Hiii, is it possible to get a future view on what life holds with the insecticons? I find the idea of a nest full of insecticon teenagers amusing as well as concerning.
Sure!
Domestic
Insecticons x Reader
• “Carrier.” Smiling as Benji groans, you have to mentally correct yourself. Styg. Because he’s decided he’s too big for his human name. ‘You’re covered in dirt,’ you mutter licking your thumb and going up on tiptoe to reach the smudge on his cheek as the much bigger mech vents dramatically, but he allows it. And you smile when his head lowers to bump your own as the tiny, blue sparkling recharging in the sling against your back warbles sleepily. ‘You’re not hanging out with that little seeker are you?’ You ask and he groans louder. ‘She’s trouble. You two aren’t fooling around, right?’
• Clearing his vents when one of his older sons desperately makes optic contact, Shrapnel adds another log to the fire and stalks over. And you frown when he grabs your arm to spin you toward him, grinning to show his sharp denta. “Let him frag the seeker if he wants. It’s what Insecticons do best, best,” he purrs, ignoring the youngling making disgusted noises when he drags you into his frame to slide a thigh between your own. ‘I’m going to need massive amounts of therapy now, sire. So thanks,’ Stygian mutters and he chuckles as your newest sparkling chirps hungrily at your back. “What’s wrong with fragging?” He growls as you laugh and lay a hand across his mouth to push him away. “Makes more Insecticons and it’s the best thing in life, life.”
• “Behave. Though, maybe it's time you have the talk,” you say as Styg’s plating ruffles up in teenage disgust. Not that you blame him, because his dads have no censors. “Ignore your dad. He’s old and only has one thing on his mind,” you add as Shrapnel hisses at you. “Two if you count eating.” Smiling as Styg’s face turns up toward the high ceiling of the lair, you’re rubbing another smudge of dirt off his arm as he gives you an aggrieved look. Making it hard to resist the urge to ask again if he’s fooling around with the seeker he has a crush on. Hopefully he’s not since her dads aren’t exactly on friendly terms with your husbands. ‘Stop embarrassing him. Let him go tear his own place in the soft meat of this world. Eat and frag. Make your own hive,’ Bombshell calls from where he’s watching a soap opera with several sparklings recharging on him.
• “I don’t want to talk about this. Why can’t you all be normal?” Stygian growls and Shrapnel smiles crookedly, circling you as you give him a look. ‘Bring back something tasty and still squirming for your younger siblings,’ he says as you retreat and he follows. ‘They need to learn how to tear the throat out of something and make the kill.’ Venting as your eyes flash, his rumbling shifts to a coaxing purr. And his son is hurrying away, growling about therapy again as he catches you and tugs you into his frame.
• Looking up with a growl when Shrapnel hands him another sparkling, Bombshell chuckles and watches you get tossed over a shoulder. And Kickback is looking over from where he’s teaching a few of the older sparklings neocybex. Hears his brother’s frustrated chirp as Shrapnel carries you off while you laugh. Probably to add to the hive again. Sitting up to scatter sparklings, he hands off the smallest to Kickback before following you and Shrapnel as the other mech swears at him and frowns down at the warbling sparkling in his arms.
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.
The muffled noises from outside disorient you, but you’re able to figure out you’re still in the cave, still breathing. Sensations clarify in waves. Birds outside, chirping. The smell of wet stone. Your clothes clinging tightly to your body, almost suffocating you.
You open your eyes, forcing them to focus. Everything is grey.
Before your weakened body succumbs to stasis, you throw your arms up in the familiar motion of hurling your blanket off your bed — a little trick you learned after moving into your hut, to keep yourself from spiraling — except this time there’s no blanket, no bed and definitely no mattress, if all your joints screaming in unison is any indication.
You wince, cursing under your breath before you attempt to take your clothes off. Your jacket feels like a snake coiled all around your torso, the collar strangling you and puncturing the soft skin under your chin. Off with everything, away, away, you only leave the tanktop, off with the pants too, who cares, they’re unnervingly wet and God, your feet feel like you’ve been sleeping in mud on a rainy day.
The cold air washes across your dampened skin. You take a full breath, coughing right after.
You’re alone.
You’re half-naked, dirty and uncomfortable. And alone.
The bugs are gone.
The cave is a dead end. Even from here, you can see they’re not at the bottom of it. Not even outside, you’d be hearing their heavy trudging, or the beat of their massive wings.
They left.
They left.
“Expected” you say out loud as if to convince yourself of the statement. Not that you were new to talking out loud to yourself, you’ve always been your own most trusted counselor. But this definitely feels more bitter than finding out the last snack you’d carefully stored away to eat at another time (you know, those times you save something “for a better occasion” — and there are hardly any occasions to speak of) completely swarmed by ants.
You were used to it by now. And truly, you should be relieved. One less hassle, one less problem you have to deal with. Being held captive by a swarm of alien insects wasn’t exactly on your bucket list.
