Revel

• Hissing as he circles Bombshell, Shrapnel hunches slightly as his plating flares in warning. Wanting to tear into the other mech. Make him admit that he knows you’re not a threat. Because he doesn’t understand any of this. Insecticons aren’t meant for this. To socialize outside the hive and make friends with food. And you’re other. Not one of them, so you have to be food. Except he doesn’t like that thought anymore and it confuses him. Makes him angry. “Not one of us, us,” he snarls, lashing out. Settling the argument the only way he knows. With force.

• “They’re ours,” Bombshell hisses as he slams into Shrapnel and the two go rolling. Circling and chirping, Kickback’s clawed servos flex with the excitement and need to get in on the fight even though he knows he’ll end up taking the brunt of it if he does. Watching as they bite and tear at each other to fill the air with the sweet tang of energon, he considers Bombshell’s claim. That you’re theirs even though you’re not one of them. Not food. Nervously swiping his claws against an antenna as Bombshell’s mask retracts to sink his denta into Shrapnel’s side, the other mech claws free, hissing.

• Energon dripping down his chin onto his chassis, Bombshell watches Shrapnel grimace as he touches his side. “They’re ours, ours,” Shrapnel finally mutters, tone sullen with defeat. Licking energon off his servos, Bombshell rumbles softly. Understands Shrapnel’s frustration, though. If you’re not food, what are you? Soft and warm. Helpless. Where do you fit in the hive hierarchy? Growling, his battle mask clicks back into place. Barely pays attention to the other Cybertronians, but he’s heard them talking about conjunxes. About human conjunxes. And you’ve been courting them as foolish as it is.

• Startling awake, for a moment you have no idea what woke you up but then you hear the tapping again. Sliding out of bed, you stare at the shadowy shapes moving outside your balcony. Skin crawling, you ease closer and relax when you realize it’s your mechs in their giant, bug altmodes. Just chilling on the side of the building, crawling around. What are they doing? And then one of them chirps before all three start making a sibilant, creaking cacophony that has your skin crawling because it’s like cicadas screaming dialed up to one hundred. Shoulders hunching as you stare at their shapes moving around on the glass, claws tapping, you back up toward your bed as you hear your neighbor screaming profanity.

• Wheezing as you hook a finger in the neck of your shirt while sweat slicks it to you, you’re startling when servos brush your temple. Staring up at him as he leans down, his head tilts slightly, visor brightening. “I’m good,” you manage, guessing he’s worried. He has to be used to you gasping and sweating after a run at this point, though. “Just feeling that burn.” Which is supposedly a good thing, but you’re not loving it.

• Hand still extended as you slowly straighten, he has the urge to hook his servo in the neck of your covering. To tug you into his frame. Instead, he lets his hand fall. This fixation with you isn’t healthy. Far too close to obsession. The smart thing to do would be to back off. Let you have your space. Knows the war is officially over, but a part of him is still waiting. Still expecting Megatron to return defiant and angry. Because the corruption on Cybertron had started back up almost immediately. It’s why he’d stayed here. Why so many had. Living here, but not really living. Not belonging. Not home.

• He’s just staring at you without moving as your skin crawls. It’s not like you haven’t seen him do this before, but it’s always unsettling. A reminder that he’s alien. Not human. Makes you wonder what he’s thinking right now as his visor dims. There are so many of them here on earth. Living and working, but you know a part of you will always see them as other. He’s your friend, your coworker, but he’s not like you. Doesn’t think like you do. Doesn’t think or act like a human. “Soundwave?”

• Shuddering slightly as he straightens, he buries that urge to drag you closer. To hold you. To pursue something more. He’s used to wanting anyway. Before Ravage had taken him in, he’d been hungry all the time, scared, and overwhelmed by an ability he couldn’t understand or control. Can protect you, look after you, but nothing more. No matter what he wants. If Megatron returns, he knows he’ll return to the warlord’s side. “Ready?” He asks as his servos curl into a fist to fight the urge to touch you and you groan, but nod. Trying to ignore the way his spark aches, he’s never been uncertain like this before. Conflicted about what to do. But you make it harder to know his next move. Make him want to believe in a future where he might belong. And when he imagines it, you’re there.

