[IDW] All the Queen's Treasure 03
Jan. 20th, 2020 06:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: All the Queen’s Treasure
Continuity: IDW, Alternate Canon
Characters: Sunstreaker, Ironhide, Bob the Insecticon, Hardshell, Sharpshot, Kickback, Original Insecticon Character(s)
Pairings: Hardshell/Sunstreaker, Insecticon(s)/Sunstreaker, Hardshell/Sunstreaker/Sharpshot
Rating: M
Enticements: Consensual Body Modification, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Non-Graphic Oviposition, Off-screen Egg Laying, Knotting
Description: After Sideswipe, Sunstreaker returns to Cybertron, lost and alone, until Bob leads him on a wild chase into the wildlands, to a nest beneath the surface of the planet, and a place Sunstreaker might call home.
Part Three
Sunstreaker onlined slowly, his sensor suites rebooting one by one, registering warmth and softness, safety and comfort. He lay on something plush and inviting, cradling his frame like a gentle cocoon. He heard soft sounds, like the recharging ventilations of a berth partner, and there were gentle strokes along his plating.
He onlined his optics, the dull throbbing in his processor more tolerable than the sharp knifing that had sent him into unconsciousness before. It was dimly lit here, but brighter than the first cavern.
The rustling of multiple limbs skittering across surfaces registered first. The walls and ceiling looked to be in constant motion.
He was on a berth. Or a facsimile of one. Webbing stretched from wall to wall beneath him, and where he lay, concave in the center, coverings had been arranged. Pillows, too.
“Shh, shh, Queen is resting.”
“Shh, shh, quiet, quiet.”
“Shh, shh. Make shiny. For Queen.”
Words trickled in, whispering babble. The strokes across his armor gentled even further.
Sunstreaker shifted, rising up on his elbows, and looked down. Tiny Insecticons scuttled around his frame, the smallest he’d seen and not a one bigger than his own head. Their small grasping hands held little cloths which they were using to dab at his armor.
He was clean, cleaner than he thought possible here in the dark and grit. His armor all but glowed. Their tiny fingers dipped into seams, gently massaging at cables, and he felt the tickle of some kind of oily substance before it, too, was wiped away.
Well.
He could get used to this. It was weird, but then again, he was deep in an Insecticon Hive. Everything was weird. They weren’t trying to eat him. They weren’t trying to molest him. Technically.
They were kind of cute, actually.
“Shh, shh,” they chattered as they clambered nimbly up and down the webbing, focusing intently on Sunstreaker’s frame. “Queen is resting. Queen is shiny. Shh, shh.”
“You’re awake.”
Sunstreaker slid back into the comfort of the webbing and turned his head. Hardshell came into view at Sunstreaker’s right side, and beside him was Bob, who chittered and wriggled and leapt up to join Sunstreaker.
“Made a new friend, I see,” Sunstreaker murmured as he stroked over the daffy bug’s head. Bob purred and nuzzled him, little hands patting Sunstreaker’s face. “Where am I?”
He didn’t bother to ask what had happened. The heat, the humidity, his recent injuries -- he’d shut down out of sheer self-preservation.
Hardshell dipped his head, mandibles clicking together. “One of many rooms for the Queen’s use. A place where we can care for you. Where you can lay your eggs in comfort and ease.”
“Eggs?” Sunstreaker grimaced and touched his belly. “Cybertronians don’t lay eggs.”
“Queens lay eggs,” Hardshell said and a single fingertip touched Sunstreaker’s abdomen, above his own hand. “You will carry. You will birth. We will grow. We will thrive.”
Sunstreaker batted his hand away and sat back up, shifting his legs and making the tiny Insecticons scatter. “And I told you that I can’t!”
“But you will. Soon. You will learn.” Hardshell wisely withdrew his hand, though there was reluctance in the motion. “You are needed.”
Sunstreaker swung his legs over the side, the webbing swaying beneath the shifting of his weight. “Yeah, I get that. Still not seeing what’s in it for me.”
“Community.”
Sharpshot emerged from the shadows, the glow of his biolights outlining his frame. “You will never be alone. Alone again. Again you’ll be one.”
A sharp tremble of something tore through Sunstreaker’s spark. “What?”
“You have lost. Lost a piece. A piece of yourself.” Sharpshot came even closer, until he and Hardshell stood in front of Sunstreaker, almost bracketing him in. “You are broken. Broken and hurting.” He gestured to Sunstreaker’s chassis.
The tremble intensified. Sunstreaker’s vents became labored. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he snapped as he shoved himself to his feet, ignoring the way Bob knocked against his back, making urgent noises. He smacked Sharpshot’s hand away, and tried to stomp to freedom, but the dizziness struck again.
Sunstreaker swayed and grabbed blindly for the webbed berth to steady himself. His vents roared, and he dragged air through his mouth, off-lining his optics. His gyros spun dizzily, giving him a nauseating lurch in his tanks. He couldn’t seem to find his balance.
Was it really just his injuries? Or was there something more sinister going on?
“What did you do to me?” Sunstreaker growled, attempting to direct a glare in their direction, but static fritzed his vision.
Bob made a concerned noise and patted at his arm.
“Repairs given. Energon. Cleaning and polishing. Nothing more,” Hardshell said.
Sunstreaker’s free hand brushed his forehead. He cycled several ventilations. “Then why am I so dizzy?”
Something moved in his peripheral vision. An energy field tentatively brushed against his own, and there was something warm in it, like comfort and spiced energon.
“You are broken. Broken and lost. Lost and missing,” came Sharpshot’s voice, and there was something lyrical about the purr, something that seemed to resonate to Sunstreaker’s core. “Missing your half.”
The dizziness faded into abrupt clarity, like a fog had been lifted.
“That’s a myth,” Sunstreaker mumbled. There was no special bond between brothers, between twins. They were related. They were one. But they were separate. Family didn’t even mean you had to love one another.
Sometimes, you didn’t even like each other.
“What is myth but an unproven truth?” Hardshell asked, and a second field reached out, equally warm, like the gentle embrace of strong arms. “Fact or fiction, you are longing, Sunstreaker. You seek to fill a void.”
His spark chamber ached. He leaned his hip against the berth, curling an arm around Bob who pressed up against him, his little hands patting Sunstreaker’s frame in a clear offer of comfort.
“And you think I can do that here,” Sunstreaker said. It wasn’t a question. Hardshell and Sharpshot both had implied as much.
“I think you can find your answers with us,” Hardshell said and made a broad gesture, to the walls and the ceiling, where multitudes of optics and visors looked down at Sunstreaker. They had been silent, so quiet he hadn’t noticed their presence, but he acknowledged them now.