Then, why is your throat tight?
Must be the dehydration.
Yea, definitely that.
It’s not like you let yourself be fooled again. And surely, you’re not disappointed. Why should you be? You’re free now. Alive. Unharmed. You can go back to the real world and deal with your real world problems, lest they keep piling up ‘til they swallow you whole.
The stomach of an insect or six feet deep underground? At this point, you’d have preferred the insect. On top of everything, there’s no guarantee they’ll actually take the time and effort to bury you properly. You expect they’ll just toss your body in a ditch and be done with it.
You’ll be forgotten anyway.
Back to the real world problems.
You make a mental note to mark the cave in case you really need somewhere to stay after the eviction takes place. That, you expect it too and very soon.
You stand up, trying to hold still as you stagger and the cuts on your arm wring your skin like a washcloth.
Your head thrums lightly, your throat is dry and your tongue feels like a leather bag being dragged along a dusty road. You’re pretty sure the corners of your mouth have cuts after that much yelling last night. It stings that way.
You drag your fingers through your hair and wince at how soon they get stuck in tangles. You grit your teeth and force yourself through the pain of combing the bulk of them away.
Good thing this place doesn’t have a mirror.
You forgot to bring the bottle when you left the burrow. Great. Amazing. What else did you forget? The crooked knife. The pile of clothes from dead adventurers. No, that you probably don’t want to see ever again.
You put your pants on again. You’re stuck with the damp socks. Damp socks are better than no socks, and you don’t want to end up peeling the skin off your feet because you weren’t wearing socks. Happened once, will never happen again. Then, you tie your jacket around your waist. The air outside the cave will surely be warmer, it’ll help you dry off.
You collect your scattered belongings and head out.
Your truck shouldn’t be too far. But first, you need to find water. And retrieve your weapons.
“Queen, yea, queen of the fucking clowns!”
You kick something out of your path. Screw it. Screw everything, actually. The goddamn bugs first.
Irritation bubbles up in the pit of your stomach like half-digested frozen pizza. The kind that makes you vomit as soon as you bend down to tie your shoes. Not even the warm, fragrant smell of fresh leaves washed over by sunlight manages to distract you. And your socks are still wet.
The thrill of the hunt, that’s what they wanted. Not even company, no, company at least ends up with a good fuck, and you’ve been short on those since the good ol’ college days. Which you don’t miss, not really, because even then all you truly did was help someone else get their fill. This was no different. You half expect the insects to jump out of the woods and begin the hunt anew, just to run you through and through until there’s no air left in your lungs. And then begin again. Fox and the Hound style, until they get bored. And then, only then, they’ll eat you. Yes. That’s exactly how things will go.
You better find the damn rifles and aim for the little shits’ heads instead as soon as you spot ‘em.
The forest is placid. The faint rustling of wind seeping past tree branches is soothing to your ears. At least you have this. Yes. This, and the indomitable human spirit. This will serve you well, will keep you going on no matter how deep life intends to drag you down.
Finally, you hear the distinct sound of running water.
You waste no time running towards the source of it, a rivulet streaming past the bigger trees. You dive your face into it and begin drinking in large gulps, mindless of the debris flowing along its course. A little flavour never hurt anybody. The water is wonderfully fresh and invigorating, just what you needed. You drink until your stomach is full, then you take a full breath and this time, you don’t cough. For the first time today, you smile.
You run your palms over your arms, sticky with dried sweat. The wound doesn’t seem in bad condition. You wonder how you survived that long without disinfecting it first. You must have been feverish during the night, must’ve caught an infection and fought it off during sleep. Would explain why your clothes were all damp and your skin is so damn sticky.
You push your good arm deep into the rivulet until you touch the earthy bottom.
You remove your clothes, stretching them across the grass splotched with sunlight to dry them up the best you can. Then, you jump into the water. The rivulet barely reaches half your thigh, so you kneel and let it enfold your body entirely. A satisfied sigh leaves your battered throat.
The fresh stream washes the dirt off your body, and with it, your unsavory thoughts. Fish swim past your legs as you bathe, humming away as you take your time to scrub away sweat and dead skin. Yea. At least, you have this.
It’s just you and nature all over again. And this, no one can take away from you.
There’s a rustling of leaves somewhere near the horizon, where the foliage grows thicker and the undergrowth ends. A faint, distant noise accompanied by the characteristic shaking of trees being perturbed by the passage of large fauna. You gaze lazily at it, not yet willing to depart from the water and its tender and soothing stream.
Then, you hear roaring. The shaking tree falls down as if pushed by violent force, a low rumble follows.
You jump out of the water with one swift movement, eyes centered on the source of the noise.
Another. More rustling.
You look around and scout for anything you might use as a weapon, but there are only stones and damp roots. You should have looked for the rifles before daring to take a bath, so much for survival instincts!
