you. He hopes, he prays.

Minho spots you from a distance, a mere silhouette standing at the bridge's edge, your figure unmistakable with the red scarf tightly wound around your neck. Relief nearly brings him to his knees - you're alive.

Minho doesn't think as he sprints to you, eyes solely focused on you and not the void beneath his feet.

"Yn!" he calls out from afar, and you startle, snapping your head back to look at him. He wonders what he must look at you, disheveled hair, the wind knocking down his jean jacket. But he doesn't care. 

Minho stands before you without pause, instantly pulling you into the shelter of his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the familiar smell of your shampoo, a constant through the months of knowing you. He clings to it, to the familiarity of your scent and the way your heartbeat seems to pour from your body to his, speaking in a language only your souls can comprehend. His arms clutch at you tightly, rugged breaths escaping his body, dew tears gathering in his eyes and dropping down your shoulders. 

Your arms hang limp by your side, confusion etched across your face at the urgency, the frenzy in which he pulled you to his chest, an emotion you hadn’t known in him in these past weeks.

You tentatively raise your hands, patting his back slowly. "Minho, what’s wrong?" you whisper, and he shakes his head.

"You weren't home. I- I thought something happened to you." 

"No, I just went on a walk and lost track of time," you reassure him and he pulls away, warm hands cradling your cheeks. 

"You're okay, right? Tell me you're okay," he pleads and you smile, nodding your head. “I'm okay, don’t worry.” 

Minho drops your face, embarrassment flooding his being at his outburst. It morphs to panic as he realizes the expanse beneath—nothing but the vast ocean, the wind slamming into his body, making him lose his footing.

"Are... you okay?" you ask cautiously. "Minho, you're shaking," you point out, a frown tugging at your lips. "Are you cold?" 

He stays silent, unable to place a word beyond the stutter of his lips. 

"Here," you hurriedly unwrap your red scarf, enclosing it around his neck. "You're shivering, Minho," you grab his hands, rubbing his fingers, blowing warmth into them, an attempt to kindle fire into him.

"I'm not- not cold. I- I’m scared of heights," he admits through a stutter, eyes tightly closed. 

"Then why are you here?" You ask, surprised. 

"Because you are." 

His confession comes out quietly, softened by the blow of his fear. His eyes remain closed, missing the tears gathering in your eyes, the ones you swiftly try to blink away. 

"Let's go, just keep your eyes closed. Hold my hand," you entwine your fingers with his, squeezing it lightly to signal you're there, as you walk across the bridge. 

You don't let go until you finally regain solid ground. 

"You're safe. you can open your eyes," you say quietly. 

"You're okay, right?" he inquires again, stepping closer.

"Why are you asking me this when you're the one shaking?" you chuckle, almost exasperated, nothing funny in the sound.

"I was worried about you, and I thought you left… after yesterday."

"Why would you- My god Minho why would you even come running across this bridge? Why would you do something like that when you're afraid?"

"Because I love you," his voice is resolute, soft as a whisper, as he states a simple truth. It only makes yours reach new heights.

"But why- why do you love me? Why would you still love me after everything I put you through?" 

"You didn't put me through anything," he shakes his head, and you take a step back, facing away from him. He can see your body heaving up and down, the weight of unspoken words making your heartbeat race. And then you snap. 

"You broke down yesterday," you pivot back, pointing at his chest. "You broke down in my arms because of me. Why would you still love me after all this Minho I don't- I don't understand." 

"I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I know I probably made you uncomfortable and I shouldn't have asked something like that out of you-" 

"No, no, Minho, you don't understand, you shouldn't apologize, I should. I’m the one who hurt you-"

"You didn't hurt me. It's something out of your control, you didn't choose this." 

“Stop- just stop being so nice and understanding for a minute. I don’t deserve it!" you shout exasperated, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. "You can't look me in the eyes half of the time you can't even fucking breathe in your own home. It's now a- a cemetery for our memories and it'll soon become yours too because I suck the life out of you, can't you see that?" 

"I'm not asking you to remember me,” he holds his hands up, in surrender, “I was wrong yesterday, you don't have to remember us." 

"There is no us!” you yell, hands thrown in the air, “Not anymore, Minho, maybe never."

You suck in a deep breath, shutting your eyes, willing your voice to ebb and flow into calmness. 

"I thought about it. It'll hurt less if you don't see me, time will pass and you'll get used to it, I'm not worth this."

"You are,” he interjects. “You don't get to pick for me, Yn." 

"Stop- stop talking like this is normal, stop being so complacent with your pain, Minho you shouldn't love someone who hurts you!"

"Then make me stop loving you. Spare me. Tear open my heart and bleed it dry at your feet or else it won't stop beating for you. Don't you understand? If you are near or if you are far, I will still love you. The only difference is that I'd worry more about you. I'd worry if you're eating, I'd worry if you're taking your medicine, I'd worry if you're drinking out of your favorite cup or if you have a spare shampoo in your drawer because you hate running out of it. I'd worry out of my fucking mind, Yn don't leave." 

It had been an encompassing sadness that made his true feelings surge yesterday, breaching the myriad of cracks in his heart. But today, it was fear that cast a revealing light upon his feelings, hidden in the recesses of his being. They surged forth in a transparency you were still not used to, the way the ocean throws on its shores the debris of sunken ships, allowing the grieving families of sailors to finally discover the terrible truth.

Still, his honesty, his soul bare at your mercy isn’t enough to make you stay.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just... I can't- I'm sorry."

You take three steps back, before turning your back to him and walking away. A numbness, like icy talons, seizes his limbs, his gaze fixated on your diminishing figure—carrying away everything he's ever loved. Paralysis envelopes his very essence, a haunting realization that the distance between you is more than a mere physical space. You're vanishing beyond the horizon of his reach, slipping through his desperate grasp. The fear of never seeing you again fractures the stillness, snapping Minho out of his trance.

"To love someone is firstly to confess, I'm prepared to be devastated by you." He shouts, making you pause in your tracks. "Isn't that your favorite quote, Yn? You told me this is what love is about. To place your heart in the palm of the person you love. And your hands are soft, Yn. I don't mind if I'm bruised by them." 

"I lied then!” You yell back, tears cascading down your cheeks akin to a waterfall, “Belcourt lied and I lied when I told you this and when I promised that I'd always remember you in that canopy bed-"

"What did you just say?” Minho quickly walks to you, chest heaving. “What canopy bed?"

“It doesn't matter now,” you speak in a small voice, avoiding his eyes, seeking refuge in the ground beneath. Yet, Minho, gentle and determined, cups your face, guiding your gaze to meet his.

“It matters to me, Yn, please. What do you mean?"

“We were in that white canopy bed, when I told you that my heart would always remember you.” 

“We were,” he whispers, eyes glazed over as the memory washes over him too. “Did you remember?”

“Not clearly, it was really hazy in my mind. But I remember that the windows were open, I was supposed to feel cold but… your hands on me, and they were warm. And I…” you suck in a deep breath and Minho smiles encouragingly, running his thumb in a tender caress across your cheek. 

“I remember feeling that I loved you,” you finally confess. “Even though I couldn’t see you. That's why I said that I'd always remember you. Because you filled every chamber in my heart, so much that it'd still hold your name even if you left it…that's how I felt.” You pause, as Minho forcibly swallows the lump down his throat. 

“But it didn't unlock any new memories and I-”

“It's okay, it’s okay. You still remembered,” he smiles and the gesture brings you to his lips, rosy, plump. Were they still as warm? Still as soft? 

“I did…” you trail off. “You also kissed me, in my memory. Your lips were everywhere and… they were soft.” You add quietly, eyes fixated on his mouth, the smile that once adorned it slipping away. 

A tentative warmth courses through your being, a subtle blaze that ignites your cheeks in a shade of crimson. In this moment, a need unfurls within you, a yearning that eclipses the delicate boundaries of restraint. The memory of his lips on your skin becomes a beacon, standing tall amidst the tumultuous winds of uncertainty. You want to taste the warmth again. You want to kiss Minho.

“I kissed you.” His hands, once gentle on your cheeks, now slip down with purpose, cradling your jaw in a gesture that speaks of both reassurance and longing.

“You did.” 

“And my lips were soft,” he repeats, his red scarf brushing against your throat. 

"They were," you respond, breathless. His mouth stands electrifyingly close, a mere hairbreadth away, as you contemplate the simple act of tilting your head, closing the tantalizing gap. All that stands between you and the echoes of the love that was is the lift of your head, a movement that could breathe life into the dormant embers of your heart.

"Yn," Minho speaks softly, his words a gentle brush against the canvas of your shared vulnerability. His minty breath tickles your nose, as you hum, a wordless acknowledgment that hangs in the air. Your eyes remain closed, your heart beating loudly in your ears, drowning out the sound of the waves nearby.

“Use me. Use me to remember.”

[linecrosser]

Shen Qingqiu didn’t argue and closed his eyes, snuggling his head closer as his hairs tickled Liu Qingge’s neck.

Liu Qingge felt incredibly hot wherever Shen Qingqiu touched him, whether it was his skin, hair or even his warm breath.

Whenever a monster rounded the corner, they would be killed without a sound by Liu Qingge’s sword.

Art for the @svsssbigbang - Read the fic! It's good!!

A collab with maiya114.bsky.social , demonpicklejar.bsky.social and eter-arts.bsky.social !

[lyinginmeadow]

Imprimere sole I Paul Lahote x Swan!OC

Summary: One Swan sister left to live with her mother, while the other stayed behind, making friends of her own on the reservation. Friends who grew up and changed, leaving her confused and hurting. Word count: 3,8k

TW: angst, abandonment, injury, curse words A/N: The story takes place before the events of twilight, but it will caught up to it in no time! I changed a lot (like the ages of Jared and Paul, they are older: 17/18ish), so be aware. It will probably be long, too, haha. I also posted it on wattpad, so if anyone's interested <3 Chapter 1 - indigo ->

I couldn't understand how everything fell apart so quickly. One day, I was laughing with all my friends in the cafeteria, and the next day, they were all gone, avoiding my calls. What hurt the most was that they didn't tell me the reason for their departure. It started innocently. Sam was close to graduating, but before he could, he disappeared. He came back just to finish his final exams, ghosting not only our friend group but also Leah, who was his girlfriend. 

