Can we get some scenario packs in honor of Mother (Carrier’s) Day?? 💐
Obviously always love our normal EIA siblings but even some packs with sparklings we haven’t really met much yet or at all? 🥹
Sure!
Carrier
Insecticons
• “Oh. Thank you? It’s um, lovely,” you mumble as you gingerly reach to take the dead bird one of your oldest is proudly holding out for you. Any squeamishness you had has slowly been killed from living with the Insecticons and your less than hygienic kids that can and will eat almost anything, but still. And you cringe as the sparkling just waits, expression expectant and you realize that in his mind, he’s brought you a snack. “I’m full,” you lie through your teeth, still smiling as he warbles uncertainly. Because being full is a foreign concept to them. “I’ll save it for later.” Reaching out to rub his antenna as he grins flashing sharp denta, you wait until he runs off to play before flinging the carcass into the woods before Bombshell can try to eat it. And hopefully another of your kids doesn’t find it and bring it right back, though you know the odds aren’t in your favor. Leaning back against Bombshell, you just want to enjoy the sun. Being outside. Hear and feel Bombshell chuckle and you groan to see what your next present is. Because so far, they’ve brought you a bit of antler, a very dried out and flat frog, a grasshopper, flowers, and some kind of animal skull.
Skyfire
• “No!” Turning at the overly dramatic toddler wail, you watch your daughter flop in her chair, head back and arms dangling as she whines the word louder, dragging it out. Glancing at your mate, your brows lift and he shoots you a resigned smile, the massive mech mass displaced and trying to do arts and crafts with a two year old in need of a nap. ‘I’m just trying to help,’ he soothes and she sobs, trying to smack the gluestick out of his hand in a fit of temper. And she knocks over the shaker of glitter all over the table to make you wince. You’re going to be finding that stuff for decades most likely. ‘Your carrier’s day card is going to be extra sparkly,’ he manages and you make a noise when you see her reach to grab a fistful of glitter. Before shoving it into her mouth.
TFP Shockwave
• That is an eerily accurate, anatomically correct heart. With heart shaped glitter and a crude doodle of the three of you on the front. Taking the card from your son, the toddler grabs at you. Climbing into your lap as you make appropriately interested noises about the card that his dad made for him to give you and your son babbles excitedly. Like everything Shockwave does, it’s not technically wrong. But it’s definitely not quite right, either. Glancing up at your husband looming and watching for your reaction, you smile and hold up the card as his antenna flick. Opening the card as your son plays with your hand, you snort at the jagged letters inside. ‘I’m pleased that I didn’t dissect you.’ Yeah. You’re happy about that, too. “Thanks,” you mumble.
It'd be so chaotic. You saw giant metal bugs mowing down your crops (aka your livelihood, aka your money) and went to investigate. They then chittered at each other before addressing you condescendingly. You offered to find them a different, more reliable food source as long as they kept out of your crops. They were not going to be ordered around by some lowly human, but the temptation of easy food access was too great to ignore.
And that's how you ended up being a parental figure to their many children they keep spawning. You wake up with half a dozen sparklings in your bed and groan as they snuggle into you, searching for warmth and the feeling of your faint internal em field. You've raised livestock before. However, that livestock has never crawled into your bed and demanded attention, interrupting your REM cycle.
It's almost ironic that the Insecticons have made their home on a farm with crops they rarely touch. It angers you when they do, and you need this stupid human currency money from the crops. It's confusing. How does your plant become this oddly colored paper? You can exchange it for a great many things. It's moronic (and fascinating).
Both the Autobots and the other Decepticons are wary of interacting with you. The Insecticons will attack any Autobot on sight. They can handle Megatron, but see him as a threat to you: their fleshy sparkmate. They get riled up when Decepticons are close to stepping on your property. They could damage something! Yes, the Insecticons are always (accidentally or otherwise) destroying things on the land you cultivate, but that's different. They've earned their place among your fields.
The government at this point just leaves you the fuck alone. Taxes? Nah, you don't have those anymore. Mortgage? It's paid for. They already have enough problems with the two alien warring factions on Earth. You subduing the Insecticons brings great honor to your country.
Just, please, don't get them to assassinate political figures you don't like. Your politicians beg of you. Your local and national representatives get jumpy whenever they hear insect sounds. They don't need their head popped by incredibly sharp mandiables. Nor do they need to be chewed to death by those robot baby alien insects.