You reel back as three pairs of wings appear against the horizon, massive bodies taking off in the distance as branches snap and foliage goes flying all around. The three shapes fly right at you, covering incredible distance in mere seconds. Your body wires itself to run, to flee, to hide from those massive predators but you steady yourself against your deepest instincts — no, you won’t start the chase again. You’re done with being toyed with.
Despite yourself, your damp skin shivers.
You blink, and a loud, blaring noise of flapping wings deafens your ears.
You clench your jaw.
They land all around you with sharp thuds, claws raking the earth before they transform in a violent frenzy of metal snapping and grinding, sharp hisses coming from their whole bodies as whatever their alien suspensions they have click into place. You hold your breath as you stand among them, not daring to run.
Now humanoid, their stance is no less predatory. They hold their wings high, circling like vultures. Snarling.
“If you think I’ll run, y’got the wrong fucking idea,” you whisper, more to yourself than to them, angry gaze focused on the biggest of them. Bombshell growls back, teeth concealed behind his mouthpiece.
Shrapnel hisses while Kickback only slightly snarls. If something, he appears pained. Antennae flat against his head, despite his wings being held the highest.
You ball your fists, ready for the confrontation.
Bombshell speaks first.
“Another traitor queen has abandoned its hive,” his deep voice is surprisingly controlled, despite the aggressive attitude. He stands higher than his companions, resolute, almost.
“Come again?”
“You have accepted our benevolence, let yourself become our queen and tie yourself to the hive. Only to break your vow as soon as you were left unsupervised.”
There’s a cold edge to his words, as if he expected they’d be spoken. A calm, controlled violence that will only culminate in an execution, and the umpteenth of their unfair meals.
“The vow cannot be broken,” he continues, same edge. “You abandoned us, you will pay with your life.”
Shrapnel hisses. Kickback lowers his wings.
On the other side, the human watches. Something clicks, and it may be due to your scarce survival instincts, but the prospect of death is not the one detail your mushy, foolish brain decides to focus on.
You mouth the words before you speak them.
“Abandoned you?”
It finally registers, and after it does, it shoots a hole right through your chest. Before your hurt can turn into sadness, you drive it into anger.
You break your forced stasis in favor of aggressively stomping towards Bombshell, finger pointed at his chestplate.
“Don't you ever accuse me of leaving. That's not something I do. That's not something I ever did,” you spit at him, fury twisting your features in a snarl. “You left me alone in that cave. What was I supposed to do? Wait an’ wail like a frail maiden ‘till my husbands were back from the war, hm?”
You’re face to face with him, heaving deep enough to fog his mouthpiece. He doesn’t retract it, doesn’t give you satisfaction.
“You expected me to sit all nicely in that cave ‘till the asscrack of dawn? Well fuck you! Y’all could’ve been dead for all I knew!”
Kickback chirps something, not daring to intervene.
“How was I supposed to know you were actually coming back?!”
“You didn’t expect us to?”
Mind games? Bring it, bug.
“OF COURSE I DIDN’T.”
“So, you abandoned your hive out of a proofless claim?”
“YOU ABANDONED ME!”
You smash your fist onto his chest. A loud metallic pang silences every other noise. Pain jolts from your knuckles, up your wrist, so clear you almost see white. Not enough to make you scream. No, you clench your jaw as you keep staring at Bombshell, fury red and crackling.
Kickback flinches.
He and Shrapnel are quiet behind the two of you, wings and antennae tucked. Shrapnel, of all mechs, reins back.
“You have no idea. Oh, you have no fucking idea. Don’t you fucking dare accuse me of leaving. Y’left me in the cave. You abandoned me.”
Something’s prickling at the corners of your eyes. No. Absolutely not now.
From the depths of your mind, something calls to an audience that is not the unlucky bunch snarling against your face, but rather, faint ghosts of the past which happen to demand answers when it is the least convenient.
Your voice is barely a whisper.
“Of course I wouldn’t have left.”
You always meant to stay. It was the others who left.
You remove your fist, noticing how Bombshell’s plating is not even bent. He remains silent, eyes dimming, as you slowly massage your knuckles.
The pulsing pain breaks the silence, at least.
“Fierce, stubborn queen,” he finally says. Then, he transforms and takes flight, sending a mess of leaves and dirt flying all around.
Coward.
You spit on the ground, trying to collect yourself as a barely perceptible warbling follows Bombshell’s departure. Despite yourself, your body relaxes as if on command. They’re doing it again, the manipulative bitches.
“Stop it,” you whimper. “Seriously.”
You close your eyes, shoulders slumping. The noise stops.
Kickback transforms into his smaller form and hurries to you, wings quivering as he circles you and gently pinches you with his insectoid mandibles. Shrapnel clicks his pincers in the direction towards which Bombshell fled.
You let out a tired chuckle.
“If that’s your version of flippin’ the bird then I’ll allow it, but remember I’m mad at you too.”
Shrapnel growls. “Our queen vibrated during recharge, recharge, venting like a seeker with half-eaten turbines, turbines,” he grins like he was recollecting a personal memory.