She tried to make it look like it didn't bother her, but it did. It especially stung since she dedicated two weeks to finding him when he went missing. She tried her best to reach him, but to no avail, and before she could attempt to save her relationship with him, her family whisked her away to visit her relatives a month before summer officially started. And due to a bad reception, we couldn't talk as much, making her the second friend lost in just under a month.

Sam started to act weird; instead of thinking of college like he always dreamed about, he looked as if he was on steroids. He grew at least a foot taller, cutting his locks and getting a tattoo. A stern, conscious look replaced his easygoing smile.

Jared heard from his mom that Sam decided to stay, forfeiting his dream, which didn't sound like him. He always talked about his plans with such passion. He almost gave all of us a heart attack when neither of us could reach him. He disappeared for two weeks, and after returning, he acted as if he didn't know us. And frankly, we didn't know him; he changed completely.

The next person to leave was Jared, who bad-mouthed Sam for his decisions, making fun of the situation. The jokes subsided, and he became distant. When I visited La Push with Paul, I would see glimpses of Jared with Sam. He stopped coming to school, making both of us worried. Did they become a part of a gang? I tried to reach both of them, but Jared's parents refused to let either of us in, and as far as I knew, Sam was never home anymore, so I didn't even bother coming. I couldn't shake the bad feeling that things were about to get worse.

What once was a friend group of 5 had now transformed into just Paul and me. He reassured me that nothing could come between us, that he loved me, and that he would make sure we got our friends back someday.

It started as a simple fever. Paul and I went out to enjoy the sun. Walking along the beach, the rays were tickling my cheeks, making me smile in contentment. Summer had always been my favorite season because it was the time when we would throw bonfires every weekend, go camping, and be awake till the late hours without a care in the world.

Paul's eyebrows pinched, his gaze shifting to the forest surrounding the beach. As if he were looking for something that wasn't there. Something I couldn't see. I reached out to take hold of his hand, but quickly pulled back. "Paul, you're burning up," I exclaimed, putting my hand on his forehead, worry lacing my voice.

He tried to dismiss my worries, his eyes still searching the trees, "I feel fine."

"Now is not the time to play hero. Come on, I'll drive." I offered, taking hold of his hand. He squeezed it, putting on a small smile. His gaze kept returning to the forest, but I didn't find it in me to care about the reason. I needed to take him home so he could eat some soup and be all better. I didn't want to admit to myself that this was how Sam and Jared left, too. With a simple fever.

I held onto that hope for the first week. I came by every day after school to check up on him, but his father didn't let me see him, even if I begged. He would send me on my way with the same sentence every day, "He doesn't want you to get sick, Lizzie. You know how he is."

But the truth was, I didn't know. Whenever one of us was sick, the other would sneak in and spend the entire time with them. Ever since we became best friends, that's how it was. Sitting in the car dad had repaired for me to use to commute to school, my eyes watered. The ache was magnifying in my chest every second. It didn't help that sleep seemed to evade me. Instead of dreamless nights, I woke up with an image of a wolf branded into my mind.

By the second week, the pain seemed to take over my whole body, and the sorrow melted into anger.

I plastered a fake smile for Charlie, and thankfully, he bought it. With him leaving in the early hours for his shift, he didn't see me waking up with tears staining my cheeks. Food had become less appetizing each day that passed. I never imagined someone leaving without a reason could leave such a hollow pain whenever I woke up. The colors of the world, once bright and golden, seemed dull in comparison.

Every movement felt impossible, but as the anger burned stronger, so did my will to not let any of them win. If they wanted to leave without so much as a goodbye, I would let them with a head held high.

Or at least that is what I wanted to do, what I intended. But the gaze of other students made my anger falter. Their eyes filled with pity, that I had no one in here anymore.

I was a stranger who attended this school because I grew up around La Push rather than in Fork. My childhood was spent with Sue and her children. Now that my friends had disappeared from my life, I had no ties to La Push, just memories. 

The only person trying to get to me was Embry, but whenever he sat down to talk to me, within the next minute, Jacob would drag him away.

Jake and I used to play together when we were children, but we grew apart when he found his friend group and I found mine. I was also older and gravitated toward being friends with his sister rather than him. Tormenting him was an added bonus, he didn't like to be reminded of. He also didn't forgive me for dating Paul, whom he found excessively annoying. A fact I understood, since Paul sometimes seemed like an asshole. From what I heard, now more than ever. And Jake assumed that I would join the guys and become the same, so he tried to protect Embry from it. Needless to say, every time Jake visited with Billy was painfully awkward.

One day, I finally got hold of Leah. I cursed the one who decided that she had to go off-grid right when I needed her here. But before I got the chance to say anything, she mumbled the words that Sam had broken up with her. Over the phone.

What a fucking coward.

I spent the whole phone call cursing him out, trying to bring Leah's mood up. Her parents, mostly Sue, insisted that since her behavior had changed so drastically given the breakup, they would probably come back at the end of July, extending their stay. More than a month from now. I tried to sound positive, telling her to find a nice rebound. That Sam was a fool for letting someone as perfect as her go. She guessed something was off with me, but fortunately didn't press.

I cut all contact with Bella, my sister, making up excuses about finals and exams that had me studying. But even she wore the same look as everyone else. Her look of pity haunted me in my dreams. It was mixed with a tinge of worry that was not strong enough for her to call Charlie and demand what was happening. Maybe if she lived here, she would try to help me. But she didn't, she was miles away with our mother in Phoenix. Not intend to move to gloomy old Forks anytime soon.

By the third week, I felt as if I was losing my mind. School was over, and I didn't have anything to keep my mind focused on. Maybe all I craved was a proper closure. Ending the years I spent pouring my love into something. But deep down, I knew that the cut they opened with their departure wouldn't heal by simply getting answers. Still, I couldn't know for sure if I didn't try. I called the Lahote residence again, but was met with a mere voicemail. "Fine," I grumbled. I took out the soup I made for Dad from the fridge, and took off.

The engine of the old red BMW roared as I soared through the forest to the familiar town.

Paul's house was small, the light blue color now faded due to the old age of the building. Parking the car in the driveway, I tried ringing the doorbell, but I was met with no answer. The anger ignited again, putting down the container next to the front door, I decided to look around the premises. 

His window was on the other side, overlooking the backyard and forest, but his room was empty, bed undone. The whole room was a mess, clothes lying on the floor, and stuffing of the pillows scattered around. I sighed, looking at the mess, noticing a broken frame in the middle of it.

A photo Leah took of the two of us just two months ago. He looked at me like I hung the moon while I was laughing about something Jared had said. We were celebrating Sam's birthday, and everything was perfect. Maybe not as perfect as I thought. Was he thinking back then about leaving?

Tears welled up in my eyes, stinging. I whipped around, leaving the scene behind me. They were making their way down my cheek as I sped through La Push. Leaving the town behind me, the forest lining the main road became a blur.

Stepping on the brakes, the car came to a screeching halt. I could barely see through the tears. And as much as I was hurting, I was not a reckless driver. Charlie drilled into me how important being a conscious driver was, and how it could save lives. I witnessed firsthand how a car crash could tear a family into pieces. 

My friends might have abandoned me, but the places we used to go to were still here. I hiked through the woods, cursing my past self for picking out a summer dress and flats that were not suitable for Washington conditions. 

After what felt like an hour of a never-ending tangle of greenery, the rays of sunshine broke through.

A soft smile flashed over my face as I sat down, looking over the scenery. The ocean roared just beneath, the salt was heavy in the air even from this distance. It was summer, but the wind was still cold; the only thing making it tolerable was the sun shining high above.

Closing my eyes, memories came rushing through. Of the time I first met him, and how it changed my perspective. Even back then, I knew there was something special about the scruffy kid from Tacoma.

No one wanted to play with him, Leah even stuck her tongue out, when he came to the playground asking if he could play with us. The boys ran each time, not wanting to bond with an outsider.

Not me.

I came over to him, extending my hand toward him. He didn't seem to trust me at first, his eyes narrowed. "I'm Lizzie, let's play together." I smiled, dimples flashing. He slowly took it, a smile appearing not long after. "I'm Paul." He mumbled, and I squeezed his hand before dragging him toward the others.

"This is Paul, he's my new best friend." I flashed everyone a cheeky smile. Leah was not happy I replaced her, so I had to promise her that he was the boy-best friend and she was more like my sister than anything, which she accepted, but I had to pinky promise. Since then, they entered a competition on who would have more of my attention. But both of them held a special place in my heart for different reasons.

Another one flashed by.

He took me to the place we always hang out together when we wanted to get away from our friends. We thought we were being sneaky, but in truth, they always knew where we were venturing off to. But Leah bullied Sam and Jared into giving us space because she knew how much I wanted to spend time with my childhood crush. It was ridiculous since he didn't seem to return those feelings.

We were sitting there, laughing about some gossip, when suddenly he tensed up. The sun was beginning to set, which meant we would have to head back. He turned to face me, blushing.

"I like you. A lot." He said nervously. I never saw him being nervous about anything, much less girls. He always seemed so natural when talking to them, and normally, I was no exception. Blinking a couple of times to shake the thoughts of Paul being with other people, you smiled.

"I like you, too, silly. Took you long enough." Before he could react, I kissed him. It was a sloppy kiss, but a memorable one nonetheless.

A tear slipped down my cheek. I was so exhausted that sleep didn't seem to find me back home. But here, surrounded by all the memories, laughter echoing, my consciousness slipped away from me.

The cold breeze made me jerk awake. The sun was now long gone, the moonlight resting on my face. "Shit, shit, shit." I hastily stood up. Feeling light-headed, I had to find the nearest tree for support. Charlie's going to kill me was the first thought that popped into my head. If I didn't kill myself first trying to get back on the road.

