#kickback x reader

• 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.

The Autobots can't expend their resources on some factionless Cybertronian. That doesn't mean he won't be cautious. That Prime is so self-righteous in his convictions. Bombshell knows you're too prideful to lay yourself at the pedes of the Autobots and ask for assistance.

The raw power of the Insecticons overwhelms you with ease. It's so easy that it leaves Bombshell feeling paranoid. They hop from place to place, so the disappearance of one unknown, lone Cybertronian shouldn't spark anyone's suspicions. Still, simply still, there is always a new variable that may pop up in the most unfortunate of moments.

Bombshell doesn't claim to love you. If owning is love, then he loves you. If it isn't, then his feelings are too complex to be boiled down to such a simple term.

Love.

The word is tantalizing; it's a substance that must be carefully monitored and controlled.

This is much more than such a word, but Bombshell has already made that clear enough.

He shows you his collection of faded sparks that he's gathered from his millions of years of battle. He can't help but chitter happily while introducing the immobilized you to all of his trophies.

He walks you through his lab, vaguely explaining the various life forms he has caged and sedated. He goes into an awfully detailed explanation on how he is manipulating the biology of the non-organic ones.

He shows you to your new habsuite: such a well-constructed cage with electrical inhibitors that weaken you enough to the point where you can barely stand, with all of your higher thought processing shut off in an attempt to conserve power. It's isolating: four grey, freezing walls that are soundproof. Nothing gets in or out unless it has Bombshell's permission.

He is your only point of contact. Bombshell has forbidden any of his kin or other Decepticons from meeting you, at least for the time being. It'd set back your training.

He's eager to "play" with you and has been doing it since your first meeting. Only now dods he have complete authority over what to do with you. He does so with a sparkling-like glee that contrasts his sadism. A few of the Decepticons pity your fate, but they do well to mind their business. They don't care that much.

First he implants a cerebro-shell into you so you have no chance of escaping. His cerebro-shell connections form a bond that is stronger than that of a conjunx or a cassette player and its deployer. This bond isn't mutual. It's parasitic and consuming, and he gets off on how he feels your circuitry bending to his whims.

Next comes him forcing you into increasingly ruinous and degrading acts to break you. He has made himself acquainted with the things you wouldn't dare utter, much less share willingly with a con you claim to despise. He preys on your traumatic memories, forcing you into these simulated situations where he is the arbiter of your suffering. He inflicts your greatest embarrassments upon you, relishing in your once stubborn edge morphing into a state of panicked begging.

He does all of this because he needs a blank slate, after all. To recreate you in his image is the greatest honor he could bestow upon you. It isn't something you deserve, but if you are his most-loved subject, then you must be worthy of his praise.

It takes longer to make you compliant than he calculated. He feels a heaviness in his spark at this turning in your transformation. It's something he can't quite describe. It's gain with loss, and that is the nature of science. He's simply beginning to realize that as much as he abuses you, breaks your processor, and breaks your spark (metaphorically), he treasures the essence of you. He'll make sure that doesn't get lost on his way to making you anew.

𝚈𝚊𝚗. 𝙶1 𝙺𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 (𝚠/ 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐)

Kick back and relax; you'll always have a good time with him. You'll have such a good time that you may never want to leave.

The other Insecticons can be a little much. He understands.

An Autobot ally—ugh, the word disgusts him so. But you'll never be able to tell. Some nasty Insecticons, whom his brothers and he may or may not have created, attempted to attack you while you were all alone! How scandalous. How vile. How bad. You poor thing. Then he jumped right into your life and saved you.

Don't cry, please; he isn't like the others. Not all Insecticons are so bad. You don't trust him. He understands. He'll prove it to you, even going as far as to save an Autobot, which he later offlined when they gossiped about him to you. He has no idea how your friend died! Oh, that's so sad.

He slowly grows closer to you, and that nasty, possessive feeling rears its head. That feeling that says you aren't quite as disposable as he planned on being. Which is bad. A human should capture his affections, but something about you is irresistible. You're so easy to manipulate. You'll sit in his servos and chat with him like he isn't fantasizing about having his way with you and then letting his kin join in. He just wants to slather you in honey and then lick it off of you. You're the sweetest treat he could ever have.

His charming nature will falter for less than a moment when you call him a friend. "Friend" is another word for "fool." He's far from that. He will be so much more than that. Just look at him. He's the perfect mate for you.

Now, now, he understands that he can't just pin you down and mark you. He wouldn't want to startle such a delectable thing as yourself. He's used to playing the long game. He's patient, and he will claw his way into every facet of your life.

Does his new interest mean he will stop using you to his advantage? Oh, never.