“Vibrated?” you almost snort. “What am I, a Nokia?”
Kickback accidentally nips your buttcheek and you smack him in the head, making him hiss. “HEY WATCH YOURSELF.” Pain swarms across your palm before you realize you’re still naked.
“It’s the truth. Your frame shook while you recharged, leaking beads of clear liquid across your panels,” Kickback pleads, “your core temperature lowered and lowered. We warmed you with our frames. We thought you were sick, in need of fresh fuel. So, we hunted for you. And when we returned, you were gone.”
“We were furious, furious.” Shrapnel’s visor shines a deep red. “We thought someone had snatched you from us, us.”
But there were no signs of commotion. No trails, no spilled fuel on the ground. Only the small prints of your pedes disappearing into the organic biome. You had left of your own accord, Bombshell and Shrapnel himself roared their fury at your betrayal.
“Bombshell swore he’d snap the helm right off your frame, frame,” Shrapnel watches as you collect your flimsy frame coverings, scowling at him whenever his gaze fixates on your flabby form a nano-klik longer than allowed. “A traitor queen cannot be allowed to live, live.”
Such would be the general rule. How he’d have loved to snap Megatron’s frame in two and gorge himself upon the energon gushing from the fuel lines. A much deserved end, one he could never hope to deliver alone.
His claws close around one of your coverings, holding it up for you to grab. You hastily do so.
“You are no traitor, are you, you?” he licks his teeth, a hidden threat behind his words.
“What do you think, Stapler?”
He growls.
“Of course our queen is no traitor!” Kickback snaps at him, before transforming into his native mode anew and helping you gather your belongings. He hands them to you gently, yet he doesn’t shift his gaze as you quickly dress yourself, which makes the ordeal a lot more embarrassing for you. As awkward as it is, it seems your bug companions have no notion of modesty or simply, their alien brains cannot fathom the idea.
“Our queen must have been looking for resources, and would have been at the nest by the time we returned!” he continued, overzealous, knowingly leaving out the part in which you swore you didn’t expect them to return. “Isn’t that true?”
You roll your eyes as you zip your jacket all the way up. The dampness has not subdued entirely, but the fabric is pleasantly warm and dry enough to be worn again.
“One of the resources is streaming beside me just now, you make the call.”
The two insecticons examine the water flow, as perplexed as two toddlers watching a line of ants carrying bread crumbs. Shrapnel plunges his servo into the stream, observing the water trickle into his seams before he retreats it, hissing.
“Human liquid energon, energon. It seeps into the internal grid and rusts, rusts.”
“I don’t get you much, but I need this to live. You leave me out here without water, I won’t last a day. You hear me?” You don’t seriously have to explain the rule of three to them, do you? Except they must know nothing about human survival, and apparently, you’re going back. And since you are going back, you need to make your basic needs known.
You sigh, shaking your head harshly as you cleanse your messy brain. Then, you lie down. Shrapnel and Kickback exchange a puzzled glance, but follow you onto the thick bedding.
For a long moment, there’s only silence. And the sound of their quiet chittering.
“I have no choice, do I?” you mutter, more to yourself than to them. “I am your queen, no going back?”
“The vow cannot be broken.” Kickback repeats his brother’s words, albeit in a gentler tone. He chirps, stretching closer to you like a domesticated rabbit. You observe the crown of trees above, the branches entangling, leaves holding on steadily despite the jagged geometry of their anchorage.
You smile, despite yourself. “That vow of yours… it binds you too? Mean you’re stuck with me, same as I’m stuck with you?”
Shrapnel rumbles. “Us insecticons belong to the hive, hive. There is no hive without a queen, no queen without a hive. We all belong, belong.”
You turn around, facing Kickback who’s now merely inches from your face. You bring your hand upon his cheek, noticing his antennae flick up. You grab one, this time gently, and rub it between your index and thumb. He chirps, content, an innocent look upon his unsightly bug face.
“Belong, hm? We’ll see about that.”
You should leave. Take everything and not look back, not trust. But a part of you snarls and snaps, and your chest aches as you watch Kickback enjoy the tender touch of your hand.
So you don’t.
“Reckon I’ll have plenty of time to teach you how to hunt.”
Like dogs stirred by the mere mention of treats, they jump onto their legs.
“Hunt, hunt!” Shrapnel shrieks, “we must feed, feed!”
You chuckle as you sit up. “Alright, alright. We’ll hunt. But first– we bring some water back. Then the rifles. Then we call the big fella back, ’cause we got a whole mess of things to haul.”
You initially thought you’d be a rather pleasant roommate. Especially given the little space you have to work with and the few belongings that actually matter to you enough to force your bugs to sneak out of the forest and help you move. It took a lot of convincing for them to leave the den unguarded, but again, you needed your human resources much like Kickback tried to explain to his companions, with a rather heated endorsement from your part.
