#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.

You’re still alive. 

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. 

“Don’t. Do. Anything weird,” you tell him, half whisper half growl.

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. 

He roars, defiant.

Wolves have no Lords. 

• 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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