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.
List Of Perverted Unpopular Mechs With A Human Reader
I wanted to give these characters some more love. They highly deserve it and I don't need to say anymore than that!
Summary - Kup, Deathsaurus, Shrapnel, and (SGMF) MetalHawk x Femme Reader HC
Warning - NSFW
Kup
I fully believe he would be the type to keep it in, but you are making his mind spin out of control. Is he ashamed of it? Yes.
Kup has imagined you in different clothes and his digits twitch, servos clenching sometimes. He wants to touch you so bad, but he is old enough to keep himself at bay. With the mech being mature than most of the others in the Wrecker group, he is very much not going to take any action for his perverted nature unless you asked him to. With his experience, the one thing he wants the most is you crying from going over the top. He wants you to scream, struggle, anything will make you look gorgeous to the old-timer.
Surprisingly he doesn't do oral a lot, but he wouldn't mind. Kup is more of the cowgirl position, thrusting his spike inside your organic body, watching the bulge form around your abdomen. It worries you sometimes from how quiet he is during intimacy, just a few grunts and soft hums here and there. In reality, he is enjoying every second of it, relaxing at your soft touch and trying to trap the picture of your naked body in his processor.
While you work or try to have an average day, he will most likely wrap his servos around your body, keeping a hold on your hips whenever he just needs to motivate himself to keep going. "Hey kid, why don't you give a little twirl for me?"
Deathsaurus
Two things can happen. Either he lets you escape when he is bored to chase you for his own enjoyment, or he keeps you trapped in a cage like a little bird.
Think of him like an actual dragon, because he sees you as treasure that only he can look at. If anyone DARES to touch you, it would be life-ending. Your unique body intrigues him, but that just makes his activities with you more common. He loves sticking your body really close to his mouth, showing how tiny and weak you really were to him. Deathsaurus won't admit it, but he got flustered when you stuck your arm or head in-between his sharp teeth. The absolute trust you had for him was seen as impossible for others, and he adored you more because of your little curious mind.
He loves to order you around, watching with delight while you touch your lovely body. The moment you slide off your undergarments is when he starts to show hunger and restraint. The way he could just mutilate you right now grows desire in his chassis, wanting to show you how absolutely divine every curve you had was.
NO ONE KNOWS BUT YOU that he sticks his glossa out just a little bit when he gets face kisses. Just a little blep while you show him the cutest affection known in Cybertron. Deathsaurus will show 100% vulnerability if you do as well, trust is very attractive in his eyes and nothing more~ "Good pet, you will have everything that tiny head craves!"
Shrapnel
The insecticons are already horny individuals, so an organic creature makes things worse. Shrapnel was a curious case; That was not good for you at all though.
Why did you wear clothes? Don't get him wrong, it looked nice on his little queen, but the bug loved you nude. Don't cover your beautiful skin, he is sad you aren't proudly showing yourself to his other insecticon pals. Getting his face all up and personal to your chest and in between your legs was all he wanted. What makes him different from the others was actually him wanting to serve you. Shrapnel would do anything for his royal lady, even if he suffers for it.
If you force him to not touch you during sex, he wouldn't move an INCH! Would it be painful? Oh yeah, but again, Shrapnel would never disobey is queen. That being said, please give him praise after or maybe even an award by letting him touch you again, because he needs to be encouraged with such a hard challenge. If he could keep you on him 24/7, the insecticon would.
Shrapnel's problem is that he BEGS to eat you out. He wants to feed on your juices so badly, and he knows his glossa would be the best for it. "Please! Let me devour you, you~"
Metalhawk
The most respectful mech and adores you for who you are. Poor guy gets flustered if you ever express interests in his kinks and you won't regret it!
He has a thing for dry humping, observing your crotch rub against his plating and feeling his spike twitch in pleasure. Primus, you could not have been any better at teasing, watching him struggle to contain himself while you lick the valve panel. Sometimes, Metalhawk can't control himself and presses your body against his panels, using you like a toy and manually making your hips buck on his frame.
Another kink was surprisingly rope play. It could be either of you to get tied up, because honestly he loves to see you in such a vulnerable position. He doesn't mind if his legs and arms were tied either, but his main goal is to just make you happy. Overall, he is a perfect switch and don't mind testing somethings out. His aftercare is lovely and would kiss your cute lips for hours.
Call out his name if you want to see your conjunx's face plate get all blushy. Hearing your desperate calls will make his spark skip a few rotations. "Your turn, flower. Spread those beautiful legs for me, will you?"
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.
Got some new notes under my old posts and so I'm thinking about them again. They are my babies who are just a little homesick, please ignore all of the explosions
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.