First, it was the water tank. You didn’t trust yourself enough with simply building a retainer out of wire and cloth, albeit you did set up a similar contraption outside the cave itself to catch rainwater. Bombshell watched, fascinated, as you fastened the knots around the corners of the large plastic veil. Inside the den, the old cistern from your hut. Patched up and yellowed by the years, but still did its job efficiently and granted you a stable reserve of water.
Second, the furniture and bedding. That was easy enough, given how little the termites had spared, but you did manage to bring along a single cabinet, much to Shrapnel’s distress as you had to fasten the thing onto him (which he found absolutely unbecoming of an insecticon warrior). The old mattress you left to keep warming up the mold, but you did bring the duvet and all the blankets you could find.
They made you a nest, then, a rather cozy (and surprisingly, dry) all-natural alternative to the commodities of modern civilization – that is, only fallen leaves were suitable for the job, which you patiently refurnished with scraps and ribbons of fabric from your own clothes and sheets. Kickback had his fun helping you tear them to shreds and nestle the fabric among the leaves. The pile that came thereof was much more comfortable than the moldy mattress could ever hope to be.
The weapons and ammunition you brought along entirely, and even retrieved those you scattered around in the fateful night in which you thought your short and miserable life had finally come to its end. The good ol’ AR-10, poor thing, was stuck barrel-first into a shallow pond, and some spider already tried to lace up its butt. Needless to say, it was a pain to make fire again. But somehow you managed, and spared yourself from the thought of Pops’ disappointed stare.
You carried your guitar on your own, adamant none of the bugs were to touch it, and offered it the driest spot as far from the nest as possible. For the bugs, it was a mere sac encasing something hollow inside. For you, a precious keepsake you were still not comfortable enough to show.
As for the eviction notice, there was a sort of childish glee in the way you held it out for Shrapnel to examine, and beckoned him closer, shaking the envelope in front of his optics. It was tasty, you told him. Although he didn’t find it all that tasty after he tried it for himself, the satisfied smile on your somatic panels suggested that taste wasn’t the main reason you fed it to him.
Someone back in college used to say that humans were not biologically wired for the life bestowed upon them by the societal machine in which each and everyone of us was born. None of us had wanted it, none of us would choose it if presented with another chance. A different path. This someone sustained that in a few years, there would come a trend of people dressing in petticoats and growing vegetables from their own gardens, and others watching, longing for a similar life. They said that this trend would become as popular as skinny jeans and heavy eyeliner and demotivational posters currently were. And all that was hella popular.
But you didn’t think the person was wrong. No, actually, you yourself longed for something similar, if not, even more atavic. The absence of that societal machine in its entirety, its false promises and weak bonds replaced by the strength of a pack. Something other than Man, something that could belong only to you, something that could never leave. Somewhere you were wanted, needed. Like thin sleet over winter fur, the first sunshine after frost.
The complete, full knowledge that somewhere, to someone, you were dear. And that leaving was not optional.
But for years, you never had that chance. This was your life, your finite, imposed life, and all you could do was adapting to choices which were not your own.
And you longed, and longed. And when you lost everything, the longing became aching, and then the aching became survival.
And then, something came and shook your core and now, you’re sprinting past bushes and branches, thick thuds of metallic paws echoing alongside your own steps. And you’re hunting, chasing game, and you can cling on a silvery carapace if your limbs get tired, and the hunt goes on. The wind flicks past your face to redden your cheeks and ruffle your hair, and a pair of strong legs lifts a body from the ground and off it goes, landing on the wild boar you’d pointed as your prey and snapping its neck between powerful jaws. The pack rejoices, thrilling and roaring, and the one who made the kill rubs his head onto your hand, demanding approval.
And now, your heart is full. Weary, distrustful at its core, but full. For the thrill of the hunt unites the pack, washing away the last remnants of the life you’ve lived before. The life you’ve longed to leave behind for longer than you dare remember.
There is a cleanness to life that can be had when you but hunt and eat and sleep. In the end, no more than this is really needed by anyone.
Days pass, maybe weeks, and you never have to worry about payments due, and you’ve got to keep all your weapons, and even that one cabinet not swarmed with termites. Except, Shrapnel liked to file his pincers on it, and accidentally set it on fire with a spark of electricity, and you had to dispose of it before the flames spread to the rest of your belongings. In hindsight, you wonder if that wasn’t payback for the humiliation he had to endure by carrying it all the way to the den.
No one is allowed to touch the guitar for obvious reasons. Luckily for you, they don’t seem all that interested in the strange curvy sac. The bugs, save for Bombshell, prefer to stay away from your firearms as well. Once, you caught Bombshell toying with the knife you’d stuck in his back — well, what remains of it, studying it meticulously as to unravel the secret of how it even managed to pierce past his plating. As he realized the blade held no inherent power, and the reason he was bested lied simply in your combat skills (and your desperation-driven recklessness), he tossed the knife aside with an annoyed grunt and proceeded to glare at you as you snickered under your breath.