Here comes the prologue of this monstrosity I'm making. It currently has 9-10 more chapters. It was originally meant to have like 6 but chapter 4 had to be split many times in order to make stuff viable.
Primus knows how much I owe @revelboo for the inspiration she gave me for this thing. Please check out her stories, they're fire.
And a big big thanks to @transformers-spike for motivating me and helping me out through it all.
In the natural order of things, a community is founded on cooperation and order among its members. To each, their unique strengths and the role that comes thereof. The strongest members protect the weak, provide the community with food and resources, allowing everyone to thrive. A community must desist from individualistic desires which only serve the self, creating internal turmoil which may prove fatal for the collectivity. Likewise, all members must strive towards a common goal, which ultimately consists in the wellbeing of the community itself.
A community must, above all things, ensure coordination and harmony within its ranks through the election of the appropriate leadership. Said leadership is more often represented by an elected party or a singular individual which is distinguished through its exceptional moral and intellectual qualities and its total devotion to the community.
In the absence of said leadership, the community is bound to succumb to chaos, disorder and the prevalence of short-term individual desires. The community thus ceases existing, as its fundamental principle and lifeblood is compromised. Its former members disperse or engage in competition against one another for resources. The weakest, no longer protected and nurtured by community rule, perish.
“Don’t you dare- dare! It’s mine to eat… eat!” Shrapnel snarls as Bombshell drags the meat away and proceeds to gnaw on it.
“And how exactly would you defend that statement, given that I was the one who scouted for the meal?”
And it was true. Bombshell had found the tent after the umpteenth hunt for the furry organics with side-facing optics had been inconclusive. There had been plenty upon their arrival, allowing for grand feasts. There had been peace.
Then, either their gluttonous intakes had decimated the resident population, or the organics had learned to fear them and thus adapted for better concealment. Not escape. Never escape. Once they spotted an organic, it meant certain doom.
Shrapnel hisses and transforms, pincers sharp and clicking aggressively. Bombshell follows and so does Shrapnel’s attack as the latter aims for the dents the Decepticon army had managed to leave on Bombshell’s thick plating.
They had been so close. And if the fraggers had actually managed to extinguish Bombshell’s spark, there would be one less intake to fill.
Silent, Kickback slithers underneath the fighting pair, slips in a crumpled ball of green fabric and grabs the chunk of meat, gobbling it down before the other two can even realize the exchange.
Shrapnel attempts a slicing move that sends Bombshell staggering backwards — mindful of the dents, and bites down on the meat.
It’s stuffy and dry and the texture feels more like interwoven wires rather than the chewy mesh that characterizes organics. Bombshell, however, no longer seems willing to wrestle him over the food. Instead, he stares at Kickback as the latter retreats into a corner, chewing the stolen prize.
“Look what we’ve become,” he turns back to Shrapnel. “Hiding, fighting each other for scraps. We’re turning into what we’ve always been accused of being.”
The other’s faceplates twist in disdain. “We’re only trying to survive, genius- genius.”
And that was also true.
They had joined the Decepticons not with dreams of grandeur, but with the promise that somewhat, finally, they’d have a place to call their own. A hive to thrive in, a queen to guide them. A leader who’d recognize the prowess and superiority of their frame, and likewise free them of the stigma it brought along.
None of that had happened.
Bombshell’s claws rake the dull soil. He transforms back through a pattern of sharp clicks and shifts and Shrapnel does the same.
It was a feat not many other cybertronians possessed, the ability to shift and retain their abilities in both forms — actually, he’d argue that their altmodes were even faster, stronger, more agile than their native frames. An edge that made them akin to predacons, alongside whom their ancestors roamed the rich lands of Cybertron before the age of civilization. An edge which, by the very nature of its perfection, had remained unchanged through time.
But Megatron was blind to their advantage, and all his talking about equality and the necessity to recognize the bot, not the frame, didn’t deter the chittering intakes and sharp glossas. Nor did Megatron stop them, the fragging hypocrite. No, he forced the insecticons under his rule and blatantly abused their trust. Bombshell grits his denta as he remembers feeling seen for the first time when he heard Megatron promising to shatter those heinous double-standards and lead them into a just world once and for all.
He had fought like a madmech to prove he was worthy of seeing that promise kept.
And what has all of that gotten him?
What has all that fighting and scrapping and then tolerating and keeping his claws tucked gotten him?
What has it gotten all his brothers?
Getting tossed like scrap by the leader they once admired.
That’s what it got ‘em.
