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Adaptive Foraging

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Waspinator had been on edge for the better part of five solar cycles.

In the beginning he’d managed to keep it under wraps, but at this point he practically vibrated with nervous energy, and it was probably obvious to anyone who looked at him for longer than a few kliks that something was wrong. Nobody had bothered to ask—a relief for once, that no one cared—but most of the other Predacons had already made offhand comments, taunting him about his skittishness even as he backpedaled furiously.

Waspinator couldn’t be around them, not now—not like this.

Tarantulas in particular, had been watching Waspinator, and the lingering optics on the back of his helm were a constant presence which only heightened his anxiety.

The scientist knew.

Waspinator barely understood what was happening to his frame, and yet Tarantulas observed him with a keen gaze which implied that he did, and whatever his thoughts were, he wasn’t offering them—only silent, unsettling observation. No doubt he already had ideas.

Waspinator was too afraid to approach him and ask. The scientist had a reputation for a reason, and admitting to anything which might put him at Tarantulas’ mercy would be—well it would be stupid. Waspinator knew he wasn’t the brightest bot out there, but he also knew better than to throw himself headfirst into danger. It’d been proven time and time again that the world was out to get him, and he wasn’t going to help it along.

More than that, he was afraid of what he might do, were he caught alone in a room with the spider.

A mysterious condition had recently overtaken his frame—frightening and exhilarating all at once. It’d begun as a slight tingle under his armor, originating deep in the protomesh. A warning sign which he’d mistakenly brushed off.

After all, he’d been feeling a little weird since the day they’d first stepped onto this awful planet. They had whole new modes to get accustomed to—what was a little itch?

But it’d escalated quickly, flaring up into an unbearable heat which licked across his circuits and set every one of his sensors aflame. Now, everything was sensitive—to the point where Waspinator couldn’t brush up against anything without it igniting a new round of torturous sensation.

Scorponok had clapped him on the shoulder the other day, and it had taken every micrometer of his self-control to keep from releasing the strangled whine which had built in his vocalizer.  

He was burning with unshakeable, confusing need. Besieged by a compulsion stronger than anything he’d ever felt before, and yet he couldn't understand it. The drive was there—impossible to ignore as it commandeered his frame bit by bit—but it was directionless in the face of his uncertainty.

Waspinator didn’t know what to do.

It wasn’t just that he needed to interface. Despite the constant buzz of arousal plaguing him, his array had been suspiciously quiet. It hadn’t stopped him from self-servicing in a futile attempt to lessen his suffering, but in the end it'd done little good. The majority of his desire was pooling farther down—not where his spike was, but near the tip of his abdomen, which had begun to hang heavier as of late.

This morning there’d been a bizarre shifting deep within it, and even now his frame insisted that he was ready.

Ready for what?

Eggszz, supplied his processor helpfully. The knowledge bubbled up unbidden, and almost immediately his fuel pump coiled tight with anticipation. Waspinator had no explanation for why he was so sure, but he didn’t question the answer. It made as much sense as any of this.

This process wasn’t natural—wasn’t Cybertronian—or at least, not what he was used to. He suspected that it was his beast mode’s fault. Nothing else could explain the alien instincts which had taken hold of his frame—primal and persistent.

Unfortunately, Waspinator was growing more and more desperate as time went on. If this didn’t let up soon, he was going to break.

He wanted—needed—to breed.

The acknowledgment wrung a shudder from him. There was no clear instruction from his frame, no command popping up on his hub, but he knew it was true nonetheless. Confusion still ran rampant through his processor, but the pieces were slowly falling into place.

He wasn't happy about it. Organics reproduced like this. Not him—not Cybertronians.

Right?

Waspinator buried his head in his hands and wailed with frustration. No one would hear him out here—tucked away inside a cave, and far from both bases.

“Why universe hate Waszzpinator?” he seethed, rising to his pedes and kicking a rock in his sullenness. It shot off into the distance, echoing faintly as it was swallowed up by the darkness. His wings twitched in agitation.