In the daytime, I had no problem navigating the woods. I grew up around here, and it was as natural as breathing. But nighttime was a different story. My inner compass didn't seem to work properly.

I mindlessly sped through the forest, becoming more and more frustrated. Tears were now freely running down my cheek, obscuring my vision further. How could I have been so stupid to go here alone? Not that I had anyone who would accompany me.

The greenery seemed endless, the stray branches lashing my face and hands as I quickened my pace in sheer panic. I stupidly left my phone in the car, dad was probably freaking out already, wondering why I wasn't safe at home.

Lost in panic, my foot caught on a rock, making me lose balance. My ankle caved, twisting at an unnatural angle, as I took a tumble down a small rocky hill. I began to shake uncontrollably as anxiety mixed with pain from my wounds rocked through me, sitting in a little creek that soaked my clothes.

I tried to stand up, but my ankle didn't let me. Sobbing harder, I sat there for what felt like an hour. 

But the inner voice, the one last part trying to keep me sane, urged me to stand up. Get out of the cold water. My scraped palms found slippery rocks, using them to crawl out of the creek one by one.

I was so tired and cold. All I truly wanted was to curl up and just shut my eyes for a little bit, reveling the the sound of his voice. In my nightmares, it usually didn't sound so soft.

"Billy called." Sam's rough voice shattered Paul's train of thought. He barely lifted his gaze to meet his. Being away from Lizzie hurt like nothing he had ever experienced. He didn't understand it. He loved her, but he couldn't have her. Not until he learned to control himself. And even then, the secret was too big for him to risk it. And bringing her in on it was not an option; it would put not only her but the pack in danger. And as much as he hated himself for hurting her, it was the right thing to do. It didn't change the fact that he couldn't bring himself to fully let her go. 

He went to the Swan house just to make sure she was okay every chance he got. His heart was breaking more in the process of being there and not being able to touch her or look into her eyes.

See her smile, which made the colors dance and the world around dim. 

Jared didn't want to patrol with him anymore, since he was so snappy around everyone. And Sam didn't know how to help him, so he let him visit her house, even when he knew how unhealthy it was. He was dealing with taking care of Emily, who was still in the hospital after he had hurt her. Another reason added to the growing list of why Lizzie was better off without him.

But Paul couldn't help himself, something was pulling him to her. And the pain seemed to subdue by a fraction, just to be replaced by his conscience.

"They can't find Liz. She didn't come home from school."

Time slowed. Before Sam could order him anything, Paul bolted out the door. The one time he doesn't accompany her car from school to home, she decides to disappear. All possibilities run through his head like a thunderstorm. What if scenarios that he wasn't able to stop. She could be lying in the ditch somewhere. A car crash. Or a vampire.

He shifted, discarding his clothes in the process. Running through the wood, he tried to catch her scent, any sign of her. His heart was beating faster with every second he couldn't find her. He could hear Sam shouting orders in his mind, but it was all drowned out by his worry for her. It was she who occupied his every thought, his entire existence.

He couldn't understand how she had such a strong hold on him. She always seemed to be the light that shone, guiding him. It was like that since he met her all those years ago.

Running onto the road, not a care in the world that something could hit him. His gaze found a small red car parked at the side of the road, all abandoned.

Her car.

He sent a message through his mind to Sam, informing him of the new development, and took off running.

He knew this part of the forest, and he knew her. If she needed to clear her head, she came here. She always came to this spot with him. Why didn't he think of it? But before he got to it, he caught her scent. She was so close.

The moon was shining, casting shadows on the path. Paul slowed down, changing the course to her location. He could hear her now, quietly sobbing, muttering an incoherent melody. He peeked through the thick greenery, trying not to make a sound. His wolf form was hard to hide, but her eyes were closed. She was shivering, her drenched clothes hanging onto her form.

He stifled a whine coming out of his throat. "I've got her." Sending another mental message down the shared bond between his brothers, he backed up a couple of steps, losing sight of her once again. He shifted back to his human form.

Thankfully, since he and his brothers came to these parts of the woods often, there was a bag of clothes nearby.

Coming back to her, she didn't change her position, still hugging her shivering form. He stepped closer, kneeling before her, but she didn't notice him. She seemed to be lost in a trance. His warm palm found her freezing hand, making her snap out of it. Lizzie gasped out loud, eyes opening in shock, looking around frenzied, disoriented. "Shh, it's me. I've got you." He cooed. 

Her eyes found his, and even in the darkness of the night, he felt it. The world shifted, everything seemed to blur as time slowed for just a second. The bond held him captive.

He was scared, terrified even, to face her after he shifted. Putting her in danger was one of the reasons he distanced himself. But the thought of not having her as an imprint terrified him. 

What if they spend years together just for an imprint to ruin it? Sam tried to fight it, but it was useless. What if he wasn't strong enough to fight it? He couldn't stomach the thought of someone coming between the two of them. He felt conflicted since her being his imprint meant she was a part of this dangerous world now. No way out.

She sobbed, snapping him out of the trance, "Paul?"

He blinked in shock, trying to regain composure. He needed to get her out, preferably to a hospital. "Are you hurt?" He searched every inch of her shivering body, which was now reaching towards him in an attempt to warm itself up.

She nodded, looking down at her ankle. She was missing a shoe, her leg was swollen and red. He reached out to touch it to examine how bad the wound was only for her to wince.

"Let's get you out of here, okay?" He whispered, trying to keep calm even when his own heart was racing. He gently picked her up, letting her put her scraped palms on his chest to warm up.

She didn't speak the whole way to the car, where Jared was already waiting. "Sam went to the Swan house to tell Charlie." He nodded, barely acknowledging him as he put Lizzie in the backseat of her car.

She opened her eyes to look up at him, pleading with him not to let go. He gently squeezed her hand, "I need to drive, beautiful." He whispered again before shutting the door. He jumped into the driver's seat, speeding through the woods to the hospital in Forks, leaving Jared behind. It was not ideal by any means. He didn't want her anywhere near Dr. Fang, but he had no choice. She needed medical attention, and they could offer it. The only thing Paul could do was hope, he didn't have tonight's shift.

[v6quewrlds]

Okay okay dad!Joe content: Joe and baby girl at family day and she has dad and all her uncles wrapped around her little finger 🥰

joe followed closely behind amara as she bounced from player to coach to staff member, her little arms flailing as she giggled and pointed. you watched with a smile that never left your face, your heart swelling with pride and joy. you knew joe was feeling it too, despite his stoic facade.

the bengals' locker room had transformed into a whirlwind of laughter and chatter as the families of the players and staff mingled. the scent of freshly cut grass and the distant murmur of the stadium speakers filled the air, a comforting backdrop to the chaos of family day.

amara's eyes lit up as she spotted ja'marr's familiar face, her favorite player after her daddy, of course. she squealed at the sight of him, barreling towards him. he scooped her up, spinning her around as she shrieked with delight. you couldn't help but laugh as you saw joe roll his eyes playfully at the sight of his daughter's unbridled affection for his teammates.

"look who's got a fan club," you teased, walking over to join them. joe slipped an arm around your waist, his eyes sparkling with pride as he watched amara tug on ja'marr's beard, the wide receiver wincing slightly through his rapid-fire questions which were answered in earnest.

"looks like i've got some competition, actually," joe replied, his voice warm with affection.

"you can't be #1 all the time," you hummed, leaning into joe's side, your voice light and playful.

ja'marr chuckled, gently pinched amara's cheek, earning a giggle in return. "it's tough, joe, but you've got to admit she's got taste."

"hey, i taught her everything she knows," joe said, feigning indignation, which only made you laugh harder. "and she's definitely got my moves."

"daddy, up!" amara demanded, reaching for joe after deciding she was tired of ja'marr and his questions. he grinned and swung her into the air. she giggled as he spun her around, her chubby cheeks flushing with excitement.

"alright, pumpkin," joe said, setting her down with a gentle bump. "let's go find some snacks—"

before he could get the words out, amara had already dashed off again, her little legs carrying her toward sam hubbard and trey hendrickson. the two defensive ends looked up from their conversation and sam immediately dropped to one knee, his arms wide open.

"there's the people's princess!" he boomed, catching her in a bear hug.

trey chuckled, shaking his head at the sight. "you're going to have to start training her to tackle, joe," he said, tickling the toddler's side.

"already on it," joe replied with a laugh. "she practices on me every night." you subtly elbowed him, and joe shot you a sarcastic smile. "what? it's true."

your little family made your way to the snack table, where a spread of treats and drinks lay in wait. amara's eyes widened at the sight of cupcakes topped with miniature footballs. she pointed eagerly, and you picked one up, handing it to her.

"just one," you warned with a knowing smile, but amara was already digging in, her tiny fingers covered in frosting.

as you munched on various salty and sweet snacks, the team's head coach, zac, approached, his expression was soft as he watched the children play. "your little one sure knows how to work a room," he exclaimed to the two of you.

you couldn't help but agree. "she's got more charm than the two of us combined," you murmured, wiping a smudge of chocolate from amara's cheek. she rested in joe's arms, giggling as he pretended to take a bite out of her cupcake.

zac chuckled. "it's a good thing she takes after her mother's extroversion," he continued, giving joe a playful nudge. the quarterback rolled his eyes while you snickered. "keeps you on your toes, huh?"

joe nodded, brushing away a stray chocolate curl from amara's face as she squirmed in his arms, spotting orlando making faces from across the room. "every minute of every day," he said, a hint of affection in his voice.

[paxarsenal]

One Last Wish

Another wavewave fanfic by the one and only PaxArsenal! This is just the headcanon I have for TFP, and I apologize for the inconsistent storytelling if it isn't up to canon Transformers lore. I digress, enjoy this fanfic!

Conjunx Ritus...

1. The Act of Intimacy

This depends heavily on the couple.  The couple performs an intimate act such as holding hands, possibly a sensual massage, or cleaning one another, the options are endless.