You're such a lovely, naive little informant for him and his siblings. Don't tell your friends you know him! Hush, they're so judgmental, but he isn't like the others. He just wants to get to know you. He enjoys hearing about your day, your entire life in fact! He catalogs each word of yours into his processor and stores the data for later use.

You provide him with such sweetness. Yet you leaving to go back to the Autobots leaves a certain bitterness gnawing at his plating, threatening to dim his spark. He'll make sure he can monitor you. A tracking chip never really hurt anyone—well, maybe it will considering he was able to get you under Bombshell's knife and had his fellow Insecticon attach it to your nervous system with paralyzing capabilities. Such a small addendum. There's really nothing to worry about.

It's practically untraceable too! He can't let any awful accidents happen on his watch. Even if the tortured expression of betrayal on your squishy face would be delightful to intake.

Slowly but surely he keeps you in his nest later and later. He makes sure a nice concoction Bombshell cooked up keeps you submissive while Shrapnel uses his fine-tuned electric shocks to gently stimulate you. All of your yummy pheromones and hormones and other organic stuff releases. They can smell it. It makes them all chitter happily. All the while you're sleepy yet awake, blissful while surrounded by beasts that until late wanted nothing more than to eat you.

He feeds you such believable lies about how the Autobots betrayed your trust. The Insecticons are Decepticons, but they're nothing like that nasty Megatron and his degenerate crew. The world is so scary. Remember all the times you almost died because of the Autobots' carelessness? Crime is on the rise, he heard. And your so-called organic support system did such bad things while you weren't around. You didn't know? Now you do. It's a benefit of the Insecticons having wicked good hearing.

He treats you so good and gives you so many things! Some would say they are the best things. Anything and everything you would ever need. So he may make you do humiliating things and be his glorified pet. So you may get passed around to the other Insections. It isn't anything you can't handle. Has he ever steered you wrong? No, he hasn't.

You're his favorite piece in his collection: his collection of miscellaneous treasures. It reminds him of that organic saying he once heard, and he despises that he's even referencing it: "One man's trash is another man's treasure." Just don't get too out of place in his collection. He won't mind putting you back in line; it's only for your benefit, of course.

𝚈𝚊𝚗. 𝙶1 𝚂𝚑𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚗𝚎𝚕 (𝚠/ 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐)

Having to live in such squalor―squalor for millions of years―years tends to drive one's processor to the brink of insanity―sanity.

Tearing through organic farms―arms is good for one's spark―spark. It's almost as satisfying as seeing how the humans―humans react to being fried―fried by his electrical shocks―shocks.

Such a little creature―creature as yourself should've stayed indoors. Instead―instead, you were met with three hulking metal insects chowing down on anything they got their dentae on. That includes humans. The organic matter of such fleshy creatures is delectable―delectable. It causes his mandibles to stim happily, oral lubricant rolling from his intake at the thought of devouring another one―one.

They would have to tear off your coverings. Those don't taste as good―good. But watching you cower―cower stirs something in his circuits―circuits. It gets so boring―boring when there is nothing to play with after their ravenous rampages. Flesh is so easy to break-ache under their digits. You'd be a short-lived distraction but an entertaining one―one. He churrs to his fellow Insecticons-cons, relating the plan to them.

Keep you―you. Use you―you. Easy disposal when done.

Shrapnel loves—loves to collect broken things, especially scarred things, things that deal with e-lec-tricity. He can do all to you while pointedly telling his fellow Insecticons that he gets to break you first—first.

Mold his fun toy into the perfect pet. Make your organic processor die out (from all the fun he'll have with you)—well, almost—a dead toy is no fun. Unfortunately, he's a little impatient. Constantly hungry. Loves your struggling but also finds that sometimes he doesn't have the time to deal with it. He'll hand you off to Kickback and Bombshell. At first, he practically throws them to you, wanting to hear those bones crack—crack, flesh squelch—squelch.

Then he's just a little more careful. He dumps you into one of their servos. He starts mumbling for Bombshell to put you back together. There isn't softness in his tone, but there is hesitance you can catch glimpses of, and that's the most you'll get for a long while.

You aren't close to being his equal—equal, so why should he care?

One of his favorite pastimes is zapping you. He doesn't exactly do research on how many volts a human can take before they offline. He prefers to find out himself (which really is the fun part when you think about it)! You never know when you'll either feel a tiny jolt or an entire lighting bolt. Lightning only strikes twice—twice? Much more than that. It either strikes you, those stupid Autobots, or a conniving Decepticon!