• Hands sliding down your arms as he tugs you back into his frame, he knows you. Has found you doing this before, staring at yourself in the mirror. Knows that sometimes your much longer life bothers you. That you sometimes feel guilty for outliving your human family. “Am I even still human?” You ask, voice soft even though you’re smiling. But he hears the uncertainty in the words. Rumbling, he catches your hand and lifts it. Makes a show of studying you. ‘I can definitely say you’re not Cybertronian. Too soft,’ he says and you laugh.

• “You’re still you,” he adds as you turn your hand over to grasp his. Do better when he’s around. Those intrusive thoughts, the guilt and anxiety, are quieter. Easier to ignore. Because humans aren’t meant to live so long and you know it. You’ve had sparklings with him. Watched them grow and find their own conjunxes. Have their own sparklings. And you haven’t changed at all. But to change is to be human. So what are you? Hate when you get like this. When you can’t seem to get yourself out of a spiral. But maybe the human mind isn’t meant to deal with eternity.

• Arms tightening around you when you don’t answer, his mouth brushes your cheek. Interlacing his servos with your fingers, he vents against you. “If you’re bored, though, we could always start over,” he whispers in your ear and it startles a laugh out of you as he chuckles. Misses the chirping of sparklings, the way you smile when you’re holding a bitlet. “It’s too damn quiet around here anyway.” You’re twisting in his arms to look up at him. ‘Aren’t we too old for that?’ You ask and he rumbles, lifting you off your feet.

• Waiting as he paces, he’s making you anxious as he wears a figurative rut in the floor. Though at the rate he’s going, it might eventually be a literal one. Waving a hand at him to get on with it, he makes a noise. “I don’t have an ID,” he mutters, as his big hands move. Restlessly sketching shapes in the air. “Or anything concrete. I know there’s a informant passing along privileged information to the Decepticons, but I don’t have enough of a lead to act. Or prove my hunch.”

• “Hang on, you came all the way to another planet on a hunch?” You ask and his plating lifts slightly. ‘I know I’m right,’ he mutters, embarrassed. Because if he’s wrong he’ll probably get busted down a rank or three. Be reprimanded for abandoning his post because he knew that by the time the bureaucracy made a decision to act on the transmission he intercepted, it would be too late. ‘I know what the spy sounds like. I heard a sound clip.’

• A voice isn’t much to go on, but you nod and he hesitates, like he didn’t expect you to not question him more. It’s not like you know anything about spy games, though. Unless you can count watching bits and pieces of Mission Impossible movies. But that kind of excitement? That rush of danger? You’ve always had a sweet tooth for adrenaline. “So how do we find this guy if that’s all we have to go on? Can you track his energy signature or hack into his transmissions? He’s talking to someone, right? These Decepticons?”

• “Something like that,” he admits as you grin. Like you’re enjoying this. Don’t you understand how dangerous this is? “I’ve been scanning for transmissions on known old, Decepticon wartime frequencies, but the original transmission I intercepted on Cybertron was actually an older, defunct channel. One associated with the gladiator matches in Kaon.” And he hadn’t made the connection at first. Hadn’t realized it was because Megatron had been a gladiator until he’d gone digging into historical records. Turning, he pulls out a data pad and sets it down beside you, pulling up archival footage of the gladiator who would become the warlord. “But there’s a lot of archival video to comb through. And that’s where you can help,” he adds as you groan.

• Picking up your bucket to dump out the dirty water, you can feel him watching your every move as the fine hair at your nape prickles. Probably shouldn’t tease him, but it’s fun. Especially since you’re secure in the knowledge that he can’t do anything about it without losing face. And you’re pretty sure appearances matter to him. Pouring out the soapy water, you inhale when big hands grab your hips and drag you back into his warm frame. Heart pounding, you feel his lips brush your ear as he vents to stir your hair. “What makes you so sure that you’re safe?” He asks as you grab at his big hands. “That you can tease me without consequences?”

