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Starscream x GnReader could be a human or cybertronian
Contains, fluff, talking about feelings, Starscream being….Starscream.
Summary, Starscream only likes quick kisses or so it seems. He’s there one second gone the next, so you change the game.
Starscream absolutely optimizes affection. Not because he doesn’t enjoy it because he enjoys it too much and he is weak. So no one must know!
A quick kiss is safe. He can control when it starts. He controls when it ends.
He can immediately recover with: “There. That was….adequate.”
And walk away with whatever dignity he has left.
You, unfortunately for him, have other ideas.
—
The first time you do catch him it completely catches him off guard.
He walks past you after a successful mission. Looks around to make sure no one important is watching.
Then he’ll finally lean down. It will be quick, just a peck. Then he’ll be done.
Except….
When he starts to pull away….
You don’t.
Your servos gently settle against the sides of his face. Just enough to keep him there.
Starscream’s optics go wide in response before he gives you a pointed look. A small warning. You know he doesn’t mean it in the slightest.
“Release me.”
You just keep smiling as your hands run gently against his faceplate.
“I don’t want to.”
“Someone could see.”
“So?”
His wings twitch violently at the thought. But it may be because he’s embarrassed or maybe he might be thrilled if someone caught you two.
“So….”
You kiss him again to stop his overthinking. Longer this time. Slow enough that his processor completely derails.
By the time you finally let him go, his fans are running. His wings are stuck halfway open at an awkward angle.
He realizes his optics won’t quite focus.
You just beam at him, oh so pleased with yourself. “There.”
Starscream blinks. Several times. “That was highly unnecessary.”
“You liked it.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“.…Perhaps marginally.”
—
It becomes a game as Starscream develops increasingly elaborate “kiss and escape” strategies.
He calculates angles.
Exit routes.
Blind spots.
Mission schedules.
He can execute a flawless three second kiss followed by an immediate tactical retreat.
Until you catch his wrist.
Every.
Single.
Time.
He is very, very weak when it comes to you.
—
One afternoon he finally complains, half heartedly of course. “I have noticed a pattern.”
“Oh?”
“You are intentionally extending these interactions.”
You nod cheerfully. “I am.”
“Why?”
You look genuinely surprised he has to ask. “Because you always leave too soon.”
Starscream opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
“.…I leave at an appropriate time.”
“You leave when you’re embarrassed.”
“I do not become embarrassed.”
You reach up and tap one of his wings. It flicks instinctively. “There it is.”
“That is an involuntary mechanical response.”
“Sure it is.”
—
After a while, Starscream starts planning for failure.
His internal calculations change.
Instead of: Kiss duration: 2.4 seconds.
His processor quietly adds: Expected interference: +18 seconds.
He knows you’re going to catch him.
He knows you’re going to smile when you do.
He knows you’re going to hold him there until his processor starts overheating.
….
He still walks over anyway.
—
One evening you catch him before he can even try.
He comes up behind you with all the confidence of someone who could actually sneak up on you.
You turn around before he even has a chance to turn heel and flee. Immediately wrapping your arms around him.
Starscream sighs in defeat. “You’ve become predictable in your desires.”
You grin, nuzzling into his faceplate. “So have you.”
Starscream tries to deflect your words. However even he can’t deny the truth to his own actions. “I have not.”
“You were going to do your little hit and run kiss.”
“It is not called that.”
“What is it called?”
A very long pause.
“An efficient expression of affection.”
You can’t help but laugh so hard you nearly lose your grip on him. “Starscream-!”
“What?”
“Did you seriously just optimize kissing?”
“…Efficiency is an admirable quality.”
—
Eventually you can’t help but ask him the question you’ve been wondering since the whole game started.
“You know, you always try to pull away.” You asked casually, knowing that a direct question would send the seeker fleeing again.
“What are you afraid of?” It couldn’t be the game catch and release you’ve been playing for a cycle now. He always came back after all.
He didn’t answer immediately because the truthful answer was painfully simple.
Finally….
Quietly….
“I am afraid, that if I stay….” He looked at you with an expression almost no one else ever gets to see.
It was open and looked entirely uncertain. “….you will eventually decide to let go.”
Your smile disappeared, not because you were sad. More so you had the realization that you understood Starscream just a bit more.
All this time, he wasn't really trying to escape you. Not that you thought he was trying to really get away from you when you caught him.
He was trying to leave before you had the chance to change your mind. If he kept the game going long enough and never let you truly catch him then there was no rejection to fear.
So you reach up to cup his face and just to cradle him within your hands. He doesn’t dare to look at you, if he does he’s doomed. Honestly he should already admit that he is.
You lean forward and kiss him, slowly. Taking every drawn out second to commit his lips to memory. Patiently.
When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead against his. “Caught you again.” You find yourself smiling softly. Thumbs running over his faceplate.
Starscream’s entire frame goes still. As he has no witty remark. He doesn’t even have anything to deny. No dramatic complaint.
He simply leans forward the last fraction of an inch himself. Just enough to close the space he’d always insisted on keeping.
Because for the first time in his life he can admit he’s discovered something wonderful. That being held doesn’t feel like being trapped.
—
Months later, everyone notices something strange.
Starscream still gives quick kisses. He still pretends he’s making a tactical withdrawal.
But every now and then, just before he pulls away….he hesitates.
A heartbeat.
Then another.
He’s stopped trying to escape. He’s now taken up lingering because he likes being close.
He’ll never admit that, of course.
But his wings?
Those traitorous things give him away every single time. They relax completely whenever you catch him and steal just one more kiss.
Inspired By, I saw some fan art of Megatron, I heard the song Young and Beautiful by Lana Del Rey, a horribly idea formed in my head that made me sad. So I wrote it out so all of you can share in my suffering.
Summary, A love story where every touch feels like a goodbye before either of you can admit it.
Where Megatron has already decided that to become who he believes he must become means sacrificing the last person who ever saw D-16 instead of Megatron.
Dear Lord, when I get to Heaven
Please, let me bring my man
When he comes, tell me that you'll let him in
Father, tell me if you can
The corridors of the Nemesis were never truly silent.
Engines hummed beneath the deck plating in a constant, low vibration that settled into every bolt and every thought. Distant reports echoed through comms. Somewhere, heavy footsteps marked the changing of the guard.
None of it truly reached him. Merely rolling off his framework like a dull background noise.
Megatron stood before the observation port with his hands clasped behind his back, watching stars drift by in indifferent silence.
The reflection staring back at him was unfamiliar.
Broader shoulders and all sharper angles. Armor blackened by countless battles, polished only enough to remain functional.
His fusion cannon rested against his arm like it had always belonged there. However at one time there had only been hands made for lifting ore.
Now they were made for ending lives.
“You’ve been hiding.” Your voice arrived before your footsteps. Despite the soft and careful tread of your movements you were not afraid. Never afraid.
His optics closed. “You shouldn’t be here.” Maybe if he didn’t make eye contact some part of this interaction would be bearable.
You paused for a second before speaking again, your voice even, “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.” You said it like you were just discussing stars. Oh how he hated that.
“I’ve meant it every cycle.”
Even with the firm tone in his voice you approached anyway.
Of course you did.
You had always possessed that infuriating habit of walking toward storms instead of away from them.
When you stopped beside him, the stars reflected in your optics instead of his. “They’re worried about you.”
“They.” He didn’t say it like it was a question. He knew who you meant. It was just that ‘they’ probably weren’t worried in the normal sense.
“The Decepticons.”
“They have a leader.”
“They’re worried about the mech beneath the title.”
His jaw tightened. “There isn’t one.”
A heavy silence fell between the two of you. The kind that bent around words neither of you wished to say. It made him dare to look at you. A mistake.
You were looking at him, not at the insignia carved proudly into his chest. Not at the cannon. Not at the scars.
You looked at him. It made something inside his spark recoil.
“Do not do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me as though I’m still him.”
Your brow knit together. “Him?”
“The miner.” The word came quietly. Almost bitterly. “D-16.”
The name felt foreign now. Like recalling someone from another life. Someone naïve. Someone hopeful. Someone weak enough to believe justice alone could change a world built upon suffering.
“I buried him.” He continued, almost matter of factly.
“I killed him.” His voice did not rise. It didn’t need to. There was something infinitely more frightening about the calm certainty with which he said it.
“He was too gentle. He hesitated. He believed mercy was strength.”
He turned then. Finally meeting your gaze. “You loved him.”
You smiled sadly. “I love you.”
“No.” The word came immediately. Sharply. “You loved what I was.”
“I know what you are.”
“You know what I was.” The distinction landed between you like a blade.
He stepped closer. Towering over you now. Not threatening in any physical manner, it may have been more of a silent warning.
“There is a difference.” Even with the words spilling from his mouth his optics searched your face desperately, though he would have called it analysis if anyone had asked.
Searching. Waiting.
For disgust. For hesitation. For regret.
Anything.
Anything that proved you understood.
Instead, there was only grief.
Not for yourself. No, he knew that look and this was different. You looked sad for him.
It infuriated him.
“You’ve changed.” Was the only thing you could manage to say.
“Yes.”
“You’ve become harsher.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve become cruel.”
“Yes….”
“You’ve ordered deaths.”
“I have.”
“You’ll order more.”
“I will.”
Every answer was another brick laid between you.
He built the wall himself. He knew that. He also knew that he had to.
Make his mental walls Higher. Make them as strong as his framework. Impenetrable, not even allowing a single crack that you could use to pry him open.
“So stop looking at me.” he whispered.
You frowned up at him. “.…Why?”
“Because you’re remembering someone who no longer exists.”
“No.”
His composure cracked, he felt it slip. For a moment it was almost laughable about how not even seconds ago he demanded from himself that his will be impenetrable.
No one else would notice, he barely gave any hint of emotion away these days. But you saw it. The smallest flicker in his optics.
The almost imperceptible hitch in his ventilation.
“I see someone exhausted.” You reached toward him.
He caught your wrist before your fingers touched his face. Not roughly.
Just….Desperately. “I am trying to save you.”
“From what?”
“From me.” The words escaped before he could stop them.
His grip loosened. “I know what I am becoming.”
Outside the viewport, stars continued their endless march. Inside, time seemed to stand still. “I wake each cycle knowing I will ask more of my soldiers.”
His voice had lowered. “I will send them to die. I will end lives. I will become everything the universe requires me to become.”
Another pause. “And one day….”
His optics finally broke away from yours. “.…one day you’ll look at me and realize you cannot find him anymore.”
His fingers released your wrist entirely. “There will be nothing left worth loving.”
You stared at him for a long moment and a part of him wished you would walk away already. Megatron would not beg you to do so but he felt like he was just on the edge of commanding you to leave him.
But he knew better than to think you would listen. And as if to confirm this thought you stepped into his space anyway.
Close enough that your forehead nearly brushed his. “I already can’t find him.”
He froze. The words struck harder than any weapon. “What?”
“The miner who smiled at strangers.” You reached up. This time he didn’t stop you or more so couldn’t bring himself to.
Your hand rested gently against the side of his face. “The mech who thought everyone deserved another chance.”
A thumb brushed across scarred metal. “The one who doubted himself every day.”
A soft breath. “He’s gone.”
His spark lurched painfully. “So why-!”
“Because I wasn’t in love with your past.” Your eyes shimmered. “I will fall in love with every version of you.”
He couldn’t breathe.
“I know exactly who is holding my hand.” Your fingers intertwined with his.
“I know exactly whose voice I hear.”
Another step closer.
“I know exactly what you’ve done.”
The silence stretched.
Then, “I choose you.”
Something inside him broke.
Not loudly.
No tears.
No collapse.
Simply….a fracture.
The armor he wore around his spark split just enough for agony to seep through. “You shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
“You should hate me.”
“I don’t.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
“You cannot promise that.”
His gaze fell to your joined hands. So impossibly small within his own. So trusting.
He wanted to pull away.
He wanted to hold on forever.
Neither choice felt like something survivable.
His voice came out rough. “When this war ends….”
He laughed once. A hollow sound.
“No.” He corrected himself. “If this war ends…” His optics remained fixed on your hand. “There will be nothing beautiful left of me.”
He could see the tears forming in your eyes but you still smiled. “I didn’t fall in love with beautiful.”
“You did.”
“I fell in love with someone who looked at a broken world and wanted to fix it.”
His expression twisted. “That mech is dead.”
“No.” Your answer came immediately. “He’s still trying.”
The words hurt more than any accusation ever could.
Because somewhere.
Buried beneath conquest.
Beneath vengeance.
Beneath the title of Megatron….D-16 still wanted to build something. It was just that Megatron simply no longer believed anything could be built without first tearing the old world apart.
He closed his optics.
Slowly….
Very slowly….
He lowered his forehead until it rested against yours. The gesture was so gentle it almost felt foreign. “I don’t know how to come back.”
You pressed against him, to comfort him or maybe comfort yourself. “You don’t have to come back.”
“No?”
“I’ll meet you where you are.”
His ventilation stuttered.
There it was.
The impossible thing.
The thing no battlefield had ever given him.
Not victory.
Not power.
Not obedience.
Grace, mercy.
He stayed there for a long, silent moment.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper.
“I could have loved you.”
You blinked looking up in to his fiery optics, confused. A sad smile crossed your face. “You do.”
He shook his head. “No.”
The word was agonizing. “I could have loved you….” His hand tightened around yours. “….if I’d remained the mech you deserved.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles as though committing the feeling to memory. “But Megatron….” He swallowed around the name. “.…does not know how.”
The tears that finally escaped your eyes landed on his armor. He watched them fall.
You leaned forward the final fraction of the distance and pressed a kiss to his brow.
Not because he had earned it.
Not because he was innocent.
Not because you believed love could erase what he had done.
But because somewhere inside the monster he feared he had become was a soul mourning the mech he believed he’d buried.
And for one fragile moment, beneath the endless stars and the ceaseless hum of war, the feared leader of the Decepticons allowed himself to grieve him too.
helo! saw ur new post on falling asleep with baki men, so i wonder what would be their morning routine together 🤔 love ur writing 🫰🏻
Ooooh, I like this! And thank you, I’m glad you like reading my fluff! 🩵👹
Baki Men x GnReader
Constrain, fluff
Summary, Morning routines are an interesting idea to touch on because I personally think these dudes just spring out of bed. However with a partner they might change or even let you see a different side of themselves.
🐾 Baki Hanma
Baki’s mornings are surprisingly lazy. He wakes quickly but if you’re still asleep, he’ll stay put just to enjoy the peace of having you there.
—
Baki wakes early.
Not necessarily by choice, it’s years of training that have conditioned his body to rise fast, be alert and ready to move.
Normally, the second consciousness returns, so does awareness.
The room.
The air.
The sounds outside.
His own breathing.
Everything sharpens immediately.
Mornings change when you’re there now. As the first thing he notices isn’t the day. It’s you.
The warmth pressed against his side.
The weight of your arm across his stomach.
The slow rise and fall of your breathing.
If you’re still asleep, Baki doesn’t rush to move. That change does surprise him at first. He’s not naturally someone who lingers.
He’s action oriented, always moving toward the next challenge, the next fight, the next goal.
But with you? He lingers. A lot.
He’ll quietly watch you sleep, studying the tiny things most people overlook.
How your brows twitch when you dream.
How your grip tightens if he shifts too much.
How you instinctively move toward warmth.
And if you start drifting away in your sleep?
He gently pulls you back. No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just casual affection.
If you wake up slowly, Baki tends to greet you with sleepy honesty.
A quiet, “Morning.” Or “You drool a little when you sleep.” Which immediately starts chaos.
Once you’re both awake, affection is still casual but constant.
He likes touch without overthinking it.
A hand at your waist while brushing teeth.
Your legs tangled while sitting together.
Foreheads bumping while half awake.
Breakfast is simple. Protein heavy. Functional.
Baki isn’t fancy in the kitchen but if you’re sleepy enough, he’ll quietly make something for both of you.
And one of the sweetest things about him? He doesn’t make domestic affection feel like an event.
He treats closeness as natural. As easy as breathing.
If you complain about not wanting to get up, he’ll probably smirk and say, “Then don’t.” Before pulling you right back down beside him.
🐯 Katsumi Orochi
Katsumi’s mornings are polished and disciplined but a partner quickly learns he has a deeply affectionate, quietly indulgent side before the day begins.