But the stance of his, and the fresh hare he presented to you that night, yours and yours alone lest his brothers taste the sharpness of his fangs, prove that he expected nothing less. And that a strong Queen deserves to be followed and cared for.
Another time, Kickback returned with a scrap of fabric wadded up between his mandibles, lower body cold and dripping like he’d been bathing in the same rivulet in which they found you when you first snuck out of your den. And you can imagine why, given the fresh blood, smeared in patches, that clung to his carapace. And of course, the smell of meat from his breath.
He’d been refueling without sharing with the rest of the hive, and he wasn’t careful enough when trying to erase the signs of his misdeed.
Shrapnel and Bombshell almost killed him for the affront. But then, he tried to explain that it was the kind of meat you adamantly refuse to eat, that he’d been wandering too far and the unsuspecting prey was too tempting to leave. It was only when you interceded for him that the other two finally calmed down. You removed the fabric — likely from a fleece jacket, muddy and wet — with trembling hands and demanded neither Kickback nor any other insecticon ever refuel on that kind of prey ever again, no matter how easy a kill. They promised. Bombshell still flung Kickback onto the wall with his powerful horn.
Needless to say, Kickback was banished from the recharge snug pile that night.
(They’d kept you warm all night then, back when you were sure the cold and humid air must have settled in your bones and the feeling of your clothes glued to your skin was a direct consequence of that. Instead, you found out about the peculiar, surprisingly tender way they liked to sleep the night after. You were offered a cozy spot between a wing and the side of a carapace; Bombshell’s large body rumbled pleasantly while Shrapnel was huddled at your feet, and Kickback offered his wing as a blanket to avoid crushing you under himself.
Beneath you, the pile of scraps (yours, perfectly clean and not death-ridden) and dried leaves gave in gently under your combined weight, all while shielding you from the hard pavement and offering insulation worthy of a modern submarine.
Despite your initial doubts, you did sleep soundly, lulled by Kickback’s soft buzzing and the quiet thrumming of working machinery coming from underneath Bombshell’s plating. You even dared to press your cheek against it, earning a growl from the big insecticon. Slowly, you were sung to sleep by the rhythmic noises of gears whirring and ticking, fuel pumping through tubes and tubules and the conscious yet dwindling thought of being pressed against a sentient alien machine with the instincts of a beast.
Then your muscles untensed all at once, and the thought was forgotten.
You could barely remember a time you’d slept so comfortably.
The day after, Kickback had his chest pressed against your back, wings tucked behind his back as his claws circled your torso. Your skin was dappled with beads of sweat and your cheeks were slightly flushed, and at the corners of your eyes sat the kind of tears that testify an excellent slumber. You blinked them away as you stirred, and Kickback let you out of his embrace with a purr.
You looked at him, at the innocent look in his crimson visor, and wondered about a time in which you loathed waking up alone in your bed. Back when no one stayed.)
“You’re making him soft.”
“Oh, what’s the point of choosing a soft, puny queen as your own if y’didn’t need a lil’ bit of softness in your lives already?”
Bombshell scoffs. “Insecticon warriors are not meant to be coddled like sparklings.”
You shift in your seat of leaves and fabric scraps, not once stopping your caresses on Kickback’s helm. The weakest insecticon, on his part, tries his best to ignore his bigger brother’s scowl.
“Let me ask you a question, big guy.” And you’re playing with Kickback still, tracing the seams between his faceplates before you gingerly brush a finger across his lip. He parts his jaws, showing you rows of sharp metallic teeth. You draw your finger in, slowly, and push your fingerpad against the apex of a tooth. Kickback remains still, letting you explore him.
“Go on.”
“Why’re you guys a group? I mean, if you didn’t want any weakness to tether yer strength, why bother forming a hive?”
Bombshell tilts his head like a perplexed fox. “Strength is in numbers. An insecticon needs a hive.”
You grin and point your other index at him. “Now,” you begin, “what good would an insecticon be without a hive?”
Shrapnel intercepts, settling himself between you and Bombshell as the latter growls, challenging you.
“Nothing, nothing.” he answers for Bombshell. “An insecticon without a hive is as good as scrapped, scrapped.”
“Bingo!” you say, triumphant. “The strength of a wolf is the pack, the strength of the pack is the wolf. I’m sure none of ya truly understand the analogy but let me break it down for y’all. You’re nothing without me” — at that, Bombshell hisses — “And you’re nothing without one another. Because all a pack, well, a hive, is founded on is the connection among its members. And connection is built on trust, yes? T’s built on bonds.”
You draw your finger out of Kickback’s mouth, scratching him under his chin while your other hand lays open-palm caresses on his back and reaches for the wings. Kickback makes a noise between a click and a purr, wings vibrating idly.
“If ya can’t be soft around those you trust, do you even trust ‘em at all?”
You turn to Bombshell.
“And if y’don’t trust each other, can you even call yourselves a hive?”
“Don’t you dare question our loyalty to the Hive,” Bombshell snarls.