A hive might reject a queen, but a queen shall never reject a hive. It was simply against nature, the very essence of natural order twisted into a pitiful imitation.
A community without a leader is marked for downfall. A hive without a queen is nothing.
Without a queen, they were few, weakened, hungry and disorganized. They had already started biting at each other’s fuel lines. It wouldn’t be long until they offlined one another.
And despite all this, they still needed to collaborate lest Megatron finalized their execution or the ball of mud they’re currently stranded on was depleted of food and available energy sources.
Kickback, as if sensing the turmoil underneath Bombshell’s plating, shifts closer with a coo and his wings flutter lightly behind him.
“Well, at least we have no Megatron treating us like foolish beasts, no more begging for energon and no submitting to those who look down upon us! We can survive, no, thrive better on our own. We are faster,” his mandibles click, “stronger, we are superior to each and every one of them! Even our dear leader.”
That word is hissed.
“He promised to protect us,” Kickback continues, his silver tongue running. “But instead he enslaved us, forced us into submission, and decimated our ranks!”
“Unworthy, unworthy!” Shrapnel rasps, sharp denta bared. He growls at Kickback and for a moment the smaller insecticon fears his brother’s poorly-concealed anger will turn into aggression. But Shrapnel just growls and clicks as he pushes against his bigger brother, hoping to stir him for another fight.
It was the only way to keep the anger at bay. This, and hunting.
But Shrapnel had never been as good a hunter as he was a fighter.
“He abandoned us.” Bombshell declares with finality, not giving in to his brother’s provocation.
“We’ll make it, without them.” Kickback adds, and Shrapnel finally relents.
Or at least, so it seems. But the big insecticon pounces on Kickback and the latter jumps back with a startled chirp. “Enough talking. I’m hungry, hungry,” he growls. “Go scout for food- food.”
The jittering bot draws his antennae back.
“We need recon, Kickback.” Bombshell adds.
And Kickback knows he has to make use of his greatest asset to appease his brothers’ hunger. His tanks churn. He needs fuel too.
The story is for an 18+ audience and is planned to include all of the following, be warned: Sexual content, depression, passive suicidal ideation, pregnancy, miscarriage, kidnapping, infertility, being broken up with due to mental health crisis, hoarder/squalor living conditions, ovipos, venom as drugs, womb fucking, and the general warnings for dealing with alien bug robots.
●●●
☆ Some days you liked to pretend that you didn't know how you got here. That the takeout boxes, stamped in Chinese characters you're mostly certain were chosen by some white man in Chicago, simply appeared one day, in that haphazard Everest beside your bed. That the smell in the sheets is new and strange and perhaps cause for a little bit of concern. That you have not yet noticed the way that the dust and detrius and God-Only-Knows built up on the windows has become enough to dull the sun. Pretend that you can fool yourself, even for a moment, that the slope you slid so easily down was something completely out of your control.
Maybe it was, at first. It had to have been, surely, but maybe that was your fault too. Maybe you couldn't bear to be in control. You try to haul yourself up from the nest of negligence your bed has long since become, dragging yourself forward on limbs that shake until a sock-clad foot touches carpet with a soft, giving crunch that you're sure shouldn't be there. An errant chip, perhaps, or some well-meaning kudzu beetle long since vaulted to Valhallah. Makes you wish it were your turn, as you shuffle forward without bothering to check, but you have done nothing noble enough to earn that final, grand acknowledgment.
The kitchen isn't clean enough to use. The dishes mock you as you make for the door, hair too much a mess to bother with touching anyway. You don't deserve the world outside the walls of your cage, but, selfishly, you do so crave the light. Luckily, there is no one near enough to see you here, in this distant cabin in the woods that was meant for a family. So much woods and yard space and freedom for little things to run about on. But empty, so very empty. There is no one to catch you but yourself when your foot rolls and you stumble to slam into the post holding up the roof, standing on the porch and breathing air that does not smell of body and meal and Lonely.
So hard to think of all those empty walls, so hard to think of that box of frames that would never have photographs. You thumb the place on your finger where a ring once lived, wonder what they are doing now. They do not stand on their porch and picture your face, you are sure. The clean air burns cold in your lungs, the chill of it bites at your skin through threadbare pajamas that had once been part of a matched set, as worn away now as you yourself.
There is an almost rhythmic booming coming from your trees. A sound like impact that you're mostly sure is not real, that is, instead, a trick of the mind. A trick, from your aching, dying head. The throb of dehydration or hunger or some other missing necessity so familiar now that the thought of being without the pain feels like one abandonment too many. Surely someone had to carry it. And surely that sound was just the natural throbbing always curled just behind your eyes, a dull pound that only felt like it could be sound.