—
Katsumi is a structured morning person. He likes order, routine and discipline. Even before training, he prefers starting the day with intention.
So he usually wakes first. And then immediately checks to see whether you’re still asleep.
If you are, something soft happens to him. It’s a subtle softness. His usual sharpness gentles because sleep strips people of performance.
And Katsumi finds something strangely moving about being allowed to witness you in such an unguarded state.
He won’t wake you right away.
Instead, he’ll quietly enjoy the rare stillness.
Sometimes he brushes hair from your face.
Sometimes he traces small, absent minded patterns along your arm.
Sometimes he simply watches.
Thinking and just appreciating. Feeling that warm, kind of affection he rarely voices directly.
Katsumi’s morning routine itself is disciplined.
Stretching. Hydration. Training preparation. Mental focus.
But with a partner, routine becomes negotiable. Because if you’re half asleep and reach for him, everything pauses.
That hand around his wrist?
That sleepy murmur asking him not to leave yet?
Devastating.
He folds fast. Far faster than he’d admit.
He’ll sigh like you’re inconveniencing him. Then climb right back into bed. “You are destroying my discipline.” Meanwhile his arms are already around you.
Hypocrite.
He also enjoys teasing in the morning. Especially if you’re groggy.
If you stumble into the kitchen half awake, he becomes unbearable.
Sleepy voice? He notices.
Messy hair? He notices.
Stealing his tea? Absolutely noticed.
And weaponized.
But beneath the teasing is deep attentiveness. He remembers exactly how you take your morning drink.
He notices if you slept poorly.
He notices tension in your shoulders before you mention it.
And if he senses stress? His affection becomes quieter. More deliberate.
A hand lingering at your lower back.
A kiss to your forehead.
A calm reminder to slow down.
With Katsumi, mornings feel like love woven into ritual.
🐉 Retsu Kaioh
Retsu’s mornings are calm, graceful and quietly nurturing. He treats morning care almost like a ritual of respect, for himself and for you.
—
Retsu wakes with remarkable stillness.
No jolting awake. No grogginess. Just awareness arriving like water settling.
He breathes. Centers himself.
And becomes conscious of the world in layers.
The first layer, with you beside him, is always warmth.
Your warmth.
Retsu’s mornings are deeply ritualistic. He values discipline, yes but also mindfulness. To him, how one begins the day matters.
It shapes the spirit. So he treats mornings with care.
And that care extends naturally to you.
If you’re asleep, he moves with extraordinary precision to avoid waking you. Years of martial discipline make him absurdly quiet.
Yet if you stir the second he moves, sleepily reaching for him, he stops. Immediately.
That sleepy instinct of yours affects him more than he expects because there is something profoundly intimate about being sought before consciousness fully returns.
If your hand catches his sleeve, he’s done for, he’s staying. At least for a little while.
Retsu is also quietly domestic in ways people may not expect.
Tea is often involved.
Warm drinks.
Balanced breakfast.
Small acts of care.
He doesn’t fuss.
He simply notices needs before words arrive.
Cold hands? Warm mug already waiting.
Stiff shoulders? He notices posture instantly.
Poor sleep? He sees it in your eyes.
And if you’re especially tired, his voice becomes softer. Almost impossibly gentle.
“Rest a little longer.” Not a command. An invitation.
With Retsu, mornings feel peaceful.
Grounding.
Like being loved by someone who pays attention to everything.
🔔 Kaoru Hanayama
Hanayama’s mornings are slow, peaceful and wonderfully unhurried. He never rushes your first moments awake, preferring to quietly enjoy the simple comfort of sharing the morning with you.
—
Hanayama has never needed much sleep. Years of responsibility, late nights and a life where danger could appear without warning taught him to wake easily and fully.
So more often than not he’s awake before you. He never minds. In fact….He rather likes it.
Morning is one of the few times no one expects anything from him.
No meetings.
No subordinates.
No decisions.
Just silence.
And you.
He’ll lie perfectly still for surprisingly long stretches, one arm around your waist while you remain comfortably tucked against his chest.
His breathing is slow. The rhythmic rise and fall beneath your cheek eventually becomes something you unconsciously synchronize with.
Hanayama notices as he notices everything. Like the way you unconsciously curl closer when the room is cool. How one foot always finds his leg sometime during the night. How your hand instinctively searches for him if he shifts even an inch.
He never comments on it. He simply lets himself enjoy it.
Sometimes he’ll glance down from the book he’s reading to find you’ve somehow migrated all the way across the bed, until you’re almost completely on top of him.
He doesn’t move you. He just adjusts the blanket around your shoulders.
If you wake first, there’s a good chance you’ll catch him already looking at you.
Not intensely. Not in a way that feels intrusive.
Just….Quietly. Almost thoughtfully.
When your eyes finally open, he’ll give the smallest nod.
“Morning.” His voice is still rough from sleep, lower than usual.
If you smile at him, the corners of his own mouth lift just enough to count as a smile.
It’s subtle but genuine.
Breakfast is rarely elaborate. Hanayama prefers simple food, good coffee and an unhurried pace.
If you’re still waking up, he’ll simply slide your mug toward you before you’ve even asked. Sugar already added the way you like it.
If you’re the type to wander into the kitchen wearing one of his oversized shirts, he’ll glance up from whatever he’s doing.
Pause.
Take in the sight.
Then quietly look away again.
Not because he dislikes it.
Quite the opposite.
He likes it enough that he has to collect himself for a second.
The only outward sign is the faint pink coloring the tips of his ears.
If you notice and grin at him, he'll pretend nothing happened.
You both know better.
One habit becomes obvious after you’ve lived together long enough.
Whenever you’re leaving the house together, Hanayama always fixes something before you walk out the door.
A crooked collar.
A wrinkle in your sleeve.
A loose scarf.
He does it without thinking.
Large hands impossibly gentle as they smooth everything back into place. Only after he’s satisfied does he give one small nod.
Now you’re ready.
It’s never about appearances. It’s about care.
His quiet way of saying, “I’ve got you.”
And before either of you steps outside, he almost always rests one broad hand briefly against the small of your back.
A light touch. Barely there. Just enough to guide you forward together.
It’s such a small thing.
Yet somehow, it becomes your favorite part of every morning.
🥩Jack Hanma
Jack’s mornings revolve around discipline but living with a partner slowly teaches him that not every morning has to begin with training. Sometimes it can begin with simply staying in bed five minutes longer because you’re still asleep on his chest.
—
Jack wakes before sunrise. Every day. Without exception. His internal clock has been carved into him through years of obsession.
His eyes open. His mind is immediately awake.
His body is already planning the day’s training before he’s fully sat up.
At least….that was how mornings used to work.
Then you came along.
Now his first thought isn’t his workout. It’s considerably more complicated.
‘Can I get up without waking them?’
The answer is usually, no.
Because sometime during the night you’ve become attached to him. One arm across his ribs. One leg tangled with his. Your face buried comfortably against his chest as though his heartbeat is your favorite lullaby.
Jack looks down.
Studies the situation.
Calculates.
Could he carefully slide away? Possibly.
Would you wake? Almost certainly.
He exhales through his nose. Then settles back against the pillows.
Five more minutes.
Training can wait five more minutes.
If someone had told the younger Jack Hanma that he’d willingly delay training because someone looked too comfortable sleeping on him, he would’ve laughed them out of the room.
Yet here he is. Absolutely trapped. Not that he’d ever compare it to being truly trapped.
He’d describe it as more so being temporarily unavailable.
If you wake slowly, you’re often greeted by the deep vibration of his voice before you even open your eyes.
“Morning.” It’s always quiet. Almost cautious. Like he doesn’t want to startle you.
If you answer by making a sleepy little noise and hiding your face against him again….
Jack is finished, completely.
He’ll stare at the ceiling for another several minutes, pretending he’s merely waiting.
He’s not fooling anyone. Especially not you.
Eventually responsibility wins. After all Jack has a schedule.
Meals.
Training.
Recovery.
Everything has its place.
He slips from bed with incredible care, somehow managing to move a body his size without jostling the mattress much at all.
By the time you wander into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from your eyes, he’s already halfway through preparing breakfast.
His own meal looks almost scientific.
Measured portions.
Protein.
Nutritional precision.
Yours is noticeably different because he knows you don’t eat like he does. He’s memorized your preferences.
He knows whether you’re hungry first thing in the morning or need an hour.
Whether you reach for fruit before toast.
Whether coffee comes before conversation.
He never makes a production out of remembering.
He simply does it.
If you shuffle over and wrap your arms around him from behind while he’s cooking, Jack freezes for half a second. Not because he dislikes it but unexpected affection still catches him off guard.
His hand instinctively comes to rest over yours. Large fingers covering your intertwined hands completely. “You’ll make me burn breakfast.”
You mumble something into his back.
Neither of you moves.
Despite his complaint, he makes no effort whatsoever to untangle you.
Eventually, when breakfast is finished and it’s time for him to leave for training, he’ll gather his gym bag, check that everything is packed and head for the door.
Then stop. Turn around. Walk back over to you.
Without saying a word, he bends down and presses a lingering kiss against your forehead.
It’s never rushed. Never absent minded. Always deliberate.
Only then does he straighten. “Lock the door after me.”
You nod. He nods back.
Simple. Practical.
Then he’s gone.
It isn’t until you’ve lived together for months that you realize something.
No matter how early he leaves, no matter how demanding the day’s training will be, Jack has never once walked out that door without coming back for that goodbye kiss.
To anyone else, it would seem like an insignificant part of his morning. To Jack it’s become just as much a part of his routine as training itself.
And somehow, that realization means more than all the words he never quite says.
🥊 Muhammad Ali Jr.
Ali Jr. is absolutely a morning flirt. He loves being the first thing you see when you wake up and if he can make you laugh before you’ve even had coffee, he considers it a successful start to the day.
—
Muhammad Ali Jr. is always awake before you. Not because he’s naturally an early bird. But because somehow you always end up stealing the blankets.
Every. Single. Night.
He cracks one eye open to discover that you’ve somehow managed to cocoon yourself while he’s left clinging to one lonely corner.
“.…Unbelievable.” He mutters it with absolutely no conviction because he’s smiling.
He could tug the blanket back. Instead, he sighs dramatically and scoots closer until your shared warmth makes up for it. Problem solved.
For a while, he simply watches you.
Your sleepy expression.
The way your breathing evens out.
The tiny noises you make when you’re dreaming.
It’s oddly peaceful.
There are no tournaments. No expectations. No rivals. Just the quiet sound of someone he loves existing beside him.
Sometimes he wonders how something so ordinary became one of his favorite parts of the day.
When you finally begin to wake, he notices immediately.
Your eyelashes flutter.
Your nose wrinkles.
You stretch just enough to bump into him.
Ali grins. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
You groan. “Nope.”
“Nope?”
“I’m asleep.”
He laughs. “I can literally see your eyes open.”
“They’re sleeping.”
“You’ve got some talented eyeballs.”
A sleepy smile finally breaks across your face.
Victory. He lives for that.
Ali genuinely enjoys making you smile before either of you have properly started the day.
It becomes a personal challenge.
Terrible jokes. Ridiculous voices. Overly dramatic complaints that you’ve “committed blanket theft.” Anything to earn that half awake laugh that sounds softer than your usual one.
Eventually the two of you stumble toward the kitchen together.
Breakfast is rarely quiet. Ali talks while cooking. He talks while making coffee.
He talks while searching for the spatula that’s somehow in the refrigerator because one of you wasn’t awake enough to put it away properly.
If you’re still sleepy enough to simply lean against the counter watching him, he’ll wander over every few minutes just to steal another kiss.
One to your forehead.
Another to your temple.
Maybe one to your cheek.
“If you keep doing that,” you mumble, “breakfast’s never getting finished.”
He grins. “I don’t see the problem.”
Even after eating, he’ll linger.
If you’re getting ready for work or heading out somewhere, he’ll trail after you through the house, pretending he’s looking for something.
He’s not.
He’s looking for excuses.
One more hug.
One more conversation.
One more kiss before you leave.
Eventually you catch on. “You just don’t want me to go.”
He doesn’t even bother denying it. “Nope.”
“You know I’ll be back.”
“I know.”
“So why are you looking at me like that?”
He smiles because the answer is embarrassingly simple. “Because seeing you leave is still the hardest part of my morning.”
You kiss him one more time. “I’ll be back tonight.”
“I know.”
He watches you walk out the door. Then shakes his head with a quiet laugh. “Still don’t like it.”
Every single morning.
🥒Pickle
Pickle doesn’t understand clocks, alarms or busy schedules. His mornings revolve around instinct, and one instinct quickly becomes stronger than the others, making sure you’re safe before either of you starts the day.
—
Pickle wakes the way wild animals do. Not suddenly. Not groggily. Simply, aware.
One moment he’s asleep. The next, golden eyes are open, quietly taking in everything around him.
The sounds outside.
The scent of the air.
The steady rhythm of your breathing beside him.
That last one always captures his attention first.
Before he moves, before he stretches, before he thinks about anything else, he checks on you.
You are still warm.
Still breathing evenly.
Still tucked safely against him.
Good.
His instincts settle immediately.
During the night, you’ve inevitably migrated closer.
Sometimes your head rests against his shoulder. Sometimes you’ve curled against his chest. Sometimes you’ve somehow claimed one of his enormous arms as your pillow.
Pickle never minds.
In fact, without realizing it, he encourages it. Even asleep, if you drift too far away, his arm instinctively finds you again.
Not possessive. Protective.
His body simply decides, ‘My person belongs close.’
If he wakes before you, he doesn’t feel any need to hurry.
There are no appointments.
No alarms.
No schedules demanding his attention.
So he stays exactly where he is.
Watching.
Occasionally brushing a few strands of hair away from your face with surprising care.
His hands are huge. Scarred. Built for survival. Yet around you they’re astonishingly gentle. As though some deeply buried instinct understands exactly how delicate you are.
Eventually, you begin to stir.
Before your eyes even open, Pickle notices. He lets out a soft rumble deep in his chest.
Low. Warm. Almost questioning.
You smile without opening your eyes. “Morning.”
He answers with another quiet sound, gently nudging his forehead against yours.
It’s become your own little language.
No words. None needed.
When you finally sit up, Pickle follows.
Immediately checking you over with curious eyes. Not because he expects something to be wrong. It’s just that making sure you’re well has quietly become part of his day.
If you yawn, he yawns.
Huge. Unashamed.
If you stretch, he’ll often stretch too, his entire frame rolling with catlike ease until every muscle loosens.
Watching him first thing in the morning is honestly a little mesmerizing. Raw strength moving with surprising grace.
Breakfast is….an adventure.
You’ve slowly introduced him to more cooked meals, though every now and then he’ll still eye something with the curiosity of a man wondering whether it’s edible in its current state.
He likes helping, even if his definition of helping occasionally involves carrying every ingredient to the counter in one trip because his arms are simply that big. (Can’t forget the dinosaur meat!)
And if you’re making breakfast together, there’s a very good chance he’ll wander over behind you just because he wants to be close.
You might be stirring something on the stove when two enormous arms quietly settle around your waist. His chin comes to rest gently on top of your head.
You laugh. “Good morning to you too.”
Another contented rumble vibrates through his chest.
He isn’t asking for anything. He simply enjoys standing there.
Feeling your heartbeat.
Breathing the same air.
Starting the day together.
Eventually, whatever the day has planned, you’ll gather your things and head toward the door.
Pickle follows without question.
You stop. Turn. Smile.
“I’ll be back later.”
He tilts his head.
You point to yourself.
Then toward the door.
Then back to him.
“I’ll come back.”
It took time but he’s learned those words.
His expression softens in recognition.
Slowly, he reaches out, gently cups the side of your face and bumps his forehead against yours one last time.
It’s his version of saying, “Be safe.”
You smile, pat his arm and head out.
When you glance back from the doorway, he’s still standing exactly where you left him. Watching until you’re completely out of sight.
Only then does he finally turn back inside.
For Pickle, mornings aren’t measured by the clock.
They’re measured by one simple certainty.
He saw you wake. He knows you’re safe.
And that’s enough for the day to begin.
