• Wings flicking restlessly as you smooth soft hands over him, his head lowers. Mandibles brushing over you as he scoots further down your body. Scenting as he vents against you, wanting the smell of your need on him. Wanting his scent on you. Spike pulsing behind his plating, he whines as his mouth slides against your belly. And you’re hooking your thumbs in the waist of your lower covering to pull it down. Letting him touch. Inviting him to explore. Keeps expecting you to change your mind. To yell at him. He’s trembling as he brushes his face down your body, aching for more and unsure how much he’s allowed when he wants everything. Those soft hands touch his antenna, his wings and he’s making noises. Shameful sounds. But those hands are so gentle. Do you have any idea how much he craves this? Your touch. Your kindness. You feel like home. Like acceptance.

• Inhaling as his mandibles brush your underwear, he’s nuzzling against you, forcing you to spread your thighs wider to accommodate his shoulders. Have the thought to wonder if whatever aphrodisiac is in his saliva can affect you in other areas right before you hear material rip and he huffs out an oops against you, warm air from his vents fanning you to make your breath catch. Then his glossa slides against you, presses inside you. And you have your answer as heart suffuses you in a needy ache. Thighs trembling as he presses his face more firmly against you, his glossa strokes deep and your head falls back, fingers fisting in the sheets as you go molten with need. Aching and moving restlessly against his mouth. Begging.

• Rumbling as you get noisier, squirming under him, when you gasp his name, his spike releases to pressurize. Wanting inside you. To claim you, but reluctant to move just yet when your taste is almost drugging. Your field washing into him to feed him your pleasure. But it’s the fact that you want him. Need him that obsesses him. No one’s ever needed him, but you do. You’re clinging to him as you tremble and moan. Shattering against his glossa. Wings flicking out, he crawls up your body. Snared by how you look lost in passion. The knowledge that he did that. Did something right.

• Aching and flushed, there’s definitely something in his saliva. Something addictive. You feel almost boneless from your release even as you want more. And he’s settling between your thighs, his spike slippery with the slick beading at the head as he stretches you. Those optics more focused, more serious, than you’ve ever seen them as he moves against you. Making you wonder again what happened to him. Who broke him. What he was like before. Maybe he’s always been like this, but you don’t think so. His clawed servos pin your hands, servos interlacing with your fingers as his hips pump and you can’t look away from his stare as you wind up again.

Previous

• Antenna back as you flail, he pulls you back onto your soft berth and immediately lets go, worried you might hit him for touching you without permission. For invading your space. And you push up to stare at him, eyes wide. “Why are you in my room?” You ask, voice trembling. Like he scared you and his anxiety winds tighter, because he knows what it’s like to be scared all the time. It’s why he’d sought you out. Had seen the open door and had hoped that was for him. Didn’t mean to scare you. Pressing back against the wall as he lifts his hands, his wings flick nervously.

• “No hurt. Waspinator wanted to feel safe,” he whines and your fear fizzles. Because even though he’s mass shifted and still much bigger than you are, he’s cowering. Like he thinks you might hit him. Blowing out a breath, you fix your shirt with trembling hands. Want to yell at him to get out of your bed, but he’s got his antenna flattened back as he cringes. Like he’s used to being hit. Expects it. Exhaling slowly, you’re not awake enough for this. What time even is it?

• “I’m not going to hurt you,” you mutter, but you look unhappy with him. Like he did the wrong thing again. Just wanted to be with you. To feel safe. To be where he’s wanted and you always touch him so gently. Smile at him sometimes, too like he doesn’t bother you just by existing. Like you don’t mind being around him. ‘Waspinator can stay?’ He asks hopefully and you blow out a breath as you eye him and his mandibles flex.

• How are you supposed to say no when he’s staring at you like that, his optics wide and innocent as his wings flick. “Okay,” you say and he’s immediately crawling closer to lay his head in your lap and curl an arm around you. Tensing, you stare at him as he rumbles, the low thrumming sound spilling into you. And you’re not sure how to feel about this. Almost certain you should tell him to scoot over and give you some personal space as an antenna slides against your stomach to make you shiver. Reluctantly touching his head, that rumbling shifts into a rough crooning.

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

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

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

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

Previous

• Watching you sit up and head his way, he backs higher up on the wall when he hears the lock click. Dropping and mass shifting as he transforms to land on your balcony. And he holds up the strange disc he’d watched you and the other humans running and throwing. “Show Waspinator game?” He asks nervously and you run a hand back through your hair to make it messy. Antenna bobbing with the urge to step closer and smooth your hair back into place, you huff out a breath, head shaking. ‘Tomorrow, okay?’

• Don’t have the energy for teaching your weird, alien dog frisbee. Not bothering to ask him to leave since he’s mostly harmless, you head back to your bedroom and faceplant in the comforter. Everything hurts. Maybe you should exercise more, but you’d like it to be your choice, not because the government decided watching the caretakers badly playing sports was a free way to preoccupy the aliens so they’re not blowing anything up or fighting. And your mattress creaks, sagging as he sprawls on the bed beside you. “What are you doing, bud?” You ask and his antenna lift. ‘Waiting.’

• Wings flicking restlessly, his head turns so he can see you staring at him. But you’re not driving him out of your nest. Or yelling. “Waiting for what?” You ask sounding wary and his wings adjust against his back. ‘Waiting for tomorrow.’ And you’re laughing, pressing your face into the comforter with a muffled “cool.” Still not trying to make him leave, though. Venting, he wiggles closer. Squirming his head under one of your arms as you keep laughing and he likes the sound. Wants to hear more of it. “Space invader,” you mumble but you don’t sound upset, just tired.