2. Act of Disclosure

This can be a story about anything, so long as it tells your partner what makes you–you.  For some it’s the story of their birth, for others, it might be how they became the leader of their faction by getting into a bar fight, for some it might be revealing just how guilty they feel for joining their faction in the first place.

3. Act of Profference

This is a gift. The ritual’s instigator gives the other a gift, usually catered to the potential Conjunx. 

4. Act of Devotion

The entire ceremony is an act of devotion for the one who started the ritual: it is the other's turn to perform an action that shows he too loves his potential Conjunx.

Once the 4 acts of kindness have been performed and accepted the pair are officially bonded as Conjunx Endura.

~~~

One Final Wish

The war was over. 

For the past million years, the Great War waged and never shuttered. In a time like this, it’s limited. Both Autobots and Decepticons saw it all; Megatron finally sacrificed his crown to Optimus Prime, who bowed with respect and pity for the Kaon gladiator. While both leaders recoiled their woes and sorrows at the losses, Shockwave could only turn to Soundwave. His sleek HUD stood cracked among fellow Decepticons, his frame barely breathing. Transformers need no concept of oxygen to respire, yet Soundwave struggled to get his engines running. It was the end. The Decepticons surrendered; they had surrendered. He was exhausted; everyone was exhausted. Still, Soundwave held high; his back straightened like a regal to an audience, his slender arms relaxed and helm in a proper position. In Shockwave’s eye, Soundwave always knew how to present himself. That’s what a former senator does best. 

Back at their home, the Autobots paraded all over Cybertron. Their smiles and laughs reciprocated towards the crowd as mechs and femmes cheered for their victory. Little by little, the planet rebuilt itself, and more Cybertronians returned to their home; buildings resurrected, and bots buried their dead. What was a celebration meant an embarrassment to the Decepticons. Each officer sat in their cells with Energon-charged cuffs. Inadequate Energon supplied, and occasionally, the guards failed to deliver sustenance. Only Optimus Prime was allowed as a visitor, sharing nostalgic moments with Megatron about days gone by. Starscream paced back and forth as he muttered words of self-encouragement and spite towards his leaders, much to a nervous wreck like himself. Megatron sat on the rusting berth with his red optics closed, Optimus talking about who knows what. However, Shockwave paid no attention to his former leader. Another mech in mind, his gun arm tapped his right wall. How unfortunate for his cell to be facing Megatron and Starscream. A quiet knock on the other wall told him Soundwave was still responsive. 

“Are you perhaps still on lord Megatron’s vow of silence?” Shockwave asked.

“... Negative: He isn’t our lord anymore,” Soundwave answered, his voice laced with a silver tongue, “So why call him that moniker.”  

Unknowingly, Shockwave grew facilitated by Soundwave’s authentic voice. Not the recordings of Optimus Prime’s interrogations, not Megatron's constant harangues and meeting audios, just his voice. Something Shockwave looked forward to for centuries. “Maybe I have gotten acquainted with it. With millions of cycles gone and past, it’s logical reasoning.” He finally articulated to his comrade. Soft lulls tickled Shockwave’s fins; Lazorbeak had awoken. 

“Is that minibot alright?” Shockwave questioned again, hoping to continue the conversation. He leaned on the enclosed walls, rusting and dull from improper hygiene and neglect. Space was tight, yet the scientist made do.

Soundwave replied bluntly, “He’s alright.” Silence caved into the pair. Lazorbeak’s inconsistent squeaks and wings clicking suited as tools to smother the pain-staking rings of tension and animosity. The minibot recoiled within Soundwave’s frame, his thin digits trying to calm it down. 

“You know you can stop that,” The ex-communications officer directly stated, “There’s no use in small talk. We are all going to be offline.”

Shockwave couldn’t come up with another word. He knew Soundwave was right. Instead, he slowly slid to the dusty ground and sighed, “... Is that so?” 

Within a few minutes, Soundwave knocked again, but this time, he commed Shockwave through his visor: At least I can be offlined with you.

~~~

Reconciliation wasn’t an option for the losers. All former Decepticon officers knelt before the renewed High Council. With tight cuffs around their servos and high security, nothing could go wrong. They made sure of that. The judge was an elderly Transformer with millennia ahead of him. He struck on the metal gavel once the mass settled down. As he cleared his voicebox, his olden optics scanned through the digital tablet, “By decree, former warlord Megatron shall stand conducted via public execution for his crimes against Cybertron. That goes for his associates, former senator Soundwave, ex-High Council scientist Shockwave, and Decepticon captain Starscream. Except for ex-Deception Medic Knockout, he will receive punishment by another method.” Every Cybertronian darted to Knockout, who nervously ducked under the podium seat.

Starscream twitched yet kept silent after Elite Guards repositioned their guns to his shaking helm. As if it wasn’t vibrating enough, it could have removed some bolts by now. Soundwave and Megatron said nothing. They knelt before the jury and accepted their fate. The judge continued, “For better or worse, all charges remain true. Our Autobot representative wishes to speak.”

Optimus Prime uncovered from the shadows and strode towards his podium. Each stride was bold and confident, something Shockwave had seen Megatron do. It was remarkable what chiefs could be and influence. Orion Pax to Optimus Prime, and Megatrous to Megatron. The Empurata con’s spark yanked and jerked; it felt familiar yet so ancient. By the Allspark, Primus did grant individuals as saints while traitors martyrs. 

Optimus’s voice boomed throughout the courtroom. “Mechs and Femmes, as we gather here to address the Decepticon problem, I want to make some adjustments. These are criminals, yes. But I wish to give them a last desire before they part.” Some bots booed and argued against his idea, yet he held on. “It’s only befitting since we aren’t like them.” His blue optics stared into Megatron as the ex-warlord shifted away disgusted.

Still, Megatron wished for a better system; Starscream’s request was immediately rejected. Soundwave stood muted amidst the proceeding. The purple bot didn’t ask for anything. Coincidentally, it gave Shockwave a chance to speak. 

“May I ask for one proposal?” Shockwave confidently asked. Prime let him continue. 

“I would like to perform a Conjunx Ritus.” The jury gasped. What did that Empurata freak say? A Conjunx Ritus? With who? Soundwave’s helm immediately whipped toward Shockwave as Starscream barely caught his laugh between his servo. Megatron darted bullets at him, red optics narrowing with a snarl, “What are you doing?” He hissed. The Prime’s mouth fell agape at the unusual request, and they could hear that cranky medic shout profanities against Primus's vain. Shockwave didn’t look at him, and his audibles fell into deaf tones, instead finding his gaze on Optimus Prime. “Please, Prime, it’s one final wish.” 

Gesturing to Soundwave, he knelt on one knee before Soundwave as he held up his cuffed arms. “Soundwave… With our sparks still alight…Would you be my Conjunx Endura…?”

Soundwave sat there, emotionless and conflicted–dumbfounded. His still cracked HUD mask reflected onto Shockwave’s crimson one. With one shaky outstretched limb, he held onto Shockwave’s, never letting go of those same sharp servos that once carried him during a stressful night on the Nemesis. Those same servos that caressed his crown when they interfaced. The same ones that he loved so much, belonging to that societal outcast hailed from Kalis. As unstable as his voice, Soundwave’s helm titled down as a gleam flashed away from his blurry visor screen. 

“Proposal: Accepted.”