“A soft queen is the downfall of a Hive.”
He watches you gravely, hissing the words as if you had personally offended him. You return the stare, not submitting to whatever power games he’s trying to play.
“You didn’t call me soft with a knife wedged in your back, now did you?”
He growls and retreats his mouthpiece to bare his teeth. You curl your lip to expose yours, more mocking than aggressive.
Shrapnel’s panels flare up.
“An uncaring queen is the downfall of a Hive,” Kickback whispers.
You all turn towards him.
Your gaze grows cold. Is he about to bring up what happened after you woke up cold and alone in the cave?
“What’cha tryin’ to say?” Translation: Watch yourself, bug.
Kickback lowers his head, insectoid eyes dimming. “Our previous queen was uncaring. Our previous queen promised us greatness, and delivered slavery and pain.”
It’s Shrapnel’s turn to hiss. “Death to the false queen, queen!” He shoots electricity from his talons and barely misses your exposed foot as you jerk away.
“Calm down you overcharged taser, y’could’ve fried my foot!”
Kickback growls at him. He ruffles his plating like a cat, but finally sits down beside you. Bombshell still stands.
You choose to dive back into the topic and give them a confused look. “You had another queen? When? Was she that bad?”
Bombshell intercepts. “Lord Megatron, Leader of the Decepticons. Our former queen, our guide on Cybertron.”
You hum. “Sounds like a big shot.”
He ignores you, glaring at the entrance of the cave as if even mentioning the guy puts him on edge. He snarls, mouthpiece snapping shut. Kickback’s wing extends over you, thin metal gleaming white over the light of your old battery lantern. In the warm light, you can see dents over Bombshell's plating as it flares up, much like Shrapnel’s had done earlier.
“We were many, strong, united,” he continues, “we owned the sky and land. No common cybertonian could match us. No prey could escape us, not the seekers, nor the land-bound. We feasted, our swarms hunted and conquered.”
“Our strong fangs and sharp talons made easy work of their mesh, mesh, oh how I crave the frizz of freshly spilled energon, energon!” Shrapnel muses, dreaming about sinking his teeth into living metal and lapping away at streaming energon as flickers of pulsing spark prick his taste receptors. Suddenly, he’s left hungry for energon in the way a shark trapped in a freshwater pond longs for the sea. Red-fuelled earthlings might closely replicate the feeling, but never compare. Never fully.
Bombshell continues.
“We are the last of our soldiers. Our glorious swarms have long been lost, our feasts forgotten. The fear we commanded turned into disdain, crushed under a queen who did not love us. Who dismantled our ranks and still demanded obedience,” his voice turns rougher.
“Megatron was no insecticon, he could never give his spark for the Hive. Not like a queen should. He offered us a place in the world he promised to build, and cast us away from it. Not a queen, not a leader. Not a Lord.”
He turns to you, gaze razor-sharp.
“Not an insecticon.”
He pounces on you, tumbling the lamp over and forcing his brothers to scatter. Both of them draw out their wings and hiss as Bombshell pins you onto the ground, growling. You stare at him, wide eyed, your chest quickly rises and falls, muscles tense as the weight of his claws almost crushes your arms.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
He retracts his battle mask yet again, metallic teeth dangerously close to your throat.
“That’s why I did not trust. If a cybertronian queen led our Hive to its downfall, then an organic, alien queen could only do worse,” he huffs against your face. “I could not believe I’d make a queen out of helpless prey.”
His tongue flicks out before he shuts his mask closed again. Then, he lifts his weight from your poor limbs and lets you sit up against the stone wall. Of course, you still glare at him.
“Instead, you bested us, made me fear the prick of your blade, and afterwards you cared for the Hive better than Megatron ever did in vorns of war. More insecticon than any spawn of Primus.”
You raise both your eyebrows as you massage your left arm — There’s scar tissue all over the skin, but the shredding has long healed — You don’t know if you should feel weird about it or incredibly flattered.
“Our organic queen speaks of trust. I trust it won’t betray the Hive.”
“For starters, I’m not a ‘it’,” you say as you readjust the lamp and check it doesn’t have any cracks. “Also, you should work more on your manners, other than yer trust.”
Kickback returns to his place on your lap, still growling at Bombshell.
“Must have been a real pain in the ass, this Megatron,” you offer. The light shines bright inside the battered lantern, as if it hadn’t been touched at all.
Bombshell rumbles. “He was a gladiator, once. Scraped from the bottom of the barrel, he claimed to understand what it meant to be last.” To look around and only see enemies, to be forged by an unkind destiny, always looked down upon, sometimes feared, never trusted.
“He offered us hope, united our ranks under a common banner, and once it came to wage war against the Prime” — Both his brothers hiss in unison, as if the mere mention of the word riles them up — “he forgot what he stood for.”
Somehow, the image of Ashley claiming to be your friend the whole recess just for you to find out the school election was to be held the following day, appears crystalline into your mind. In hindsight, its importance was rather trifling, and you’re left thinking that for once your cloud overhead is not the blackest.