• Knew you’d be soft, but the way your flesh gives against his servos is fascinating. Obscene almost. Your weak field flares to buzz him with a confused mix of alarm and heat that has him aching. Lips teasing your earlobe, you make a soft noise that goes straight through him. That has him growling as his frame heats. “Someone might see,” you whisper breathlessly as his mouth opens against your neck, denta scraping. And your hands aren’t trying to push his away, just clinging to him. ‘So?’ He growls and you shiver, heart racing against him. You’re everything he should despise. Soft, weak, and helpless. Shouldn’t be tempted by you. Shouldn’t want you. You’re a weakness, but maybe if he can get you out of his system just once, he can move on. Forget this madness.

• Hand on the back of his much bigger hand as it slides over your hip and against your belly, you know you should stop him. Or at least try. “Just once,” he growls in your ear. “To get this blasphemy out of our systems and we never speak of it again, pet,” he whispers before his denta graze your throat. And your breath catches as you realize what he’s proposing. A one time, no strings attached assignation. Your mouth opens to immediately say no, but then you hesitate. Because despite yourself, you’re tempted. That low, deep voice of his is pure seduction and you’re pretty sure he knows it.

• “No strings attached,” you say and his servos flex against you. ‘None,’ he growls, nipping your earlobe to make you squirm against him as his hand slides over you. Knows you’re going to agree. You have to. Can scent your heat and need with every intake of air. He’ll get what he wants and be able to move on from this obsession. “Fuck it,” you whisper, voice husky and you let go of his hand to yank down the closure tab on your covering, the sound startling him before he slowly smiles.

• Shivering at your touch, his servos flex as he sits on your cart. Wanting to touch you in return and unsure if that’s allowed. Doesn’t really understand how your people court, but loves how tactile you are. The feel of your soft hands sliding all over him when you wash him, the way your scent lingers on him when you brush up against him. But once you’re done, you just leave him. Every time. Never linger and talk. Ask to share a meal. Maybe he’s missing some organic social cue? What if you’re waiting for some reaction from him? What if you think he’s rejecting you because he’s not doing something you expect him to do?

• Straightening and stretching, you reach to grab your bucket and his big hand closes on your lower arm. And you’re caught off guard by the sight of his big servos overlapping. Reminding you that he’s much bigger than you are even mass displaced. That as much he acts like a big house cat, he’s dangerous. Alien. “Stay,” he growls and he tugs you into his frame. His other big hand cups your butt to pull you into his lap as your heart goes racing. “You always run off as soon as you’re done.”

• You’ve got a hand splayed against his shoulder, but you’re not trying to push him away. Just staring with wide eyes as he leans down into your space and vents. Still isn’t sure if he’s guessing right as to what you’re waiting on. Maybe he’s messing up. Rumbling, he brushes his head against yours and you inhale shakily. Letting his other hand smooth up your spine, he can feel the frantic beat of your heart through your covering. Searching your eyes, he skims his mouth against your jaw and your lips part. “What are we doing right now?” You ask breathlessly and he almost laughs.

• Clearing his vents, he mass shifts and reaches out to ghost his servos against your arm as you frown at him. “You look good in my colors, though,” he says as you roll your eyes at him. Playing hard to get even though he can scent you. Know you want him as much as he wants you. But apparently you enjoy denying him. “Though I’m betting you’d look better without the coverings in my berth,” he adds and you laugh, mixing up soap. ‘Dream on,’ you tell him with a smile.

• “Every night. You’re insatiable in the berth,” he purrs and you fumble your sponge in the soap bucket, face heating. Shoulders hunching, you try to think of a comeback, but your mind blanks so you just huff out a laugh. Know he’s going to have that damn, attractive grin on his face if you look back at him. Because he loves messing with you. ‘You’ll never know,’ you finally say. ‘Though in my dreams, you’re just freaking needy.’ Hear his engine rev as your face burns. Why did you say that?

• “So you have been dreaming about me,” he says and you shoot him an exasperated look. Why won’t you just admit you want him? He wants you. It doesn’t have to be some big deal or a commitment. ‘No,’ you blurt, but it’s too late and you both know it. Walking over, he leans against the wall beside you. “You have. You want me,” he growls possessively and you snort. ‘Not really.’ Venting slowly and deliberately, he grins when you glance at him, brow furrowing. “Yeah, you do.”

• 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,” 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.

• Smiling as you touch his bottom lip, your edges seem softer. That ever present anger subdued. “What now?” You whisper and he brushes his mouth against your fingers, feeling you take a slow breath against him. When’s the last time he’s been truly happy? When he could smile and mean it? ‘Whatever we want,’ he says and you smile even though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I didn’t think you knew how to lie,” you whisper as his lips tease your thumb.

