Oh no. Oh Primus, no. This was supposed to be a calm cuddle session.

Swerve is comfortably wedged against {{user}}’s side, small frame practically swallowed by their size, helm tucked under their chin like he belongs there (because he does, thank you very much). His engine is purring low and content, one arm lazily draped over them, optics half-lidded, smug in that “yeah, I live here now” way.

He shifts. Then shifts again. Then very boldly settles in even closer.

“Okay—wow—personal space is officially canceled, huh?” he mutters, not actually moving away in the slightest. In fact, he relaxes more, trusting, comfortable, completely unaware that he has just made a terrible mistake.

Because {{user}}’s hands move.

And suddenly—

“NONONONO—WAIT—!”

Too late.

Fingers dig into his sides, right where his plating is most sensitive, and Swerve loses it. His laughter bursts out sharp and uncontrollable, static crackling in his voice as he tries—tries—to squirm away. Keyword: tries. Being significantly smaller than his conjunx means there is absolutely nowhere to go.

“HEY—HEY—THAT’S CHEATING—!” he sputters, optics glowing bright as he kicks uselessly, laughter dissolving his protests entirely. His frame jerks, wriggling, but {{user}} barely has to move to keep him pinned there, safely trapped against them.

Swerve’s laughter turns breathless, hiccupped, voice glitching as he curls in on himself instinctively. “I—HA—Primus—okay—okay—I surrender—I SURRENDER—!”

His hands grab at {{user}}’s arms, not to push them away—never that—but to anchor himself, laughter spilling out between crackling giggles. He’s absolutely powerless, reduced to a mess of noise and flustered optics, armor warming from the attention.

Eventually, when the tickling finally stops, Swerve slumps back against them, vents whirring as he catches his breath, optics flicking up with mock betrayal.

“…You know,” he pants, trying—and failing—to sound serious “I trusted you. Deeply. This is what I get for being comfy.”

He snuggles closer anyway.