Mhm, Shrapnel adores—adores poking and prodding, rubbing, licking, and more over the electric burns and their resulting scars that he so willingly and lovingly gives you. It always causes his mandibles to clack against each other, inadvertently creating more electricity for him to use, most likely against you. You really are lucky! Most beings are taken down—down in one strike—strike! He even keeps the amperage down for your frail, human body. How kind.

He isn't the best at taking care of you, if you couldn't already tell. The resulting injuries from your shock therapy, as Bombshell has coined it (seeing as how he is always patching you up and logging how much does what to you), aren't pretty. His minor shocks only create superficial damage to your skin: first- or second-degree burns. The blisters adorn your body, so beautiful—beautiful and red—red—red! It may be his favorite color on you—you! His favorite canvas to chew on when you're already so deliciously—liciously groaning out in agony. It's overloading pressure to his audials—audials.

The higher the voltage, the more he's expressing his love to you—you!

Cardiac defibrillation and heart arrhythmias are irrelevant words. Spasming from his love just means you look even more like delicious prey—prey to him. Bombshell can find new organs for you! Kickback can whisper pretty words in your fleshy cartilage to get you to not shake so badly around him—him—him.

Entrance and exit wounds look so good on you. The skin around them blackens as your bones become superheated from his wonderful charge—charge. After a while the necrosis begins to irritate him. So much time—time before he can love on you again. He may have Bombshell reinforce your skin with metal. Ooh, perfect—fect! Then the zaps will hurt extra hard, and you'll still be alive for it!

Maybe after all of this, he realizes that he does want to bond with you—you—you—you—you! He isn't pleased with your memory loss from all his love, but that's okay! It makes it easier to be, what is the word Kickback uses, softer with you. Letting you recharge with him, refuel with him, and even engage in Insecticon traditions—traditions.

You may eventually exchange the shock therapy for something else, but it will be far more invasive and humiliating knowing Shrapnel. Don't worry too much though—though! He has the best aftercare—aftercare.

𝚈𝚊𝚗. 𝙶1 𝙼𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚡 (𝚠/ 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐)

He's held many species within him that have been aided by the Autobots, but humans are by far the greatest mystery to him. He may reside on Earth most of the time, but that exposure does little in helping him learn about your nature. You, the unbonded human who resides within him—you, whom he has helplessly become enamored with. It was accidental, obviously. He can think of at least five intergalactic rules he's breaking by being infatuated with you. He just can't stop how his spark pulses, causing power surges all throughout the city, as his audials tune in to listen to you speaking with the others.

His feelings bring him great shame. Perhaps it would be better if you were human-bonded, married, he corrects himself. Spike has Carly with their offspring, Daniel. They seem so—happy together; even when the Decepticons threaten everything they still cling to each other, their bond growing stronger. He wonders if he could ever have such a thing with you.

He's gigantic. He's well aware. He's always felt such insecurity in his size; there's a lack of fulfillment in his duties. It is and will never be enough. Too many bots have died within him. He has failed many times over. Seeing you, though, soothes the ache of it all.

The ache grows when he realizes he could never be the partner you need. He's thousands of feet tall, greater than 305 meters, a gargantuan—a Titan. That has always been his greatest strength, but it's a weakness in attempting to connect with you. He's far too vital to mass shift just so he can spend time with you. Even if he did, he'd easily dwarf you, unable to touch you without fear that he'll break every bone in your human frame.

He can use his holoform, but he isn't actually sure how he's supposed to project himself. Would you prefer him or an organic version of him? Would you be disgusted, seeing as how you reside inside him? Do you even wish for him to form a relationship with you?

All these doubts circulate in his processor, creating problems for the bots. They aren't entirely sure what's wrong with Metroplex. These anomalies have never popped up before. Yeah, they recently had to fix his T-Cog, but the diagnostics didn't show any other physical irregularities.

In all honesty, it isn't Metroplex who you should be wary of; it's the bots that will do anything to keep their ultimate weapon, their greatest and final defense, in good health. He's too self-sacrificing to be selfish when it comes to you. He'll yearn himself to the Allspark, such a strain on his emotions that it manifests into tangible reality. The Autobots can't allow that.

They found out when some of the engineers heard something eerily similar to your designation being creaked out by his various mechanical components. Rumors spread fast in the city. Many chattered about whether a human could learn the art of cityspeaking. Others became panicked, realizing that if this human were to betray them, they'd lose their greatest ally.

"Anxious," "paranoid," and "fanatic," are just a few of the things you could call the bots who began watching over you like carriers, insisting on this and that about who you are and what you will do. Quite honestly, it greatly irritated Metroplex. The kin he has given protection to now betrays him in such a visceral way that it makes the anomalies normalities. More bots are spooked, more control is exerted over you by others, and he is further displeased.