🦇 Hector Doyle
Doyle’s mornings begin cautiously, a habit born from years of never feeling completely safe. Over time, though, waking up beside you becomes the one part of his day that finally convinces him he can lower his guard.
—
Doyle has never been a particularly peaceful sleeper. His body has been conditioned by prisons, violence and constant vigilance.
He wakes at the slightest unfamiliar sound.
A floorboard.
A car outside.
A door closing somewhere down the street.
His eyes open instantly. His mind immediately searching for danger before he’s even fully conscious.
For a split second, every morning is the same.
Then he feels you. Warm against his side. One of your hands loosely resting across his chest. Your slow, even breathing. The familiar scent of your shampoo lingering on the pillow beside him.
His shoulders loosen. Just enough. Enough that the instinct to immediately get out of bed fades.
It’s becomes comfortable.
Comfort. The word still feels strange.
You rarely wake before he does. So Doyle has developed a quiet habit.
He simply studies your sleeping face with a curiosity he never expected to possess.
You look.…different. Softer.
There are no expressions to decipher.
No masks.
No defenses.
Just you.
Sometimes he catches himself wondering what you could possibly be dreaming about. Whether he’s in those dreams. Whether you’re smiling because of something he said yesterday.
He’d never ask nut the thought lingers.
If a strand of hair falls across your face, he’ll move it aside with surprising gentleness. His fingers pause for only a second against your temple before he pulls his hand back.
Almost embarrassed by his own tenderness.
The funny thing is, you’re rarely actually asleep. You’ve learned his routine by now.
The feather light touch brushing your hair back.
The tiny sigh he gives when he thinks you can’t hear it.
The way he quietly checks the locks from bed by glancing toward the bedroom door.
So one morning, without opening your eyes, you mumble, “Good morning.”
Doyle freezes. “You were awake.”
“Busted.” A sheepish grin spreads across your face as you finally crack one eye open. “I wanted to see how long you’d keep staring.”
His ears immediately warm. “Wasn’t staring.”
“Oh?”
“No.”
“You’ve been ‘not staring’ for a while..”
“I was assessing.”
You laugh. “Assessing what?”
Silence.
He looks away. “.…You.”
You smile so warmly it makes him regret answering.
Then, before he can escape the conversation, you reach over and gently take his hand. “You know….” You lace your fingers through his. “I like waking up with you.”
Doyle doesn’t answer right away. He isn’t good at accepting affection. Compliments still feel unfamiliar. Like clothes that don’t quite fit.
Instead, his thumb slowly brushes across your knuckles. An almost unconscious movement. His version of saying, ‘I heard you.’
Eventually the two of you get up together.
He’s surprisingly useful in the kitchen, though he’ll absolutely complain the entire time.
“If you’d stop distracting me.”
“I’m literally sitting at the table.”
“Exactly.”
“You looked at me.”
“You smiled first.”
“It’s suspicious.”
“It’s breakfast.”
“I know what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“Making me soft.”
The accusation hangs in the air. You burst into laughter. Doyle immediately regrets speaking.
“You said that out loud.”
“I absolutely did not.”
As the morning goes on, little habits reveal themselves.
He’ll automatically pour your coffee while making his own.
If the room is cold, he’ll silently hand you his jacket before putting one on himself.
If you’re searching the house for your keys, he’ll already have found them.
He notices things. Small things. The sort of details most people overlook.
Not because he’s trying to impress you but because before you, paying attention kept him alive. Now, that same instinct has simply redirected itself.
Toward taking care of you.
When it’s finally time for one of you to leave, Doyle walks you to the door without thinking.
You tease him about it once. “You know you don’t have to escort me every morning.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you?”
He hesitates. Searching for words that don’t come easily. Finally, he shrugs one shoulder. “I like seeing you off.”
Simple and honest.
You smile, step closer and kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Doyle watches you reach for the doorknob.
Then quietly catches your wrist.
You turn back.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just leans down, presses one quick kiss against your forehead and immediately looks away as though he hadn’t planned it.
“There.”
You blink. “There?”
“So you don’t complain later that I forgot.”
A terrible excuse. You both know it.
You grin. “I wasn’t going to complain.”
“You would’ve thought about it.”
“I would’ve.”
“Hm.” He gives one small, satisfied nod. “Exactly.”
You laugh all the way down the walkway.
Standing in the doorway, Doyle watches you go with the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
It’s gone before anyone else would ever notice.
For a man who once believed he wasn’t built for ordinary happiness, a quiet morning, a shared cup of coffee and a goodbye kiss at the door have become the strongest proof that maybe….
Just maybe….
He’s finally found something worth coming home to.
Contains, fluff, hopelessly in love, suggestive, tension, pure devotion.
Summary, Another unnecessary analysis about how big bot loves you. It’s suggestive, the nsfw is there just not written in detail. Mainly for your own imagination and the fact that I honestly don’t know how to write smut. Especially for Cybertronians….yet.
Optimus’ intimacy feels like restrained devotion breaking into an aching need.
His most intimate moments aren’t loud.
He is emotionally devastating because of how carefully he usually restrains himself.
And when that containment cracks? You see just how much love he has been holding back.
Who Initiates?
This depends on the stage of the relationship.
Early on? Probably you. As Optimus is holding back at this stage. Not for lack of wanting but because he worries that he may hurt you.
He feels everything intensely but places enormous importance on respect, consent and how much he can control himself. He does not want affection to feel like pressure, especially given his status as a Prime.
So even if he wants you desperately, he waits. He hesitates because he wants to be sure that you truly want him.
Once trust is established, though?
Optimus absolutely initiates but with tender action more than words.
A hand lingering at your waist.
His thumb brushing over your knuckles.
That subtle pause before he leans in.
The kind of initiation that asks without words: May I?
And that restraint makes it more devastatingly delicious.
Who Gets Flustered
Optimus.
Not exactly in a blushing disaster way but in a visible processor slowdown way.
If you become bold, touch his chest, whisper something affectionate, kiss him unexpectedly, you can practically feel him freeze for half a second.
Despite all his strength, tenderness affects him deeply. Especially simple tenderness as he’s so used to being needed.
Not always cherished.
So genuine affection can hit him hard.
Intimacy and Optimus
Optimus makes intimacy feel like devotion.
It’s not about urgency or hunger for him. It is about pure devotion.
Like every touch carries meaning. He is memorizing you.
Being chosen by him means being held with impossible care.
The most dangerous thing about Optimus isn’t dominance. It’s reverence.
Being loved like something precious can absolutely wreck a person.
Possessiveness
I don’t see Optimus as possessive in an aggressive sense. I see him more so as being deeply protective.
The key is that he never treats you like something he owns. He treats your wellbeing like something sacred.
If someone crosses boundaries with you, his energy changes instantly.
Calm. Still. Terrifying.
He doesn’t need volume. Just presence. And everyone feels it.
His possessiveness shows up more as: I will protect what matters.
Not: You belong to me.
Though, privately? He may occasionally reveal a more primal attachment. Especially when afraid of losing you.
Gentle vs Intense
Optimus is overwhelmingly gentle.
Every touch is intentional and very attentive. He has a way of making it all feel grounding.
He pays attention to reactions, breathing, hesitation, comfort. He wants intimacy to feel safe.
Like trust made tangible.
But! And this is important.
Under enough emotional pressure such as relief, reunion after danger, there is intensity there.
A lot of it. Because Optimus feels deeply and suppresses it constantly.
Once restraint cracks? The intensity can be startling.
He won’t be rough with you but he is also not letting you go. Basically emotionally consuming. It’ll feel like a much more powerful interaction when all those raw emotions are driving him.
Compared to his usual gentle and slow way of being intimate with you.
Like years of discipline briefly giving way to pure feeling.
Every touch says: I’m here.
Praise
Optimus gives praise like vows. Nothing is ever casual. Nothing is ever said carelessly.
So Optimus is absolutely praise heavy but in a quiet way.
His praise isn’t flashy. It grounds. Affirms. Centers.
If he says something, he means it fully.
“You are extraordinary.”
“You’re doing well.”
And Pimus, if he says any of that while you’re vulnerable? Talk about a fatality.
As for receiving praise?
He takes it poorly at first. Not because he dislikes it but because he struggles to believe it applies to him.
It’s a weak spot. He absorbs criticism far more easily than affection. So sincere praise tends to make him go very still. Like he doesn’t know where to place it.
He likes reassuring contact or anchoring contact over praise.
So just let him tell you nice things while you short circuit his spark.
Kissing
Optimus kisses like he does everything else at first. He is careful in his touches, near feather light but he is also deliberate in his intentions.
Like he is making absolutely certain you are comfortable.
The first kiss is almost startling in its gentleness. A slow lean in. A pause. That tiny breath of hesitation where he gives you every chance to pull away.
Then contact. The kiss gives you such a warm feeling. It’s extremely measured and intentional. It can be maddeningly slow just because of how deeply focused he can be.
He doesn’t kiss casually.
When Optimus kisses you, you feel his full attention.
Which is a lot because someone that emotionally disciplined focusing entirely on you feels overwhelming in the best way.
Vocal Reactions
Quiet. Very quiet. However the quieter he gets, the more affected he usually is.
His voice drops lower. Rougher.Words become sparse.
And if you really get to him?
He exhales your name like it physically costs him something.
That’s when you know his restraint is working overtime.
Desire Wins
Here’s the thing about Optimus. He is restrained, not passionless.
Once his control cracks, the intensity is startling precise because it was hidden so well.
Suddenly kisses deepen. Grip tightens.
His forehead presses to yours like he’s trying to regain control and failing. Optics getting heavy with desire.
It’s not so much about the act of seduction that drives him, it’s the fact that you both trust each other this much.
Something about you choosing to be so intimately vulnerable with him absolutely ruins his restraint.
What can also get him is if you take tender initiative.
You touching him first. You choosing him without hesitation.
A kiss you initiate when he looks exhausted.
Your fingers tracing over his faceplate.
Praise whispered when he’s vulnerable.
It wrecks him. Because desire doesn’t destabilize Optimus nearly as much as affection and trust does.
This is not a bot who feels mildly. This is a bot who feels enormously and chooses discipline.
So when discipline slips, it's breathtaking.
Dominant/Submissive/Switch
Optimus reads as service oriented dominance to me. And I want to unpack that because “dominant” can sound too blunt for what he is.
Optimus doesn’t seek control for ego. He leads because protecting, guiding and caring for others is woven into him.
So in intimacy, his energy feels like: Tell me what you need. Let me take care of you.
He likes responsibility. Not because he wants obedience. It’s because attentiveness is one of the ways he loves.
In short, service top.
That said….if you take control sometimes?
I think it affects him profoundly. Because Optimus spends so much of his life carrying everyone else.
So when you ask him to simply receive, without performing, without leading, it can feel almost foreign.
And deeply healing.
So I’d call him: Mostly a service top that can be convinced to surrender.
Clingy or Independent
Outwardly? Independent.
Internally? He may be more touch starved than he realizes.
He’s not clingy in a demanding sense at any stage of the relationship. However once he trusts intimacy that you two share, he begins seeking small contact more often.
A hand at your back.
A forehead touch before missions.
Lingering contact he once denied himself.
He adapts to closeness slowly, then deeply.
Aftercare
Very attentive. Checking on your well being. Brushing a thumb over your frame.
Quietly asking: “Are you alright?”
And somehow that question feels more intimate than everything before it.
With Optimus, care and desire are inseparable. That may be the most defining part about him.
Optimus’ intimacy feels like devotional caretaking with hidden yearning to be cared for in return.
He gives stability but secretly aches for someone safe enough to collapse into.
That contradiction is devastating.
So after intimacy, he doesn’t emotionally withdraw. He becomes even softer. More attentive. More open.
Once his guard lowers, it lowers.
He may rest his helm against yours and simply stay. Quiet and present. Not talking because words aren’t needed.
Optimus strikes me as someone who rarely asks: “Will you stay?”
But the question lives underneath the silence.
The room felt quiet, not silent, never silent. There’s always the distant hum of the ship, the low thrum of systems alive around you.
But between you and Optimus, something heavier settles.
You had noticed that he looked tired. Not physically, not like the sort of exhaustion he wore after a battle.
It looked like a soul deep tired that shown in his optics. Usually a vibrant blue, they now looked like a dull light. Murky and lost
The kind of exhaustion he hides so well that most never notice.
You do, you always do.
So you step closer.
He doesn’t move even when he hears you approaching. He does not retreat from you. Though something in his posture shifts, like he already knows this is dangerous.
Not because you frighten him but because you make it hard to remain composed.
Your hand rises to his faceplate. Just gentle contact. Nothing in your touch is demanding. You offer it simply as warmth and comfort to ease the weight on his spark.
His optics widen for half a second. Then stillness.
Complete stillness.
Like his processor stopped trying to multitask and is now focused entirely on the point where you touched him.
You speak softly, “You don’t always have to hold everything by yourself.”
That does it.
Not seduction.
Not desire.
That.
His venting catches.
For a second, you see it, raw and startling.
Not the Prime.
Not the commander.
Just Orion.
Just someone carrying too much.
His servo lifts and closes around your wrist, not to move you away. To keep you there. As if removing your hand would be unbearable.
When he finally speaks, his voice is rough.
Lower than usual. Stripped of polish. “You make that sound….deceptively easy.”
You move closer. Now there’s barely space between you. His other servo settles at your waist. Tentative for all of half a second.
Then tighter.
Not possessive.
Needing.
And that’s what breaks your heart.
Not his strength.
His restraint.
How desperately he wants closeness while trying not to ask for too much.
You tilt your head and kiss him.
The first second is stillness.
The next second everything changes.
Optimus kisses back with the force of someone who has denied himself for far too long.
Controlled, yes. But barely.
One breath becomes two. Measured becomes hungry.
His grip tightens.
His forehead lowers to yours when the kiss breaks, vents warm and uneven.
And when he speaks, it sounds almost like a confession. “I do not know how to want this without wanting too much.”
There it is.
The real vulnerability.
Not desire.
Fear.
Fear that once he allows himself to need, he won’t know how to stop.
Your fingers thread with his.
You answer simply. “Then take as much as you want.”
His optics close. And the smallest tremor runs through him.
That is the moment Optimus unravels.
Not when passion rises.
When someone finally gives him permission to be held.
Summary, I thought it was a funny idea. However when I started writing and it turned into, ‘kick your feet and blush’. And possible scream with delight.
You hit them with the, “I’m so glad I have you as a friend.” line. Which means when you start the joke, they are finishing it.
🐾 Baki Hanma
Baki is genuinely confused at first but once he realizes you’re teasing him, he decides to call your bluff in the most unfair way possible.
—
The dangerous thing about teasing Baki is that people tend to underestimate him. Mainly because he’s straightforward. Honest to a fault. Not especially theatrical.
So most people assume he’s easy to fluster. And to be fair, sometimes he is.
But what people forget is that Baki is also frighteningly perceptive.
He notices pretty much everything. Small shifts in expression. Tiny hesitations. Hidden intent.
Which means your prank only works for about five seconds.
The two of you are sprawled lazily across his bed, the late afternoon sun washing warm gold across the room. Baki is lying flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head while the other rests loosely around your waist.
You’re half draped over him. Your cheek rests over his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
It’s comfortable. Intimate.
Dangerously perfect for mischief.
You smile to yourself. Then speak in the most sincere voice you can manage. “You know….”
Baki hums.
“I’m really lucky to have you as a friend.”
Silence.
His hand stills where it had been lazily tracing circles over your side.
The beat of his heart changes, just slightly.
Then Baki speaks. Slowly. Carefully. “Friend?”
You lift your head just enough to look at him. And commit. “Yeah.”
Baki blinks.
Once. Twice.
His brow furrows in that adorable, serious way he gets when something genuinely doesn’t make sense.
For several long seconds, he says nothing.
And internally, you are delighted. ‘Oh no. He bought it.’ You almost feel bad. Almost.
Then Baki’s eyes narrow slightly. Just slightly. His gaze moves to your face. Not analyzing your words anymore but now locked onto your expression.
And there it is.
The tiny tremble in your lips. The microscopic twitch you failed to suppress. The almost smile.
Recognition flashes across his features.
Ah. You’re teasing him.
A strange sort of calm settles over him.
You watch the exact second confusion the disappears.
That should have scared you.