“Let our damnation be our union.”

~~~

Soundwave and Shockwave requested to be executed first. They wanted Megatron and Starscream to observe their coalition for the final time. The Conjunx Ritus traditions remain the same; four acts of kindness shall be performed and accepted before the pair are officially bonded mates. Such acts include the act of intimacy, disclosure, profference, and devotion. 

If the violet mech could frown, he would’ve frowned the deepest, even more profound than Megatron’s awful organic-piranha scowl. The thought of being intimate in a public space felt unnecessary–illogical in his own words. Nonetheless, the ceremony must persist in the optics of the populace. 

Soundwave sneakily unlocked his compartment as purple tentacles laced Shockwave’s gun arm like ribbons. 

Oh. Intimacy completed.

In the second part of the ritual, the act of disclosure, Soundwave told Shockwave of his journey to become a senator (both were senators at some vorns ago), his obstacles and achievements, his wins and losses, and his eventual downfall. Once it was Shockwave’s turn, he immediately tapped his digits impatiently. 

Shockwave laid his fins low, “The story… of my Empurata…” 

“Are you ashamed?” Soundwave whispered. 

He chuckled, “No, if not, I wouldn’t have met you.”

The third part of the ceremony is an act of Profference. A predacon optic laid within Shockwave’s palm. Soundwave titled his helm amusingly. “As much as I dedicated my time to Project Predacon, I’d have wished to dedicate mine to you.” How fitting it was. Shockwave panicked last minute on that gift. There was absolutely nothing on this wasteland to behold a mech so close to regality or godhood, by Shockwave’s logic. Still, Soundwave accepted and caressed it gently between his fingers. Shockwave’s fins fluttered satisfied.

Fourth and last was the act of Devotion. Shockwave grew curious on this part. What did Soundwave have in mind for his contribution? Applying logic wouldn’t wither the mystery of surprises. The audience held their breath as Soundwave stood in silence. At last, the bot retrieved something that even his partner would dilate and dim his optic on. 

“Lazorbeak…” Shockwave gasped, feathery claw reaching for the minibot to find it limp and unresponsive, devoid of a spark. 

“We… talked about it,” Soundwave slowly explained. “He would rather stay loyal than live without my protection and company.” He paused. “You always had a nick for exotic inventions and experiments. May we see that… another time. Lazorbeak wants to see.”

The Empurata had no words. “Do you perhaps believe in the afterlife or some kind of reincarnation those organics revere?”

“Negative: I suppose so. No logic in Cybertron would decode that unless we try to see it.”

Shockwave chuckled, a mere light in his red optic when his future sparkmate used his infamous line, “Then let’s see to that… that one last experimentation.”

The bronze bells hammered in the background. No spectator to cheer, no energon to toast high in the air, no ‘congratulations’ or ‘well done’. Just a clearing over the destruction of their planet to unify their eternal coalition. What seemed to be seconds or minutes before the officiant cleared his throat.

“I pronounce you to you today as Sparkmates…” 

Once the Conjunx Ritus was over, Soundwave rested his crown on Shockwave’s optic as he sighed. His comrade… No, Conjunx Endura held his helm to look at him with the exact gaze he had given all those years ago. The other returned the gesture and stared lovely into his one optic, his servos hovering on Shockwave’s spark chamber. The spark hammered and didn’t stop. He couldn’t feel it, yet he understood he would’ve called it love.

“I love you, Shockwave.”

“I love you too, my Soundwave.”

“... Affirmative: See you on the other side.” 

The Elite Guards released their ammunition as Soundwave and Shockwave’s frames fell onto the ground, lifeless as energon poured out of their wounds. Together, their sparks diminished at the same time. On the outskirts of the city, they laid their bodies side by side as Cybertron’s dust buried them. Although their carcasses may fade away, their consciousness and spark are still ablaze by their one final wish.

[hifumi-123]

When you give him a Kabedon

Kabedon-when one character forces another against the wall with one hand or leans against the wall and makes the sound of "don"

Characters: Majima, Nishiki, Daigo, Ryuji, Mine

Majima Goro

After you corner Majima against the wall, he raises an eyebrow, looking at you with a puzzled expression. "Y/n-chan, what are you doing? Is this some new way of collecting debts?"

His question leaves you momentarily speechless. After sighing, you explain, "This is called 'Kabedon.' I saw the male lead do this to the female lead on TV."

Majima chuckles, crossing his arms and wearing a mischievous smile. "So you saw someone do this on TV and decided to try it on me, Y/n-chan?"

"Don't you like it?" you ask.

Majima laughs again, a hint of mischief in his smile. He gazes into your eyes, mischief dancing in his visible eye. "Of course, I like it. There's no man who doesn't enjoy being cornered by a woman. Except maybe Kiryu."

He straightens up, moving closer to you, his tall figure looming over you, closing the distance between you two. His mischievous smile grows wider as he continues, "But tell me... what did that male lead do next on TV?"

"Uh, well..."

Seeing you stutter, Majima chuckles softly once more, leaning in closer until his face is just centimeters away from yours. In a low, seductive voice, he whispers in your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin, "You should watch more TV, Y/n-chan. There's a lot more for you to learn."

Suddenly, he wraps his arms around your waist, turning you around and Kabedon-ing you against the wall. His arm rests beside your head, almost pressing his entire body against yours.

Leaning in even closer, his body now firmly against yours, pinning you to the wall. Majima's mischievous smile transforms into a seductive one as his face inches closer, allowing you to feel his breath against your lips.

"After a Kabedon, this is what should come next, right, Y/n-chan?"

Nishikiyama Akira (Yakuza 1)

In the office of the Nishikiyama Family's patriarch, you suddenly take a step forward, slamming both hands against the wall, kabedonning Nishikiyama in the corner. You expected this sudden move to startle Nishikiyama, maybe even see a blush on his face, but instead, he breaks into a bright smile.

"Hmm... more." Nishikiyama says.

You pause, thinking Nishikiyama is mocking you, and quickly retract your arms, saying, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that... that's enough."

Just as you're about to step back, Nishikiyama suddenly reaches out and cups your face. His smile remains, but his gaze turns dangerously intense.

"If you dare to let go…" Nishikiyama says softly, his tone carrying an unmistakable threat.

A chill runs down your spine. It dawns on you that you may have misunderstood something, and more importantly, you seem to have angered someone you shouldn't have.

Goda Ryuji

You slam your palm heavily against the wall, attempting to trap the burly blond man in front of you between yourself and the wall. However, your "prey" doesn't seem too impressed.

Ryuji quirks his lips slightly, the scar on his upper lip contorting along with his smile, looking at you with a mischievous expression. His roguish grin leaves you slightly irritated.

"How can you call this a kabedon with this little strength?" Ryuji chuckles lightly, his tone tinged with a hint of teasing.

You freeze, not expecting your carefully planned "offensive" to be so easily defused. Just as you're at a loss, Ryuji suddenly leans in close, his warm breath brushing against your ear.

"Let me show you what a real kabedon is like..."

Before you can respond, Ryuji swiftly lifts you onto his shoulder.

"Wait, what?! How?!" you ask in a flustered manner.

Without any answer, Ryuji strides purposefully towards a room not far away.

Dojima Daigo

You pushed him against the wall without hesitation. Your arm propped next to Daigo's face, trapping the Sixth chairman of the Tojo Clan firmly between yourself and the wall.

Daigo froze, a hint of confusion flickering in his deep eyes. He furrowed his brows slightly and asked calmly, "What are you doing?"

A smug smile played on your lips, mischief glinting in your eyes. You whispered, "I'm giving you a kabedon."

Daigo blinked, seemingly processing the information. After a moment, he nodded slightly and replied seriously, "Ah, I see." He then maintained the position without any further reaction.

Your smile faltered as you incredulously stared at the man before you, still calm. You sighed in resignation, saying, "You're as dense as a rock..."

Daigo just tilted his head, sporting a puzzled expression.

As you were about to give up and retract your arm, Daigo suddenly moved. His action was swift and fluid, leaving you no time to react. In the blink of an eye, the positions between you two had switched.

Now it was Daigo who kabedoned you against the wall. His arm propped near your ear, body slightly leaning forward, his face mere inches from yours. Uncertainty flickered in Daigo's eyes as he tilted his head and asked, "Is this how it's done? Is this the kabedon?"

Your eyes widened, completely caught off guard by Daigo's uncharacteristic move. Your heart raced, a blush creeping onto your cheeks involuntarily. You opened your mouth but found yourself at a loss for words.

Daigo noticed the blush on your face. Frowning, he reached out and gently placed his hand on your forehead. His palm was cool, a stark contrast to your flushed face. Daigo asked seriously, "Why is your face so red? Are you running a fever?"

Feeling the warmth of Daigo's hand, your heart raced even faster. "I'm not running a fever...! It's... it's just really hot in here!"

At that moment, a knocking sound interrupted the delicate atmosphere between the two in the Chairman's office. Daigo slowly lowered his arm and stepped back. He looked at you, a hint of elusive emotion flashing in his eyes, and softly said, "I should get back to work."

You nodded and left his office. The events of moments ago replayed in your mind, a smile unconsciously tugging at your lips.

Mine Yoshitaka

You took a deep breath, mustering up the courage to gently push Mine against the wall. Your palm pressed against the cold surface, fingertips trembling slightly. Mine's breath was close, and you could smell a faint woody cologne on him. Looking up at him, you found his gaze direct, deep, and unreadable.

Mine's expression remained calm, but his voice was low and magnetic, "Are you kabedon-ing me?"

His calm response immediately made you flustered. Your cheeks felt hot, heart racing. You stammered, "Y-yes..." Your voice was softer than you had anticipated, almost a whisper.

Mine tilted his head slightly, murmuring to himself, "Kabedon huh..." His gaze grew deeper, as if contemplating something.

Suddenly, everything changed. Before you could react, Mine swiftly switched your positions. Your back hit the cold wall, making you inhale sharply. His arm propped near your ear, his palm against the wall, almost enveloping you completely.

You felt his thigh lightly pressing between yours, not in a crude manner but as a suggestive hint. Your breathing became rapid, heart beating even faster.

Leaning down, his lips almost touching your ear, his breath brushing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine involuntarily. His voice was low, magnetic, almost a whisper, "This way, it feels more imposing, doesn't it?"

I feel like majima would kabedon you like this:

And this is Masato and ichiban:

[legs-like-jelly]

Imagine if there was a scene Sentinel got webbed and wrecked by the spiders on Archa-7, back when Blackarachnia was Elita-1.

oh myh god i would pay every amoint of money to have this put in the show actually!!!

there would be like two or three with elita and she would command them to wreck that MOTHERFUCKER. to cybertron and back

[fuzzybirdie]

This work was fully inspired by the following prompt/post and @freedomanddisorder 's amazing art, please! Check out both!

~~~

Ch.1 A Vacation To Gotham! What Could Go Wrong? (Pt1)

It had been 1 year scince Danny's accident, and 1 year since his parent's masterpiece miraculously started working. In celebration, danny's parents decided to take a holiday to gotham. Mostly to look at the bats, who were obviously ghosts. Just look at signal! Litterally creating ghost orbs. But, as the bats only come out at night (excluding signal) there nothing to do during the day. Nothing exept the mundane things like amusement parks and fast food restraunts.

Danny could tell that his parents were bored and upset that they couldn't interview any bats, (and boy, was danny glad that they'd chilled out after a year of actually interacting with ghosts) but they were still trying to make things fun for themselves too.

The Fentons had split up near the enterance, agreeing to meet up at the food stalls arround 1 for lunch. His parents went to the haunted house - ever reasearching, Jazz would wonder arround for a bit before deciding on her rides, while Danny went right for the roller coasters.

On the way, Danny had an idea; his parents were on the other side of the park, so they wouldn't question him if his hair and eyes suddenly changed colour, and he had been meaning to experiment with looking more alive in ghost form...Ducking into a bathroom, he started transforming. Slowly, Carefully, not touching the clothes, there. Finished, he looked at the miror to find- "I look like a ghost in a tee and jeans."-his skin still had the green tint from the ectoplasam in his veins, and his hair was steaming like dry ice.

The hair was more obviously inhuman, so he tackled that first. It would need to be solid, condensed, thicker and thicker, -too thick!

What once was steam now looked like a plain old block of ice. Maybe, his hair being made of ice would be fine if he seperated it a bit? If he peeled each layer into tiny little strings luke normal hair. Little by little, piece by piece, perfect. The ice string hair was curlier than he'd thought, waves of snow tickling his ears, eyebrows and the back of his neck.