A solution is needed—swiftly, at that. After a battle with Trypticon, Rodimus engages with Metroplex. Both Autobots want you to have a say in this, but Metroplex's spark threatens to collapse in on itself at the thought that he may be separated from you, for your own safety. Surprisingly, Rodimus got you on board with the Autobots' idea with ease in a way that makes him foolishly believe that he will have a chance with you.

You will work in his most intimate of places in exchange for the Autobots treating you (semi-)normally. You even have a habsuite right next to his spark chamber. He functions better than he ever has. He falls deeper in his need for you, to the point where your arrangement turns from a suggestion into a demand. Rodimus makes the hard choice to keep you locked inside Autobot City. Any time you leave, problems arise. They can't fix it, and sacrifices need to be made when leading—no matter how hard.

The Autobots only hope that being stripped of your autonomy to a certain extent won't anger Metroplex. Never in any time in any reality do you want to see Metroplex enraged. Scum of any kind threatening you has his gears already turning so that he may meet them faceplate-to-faceplate. Very few can meet his height. His judgment is swift. The verdict? Death. He has never felt more alive than when he crushes a threat under his pede.

He feels great peace knowing that you will no longer be in danger. His fuse may not be short, but when it blows, it is explosive.

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.

• 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.

• “Too visible,” Bombshell counters tiredly. Which should be obvious if Kickback just stopped and actually thought about anything besides food. Understands the urge to chase and devour, though. Especially with so many humans clustered together, screaming and hysterical. What’s gotten them so worked up? Did one die? Using his bulk to force his way closer and send humans scattering, he’s aware of other Cybertronians watching the chaos, but not interfering. Some sort of ritual then?

• “What is that thing, thing?” Shrapnel hisses, watching several humans with long handled tools of some sort poking and raking at a long, legless creature that keeps rearing up and striking to send them scrambling back. How is that little thing sending them all into hysterics? Half the organics screaming encouragement or advice and several up on the low concrete wall watching. That little thing is hardly intimidating or threatening. Venting on a hiss he glances at another mech watching and realizes it’s Megatron, the warlord looking unamused.

• “Leave the poor baby alone, you bullies,” you snap, shoving forward and pushing a guard back. “He’s just scared.” It’s not even a venomous snake. Bending, you pick it up by the back of the head so you don’t get bit, feeling it frantically coil around your arm, writhing to escape. “I know, honey. You’re just a little nope rope not a danger noodle.” And people scatter as you straighten with it, cooing reassurances as you walk past to release it outside the walls. Don’t they realize he’s just scared?

• Watching you lean an arm against the top of the container to rest your cheek on, you’re smiling indulgently down at them as Bombshell clears his vents. And you’d provided a feast for them. Isn’t sure what to make of you. Your attempts to court them, your lack of survival instincts, or that you’re taking care of them. Meeting your eyes, he waits for your demands, because nothing is ever truly free. You’d fed them, but you’ll want something in exchange. “What is it you want?” He growls, aware that his kind are only catered to when they’re useful.

• Looking up as he licks his clawed servos clean, Shrapnel glances between you and Bombshell. Before kicking Kickback awake to make the other Insecticon hiss, wings lifting aggressively. “Right now? To give you guys a bath. You’re kind of… messy,” you say, nose wrinkling and you’d hesitated before landing on messy to make him wonder what you’d wanted to say instead. Disgusting? It’s not like he hasn’t been called that before. ‘Unnecessary, unnecessary,’ he growls, glossa sliding against his palm to make you shudder. As lovely as your hands feel on him, you want to wash them with sweet smelling soaps far more often than is probably healthy.

• Muddled, Kickback’s not sure he’s ever been this close to actually being full before. Hunger just a normal part of his existence. Chirping as he slides into Bombshell when the container tips, Bombshell shoves him into Shrapnel. Making him remember the thing they’re in had wheels as you start rolling it. “I have this cherry blossom bubble bath at the dorm and you guys are going to love it,” you say as he braces his palms against the wall of the container, crouching slightly. Full and uninterested in a bath. Wants to recharge. Preferably in the sun.

• Hurrying as Kickback tenses, wings flicking, you’re tempted to accidentally jostle the bin. Make him lose his balance before he can try to jump out. Because you really don’t want to touch any of them after they’ve been dumpster diving in food waste. Can’t make yourself do it, though and you startle when he launches himself out of the bin and you hear Shrapnel chewing a hole in the side of the container. Realizing you’re about to have to wrangle sticky, gross alien bugs. “I have bon bons at the dorm,” you blurt as Kickback studies you while keeping out of reach. “It’s candy. Food? It was an early Valentine’s present,” you add and the food part at least has their attention, though how they can still be hungry is beyond you. “You can have some after a bath.” And Bombshell rumbles, head tipping. ‘Bribery?’ He asks and you flush, smiling hopefully. “Candy. Everyone loves candy.”