Far too many to count. All shapes and sizes. Clinging to every surface, their optical feeds fixed on Sunstreaker. Even the tiny cleaner Insecticons huddled on the berth, staring limpid at Sunstreaker, small fingers twisting together.
“We offer. Offer everything. Everything you could want,” Sharpshot added in that same lyrical cadence which seemed to captivate Sunstreaker’s audials like a spell.
Can you give me back my brother? Sunstreaker thought bitterly, but he didn’t voice it aloud.
He swallowed over a lump in his intake, barely registering the low tremble that had settled into his frame.
He was considering it. Primus, help him, but he was tempted by what they offered him. Worship. Adoration. A purpose. A meaning. A chance to do some good, to make up for all the slag which had cost him the things that mattered.
A home.
Sunstreaker cycled a ventilation. “W-what if I say no?” A dangerous question, perhaps, but if they’d wanted to kill him, they’d have done so already. Could he refuse?
“A Queen takes. A Queen cannot be taken,” Hardshell said.
“You will be free. Free to leave. Leave us forever,” Sharpshot said, but his mandibles clacked together in a gesture that would have been nervous on the standard Cybertronian. His field trilled against Sunstreaker’s, infecting the offered comfort with something else.
Dread. Sorrow. An aching loneliness Sunstreaker was too familiar with.
“And you’ll find another Queen?” Sunstreaker persisted.
The two large Insecticons looked at one another. It was Hardshell who stood straighter, as though refusing to bend in the face of a great mountain.
“We are dying,” he said, and the chitters of the surrounding Hive abruptly hushed. The silence was more unsettling then their chatter. “Without a Queen, we will cease.”
“Or She will come. Come for us.” Sharpshot seemed to shrink, scuttling as he did, and moved until he hid half-behind Hardshell. “We can’t refuse. Refuse her call.” The warm fuzz of his field vanished, but not before Sunstreaker sensed a glacial spike of unease.
Sunstreaker frowned. “Who?”
Again, the two exchanged glances, and in an eerie synchrony, turned to look at Sunstreaker. “Airachnid,” they said, their vocals overlapping.
Something rippled through the gathered masses. Something that felt simultaneously fearful and loathing, resigned and rebellious. The chittering began anew, only it had a different frequency to it this time.
They did not like Airachnid, Sunstreaker surmised. But, it seemed, they couldn’t resist her either.
He’d heard stories about the Predacon. Her wiles. That she had the ability to bend others to will, if given half the chance.
The Insecticons, with their weird coding and their Hive-like mentality, they’d be ripe for the taking for someone like that. Whether they wanted it or not. They needed a Queen to lead them and so they could reproduce apparently. They couldn’t do it on their own.
What happened to their previous Queen?
“She’s on Cybertron?” Sunstreaker asked with a frown. Because this was news to him, and probably news to every Bot, Con, and NAIL on the planet as well. Airachnid was a Decepticon by default, but the only purpose she ever truly served was her own.
No way would she fall in line behind Starscream. Or Galvatron. Or Soundwave. Or whoever was supposedly leading the purple badge right now. She’d take the Insecticons, build herself an army, and lay waste to whatever was left of Cybertron, if only so she could sit on a throne of corpses, master of her domain.
Hardshell straightened. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. If she ever learns we are without a queen, she will be soon enough.”
Sunstreaker jerked his head in a nod. The terror and malaise in the room was palpable. He could read the fear in Hardshell’s face, in the dim of Sharpshot’s visor.
“Why don’t you have a queen?” Sunstreaker leaned back against the berth, Bob pressed against his spinal strut in an offer of warmth and companionship. “Are you asking me to sign up for something that’s just going to get me killed?”
“Not at all,” Hardshell said and the grief in the room suddenly became suffocating. The chittering turned to a soft, low hum. “We lost our queen in the Titan fight. One of our breeding caverns were crushed in the battle, taking our queen with it.”
It was at least something Sunstreaker didn’t have to blame himself for. The whole incident with the Titans and Shockwave and whatever that nonsense was, it wasn’t Sunstreaker’s fault. He’d only been one of many soldiers, fighting against a tide of Ammonites, struggling to defend Cybertron from invasion.
“We mourned. Mourned then fled. Fled here. Here for solace,” Sharpshot murmured, inching out from behind Hardshell, his head dipped, as though trying to make himself small. His wings fluttered against his back, looking like frail, fragile things.
So this hadn’t always been their home. They’d rebuilt their Hive here. They’d taken the survivors of their colony and fled here. Wherever here was. Not too far from Metroplex, Sunstreaker gathered. He couldn’t imagine he’d been unconscious that long.
Or perhaps it wasn’t a matter of distance. Perhaps it was a matter of depth. That would explain why his GPS wasn’t working.
“We rebuild. We survive,” Hardshell said with a shift of his weight and a gesture to the multitudes around them. “But without a queen, we are nothing.”
Sunstreaker sank down on the webbed berth. It swayed gently beneath him, but held his weight, even when Bob tried to climb into his lap. Sunstreaker allowed him, wrapping his arms around the purring Insecticon.
It felt weird, knowing Bob wasn’t Bob or a runt, to still think of the bug as his pet. But Bob didn’t seem to mind, and it didn’t sem to bother Hardshell or Sharpshot either.
“I’m not an Insecticon,” Sunstreaker said as he scratched behind Bob’s audials and little hands patted at his thighs. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t be your queen.”
Sharpshot briefly rested a hand on Hardshell’s shoulder. They exchanged a knowing look, and Sunstreaker swore he saw an electric spark pass between them, before Hardshell stepped out from under Sharpshot’s hand. He moved closer to Sunstreaker, and Sunstreaker braced himself.
Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Hardshell dropping to one knee in front of him, resting an arm over the bent knee. He looked up at Sunstreaker, like a knight addressing his majesty.
“You can be changed,” Hardshell said, his voice oddly soft, as if intended to soothe. “You can be remade. Stronger. Faster. One of us.”
Something crawled up Sunstreaker’s spinal strut. It wasn’t entirely discomfort. “How?” He doubted there was some kind of advanced laboratory here. No way could they perform a frame transfer.
Sharpshot’s fingers tangled together. “Hardshell is not leader. Leader is not Queenmaker. Queenmaker is Hardshell.”
Sunstreaker frowned. It was a convoluted statement, one he had to pick apart until he tilted his head and looked at Hardshell again.
“Queenmaker,” he repeated. No wonder Hardshell was important. “What’s that mean? You rewrite my coding or something?”
“In a sense.” Hardshell remained kneeling, as if he wanted to appear subservient and meek, no kind of threat. “Within my coding is the means to transform another into a proper queen. Through interfacing.”
Sunstreaker’s optics widened. “That’s ridiculous-- I don’t-- Why would--” Each bitten off demand was unfinished, because Sunstreaker couldn’t decide what was more important or absurd about Hardshell’s implication.