The next problem was the green tint. This would take some thinking. He couldn't just pretend to be cosplaying a Vulcan from star trek. Could he turn his ectoplasam back into blood? Probably not, either he'd end up 'suffocating' (if that was even the right word) as a ghost or just turn back into a human and need to do this all over again.

Veto'd, too dangerous.

Thinking back, didn't frostbite say there was something odd with his ectoplasam and blood? Thats right! There were slight ammounts of ectoplasam in his blood and vice versa. If he could manipulate his remaining blood into the capillaries along the surface of his skin, it'd look like he still had a beating heart!...

Ok, that sounded bad even in his mind.

Shaking off that thought, he pushed his blood to his skin and checked the mirror one last time. Normal teen with white hair? Check. Now, Roller Coaster!

~~~

This is the first! || next

Thanks for reading! Unfortunately, I had to cut this in half. (Curse the word limit!) When I have time to post part 2 I'll link it down here. If the links work... Anyways! Please tell me if there's anything I can improve! Last time I posted something was back in... 2016? So i'm very out of practice

[yandere-wishes]

𝓦𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓦𝓸𝓵𝓯

Summary: Heritage pricks Wriothesley like a valley of thorns, it's unnerving to find someone with the same pains. 

Warnings: Yandere Behavior, werewolves, gore, older man/ younger woman if you squint.

January 15th; 12:00 Am  

There's blood on your face and a blade in your hand when Wriothesley first meets you. A body at your feet half gutted and half eaten. If not for the flickering shade of gold in your eyes, he'd have summed you up as just another alleyway murderer. 

Not a monster.

Not a creature he was all so intimately familiar with. 

When you'd first met the Duke of Meropide, there had been a full moon hovering overhead. A little too haunting for your taste. The stars cowered behind heavy clouds as the taste of metal rang in your mouth. His frigid fingers had tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. Tracing it's shell that had yet to lose its unnatural edge. "Qutrub" he mumbles, low and rattling as he drapes his jacket across your shoulders. 

You've yet to tell him that that night still haunts you. Not the blood or the first kill. Not the face of the man as you tear out his intestines with your teeth. No, the nightmares come from his voice, how easily he spoke of the horror you'd turned into. He'd known you before you'd even known yourself. 

His familiarity is what haunts you. 

All too deep and knowing. 

You still shiver when the beast's name leaves his tongue. 

He's blunt and brutal when he tells you of the curse you've inherited. What manner of creature resides within you. He speaks as if he's the Archon of wisdom, all lethal facts and icy truths. You couldn't really speak back then, brain still split between two worlds. Too feral to be human, yet too meek to be a threat. "The first transformation is always the worst, kid. It'll take a while before your mind's set straight again." 

You didn't understand what he meant back then. Too busy focusing on the permanent buzz in your head. It felt like a fever dream, sticky, slow. Your limbs weren't your own and neither were your thoughts. You think you may have collapsed back then. Vaguely recalling the sensation of his calloused palms against your forehead. 

 It's only by the end of a brutal week that you finally realize what his words signified. You're starting to act human again. Morphing back into something normal, something tame. It's only on the seventh day that you remember how to form words. And even then it's only half-slung phrases in your mother tongue. Wriothesley answers when you speak. Mirroring your words, your accent, your tones. That had been around the time you'd begin to understand what he was. What you where. 

Not human. 

Never human. 

 It's another excruciating week before you remember the language of Fontaine.

 Another long endless month until the new moon. 

January 30th; 1:00 Am

There's blood on your hands again, a shade too red to have a name. You stare at the body, his face shredded beyond recognition. 

His bone reverberates between your teeth. Beckoning you to crush it, to crack it open and gulp down the marrow like nectar. 

Wriothesley hums in approval, slinging himself over the ring ropes. The Pankration Ring is abandoned. Reserved only for the warden and his new "pet". It had become routine over the last few weeks, Wriothesley would bring in a "misbehaving" prisoner, some he -and by extension Fontaine - needed gone. And you would take the opportunity to whet your new, primal powers. 

"bloodlust does not define us." He circles you. Predator and prey. "Our kind has existed since the dawn of Tayvat. We're not monsters, although that's what everyone likes to think." he stops, his fangs tickling the side of your neck. As if trying to simulate a reaction, he needs you to feel the antiquity that courses through your blood. To understand where all this is coming from. 

The bone in your mouth cracks, something thick spills out. Just as Wriothesley's fangs pierce your precious flesh. 

"We're not monsters..."

"Not quite" 

January 31st, 11:59 Am

His voice is haunting. It slips into the cracks of your psyche, pulling apart the open wounds until there's enough room for him. Only him. The glib timbre of his voice stalks you through the corridors and past the darken rooms. Slithering over walls and echoing in your skull. Cauterizing doubts of what you are. He needs you to feel his pain. To live with his curse, his blessing. 

There's a window five meters from his office. It's the only time you catch glimpses of the world outside the metal dome. Your mind is fractured now too preoccupied by new sensations and emotions to fully recall anything from the topside world. The blurry scenery has long since faded from your memory.

 Somewhere a clock chimes. You start to race for the boxing ring. 

February 1st, 12:15 Am

You recall the first lesson he ever taught you. Back then you had yet to shed the ferocity running ramped across your veins. Preferring to use your teeth, to tear and sheer, hacking at whatever flesh you could reach.

You lay in a pool of gore, fresh enough to make your mouth water. Still, you keep your eyes locked on him. Longing for some acknowledgments, a shred of affection. 

Wriothesley's shadow is casted above you, white fangs glowing. He looked every bit the predator he'd raised himself to be. "Tired already?" His voice carries a tone of mockery. It's to be expected you guess as you'd laid on the metal floor heaving. Black dots danced across your vision, laughing when you tried to block them out. Wriothsly stands proud, metallic boxing gloves reflecting what little light they can. "We're qutrub's (y/n), not animals. Stop acting like one." 

Today's prisoner had put up a fight. A dirty one at that. His blade had pierced you more times than you dare count. it had been Wriothesley who had finished the job. Who had saved you from your target. A heartbeat later you feel him pulling you up, cradling you in his arms as he departs for his chambers. 

Back then you'd seen him as a predator, a beast. No difference in what he decided to call himself. Now all your eyes can convene is a saint draped in black. Wriothsly wears his heritage on his sleeve. Proud of the beast he has become. Proud of the way his bones rearrange to turn in into something odious, something ethereal. Someday you wish to make him proud. To be the creature he envisions, to be more than a monster, more than a wolf. To be worthy of him. 

"I love you" Wriothesley mutters, warm breath hitting the side of your neck. You wonder if monsters can love if that sentiment isn't stripped from them the moment they grow claws. You think it's ludicrous to believe either of you can still harbor such human feelings.

 The new moon feels like a lifetime away.

Febuary 8th, 2:00 Am

 "Until you learn to control your powers, they'll always reign over you. Never bend to them. Remember they are an extension of you. Not the other way around."

The bloodlust has grown more ferocious as of late. Its vicious howl rings through your head, blocking out Wriothesley's voice. It's a welcomed difference, a much-needed rest from his constant yammering. 

You've taken to hunting for sport. Slaughtering any you can corner, any you can out-match. Cherishing the blood that dries under your nails and the liberating ache of your body after the fact. 

At first, Wriothesley had made a show of decorating his desk with any blood-soaked trophy you'd brought him. Now you think he's growing vexed. 

He has you perched on his lap. Ankle cuffed and chained to the stone floor. A security mechanism he'd insisted on after you'd brought him the heart of the Coupon Cafatria's chef. 

Wriothesley never keeps animals in the fortress. He insists it's cruel to cage such a free thing. You wonder if you'll be the first exception. 

Wriothesley drinks tea religiously. it's the only thing keeping his heritage flowing within his bones. You wonder if the flavored scorching waters keep the violent urges at bay. You wonder if their soothing is all that keeps him from ripping out people's jugulars. 

He offers you a sip from his adorned glass. The tea's aroma is overwhelming, it reminds you of a place you've never been to. It burns your tongue on the way down. Enough to make you consider shattering his cup. 

February 11th, 3:00 am

Wriothesley flinches when he sees the blood coating his hands. Flashes of a hell he'd long since buried flicker through him.

A part of you wishes to tell him that he's clean. That killing isn't a sin. At least not here, not to them. He tells you of the night he first transformed, a tiny boy who, at the time, had only ever pulled his punches. 

He tells you why he killed and maimed, why his powers awakened when they did. "I keep trying to tell you." His words are phantoms, restless spectators that cloud your mind. "We're not monsters, not really. Sure all they see is the bloodshep and claws and they take off running. But the truth is our kind have been guardians and protectors longer than their kind has existed." 

His fingers trace your cheek. Leaving red waterfalls to drip down your chine. You think this is love in its rawest form. You think this is desperation in its strongest form. 

Wriothesley's kisses taste of burnt ice and ash. Filled to the brim with sorrow, too deep to understand. You claw at the back of his neck. breaking skin on a childish whim. Desperate to unleash the monster he insists, doesn't exist.

In a blinded second of rage, of passion, of some emotion, no word could properly describe. He has you sprawled on the cold ground. His body hovering over yours. You see his eyes bleed into the most perfect crimson. You see the monster start to break out. 

Febuary 14th 11:58 Am 

It takes too much effort on his part not to baby you. To remind himself that regardless of your age and lack of experience you are still an adult. He gives up on most days, opting to just cradle you on his lap and hum some forgotten tune until you fall asleep.

Tonight's the new moon. He doesn't know what to expect.

