• 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.