Happy belated birthday! I’m going through the backlog of asks still, but this one does need to be over here 🔞 MDNI mass displaced mech 🌶️
Worker Bee Pt 39
Waspinator x Reader
• “Not baby. Waspinator,” he mumbles, the words buzzing faintly as you reach up and smooth your fingertips along a mandible. And you have to press your hand over his mouth when he leans down like he’d kiss you because you remember that heady urgency that had spread through you at the taste of him. That feeling of out of control need. Shivering at the slide of his glossa between your fingers, you flush and tug your shirt off over your head as your heart races. Realizing that this time, you’re choosing him. Even if you can’t really explain it to yourself. He’s so other, so alien it should be unsettling. Should put you off. It does. But you still look up at him and see the uncertainty in those optics. The shadow of all the hurt and mistreatment. And you reach for him anyway. Wanting to protect him. To understand this broken mech.
• 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
Just discovered Machine Cat’s Waspinator preorder and I’ve never clicked so fast 🤣 He’s chibi and transforms? Yes, please. I need a purse bug. Just a little guy. Also, Blokees: I need Defenders of the Insecticons, Tarantulas, and Waspinator. All the bugsbands, please and thank you. I need purse bugs, but not in the traumatizing way that one woman had when I worked at Walmart. Nothing like watching a grown ass woman dump out her purse on the counter to hunt for a receipt and see a cockroach fall out and go scurrying across the counter while she did her darnedest to pretend she saw nothing and I made distressed noises so high pitched that only dogs could hear them when it fell off on my side of the damn counter
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You know, I'm going through my emails and realizing that the last time I got a message that you'd updated your AO3 archive was back in April. I know you've got a lot on your plate rn but I wanted to let you know because I'm sure I'll forget within minutes if I don't now.
😭 thank you for the reminder- I’m terrible about remembering to backup AO3. I got up to May 16 last night and after work I’ll resume backing stuff up to hopefully get it current again. Every time I have to back up months work of fics I swear I’ll do better about doing this weekly because it’s a pain once it gets this behind. And then I promptly forget again
Worker Bee Pt 38
Waspinator x Reader
• “Upset with Waspinator?” He hesitantly asks and you shake your head. ‘You’re allowed to have secrets,’ you say and he relaxes slowly because there’s no anger or condemnation in your tone. No judgment. Nervously chewing on the energon rod, he nudges your head with his as his rumbling dips to a rough purring of engine noise. Wings flicking as he scoots closer to the warmth of your body, his mandibles worry the treat.
• 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.
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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.