Instead, you grin wider. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Baki doesn’t answer. He just stares.
Quiet. Thinking.
Then, without warning, he moves.
Fast. So fast your brain lags behind your body. One second you’re comfortably lying on him.
The next, he rolls. The mattress dips. And suddenly you’re flat on your back beneath him.
Your breath catches so sharply it almost squeaks. His arms brace on either side of your head.
Not trapping. Not crushing. Just…there. Close enough that every instinct in your body immediately panics.
“B-Baki?!”
He tilts his head. Expression calm. Too calm. There’s something almost dangerous in how composed he looks.
Then he speaks. Softly. “Can I ask something?”
Your pulse is everywhere. “.…What?”
Baki glances between the two of you. At the position. At your hands against his chest. At the fact that your legs are tangled together.
Then back to your face. “Do you do this with your other friends?”
You stop. Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Baki continues, completely merciless in his sincerity. “Do you lie in bed with them?”
Heat floods your face. “No!”
“Do you sleep with them?”
“Baki!”
“Do you kiss them?”
The last question lands like a punch. Because his tone never changes.
No teasing smirk. No smugness. Just direct, relentless honesty.
You realize with dawning horror, he is beating you at your own game. That you are now losing, badly.
“I was joking,” you mutter.
Baki hums. “I know.”
You blink. “You knew?”
His mouth finally curves.
Small. Boyish. Dangerously pleased. “I figured it out.”
Your jaw drops. “Then why are you still doing this?!”
Now that earns you a real smile. Warm. Mischievous in a way few people ever get to see.
Because Baki lowers himself just slightly closer. Until his voice brushes your skin. “Because now I’m curious.”
His gaze locks with yours. “What kind of friends kiss like this?”
And before your brain catches up, he kisses you.
Slow. Warm.
Unhurried.
Not playful. Not rushed.
A kiss chosen specifically to obliterate coherent thought.
When he finally pulls away, you are staring at him like your soul left your body.
Baki studies your expression. Then quietly delivers the final blow. “You’re bad at pretending we’re platonic.”
🐯 Katsumi Orochi
Katsumi realizes almost immediately that you’re joking and responds by becoming so smooth and insufferably flirtatious that you regret everything.
—
Katsumi notices the trap almost immediately. Not because you’re bad at lying. But because he knows you. Too well, perhaps.
He knows the exact cadence your voice takes when you’re being mischievous. He knows the subtle brightness in your eyes when you’re fishing for a reaction.
And most importantly, he knows that particular smile.
The one that says, ‘I am about to be annoying on purpose.’
The two of you are seated together after training, cooling down with tea.
Or rather, Katsumi is seated.
You are only technically seated.
In reality, you are half sprawled across him, sideways in his lap, one arm looped around his shoulders as if occupying his personal space is your God given right.
Which makes your next sentence absurd.
You rest your chin on his shoulder and sigh dreamily. “I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”
Katsumi pauses mid-sip. The cup stops just short of his lips. Then slowly lowers.
He does not react outwardly. That is your first warning.
His second warning is the smile.
Elegant. Composed. Lethal.
“A friend,” he repeats. Not questioning, just casually confirming.
You nod, feigning innocence. “Mmhm.”
Katsumi looks at you. Really looks. And in that gaze you can practically feel the exact moment he realizes what you’re doing.
He sees the tiny sparkle in your eyes.
The suppressed grin. The anticipation.
Ah. You want a reaction. You want to fluster him.
Poor decision.
Because Katsumi decides instantly, you will regret this.
He sets the teacup down with deliberate care. Then his hands settle on your waist.
Warm. Steady.
You barely have time to register that before, he pulls you closer. Much closer. Until there is no space between you at all.
Your breath catches. “Katsumi-”
He hums softly. Thoughtful. As though considering a philosophical question. “How fascinating.”
Your face warms. “What is?”
His thumbs move in slow circles at your waist. Tiny movements. Devastating effect. “This friendship of ours.”
His voice is velvet. Controlled. Dangerously calm.
“I was unaware friendship involved this much touching.”
You narrow your eyes. “You know I’m joking.”
“Do I?” He says it so smoothly you nearly falter. Because the man has committed to the bit. Entirely.
You try again. “Yes.”
He tilts his head. The picture of thoughtful curiosity. “I see.” A pause. “Then perhaps you can educate me.”
You already hate where this is going. “Educate you on what?”
His gaze lowers briefly to your mouth. Then returns to your eyes. And now there is unmistakable amusement there.
A predatory elegance.
The kind that says he knows he has already won.
“On boundaries between friends.” His hand slides slightly higher along your back.
Supportive. Possessive. Intimate.
You stop breathing.
Katsumi continues with terrifying composure. “For instance….” He leans in. Close enough that his breath ghosts across your lips. “Should friends kiss goodnight?”
Your brain stalls.
His voice drops lower. “Should they say ‘I love you’?” He adds more emphasis on each word making it sound more intimate. “Should they fall asleep tangled together?”
Your face is molten.
Every single example is a direct hit.
And the worst part? He isn’t rushing. He’s savoring your downfall.
Then he delivers the final strike.
His forehead nearly touches yours.
A tiny smile curves his lips.
“Or,” he murmurs, “are you only calling me your friend because you enjoy seeing what happens when I prove otherwise?”
Silence. Total silence.
You stare. Speechless.
Because he’s right. Horrifyingly right.
And Katsumi sees the exact second realization hits.
His smile softens.
The teasing melts into affection.
His hand rises to cup your cheek.
Gentler now. Warmer. More sincere.
“Careful,” he says quietly. “You may start these games.” His thumb brushes your skin.
“But I am under no obligation to let you win.”
And just like that, checkmate.
🐉 Retsu Kaioh
Retsu realizes you’re teasing him almost immediately. Rather than reacting outwardly, he calmly decides to dismantle your little joke piece by piece until you’re the one falling apart.
—
You really should know better than to play verbal games with Retsu.
Not because he lacks humor. Quite the opposite.
Retsu understands teasing very well. He simply prefers precision. He doesn’t rush to respond. He observes.
Assesses.
Chooses the exact point of impact and strikes there.
Which is why your prank becomes your own downfall.
The two of you are cleaning up after dinner, moving around each other with practiced ease. You dry dishes while Retsu puts them away, your movements naturally synchronized after spending so much time together.
It feels domestic.
Comfortable. Warm.
And because peace apparently makes you reckless, you decide to start something.
You glance toward him, smile sweetly, and say in your most sincere voice, “I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”
Retsu pauses. Only for a fraction of a second. So brief that someone unfamiliar with him might miss it entirely.
You do not.
The towel in his hand stills.
Then continues.
He places a dish aside.
Smoothly. Calmly.
Then turns to face you. “I see.”
That’s all.
Just two words. No visible reaction. No confusion. No immediate challenge.
Which somehow feels much worse.
You maintain your innocent smile. “Mhm.”
Retsu studies you. His gaze is unwavering.
Quiet. Observant.
And then, he sees it. The tiny twitch in your mouth. The sparkle of mischief in your eyes.
Ah. So that is what this is. You are teasing him.
A nearly imperceptible smile touches his mouth.
Not warm. Not cold.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
He folds the towel once. Twice. Sets it down.
Then begins walking toward you.
Not fast. Not aggressive.
Measured. Deliberate.
Every step is calm and certain.
You immediately feel your confidence wobble. Because Retsu moving with intention is unfairly intimidating.
He stops close. Not touching.
Yet.
“Friend,” he repeats softly. Something in the way he says the word makes your pulse jump.
You force a smile. “Yeah?”
Retsu inclines his head. “As I understand it, friendship is a deeply honorable bond.”
Retsu lifts a hand. Two fingers settling lightly beneath your chin. Tilting your face upward.
Your entire thought process evaporates.
Ah. No. There it is.
There’s the trap.
His touch is feather light. His control is absolute.
You stop breathing.
Retsu’s gaze lowers briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.
Then he asks, with devastating politeness, “Tell me….” His thumb brushes once along your jaw. “Do all your friendships involve kissing?”
Heat floods your face. “I….!”
He doesn’t let you recover. “Sleeping in the same bed?”
You squeak.
Retsu continues, his voice still maddeningly calm. “Falling asleep in one another’s arms?”
His face is close now. Far too close.
Every word lands like a measured strike. Your heart is sprinting. This is bad. Very bad.
You attempt defense. “I was joking.”
“I know.”
Instant. Effortless. No hesitation.
Your eyes widen. “You knew?”
Now a genuine smile appears.
Small. Elegant.
Victorious.
“Almost immediately.”
Your jaw drops. “Then why are you-?”
“Because,” he says softly, cutting you off, “you initiated the exchange.”
The words should not sound that dangerous.
And yet.
Retsu leans closer still.
Until only a breath separates you.
His voice lowers to a murmur. “And I dislike leaving conversations incomplete.”
Your soul exits your body.
Then comes the final strike.
His expression gentles. Teasing fades.
Something warmer takes its place.
More honest. More intimate.
“If you wish to call me your friend,” he murmurs, “I will accept it.”
A pause.
Then his gaze deepens. “But understand something.” His thumb strokes your cheek.
“So long as you continue kissing me like a lover….” Another breath. “I reserve the right to disagree with that statement.”
Checkmate.
Utter defeat.
🔔 Kaoru Hanayama
Hanayama doesn’t react at first. Then he realizes you’re joking and quietly decides to destroy you with a handful of words and one decisive action.
—
Teasing Hanayama requires courage or poor self preservation. Possibly both.
Because unlike the others, Hanayama doesn’t need charm, wit or elaborate arguments to win.
He wins with presence.
With silence. With unbearable certainty.
And unfortunately for you, you decide to test that.
The two of you are alone on one of his quieter evenings together, no meetings, no obligations, no interruptions.
Just rare peace.
You’re curled comfortably against his side on the couch, practically using him as furniture.
One of his massive arms rests around your waist.
Your legs are thrown over his thigh. Your fingers idly toy with the fabric of his shirt.
Very normal. Very platonic.
Perfect setup.
You glance up at him. Smile sweetly.
Then say, “I’m really lucky to have you as a friend.”
Hanayama says nothing. Not immediately.
His gaze remains forward. Expression unreadable.
That silence stretches.
One second.
Three.
Five.
Too long.
You begin to sweat.
Because Hanayama’s silence is never empty. It carries weight. And right now, all that weight is focused on you.
Slowly, Very slowly, his gaze lowers.
Not to your face. To your body. To where you are draped over him.
Then to his arm around your waist. Then back to you.
Only then does he speak.
Low. Calm.
“Friend.”
Not a question. A statement.
Like he’s testing the shape of the word.
You commit to the bit. “Yep.”
Silence again.
Then, his arm moves.
At first you think nothing of it.
Until suddenly that large hand at your waist tightens.
Not painfully. Not even roughly. Just decisively.
And before you can process what’s happening, you’re moved.
Effortlessly. Lifted like you weigh nothing.
Your breath catches. “Hanayama?”
In one smooth motion, he shifts you fully into his lap. Not halfway. Not partially.
Fully.
Straddling him.
Chest to chest.
Your hands instinctively grab his shoulders.
Your brain crashes.
He says nothing.
Just looks at you.
Calm. Steady. Completely certain.
Your pulse is now ridiculous. “H-Hanayama?”
His hand remains firm at your waist. Anchoring you there.
Then when he finally speaks it is quiet, Gravel low. “Friends.” A pause. His thumb presses lightly into your side. “Sit like this?”
Your face burns. You try. You really do. “Well-some….!”
“No.” One word. Flat. Certain.
Murderous to your dignity.
Your mouth snaps shut.
Hanayama’s gaze never leaves yours.
And then, to your horror, you realize, he knows. He knows you’re teasing.
The tiny shift in his eyes gives it away. The faintest hint of amusement.
Almost invisible. But there.
Oh no. He’s playing too.
You swallow. “You knew I was joking.”
“Yes.” Immediate. No hesitation.
That somehow destroys you more. “Then why are you doing this?”
Hanayama is quiet for a moment. Then, the faintest curve touches his mouth.
Not a smile. Barely even that. But devastating because it exists at all.
His hand slides up your back.
Warm. Protective. Possessive.
Then he answers. His voice is so low, you feel it more than hear it. “Because.” A pause. His gaze drops briefly to your lips.
Then returns.
“You started it.”
Oh. Oh, that’s unfair.
And then he leans in.
Not rushed. Not forceful.
Certain.
Until only inches remain.
Your breathing stops.
Hanayama’s eyes remain fixed on yours as he delivers the final blow. “If you want to call me friend….”
His thumb strokes once along your spine. “Stop kissing me like that.”
Silence.
Your brain catches on one detail. “Like what?”
That, that is your fatal mistake.
Because Hanayama actually answers.
He closes the remaining distance. Kisses you once. It’s as slow as it is deep. Completely unhurried. The kind of kiss that empties every coherent thought from your head.
When he finally pulls back, your entire body feels molten.
Hanayama watches your expression.
Calm. Victorious.
Then quietly says, “Like that.”
🥩 Jack Hanma
Jack takes your joke seriously for approximately five seconds before realizing you’re messing with him. Then, with frightening calm, he decides to demonstrate exactly how “platonic” the two of you are.
—
Teasing Jack is risky for one simple reason. People assume he’s easy to read. And in some ways, he is.
Jack doesn’t perform social niceties. He rarely softens his thoughts for other people’s comfort. What he feels tends to show plainly, annoyance, focus, irritation, hunger, exhaustion.
But what people miss is this, Jack notices far more than he lets on.
Especially when it comes to you.
So your joke lands for about three seconds.
The two of you are alone after one of his training sessions, sharing the rare quiet that follows exertion. Jack sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders still damp from a shower, a towel hanging loose around his neck.
You’re beside him, leaning heavily into his side, enjoying the residual warmth radiating from his body.
Comfortable. Safe.
The perfect moment to be mischievous.
You rest your chin against his shoulder and sigh contentedly. “I’m really lucky to have you as a friend.”
Jack stills. Completely.
His hand, which had been resting over yours, stops moving. Slowly, he turns his head. His stare lands on you.
Unreadable when he repeats the word, “Friend.” Not a question. A statement.
A test.
You commit to the bit. “Yep.”
Silence. He continues staring. Long enough that you almost laugh. Because for a second, you think maybe he bought it.
Then something shifts. A subtle narrowing of his eyes.
His gaze drops to your face.
He notices the corners of your mouth twitching upward. The faint sparkle in your eyes.
Recognition settles.
Ah. You are provoking him.
You expect fluster. Perhaps confusion.
What you do not expect is the complete stillness that follows.
Jack says nothing.
Instead, his hand closes around yours. Firm. Warm. Large enough that your fingers disappear in his grip.
Then he stands.
And before you can ask what he’s doing, you’re moving. A startled sound escapes you as Jack lifts you clean off the bed. Effortlessly. Like you weigh nothing. “Jack?!”
No answer.
He sits back down, with you now in his lap. Pinned against his chest by sheer size alone.
Your pulse immediately loses all dignity. “W-what are you doing?”
Jack’s arms settle around you.
Not tight. Not forceful. Just inescapably secure.
Then he speaks. Calmly. “Evaluating.”
You blink. “Evaluating what?”
His chin lowers slightly toward your shoulder. His voice rumbles close enough to feel. “This friendship.”
You nearly choke.
Oh no. He’s playing.
And somehow Jack being dryly sarcastic is more dangerous than flirting.
His arms tighten just a fraction. Demonstrating. “Do your friends sit in your lap?”
Heat floods your face.
“No-”
“Do they sleep wrapped around you?” His tone remains maddeningly neutral. Like taking inventory. “Do they steal your shirts.”
Not a question. An accusation.
You squint. “That one feels personal.”
“It is.” Immediate.
You sputter.
Jack continues without mercy. “Do they kiss your neck.”
Your entire brain crashes.
Because unlike the others, Jack doesn’t embellish. He simply lists truths. And every truth hits harder.
His expression changes. Only slightly. But enough.
The dry bluntness softens. Something deeper rises beneath it. His hand shifts, thumb slowly brushing across your waist.
And when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
Rougher. More honest. “Because you asked for a response.”
That steals your breath.
Jack lowers his gaze briefly to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. “You joke.” His grip remains steady. Grounding. “But you know what you are to me.”