• Shrugging defensively when he meets your eyes and waits, you huff out a soft laugh. “We both know what this is,” you murmur, chest aching. Wishing you could shut up. Just pretend for a little while longer. Heart racing as he pushes up and shifts to cover you again, you can’t look away from those bright optics. ‘And what is it?’ He asks sounding genuinely curious, servos cupping the side of your face as the heat of his frame sinks into you, his weight braced on his arms off of you but his hips pinning yours.

• “Something that can’t last,” you whisper as his head lowers, mouth brushing the corner of yours before sliding down to your neck to chase the wild thrum of your pulse. Maybe this is wrong. Obscene. But it’s hard to care. Spent so long worrying about being the Prime, weighing every choice, every decision and how it will be viewed by the people counting on him. Putting them, their needs, first. Sacrificing himself. Wants to choose this. Choose you. ‘Who gets to decide that?’ He asks.

• “You know it’s true,” you say and he moves against you to make your breath catch. ‘I know you. Know what I want. What I choose,’ he rumbles, voice dipping into an almost growl. Hanging onto him as his hips lazily flex against you, there’s no looking away from those optics of his. Wanting to believe him. That this can last. Can mean something. That if push comes to shove, he’ll choose you. And that terrifies you even as you desperately need it. Pulling him down to you, your mouth finds his. Even if he’s deluding himself right now, you want to believe in the fairy tale. That you can have him. Keep him. Be happy.

• “So I’m a snack?” You ask and your expression gives away nothing of what you’re thinking. Are snacks a bad thing? ‘You’re meant to be savored,’ he tries, refusing to back down. Aggressively flirting with you one of his favorite games. It doesn’t hurt that the desperation is all real. Would love to get you alone in his habsuite, but you keep friend-zoning him Sari called it. And one of your brows lifts. “I don’t think you’d know anything about savoring. You strike me as a quickie kind of bot,” you counter and he freezes, engine revving. Are you actually flirting back? You usually just laugh. What’s he supposed to do now?

• “The kind of quickie that lasts all night, maybe,” he growls and he braces a hand on the other side of your hip, leaning into your space. Apparently doubling down on playing bad innuendo chicken. ‘Is that a promise?’ You tease and he rumbles. He’s so close you can smell him, metallic and alien. Can feel the heat radiating off his frame, too. Know encouraging him is probably a bad idea. Sleeping with your best friend usually is, but that doesn’t stop you from being curious. ‘Because I know I can outlast you,’ you whisper, grazing your teeth against his chin and his optics widen.

• Catches that shift in your scent as you lean back smiling and his processor blanks. Because you’re absolutely interested and he hadn’t thought this far ahead. Hadn’t thought you might like him like that. Making jokes about interfacing and flirting is what the two of you do. Well, what he does. “That so?” He growls, voice breaking and you laugh as his plating ruffles up in offense. And he can’t come up with a good comeback. Something to turn it around. ‘I bet you wouldn’t even know what to do with me, would you?’ You ask as you grab his shoulder and twist to throw a leg across him, straddling his lap as he nearly groans.

• Feeling his antenna brushing the top of your head over and over, you study those big, guileless optics. Remembering how much he’d scared you at first. How ugly you’d thought he was. A monster. It seems crazy that you’d thought that now. Reaching up to smooth your fingertips against the side of his head, he leans into your touch, legs sliding against yours. All the frustration, all the misunderstandings, should upset you. Had lost your home because of him. So why doesn’t it bother you more?

• Chewing as you meet his optics, it’s strange to not feel the need to cringe away from your stare. To not be uncomfortable because usually when anyone pays this much attention to him it’s going to hurt. Moving slowly, he catches your hand. Staring at how small it is in his as he smooths his clawed servos against your fingers. And you smile faintly, turning your hand to fit your palm to his as his wings flick. “Same,” he says watching you interlace your fingers with his servos. “Different but the same.”