There is a gentle trembling to your body, a soft shiver that seems almost timed to the not-real booms of impact and when the trees start to shiver in your vision, you close your eyes, lean your head against cool, dark wood, and try to pretend you are not just waiting to die. But it's hard when you can still feel the fetid heat of your rotting nest as if the sheets of your bed, that had so-long forgotten how to be dry, still clung damp and warm against your skin. Can still smell the haze of a body unbathed even against the brush of the wind, not enough to bring true cleanness into your lungs.
It's almost sad, the realization that you will never be clean again. You kind of want to be, you think, before this gnawing, pounding thing that has eaten up all of you takes up what little is left and you simply... cease.
When you open your eyes, the woods have not stopped shivering. As though they are afraid. You are sure that it is not your eyes, blinking hard to clear them just in case, but the pounding outside of you continues, loud enough now that you're starting to believe it's real, and the shaking shudders up your body like earthquake.
When the thing steps from the trees, you forget, for a moment, that you should be afraid. Forget that a life is something to fear losing.
But even when you remember, the fear does not come.
♡ Kickback could almost be fond of this planet, if it were not also the home of Lord Megatron. All around him were things that gave way beneath the force of his jaws, tree that cracked and stone that shattered, meat that sheared and bled and tore. The perfection of his people turning nearly all of this place that was so inhospitable to his lesser halfkin into fuel. Yes, he could grow to be very fond of this new nesting ground were it not for the old, weak, badgering grounder always chattering in their audials.
Followed him at first because he promised freedom. Nesting grounds. Safe places for grubs to hatch and molt and grow. But grounders are tricksy, should have remembered that they are all tricksy, so now they follow because Lord Megatron has their last Queen, and until Broadbite was safe and free, there would be no more grubs. No more Insecticons.
He clicks his mandibles soothingly at himself and banishes the thread of thought. Nothing to be done for it. Better to focus on the job. Everything would fall into place in time, Shrapnel only needed more material to work with and their hidden nest would be safe and ready. Then, if Broadbite was to be rescued, she would be properly protected. They would eat whoever dared try and steal her back.
The Era of the Insecticons was quick approaching, and no bot- Seeker, grounder, arial or otherwise- was prepared for it.
Chittering softly to himself, he was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't even notice the little human dwelling at first, when he pushed through the pines to step out into a small clearing in the greenery. It wasn't terribly large, and it seemed to be the only one. Incredibly odd, taking what he knew of human nesting habits into account. They lived in clusters of small hives or great big tower types, all of them crawling about together, so for one to be here all alone? Surely the dull remnants of a failed hive.
It wasn't until he'd taken two steps forward to examine the thing that he noticed the organic creature clinging to a structural support.
His wings twitched in surprise, a humming jolt of electricity thrumming through his leg struts for a moment at the shock of it all. A single human? Where was its hive? He bent down to take a look at you, sniffing the air, but your smell was thick and fresh, so you were certainly alive and certainly here. Was there something wrong with you? Why had your hive abandoned you? Scented again, deeper, but there was only you. No other scents at all, as if you really had been abandoned. Did humans abandon hivemates? The thought made his plates twitch.
Something else was bothering him, but it wasn't until he'd obeyed his knee-jerk impulse to pick you up that it hit him. Despite the thickness of your smell, there wasn't any trace of fear scent in the air at all. He stood straight, shook you gently, but you didn't act like other humans he'd swatted about, shook around, hunted or eaten. You just... stayed there. Limp and soft in his grip, staring up at his face with a gentle sort of docility. Looking down at the tiny, solitary nest, turning again to look around himself as if the others of your cluster could have simply been hidden from sight until this moment, he finally accepted that you were utterly alone and utterly uncaring as to his presence. Which made you something new.
Mandibles working gently in thought, it didn't take Kickback long to make a decision. He wasn't really one for weighing pros and cons anyway. Keeping his hold on your warm, squishy body light, he sang softly to you and started to make his way back towards the nest.
Was mostly sure Shrapnel would appreciate having a look at you. Would click his manibles and give a 'nice nice' in that way he did when he found something interesting. Even if he did end up eating you when he got bored. Bombshell would hiss at him for it, he was equally as certain, but it was never hard to get Bombshell to forgive him, so that wasn't much of a problem. And he'd go right back out, tear the little human hive apart for the pieces, and that would surely make up for the detour.