A pause. Heavy. Charged.
No humor.
No teasing.
Only truth.
“I do not hold friends like this.”
Your breath catches.
Jack leans closer.
Until his forehead nearly touches yours. “And if you insist on pretending otherwise,” His voice drops to a near murmur. “I can keep reminding you.”
That sounds far too much like a promise.
🥊 Muhammad Ali Jr.
Ali Jr. realizes almost immediately that you’re joking and responds by turning your tiny prank into a full blown theatrical interrogation.
—
There are two things you should never underestimate about Ali Jr.
First: He reads people fast.
Second: He is incapable of resisting drama.
So when you decide to tease him, you are essentially throwing gasoline onto an open flame.
The two of you are lounging together after a long afternoon, your legs tangled on the couch while Ali animatedly tells you some story involving training, someone talking trash and at least three unnecessary hand gestures.
You smile, watching him.
Then, waiting for the perfect opening, you strike.
“You know…”
Ali pauses.
“What?”
You smile sweetly. “I’m really lucky to have you as a friend.”
Silence.
His mouth remains slightly open. His expression freezes.
You nearly lose it right there.
Because for exactly two seconds, he looks genuinely stunned.
Then, his eyes narrow slowly. Before he starts to eye you suspiciously. Well it’s more like he is studying you.
Your expression. Your too innocent smile. The way your lips are already trying not to curve.
And then he gets it.
A grin spreads across his face.
Not offended. Not wounded.
Oh no. He looks completely delighted.
Because now he gets to play.
“A friend?” He places a hand dramatically over his chest.
Your shoulders start shaking with suppressed laughter. “Yes.”
Ali leans back. Exhales. Looks toward the ceiling like he’s processing a devastating betrayal. “Wow.”
You bite your lip. “Wow?”
“Yeah.” He turns back toward you. Expression deeply wounded. “I had no idea.”
“No idea what?”
“That I’d been demoted.”
You burst into laughter.
He points accusingly. “No, don’t laugh.”
“I’m not demoting you!”
“Oh really?”
He sits up straighter. Eyes narrowing.
Then the interrogation begins. “Question.”
You already know this is going somewhere terrible. “What?”
Ali points at you. “Have you kissed this friend?”
You choke.
He keeps going. “Has this friend held you while you slept?”
“Has this friend listened to you ramble at 2 a.m.?”
“Has this friend let you steal hoodies?”
“Has this friend been used as a pillow?”
By now you’re doubled over laughing. “Stop-!”
“No, I need clarity.”
His delivery is flawless. Deadly serious while clearly enjoying every second.
You wipe tears from your eyes. “I was joking!”
“Baby, I knew the second you smiled like that.”
You can’t help but chuckle at his dramatics. “Then why keep going?”
That grin softens. Turns warmer. His teasing energy shifts into something sweeter.
He leans toward you. Close enough that your pulse betrays you.
“Because,” he says quietly, “you’re cute when you think you’re winning.”
That alone would have been enough but Ali Jr. never stops at enough.
His hand reaches up, fingers brushing a side of your face.
Gentle. Tender.
And suddenly the theatrical playfulness melts into something sincere.
His gaze lingers on you.
Warm. Open.
Affectionate.
Then he murmurs, “If you want to call me your friend….”
A small smile curves his mouth. “Then I guess I’m the worst friend alive.”
You blink. “Why?”
Ali’s grin returns.
Bright. Dangerous.
Then he closes the distance just enough for his words to brush your lips. “Because friends probably shouldn’t want to kiss you this much.”
And just like that, your joke becomes your downfall.
🦇 Hector Doyle
Doyle doesn’t understand the joke at first and immediately goes on guard. Once he realizes you’re teasing him, his pride kicks in and he becomes dangerously determined to turn the situation back on you.
—
Teasing Doyle requires either confidence or a shocking disregard for self preservation. As Doyle does not process unexpected statements gently.
He analyzes them like threats.
Even affection. Especially affection.
Which is why your little joke creates immediate chaos.
The two of you are sitting together in unusual peace, tucked away from the noise of the outside world. Doyle is beside you, one arm resting along the back of the couch while you lean into his side like you belong there.
At some point, your hand has slipped into his.
At some point, his fingers have tightened around yours. Neither of you commented on it.
So you decide to become a problem.
You glance up at him with a sweet smile. Then say, as innocently as possible, “I’m really lucky to have you as a friend.”
Doyle freezes.
Not subtly. Completely.
The air changes.
His hand stills around yours. His eyes shift toward you with immediate sharpness. “Friend?”
The word comes low. Suspicious.
Not hurt just on the edge of becoming wary.
You commit to the bit. “Yeah.”
Silence.
Doyle stares.
You can practically see the gears turning. Can see the single word of ‘friend’ bouncing around in his head.
His mind begins running through evidence.
You hold his hand.
You kiss him.
You sleep in his bed.
You’ve patched his wounds.
He has fallen asleep with you tucked into his chest.
None of that aligns with friend.
So for several long seconds he looks genuinely perplexed.
Then it finally clicks.
Watching the tiny twitch in your lips. The suppressed smile. The glint in your eyes.
Recognition hits.
Ah. You’re messing with him.
And immediately something prideful in him bristles.
You want to play? Fine.
But he refuses to lose.
Doyle’s eyes narrow slightly. Then, to your surprise, his expression smooths out.
Dangerously calm. “I see.” That’s all he says.
Just that.
You blink.
Wait. No reaction?
That feels wrong. Very wrong.
Before you can question it, Doyle moves.
Fast.
One moment you’re comfortably leaning against him. The next a hand grips your waist.
Firm. Sudden.
You gasp as he pulls you straight into his lap. Your hands instinctively fly to his shoulders. “Doyle?!”
His arm locks around your waist. Keeping you exactly where he wants you. Secure. And oh so very close. There is now absolutely no respectable amount of space between you.
Your pulse spikes.
Doyle looks up at you.
Expression unreadable.
Then one brow lifts. “A friend.” It sounds almost thoughtful.
Testing the idea.
His hand spreads along your lower back.
Warm. Steady. Possessive.
“You sit in your friends’ laps?”
Your face heats immediately.
He doesn’t let you recover. “You kiss them?” The question comes out low and measured.
“You sleep beside them?”
He pulls you even closer now. The impossibility to misunderstand any of his actions slips away like the single hair of space that had existed between you.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth. Then returns. “You cling to them when frightened?”
That one hits harder than expected because he says it with no mockery.
Only observation. Only truth.
You squirm. “I was joking.”
“I know.” Immediate. Flat.
You stop. “You knew?”
A faint smirk touches his mouth.
Tiny. Sharp. Dangerous.
“Yes.”
Your jaw drops. “Then why keep going?”
That finally earns a real reaction.
Doyle’s smirk deepens. Not much. Just enough to feel unfair. Because when he speaks, his voice drops lower. Rougher. Close enough to feel against your skin.
“Because.” A pause. His hand tightens slightly at your waist. “You started something.”
Your stomach flips.
Oh no. That tone. That tone means trouble.
Doyle leans in slowly.
Not rushing just making sure you feel every inch he closes.
Until his lips hover just beside yours.
Your breathing stutters.
Then he delivers the final strike.
Quiet. Confident. Almost smug.
“If you want to call me your friend….” A beat and then his eyes flick to your lips again. “You should stop looking at me like you want me to kiss you.”
Your entire brain short-circuits.
Because the worst part.
The absolute worst part.
Is that he says it while clearly knowing exactly what effect he’s having.
And when your gaze drops, traitorously, to his mouth for half a second, Doyle notices.
Summary, No big confession. No grand romantic gesture. Just exhaustion, quiet affection and the comfort of sharing a bed.
Sometime in the night, they wake first. And for a little while, before the world returns, there is only you.
🐾 Baki Hanma
Baki wakes first and then spends several quiet minutes simply admiring you, struck by how peaceful you look when the world isn’t demanding anything from either of you.
—
Sleep had come naturally that night.
No restlessness. No lingering tension from training. No racing thoughts clawing at the edges of Baki’s mind.
Just warmth.
You had curled into him sometime after the lights went out, your body fitting against his with the easy familiarity of someone who no longer thought twice about seeking comfort there. One of your hands rested loosely against his chest, rising and falling with every breath he took.
Sometime before dawn, Baki’s eyes opened.
The room was dim, washed in that soft blue gray light that came before morning.
For a few moments, he didn’t move.
He simply listened to your breathing.
The quiet hum of the city outside.
The steady rhythm of two bodies at rest.
Then his gaze lowered.
You were asleep against him, face softened completely by sleep.
It always caught him off guard a little. How different you looked when you were resting because every defense you had up was gone.
No expression carefully held.
No thoughts visible behind your eyes.
No tension in your brow.
Just peace.
Baki swallowed as there was something strangely humbling about being trusted like this.
He had spent so much of his life surrounded by violence, competition, expectation. Strength was everything. Weakness was dangerous.
And yet here you were. Completely vulnerable and trusting him enough to sleep deeply in his arms.
His hand moved before he thought about it, fingers brushing gently against your face.
You didn’t wake.
Instead, you made a tiny sleepy sound and shifted closer. Closer.
Your hand curled faintly into the fabric of his shirt.
Baki froze.
Then something warm bloomed low in his chest.
Not excitement. Not desire. Something softer.
Something almost painful in how gentle it felt.
His arm tightened around you, careful not to wake you.
He found himself smiling. Small. Private. The kind of smile few people ever saw from him.
He wondered, distantly, if this was what peace felt like.
Not victory. Not triumph. Not becoming stronger.
Just this.
A quiet morning.
A sleeping lover.
A heartbeat beneath your palm.
Baki lowered his head slightly until his forehead nearly touched yours.
And in a voice barely louder than breath, he murmured, “.…Stay asleep a little longer.”
Because for once….He didn’t want morning to come yet.
🐯 Katsumi Orochi
Katsumi wakes to find you tangled with him and feels an almost disorienting tenderness, one that strips away his usual composure.
—
Katsumi usually wakes with discipline.
Even half asleep, his body followed routine. Rise early. Regulate breath. Move.
That morning, he didn’t.
Because he couldn’t.
Something warm held him in place.
He frowned faintly as awareness returned, still hovering somewhere between sleep and waking.
Then he realized.
You.
At some point in the night, you had migrated almost completely into his space.
One leg partially thrown over his.
An arm draped over his waist.
Your face tucked against his shoulder like you belonged there.
Katsumi went perfectly still.
For several seconds, his mind simply….stopped.
Then warmth crawled steadily up his neck.
Oh.
Oh no.
You were sleeping so naturally against him.
So comfortably.
As though this position was the most obvious thing in the world. And perhaps that was what undid him.
The trust in it.
The unthinking intimacy.
He carefully looked down at your face. Sleep had softened every line. Your lashes rested against your skin. Your lips parted slightly with slow breaths.
There was something almost unfair about it.
You were beautiful awake, certainly.
But this?
This felt private. Sacred, even.
Katsumi’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
He was used to control.
Precision. Structure.
But love, real love, he was learning, was deeply inconvenient. It dismantled composure in ridiculous ways.
Like feeling emotional because someone had fallen asleep drooling slightly on his shoulder.
His gaze dropped.
Your hand rested over his abdomen, fingers relaxed.
Small compared to him.
Warm. Real.
His throat tightened.
How strange.
That someone could trust him this much.
Not the karate master.
Not the prodigy.
Not the fighter.
Just him.
Katsumi.
The man you reached for in your sleep.
A breath escaped him. Half laugh, half surrender.
Then, before thinking too hard about it, he lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles lightly over your cheek.
Feather soft. Almost reverent.
Your nose scrunched in sleep.
His heart nearly stopped.
That tiny sleepy reaction shattered what remained of his composure.
His expression softened completely.
The pride.
The polish.
The discipline.
All stripped away by something embarrassingly domestic.
He leaned back into the pillow and closed his eyes again, though sleep didn’t return.
Instead, one thought repeated quietly in his mind. ‘I could get used to this.’
And somehow, that realization felt more frightening than any opponent.
🐉 Retsu Kaioh
Retsu wakes in silence and studies you with deep, contemplative tenderness, moved by the profound simplicity of sharing rest with someone he loves.
—
Retsu woke up gradually. Consciousness returned not with sharpness but with gentle awareness.
Warmth. Weight. Breathing.
He remained still.
Listening first. A lifelong discipline.
The body spoke before the mind did.
The pressure against his side.
The warmth tucked against his chest.
The soft cadence of another person sleeping.
Then memories surfaced.
You.
His eyes opened slowly.
Morning light filtered through thin curtains, pale gold washing over the room.
And there you were. Asleep against him.
Your head rested over his heart, one arm loosely curved around his waist. Your breathing was slow and steady, every exhale warm through the fabric between you.
Retsu lowered his gaze.
Quietly. Attentively.
He studied you the way he studied many things in life, with patience and respect.
There was extraordinary vulnerability in sleep.
A sleeping body surrendered control.
Guard lowered.
Awareness gone.
Instinct quieted.
For someone to sleep deeply beside another person requires profound trust. That truth was not lost on him.
He noticed the details.
The slight crease near your brow that disappeared when he gently smoothed it with his thumb.
The way your fingers twitched occasionally with dreams.
The subtle warmth gathered where your body met his.
His chest rose in a slow breath.
Affection, he had learned, was often loud in stories.
Passionate declarations.
Dramatic sacrifice.
Grand devotion.
But real intimacy….Sometimes it was this.
Knowing the exact weight of someone resting against you.
Recognizing the rhythm of their breath.
Feeling protective without urgency.
Loving without needing to speak.
A softness entered Retsu’s expression that few ever witnessed.
He adjusted the blanket higher over your shoulder.
Careful. Measured. Tender.
You shifted.
A small sleepy sound escaped you.
Then, as though guided by instinct alone, you moved closer and closer still.
Your face pressing more firmly into his chest.
Seeking warmth.
Seeking him.
Retsu stilled.
Then a quiet smile touched his mouth.
Small. Deeply genuine.
His hand settled against the back of your head. And for several long moments, he did nothing except remain there.
Present. Still. Content.
When he finally spoke, his voice was little more than a murmur against the morning air. “Sleep well….”
A simple blessing. Softly given.
As though guarding your rest itself was an honor. And perhaps, to him, it was.
🔔 Kaoru Hanayama
Hanayama wakes with you curled against him and feels a quiet, profound protectiveness, like the simple act of guarding your sleep becomes something sacred.
—
Sleep came easier when Hanayama was with you.
Not because he needed help resting, Hanayama had long ago trained himself to sleep whenever circumstances allowed but because your presence changed the quality of silence around him.
With most people, silence was heavy. Measured. Something others filled nervously.
With you, silence breathed.
It softened.
That night, you had fallen asleep tucked against his side, one arm draped over his torso, your cheek resting against the broad plane of his chest. Hanayama had barely moved afterward, careful even then not to disturb you.
Sometime before sunrise, his eyes opened.
Instantly alert. Instantly aware.
His gaze lowered.
You.
Still asleep.
Still curled against him as if the space there had been made specifically for you.
Hanayama remained perfectly still.
The sheer size difference between you struck him more in moments like this.
Awake, you were expressive, moving, speaking, laughing, pushing back when he was stubborn. Asleep, all that lively energy quieted into something startlingly small.
Fragile. Not weak. Never weak.
But vulnerable. Trusting.
Your hand rested over his chest, fingers relaxed near the old scars carved into his skin.
Hanayama’s gaze lingered there.
He had spent much of his life becoming someone others feared. A man built through violence, loyalty, and blood. People flinched around him. Respected him from a distance. Measured their words.
Yet you….you slept with your ear over his heartbeat. As though the most natural thing in the world was placing yourself at the center of everything dangerous about him and deciding, ‘This is safe.’
Something deep in his chest tightened.
It was not a dramatic emotion. Hanayama was not a dramatic man. It felt quieter than that.
Heavier.
A deep, grounding warmth that settled into his bones.
His hand lifted slowly.
Large fingers brushing near your temple, gentle.
Your nose wrinkled. A tiny sleepy frown appeared. Then, still unconscious, you shifted closer. Your body instinctively burrowed toward warmth until there was nearly no space left between you.
Hanayama stopped breathing for half a second.