Hardshell’s gaze remained imploring. “The change is gradual and requires repeated uploads of the coding. As for why the uploads aren’t simply transmitted through dataports, well, I challenge you to find a single Insecticon with one.”
“You don’t have dataports?” Sunstreaker demanded, incredulous. That was absurd. All Cybertronians had dataports. The Camiens had dataports! The Predacons, too. Even the weirdest Cybertronians from the weirdest colonies Sunstreaker met had dataports.
“They are not. Not necessary for our survival.” Sharpshot twittered, wings twitching and fluttering against his back. “We are different. Different but unique. Unique and better.”
For someone else, that would have come across as arrogance. For the Insecticons, it sounded like stated fact. They were better because they believed they were better. Just like Cybertronians mech-in-nature believed themselves superior to the rest of the universe.
It was arrogance all too familiar to Sunstreaker.
An arrogance not unlike his own.
“So...” He worked his intake. “To become your queen, you’d have to frag me. A lot.” He took a long look at Hardshell, much longer than before.
Hardshell was massive. Sunstreaker had taken larger mechs before. It was nothing a little relaxing and preparation couldn’t solve, but Sunstreaker had the feeling Hardshell’s equipment wasn’t Cybertronian standard. Whatever he had was big. Built for pleasure, maybe. Built to serve his queen.
Sunstreaker’s internals tightened. His array warmed at his core. He wasn’t unopposed, he realized, as the mental image of Hardshell looming over him, filling him to every node and sensor within his valve, sent a thrill of lust through Sunstreaker’s circuits.
Hardshell dipped his head in something like a deferential bow. “Yes, my queen. And it would be my honor to serve you in this way.”
Serve.
Queen.
Such intoxicating, seductive words.
Sunstreaker’s mouth went dry as he considered it. Leading them. Being one of them. Breeding for them. Never alone. Never abandoned. Never forgotten. Worshiped. Adored.
If he left, what did he really have to go back to? Some small and dingy apartment in a ghetto? An atmosphere of tension and anger waiting to tip back into violence and death? A hole in his spark where Sideswipe used to be, myths be damned. The weight of guilt, blossoming back into a new mass after the peace his journey on the Lost Light had given him.
No friends. No family. Nothing.
He had nothing to lose, and a lot to gain.
Mechs would talk. Mechs always talked. Sunstreaker imagined what they’d say about him if they ever found out.
Crazy. Disgusting. Pervert. Traitor.
These nameless mechs who never cared a thing about Sunstreaker, why did he care what they thought about him.
What would Sideswipe say?
It didn’t matter. Because Sideswipe was dead. Sideswipe had found another brother, another friend in Arcee. Which was good, because Sunstreaker sucked as a brother anyway.
Sunstreaker was tired. He was so very tired.
Something lightly touched his knee. Sunstreaker unshuttered optics he hadn’t realized he’d closed and looked down at Hardshell, who had rested his taloned hand very lightly on Sunstreaker’s knee.
“There is so much more I could show you,” Hardshell said, and something in his tone captivated Sunstreaker’s attention, narrowing the world down to the two of them.
He distantly heard the chitters of the other Insecticons. Bob and Sharpshot were nearby, but silent. Sunstreaker was aware that they weren’t alone. But it felt like they were. As if he were captivated by the gleam of Hardshell’s visor, and the three parallel marks on Hardshell’s face.
“You’ve not seen everything. There is much more to the Hive, to us,” Hardshell continued, and the weight of his hand on Sunstreaker’s knee became all the more tangible. “But there is nothing more that will convince you. And the choice remains, as it always has been, yours.”
Hardshell knelt there, staring up at him, and only then did Sunstreaker realize his vents were subtly quickening. In the background, the dizziness lurked, a sense he was falling into some dark abyss. He’d felt that once before, when he’d escaped from the humans and was left with a hate so consuming, the only freedom had been Starscream and an ill-fated plan.
Back then, he’d made the wrong choice. Somehow, walking away felt like he’d be tipping into the dark all over again.
His arms tightened around Bob, who was uncharacteristically still and quiet where he cuddled in Sunstreaker’s lap. “If I accept your offer, can I go back?”
Hardshell tilted his head. “Back?” He sounded confused, as did the press of his field. “You may leave, if you wish. Rejecting us--”
“No, I don’t mean right now. I don’t mean a rejection. I mean… if I become one of you now, can I change my mind later?” Did he have the option to run? Or was this a lifetime commitment deal?
Hardshell’s hesitation was obvious. “...No,” he admitted. “You will always be our queen. You could leave us, if you so choose, but you will still have that tie. We will always be yours, and perhaps you’ll survive the severance. But we will not.”
Ouch.
He would hold their lives in his hands. Sunstreaker could barely take care of himself. Bob was lucky he was so damned self-sufficient. Could he manage the burden of an entire Hive? Could he take that risk, knowing how often he’d failed so many people?
But if he left. If he ran away. He’d be leaving them to their fate. To the possibility of Airachnid subverting them, or maybe a rogue NAIL or Decepticon, forcing their way into the Hive and taking it for themselves. Someone, perhaps, who would only see the Insecticons as a means to reignite war.
Frag, he better not let Prowl know they were here. Prowl would probably calculate ten-thousand ways he could use the Insecticons for his own ends, too.
They weren’t safe. With or without Sunstreaker, the Insecticons weren’t safe. And he wasn’t sure why he cared so much, just that he did. The same feeling he’d experienced when he’d seen Bob back then rose up in his spark all over again. A clenching, suffocating sensation that he couldn’t leave the little runt to die.
Well, he couldn’t leave the Hive to die either.
Sunstreaker worked his intake. “If… if I agree. What does that mean? What happens next?”
Hardshell’s hand slid away from Sunstreaker’s knee and he rose to his full height, though this time he didn’t loom. “I would make you into a proper queen.” He offered his hand, for the third time, to Sunstreaker. “I will support you every step of the way. You will never be alone, Sunstreaker, for I will remain beside you.”
He reacted.
He didn’t much think. He stopped running things over and over in his head, not while those words echoed inside of him, reverberating through the emptiness in his spark. He found himself taking Hardshell’s hand, rising to his feet, Bob scuttling off his lap and issuing a trill of happiness.
“All right,” Sunstreaker said, the words squeezing out past a lump of static in his vocalizer and the arrhythmic pump of his vents. “I’ll do it.”
Never alone. No longer alone. Beside you. Staying. Never leaving.
Hardshell’s fingers curled around his, and the way his hand almost disappeared in Hardshell’s sent a sharp shiver of heat down Sunstreaker’s spinal strut. “You are certain?”