☆ The hold is almost careful. Running your hand against the massive finger curled around your chest, the only part of the fist that held you that you could really reach, your first, slow thought was that it was like touching the warmed metal of a car left to sit in the sun. This was probably real. The wind of your passing tugging at your knotted hair feels real. The warmth feels real. And when he starts to sing, a chattering sort of chitter, like a cicada taught halfway to be beautiful that then had to figure out the rest himself, it sounds more real than you can remember anything being.
He feels more real than you do.
Your house is drawing further and further away, but you cannot truly bring yourself to long for the muddy hallways and molded dishware and the bathroom you can no longer use. Cannot bring yourself to do anything but hang there, in the grasp of this thing that seems half kaiju anime mecha suit, half mutant bug monster from horror film, and wonder if it will hurt when he kills you. There's something halfway familiar about it, in a way. Part of you is certain that such things should not exist, but something distant and hazy insists just the opposite. It tumbles through the muddied river of your thoughts, dragging and slow, as you stare at his face.
You think it's a he, at least. Feels rude to call him it, even in your own head. Always tried to be nice to bugs. You trace the lines of his visage with your gaze, the sharp, bug-ish mandibles, the planes of his cheeks, the gentle curve of his nose, the antenna that twitch like a grasshopper's on his head. Yes, you always did try to be nice to bugs.
You think it should alarm you, that you cannot even drum up the energy to hope that this one will be nice to you. But you're far too tired for that.
Instead, you just turn away when your neck twinges a protest at the angle, fold your arms, and lay your head down on them. His hold keeps you almost safe from the wind and late-autumn chill, and the rhythm of his steps sways gently through you. You could almost fall asleep again here, that exhaustion that never really leaves brushing soothingly against your thoughts like an over-pampered pet. No need to fight, it murmurs with the cadence of affection. Just give in.
And you do.
Before the darkness settles like peace, you have the wherewithal to wonder how you're ever going to find your way back home.
Summary: The Insecticons trying to seduce reader while reader doesn't know what the hell is happening.
G1 Characters: The Insecticons, Sideswipes here too (you flirt with each other a little too but casually.)
Genre/Theme: Insecticons failing to seduce Reader.
Pronouns: You, Your, Yours, Their, Them, They
Notes: Autobot Reader! Referencing G1 episodes at the start. Part 2 of this.
You really should've known better. Really, you should have.
After someone let it slip, you knew how to make those energon goodies. The Insecticons wound up kidnapping you. Which half of It you don't even remember because of the mind control shell and the orders they gave you. But it was a day and a half for your friends to get you back from them.
Then they kidnapped you a second time when they were hopped up on that stuff that made them grow a few size classes. Oh yeah, that one ended with Shrapnel exploding because, of course, it did.
So you really should know better.
But the invasive plant fiasco happened, and you got to watch the insecticons clone army get absolutely devoured by those plants. And you were the only one watching what was the original Insecticons freaking out and desperately trying to free Kickback from the clutches of one of said plants.
You should be relieved they were gonna get eaten. It would make your jobs guarding earth a lot easier.
But looking at them panic and Kickback begging, and frankly, it actually looked like he was a nanoklick from bursting into tears. Kinda just- eh, what was the human phrase Carly used to describe that guy she had that encounter with? A pathetic bastard? Yeah, that sounds right. They looked like such pathetic bastards that you couldn't help feeling sorry for them.
You cared way too much in general.
But that's primarily why you were an Autobot and not a Decepticon.
With a sigh, you ran over and promptly slammed your pede onto the vines latched around Kickbacks leg. The plant sensing you close latched another vine out and wrapped it around your arm. You only pressed down harder on the one you were stepping on. And Bombshell and Shrapnel managed to yank Kickback free of the plants' vice grip.
They barely looked your way before booking it away from the killer plants grasp and up into the sky.
Honestly, you really did care too much. You shot Blaster a message to come your way to free you when another vine shot out to wrap around your thigh. The two limbs slowly begun to drag you closer to the main bulb of the plant.
At least these things only ate Insecticons.
-
You were stuck on patrol with Sideswipe during a slow shift. The klicks crawling by agonizingly slow. After the sixth round of your patrol route with absolutely nothing of note happening, you'd opted to take a quick break.
You were both in your root modes, and Sideswipe had moved next to the tree you were already leaning against. You arched an optic ridge at him silently, wondering what he was doing at the tree you'd already claimed as your own.