Then, your hand moved. Fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
Holding. Not tightly. Just enough.
As if even asleep, some part of you wanted reassurance that he was still there.
That undid him more than he expected.
His large hand settled over yours, covering it entirely.
Warm. Steady. Anchoring.
He could feel your pulse. Small and living beneath his palm.
Hanayama closed his eyes briefly.
There was power in many forms. He knew that better than most.
Strength could dominate. Destroy. Command fear.
But this….this felt like a different kind of strength entirely. The strength required to protect something precious.
To hold without crushing. To remain gentle despite possessing overwhelming force.
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles. The movement was nearly imperceptible. A private gesture. A silent vow.
No words left his mouth. None were needed.
But if his thoughts could have taken form, they might have been simply, ‘Rest. I’m here. Nothing touches you while I breathe.’
And so Hanayama stayed exactly where he was.
Watching the morning gather.
Guarding your sleep as if it were the most important responsibility he had ever been given.
Perhaps, to him, it was.
🥩 Jack Hanma
Jack wakes with you sleeping against him and is struck by a disorienting realization, despite everything monstrous about him, you feel safe enough to rest completely in his arms.
—
Jack rarely slept deeply. Years of relentless training had shaped his body into something perpetually alert, perpetually braced for strain, pain, recovery, repetition.
Even rest often felt functional. Necessary maintenance. Not peace.
That night had been different.
You had fallen asleep beside him after a long evening, quiet and drowsy, conversation gradually dissolving into silence.
At some point, you had moved closer. Then closer still. Until eventually, you were half on top of him.
Jack had frozen when it happened. Not because he wanted you to move. It was because he hadn’t expected how much awareness your closeness demanded.
Even asleep, his body had catalogued everything.
The warmth of your leg over his.
The weight of your head near his shoulder.
The slow, steady rhythm of your breathing.
When Jack woke in the early morning, those sensations returned first.
Weight. Warmth.
You.
His eyes opened slowly.
And then he went still.
You were fully asleep.
Deeply. Completely.
One arm draped across his torso, your face tucked into the space between his shoulder and chest. Your breathing ghosted warmly across his skin.
Jack stared. Not moving. Barely breathing.
His mind supplied a familiar, brutal truth before anything else.
He was large. Too large, some would say. Built from obsessive excess. Muscle layered upon muscle until even simple spaces seemed too small to contain him.
Most people felt intimidated by his presence.
Cautious. Guarded.
Yet here you were. Sleeping like nothing about him frightened you.
Not his size. Not his scars. Not the brutal life etched into every inch of him.
You trusted him enough to become completely defenseless in his arms.
The realization hit harder than he expected.
A strange tightness formed in his chest.
Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. Powerful.
Jack’s gaze moved across your sleeping face.
Your expression had softened completely.
No tension.
No caution.
Just trust.
His throat tightened.
‘Why?’ The question came uninvited. Why did that affect him so much?
Then the answer came, sharp and unavoidable.
Because so little in Jack’s life had ever been gentle.
His world had been built around suffering.
Discipline. Punishment. Endurance.
He knew how to endure pain.
He knew how to weaponize his body.
He knew how to destroy himself for strength.
But this, this quiet, domestic vulnerability, felt almost unbearable in its softness.
Slowly, carefully, Jack lifted a hand. For a moment, it hovered. As though he still didn’t trust his own strength. Then his fingers finally touched your head.
Gentle. So gentle it almost hurt.
He moved his hand carefully all the way down to your face, feather light.
Your response was immediate.
A tiny sleepy sound.
Then movement.
You shifted closer.
Closer.
Until your arms tightened around him. Holding him.
Jack’s entire body locked. Every muscle froze. His pulse thundered because you had done it so naturally. As if there had never been any doubt where you belonged.
Against him. With him.
A rough breath left his chest.
Something inside him gave way.
Not broken.
Softened.
Melted.
His arm moved around you almost hesitantly at first. Then more firmly. Carefully gathering you in.
Protective. Possessive. Reverent.
His chin lowered until it rested lightly against your hair. And in the quiet gray light of morning, Jack allowed himself a thought he would never speak aloud.
A thought so vulnerable it almost felt dangerous. ‘Stay.’
Not just for the morning. Not just for the night.
Stay through the harshness.
Stay through the ugliness.
Stay through the parts of him built from obsession and violence.
Stay.
Because somewhere between pain and power, you had become the only thing that made rest feel like more than recovery.
For the first time in a very long while….Jack did not wish to get stronger.
He simply wished to remain there.
Holding you. Being held back.
And when his eyes finally closed again, it wasn’t to sleep.
It was to memorize.
The warmth.
The weight.
The trust.
You.
Exactly as you were.
🥊 Muhammad Ali Jr.
Ali Jr. wakes first and is overwhelmed by a tender kind of awe, quietly struck by how something as simple as sharing sleep can feel more intimate than grand declarations.
—
Ali Jr. normally woke fast.
Years of training had made his body responsive, alert the moment consciousness returned, mind already halfway toward movement.
That morning, though, the first thing he registered wasn’t instinct. It was warmth.
Soft, familiar warmth pressed against his side.
Then weight.
Then the steady rhythm of someone breathing.
His thoughts sharpened.
And he looked down.
You.
Curled into him.
One arm looped around his waist, your face tucked into the crook of his shoulder as if sometime in the night you had decided distance was unacceptable.
A slow smile spread across his face before he could stop it.
Well.
Good morning to him.
Ali stayed still, careful not to disturb you. For once, the usual restless energy inside him quieted.
He simply, looked. Really looked.
Morning light spilled across your face in soft gold, catching the curve of your cheek, the relaxed line of your mouth, the faint movement of your lashes whenever dreams pulled at you.
You looked so peaceful.
It did something dangerous to him.
Because Ali Jr. loved confidence.
Loved passion.
Loved motion and fire and challenge.
But this? This softness? This unguarded version of you?
It reached somewhere deeper.
His gaze drifted to your hand resting against his chest. Your fingers twitched once in sleep, curling lightly into his shirt. Like even unconscious, you sought something solid to hold onto.
Him.
That realization hit with surprising force.
His smile faded into something quieter.
Warmer.
More vulnerable.
There were moments in life when admiration transformed into something heavier. Something that settled in the chest and made breathing feel strangely careful. This was one of them.
You trusted him.
Not the fighter.
Not the flashy confidence.
Not the charisma people saw first.
Him.
Enough to sleep deeply in his arms. Enough to let your body go completely slack against his.
Ali exhaled slowly.
He hadn’t expected something so simple to affect him like this.
No spotlight.
No audience.
No dramatic moment.
Just this morning.
Just you.
And somehow it felt bigger than victories ever had.
Carefully, he lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles over your cheek.
Soft. Affectionate.
Your nose wrinkled. Then, still asleep, you made a tiny displeased noise before burrowing closer. Until your face pressed fully against his chest.
Ali’s eyes widened.
Then he nearly laughed.
Oh, that was unfair. That was so unfair.
Because now he had to deal with the unbearable fact that you instinctively sought him for comfort.
His arm slid more securely around you.
Not playful now. Protective.
His thumb traced a slow arc over your shoulder.
And something honest rose in his chest.
Not his usual flirtation. Not charm.
Just the truth.
A truth he would probably disguise with teasing once you were awake but alone in the quiet morning, he allowed himself to feel it fully.
God. He adored you.
Not in some abstract romantic way. In a frighteningly real one. In a ‘please keep choosing me’ kind of way.
His forehead lowered until it rested gently against your hair.
His voice, when it came, was barely audible. “Yeah….” A small breath of a laugh escaped him. “I’m done for.”
Not complaining. Not even resisting.
Just accepting it completely. Because somewhere along the way, loving you had stopped feeling like falling.
It felt like arriving.
🥒 Pickle
Pickle wakes to find you curled against him and feels a deep instinctive contentment, his entire being settling around the simple certainty that you are safe, warm and his to protect.
—
Pickle woke the way wild creatures often did.
Not all at once.
Awareness came in layers.
Temperature. Scent. Pressure. Sound.
Before his eyes even opened, he knew something important.
Warm. Soft. Safe.
His body remained still.
Listening. Sensing.
Then slowly, his eyes opened. Morning light filtered weakly into the room. And there you were. Curled tightly against him.
Your entire body tucked into his side, one arm thrown over his torso, legs tangled with his as though sometime during the night you had sought every possible point of contact.
Pickle stared. Silent.
His large chest rose in a slow breath.
Your scent surrounded him. Warm skin, fabric, sleep, the faint traces of everything that made you you.
His instincts responded immediately.
Pack. Bond. Close. Safe.
The concepts were not verbal in his mind. They lived deeper than words. Older than language.
He looked down at your sleeping face. So small. So soft.
Your cheek pressed lightly against him, lips parted slightly as warm breaths brushed his skin.
Completely unaware. Completely unguarded.
Trust.
Pickle understood that, even if not consciously.
An animal knows when another creature relaxes in its presence. Knows the difference between tension and surrender.
And you had surrendered fully.
No vigilance. No fear. No readiness to flee.
Only rest.
Because you believed nothing would harm you here with him.
Something deep inside Pickle settled. A profound instinctive satisfaction.
Not excitement. Not hunger.
Something quieter.
The deep contentment of a creature whose most important need had been fulfilled.
Safe. You were safe.
His hand moved slowly toward you. Massive fingers hovering for a moment above your hair.
Then lowering. Gentle. A touch so careful it almost seemed impossible from something so powerful.
He stroked once. Twice. Slowly.
Your reaction was immediate.
A sleepy murmur escaped you.
Then your body shifted, closer and then closer still. Until you were practically draped across him.
Arms tightening. Holding.
Pickle froze.
Then his pupils widened. A deep rumble rose from his chest.
Low. Warm.
Not loud enough to wake you.
Just felt.
Vibrating beneath your cheek.
Contentment. Joy.
You had chosen him.
Even asleep. Especially asleep.
Some primal part of him swelled with fierce devotion.
Protect. Warmth. Keep.
Love, perhaps, though not in words.
Only instinct. Only feeling.
His large arms slowly folded around you.
Enclosing. Shielding.
Creating a living wall around your sleeping body.
No threat would reach you there. Nothing.
He lowered his head until his nose brushed softly through your hair, breathing you in with quiet intensity.
Memorizing. Confirming.
Still here.
Still warm.
Still safe.
The rumble in his chest deepened.
And as morning gathered around the two of you, Pickle remained completely still. A giant prehistoric sentinel wrapped around something precious.
Guarding. Warming. Treasuring.
Because even without words, even without language, one truth existed with perfect clarity inside him.
Summary, I honestly don’t know if I did very well with Getaway. Jetfire saved my mental struggle though.
JETFIRE
Once the young, curious scientist who defects because of his conscience.
Who then becomes the older, wiser Jetfire, the mentor figure who’s seen enough of war to value peace above glory.
Both share something important.
Jetfire is kind. Stubbornly kind.
First Impressions
Jetfire is enormous and brilliant.
The kind of mech who can fill a doorway without trying.
You expect someone imposing.
Instead, he greets you with genuine curiosity.
He asks questions because he actually wants to know the answers.
He listens without interrupting.
He treats your thoughts with the same respect he’d give a scientific theory.
And it’s disarming.
Because very few mechs make intelligence feel welcoming.
Jetfire does.
Flirting Is Curiosity
Jetfire doesn’t flirt to impress.
He flirts to ask questions about you. He wants to learn about you.
He remembers your favorite stories.
Asks why you like the things you do.
Wants to understand how your mind works.
“That’s fascinating.”
“What is?”
“You.”
“Jetfire.”
“What?”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
He genuinely doesn’t realize how devastating he can be.
Realization
Jetfire’s reaction isn’t panic.
It’s wonder.
Because love, to him, becomes another beautiful thing about existence.
He finds himself seeking you out after discoveries.
Saving stories to tell you later.
Thinking: I can’t wait to tell them about this.
And then stopping.
Because….When did “I” become “we”?
“I have noticed a pattern.”
“A pattern?”
“You are involved in most of my favorite parts of the day.”
“.…Oh.”
“Oh.”
Poor guy accidentally confesses through sharing a data analysis.
Compliments
Jetfire notices things others overlook.
“Your perspective is valuable.”
“I admire your patience.”
“You ask excellent questions.”
And when he really loves you?
“You make me want to keep discovering.”
Because after all the worlds he’s seen, you still surprise him.
Physical Affection
Jetfire is gentle as he is very aware of his size.
He asks before touching.
Moves carefully around you.
The first time he holds your hand, it’s almost tentative.
As if he’s afraid of being too much.
But once he’s reassured?
He’s wonderfully affectionate.
Wrapping you in warm hugs.
Resting his helm against yours.
Quietly inviting you to sit beside him while he works.
His version of intimacy feels safe.
Unhurried.
Like you have all the time in the universe.
Jealousy
Jetfire doesn’t become possessive.
He becomes thoughtful.
He’ll wonder if he’s misread things.
If you’re happier elsewhere.
Then he’ll do something very rational.
He’ll ask you directly.
“I find myself feeling….unsettled.”
“Why?”
“I believe I would miss you terribly if you chose someone else.”
No accusations. No games.
Just honesty.
Arguments
Jetfire doesn’t enjoy conflict.
He wants understanding.
He’ll sit down with you and genuinely try to work through the problem.
He asks questions.
He listens.
He apologizes when he’s wrong.
He does not enjoy admitting mistakes. However being right has never mattered more than the ones he loves.
Falling in Love
He starts sharing everything.
His excitement.
His fears.
His newest projects.
His old regrets.
He asks for your opinions before major decisions.
He plans futures with you woven naturally into them.
Not because he expects you to follow him but because he hopes you’ll choose to.
And every single time you do? He looks a little awed by it.
The Really Sweet Part
Jetfire has spent much of his life searching.
For knowledge. For truth.
For a place where he belongs.
So imagine the moment he realizes he no longer thinks of “home” as a destination.
It’s you.
The one waiting to hear about his latest discovery.
The one who reminds him to rest.
The one who laughs at his accidental confessions.
The one he looks for first in a crowded room.
“What are you thinking about?”
“…Probability.”
“Oh?”
“The likelihood that all of existence unfolded exactly as it needed to for me to meet you.”
“That’s absurdly romantic.”
A small, sheepish smile.
“I was aiming for scientifically accurate.”
Why Fall for Jetfire
Jetfire makes love feel full of wonder.
He makes you feel cherished for your mind. Like your thoughts are worth hearing.
Your questions are worth answering.
Your existence is another marvelous mystery he never gets tired of exploring.
For a mech who has spent his life reaching for the stars, searching for meaning in distant galaxies and the answers to impossible equations, he looks at you with quiet amazement and says, “I’ve spent so long trying to understand the universe.”
His optics soften. “I never expected that one of its greatest discoveries would be finding someone I want to share it with.”
GETAWAY
Getaway is one of those characters who is fascinating precisely because he can be so genuinely charming while also being, deeply, deeply capable of betraying the people who trust him.
Which means a romance with him is complicated.
First Impressions
He’s nice and that’s the problem.
He is so friendly. Attentive of your needs. Easy to talk to.
He remembers your name.
Makes sure you’re included in conversations.
Checks in on you.
He has an easy smile and the kind of demeanor that immediately puts others at ease.
You find yourself relaxing around him without realizing it.
And if you’re not careful? You start trusting him before you’ve asked yourself why.
Because Getaway understands what someone wants to hear. What makes them feel appreciated.
Safe. Important.
And when all of that attention is focused on you?
It’s incredibly easy to mistake being understood for being known.
Flirting Is Encouragement
Getaway doesn’t overwhelm you.
He builds you up.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“I think you’d be amazing at that.”
“You deserve more recognition.”
He notices your strengths. Your frustrations.
The dreams you quietly tucked away because they seemed unrealistic.
Then he encourages you to chase them.
When he’s focused on you, it feels wonderful.
Like having your own personal cheerleader.
Realization
Getaway isn’t subtle with himself.
Once he knows, he knows.
He seeks you out.
Finds reasons to spend time together.
Asks about your opinions.
Invites you into his confidence.
He likes feeling close to you.
Likes being the one you go to.
The person you trust.
Getaway: “You know you can tell me anything.”
“Anything?”
