Can we get some sort of spicy scenario or story continuation with our Waspy boi 😈 I still want that buzzyboy to spark me up one day 🥺
Sure! 🔞 MDNI mass displaced mech 🌶️ ⚠️ sparked reader
Worker Bee- Sparked
Waspinator x Reader
• Toes barely brushing the ground as you squirm, pinned on your belly on your bed, you can hear and feel his buzzing rumble humming through you. And you’re glad the frame is reinforced as the headboard thumps against the wall. Have no idea what’s gotten into him, but he’d just slowly turned to look at you, venting and growling ‘heat’ at you in question as his antenna had lifted right before he’d come at you like a heat seeking missile. Fingers fisting in the sheets you gasp feeling his mandibles brushing the back of your neck.
• 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.
• There was a question. Had felt it, felt his longing and his certainty of being denied. And you’d agreed without really understanding what he was asking. Shivering at the pull, at the sense of losing a piece of yourself, something precious, he cocoons you more firmly in himself. Feel him shuddering against you, overloading inside you again with a growling whine as that coaxing pull shifts. Reaching for it as it aches through you, needing whatever it is. Feel it become yours as his wonder spills into you, his frame shifting against you to sever the connection with his spark and you tremble at the loss even as it had been overwhelming to be seen like that. To be known completely. “What was that?” You ask, feeling his mandibles brushing your jaw and neck. ‘Sparked,’ he growls, cheek brushing against you as he shifts and you grunt at him when his weight momentarily drives the air from your lungs, his spike tugging uncomfortably inside you. Is he talking about the bonding? Because this time was different, you just don’t understand why. But he’s humming happily, spike still pulsing inside you as his wings fan your sweat-slicked skin.
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Does Waspinator trust his human conjux enough to sparkbond with them? Its understandable if he isn't, he's been hurt so bad in the past. But it would give reader an insight on all the pain he's suffered and an understanding of why he is the way he is
I think it would take some time for him to relax enough to sparkbond. He trusts them, but he’s used to being hurt and betrayed.
Worker Bee Pt 37
Waspinator x Reader
• “Open up,” you say, holding out one of the human sized energon rods Ratchet had given you and his mandibles flare slightly, inner mouth opening for you to stick the end in and he rumbles, servos reaching to hold the thing as he chews on it. Watching his wings frantically buzzing as his sharp denta gnaw on it, he really does remind you of an excited puppy sometimes. And it really drives home how different he is from the other Cybertronians. Not just in his form, but in how he acts. You’ve seen the way they look at him, the pity in their expressions. Know something is off. “Wasp?”
• Optics flicking to you as he chews on the treat, his antenna lift. Momentarily off balance from the way you’re looking at him. “What happened to you?” You ask and his wings flatten against his back. Rumbling, he twists to lay down on the berth on his side with his back to you. ‘Recharging. Tired,’ he tries, hearing you sigh before you walk around him and he avoids your eyes. Even when you lay down facing him, soft fingers brushing a mandible as he fidgets with the energon rod. “Were you always like this?”
• Warm air fanning your face when he clears his vents, he hisses softly but there’s no hostility in the noise. Reaching to press your palm against the back of his hand to keep him from bolting, you wait and he whines softly. “Waspinator doesn’t remember. Waspinator is just Waspinator,” he mutters, voice strained and unhappy. And you’re almost positive he’s lying to you. That he knows and doesn’t want to relive whatever happened. ‘You know you can talk to me if you want to.’ Want to push, but you know how anxious he gets when he doesn’t want to talk and you try to make him.
• Little mate doesn’t seem upset with him, but you’re asking him to remember things he doesn’t want to remember. Painful, shameful things. Would you still let him lay beside you, hold you, if you knew everything? Isn’t sure and he’s scared to risk it. To lose his home. To lose you. “Waspinator is just Waspinator,” he insists and you shift closer, your forehead brushing his. Antenna sliding against you to make you huff out a little laugh, he feels your little hands playing with one of his. Knows he frustrates you, makes you mad, but you never punish him for it and he can’t understand that. Just wants to cling to that feeling of warmth that’s you. Of someone wanting him.
• He’s not going to talk. Not yet and you know better than to insist. But you have a suspicion about what might have happened to him. Staring at his big, clawed hand, your thumb slides against the barely visible, pale lines crisscrossing his plating. At a causal glance, they’re barely noticeable. It had taken forever for you to notice them, but now you can’t stop seeing them. They form a heavy tracery all over him and you’re positive that they’re scars. Hundreds and hundreds of old scars crisscrossing his whole body. Even as accident prone and hapless as he is, there’s too many for them to be all accidental. Someone hurt him. Over and over again. Broke him.
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Capitalism is designed to nurture itself by making you, the worker bee, smaller. Tiny, minute, microscopic. Capitalist structures make more and more profit by making you smaller and smaller, to an extent where you eventually become so small that it becomes second nature for you to dismiss your own needs and expectations to suit theirs.
So you start defining yourself by the standards they have set for you; where you discipline yourself to sit for 8 straight hours working in your cubicle, where you judge yourself by your levels of productivity and how much profit you make for them, where you pat yourself on your back to have mapped out your whole routine around work that benefits them.
And so you start justifying sleeping less, ignoring your mental and physical health, having no hobbies or interests outside of work, no friends or human connection, no quality time with loved ones, no rest, and eventually you don't even know who you are outside of your work.
Eventually you burn out. And when you do, you are thrown off your pedestal and replaced in a blink of an eye. And it becomes YOUR failure, YOUR cross to carry, YOUR problem to overcome.
Capitalism sustains itself by killing your soul and then putting a disclaimer on its death acting as if you were really given a choice.