He mimicked a yawn- like the humans would do, and stretched his arms high and- his arm went over your pauldron. Sideswipe then dragged you a bit closer to his frame, and you could only level him with a blank expression.
"What? It's not like we're doing nothin' could be doing... something." Sideswipe exaggeratedly waggled his optic ridge and made the most ridiculous expression, so you knew he wasn't being serious. "Something fun maybeeee?" He nearly leaned his entire frame weight onto you, and you would've fallen if you didn't make sure to hold him up. This slagger.
Though despite your mild annoyance, your derma quirked upwards. Because two could play this game after all.
Instead of pushing Sideswipe away or breaking away like you assume he was expecting, you only leaned further against him. Your servo moved to trace the dip of his Autobot symbol. You met his gaze and arched an optic brow. And you asked if Sideswipe really thought he could handle you.
Amusement curled in your frame when Sideswipe's optics brightened a touch.
And before you could shove him away and tell him to get real, a shout made you both jump away from each other.
"Autobot!" Bombshell appeared out of the shrubbery in his alt mode. You both automatically reached for your weapons, but Bombshell kept talking. "I challenge you to a duel! No blasters, only frames!" Bombshell announced while staring right at Sideswipe.
Sideswipe thought on it for only half a nano-klick before grinning. "You're on bug boy!" You could only sigh over the response. Of course, the fight junky would take it up with no questions asked.
Which is how you end up standing on the side, watching them both circle one another like a pair of territorial turbofoxes. You'd found a dirt patch in the trees, and it was where they'd started brawling. Sideswipe lundged first and after a big scuffle ended up on Bombshell's back. Bombshell rightfully started bucking and swinging to get Sideswipe off of him. You try to cheer Sideswipe on telling him not to make the Autobots look bad and to keep it together.
But eventually, Sideswipe loses his grip he had on Bombshell's back and gets bucked off. Then Bombshell rushed him, and you half assumed Sideswipe was about to get impaled right in front of you. Only Sideswipe dodged, making Bombshell's horn scrap underneath Sideswipe's frame instead of directly stabbing him.
Bombshell then launched Sideswipe off his horn with a vengeance.
You watched Sideswipe sail into a tree and land in the dirt with a loud crash of branches and metal.
"Yes! Victory is mine!" Bombshell announced aloud and actually started shuffling like he was celebrating his win.
You call out and ask Sideswipe if he's okay.
"Yeah! Kinda scuffed but I'm fine."
Another shout makes you jolt and you turn to see Shrapnel's alt mode jump out of the shrubbery this time into the dirt clearing. But he's got his gaze set right on Bombshell instead of you or Sideswipe.
Shrapnel advanced towards Bombshell "Mine! Mine-!" He repeated aloud.
"No! Not yours! Mine!" Bombshell snapped back, his plating ruffling and shaking in anger. And just like that, they started circling each other like Sideswipe and Bombshell had.
What the pit were they even fighting over? The win?
They charged each other, and after a quick scuffle, Shrapnel managed to grab Bombshell with his big mandibles. Shrapnel whipped around and threw Bombshell against a tree. The wood cracked, and the tree fell with a loud crash. "I won! I won-!" Shrapnel quickly started celebrating.
But Bombshell didn't stay down, and he came back via rushing Shrapnel through the bushes. His horn slamming Shrapnel right in the side and sending his alt mode skidding against the ground. Shrapnel hissed, and Bombshell actually growled back at him. Seriously, what are they fighting over!? Shrapnel then let loose a discharge of his electricity, and just like that, you dived to join Sideswipe in the shrubbery.
You both decided to ditch the two of them to start making your way back to the patrol route, while you spit balled ideas on what all that was between each other. Only not too long after you started going, did you start hearing- something.
It almost sounded like- Powerglide trying to take off? Like metal spinning fast and precise. You stared at one another before electing to follow through with your patrol and investigate it.
You ended up tracking the noise together through the woods until you got closer and closer. And eventually you ended up close enough to see a frame in the woods clinging on a tree. You could see- purple and gray- oh Primus, it's Kickback.
And Kickback was? Was he making the sound? You focused your optics and could make out his alt mode legs drumming against his own wings. The reverberated noise you'd been hearing was the drumming sound of very quick metal on metal touches.
You stepped on a branch, and the sound immediately cut out. Kickback glanced your way, and you both tensed.
Only he started drumming the sound up on his wings once more while making optic contact with you in his alt mode. You cycled your optics and continued to stare astonished at the display.