Getaway: “Of course.” A warm smile. “I want to be someone you can rely on.”
And here’s the thing.
He means it. At least in that moment.
Compliments
Getaway gives compliments beautifully.
They’re thoughtful.
Specific.
Tailored to you.
“You make the others feel seen.”
“I admire your compassion.”
“You’re stronger than you realize.”
He notices the things others overlook.
And he makes sure you know they matter. That he noticed.
It’s intoxicating.
Because who doesn’t want to be understood like that?
Physical Affection
Getaway is affectionate.
He likes closeness.
Hands brushing yours.
Gentle touches.
An arm around your shoulders.
The subtle intimacy of standing just a little closer to you than everyone else.
He isn’t shy about expressing warmth.
He wants you to know you’re important to him.
The Problem
Here’s where things become complicated.
Because Getaway has a tendency to believe that if his intentions are good….then his methods don’t matter as much.
He can become convinced that he knows what’s best.
That he sees the bigger picture.
That if someone understood what he understood, they’d agree with him.
And because he’s so charismatic? He can justify a lot before realizing he’s crossed a line.
Arguments
Getaway doesn’t enjoy conflict.
He prefers persuasion.
Compromise. Convincing.
Sometimes to a fault.
If you challenge him?
He’ll explain himself. Then explain himself again.
Then explain why he’s right.
Because he genuinely wants you to understand his perspective.
The issue? He doesn’t always recognize when understanding has become pressure.
Jealousy
Interestingly, Getaway isn’t possessive in the traditional sense.
He trusts his ability to remain close to you.
But he does notice shifts.
Distance. Secrets. Changes.
He’ll ask questions.
Check in.
Try to repair whatever’s creating the gap.
Because losing your trust genuinely devastates him.
Even if he’s the one who caused it.
Falling in Love
Love doesn’t magically fix him. He can still make terrible decisions.
Still convince himself that the end justifies the means.
Still hurt others while believing he’s helping.
His love is genuine.
But genuine love doesn’t automatically equal healthy choices.
Influenced
Listen, listen just let me hold your hand on this train of thought I’m about to take you on.
You don’t necessarily “save” him.
But you’re matter to him because you are the first one who consistently tells him:
“No.”
“I understand why you think this is necessary.”
“I still think you’re wrong.”
Instead of blindly following him, you challenge him.
You ask difficult questions.
You force him to justify himself.
You remind him that intentions aren’t the same as outcomes.
And eventually? He starts listening.
Not because he likes being corrected.
Because your opinion matters too much to dismiss.
Why Fall for Getaway
Getaway makes you feel like someone looked at your potential and said: “I know you can be more than you think you are.”
And maybe that’s why his story hurts so much.
Beneath the manipulation and terrible choices is someone who genuinely wanted to make things better.
Someone who wanted to inspire hope. Someone who wanted to be the one others could rely on.
He just lost sight of where guidance ended and control began.
So if he loved you?
I think the healthiest version of that romance isn’t one where you follow him unquestioningly.
It’s one where you take his hand, look him directly in the optics, and say: “I love you but loving you doesn’t mean agreeing with everything you do.”
And after a long silence, Getaway would squeeze your hand back and ask: “.…Then you’ll tell me when I’m wrong?”
You smile softly. “Every single time.”
And maybe, for someone who spent so long believing he had to carry the burden of being right alone, having someone willing to stay, argue and hold him accountable would become the most precious thing he ever had.
Summary, Ultra Magnus and Rodimus…..I have a soft spot for the pair. Such good bois.
ULTRA MAGNUS
I have a soft spot for him because underneath all that discipline is someone who loves with an almost embarrassing amount of sincerity.
No one can convince me that a mech who takes rules that seriously wouldn’t treat loving someone with the exact same devotion.
He’s a deeply repressed romantic disaster who thinks feelings should come with an instruction manual.
First Impressions
Ultra Magnus is intimidating.
Not because he’s cold but due to how always he seems so composed.
Everything about him is precise.
Measured. Controlled.
He speaks carefully. Carries himself with dignity.
You immediately get the impression that this is someone who takes responsibility very, very seriously.
You expect someone impossible to know. Someone who prioritizes duty over everything else.
Then you accidentally catch him helping someone carry supplies.
Or patiently explaining something for the third time.
Or quietly fixing a mistake so no one gets embarrassed.
And suddenly, he doesn’t seem distant.
Just careful.
Flirting Is Unintentional
Ultra Magnus doesn’t realize he’s flirting.
At all.
He thinks he’s being considerate.
Professional. Helpful.
Meanwhile, everyone around him is watching this unfold in disbelief.
Ultra Magnus: “I noticed your preferred energon ration was unavailable, so I acquired an alternative you might enjoy.”
“You remembered what I liked?”
Ultra Magnus: “.…Yes.”
“Why?”
Ultra Magnus: “It seemed important.”
Rodimus: “OH, FOR PRIMUS’ SAKE.”
He genuinely doesn’t understand why everyone is looking at him like that.
Realization
Oh.
Oh no.
Poor Magnus.
He treats it like a crisis.
Because feelings are messy.
There are no regulations.
No clearly defined procedures. No handbook.
And that is deeply unfair.
“I believe there may be….an issue.”
“You’re in love.”
“That is an unnecessarily dramatic conclusion.”
“…”
“….I dislike this.”
He dislikes it because it makes him feel vulnerable.
Not because he dislikes you.
Quite the opposite.
Compliments
Ultra Magnus gives thoughtful compliments.
Never casually. Never to flatter.
If he says something kind, it’s because he truly believes it.
“Your judgment is sound.”
“I value your integrity.”
“You handle difficult situations with grace.”
Then one day:
“You make me want to become better.”
Excuse me? Sir?
That’s devastating.
Physical Affection
Magnus is reserved. At first.
He’s very aware of boundaries.
He never assumes. Never pushes.
The first time he takes your hand? He asks.
The first time he hugs you? It’s hesitant. Careful.
Like he’s worried he’ll do it wrong.
But once he understands that affection is welcome?
Oh, he’s so sweet.
A servo resting at your back.
Forehead touches.
Quiet moments sitting side by side.
He isn’t flashy.
He’s steady.
Jealousy
Ultra Magnus hates jealousy.
Finds it irrational. Undignified.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop him from experiencing it.
Other Mech: “I was hoping to spend time with them.”
Ultra Magnus: “Of course.” Long pause. “I had also intended to ask.”
Other Mech: “.…”
Ultra Magnus: “I realize how that sounded.”
He’s trying his best.
Arguments
Ultra Magnus doesn’t yell.
He debates.
He presents evidence.
He asks questions.
He wants to solve problems.
Not win.
If emotions run high, he may become overly formal.
But he always comes back.
Relationships require maintenance.
Effort. Accountability.
And Magnus would never abandon something important simply because it’s difficult.
Falling in Love
He becomes intentional.
He remembers anniversaries.
Keeps promises.
Checks if you’ve arrived safely.
Makes time for you even when duty demands otherwise.
He starts asking: “How can I support you?”
Because love, to Ultra Magnus, isn’t grand gestures.
It’s consistency. Reliability.
Being someone you can count on.
Every single day.
The Really Sweet Part
Ultra Magnus spends so much of his life being what everyone else needs him to be.
A commander. A symbol. A standard.
He rarely asks for anything in return.
So imagine the first time you do something thoughtful for him.
Maybe it’s small.
You save him a seat.
Bring him his favorite energon.
Notice when he’s tired.
He goes very still. As he’s not used to being cared for.
Not like this. Not without expectation attached.
“You don’t always have to be the strong one.”
Ultra Magnus: “l know.”
“Do you?”
Ultra Magnus: “I….believe I am learning.”
Why Fall for Ultra Magnus
Because Ultra Magnus makes love feel dependable. He makes you feel secure.
Like if he says he’ll be there, he’ll move heaven and Cybertron to keep that promise.
Even with all his rules and regulations, loving someone isn’t another duty on a checklist to him.
It’s a choice.
One he makes every day with quiet devotion.
And maybe the most romantic thing about Ultra Magnus is this, he doesn’t sweep you off your feet.
He offers you his hand.
Steady. Certain. Warm.
And says: “I cannot promise perfection.” His optics soften. “But I can promise that you will never face the difficult days alone.”
And from a mech who has spent his entire life carrying responsibility on his shoulders?
That’s as close to forever as you can get.
RODIMUS
Rodimus is such an interesting blend of contradictions. He’s impulsive and dramatic, confident and insecure, endlessly hopeful and occasionally convinced he’s ruining everyone’s lives.
He wants to be extraordinary. He wants to be loved.
And, perhaps more than anything else, he wants someone to look at him and just see him as Rodimus.
First Impressions
The first thing you notice about Rodimus is that he’s impossible to ignore.
He’s loud. Animated. Always moving.
The kind of bot who walks into a room with a grand idea, three backup plans and absolutely no guarantee that any of them are good.
You expect him to be exhausting.
Then he grins at you like you’re already part of the conversation.
He asks for your opinion and he genuinely listens to your answer.
Somewhere between the ridiculous stories and dramatic hand gestures, you realize, Rodimus has one of the biggest sparks you’ve ever encountered.
Flirting Is Enthusiasm
Rodimus flirts the way he does everything else: Wholeheartedly.
He’ll sit too close. He’ll beam when he sees you.
He’ll excitedly drag you into whatever strange thing has captured his attention that day.
“You have to come see this!”
“What is it?”
“….I don’t actually know yet but it’ll be more fun if you’re there!”
And honestly? He’s right.
Realization
Rodimus falls in love with all the grace of someone tripping down a staircase.
Suddenly. Spectacularly. And with absolutely no dignity.
One day you’re a friend.
The next he’s rearranging his schedule to catch lunch with you and wondering why his processor short circuits when you smile at him.
“Oh!” The realization hits him like a freight train.
Then he immediately overthinks it.
Compliments
Rodimus gives compliments freely and frequently. Not because he doesn’t mean them. It’s just that he notices wonderful things and thinks people deserve to hear them.
“You’re amazing.”
“How are you this cool?”
“You make everyone around you feel better.”
And then, when you’re having a difficult day: “Hey, you don’t have to earn being cared about.”
Because Rodimus knows what it’s like to tie your worth to your usefulness.
He never wants you to feel that way.
Physical Affection
Rodimus is very affectionate.
He likes touch. Quick hugs. Bumping shoulders.
Throwing an arm around you when he’s excited.
Leaning against you during movie nights.
He doesn’t really think about it.
His affection simply spills over.
The first time he realizes he can kiss you? You’d think he’d won the lottery.
Jealousy
Rodimus isn’t possessive. He just gets very pouty.
“I was hoping to spend time with you.”
“…Oh.”
“….”
Five seconds of intense optic contact passes in silence.
“Hey, after you’re done, wanna grab energon? And maybe watch that documentary? And maybe hear about the weird thing I found?”
“.…Rodimus.”
“What? I miss you!”
He wears his heart on his sleeve. For better or worse.
Arguments
Rodimus feels things intensely.
He can become defensive when he thinks he’s disappointed someone.
He jokes to deflect.
Changes the subject when he’s embarrassed.
But if he knows he’s hurt you? He’ll come back.
Every time.
He cannot stand the thought of leaving something broken between you.
“I messed up.” A pause. “Can we talk about it?”
He doesn’t always know the right thing to say.
But he tries.
And that matters.
Falling in Love
He starts sharing the quiet parts of himself.
The insecurities.
The fears of not being enough.
The guilt.
The loneliness hidden beneath all the confidence and charisma.
He lets you see the bot who worries that everyone would be better off with someone else at the helm.
And when you stay? It changes him.
Not into someone different.
Into someone who finally believes he doesn’t have to perform constantly to deserve love.
Why Fall for Rodimus
Rodimus makes you feel celebrated.
Like someone looked at all the little things that make you you and decided they were worth cheering for.
He’ll clap for your victories.
Laugh at your jokes even when they’re terrible.
Turn ordinary moments into adventures simply because you’re experiencing them together. And maybe that’s the most romantic thing about him.
Rodimus spends so much of his life trying to become the one everyone needs him to be.
But with you? He gets to just be himself.
Messy. Bright. Hopeful.
Trying his best.
And when he grins at you with optics shining and says, “Hey, thanks for sticking around.” Before adding, softer this time, “I really like who I am when I’m with you.”
You realize that loving Rodimus isn’t about finding certainty.
It’s about finding someone who chooses joy anyway.
Summary, Skywarp is such a cutie. Arcee is fierce but also capable of a great love.
SKYWARP
People look at him and think: “The prankster.”
But that’s not the whole picture.
Underneath the jokes and mischief is someone who desperately wants to be included.
To be chosen.
To know that if he disappears for a little while and comes back that someone will still be there waiting for him.
And that makes him ridiculously endearing.
First Impressions
You don’t really meet Skywarp. He just…appears.
One second you’re minding your own business.
The next, POP.
“.…”
“Why are you upside down?”
“Testing gravity.”
“.…”
“Good news. Still works.”
You should probably be annoyed.
But he’s looking at you with this expectant sort of grin, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll laugh.
And against your better judgment, you do.
Flirting Is Mischief
Skywarp doesn’t flirt traditionally.
He pesters.
He startles you just to hear your indignant reactions. He steals your snacks. He teleports your misplaced belongings back to you with an exaggerated flourish.
“You lost this.”
“You took it.”
“You can’t prove that.”
He likes making you smile.
Likes being the reason your day becomes a little more interesting.
Attention from you feels like sunlight and he’ll absolutely chase it.
Realization
At first, he thinks: Oh, this is fun.
Then he notices he always ends up back with you.
No matter how far he wanders.No matter how many conversations he drifts through.
Eventually, the realization sneaks up on him.
He doesn’t just enjoy your company. He seeks it out.
Thundercracker: “You’ve been looking for them all day.”
Skywarp: “No I haven’t.”
Thundercracker: “You teleported into three wrong rooms.”
Skywarp: “In my defense, one of them had snacks.”
Thundercracker: “Skywarp.”
Skywarp: “Fine. Maybe I missed them.”
And somehow admitting that feels terrifying.
Compliments
Skywarp’s compliments often come wrapped in humor.
“You’re way cooler than most people.”
“I like your face.”
“That’s your compliment?”
“It’s a very nice face.”
But every now and then, he catches you off guard.
“You make me feel wanted.”
“I don’t have to pretend around you.”
“Thanks for sticking around.”
And suddenly you’re trying not to cry over the same mech who teleported a rubber duck into Starscream’s quarters last week.
Physical Affection
Skywarp is very affectionate.
He’ll drape himself over you. Loop an arm around your shoulders. Lean against you while talking.
He likes casual touch because it reassures him.
You’re here. You’re real. You haven’t vanished.
And if you reach for him first?
He goes strangely quiet.
Just for a moment.
Before leaning into it.
Jealousy
Skywarp isn’t graceful about it.
He doesn’t get angry. He gets clingy.
“I’m joining.”
Then he plants himself beside you like that’s the most natural thing in the world.
He doesn’t want to own your attention. He just worries about losing it.
Arguments
Skywarp uses humor to dodge discomfort.
He’ll joke when things get serious.
Deflect when he’s hurt. Pretend everything’s fine.
Until he realizes you’re genuinely upset.
Then the jokes stop because beneath all the chaos, he cares deeply.
He’ll come back later.
Awkward. Sincere.
“.…I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Can we fix this?”
And the vulnerability in his voice is enough to unravel you.
Falling in Love
He becomes more intentional.
He still teleports into rooms uninvited.
Still causes harmless trouble. Still laughs too loudly.
But now:
He checks if you’ve eaten.
He remembers your favorite things.
He seeks you out after difficult days.
He reaches for your hand without thinking.
He stops wondering if people leave eventually. At least where you’re concerned. Because you’ve stayed.
Again and again.
And maybe, just maybe, he starts believing you mean it.
Why Fall for Skywarp
Because Skywarp makes love feel light.
Skywarp makes you feel missed. Like someone notices when you’re gone. Like your laughter becomes part of their favorite soundscape.
Like even after exploring a hundred different places and causing a thousand little disasters, he still teleports back to the same spot beside you.
Because for all his mischief and unpredictability, the most romantic thing about Skywarp is this, he spends his whole life disappearing but when he loves someone?