“Don’t.” Sunstreaker cycled a ventilation, tried to get his system back in focus, but the world kept spinning, spinning, and it was all good. “Don’t ask that. Because I’ll second-guess myself. Like I second-guess everything. I need this to be the right choice.”
The pad of Hardshell’s thumb rubbed over the back of Sunstreaker’s hand. Sunstreaker followed the motion with his optics, oddly transfixed by it. He was surprised by the gentleness, though he wasn’t sure why. It captivated his focus, and he missed Hardshell’s next move, recognizing the soft touch of a warm hand to the side of his face too late.
He tilted his head into it, however, because Hardshell’s field pulsed affection and reassurance, even as his thumb rested on Sunstreaker’s cheek.
“A test then,” Hardshell murmured, his voice sliding like silk over Sunstreaker’s exterior sensors. “To see if you can withstand my touch.”
Sunstreaker thought that was fairly obvious, given the heat heading southward and the quickening of his spark at Hardshell’s hands alone. But the Queenmaker intended something different as he leaned down, his ex-vents teasing Sunstreaker’s facial vents. His denta were sharp and gleaming, dangerous by all accounts, but his thin lips brushed over Sunstreaker’s. He smelled of dark, earthy things. Not something Sunstreaker was used to. Not like the average Cybertronian.
The scent still gave him a thrill. He breathed out through his lips, felt a shiver rush down his spinal strut, and then the kiss firmed, the wet swipe of an Insecticon glossa dampening Sunstreaker’s lips before it eased inside his mouth, sweet and moist. Sunstreaker moaned. His knees wobbled, and his free hand waved wildly before he grabbed hold of something on Hardshell and held tight.
The kiss deepened, until it felt as though Hardshell was claiming him. It sent a hot flush through Sunstreaker’s frame, which intensified with every delicate scrape of Hardshell’s denta, until Sunstreaker tilted against him, their frames coming into contact. Sunstreaker moaned into the kiss, optics shuddering, processor spinning.
Hardshell was warm, hot even, his armor firm and strong against Sunstreaker’s own. His engine rumbled, vibrating both of their frames, and his hands were wonderfully gentle. Adoring. Treating Sunstreaker like something to be treasured. His glossa explored Sunstreaker’s mouth as though memorizing his taste.
Sunstreaker didn’t want this to end. He wanted to see where else it could go. He wanted to see how Hardshell could apply this to the coding upload.
Hardshell pulled back, his lips slow and lingering, his denta the carefullest of scrapes. He nuzzled Sunstreaker’s face, and a sound not unlike a purr rumbled in his intake.
Sunstreaker’s head spun. “I think...” His glossa swept over his lips, his fans whirring madly. “You passed the test.”
Hardshell chuckled, dark and grating and far less ominous than it used to be. “Very well.” He stroked the back of his fingers around Sunstreaker’s face before he stepped back and slipped into a shallow bow. “Welcome, my queen, to your Hive.”
Heat flooded Sunstreaker’s frame. His spark strobed a faster beat.
Bob’s head nudged under his dangling hand as he chirred up at Sunstreaker. Above, the multitudes of Insecticons chittered and chattered, thousands of tiny feet scraping at the ceilings and tinier wings rustling as they shifted. There was a tingle in the air, like that of relief and anticipation and joy.
It felt like the right decision.
Sunstreaker tilted his head. “I’m honored to be chosen,” he replied. It seemed like something he should say. “But… uh… What happens next?”
What now? As the noise grew around him, and it seemed to get brighter, thousands of biolights glowing yellow and purple and green.
Hardshell straightened, lifting a single hand, and silence descended, though the sense of constant movement did not. “Now, you will be remade, though it is a process. One that will take many months.” The hand lowered and was offered to Sunstreaker, just as before. “If you are willing, we are ready to begin.”
“Now?” Uncertainty sent a chill through his exterior lines. Sunstreaker looked pointedly around him. “Do we have to have an audience?” Not that Sunstreaker was opposed to a little show and tell, but this was a bit more show than he wanted.
If Hardshell’s kiss alone made him melt, what would the rest do to him? Sunstreaker absolutely didn’t want to turn to mush in front of an audience or become some sort of uninhibited creature with no shame. He didn’t want everyone to see him fall apart.
Hardshell chuckled. “No, my queen. This is only one of many chambers for the queen’s comfort. There are others, more private ones. If you prefer.”
“I prefer,” Sunstreaker said without hesitation.
“Very well.” Hardshell directed the next over his shoulder. “Sharpshot, see that the queen’s chamber is ready immediately. I will escort him there.”
Sharpshot dipped into the lowest bow Sunstreaker had seen out of him yet. “At once, Hardshell.” As he straightened, his optics found Sunstreaker, warm and liquid with a startling affection. “You are welcome. Welcome home.”
Home.
Sunstreaker couldn’t deny the way the word caused a liquid warmth to pass through him. Sharpshot turned and departed at a fast clip. Hardshell still offered his hand, unwavering, patient.
Bob butted against Sunstreaker’s lower back. Oh. Bob.
Sunstreaker turned toward the bug, who waggled his aft and looked up at Sunstreaker with a tilted head. “Sorry, bug.” He stroked Bob behind the audials to take the sting out of the rejection. “You’ve interrupted one too many fun times. We’ll have to find somewhere else for you to be.”
“We’ll take care of him,” Hardshell said. “He is our queen’s most special one. He will be treated well. After all, he did find our queen.”
Sunstreaker chuckled and scratched behind Bob’s antenna, making the little Insecticon chirp and waggle more eagerly. “Such a good boy, you are.”
Bob’s wiggling increased in earnest. Sunstreaker grinned at him, though he remained hyper-aware of Hardshell patiently waiting behind him.
“I’m not going to change my mind,” Sunstreaker said, some of his tension easing away. Petting Bob had always soothed him, and now was no exception. “I do want to do this. But for peace of mind, when’s the last time I can say no?”
Hardshell’s field spiked with anxiety. “You may always refuse.”
“No, I mean...” Sunstreaker sighed and turned back toward Hardshell, swallowing over a lump in his intake. “At what point can I change my mind, and it won’t hurt the hive?”
Hardshell tilted his head. “The connection begins to form after the first upload. It won’t… hurt us to refuse, but with each subsequent upload, the connection gets stronger.”
So the chance to back out was now. Or at least, the chance to leave without guilt swallowing him whole.
“Good thing I’m not changing my mind then,” Sunstreaker said and he smiled, or at least he tried to. It felt more like a grimace. He hadn’t smiled in a while. He wasn’t sure what it felt like anymore.
Hardshell still offered a hand. Sunstreaker slid his into it, and shivered as Hardshell’s fingers closed around his.
“I’m ready,” Sunstreaker said.