You hear his voice in the back of your head telling you to calm down. 'It's just the way we look, you're alright.' you ignore it favoring the sensation of your claws digging behind your eyes. You feel his claws on your wrist prying your hands away. They cut into your veins and you howl, something inhuman, something feral. 

Wriothesley kisses your eyes, staining his lips a doleful red. He listens to the cacophony of your bones rearranging, cracking, and slipping into their new positions. 

he teaches you how to box. Tells you it's a way to stay in touch with your human side.

he tells you about the murders, about how, even at such a young age, he'd known he was a monster, he'd known his heritage sang hymns of moons and blood between his bones. He tells you how he overcame it, where he became something more than a monster. The stories ease the transition, piquing your interest enough to distract you from the natural way your body bends. 

"I want to be human again" you choke, tears marring your cheeks "I hate this, I hate you. Why couldn't you have left me in that alleyway? Why couldn't you have left me alone!"

Wriothesley's facade cracks, your trained eyes pick up the slightest indication of concern weaving across his face. "They'd have hunted you like a wild animal". "I am a wild animal" You protest. "You should have let them kill me!"

There's blood in the back of your throat, metallic, pungent. It feels like holding the sun between your teeth and letting it burn you from the inside. You wonder when you'll be strong enough to deny the bloodlust, to relish in the transformation. Will a time ever come when all this feels natural? When you're as calm and composed as him?

Wriothesley kisses your forehead. It's the last thing you remember before the world turns red. Your brain and body are no longer your own, governed now by the fanged creature inside you. 

If ever there was a time to die, now's not it. 

Febuary 15th 11:00 Am

You wake up in a soft bed. Wriothesley's arm tucked under your head. Your nails have lost their supernatural edge, you trace stars and moons into his chest absentmindedly. His pale blue eyes, shift to you, shaking off the netherworld they'd been engaged with.

"There's an old story about us." His gaze is as cold as the blizzards of Snezhnaya. "About how we were cursed yet survived. The divine turned us into soldiers, they didn't expect us to thrive."

You used to be a fickle thing, all so arrogant and free. So sure of your place in this world. When did that change exactly? When did the world morph into an endless stream of gore and despair? When did you start hanging onto his every word? Despreat for him, all of him?

"What is a monster anyway" you ask, voice too frail that it cracks when met with open air. "A guardian, an outcast, the child of heroes who shares none of the glory its parents once had." You feel the burn on your tongue from the tea he gave you. Suck on the flesh before replying.

" It's inexperienced shoulders buckling under the weight of duty."

"Maybe" he shrugs, "I guess it could be that too."

Somewhere along the lines, Wriothesley forgot how to love. He's not even sure if he's ever understood the emotion in the first place. Maybe it all comes with being a feral, creature of the night. Maybe it all comes with being born only partially human. He rolls your name off his tongue. Nicking his bottom lip on his fangs.

He wonders if you'll like chameleon or mint tea for breakfast. Or maybe something more bitter. His lips find you delicate ones, an exchange of exhaustion. You're so soft and sweet under him, a stark contrast to the beast he's come to tame. 

Masterlist

[after-the-end-times]

Under The Light of the Worm Moon

Rating: T🌕Words: 3,450🌕Tags: Established Relationship, Werewolf Steve, Magical Eddie, Transformation, Mild hurt/comfort in that Eddie is suddenly a worm For: @stmonstercalendar Prompt: Worm Moon🌕 Ao3

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

Even on the brink of sleep Steve heard Eddie murmur his question into his pillow. Sighing, he rolled over, ending up flush against Eddie. He threw an arm over his back and pressed a kiss to Eddie’s shoulder.

“Baby, do you love me when I shift?”

“Huh? ‘Course, I do.”

“Even my beta shift? When I look like a monster out of someone’s nightmares?”

“Not a monster. Hot”

“Mmmm, debatable. But yes, Eddie. I’d still love you if you turned into a little, squiggly, wiggly worm,” he said, tickling and wiggling his fingers over Eddie’s back. Eddie squirmed, giggling into his pillow.

“Ok, ok! I get it!” he laughed, Steve ceasing his attack to pull him tight against his body, pressing kisses to him again. “We love each other in every form, huh?”

“That’s right,” Steve muttered into Eddie’s shoulder, sighing, letting sleep take him again. “Love you. Any form.”

The next morning came too soon with a squawking, shrill beep beep beep!

“Eddie. The alarm.” Steve waved a hand over Eddie’s side of the bed, trying to wake him, but the bed was empty.

Steve reached over to turn off the alarm and sat up to look around the room. He was sure Eddie didn’t mention any early morning plans and his shoes on the floor proved that. The weird thing, though, was that Eddie’s blankets were still across his side, not shoved aside.

A ridiculous thought flashed through Steve’s mind. Huffing at himself for giving into to fanciful impossibilities, he flipped Eddie’s blankets back.

And there was a worm.

Where Eddie should be laying.

Steve side eyed the room, half expecting Eddie to burst from the closet yelling psych! But nothing, just the still quiet of predawn on a work day.

Steve threw off his blankets, getting out of bed, and spoke loud enough to be heard into the hall and bathroom. “Ok, Eddie. Enough is enough. I get the prank. It’s a nice little youworm, but we’re now going to have to change the sheets and bedding before bed and you hate doing big laundry.”

Steve walked around the room, getting ready for work, the silence of the apartment getting more and more eerie.

“Eddie. Come on.” He called out to the apartment, pulling his shoes one. “You’re gonna be late if you don’t get ready now. I swear, I love the little worm, ok? It’s very cute and you-like.”

He finally flipped on the bedroom light, heading over to grab the worm, planning on walking it around til he found Eddie’s hiding spot. Maybe give him a bit of a scare for this.

The worm had already wiggled back into the blankets, so Steve shifted them around gently, not wanting to hurt it or anything. Finally, he saw the tip of its tail trying to dig its way farther into the bedding. He shoved his hand under where it was heading, scooping his hand under its body and pulled it into the light.

It was black.

With a silver band.

Steve pulled in a shuddering breath, eyes tearing, and asked quietly, gently, not wanting to voice his suspicions. “Eddie?”

The little Eddieworm’s head lifted up, wobbling back and forth in the air, before lowering and nosing gently at Steve’s hand. Like a little kiss...from a worm.

“Oh. Oh, no.” Steve said, before collapsing on the edge of the bed, cupping Eddieworm close to his chest, a gasping cry punched out of him. “Eddie.”

Letting himself cry for a few minutes, he eventually sat up straight to take a few deep breaths, making a mental Turn Eddie Back to-do list.

1. Make Sure It Is Eddie.

With the full moon tonight, Steve’s senses were as heightened as they’d ever be. He pulled the Eddieworm up to his nose, hoping to smell earth, dirt, animal. Instead, it- he smelled only of Eddie and mate.

2. Call Out of Work for Both of Them.

Calling out of their jobs for a family emergency was pretty easy, especially when we didn’t mask how upset and freaked out he was. Both places would have to find people to cover them, but he couldn’t worry about that.

3. Call Their Pack Alpha, Hopper and then Call Eddie’s uncle.

Getting Hopper to wake up enough to believe that this wasn’t some elaborate prank of Eddie’s took a moment, but he eventually heard the seriousness in Steve’s voice. He told Steve that he and Joyce would be over shortly. As their pack’s magic user, hopefully it was just a spell she could easily undo.

Steve hesitated before calling Wayne. If Joyce could just undo whatever had happened, he didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily. However, if Eddie was going to be a worm longer than a few hours, Wayne had a right to know.

“Hey, Eddie.” Steve held him up to eye level. “Do you want me to call Wayne? Just shake your head yes or no.”

Eddieworm jerkily bobbed his head up and down.

“Ok. And- uh, do you want me to get you some dirt or something while we wait?”

Eddieworm started to bob up, before changing to back and forth.

“You want me to wait? Get some afterwards?”

Eddieworm bobbed.

“Ok, yeah I can do that. Let’s call Wayne.”

The call with Wayne was short, as it usually was with him, he agreed to grab any family history books. It wasn’t especially common for someone to present a magical spark in their 30s, but it wasn’t entirely unheard of. Wayne also said he’d call Eddie’s grandma, Wayne’s mom, to find out if there were any sparks of magic in their family line.

Steve stood up from their kitchen table, walking over to the couch and plopped down, Eddie still cupped in his hand against his chest. “Now we wait for them to get here. We’ll probably make another Get You Back To Human to-do list then, but at least we might get some answers or at least a path to answers. Do you want me to get something to sit in?”

Eddieworm rubbed his head against Steve’s chest, pressing his little body against him as hard as he could.

Tears pricked Steve’s eyes again. “Yeah. I won’t put you down. Keep you right here with me.”

Steve brushed a gentle finger down Eddieworm’s body as the tears broke free, rolling down his cheeks.

“Don’t worry, baby, we’ll get you human again.” Eddieworm curled up in his palm. “And if not, you can live in my hair, I guess.”

Eddieworm perked his little head up fast, starting a quick wiggle up toward Steve’s body again.

Steve laughed at the clear excitement. “Not right now! We have people coming over!”

There was a knock at the door.

“See? They’re here. Ok. Let’s get this figured out.”

Having the adultier pack adults there helped Steve feel a little more confident about the situation being fixable, even if they did still have to wait for Wayne to arrive.

While they waited, Joyce did whatever she does, to see if there was a spell or curse on Eddie. She said there was something, but it didn’t feel like it was something done maliciously to him, that the magic gave off a calm, serene aura.

Steve’s not quite sure what that meant, though he’d never really understood her magic. His shifting just worked naturally, easily, he’d never had to think about how it worked, it just did. So, seeing other magic users who needed books and plants and whatever else just to use their magic baffled him. He hoped Wayne’s information would shine a little more light on the situation.

“Maybe we should get Ellie over here, see if she can check in its head to double check if it even is Eddie,” Hopper said. “Don’t want to be doing a bunch of magic on a normal worm, just for Eddie to walk in ‘cause he went out early and didn’t say.”

“Yeah, uh, I don’t think that’s necessary? I’ve already asked him several questions that he’s answered, so.” Steve knew he didn’t mean anything by it, just wanted to do right by his pack by being sure, but Steve thought it was so obvious the little worm was Eddie. How could anyone look at him and not see Eddie?