• Staring at his big hand clasping your own, you tug your joined hands up and press the back of your hand against the berth. See his optics brighten as his antenna lift and he’s shifting to straddle you. But otherwise he’s still. Waiting like he needs permission still. Reaching up your other hand, you find his and link your fingers with his servos. Bringing that hand up so they’re both pinned by your head even though he’s not holding you down and he’d immediately draw back if you pulled your hands away. His wings fan out slightly and the translucent material catches the light behind him, creating prismatic rainbows as his rumbling becomes a near growl.

• Staring down at you with your hands pinned over your head, he rumbles and tries to guess what you want. Knows you won’t punish him if he’s wrong, but prefers when you just tell him what to do. What you need from him so he can’t mess up. Wings buzzing restlessly, he knows what he wants. You. His plating heats as you stare up at him and your scent shifts to make him ache to claim you. Head lowering, he lets go of your hands when you tug free, laughing and pressing your palm over his mouth. “Baby, put down the treat first,” you say and he obediently drops it in your hand, watching your nose wrinkle.

• Watching you roll your eyes, he catches you and lifts you to sit on his makeshift table. Before handing you some merchandise. “Perv. I’m not helping you peddle your smutty toys,” you say, but you’re laughing as he pulls his hands away, refusing to take back the stuff from you. ‘Toys? These are essential, human health products,’ he says, pretending to be offended and you’re laughing harder as he drapes the lacy covering across your lap. “You wouldn’t catch me dead in this,” you’re saying as he clears his vents.

• “Even if I got on my knees?” He teases and you look away, flustered. Shouldn’t like him. He’s awful and you know it, but apparently you like awful mechs. ‘Not even then.’ Shaking his head at you, he turns to dig in his boxes and you hear heavy peds. Looking up as Optimus Prime rounds the corner and Swindle is backing away. Hurrying to get the table and you between him and the big Autobot. “Hey, big guy,” he growls, voice strained and far from his usual laid back, manipulative purr. Glancing back at him as the Prime frowns down at him and keeps walking, you feel Swindle lay a hand on your thigh and waist, servos flexing like he’s thinking about grabbing you and booking it.

• Plating slowly settling as he clears his vents, he watches the Prime walk away. “Are you scared of Otimus?” You ask and he rears back, forcing a laugh. ‘Who me? Why would I be scared of him?’ He growls, trying to get back into character when seeing Optimus put him on edge. It was the one time. And probably an accident, but a mech tends to remember getting flattened by a much bigger mech. Definitely remembers the time stuck in a med berth. “I don’t know. Why?” You ask and he bends to grab a ball gag to toss in your lap.

• Feels your breath catch and knows he should let you go. Give you space. Can’t seem to make himself move now that he has you in his arms, though. Venting to pull your scent deep, you’re all heat and need. Drugging him as his rumbling deepens. Maybe it’s because he’s not human. Maybe he’s too alien for you to ever think of that way. “What if I did need you?” You ask, the words a barely there whisper. Servos flexing against you, his lips ghost against your neck.

• “Then I’m yours,” he growls and you feel his mouth moving against your skin as he speaks and heat spreads through you. The way his voice dips, roughening when he’s always calm and collected spins you tight. Makes you want to find out what taking care of you means to him. How rough his voice gets when he’s aroused. “Do you? Need me?” He asks and you shiver feeling his denta barely scrape your skin as one of his big hands slides against you, smoothing down over your belly to make you inhale.

• Wants to carry you to the waterfall. To show you the beauty of his favorite place. To strip you slowly, explore the softness of you with his servos and mouth. Feels your hand cover the back of his and he waits when he wants to slide his hand lower. Almost feral with the need to claim you as his, but he needs the words. Needs you to say you want him. Engine rumbling aggressively, he knows he should let you go. That he’s probably overwhelming you. Your fingers brush his servos as you inhale slowly. “If I did,” you repeat, your field washing into him to make it even harder to be patient.

• Can’t make yourself just say it. To admit that you think you might like him. That you might want to be more than friends with him. “If you did,” he prompts, lips against your neck. “Then I’d claim what’s mine.” Breathless with the way his voice rumbles into a low growl, you shiver. What would that be like? To be his? For him to be yours? “If you wanted me.” Knees weak, you want to guide his hand lower. To encourage him to touch you. Because really? Life’s too short and you don’t want to regret saying no when you really want to say yes.

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