A loud crash made you all snap your attention towards Shrapnel and Bombshell, who both tumbled into your area in a mess of angry bug limbs. Bombshell forced Shrapnel's helm to the side when he pushed him down, and Shrapnel let loose another discharge of his electricity. It engulfed the area making you jerk back. The burning prickles of it ghosted along your frame. Kickback yelling in pain told you he was not as fortunate as you two were.
As soon as the wave of electricity stopped, Bombshell dropped to his side and had to make an effort to get back up again. Shrapnel rose only for Kickback to descend on both of them with a vengeance. It turned into an all-out scrap between the three of them, climbing and swiping and kicking and- a shot of stray electricity nearly hit Sideswipe in the helm. You both looked at each other and turned on a pede and quickly made your way back towards your route and away from the Insecticons apparent madness.
You'd take your boring patrol shift over this any day of the week.
-
"Hold it!" Bombshell snapped, putting a leg each on Shrapnel and Kickbacks helms pushing their alt modes closer to the ground. "Where are they?" At the question, they both glanced left and right and realized like he did that you were gone.
They all broke away from one another to transform back into root mode and start cursing.
"Slagger! Slagger-! That Autobot took off with them- with them-!" Shrapnel angerly clenched his mandibles and stood up. Glancing around seeing if there was any sign for which direction you'd taken off in.
"You two ruined my show! They were interested even!" Kickback pushed Shrapnel and pointed at Bombshell. "They were focusing right on me, and you ruined it!" Kickback swung back and smashed a rock to bits with his pede, sending broken rock flying into the air. His antennas twitched, and his plating quivered in his own displeasure.
"Whatever! Whatever-! Like they'd actually go with you! You-!" Shrapnel glared at Kickback, and Kickback hissed back at him with a sneer.
"Be quiet, both of you!" Bombshell snapped and shoved them both away from one another. "Clearly, we need to re plan our seduction strategy." Kickback and Shrapnel huffed but didn't argue. "We needed that failure to remind us we aren't just trying to be their mate. We've got the entirety of the Autobots to compete with."
They couldn't argue with Bombshell on it because it was true. They were going to be fighting all the Autobots for your attention. While they were busy fighting each other, that red Autobot easily swiped you away from them.
"We'll need to work together to make them our mate." Bombshell turned and started making his way towards a clearing in the trees. "So no more fighting over them between us until we make them ours. Got it?"
"Sounds like a plan- plan-!" Shrapnel followed after Bombshell.
"Fine- the Autobots won't know what hit them when they choose us." Kickback trailed after the both of them smiling as he imagined the scene.
"We'll make them ours soon enough." With that, they all transformed back into alt mode and took to the skies. Keeping their optics open for a familiar sight of your color of paint.
Just wanted to pop in and say I love how the insections story is coming along!! They're so underappreciated so it's great to see such a good story on them 🫶🫶💗
Thank you for your marvellous writing
Thank you for all the support( ꈨຶ ˙̫̮ ꈨຶ )
Lust for Life — G1 Insecticons x f!Reader (2.2)
You're approaching the shed again. Shrapnel knows the pattern of your footsteps by now—how your shoes scuff across the garden path, the pause you always make before entering, like you're catching your breath or preparing to be devoured. But you never hesitate for too long. You should and yet you never do. He doesn't know if that makes you brave or incredibly stupid. He watches from the corner as you place the bowls down like an offering. Fruit. Protein. Sugar. He catches the scent, sweet and ripe as if wafts up into his olfactory sensors and makes his systems whir in confusion. He didn't get it at first—when Kickback wouldn't shut up about "the scent" in hivespeak. Shrapnel just assumed his trinemate was finally losing his damn processor from too much jelly exposure.
Now? He's not so sure.
But it's not just in your scent—though frankly you do smell like you've swallowed a whole jar of pure candied energon and forgot to chew. It's in the way you speak in that tone. Soft-voiced but never quiet. Always chirping at them like you're hosting a nature documentary about fun facts and weird guys you found in the rear space of your dwelling. You talk like you think they understand metaphors and sarcasm. They do. He just doesn't always want to. And he lets you get close today—closer than he should, maybe. Enough to touch his plating if you had the nerve. You don't. Not yet. For some reason, that kind of annoys him. Kind of disappointed when your fingers flutter over the moss in their makeshift home instead.