Hardshell leaned in close, nuzzling the side of Sunstreaker’s face. “And I am at your service.”
***
Continuity: IDW, Alternate Canon
Characters: Sunstreaker, Ironhide, Bob the Insecticon, Hardshell, Sharpshot, Kickback, Original Insecticon Character(s)
Pairings: Hardshell/Sunstreaker, Insecticon(s)/Sunstreaker, Hardshell/Sunstreaker/Sharpshot
Rating: M
Enticements: Consensual Body Modification, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Non-Graphic Oviposition, Off-screen Egg Laying, Knotting
Description: After Sideswipe, Sunstreaker returns to Cybertron, lost and alone, until Bob leads him on a wild chase into the wildlands, to a nest beneath the surface of the planet, and a place Sunstreaker might call home.
Sunstreaker onlined slowly, his sensor suites rebooting one by one, registering warmth and softness, safety and comfort. He lay on something plush and inviting, cradling his frame like a gentle cocoon. He heard soft sounds, like the recharging ventilations of a berth partner, and there were gentle strokes along his plating.
He onlined his optics, the dull throbbing in his processor more tolerable than the sharp knifing that had sent him into unconsciousness before. It was dimly lit here, but brighter than the first cavern.
The rustling of multiple limbs skittering across surfaces registered first. The walls and ceiling looked to be in constant motion.
He was on a berth. Or a facsimile of one. Webbing stretched from wall to wall beneath him, and where he lay, concave in the center, coverings had been arranged. Pillows, too.
“Shh, shh, Queen is resting.”
“Shh, shh, quiet, quiet.”
“Shh, shh. Make shiny. For Queen.”
Words trickled in, whispering babble. The strokes across his armor gentled even further.
Sunstreaker shifted, rising up on his elbows, and looked down. Tiny Insecticons scuttled around his frame, the smallest he’d seen and not a one bigger than his own head. Their small grasping hands held little cloths which they were using to dab at his armor.
He was clean, cleaner than he thought possible here in the dark and grit. His armor all but glowed. Their tiny fingers dipped into seams, gently massaging at cables, and he felt the tickle of some kind of oily substance before it, too, was wiped away.
Well.
He could get used to this. It was weird, but then again, he was deep in an Insecticon Hive. Everything was weird. They weren’t trying to eat him. They weren’t trying to molest him. Technically.
They were kind of cute, actually.
“Shh, shh,” they chattered as they clambered nimbly up and down the webbing, focusing intently on Sunstreaker’s frame. “Queen is resting. Queen is shiny. Shh, shh.”
“You’re awake.”
Sunstreaker slid back into the comfort of the webbing and turned his head. Hardshell came into view at Sunstreaker’s right side, and beside him was Bob, who chittered and wriggled and leapt up to join Sunstreaker.
“Made a new friend, I see,” Sunstreaker murmured as he stroked over the daffy bug’s head. Bob purred and nuzzled him, little hands patting Sunstreaker’s face. “Where am I?”
He didn’t bother to ask what had happened. The heat, the humidity, his recent injuries -- he’d shut down out of sheer self-preservation.
Hardshell dipped his head, mandibles clicking together. “One of many rooms for the Queen’s use. A place where we can care for you. Where you can lay your eggs in comfort and ease.”
“Eggs?” Sunstreaker grimaced and touched his belly. “Cybertronians don’t lay eggs.”
“Queens lay eggs,” Hardshell said and a single fingertip touched Sunstreaker’s abdomen, above his own hand. “You will carry. You will birth. We will grow. We will thrive.”
Sunstreaker batted his hand away and sat back up, shifting his legs and making the tiny Insecticons scatter. “And I told you that I can’t!”
“But you will. Soon. You will learn.” Hardshell wisely withdrew his hand, though there was reluctance in the motion. “You are needed.”
Sunstreaker swung his legs over the side, the webbing swaying beneath the shifting of his weight. “Yeah, I get that. Still not seeing what’s in it for me.”
“Community.”
Sharpshot emerged from the shadows, the glow of his biolights outlining his frame. “You will never be alone. Alone again. Again you’ll be one.”
A sharp tremble of something tore through Sunstreaker’s spark. “What?”
“You have lost. Lost a piece. A piece of yourself.” Sharpshot came even closer, until he and Hardshell stood in front of Sunstreaker, almost bracketing him in. “You are broken. Broken and hurting.” He gestured to Sunstreaker’s chassis.
The tremble intensified. Sunstreaker’s vents became labored. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he snapped as he shoved himself to his feet, ignoring the way Bob knocked against his back, making urgent noises. He smacked Sharpshot’s hand away, and tried to stomp to freedom, but the dizziness struck again.
Sunstreaker swayed and grabbed blindly for the webbed berth to steady himself. His vents roared, and he dragged air through his mouth, off-lining his optics. His gyros spun dizzily, giving him a nauseating lurch in his tanks. He couldn’t seem to find his balance.
Was it really just his injuries? Or was there something more sinister going on?
“What did you do to me?” Sunstreaker growled, attempting to direct a glare in their direction, but static fritzed his vision.
Bob made a concerned noise and patted at his arm.
“Repairs given. Energon. Cleaning and polishing. Nothing more,” Hardshell said.
Sunstreaker’s free hand brushed his forehead. He cycled several ventilations. “Then why am I so dizzy?”
Something moved in his peripheral vision. An energy field tentatively brushed against his own, and there was something warm in it, like comfort and spiced energon.
“You are broken. Broken and lost. Lost and missing,” came Sharpshot’s voice, and there was something lyrical about the purr, something that seemed to resonate to Sunstreaker’s core. “Missing your half.”
The dizziness faded into abrupt clarity, like a fog had been lifted.
“That’s a myth,” Sunstreaker mumbled. There was no special bond between brothers, between twins. They were related. They were one. But they were separate. Family didn’t even mean you had to love one another.
Sometimes, you didn’t even like each other.
“What is myth but an unproven truth?” Hardshell asked, and a second field reached out, equally warm, like the gentle embrace of strong arms. “Fact or fiction, you are longing, Sunstreaker. You seek to fill a void.”
His spark chamber ached. He leaned his hip against the berth, curling an arm around Bob who pressed up against him, his little hands patting Sunstreaker’s frame in a clear offer of comfort.
“And you think I can do that here,” Sunstreaker said. It wasn’t a question. Hardshell and Sharpshot both had implied as much.
“I think you can find your answers with us,” Hardshell said and made a broad gesture, to the walls and the ceiling, where multitudes of optics and visors looked down at Sunstreaker. They had been silent, so quiet he hadn’t noticed their presence, but he acknowledged them now.
Far too many to count. All shapes and sizes. Clinging to every surface, their optical feeds fixed on Sunstreaker. Even the tiny cleaner Insecticons huddled on the berth, staring limpid at Sunstreaker, small fingers twisting together.