You make a move to nibble your nail with your free hand and notice how the white part has grown from jagged shards into a neat, united arch. You choose to draw your finger away. For some reason, you don’t feel the need to bite your nails.
“Sounds like you guys were dealt a rough hand.” You keep petting Kickback’s helm, trying your hardest to imagine a foul beast in the place of the domesticated puppy you have snuggled on your lap. “What’s the Prime?”
Bombshell glances sideways at you, eyes gleaming sharply. “Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots and sworn enemy of Megatron and his Decepticons. And to this cycle, ours as well. Prime stood by the weaker ones, who claimed our kind could not be allowed to live. His people began the chase for our extinction.”
“So you hate his guts?”
“All but our insecticon brethren are our enemies. Only the four of us remain. All else, enemy.”
Again, you apparently count as an honorary bug.
“Us humans had somethin’ like that once, tribes and villages. Now we call ‘em families” — your heart is crossed by a flash of frost — “when they last, of course.” Your gaze grows cold, but you choose not to let your mind drag you back there. “Your brethren. Were they all killed?”
“The council outlawed us. The Autobots first, and Megatron’s recklessness then, finalized the extermination. We couldn’t multiply fast enough to keep our ranks from plummeting.”
Maybe it’s the tiredness, but you scowl as if genuinely displeased. Shrapnel quietly lowers his helm so the dull side of his pincers is pressed against the small of your back, optics looking into the dark depths of the cave. Soon, it’ll be the time for you to crawl back onto your nest and recharge.
You yawn sluggishly. Then, a thought hits you.
“Wait, how do you guys multiply?”
Kickback grins against your lap. “By multiple ways.” He snickers as if enjoying the wordplay.
For the umpteenth time tonight, you frown. No, they can’t possibly-
“Cybertron bears its creations,” Bombshell reprises.
“But us insecticons can aid it, it. Primus can absorb the pods laid out after interface, interface, and use them as seeds for the next generation, generation.”
You stare at Shrapnel for a long time. Interface? Interface is what you use to connect two devices through a- no. No. Let it be just your dirty mind playing tricks on you. It can’t mean that.
“Do you not interface among your families, families?”
You are overcome with pure, unfiltered horror.
“NO WE DON’T.”
“Too bad, bad. It strengthens bonds and solidifies the hierarchy, hierarchy,” Shrapnel growls at Kickback and the latter makes a show of raising his wings and standing on the thin ends of his talons, looking like a cat on the defensive.
You try to wash down the notion that perhaps your alien bugs, for the lack of a better term, mate. And fail. Spectacularly. However, before your disgusted face turns into a full-on grimace, Bombshell snarls to hush his brothers.
“Enough talking for this cycle. Our queen needs to recharge, the prime time for hunting is soon. Leave it at once.”
“How many times I gotta tell you I ain’t some ‘it’?”
You collapse onto your comfy nest, trying to digest today’s conversation. Exterminations, queens, and interface, all mushed up into your poor overworked brain. Kickback crawls beside you, attempting to occupy the spot he has cut out for himself since you claimed the high end of the nest. Shrapnel and Bombshell occupy themselves with securing the perimeter of the cave before they attempt to climb into the pile, so the smallest insecticon has the chance to claim the spot closest to his queen with little to no confrontation.
Before he attempts to press his body against yours (and kindly offer you his warmth), you turn around and press a finger against his olfactory ridge.
He coos, apologetic for something he doesn’t quite understand — again, his human queen is strange in more than one way, but he’s been quite competent at entertaining your qualms, even those he can’t fully grasp. His acknowledgement seems to appease you, at least.
You turn to him sideways, optics staring at the ceiling, as you wait for his brothers to join in. Not touching him.
Nevertheless, you still end up scooting closer to him to leech off as much body heat as you can, before the depth of the night brings your rest, and with it, its shivers.
The sun is rising. Soon, the whole forest will be washed into its glow, but the inhabitants of the forest are only beginning to cease their slumber and exit their dens, hoping to reap the first gifts of the day.
The hunt awaits.
Shrapnel chitters when you grab your rifle and load it with ammo, recognizing the distinct ritual that precedes a trip. Fuel floods his ducts and collects at the bottom of his intake, trickling between his teeth as he pictures his jaws snapping onto an organic body, squishy red mesh giving in as entrails splatter against his faceplates.
Kickback chirps in that affectionate way of his, although his hunger is one and the same. Bombshell watches as you get ready, standing guard at the entrance of your den. He’s already transformed, ready to follow your lead.
No more will he slash and beat for a bite. His choices will be his own, for himself and the wellbeing of the Hive.
His brothers join him at the entrance. You secure the dagger at your hip before hopping onto his back. His carapace snaps open and his wings spread wide, glistening in the golden sunlight.
He takes flight, you with him; his brothers at his side.
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.