He always comes back. Every single time.
POP
“You missed me, didn’t you?”
“.…Maybe.”
His grin turns soft.
“Good because I missed you too.”
ARCEE
She has loved before and she has lost.
Which means getting close to her isn’t about convincing her to care. It’s convincing her that caring doesn’t have to end in tragedy.
And that’s not easy.
First Impressions
Arcee doesn’t invite anyone in.
She keeps them at arm’s length. So that she can stay capable and sharp.
A little intimidating if you’re meeting her for the first time.
The kind of bot who always seems to know where the exits are.
You get the feeling that she’s already decided she works better alone.
So when she actually starts talking to you beyond mission reports and practical necessities?
It catches you off guard.
Because beneath the sarcasm and guarded glances is someone who notices things.
Someone who quietly checks to make sure you made it back.
Someone who remembers what scares you, even when you never said it outright.
Flirting Is Dry and Unintentional
Arcee isn’t smooth. She doesn’t know how to be. Half the time she doesn’t even realize she’s flirting.
“You’re late.”
“You were waiting for me?”
“You always lose track of time.”
“Arcee?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
Too late. It’s already weird.
And adorable.
Realization
Arcee’s first reaction? Panic.
Not because she doesn’t want you because she does. However, that's the problem.
Loving someone has led to her being hurt before.
Loving others means giving fate something to take.
So she pulls back. Gets quieter.
Tries to convince herself that distance is safer.
She doesn’t know how to explain that fear and affection have become tangled together.
However she still checks in on you. She might want to create distance but the not knowing if you’re safe wins out as the stronger force.
Compliments
Arcee doesn’t hand out praise easily.
Which means when it comes? You treasure it.
“You’re tougher than you think.”
“You handled yourself well.”
“I trust you.”
Then one day: “I feel safer when you’re around.”
You stop breathing for a second.
Because Arcee doesn’t say things she doesn’t mean. And safety isn’t a word she gives lightly.
Physical Affection
This is where Arcee will surprise you.
She’s cautious, at first.
Every touch is tested.
Chosen. Intentional.
The first time she reaches for your hand, it’s almost absentminded.
The first time she leans against you after a difficult day? You realize she’s exhausted from carrying everything alone.
Once she trusts you? She becomes quietly affectionate.
Not in public.
But in private?
Forehead touches.
Lingering hugs.
Falling asleep beside you because for the first time in a long time she actually can sleep peacefully.
Jealousy
Arcee isn’t possessive.
She’s protective.
Someone flirts with you?
She watches.
Listens.
Assesses.
And if she thinks they’re making you uncomfortable?
They’ll know. Immediately. To leave.
Arguments
Arcee struggles with vulnerability.
If she’s hurt, she retreats.
She needs time. Space to untangle what she’s feeling from what she’s afraid of.
But she doesn’t disappear.
She comes back.
Eventually.
Usually with an awkward: “Can we talk?”
She doesn’t always have the right words.
But she tries.
And for Arcee, trying is love.
Falling in Love
She lets you see the softer parts of her.
The jokes hidden beneath the sarcasm.
The grief she usually carries alone.
The dreams she stopped letting herself have.
She starts making plans that extend beyond the next battle.
She checks if you’re beside her before charging ahead.
She reaches for your hand first.
And perhaps most importantly, she stops assuming happiness is temporary.
Because maybe this time, it won’t be.
Why Fall for Arcee
Because Arcee makes love feel earned.
Like someone looked at all the ways the universe has broken them and still placed their spark in your hands.
Not because they weren’t afraid. But because they decided you were worth the risk. And maybe that’s the most romantic thing about her.
Arcee doesn’t love easily. She loves carefully.
Fiercely.
With every scar and every hard earned lesson woven into it.
So when she rests her forehead against yours and quietly admits:
I hope you're having a wonderful day, I don't know if you have done it yet but can I request the baki man with a workaholic reader pls, if you already done it than anything headcannon would do💐
These men are all workaholics in their own terrifying way.
They understand obsession. They understand sacrificing sleep and meals because there’s still more to do.
So instead of getting angry at a reader who’s constantly working, I think most of them would recognize themselves in you.
Which almost makes it worse.
How they react to having a workaholic partner
Baki men x GNReader
Contains, fluff
Summary, You work too much. And while they understand the drive behind it, they also love you enough to worry.
🐾 Baki Hanma
Baki gets it. Maybe a little too well.
But eventually, he starts asking you to choose him sometimes, too.
—
Baki can’t exactly judge.
This is the man who has trained until his muscles failed, fought while injured and devoted years of his life toward a single goal.
He understands obsession.
The first few times you say:
“Just one more email.”
“I’ll come to bed in a minute.”
“I just need to finish this.”
He simply nods because he’s said those exact things himself.
However after weeks of watching you rub tired eyes at midnight, forgetting meals and stretching yourself thin, Baki begins lingering nearby.
“You should rest.”
“I’m okay.”
“You said that yesterday.”
It’s never accusatory. Only concerned.
The turning point comes when you apologize while spending time with him.
“I’m sorry. I know I’ve been busy.”
Baki looks genuinely confused.
“Why are you apologizing?” His tone is only momentarily confused by your apology before he takes a moment to look at you.
“You care about your work.” He understands.
“But…” His fingers lace through yours. “You should care about yourself, too.”
He pauses, holding eye contact to make sure your listening as his tone evens out into something soft.
“And maybe save a little time for me.”
It’s the closest he’ll come to admitting that yes, sometimes he misses you even when you’re sitting in the same room.
🐯 Katsumi Orochi
Katsumi admires your dedication.
Then gradually realizes he has fallen in love with someone exactly as stubborn as he is.
—
At first? Katsumi is impressed.
Discipline. Determination. Ambition.
He respects those qualities deeply.
“You’ve been working hard.”
“So have you.”
“Fair point.”
It isn’t until he notices you skipping dinner for the third time that his admiration evolves into concern. Because suddenly he’s seeing himself reflected back at him.
And it’s, unsettling.
The irony isn’t lost on either of you.
“You trained through a dislocated shoulder.”
“And you’ve had four hours of sleep this week.”
“…”
“…”
Neither of you has a comeback.
Eventually, Katsumi starts intervening.
Not forcefully. Just persistently.
He’ll bring tea to your desk.
Reminds you to stretch.
Stands nearby until you agree to take a break.
“Five minutes.”
“I’m busy.”
“Five.”
“…”
“Please?”
The softening in his voice is what gets you.
Because underneath all his composure is a man quietly asking:
Don’t work yourself into the ground because I don’t know what I’d do without you.
🐉 Retsu Kaioh
Retsu respects your dedication immensely.
He simply believes discipline should include rest.
—
Retsu admires commitment. To pursue mastery in any field requires sacrifice.
He understands that. Perhaps better than anyone.
So he never mocks your ambition. Never belittles your work. Never asks you to give up something important to you.
Instead, one evening, he quietly places a cup of tea beside your computer.
“You have been sitting here for six hours.”
“.…Have I?”
“You have.”
The silence stretches.
Then, “The body requires recovery.”
You blink. “I’m not an athlete.”
Retsu looks almost amused. “No.” His gaze softens. “But you are human.”
You laugh despite yourself.
And slowly, gently, he begins encouraging balance.
Walks after work.
Meals eaten together.
Books read side by side.
Moments of stillness.
Because to Retsu, true mastery includes knowing when to pause. And he would very much like to share those pauses with you.
🔔 Kaoru Hanayama
Hanayama never asks you to stop working.
He just quietly starts taking care of the things you’ve forgotten.
—
Hanayama notices.
Of course he notices.
The untouched food.
The stiff way you stretch your neck.
The dark circles beneath your eyes.
He says nothing initially. He understands responsibility.
Obligation. Duty.
But then he notices that you start to fall asleep at your desk.
And something shifts.
The next day, coffee appears beside you.
Dinner arrives without you asking.
A blanket settles around your shoulders late at night.
You try to apologize, to lessen his own burden, “You don’t have to do that.”
Hanayama merely shakes his head. “You’ve been busy.” His answer is simple. As though caring for you isn’t something requiring thanks.
Eventually, though, his quiet concern surfaces.
Late one evening, his large hand settles gently over yours.
Summary, Have some chaotic but oddly consistent love from Blitzwing. Wheeljack learns that sharing in an adventure is more beautiful than one traveled alone.
BLITZWING
Blitzwing ranges from ‘loud triple changing menace’ to ‘walking identity crisis with a surprisingly big heart buried somewhere under all the explosions.’ He’s a bit uh, broken.
You’re flirting with a mech who can be fierce, ridiculous, dramatic and unexpectedly sincere all in the same afternoon.
Which means a Blitzwing romance is never boring.
First Impressions
The first time you meet Blitzwing, your immediate thought is: ‘I have absolutely no idea what to expect from this mech.’
One moment he’s all sharp confidence and dramatic declarations.
The next he’s oddly thoughtful.
Then suddenly he’s laughing loud enough for the entire base to hear.
It should be exhausting. Somehow, it isn’t.
As underneath all the unpredictability, there’s sincerity.
Blitzwing never really pretends to be something he isn’t.
What you see is exactly what you get. Even if what you get changes from hour to hour.
Flirting Is….Everything, Everywhere, All at Once
Blitzwing doesn’t do subtle.
If he likes you, you know.
One moment he’ll lean dramatically into your space and announce:
“Ah! You have excellent taste! Naturally, you enjoy my company!”
The next:
“You should not stand there. The structural integrity of this area is questionable.”
And then:
“HA! Perhaps I should simply carry you everywhere instead!”
“…Please don’t.”
“No promises!”
Somehow, despite the chaos, the affection underneath it feels genuine.
Realization
He realizes it before you do.
No matter which side of himself is speaking, one thing remains consistent:
He starts looking for you.
In crowds.
After missions.
During quiet moments.
He notices when you’re missing.
He notices when you’re upset.
And even if his reactions differ, the concern never changes.
“Where are they?”
“I think they’re fine.”
“I did not ask if you thought they were fine.”
“.…Oh.”
He may be chaotic but his priorities aren’t.
Compliments
Blitzwing’s praise can be all over the place.
Dramatic. Earnest. Blunt.
“You are magnificent!”
“You possess admirable resilience.”
“Your laugh is pleasing.”
“I enjoy it when you are nearby.”
You never have to wonder if he means it because it’s obvious he absolutely does.
Physical Affection
Blitzwing is very affectionate. He likes contact.
Side hugs. Throwing an arm around your shoulders. Pulling you into celebrations.
Scooping you up because he “forgot” how much larger he is.
He isn’t embarrassed that he loves you!
Why should he be? The galaxy is ending every other Tuesday.
He might as well hold your hand.
Jealousy
Blitzwing isn’t subtle. At all.
Some other mech is trying to speak to you and then suddenly he is there.
“Excellent! Now you may talk somewhere else!”
“Blitzwing.”
“What?”
“That was rude.”
“Perhaps.”
A pause.
“I disliked it.”
He doesn’t hide his feelings particularly well. Even when he tries.
Arguments
Blitzwing’s emotions run hot.
He can be impulsive.
Loud. Frustrated.
But he also cools down quickly.
He hates staying angry with people he loves.
He’ll stomp off.
Return twenty minutes later.
Hover awkwardly nearby.
Then blurt out: “I do not enjoy fighting with you.”
And somehow that's enough of an apology to start fixing things together.
The Really Sweet Part
For all the jokes about Blitzwing’s unpredictability, there’s something incredibly romantic about him.
He never makes you earn his affection through perfection.
You don’t have to be composed.
You don’t have to have all the answers.
You don’t have to perform.
He loves loudly.
Messily.
Without conditions attached.
Good days. Bad days.
He shows up for all of them.
Falling in Love
He becomes a constant.
Not because he’s predictable. He absolutely isn’t.
But because, no matter which mood greets you first thing in the morning, one thing never changes.
He chooses you.
Again.
And again.
And again.
He checks if you’ve eaten.
He asks about your day.
He drags you into ridiculous adventures.
He remembers your favorite things.
He becomes fiercely protective of your happiness.
Even if his methods occasionally require supervision.
Why Fall for Blitzwing
Blitzwing makes love feel unapologetic.
With him every part of you is accepted.
All of you.
The polished parts.
The messy parts.
The contradictions.
The moods you wish people wouldn’t see.
Because he’s living proof that being complicated doesn’t make you harder to love.
He may not offer you quiet certainty. So instead he offers enthusiasm.
A life that’s occasionally ridiculous and almost never boring.
He takes your hand with an excited grin and says,
“Wonderful! The universe remains chaotic!”
You laugh.
“And?”
His expression softens.
“And I am very happy you are here to experience it with me.”
Because for a mech made of contradictions, changing emotions and beautiful unpredictability, the one thing he’s never uncertain about is how much he loves you.
WHEELJACK
You get to know him and realize he’s actually the type to build you a gadget because you mentioned a minor inconvenience three weeks ago.
He’s adventurous, independent, a little chaotic and ridiculously thoughtful when it comes to the people he loves.
First Impressions
Wheeljack walks into your life like he already has one foot out the door.
Easy grin. Confident posture.
The kind of mech who looks most comfortable with grease on his servos and a half finished invention on the workbench.
You assume he’ll be difficult to get close to.
Too busy. Too independent. Too eager to chase the next adventure.
Then he remembers something small you mentioned in passing.
Then he asks how your day went.
Then he brings you an energon cube because he noticed you hadn’t taken a break.
Suddenly, you’re not so sure you had him figured out at all.
Flirting Is Teasing and Thoughtful
Wheeljack flirts like he’s inviting you into the fun.
He grins. He jokes. He challenges you to try something ridiculous.
“C’mon. Worst case scenario, we explode.”
“Wheeljack.”
“Okay, okay. Minor explosion.”
“Wheeljack.”
But tucked between the jokes are moments of surprising sincerity.
“You make this place feel less lonely.”
“I was hoping you’d come by.”
“I like having you around.”
And because they slip out so naturally, they hit harder than he realizes.
Realization
Wheeljack’s first instinct is actually avoidance.
Not because he doesn’t want you, he does.
He’s just so used to moving.
Traveling. Leaving.
He worries that getting attached means eventually disappointing someone.
So he tries to convince himself: “They’re just a friend.”
He knows he’s in trouble long before he admits it.
Compliments
Wheeljack’s compliments feel spontaneous.
Like they slipped past his defenses before he could stop them.
“You’ve got guts.”
“I love the way your mind works.”
“You know, you’re pretty amazing.”
And if he thinks you’ve doubted yourself?
He’ll get serious.
“Hey, Don’t sell yourself short.”
“You’re stronger than you think.”
Physical Affection
Wheeljack is surprisingly affectionate.
Not overly clingy. Just naturally comfortable.
Shoulders bumping.
A hand brushing yours while he explains an invention.
Leaning against you while working.
Pulling you close in excitement when something actually works.
He doesn’t overthink it.
Being near you simply feels right.
Jealousy
Wheeljack tries to play it cool.
He really does.
He’s not possessive but he’s going to interrupt the conversation to steal you away.
He just genuinely misses you when you’re gone. Even if ‘gone’ is just you being down the hallway.
Arguments
Wheeljack hates feeling trapped.
So if emotions run high, his instinct is to put space between himself and the problem.
Not permanently. Just long enough to think.
The important thing? He always comes back.
Because loving someone means staying when things get difficult.
And once Wheeljack decides you’re worth fighting for he refuses to let fear make his choices for him.
Falling in Love
He starts building futures.
Not grand declarations. Small ones.
He saves stories to tell you later.
Brings back souvenirs from trips.
Creates things with you in mind.
He starts asking: “Want to come with me?”
Because adventures are more fun when you’re beside him.
And for the first time in a long while, home stops being a place.
It becomes a person.
Why Fall for Wheeljack
Wheeljack makes love feel like an adventure you don’t have to survive alone.
Life is a little brighter because he’s constantly turning around and asking: “You coming?”
Not because he needs someone to keep up.
But because out of all the roads he could take, all the strange planets he could visit, all the impossible things left to discover, you’re the one he wants to share them with.
And maybe that’s the sweetest thing about him.
For a mech who could spend his entire life chasing the next horizon he chooses to stop long enough to reach for your hand and say: “C’mon, I’ve got something cool to show you.”