“We offer. Offer everything. Everything you could want,” Sharpshot added in that same lyrical cadence which seemed to captivate Sunstreaker’s audials like a spell.
Can you give me back my brother? Sunstreaker thought bitterly, but he didn’t voice it aloud.
He swallowed over a lump in his intake, barely registering the low tremble that had settled into his frame.
He was considering it. Primus, help him, but he was tempted by what they offered him. Worship. Adoration. A purpose. A meaning. A chance to do some good, to make up for all the slag which had cost him the things that mattered.
A home.
Sunstreaker cycled a ventilation. “W-what if I say no?” A dangerous question, perhaps, but if they’d wanted to kill him, they’d have done so already. Could he refuse?
“A Queen takes. A Queen cannot be taken,” Hardshell said.
“You will be free. Free to leave. Leave us forever,” Sharpshot said, but his mandibles clacked together in a gesture that would have been nervous on the standard Cybertronian. His field trilled against Sunstreaker’s, infecting the offered comfort with something else.
Dread. Sorrow. An aching loneliness Sunstreaker was too familiar with.
“And you’ll find another Queen?” Sunstreaker persisted.
The two large Insecticons looked at one another. It was Hardshell who stood straighter, as though refusing to bend in the face of a great mountain.
“We are dying,” he said, and the chitters of the surrounding Hive abruptly hushed. The silence was more unsettling then their chatter. “Without a Queen, we will cease.”
“Or She will come. Come for us.” Sharpshot seemed to shrink, scuttling as he did, and moved until he hid half-behind Hardshell. “We can’t refuse. Refuse her call.” The warm fuzz of his field vanished, but not before Sunstreaker sensed a glacial spike of unease.
Sunstreaker frowned. “Who?”
Again, the two exchanged glances, and in an eerie synchrony, turned to look at Sunstreaker. “Airachnid,” they said, their vocals overlapping.
Something rippled through the gathered masses. Something that felt simultaneously fearful and loathing, resigned and rebellious. The chittering began anew, only it had a different frequency to it this time.
They did not like Airachnid, Sunstreaker surmised. But, it seemed, they couldn’t resist her either.
He’d heard stories about the Predacon. Her wiles. That she had the ability to bend others to will, if given half the chance.
The Insecticons, with their weird coding and their Hive-like mentality, they’d be ripe for the taking for someone like that. Whether they wanted it or not. They needed a Queen to lead them and so they could reproduce apparently. They couldn’t do it on their own.
What happened to their previous Queen?
“She’s on Cybertron?” Sunstreaker asked with a frown. Because this was news to him, and probably news to every Bot, Con, and NAIL on the planet as well. Airachnid was a Decepticon by default, but the only purpose she ever truly served was her own.
No way would she fall in line behind Starscream. Or Galvatron. Or Soundwave. Or whoever was supposedly leading the purple badge right now. She’d take the Insecticons, build herself an army, and lay waste to whatever was left of Cybertron, if only so she could sit on a throne of corpses, master of her domain.
Hardshell straightened. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. If she ever learns we are without a queen, she will be soon enough.”
Sunstreaker jerked his head in a nod. The terror and malaise in the room was palpable. He could read the fear in Hardshell’s face, in the dim of Sharpshot’s visor.
“Why don’t you have a queen?” Sunstreaker leaned back against the berth, Bob pressed against his spinal strut in an offer of warmth and companionship. “Are you asking me to sign up for something that’s just going to get me killed?”
“Not at all,” Hardshell said and the grief in the room suddenly became suffocating. The chittering turned to a soft, low hum. “We lost our queen in the Titan fight. One of our breeding caverns were crushed in the battle, taking our queen with it.”
It was at least something Sunstreaker didn’t have to blame himself for. The whole incident with the Titans and Shockwave and whatever that nonsense was, it wasn’t Sunstreaker’s fault. He’d only been one of many soldiers, fighting against a tide of Ammonites, struggling to defend Cybertron from invasion.
“We mourned. Mourned then fled. Fled here. Here for solace,” Sharpshot murmured, inching out from behind Hardshell, his head dipped, as though trying to make himself small. His wings fluttered against his back, looking like frail, fragile things.
So this hadn’t always been their home. They’d rebuilt their Hive here. They’d taken the survivors of their colony and fled here. Wherever here was. Not too far from Metroplex, Sunstreaker gathered. He couldn’t imagine he’d been unconscious that long.
Or perhaps it wasn’t a matter of distance. Perhaps it was a matter of depth. That would explain why his GPS wasn’t working.
“We rebuild. We survive,” Hardshell said with a shift of his weight and a gesture to the multitudes around them. “But without a queen, we are nothing.”
Sunstreaker sank down on the webbed berth. It swayed gently beneath him, but held his weight, even when Bob tried to climb into his lap. Sunstreaker allowed him, wrapping his arms around the purring Insecticon.
It felt weird, knowing Bob wasn’t Bob or a runt, to still think of the bug as his pet. But Bob didn’t seem to mind, and it didn’t sem to bother Hardshell or Sharpshot either.
“I’m not an Insecticon,” Sunstreaker said as he scratched behind Bob’s audials and little hands patted at his thighs. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t be your queen.”
Sharpshot briefly rested a hand on Hardshell’s shoulder. They exchanged a knowing look, and Sunstreaker swore he saw an electric spark pass between them, before Hardshell stepped out from under Sharpshot’s hand. He moved closer to Sunstreaker, and Sunstreaker braced himself.
Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Hardshell dropping to one knee in front of him, resting an arm over the bent knee. He looked up at Sunstreaker, like a knight addressing his majesty.
“You can be changed,” Hardshell said, his voice oddly soft, as if intended to soothe. “You can be remade. Stronger. Faster. One of us.”
Something crawled up Sunstreaker’s spinal strut. It wasn’t entirely discomfort. “How?” He doubted there was some kind of advanced laboratory here. No way could they perform a frame transfer.
Sharpshot’s fingers tangled together. “Hardshell is not leader. Leader is not Queenmaker. Queenmaker is Hardshell.”
Sunstreaker frowned. It was a convoluted statement, one he had to pick apart until he tilted his head and looked at Hardshell again.
“Queenmaker,” he repeated. No wonder Hardshell was important. “What’s that mean? You rewrite my coding or something?”
“In a sense.” Hardshell remained kneeling, as if he wanted to appear subservient and meek, no kind of threat. “Within my coding is the means to transform another into a proper queen. Through interfacing.”
Sunstreaker’s optics widened. “That’s ridiculous-- I don’t-- Why would--” Each bitten off demand was unfinished, because Sunstreaker couldn’t decide what was more important or absurd about Hardshell’s implication.