• Hips pumping as his wings fitfully fan, that heady shift in your scent strings him tight. Until it’s hard to focus on anything beyond the slick heat of you wrapped so tight around his spike. Nuzzling against your neck as he thrusts, one of your legs slides against his and his mandibles graze your skin. Wanting to bite so bad. To mark you as his. It’s only the worry that he might upset you that keeps him from giving in to the urge. Feels you tremble under him, squirming to make the urge to bite and pin you even harder to ignore. Then you’re fisting his spike and his thrusts falter. Overloading hard and feeling his spike swelling inside you as he shifts his plating to snare you. To bond you.

• Startling when you’re pulled under, you can feel him still inside you, his spike leaving you uncomfortably full as his hips lazily rock against you, barely moving. And his light tangles in you, hesitantly spiraling around you. Asking. Every time he brushes against you, his memories spark through you. Images, emotions. An overwhelming confusion of his life that threatens to drown you. His hurt and confusion. His resignation to being hurt. The moment he’d decided he deserved to be hurt. Then finding you, expecting pain. Never expecting gentle touches or patience even when he knows he’s frustrating you. Knowing he’s broken, that he doesn’t deserve anything good, but wanting it anyway.

• Your grief sinks into him and he flounders. Trying to pull away, because it must be him. He’s doing something wrong. Upsetting you. Hurting you. Babbling apologies against your skin as his hips keep rocking, you reach for him. Your light arrowing into his, your fingers gripping his clawed servos. Tangling yourself more firmly in him as bits of you sink into him. And it hurts to be accepted completely. Hurts more than he’d imagined possible to hope. Asking hesitantly, he feels you respond. Feels the pull and he’s trembling against you, wings buzzing urgently.

• Clearing his vents, his limbs run over his antenna and head. Mandibles anxiously grooming himself as he tries to purge that scent clinging to you from his systems. “Aren’t you hungry today?” You call up, walking closer and looking up at him and he backs further up the wall. ‘Stink,’ he grumbles, wings buzzing aggressively at you to back up even as he wants you to put those soft, kind hands on him. “Okay, so let me wash you so you don’t stink,” you say sounding exasperated. Can you not smell it?

• “Waspinator not stink,” he grumbles, moving sideways along the top of the wall as you move closer. Avoiding you. Stopping short at the implication that you stink, your mouth falls open. ‘You think I stink?’ You demand and his antenna go back even as he mutters “stink.” And you don’t know what to say or make of a giant, alien wasp deciding that you reek today. Glowering up at him, you try to figure out what the issue is. Before you remember the peppermint bath soap you’d dug out of the cabinet after running out of your usual body wash. That’s the only thing you changed, so that has to be it. ‘Is it the peppermint?’ You ask and he just hisses “stink” at you again.

• Optics flicking to the hose and bucket of soapy water you have waiting for him, his wings flick. “You can barely even smell it,” you insist, an arm lifting as you pretend to smell it and he tenses. Launching himself through the air, wings humming aggressively as he lands near the bucket and transforms, shoving his arm inside to find the soapy sponge and you freeze. ‘Waspinator fix,’ he says, antenna back and nervous that you’ll be angry. But you stink and he can’t stand it. “Waspinator,” you begin, eyes narrowing and you shriek when he grabs for you. Running from him.

• “Waspinator helping. Easier to wash,” he says, wings buzzing nervously. Because it’s not technically a lie. If he’s smaller, he has to be easier to wash. But really it’s because he craves the intimacy of your hands on him. Of someone touching him gently. And he likes being nearly your size when it’s just you and him, likes that he can pick out the flecks of color and striations in your strange eyes. That he can imagine being bold enough to skim his palm up your arm. Touching you in return. Holding you. Having you hold him.

• Easier, but infinitely more awkward. He looks so cheerful though, so much like a happy puppy as his wings buzz, that you can’t just flat out tell him to mass shift back. “Aren’t you so sweet,” you mumble tiredly, forcing a smile. And as soon as the soapy sponge touches his chassis, he whines. Wings flaring out and trembling as he leans into the touch to make your face heat. Because what’s bath time without making it weird? Feel him gingerly grip the sleeve of your coveralls as you scrub, his head dipping too close to yours.

• Is this okay? You’re not yelling at him, so maybe. Maybe he’s allowed this. Venting, he tries to nudge your head with his and you lean slightly to avoid him. But you don’t say to stop. Antenna up, he makes another try and his head brushes yours, an antenna sliding through your hair as you make a soft noise. “I can’t see what I’m doing if you do that, hun,” you say. Still not yelling, though. Or telling him not to do it. Nudging your head with his as he rumbles, purring.

• Yelping when he tries to grab you and both go down, you swear as you bang your hip and elbow on the cart and your shoulder on his energon barrel, sending your soap bucket rolling. And he’s shockingly heavy as you struggle to squirm out from under him. “Wasp, honey, I can’t breathe.” He’s always timid, never aggressive, so you have no idea what prompted this. Attacking you without warning and-no, wait. He’s bawling. Face pressed against you, arms around you and bawling. Again. What set him off this time?

• Clutching you to him as you squirm and then awkwardly pat his helm, he presses his face more firmly against your neck. Knew you tolerated him. Let him hang around you and took care of him, but this must mean you accept him. Want him as your conjunx. “No one ever chooses Waspinator,” he whines and you make a noise when his antenna brushes your face, wiggling in his grip.

• Trying to squirm free of his death grip, you swear you can feel your ribs bending. “Wasp, honey. I need air,” you groan, lightly smacking him in the head since he’s got your arms pinned where you can’t really whack him hard. Need a rolled up newspaper as he whines and squeezes you to make you wheeze. If he keeps this up, you’re going to black out or throw up on him. Maybe both. And one of his antenna slides against your face again. In reach.