Waspinator was glad he’d left early this morning, stopping only briefly to make sure Megatron didn’t have orders for him. Anything to get away from the base and its temptations. Thankfully, their leader had been too absorbed in his latest scheme to care; he'd barely acknowledged Waspinator’s presence, and Waspinator had skittered off gratefully before he could change his mind.

His optics had lingered hungrily on Terrorsaur on the way out, and he’d had to tear them away before his staring was noticed and taken the wrong way—or rather, the right way. He’d been thinking about the other Predacons ever since—imagining what it might be like to use them, and finally sate this errant coding. Now, he considered their potential as incubators for the eggs sitting heavy in his abdomen, and groaned with painful denial.

Despite the heat pooling thicker in his abdomen, Waspinator could only dream. Acting on these urges—making his fantasies real—it would end in disaster.

He flinched, seeing the shadow of a fist flying at his face, and couldn’t help but imagine the many ways the other Predacons might rip him apart for his audacity.

His frame would just have to cycle down on his own, and he’d deal with the consequences later.

Waspinator ignored the small voice in the back of his processor, which asked what he would do when it didn’t. He needed to focus on the present, and keep avoiding the rest of the Predacons at all costs—before their tempting frames shattered the last of his brittle resistance.

Unfortunately, the pulsing desire to lay his clutch hadn’t let up; it was only growing by the klik. Waspinator whimpered as he thought again of the incubators at his disposal, warm, and snug, and safe. He dropped to his knees helplessly, his servos clutching at the ground.

Tarantulas was an especially enticing target. Waspinator had been trying to curb his infatuation for decacycles to no avail, and the coding had picked up on it in no time, warping his minor crush into a pressing need to mate the spider.

It was greedy and impatient—interpreting Tarantulas’ recent study of him as interest, and demanding that Waspinator act on it.

Now, he imagined what the swell of Tarantulas’ abdomen might look like stuffed full of eggs, and whined. His panels slid open, and he immediately wrapped a servo around his pressurizing spike. It was leaking already, despite the fact that the source of Waspinator’s desperation lay somewhere else.

Poor subszztitute better than nothing at all, he thought mournfully.

Waspinator squeezed the base of his spike, and the ensuing rush of pleasure banished the melancholy train of thought before it could really begin. His vocalizer fritzed as he did it again, and soon he was setting up a frantic pace—bracing himself against the floor of the cave.

Apparently the sensitivity of his frame extended everywhere. Waspinator was quivering, gasping brokenly as the feedback from his spike synched to the throbbing of his abdomen, and he couldn’t help but picture Tarantulas writhing underneath him.

Shame tugged at his spark—at the power this infection had over him, and at the wild desperation which had brought him to miserable self-service in the middle of nowhere.

It didn’t keep Waspinator from overloading. A couple eager thrusts into the tight vice of his fist and the ghost of Tarantulas’ moans in his audial were all it took for ecstasy to consume him. It stretched on and on—so much longer than usual—and eventually he collapsed against the ground with a weak moan to ride out the last of the rippling waves.

Waspinator’s hips twitched weakly with each spurt of transfluid, and he couldn’t have cared less about the mess developing beneath him. He groaned contentedly, basking in the brief reprieve.

But to his dismay, the heat didn’t dissipate from his frame. If anything, it seemed more determined to ruin him. His frame didn’t just want an overload —it wanted to be free of its burden.

Waspinator could have sobbed at the unfairness of it all.

His valve was throbbing in sympathy. He could feel the lubricant dribbling down his open panel, across his thighs and onto the floor. When he reached back to slip two fingers in they met little resistance—valve loose from both the constant arousal and frequent self-service of the past few days.

As Waspinator shifted, the tip of his abdomen dragged against the stone and the stimulation to the obscenely sensitive end made him see stars. He’d stroked it the other cycle while in his berth, managing to contort himself enough to reach the source of his problems, and the pleasure had nearly shattered him. When something had begun to emerge from the end he’d stopped, too frightened by the changes to continue.

At this moment, he’d do anything to sate the rapidly building hunger.

Waspinator rocked into his palm over and over again—angling his abdomen deliberately and letting the dual stimulation drive him to new heights in record time.

It was going to be a long cycle.