Hardshell’s gaze remained imploring. “The change is gradual and requires repeated uploads of the coding. As for why the uploads aren’t simply transmitted through dataports, well, I challenge you to find a single Insecticon with one.”
“You don’t have dataports?” Sunstreaker demanded, incredulous. That was absurd. All Cybertronians had dataports. The Camiens had dataports! The Predacons, too. Even the weirdest Cybertronians from the weirdest colonies Sunstreaker met had dataports.
“They are not. Not necessary for our survival.” Sharpshot twittered, wings twitching and fluttering against his back. “We are different. Different but unique. Unique and better.”
For someone else, that would have come across as arrogance. For the Insecticons, it sounded like stated fact. They were better because they believed they were better. Just like Cybertronians mech-in-nature believed themselves superior to the rest of the universe.
It was arrogance all too familiar to Sunstreaker.
An arrogance not unlike his own.
“So...” He worked his intake. “To become your queen, you’d have to frag me. A lot.” He took a long look at Hardshell, much longer than before.
Hardshell was massive. Sunstreaker had taken larger mechs before. It was nothing a little relaxing and preparation couldn’t solve, but Sunstreaker had the feeling Hardshell’s equipment wasn’t Cybertronian standard. Whatever he had was big. Built for pleasure, maybe. Built to serve his queen.
Sunstreaker’s internals tightened. His array warmed at his core. He wasn’t unopposed, he realized, as the mental image of Hardshell looming over him, filling him to every node and sensor within his valve, sent a thrill of lust through Sunstreaker’s circuits.
Hardshell dipped his head in something like a deferential bow. “Yes, my queen. And it would be my honor to serve you in this way.”
Serve.
Queen.
Such intoxicating, seductive words.
Sunstreaker’s mouth went dry as he considered it. Leading them. Being one of them. Breeding for them. Never alone. Never abandoned. Never forgotten. Worshiped. Adored.
If he left, what did he really have to go back to? Some small and dingy apartment in a ghetto? An atmosphere of tension and anger waiting to tip back into violence and death? A hole in his spark where Sideswipe used to be, myths be damned. The weight of guilt, blossoming back into a new mass after the peace his journey on the Lost Light had given him.
No friends. No family. Nothing.
He had nothing to lose, and a lot to gain.
Mechs would talk. Mechs always talked. Sunstreaker imagined what they’d say about him if they ever found out.
Crazy. Disgusting. Pervert. Traitor.
These nameless mechs who never cared a thing about Sunstreaker, why did he care what they thought about him.
What would Sideswipe say?
It didn’t matter. Because Sideswipe was dead. Sideswipe had found another brother, another friend in Arcee. Which was good, because Sunstreaker sucked as a brother anyway.
Sunstreaker was tired. He was so very tired.
Something lightly touched his knee. Sunstreaker unshuttered optics he hadn’t realized he’d closed and looked down at Hardshell, who had rested his taloned hand very lightly on Sunstreaker’s knee.
“There is so much more I could show you,” Hardshell said, and something in his tone captivated Sunstreaker’s attention, narrowing the world down to the two of them.
He distantly heard the chitters of the other Insecticons. Bob and Sharpshot were nearby, but silent. Sunstreaker was aware that they weren’t alone. But it felt like they were. As if he were captivated by the gleam of Hardshell’s visor, and the three parallel marks on Hardshell’s face.
“You’ve not seen everything. There is much more to the Hive, to us,” Hardshell continued, and the weight of his hand on Sunstreaker’s knee became all the more tangible. “But there is nothing more that will convince you. And the choice remains, as it always has been, yours.”
Hardshell knelt there, staring up at him, and only then did Sunstreaker realize his vents were subtly quickening. In the background, the dizziness lurked, a sense he was falling into some dark abyss. He’d felt that once before, when he’d escaped from the humans and was left with a hate so consuming, the only freedom had been Starscream and an ill-fated plan.
Back then, he’d made the wrong choice. Somehow, walking away felt like he’d be tipping into the dark all over again.
His arms tightened around Bob, who was uncharacteristically still and quiet where he cuddled in Sunstreaker’s lap. “If I accept your offer, can I go back?”
Hardshell tilted his head. “Back?” He sounded confused, as did the press of his field. “You may leave, if you wish. Rejecting us--”
“No, I don’t mean right now. I don’t mean a rejection. I mean… if I become one of you now, can I change my mind later?” Did he have the option to run? Or was this a lifetime commitment deal?
Hardshell’s hesitation was obvious. “...No,” he admitted. “You will always be our queen. You could leave us, if you so choose, but you will still have that tie. We will always be yours, and perhaps you’ll survive the severance. But we will not.”
Ouch.
He would hold their lives in his hands. Sunstreaker could barely take care of himself. Bob was lucky he was so damned self-sufficient. Could he manage the burden of an entire Hive? Could he take that risk, knowing how often he’d failed so many people?
But if he left. If he ran away. He’d be leaving them to their fate. To the possibility of Airachnid subverting them, or maybe a rogue NAIL or Decepticon, forcing their way into the Hive and taking it for themselves. Someone, perhaps, who would only see the Insecticons as a means to reignite war.
Frag, he better not let Prowl know they were here. Prowl would probably calculate ten-thousand ways he could use the Insecticons for his own ends, too.
They weren’t safe. With or without Sunstreaker, the Insecticons weren’t safe. And he wasn’t sure why he cared so much, just that he did. The same feeling he’d experienced when he’d seen Bob back then rose up in his spark all over again. A clenching, suffocating sensation that he couldn’t leave the little runt to die.
Well, he couldn’t leave the Hive to die either.
Sunstreaker worked his intake. “If… if I agree. What does that mean? What happens next?”
Hardshell’s hand slid away from Sunstreaker’s knee and he rose to his full height, though this time he didn’t loom. “I would make you into a proper queen.” He offered his hand, for the third time, to Sunstreaker. “I will support you every step of the way. You will never be alone, Sunstreaker, for I will remain beside you.”
He reacted.
He didn’t much think. He stopped running things over and over in his head, not while those words echoed inside of him, reverberating through the emptiness in his spark. He found himself taking Hardshell’s hand, rising to his feet, Bob scuttling off his lap and issuing a trill of happiness.
“All right,” Sunstreaker said, the words squeezing out past a lump of static in his vocalizer and the arrhythmic pump of his vents. “I’ll do it.”
Never alone. No longer alone. Beside you. Staying. Never leaving.
Hardshell’s fingers curled around his, and the way his hand almost disappeared in Hardshell’s sent a sharp shiver of heat down Sunstreaker’s spinal strut. “You are certain?”