Like you're about to compliment his nest-building or the way he's been guarding your space and already hating the way it makes him feel. So unaware of the way your humming makes his plating twitch under your breath, of how the pitch vibrates his internals. And he doesn't like that. He really doesn't like that. Humming when you're calm, when you're trusting.
Stupid. Soft. Flesh-creature.
Still... he doesn't hiss this time.
• The shed smells different these days. It's much warmer, muskier. Like ozone and mulch. The kind of scent that clings to the back of your throat and nestles in your chest, even after you leave. You're not sure if it's from the moss they've lined the floor with or if your big buggy friends just smell like that. You haven't had the courage to ask apart from being ballsy enough to invite yourself into their little haven. You're bold. But not cerebro-shell consequences bold. They've been unusually hospitable lately—by their standards, anyway. You keep telling yourself you're the one letting them crash at your place or your shed, for that matter. Not above reminding them that it's yours in the first place, but you're also very aware that Bombshell could hypothetically lobotomize you with a twitch. So you settle for being their nice neighbor instead.
• Shrapnel's the first to acknowledge you today as soon as you cross the backyard. Not with words, of course, but with a shift in posture. His frame bristles, metallic plates clicking into place like armor. It's very hello I could kill you, please enjoy your stay. But he doesn't hiss so that's progress. Right? You hold up a little plastic bowl of strawberries, some protein bars, and a tube of electrolyte goo you thought they might like. Setting it on the cinderblock "table" near the wall.
“Breakfast,” you say, voice light. “Organic, non-GMO, no corn syrup. ‘Cuz I'm thoughtful like that.”
From the corner, you swear you can hear Shrapnel vent something like a suppressed snort. Or maybe it's just him coughing up the rabies infested raccoon he ate last week. You can never tell.
Still. He steps closer.
• You’re crouched beside him, fingers trailing the moss when something catches your eye. A glow—soft and blue, peeking from beneath the segmented plating of Shrapnel’s forearm as he feeds on a strawberry jelly. You tilt your head, mesmerized. It pulses faintly, like it’s alive. “Whoa,” you whisper. “Is that, like... LED? Or—”
You reach out before finishing the thought.
His whole frame stiffens the moment your fingers graze the glowing strip. The plates there twitch, one shifting sharply as if to snap shut, but you’ve already touched it—cool and slick, with a strange warmth humming beneath. Shrapnel jerks his arm back.
“What?” you blink and pull away by an inch. “Was that—did I hurt you?”
He hisses, low. Not hostile. Almost... strangled. Freezing in place as his optics flick toward you, unusually sharp. Then, in a sharp flash of shifting plates and snapping limbs, his body compacts and twists—transforms.
• You stumble back with a startled noise as the beetle uncoils into something towering and humanoid—his bot form. You've never seen him like this before. More mech than creature now, all rigid lines, impossibly alive and terrifyingly breathtaking. Up close, it’s too much: the raw heat bleeding off his plating, the sudden height, the harsh glow of his arms now fully visible across his chest and arms, pulsing in rapid succession like a warning.
“You do not touch those—those,” he grits out, bursts of static crackling in his voice.
“…S-Sorry,” the words come out in a murmur, confused but apologetic. “Didn’t know it was sensitive.”
• He doesn’t answer. Just emits a kind of growl that teeters on the edge of a deep bass rumble. You don’t know what you touched, but his vents are running harder now, and the glow under his plating has started to pulse faster. You're scared. Definitely. And questionably weak in the knees—you feel like your back is going to give out at any minute. Somewhere higher up on the wooden beams, Kickback lets out a chirp that sounds suspiciously like laughter.A chirp echoes overhead, sharp and amused. You jerk your head up just in time to see Kickback drop from the rafters like a shadow with wings, landing with a soft thud that still rattles your bones. He stretches leisurely, arms behind his head, antennae flicking like he’s enjoying the air in here way too much.
“Well, well, well,” he hums. “Curious little fingers get you in trouble again?”
You open your mouth to answer, but he’s already in front of you, crouching just low enough to meet your eye level. His smirk is all sharp denta, all smug. His optics flick to Shrapnel—still standing tense, glowing like a bomb under skin.
Kickback’s voice drips with mock innocence, “You touched his biolights.”
“Do you know what that means?”
“I—I didn’t—”
“Mating-wise, sweetheart,” he leans in just slightly, voice dropping, “that’s basically asking how many eggs he wants you to lay.”
Your face burns. Shrapnel growls low behind you, and you swear the temperature spikes by ten degrees. Kickback just laughs and nudges your chin with a claw.