“Besides, he’s my mate, so I can sense him, right? And this little guy is definitely him.” Steve held Eddieworm up to Hopper.

“Is that right?” Hopper leaned in. “You Eddie in there?”

Eddieworm squiggled around until he was facing Hopper, he lifted and held the end of his tail up at him. Steve laughed at Eddieworm clearly and definitively flipping Hopper off.

“Need more proof?” Steve laughed, running a finger up and down Eddieworm’s back,

“Nah.” Hopper grumbled. “That’s definitely Eddie.”

Another knock at the door; Wayne’s arrival perfectly timed.

Eddieworm had nodded his assent to be held by Wayne, so he was updating them on his call with the family matriarch while holding his nephew.

He held Eddieworm high up on his chest with his left hand and gently rubbed his back with a single finger of his right hand. Steve almost cried again when he realized why the scene hit so hard; he was looking at Wayne holding his child, comforting him as he would have years ago when Eddie was young.

Yes, even as a worm, his family loved him dearly; Steve really hoped Eddie never doubted that again.

“Steve? Did something happen last night?” Joyce asked, pulling Steve’s attention back to the room. Looking around at their expectant faces, he’d clearly missed something.

“Sorry, it’s been a long morning, what was that?” he asked.

Wayne answered with zero hint of exasperation. “Ma said there’s a history of magical sparks popping up in the family tree without warning. Doesn’t seem to be a pattern, so no one really knows in who or when magical abilities might show themselves. Said that it’s cropped up in young kids and a few got it later in life.”

“It seems,” Joyce took over, “there’s usually an emotional component and a magical component. And last night, as you know, was the first night of the full moon, the worm moon.”

“Oh.” Steve looked at Eddieworm, feeling lost in a way he hadn’t in a long time, really since he met Eddie. Wayne reached out, letting Eddieworm wiggle over to Steve’s hand. Steve tucked him against his chest.

“Um- last night, when we were going to sleep, Eddie asked if I would still love him as a worm. ‘Course I said yes. ‘Cause I would and do. Told him I would love him in any form. Could that be the emotional component?”

The adults looked at each other, talking without speaking.

“It could be that easy.” Wayne said, responding to a look.

“He should wait for the witching hour to test it. The moon will be at its zenith and most potent.”

“Uh, guys?” Steve cut in, sweeping one hand out in confusion.

“Sorry, son.” Wayne said. “We’re thinking it’s a True Love spell. Eddie must’ve accidentally cast it last night. So, tonight, at midnight, you gotta give your wormfella a kiss.”

“It’ll either work immediately in a flash or you’ll have to go to bed like last night and wake up to human Eddie,” Joyce explained. “It depends on the caster and well.”

“I guess we’ll see tonight then,” Steve said.

Hopper and Joyce left soon after, though Wayne offered to stick around for a few hours. Wayne held Eddieworm while Steve made them some breakfast and then took a shower. It was just a waiting game at that point.

Normally, during the day of a full moon, Steve’s wolf would get restless, making him anxious for night to come, just waiting until he could shift and run with his pack. Today, though, his wolf just wanted to hunker down and curl up around his mate.

They eventually turned the tv on for sound, letting mid day soup operas and game shows play. Steve got out a deck of cards and they played a few games to pass some time, Eddieworm gently laying in Steve’s hair as a little treat.

Steve kept offering to get some dirt for Eddieworm, but he always just shook his little head “no”. Wayne supposed that since Eddie was a human magically turned into his subconscious’ idea of a worm, they weren’t really playing by real worm rules.

By late afternoon, Wayne headed out, gently patting Eddieworm on the head, and Steve needed to make the decision of whether to go to the pack’s full moon dinner.

“What do you think? I want to keep you safe and unsquished and you know how the kids are when amped up on the full moon. So, we could just wait here til midnight. Do you want to go?”

Eddieworm looked up at him for a long moment and then bobbed his assent.

“Ok, well, they’ll definitely be pulling on me to see you and I don’t want to drop you. So, maybe I’ll make you a little, like, carrier or something? Not a cage, obviously, but maybe just a little open box? Ah ah! And this is why we keep all those good boxes! For a time like this!”

Steve crouched in front of the kitchen cupboard they stashed all the boxes they couldn’t bring themselves to get rid of and found a small one nestled in the middle that would work perfectly.

He lowered Eddieworm in to see how he liked it. He wiggled around, checking the space, nosing at the corners, and finally looked up with a nod. Steve brushed a finger over him, picking the box up to head to pack dinner, it was about to get really loud.

Dinner went as well as it could with a bunch of rambunctious, curious pups and a favorite pack member turned worm.

Dustin got out a notepad to try to ask and document a bunch of yes/no questions for “scientific discovery”. Steve shut that down, citing that he’d be back in a speaking human body in just a few hours.

Elle did use her magic to check that Eddie was comfortable and feeling safe inside his worm body; he was, Steve was relieved to know.

The others waffled between wanting to hold him and being afraid to hurt him. Steve erred on the side of caution and let them pass around the box holding Eddieworm, but not letting them take him out. It seemed to make the kids feel more comfortable, too.

Robin sidled up beside him, watching the kids gently handle Eddieworm. “You ok?”

“Yep. I mean, ok, so I’ve cried more times today than I’ve ever cried in my entire life, but yeah, I’m good. We have a plan for turning him back, that’s what matters, right? What else is there to be upset about?”

Steve glanced over at Robin, hoping she wouldn’t use their mind meld powers this one time, and just let it go.

“Uh huh. Sure. ‘Cause waking up to find your partner suddenly not human and completely reliant on you wouldn’t be upsetting at all. Suddenly being in a worse case scenario without your partner to lean on totally wouldn’t throw you into survival mode.”

“Robin. It’s- I’m fine. I handled it and now we’re just waiting for midnight. Then it’ll be over.”

“Mmhmm. Well, don’t think we won’t be talking about this more later. Though, Steven,” she turned and slugged him on the shoulder, “you did good, kid.”

He laughed, pulling her into a hug, speaking into her hair.

“Thanks, babe. We’ll talk later. Promise. After Eddie’s Eddie again.”

As the sun set and the moon rose, the Pack gathered outside amongst the trees to shift and run. Steve stood on Hopper’s back porch with Eddieworm cupped again against his chest, watching their Pack yip and bound and wrestle.

Joyce and Elle came out onto the porch. They sat, piling themselves with blankets, Joyce pulling out a book and Elle turning on the new Gameboy she had saved up for. Normally, only the Pack humans stayed behind to hold down the fort during the full moons. So, this was new to Steve, watching them all head out, staying still, staying behind. He suddenly wondered how Eddie would feel about coming out in the woods with them during the next full moon.

He pet a finger along Eddieworm’s body. “Thought you guys sat around here drinking and watching tv or something. Never really thought about what it was like for you to stay behind. Never thought you of you sitting here, watching us leave. Next full moon, baby, want you to come out with me.”

Joyce tossed a blanket and magazine onto an open chair to her side. Steve took the offer, settling down in the chair, placing Eddieworm in his hair. They spent the next few hours like that; Steve reading random articles and quizzes out loud to Eddieworm, Joyce finishing her book, and Elle playing her game. A nice, quiet evening, all things considered.

Near 10:30, the pups were corralled, tired and whining, back to the house to get ready for bed, the adults planning to stay up playing cards.

Getting them all in bed and asleep took some time, the full moon energy still coursing through their bodies. They’d all stopped to tell Eddieworm good night, that they’d see him in the morning.

So, it was past 11:30 by the time Steve got out the backdoor again, carrying a bag of Eddie’s clothes in one hand and Eddieworm, in his box, in the other.

He walked into the forest, heading toward the clearing in which he and Eddie first confessed their feelings to each other. He planned to use every bit of love magic he could think of.

Steve sat down cross legged in the clearing, holding Eddieworm in his palms in front of him, the bright light of the full moon shining down on them.

His watch beeped midnight.

He brought Eddieworm up and pressed his lips to his little head, pouring his love into him.

“Eddie. Please, I miss you,” he whispered against the little body, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I miss your laugh. I miss your voice. I miss your teasing. I miss your kisses. Please, Eddie, I miss you. I love you.”

The moonlight suddenly flashed bright, so brilliant Steve fell forward, shielding his eyes.

Cold panic clenched his stomach. He couldn’t feel Eddieworm in his hand anymore.

Squinting his eyes tight he tried to look around, on the ground, in his lap, but it was too bright and too late. Eddieworm was gone.

Fear that he might squish his mate kept him still and more tears slid down. “Eddie.”

“Steve.”

Steve jolted, gasping and looking up, tears blurring his vision, he saw him. In all his glorious human form.

His Eddie was back.

And he was naked.

“Eddie!” Steve stood up, pulling him into his arms and holding on tight. “I missed you so much. I held you all day and, still, I missed you. We gotta call Wayne. And the Pack. The kids are gonna be so happy to see you. I brought you clothes. They’re in the bag. Didn’t want you to be cold walking-”

“Baby. Stevie. Breath. Please. Can you do that for me? You’re shaking so hard and talking too fast.” Eddie started taking slow, deep breaths, his chest rising against Steve’s for him to copy. “Come on, baby. In and out, slowly. There we go. You did so good today. Took care of me so well. Love you so much. I knew I was safe with you, no matter what happened.”

They held each other until the moon dipped toward the trees; Steve holding Eddie like he was afraid he’d slip through his fingers if he let go, Eddie murmuring reassurances, sweeping a hand over Steve’s back.

Eventually, Steve’s body heat was no longer a match for the March cold and Eddie started to shiver. Taking a steadying breath, Steve crouched to grab the clothes out of the bag, holding the pants for Eddie to step into and standing to pull a shirt over Eddie’s head. He crouched again to pull out shoes, holding them while Eddie stepped in, a hand on Steve’s shoulder for balance.

Steve stood with the bag in hand and held out his other for Eddie. Fingers laced together, they headed for the trees, Steve gazing over at him.

“I love you, Eddie. Any form.” he pulled their linked hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s knuckles. “But, this one is definitely my favorite.”