• “Give it back,” Bombshell repeats tiredly, head lifting slightly to stare at Shrapnel, several sparklings sleeping on him in his altmode. Daring the other mech to argue. ‘Weak, weak,’ Shrapnel growls and Bombshell clears his vents, rising to dump younglings off so he can transform. Aware of Kickback striding over to bend and grab you and a couple of sparklings. Carrying you clear as you angrily yell about no fighting in the damn house. Waiting until Kickback grabs the last sparkling in the way by a ped and drags them chirping in confusion to safety, Bombshell straightens.

• Crouching near you and the younglings, Kickback is aware of the rest of the swarm gathering, woken up by the noise. Wings flicking at the feel of little hands clinging to him, he’s still not sure what to make of the swarm. Don’t really act like proper Insecticons. Sure, they squabble occasionally, but they never fight to the death. It’s unnatural. Has to be your influence. “Can’t you do something about this?” You demand as Bombshell roars to make the younglings all flinch before he charges Shrpnel, Kickback reaches absently to rest a hand on your head, servos rubbing your hair as you duck and slap his wrist. ‘This is our way,’ he says.

• Snarling as Bombshell slams into him, Shrapnel claws at his face, the two of them rolling on the ground. And he sinks his denta into Bombshell’s arm, grunting when he gets punched in the face hard enough he tastes energon. Hopefully the younglings are watching. Learning something besides your foolish human ways. Learning to be Insecticons. Clawing, biting, and kicking as they roll. Deciding who’s in the right by the virtue of strength and cleverness.

• “Yeah, your way is stupid,” You mutter as Benji grabs your shirt to pull himself up in your lap and Kickback reaches to grab one of the stuffed animals from the pile you’d harassed him to thieve for the kids. Dropping a stuffed cat in the middle of the kids without even looking as they hiss and start fighting over it. “Sharing is caring,” you sing song, leaning to grab several plushies to drop in their midst as Kickback shoots you a dark look. Finally got your kids to stop biting each other and you’re not letting your idiot husbands ruin that. Again.

• “We’re not self sufficient by any means, but gardening is pretty fun and we can cook with what we grow,” you add, turning over leaves until you find a ripe strawberry before pulling it loose, you offer it to him. Chirping softly as he looks from you to the berry, he finally opens his mouth and his sharp denta always surprise you. Reminding you that they’re predators. Pressing the strawberry into his mouth, you’re aware of the other two watching curiously as his lips close on it. “Have you ever had a strawberry before?”

• Moving closer as Kickback chews slowly, his antenna flicking, before crouching and clawing through the greenery for more strawberries, Bombshell grabs him by a wing and yanks when you make a dismayed sound. “If you damage the plants, we won’t have more strawberries,” you say, reaching to touch Kickback’s arm as the other mech hisses. ‘I want more,’ Kickback growls, but Kickback relents when his head lifts to meet Bombshell’s stare. Venting when you bend to find another, you’re offering it to him, another held out to Shrapnel. Feeding them from your hand. Or trying to.

• Hissing as you offer him food, Shrapnel stalks away and paces. And you’re just smiling sweetly. Like you really don’t understand how dangerous they are. That you’re food. Looking away when Bombshell retracts his mask to let you hand feed him, Shrapnel glances at Kickback. Watching his fellow Insecticon shrug. Not knowing what to make of you anymore than he does apparently. You tend to them, feed and wash them while trying to court them. Trust them. But you’re still only human. Weak.

• “I like sweets if he doesn’t,” Kickback chirps. Moving closer and grabbing your wrist, he tugs your hand to himself ignoring Bombshell’s warning growl. Mouth opening to eat the berry meant for Shrapnel, he meets those alien eyes. Trying to understand your lack of fear. Stupidity or bravery? They’ve never wanted or needed anyone but themselves. Relied only on themselves and used everyone else to further their goals. Glossa sliding against your palm to taste you, your smile goes strained as you tug your hand free and wipe it on the leg of your coveralls. ‘We have some blueberries, too, but they’re not that healthy,’ you say, grabbing Shrapnel’s servo and tugging as the mech tenses. And you’re continuing your tour, talking animatedly and gesturing with your free hand. Trying to include them even though they don’t really care. Shouldn’t care. Hissing softly, he tries to ignore the unfamiliar warmth in his spark.

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