“Don’t.” Sunstreaker cycled a ventilation, tried to get his system back in focus, but the world kept spinning, spinning, and it was all good. “Don’t ask that. Because I’ll second-guess myself. Like I second-guess everything. I need this to be the right choice.”
The pad of Hardshell’s thumb rubbed over the back of Sunstreaker’s hand. Sunstreaker followed the motion with his optics, oddly transfixed by it. He was surprised by the gentleness, though he wasn’t sure why. It captivated his focus, and he missed Hardshell’s next move, recognizing the soft touch of a warm hand to the side of his face too late.
He tilted his head into it, however, because Hardshell’s field pulsed affection and reassurance, even as his thumb rested on Sunstreaker’s cheek.
“A test then,” Hardshell murmured, his voice sliding like silk over Sunstreaker’s exterior sensors. “To see if you can withstand my touch.”
Sunstreaker thought that was fairly obvious, given the heat heading southward and the quickening of his spark at Hardshell’s hands alone. But the Queenmaker intended something different as he leaned down, his ex-vents teasing Sunstreaker’s facial vents. His denta were sharp and gleaming, dangerous by all accounts, but his thin lips brushed over Sunstreaker’s. He smelled of dark, earthy things. Not something Sunstreaker was used to. Not like the average Cybertronian.
The scent still gave him a thrill. He breathed out through his lips, felt a shiver rush down his spinal strut, and then the kiss firmed, the wet swipe of an Insecticon glossa dampening Sunstreaker’s lips before it eased inside his mouth, sweet and moist. Sunstreaker moaned. His knees wobbled, and his free hand waved wildly before he grabbed hold of something on Hardshell and held tight.
The kiss deepened, until it felt as though Hardshell was claiming him. It sent a hot flush through Sunstreaker’s frame, which intensified with every delicate scrape of Hardshell’s denta, until Sunstreaker tilted against him, their frames coming into contact. Sunstreaker moaned into the kiss, optics shuddering, processor spinning.
Hardshell was warm, hot even, his armor firm and strong against Sunstreaker’s own. His engine rumbled, vibrating both of their frames, and his hands were wonderfully gentle. Adoring. Treating Sunstreaker like something to be treasured. His glossa explored Sunstreaker’s mouth as though memorizing his taste.
Sunstreaker didn’t want this to end. He wanted to see where else it could go. He wanted to see how Hardshell could apply this to the coding upload.
Hardshell pulled back, his lips slow and lingering, his denta the carefullest of scrapes. He nuzzled Sunstreaker’s face, and a sound not unlike a purr rumbled in his intake.
Sunstreaker’s head spun. “I think...” His glossa swept over his lips, his fans whirring madly. “You passed the test.”
Hardshell chuckled, dark and grating and far less ominous than it used to be. “Very well.” He stroked the back of his fingers around Sunstreaker’s face before he stepped back and slipped into a shallow bow. “Welcome, my queen, to your Hive.”
Heat flooded Sunstreaker’s frame. His spark strobed a faster beat.
Bob’s head nudged under his dangling hand as he chirred up at Sunstreaker. Above, the multitudes of Insecticons chittered and chattered, thousands of tiny feet scraping at the ceilings and tinier wings rustling as they shifted. There was a tingle in the air, like that of relief and anticipation and joy.
It felt like the right decision.
Sunstreaker tilted his head. “I’m honored to be chosen,” he replied. It seemed like something he should say. “But… uh… What happens next?”
What now? As the noise grew around him, and it seemed to get brighter, thousands of biolights glowing yellow and purple and green.
Hardshell straightened, lifting a single hand, and silence descended, though the sense of constant movement did not. “Now, you will be remade, though it is a process. One that will take many months.” The hand lowered and was offered to Sunstreaker, just as before. “If you are willing, we are ready to begin.”
“Now?” Uncertainty sent a chill through his exterior lines. Sunstreaker looked pointedly around him. “Do we have to have an audience?” Not that Sunstreaker was opposed to a little show and tell, but this was a bit more show than he wanted.
If Hardshell’s kiss alone made him melt, what would the rest do to him? Sunstreaker absolutely didn’t want to turn to mush in front of an audience or become some sort of uninhibited creature with no shame. He didn’t want everyone to see him fall apart.
Hardshell chuckled. “No, my queen. This is only one of many chambers for the queen’s comfort. There are others, more private ones. If you prefer.”
“I prefer,” Sunstreaker said without hesitation.
“Very well.” Hardshell directed the next over his shoulder. “Sharpshot, see that the queen’s chamber is ready immediately. I will escort him there.”
Sharpshot dipped into the lowest bow Sunstreaker had seen out of him yet. “At once, Hardshell.” As he straightened, his optics found Sunstreaker, warm and liquid with a startling affection. “You are welcome. Welcome home.”
Home.
Sunstreaker couldn’t deny the way the word caused a liquid warmth to pass through him. Sharpshot turned and departed at a fast clip. Hardshell still offered his hand, unwavering, patient.
Bob butted against Sunstreaker’s lower back. Oh. Bob.
Sunstreaker turned toward the bug, who waggled his aft and looked up at Sunstreaker with a tilted head. “Sorry, bug.” He stroked Bob behind the audials to take the sting out of the rejection. “You’ve interrupted one too many fun times. We’ll have to find somewhere else for you to be.”
“We’ll take care of him,” Hardshell said. “He is our queen’s most special one. He will be treated well. After all, he did find our queen.”
Sunstreaker chuckled and scratched behind Bob’s antenna, making the little Insecticon chirp and waggle more eagerly. “Such a good boy, you are.”
Bob’s wiggling increased in earnest. Sunstreaker grinned at him, though he remained hyper-aware of Hardshell patiently waiting behind him.
“I’m not going to change my mind,” Sunstreaker said, some of his tension easing away. Petting Bob had always soothed him, and now was no exception. “I do want to do this. But for peace of mind, when’s the last time I can say no?”
Hardshell’s field spiked with anxiety. “You may always refuse.”
“No, I mean...” Sunstreaker sighed and turned back toward Hardshell, swallowing over a lump in his intake. “At what point can I change my mind, and it won’t hurt the hive?”
Hardshell tilted his head. “The connection begins to form after the first upload. It won’t… hurt us to refuse, but with each subsequent upload, the connection gets stronger.”
So the chance to back out was now. Or at least, the chance to leave without guilt swallowing him whole.
“Good thing I’m not changing my mind then,” Sunstreaker said and he smiled, or at least he tried to. It felt more like a grimace. He hadn’t smiled in a while. He wasn’t sure what it felt like anymore.
Hardshell still offered a hand. Sunstreaker slid his into it, and shivered as Hardshell’s fingers closed around his.
“I’m ready,” Sunstreaker said.
Hardshell leaned in close, nuzzling the side of Sunstreaker’s face. “And I am at your service.”
